Fire

FIRE

Andy Pearson © 2023

I don’t believe that honesty is the best policy between two people lying on a rug in front of a crackling fire. Time before the orange glow of a blaze is meant to be romantic and filled with heart-felt untruths. Endearing little moments of dreams that both know aren’t true, but by fire light should be.

She ran her index finger over my forearm while I gazed into the fire. Then she asked the question that started the blaze that burned the evening down.

“Can you believe that we’ve been married five years?” Carrie asked.

“Five years. It seems like yesterday,” I mumbled.

“Five years…. What would you do without me?” Carrie asked with an impish grin. 

I was still looking into the fire and not paying close attention, so she nudged my arm.

“What would you do without me?” she said with the same ingenue smile.

“Huh… oh I guess I’d go to Europe and travel the continent,” I said off-handedly. I really should have paid more attention to the conversation and all the rest would have just been a nice relaxing night.

She sat up straight and I turned to look at her. Realizing that my inner voice had become my outer voice, I tried to find words to correct this moment.

“What I mean is that I’d be lost without you and trying to find myself,” I said hoping this could repair the night.

“Am I holding you back? Well. I. am. sorry.” She stood up and pulled a light blanket around herself before striding toward the kitchen.

This was distressing. She was beautiful in the next to nothing she was wearing. Now she was mad and wrapped in a blanket. I could see the set of her shoulders and the cadence she set to the kitchen. Her back ridged, her steps measured like she was on a military drill pad. I’d seen this look more than a few times in our marriage. In our five years together, I had not figured out how to unwind her. Oh, I could wind her up, but unwinding, that was a mystery I’d not solved. I’d tried apologies with no success. An expression of regret for a miscue was not enough. Penance was necessary.

Looking at the two wine glasses on the floor in front of the fireplace, I sighed. These long-stemmed glasses with the light red, hopeful nectar had been symbols of a beautiful connected evening. Now they stood quiet sentinels of a long, separate night.

Europe? Why had I said that? Freud would talk about leakage from my unconscious.   He’d possibly be right. I had been thinking about our-my-plans to go to Europe when she posed the question. Every time there was a window of opportunity there was something more pressing and the trip would be shelved. 

Sometimes it was a project at work that simply couldn’t be handled by anyone else, or a family gathering that couldn’t possibly be missed. A project around the house that could not wait and needed the saved money. All of these were true. It was just that the truth was always well-timed and the trip would be shoved back into a storage place of dreams.

I picked up the fireplace poker and jabbed at the logs causing embers to swirl into the chimney.  Moving them around to expose fresh wood to oxygen and heat completed the fire triangle and flames licked higher. I made sure no ashes were still on the poker and set it back in the holder with the brush and shovel. The shovel was polished brass and the brush looked never used. I knew this was due to Carrie polishing and cleaning and making sure I didn’t use them. She allowed the poker to be used since it was cast iron.  

I laced my hands behind my head and leaned back on the cushion. The flames leaped and hissed as the logs were consumed by the heat. Parts of the flames were red and yellow, but I noticed black spots on the logs, spots that hadn’t yet reached combustion temperature, but I knew they would, and eventually, everything would be consumed to ash. 

I heard Carrie storming in the kitchen. I knew she would be tidying up before she went to bed. I knew I should get up. I knew I should go in there. I should try to set this right. I just didn’t know what to say. Honesty again or half-truths? I had used both techniques and each option still led to penitential time. This night would be the same.

I took a deep breath that ended in a sigh and stood up. Pulling on my t-shirt, I picked up the poker again and prodded the logs while I pondered what to say. Looking at the fire helped me think. With more swirling embers heading up the flue, I walked into the kitchen.

The cleaning cloth in Carrie's hand was moving with practiced strokes when I came through the doorway. This nightly cleaning was something that was not missed. She wanted the house to be ready to go in the morning. I’m not sure why it bothered me. It’s a small thing and easily ignorable, except it’s one of many things. All these are distinctly separate, but connected activities stack up each day into a singular Frankenstein of compulsion.  Wipe the counters, open or close blinds depending on the day or the weather, or the time, water the flowers, run the dishwasher, and take out the trash. Each night-no fail.

I honestly didn’t see this coming when we got married, but then who does know what’s coming when we get married? Two words, “I do.” They change everything. This is not a complaint. I know the same thing happened to me from her perspective. I remember her before, before got we got busy. Then jobs, now called careers. Before a house, now called a home. Before that, dropping everything on a whim was possible. I wondered how my parents got to be adults. Now I knew. It was one commitment at a time. One delayed dream after another until a different reality was created. Maybe I was being childish, but I wasn’t fully ready.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to Europe?” I asked hopefully 

“What?” she responded, her rag halting in mid-sweep. 

“Europe. Wouldn’t you like to travel a little? See things?” I continued.

“Of course, I would. But you want to drop everything and be a vagabond. I have responsibilities and commitments. We can’t just walk away from the house without getting some things done first.” She said and started wiping.

I should have been listening, but I had heard this before and knew it was just the start of an argument.  I should have accepted my chastisement. Instead, I turned and walked back to the living room.  This was taken as a major affront.

“Are you just going to walk away while I clean in here? You could at least take the garbage out.” Her voice said through the doorway.

“I’ll get it before I go to bed,” I said over my shoulder. 

The fire was still burning brightly. Flames were dancing and hissing with an occasional pop of a sap pocket heating and bursting through the wood fibers. I grabbed the poker and pushed a few times on the flaming logs. They were beginning to collapse on themselves as their solid cores became weak glowing embers. I leaned over and grabbed a fresh log. Measuring the spot I wanted it in the glowing box, I shoved it in. More embers swirled and danced as the airflow was altered with this new fuel source.  I poked at it some more when I heard Carrie talking from the kitchen.

“Are you going to take the garbage out tonight or should I just do it?” 

“I said I would take it out and I will take it out. I’m just enjoying the fire for a moment.” I responded with a measured tone. I pulled the poker out and looked at it. It was steaming from its time in the flames. It had weight and substance in my hand. The end was solid, like a medieval mace.

“Don’t bother. I’ll get it.” Carrie’s voice wandered into the living room with a put-upon tone.

Tonight was to be a punishment night. I pondered the still-steaming poker and wondered if tomorrow would be a continuation or if all would be forgiven. The mumbling I heard drifting from the open garage door as Carrie took the trash made me think tomorrow was in trouble. I put the poker back into the fire and prodded the new log. I watched as its bark was ripped loose and consumed by flame exposing the clean dry wood. I poked the fire more and watched the cast iron get on the red glow of the fire. I heard the garage door slam shut.  The wall shook. What words can't convey, a slamming door can. Tomorrow was lost too. 

I pulled the poker out of the flames and listened to a new bag being put into the can. The lights in the kitchen were extinguished and Carrie marched into the room.

“I’m going to bed. Make sure the fire is out.” She said and turned with the blanket still around her shoulders.

I looked at the cast iron tip of the fireplace poker. I picked it up to eye level and watched the white smoke dribble off it as Carrie went down the hall.

*-*-*-*

“After the fire of April 15, 2019, all of France was in mourning.  One of our singular historic sights was consumed before our eyes. But as you can see, we are rebuilding it. This rebuilding has captivated our country and much of the world. The scaffolding has been erected and what parts of the structure that can be saved, will be and the reconstruction will tie into these pieces of history as we reconstruct using the best of traditional methods and materials.” The tour guide said in her French-accented English which I found to be quite alluring. It might also have been her brown hair and dark brown eyes, or maybe it was just being in Paris, the city of romance. 

I studied the burnt-out cathedral with its charred wooden beams and masonry reduced to rubble and I thought about our house. The house that Carrie had tended so dutifully. 

After all the flashing lights were turned off and the hoses rolled up and stored on trucks, the fire inspector said that there wasn’t much he could tell me. He felt that the fire started somewhere in the chimney of the fireplace and quickly took over the roof of the house. He said I was very lucky to have survived. His condolences on my loss were many. 

Walking with him through the ash, I stooped and picked up the poker where it lay next to the crumbled chimney stones. The fire had been so hot it separated the stones from the mortar and the entire wall had come down. The brush was burned beyond recognition and the shovel had warped and split. The poker was still solid. Cast iron. Heavy and durable. I carried it with us.

The insurance payouts were more than generous and after going through the perfunctory investigation into the cause and origin of the fire, the check cleared readily.

“Notre Dame was constructed between 1163 and 1345. The cathedral is dedicated to the Virgin Mary and is still one of the finest examples of French Gothic architecture.” The seductive French accent was pulling the tour group along to keep us on schedule. I looked around and saw Carrie running from her vantage point where she was taking yet another picture. She was smiling and laughing with Janice, another American on the cross-continent tour.

Not all fires consume and destroy, some create and liberate.