Night Fire

Night Fire

The memory of the acrid smoke seemed to hang in the March air, and the sounds of that night lingered in my heart. It was nearly impossible for me to still hear or smell either, I knew that. A mind has its own recall though. My ears picked up the slowing of tires on the tarmac behind my post. Everyone who called themselves human was drawn in by misfortune, a fact of life on this planet. If it was on the news you’d shake your head sadly, your finger hovering on the remote. If it was in your neighborhood you could grab some friends or the kids and drive on by, taking in the catastrophe with almost all your senses.

 Hazel eyes took in the smashed windows of our apartment and the one below, it was where things had started apparently. The resident had fallen asleep in her chair while smoking. The cigarette had landed down the side of the cushion and when the heat and smoke woke her, she ran screaming from the apartment. It was a common enough story, but the added complication was her baby son was asleep in his crib.

She’d panicked, ran straight out, and forgot him. That was what made the news. The five other apartments in the block were glossed over, typical journalists. It had all gone down forty-eight hours ago and the scene was still messed up.

On this sunny, cold day it was odd to grasp what’s happened. That Monday night Susan and I had watched a bit of T.V. after doing class assignments at the table. We then headed for our bedrooms not knowing that our lives were about to change or how much.

 I’d been woken by Susan shouting and banging on the bedroom door. “Get up Maureen, come on, the building’s on fire!” The steady and purposeful clanging of the fire bell outside their door merged with Susan’s pleas, and I was up in a sec.

Grabbing my purse, and donning cords and runners I fled towards the hall door. Susan had already felt the surface and told me it was too hot to risk opening. We turned as one to the patio door and slid it open, exiting the apartment. Susan yelled over the crackle of approaching flames that they should throw their purses onto the ground and then lower themselves onto the railing of the apartment below.

I remembered now, easing my legs over the rail hanging there for just a minute, aware that the flames were less than two feet from my thighs. There was a shock when I felt someone’s big hands take hold of my ankles, steadying them on the railing below. Once down and safe I gathered the purses, turning my head in time to watch this fellow help Susan down.

Anyone could see that he was tall and well built. He appeared to be a First Nation’s man, but I hadn’t seen him around the complex before. His jeans and checkered shirt were framed on his left by the fire’s glow, but he didn’t seem to notice. Once Susan touched the ground, they turned to thank the stranger but he had disappeared. They would talk about the mystery many times over the years, but in that moment self-preservation and youth would override curiosity.

Watching from a safe distance as a troupe of demolition experts toured the separate apartments, the memories continued.

They had run around to the center courtyard to find their friends. There were three other apartments in the same block occupied by kids from their town. Hugging and reassuring each other that they were okay, it was clear that one was missing. Bruce assured them that Wayne had gotten out safe but that he and another fellow were helping someone. I watched in fascination as a woman on the third floor of an adjoining building tossed her small child onto a blanket held by six other tenants. It was surreal and terrifying in equal measure.

When the ambulance rolled up onto the lawn and proceeded to check us all for smoke inhalation or other injuries, we were allowed to leave. Eventually, the Powell River group drifted across the road to a classmate’s place. We were fed, encouraged to make phone calls home, and just crash.

Mom had stormed in like the office manager and mother that she is. I was given new digs, clothes, and bedding. She’d found a laundromat to dry-clean what didn’t need replacing and then headed off to re-join dad at the tournament they’d been entered up Island.

I’ve returned to the scene, it’s not technically a crime scene, the woman wasn’t charged to my knowledge, but I did hear she quit smoking. My gaze noted a huge heap of garbage in the center courtyard. A dump truck had been brought in to clear it all when they got the word from the demo team. It was tenants’ burnt belongings, things that at one point they didn’t think they could live without. We’re funny that way, human beings, when it comes right down to it, when you need to leave in a hurry your priorities change in a second.

The block that we’d lived in for only seven months was likely going to be torn down. There was apparently too much structural damage to bother fixing it. So, despite our parties and dinners’, the little Christmas tree we put up, and the posters of Prince I had plastered on my walls, that portion of my life was done. I still couldn’t hear a siren without my heart beating faster even now, weeks later. I stood up straight when I saw the group of men trooping down the stairs. I had spotted two of them a minute ago looking out of what used to be our living room window. It had blown in from the combination of heat and water, literally fusing the cord from the television onto the carpet.

I witnessed hand shaking, papers being provided to the landlord and a strip of caution tape being strung across the bottom of the stairs. A large man nailed a sign that read ‘By the order of the fire department of Nanaimo, this property is condemned for demolition’ onto the building. I stood up straight and sighed. Picking my backpack up from the sidewalk I turned in the direction of the college.

PS. The friend named Wayne was actually presented the Governor General’s Award for Bravery for his part in rescuing the baby in the apartment below us. This is a true story.