The fire was out and many strangers wandered in and out like maggots on a dead head. The nosey neighbors, who had hurried over in the beginning, had since returned to their daily routines. Mac set in a chair on my front lawn sucking oxygen via clear appendages of his nose. June was on my cell phone talking to the insurance company.
It was midday August and I was typing on the computer. The sound of a big-engined truck from the balcony startled me. I hurried onto the balcony, and what I saw was hard to comprehend. Mac and June's home was on fire. Red flames and black smoke were rising from the back of the house and dancing in front of a bright blue curtain. Taller than the trees, twice as high as the two-storied house, they danced. Walking, not scurrying not milling, around the big-engined truck were firemen performing their designated and practiced tasks. They were unrolling and positioning long hoses to attack the flaming head. Others talked on their radios. The flames kept dancing higher and higher but the firemen were only walking, not scurrying, not milling.
While the fire and insurance maggots wandered in and out of the orifices and firemen rolled up the long hoses, I visited with June and Mac. I learned that they had been in the basement when construction workers, from the street, burst in their front door screaming "Fire, Fire, Get Out of the House!" The workman helped them up the stairs, out the front door, and across the street to my yard. June remembered oxygen bottles in the garage. The workmen promptly returned to the burning head, opened the garage door, and moved the bottles to my front yard where they rested in the grass like unexploded torpedoes.
In my mind, hours had past since I had walked out on my balcony to investigate the noise of the big-engined truck. The firemen were now ready to attack. They were dressed in black heavy coats, pants, helmets, and oxygen masks. They were in groups at each orifice and each group had a long hose. On signal, they advanced into the head and within less than 30 seconds the flames and black smoke turned into white steam raising every bit as high. Then nothing.
The firemen had removed their masks, helmets, heavy coats, peeled down their black pants, and were loading the long hoses on the truck. I noticed one with a sweating white tee shirt, wide shoulders, and blond hair. This was a woman; a strong, probably six-foot tall woman. Then I saw a second one with brown hair, smaller compared to the first, but still very strong and capable. How had I missed them?
The big-engine truck drove away. June and Mac checked into a hotel. The torpedoes vanished from my lawn. Next morning before daylight, I walked past the dead head. The maggots were gone. It was black and no lights shown in its previously bright eyes. The smell of dead burnt wood was nauseating. Mac died a couple months later.
la 11/20/06