Standing on their front lawn in the middle of the night, their house on fire, he was in pajama pants, t-shirt, and slippers; she was in sweatpants and a tank top, her arms crossed in front of her. She shivered, even with the heat from the flames. He went over to the Audi where he had moved it to the street after it started, opened the trunk, and found an old pink quilt he kept to lie down on, in case he had to change a tire. He had a Triple A membership, but that was the first thing his father taught him, how to change a tire, so it was always something he had done himself on the few occasions he had a flat. Also in the trunk was a French horn she hadn’t played in six years and a photo album her grandmother made for her as a girl.
He came back, wrapped the quilt around her.
When the fire trucks arrived, the upstairs was already engulfed in flames. Flakes of ash caught the wind, floated onto the lawn. The first fireman down from the truck looked at him, started to say something, but instead went to work.
He imagined the inside, itemized each room. The Horchow sectional sofa she had to have, the Waverly fabric window treatments. For him, it was the Canali suits, the Ferragamo loafers, the Breitling watch. Stuff. He hadn’t risked saving anything for himself, not even the direct-to-disc LPs his father had given him, and he hoped when she saw the horn and the photo album she would understand.
Slowly, neighbors appeared on their porches and manicured Bermuda lawns. He imagined looks of concern cross their face as they thought how it could’ve been them. It had been an electrical thing that started in the attic, he imagined the investigators saying. It had caught the insulation, some cans of polyurethane, and there was nothing anyone could do… it’s the shoddy way they build houses these days. Two neighbor boys were outside on the porch with their parents. They jumped up and down excitedly. Their father yelled for them to go inside.
He never liked this neighborhood. There weren’t any trees.
They sat on the front porch of their across-the-street neighbors, a retired couple. He had never spoken to either of them. He’d waved a few times to the husband, taking out the trash, but that was as far as it went. Now, the husband was inside making them more coffee, the wife comforting his own wife. He felt the heat of the fire, even all the way across the street.
Come inside, the neighbor’s wife said to her. You don’t need to see it.
But I do, his wife answered. Strangely, I do.
Still wrapped in the old quilt, his wife sat on a whicker porch chair, holding her mug with both hands. He remembered, once, dating, they picnicked on that quilt on the lawn of the office park where he had worked. She’d brought him lunch. People passed from his office, gave him strange looks. They had taken off their socks and shoes. He remembered saying something funny, and she had laughed so hard she snorted and was embarrassed. Then, he had kissed her, her lips still strange to him, still new.
The neighbor’s wife patted her on the shoulder, went inside.
His wife got up from the porch chair, came over, and stood next to him.
He was thinking about a lot of things at once. He thought the glow from the flames on her face reminded him of the glow on the face of someone watching television in a dark room. Only more natural. Then, he thought about their cat that had run away a few weeks ago. How, earlier, he was so sure the cat wasn’t coming back. Now, he found himself afraid the cat would. He thought about her credit card statements he’d printed, left on her dresser, the charges from the in-town hotels circled in red marker. He’d been so proud to finally find proof. He never thought she’d just leave them there, not say anything. What? she said, when he finally asked. It’s not exactly like you’ve been the eternal flame of fidelity.
He thought about her back before law school, so unassuming, so captivated by his charisma. Somewhere along the way, he felt they had switched places, and that was the problem: he had always had an easier time being strong for someone other than himself.
He thought about the unpaid bills piled on the kitchen counter, how if all went well, they’d finally be paid. How if not, it wouldn’t matter.
Kindling, he thought.
And the mess. When they first moved in, they’d cleaned together every weekend, proud of their first house. He’d vacuum, she’d dust. She’d clean the bathrooms, he’d do the laundry. Lately, though, the laundry collected into piles on the laundry room floor, and the tub had a dark ring neither one of them had the strength to scrub out. They fought constantly now over getting a cleaning lady. He always swore he’d never pay for someone to clean his house or wash his car—even if he could afford it.
Maybe this could be a chance… she said, though she was looking at the burning house. To start over… I mean maybe this could be a way to…
Like fore-closure? He turned to her, smiled. She laughed shortly, the first time they shared a joke in months. She looked at him. He knew she knew.
He pulled her to him, held her.
I guess now we don’t have to worry about cleaning this weekend, she said, her face buried in his chest.
Across the street, firemen were running around. There were three trucks and hoses, but no one seemed to be doing much. He felt the hysteria rise in both of them simultaneously. They were laughing. He pulled back, put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face to look at him. He kissed her softly, deliberately, on her lips—the lips of a stranger. The wind picked up, the flames made one last grasp for some unseen thing above.
Then, the roof fell in.
