Dad shuffled into the kitchen, tying his robe around him. They shook hands, Bill noting that his father's grip was not what it used to be. He seemed slightly more stooped every time he saw him.
The regular ritual followed.
Mom made him and Dad sit down at the kitchen table while she plugged in the Mr. Coffee—all set up, loaded with decaf and water, ready to go. She served them each a piece of pie—it was cherry this time—and when the coffee was ready, they all sat and talked about "what's new."
Which was never much. Bill's routine at St. F.'s was set so that one day was usually pretty much like every other. Occasionally he could report a successful placement or two", but as a rule it was business as usual. As for Mom and Dad, they were both hovering around seventy. They'd never been the types for golf or much socializing, so their existence was sedentary. They went out to dinner twice a week, Tuesdays at the Lighthouse Cafe and Fridays at Memison's. The only break in their routine was the death of an acquaintance. They always seemed to have a new death or major illness to report. Discussion of the details formed the bulk of their conversation.
Not much of a life as far as Bill was concerned, but they loved and were comfortable with each other, laughed together, and seemed happy enough. And that, after all, was what really counted.
But the house was getting to be too much for them. Mom did all right keeping the indoors clean and neat, but slowly, steadily, the outside had got away from Dad. Bill had tried to convince them to sell, get an apartment closer to downtown where they'd have a fraction of their present maintenance and could walk to the harborfront. Uh-uh. They weren't having any of that. They'd always lived here and so they would continue to live here and let's not discuss it anymore.
He loved them dearly but they could be royal pains when it came to this house. Though in a way he couldn't blame them. The idea of selling the old place and letting someone else live in it didn't sit too well with him either. This house seemed like an island of stability in a world of flux and flow.
So, since last summer, a couple of times a month, Bill would devote his Sunday off to the upkeep of the three-bedroom ranch that was the Ryan family homestead. Nearly two decades at St. F.'s had turned him into a skilled handyman. And he was almost caught up. By summer he figured he could reduce his maintenance schedule to once a month.
"I think I'll hit the sack," he said, pushing himself away from the table.
"But you haven't finished your pie."
"Full, Ma," he said, patting his thickening waist. He was carrying more weight than he liked. Mom didn't seem to realize that a man approaching his mid-forties did not need cherry pie at one in the morning.
After good nights, he headed for the bedroom at the far end of the house—his since childhood. He was beat. Without bothering to change out of his sweats, he slipped into the creaky old bed like a tired foot into a well-worn slipper.
Bill awoke coughing, with stinging eyes and nose. Either he was having an allergy attack or—
Smoke! Something was burning!
Then he heard the approaching sirens.
Fire!
He jumped out of bed and turned on the lamp but it didn't work. He pulled the flashlight he'd kept in the nightstand since he was a kid and that did work, but feebly. He stumbled through the white smoke that layered the air of his room and swirled in his wake. His bedroom door was closed. He spotted the smoke eddying in around the edges.
The house was on fire. Mom! Dad!
Bill grabbed the doorknob. It was hot—blistering hot—but he ignored the pain and pulled it open. The blast of heat from the hallway threw him back as a torrent of smoke and flame roared into the bedroom. He lurched for the window, yanked it open, and dove through the screen.
Cold fresh air. He gulped it. He rolled onto his back and stared at the house. Flame was jetting from his bedroom window with a deafening roar, as if someone had opened the door to a blast furnace.
And then an awful thought tore through his gut and propelled him to his feet. What about the rest of the house? What about the other end where his parents had their bedroom?
Jesus God oh please let them be all right!
He ran to his right toward the front of the house but froze when he rounded the corner.
The rest of the house was a mass of flame. It gushed from the windows and licked up the walls and climbed toward heaven through holes in the roof.
Dear God no!
Bill dashed forward to where the firemen were setting up their hoses.
"My parents! The Ryans! Did you get them out?"
The fireman turned to him. His expression was grim in the flickering golden light.
"We just got here. You really think there might be someone in there?"
"If you haven't seen a man and a woman in their seventies out here, then yes, they're definitely in there!"
The fireman glanced at the blaze1, then back at Bill. His eyes said everything.
With a hoarse cry, Bill ran toward the front door. The fireman grabbed his arm but he shook him off. He had to get them out of there! As he neared the house, the heat buffeted him in waves. He'd seen blazing houses on the TV news over the years but film and videotape had never conveyed the true ferocity of a fire once it had the upper hand. He felt as if his skin was going to-blister, as if his eyes were going to boil in their sockets. He crossed his arms in front of his face and pushed forward, hoping his hair didn't burst into flame.
On the front porch he grabbed the brass door handle but winced and let go. Hot. Hotter even than his bedroom doorknob had been. Too hot to grip. And then he cursed as he realized it didn't matter how hot it was—the door was locked.
He ran around the shrubs toward his parents' bedroom. The flames were roaring unchallenged from the windows. And yet from within, above the roar, he thought he heard… a scream.
He turned to the firemen and let out his own scream.
"In here!" He pointed to the pair of windows that opened into their bedroom. "They're in here!"
Bill ducked as the fire fighters got the hose going and directed the fat stream directly through the window and into the bedroom.
He heard the scream again. Screams. It was two voices now—wailing in agony. His father and mother were in there burning alive!
The fire fighter he had met before ran up to him and began pulling him back.
"Get away from here! You'll get yourself killed!"
Bill fought him off. "You got to help me get them out of there!"
The fire fighter grabbed Bill's shoulders and turned him toward the blaze.
"Take a look at that fire! Take a real good look! Nobody can be alive in there!"
"My God, don't you hear them?"
The fireman stood still a moment, listening. Bill watched his craggy face as he took off his fire hat and cocked an ear toward the house.
He had to hear them! How could he miss those terrified, agonized cries? Each wail tore through Bill like barbed wire across an open wound.
The fireman shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, pal. There's no one alive in there. Now come on—"
As Bill pulled free of his grasp again, the roof over the bedroom collapsed in an explosion of sparks and flaming embers. The blast of heat knocked Bill off his feet.
And that was when he knew they were gone. He felt his chest constrict around the pain. Mom… Dad… dead. They had to be. The bedroom was a crematorium now. Had been for some time. Nothing could have survived an instant in there.
He didn't—couldn't—resist as the fireman dragged him back to safety. He could only shout out his grief and anguished helplessness at the flames, at the night.