The Man In The Fire

I smell the fire before I see it. My lungs are overwhelmed by the burning wood, smoke, and all the other things that melt in a house fire. I round the street corner to see 656 Rolling St. up in flames. Black smoke is billowing up in plumes from the chaos. My eyes water just looking at it, but I’m compelled to go towards it. After all, that house is why I’m here. Of course, it isn’t supposed to be on fire.

I bound across the pavement. I’m the first one there, but there’s a car in the driveway. One of those big SUVs that soccer moms use. I run up the steps and pound on the door, listening for anyone inside.

“Hey!” I shout. “Hey, wake up! Your house is on fire!”

No one answers, so I go for the doorknob, praying that it’s unlocked. No luck. I swear and go to the windows next, knocking on each one as loud as I can, still shouting. I circle back to the front door and pound on it again. When I don’t get a response, I put my shoulder into it.

That’s not as easy as they make it look on television. In fact, it hurts a lot. It takes three more tries before I give up and throw a potted plant through a window. I climb up and over the frame, cutting my leg on a sharp spot. Slippery blood runs down my leg as I search the house. The house is decorated with this posh caribbean theme, I almost run into this giant seashell statue hidden by the smoke. I run upstairs to where the bedrooms are. At the top of them sits a gas can. My head reels in confusion. Who puts a gas can upstairs? I saw this family earlier. It’s why I’m here. They have two children. What if the kids got into the kerosine?

“Daddy?” A scared boy peers out of his doorway, panicked wimpers coming as his lip trembles.

“  Levi. I’m here to help. Who else is home?” I ask, kneeling beside him.

“Mommy and Daddy.” The boy cries. “It’s too hot in here.”

“I want you to run downstairs and to your neighbor’s house. If they haven’t already, call 911.Understand? Can you do that? I’m going to get your Mommy and Daddy.”

He nods, setting off quickly on his mission. One down, two to go. The master bedroom has a heavy wooden door with a small stained glass window.

I slip on something wet inside the doorway. My nose brushes against the carpet fibers and I recoil in horror. There’s kerosine on the carpet, and I just landed in it. It’s on my clothes and I nearly have a heart attack trying to get my shirt off.  I find a couple sleeping in their bed. I shout at them and shake them. The man is completely unconscious.

I carry the woman downstairs and lay her in the front yard, just as the distant sirens start to come closer. What is taking them so long? A man, I assume he is a neighbor, kneels beside the woman and starts talking to her. She can barely speak.

“Mary, mary.” She mutters.

“Who is Mary?” I ask her.

“Baby.”

My heart sinks so low in my chest it forms a pit in my stomach. The boy told me his Mommy and Daddy were home, but I never asked about his sister. I know he has one. I saw them together earlier today.

A neighbor yells at me to stop, but before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m running back inside. I still have to pull out the father, if it isn’t already too late, and now I have to get Mary. The flames are spreading slowly, but I know once it reaches the kerosine on the second floor, the whole place will be done for. I have time to save one person. I can look for baby Mary, and possibly get myself killed, or I can save the father and leave an infant to perish.

A sob escapes my throat. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I think about the man upstairs and what he would want. I knew that if it were my baby, I’d want someone to save them no matter what. My mother’s voice then pops into my head. “When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.” Some verse from the Book of Isaiah.

“God, if you’re there. Help me save these people.” I say.

I don’t know why. I don’t believe he will listen. If God is real, why would the fire have started in the first place? Surely he could have prevented it.

I enter the second bedroom at the top of the stairs, beside the little boy’s bedroom. There is smoke everywhere, but a dainty bassinet sits in a corner untouched. Yellow flowers are painted on the floor, their connecting vines lead me to the child.

Her big blue eyes flutter open when I pick her up. She stares at me for a long moment before giving me a sleepy grin. I exit the room and look towards the master bedroom. The door is completely engulfed in flames.

“You will not get burned…”

I bring Mary downstairs, where the little boy and his mother are being loaded into an ambulance. Firefighters are hooking up their hoses. Their chief issues directions, and like soldiers they follow them.

“There’s a man in the master bedroom.” I cough. The mother reaches for Mary, and I gladly hand her off before I collapse right there in the yard.

“Get some oxygen on him!” Someone yells. I think it’s the captain. He’s got this voice that sounds like a freight train heading right towards you.

My body eagerly welcomes the clean oxygen. My limbs are sore from fatigue. The adrenaline is making my body shake. I cup the oxygen mask to my face and think about the body upstairs burning up. I hope he’s still unconscious. I hope the smoke got to him first. My eyes blur until someone walks up to me.

“I’m Detective Whitman with the Boston Police Department. Do you feel up to asking a few questions?”

Detective Whitman has sharp brown eyes, and white hair. He’s short, rather stocky, and wears a clean gray suit with a matching gray tie that looks too tight. He keeps readjusting it, like it’s uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I say after a long drag of oxygen. My lungs still burn, but it’s manageable now.

“What’s your name?” He asks. He’s got a notepad out, pen ready for information.

“Levi Garcia.”

“Alright, Mr. Garcia. Can you tell me everything you know, starting with where you were when you found the fire?” He looks at me with those intense eyes, as if studying me.

“Yeah, I was coming down the street. I saw it when I turned the corner.” I take another drag of oxygen.

‘Do you live over here?”

“No. I live a couple streets over. On Ingle Ave. I walked over here because I found a wallet earlier today. I recognized the street name, so I walked over here to return it. What do you think started the fire?” I am seized by a coughing fit.

Detective Whitman discomfort seems to increase. He readjusts his tie and jerks his head to the side.

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that right now.” Is all he says, before asking another question. “May I see the wallet you were going to return?”

I reach into my pocket, where the wallet once resided. I must have dropped it amidst the chaos. I tell Detective Whitman and he frowns, making some kind of grunt of disapproval.

“Did you see anything unusual, Mr. Garcia?”

“A gas can. At the top of the stairs. Just beside the boy’s room. It was on the carpet in the master bedroom. I fell and landed in it. That’s where my shirt went. It’s probably ashes now.”

“You threw your shirt away in the master bedroom?” He clarifies.

“Yeah. That man, the husband, he’s still up there. Did they get him out? I didn’t have enough time to get him and the baby. Is the baby okay?”

“Alright, I think it’s time you go to the hospital. Get yourself checked out, got it? Here’s my card if you remember anything else.” Detective Whitman produces this shiny white card from his wallet and hands it to me, before putting his things away and calling over a medic to look at me.

I’m taken to the hospital where they check my vitals, continue to treat me with oxygen until I completely stop coughing, and then tell me to follow up with my primary care provider. I’m only half listening as it dawns on me that the lady and her kids were probably taken here. They give me a plain black t-shirt and send me on my way.

Once I’m discharged I return to the front desk where a pink haired receptionist is chewing gum and typing loudly on her computer. “Hey hon, you alright? You’re the burn guy, right? We’ve all been talking about ya. Pullin’ that family outta the fire, that took guts.”

“Thanks. I’m actually looking for the family in that fire. Last name is Berkeley I think. It was a woman, her son, and a baby girl named Mary.”

“Cassie Berkeley and Marry Berkeley are in the same room. The boy was picked up by his grandma.” The receptionist chews on her acrylic nail while she reads. “Third floor, go all the way down the hall, fifth door on the left. Room 307. Visiting hours are over in an hour.” She gives me a flirty wink that makes her face scrunch up.

It’s cute, but I’m on a mission. Maybe I can come back some time to get her number.

I follow her instructions. Cassie Berkeley is laying in her hospital bed looking worse for wear. Someone has cleaned her skin and brushed her long brown hair. It’s secured in a braid down her back. Mary is asleep in a little bassinet beside the bed. Cassie looks up as I walk in. Her eyes brighten with recognition, but nothing else changes.

“I came to see how you’re doing. I’m Levi, I’m the -”

“I know who you are. The police talked to me. Asked if I knew you or how kerosine made its way upstairs. They made it sound like someone did this intentionally.” She rests her head on the pillow behind her.

“I told them everything I know.” I run a hand through my hair. It’s getting in my eyes. “Is Mary okay? And your son?”

“My husband is dead.” Her voice breaks. She squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment. “I’m glad my daughter Elise wasn’t home. She spent the day with her friend. She was supposed to spend the night. Her first sleepover and her whole world is destroyed while she’s gone.”

“I hope they find whoever did this.” I say softly.

“Maybe they already know where to look.” She replies. “They couldn’t find the wallet you said you found. It’s making them suspicious.”

I nod in understanding, and say goodbye. I pass the pink haired receptionist who smiles at me. My stomach is so upset I can’t smile back. I walk out of the hospital and feel my stomach clench. I vomit into the bushes, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and stumble towards the parking lot.

The hospital had called my Mom, who said she would be over immediately to pick me up. Her dark blue station wagon is parked in the third row, because three is her lucky number. Mama meets me in front of the car.

“Mi Hijo.” Mama’s cheeks are wet.  It feels like everyone is crying tonight. She’s tiny, but her arms wrap all the way around my waist and she squeezes until it’s uncomfortable.

“I’m alright. I just want to go home. I could use something to eat.” I assure her. My stomach growls on cue. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I say something.

“Por Supuesto. I bought a pizza. Your favorite. With the pineapple and mushrooms.”

At home, we watch a recap of the night’s events on the news until Mama turns it off, saying something in Spanish I don’t quite hear. After eating I take a shower, checking out the gash on my leg from the glass. It’s long but superficial. It burns under the water and I think about Harrison Berkeley burning in his bedroom.

‘Mi Hijo, the police are here.” Mama says when I exit the shower.

There on my couch is Detective Whitman and two officers, one male and one female. A cold sweat breaks out on my skin. I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong.

“Can I help you?” I ask him.

“Mrs. Berkeley has made a complaint about one of her visitors. Why don’t you come down to the police station to answer a few questions?”

“My son has done nothing wrong.” Mama insists.

“We never said that he did, Ma’am. Right now we just want to get a better understanding of what happened.” Detective Whitman replies.

“Can’t this wait until the morning? The boy has been through so much. Let him get a night’s rest. The answers will be the same in the morning.”

Detective Whitman looks like he’s about to say no, when a walky-talky announces something.

“Detective, we have to go.” The female officer says. She’s middle aged, worn from the job, with her sandy blond hair up in a tight bun.

Detective Whitman’s face contorts with his emotions. He grips the pen in his hand tightly, pointing it at me. “Be there by noon or I’m sending my officers to escort you, Mr. Garcia.” He heads towards the door when I ask:

“Do I need a lawyer? You act like I’m the one who set the fire.”

Detective Whitman turns to look at me, those eyes locking onto mine without hiding his contempt. ‘That would be a very wise decision.”

Mama is fuming. She paces around the room, muttering in spanish. Then she stops, pauses for a moment before taking a deep breath. Mama closes her eyes and grabs the cross necklace hanging around her neck. Her mouth flutters over a prayer and a wave of calm washes over her face. In that moment I wish I had her faith. I wish I knew what it felt like to know someone else was going to make all of your problems go away.

“Tomorrow we get a lawyer.” She tells me.

I don’t ask how. We scrape by, pinching a penny here and there to make ends meet. I can’t miss work or we won’t be able to pay for our house. I can’t stay too long at the police station or I’ll miss going to the food pantry.

“Do you think God will let me go to prison for something I didn’t do?” I ask. My cheeks heat up, and I can’t meet her eyes. I hope she says no, but her response makes everything worse.

“I don’t know, Levi.”