by Dolly Dennis
Miss Pauline, awakened again by the uncontrollable flames reflected through her bedroom window, rushes in a frantic fit of fear to find water.
It is one of those moments: Adeen makes a split-second decision to act on something that has been simmering in her subconscious for many years. She bows her head as though in prayer and locks the deadbolt.
“What are you doing, Adeen? Unlock the door.”
A feeble knock comes from the interior, a mewling for help, and then nothing. Not a sound.
“What’s the matter with you?” Miss Pauline strikes Adeen’s hands away as she attempts to unbolt the door.
The heat from the blaze pushes Adeen back, back, back across to the other side of the road. She watches the fire consume her home, her family, her life. She babbles like a maniac, tearless. Without warning, a firefighter appears by her side, his rescuing arms pressing her back.
“You okay, lady? You okay?” he says.
Miss Pauline has positioned herself next to Adeen.
“What’s your name, lady? What’s your name?”
“Irene. Irene,” Adeen whispers.
“It’s all right. We’ll take care of you, Irene.” Then he turns to Miss Pauline. “Know her?”
“Her name’s Adeen. Adeen Whitlaw.”
ADEEN
I don’t recall locking the door. Honest. When I saw the flames, I kept moving backwards, back across to the other side of the road. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know flames could scorch with that kind of speed and fury. I ran back to the door and tried to unlock it, truly I did, but the deadbolt burned my fingers. It was hot like a live volcano. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I went back, didn’t I? Ask Miss Pauline. She couldn’t get it open herself, either. Too hot. See, we really did try.
Where were the firemen? They took forever. I guess they were out there trying to control those burning sick trees. I screamed. I know I screamed because Miss Pauline was by my side with her cellphone. She called for help and they were right there, but it was too late. I saw everything go to hell. I kept backing away from the trailer. Too hot, too hot to save anyone. It was hell, unstoppable. I couldn’t hear a peep from the inside. Had to save myself. I was sure I was in a deep sleep, a nightmare, but as I got closer to the trailer, and Miss Pauline behind trying to stop me, I knew it was real and that I was alive and free. It’s an awful thing to say. Put yourself in my place. Don’t look at me like that.
I could hear the sirens blaring in that earsplitting way as the fire trucks moved onto the Arboreau grounds. I felt Miss Pauline by my side telling someone I was Adeen Whitlaw. This nice fireman was so kind to me. He hugged me and said everything would be fine. I believed him. Neighbours gathered ’round and we all watched like it was Monday Night Football as the men doused the mobile home with garden hoses and helped the firemen set up their equipment. A geyser of water, it seemed, but it was a fast fire. The flames jumped into Miss Pauline’s yard and she lost her home, too. I feel bad about that. I apologized to her later, but she never said anything to me ever again. Not a word. In the end, nothing left but the stone foundation on both our homes.
Even mice take care of their own, you know. Derrick once told me that the mother mouse could love her newborn to death just by licking them with such intensity that they died. Only the strong survive a mother’s love, and I did love Irene … and Frosty. One time I did, yes, I did love them both. For everything that happened, I never wanted to hurt them.
Oh, s’cuse me, I am so, so tired. So sorry.
It’s too hard to care, to get involved in other people’s lives, get too close. I don’t want to touch anything or anyone anymore. So tired. I don’t care. I just don’t care. I don’t suppose you’ll let me go to the commemoration ceremonies? No? I’ll just have to remember what happened alone in my own way. Mona would understand. I wonder who will water the trees now at Evergreen. Do you know?
“Is that your story, Mrs. Whitlaw?” The officer from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police raises his head with distaste.
When she doesn’t respond, he shuts off the tape recorder and gestures to the guard with a nod that the interview is over. The guard approaches Adeen and asks that she hold out her arms. He snaps the silver handcuffs back on her wrists.
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why did you do it?” the officer says.
“They burn forests, don’t they?”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, a big thank you to my family for their continuous support of my creative life: my son, Tyler Dennis, and new family members Kerry-Ann Mueller and my grandson Calvin Mueller Dennis, who makes me laugh and entered the world the week I signed with Dundurn. I am most grateful to my husband, James Dennis, who supplied the coffee and snacks so I would meet my deadlines.
I would also like to thank everyone at Dundurn for taking a chance on me and the tremendous effort that went into the creation of The Complex Arms, especially Dominic Farrell for his patience, support and advice; Rachel Spence, who initially recognized the book’s potential; Sara D’Agostino; marketing assistant Stephanie Ellis; art director Laura Boyle; the sales and marketing teams; project editor Jenny McWha and copy editor Kate Unrau; and managing editor Elena Radic. I am grateful to the talented Courtney Horner for her unique cover design.
Thanks also to my first readers for their valuable time, friendship, considerable knowledge and love of books: Jane Hikel, my best friend forever since the first grade; Christina Hardie and the Mill Woods Mythologies Project for telling me about the Pits; and Kathleen Betteridge for her significant contribution.
Grateful to all the folks in Edmonton who shared their stories with me; too many to personally name here but you know who you are. I do want to acknowledge Jerry Bellikka who was a radio reporter at that time and provided me with his on-the-scene remembrances of Black Friday.
My gratitude to the Edmonton Arts Council for giving me a grant to write this book.