by Mic Roland
“Good idea.” She began tapping. “If my dad hears that Boston has a blackout, he’ll get all worried. I’m thirty-five years old, but in his mind, I’m forever six. That used to bother me, but now I think it’s kinda cute. There. It says ‘Message Sent’.”
“Your folks live in the area?” Martin asked. He wondered why she did not text whoever was waiting for her at her home in Somerville, but quickly shut down that line of curiosity. It was none of his business.
“No. We used to live out north of Turner’s Falls, in western Mass, when I was a kid. But after I went to college they moved out to Ohio.” She put her phone away.
“That’s it? One text? I don’t want to sound like I’m stereotyping or anything, but I thought girls had zillions of friends they texted back and forth with all the time.”
“Not this ‘girl’. Besides, I’m not into texting all that much. I prefer face to face. That’s why I like my bank job.”
“I’m hearing sirens mixed in with all the honking,” said Martin. “Police cars maybe?“
“Yes. I do. They don’t sound like police cars, though.”
“Fire trucks is my guess,” said Martin. “Look across the river.”
They had walked clear of the tall Schraft’s building, giving a clear view of the Mystic power station across the river. Black smoke rose from the base of one of the white metal buildings. “That’s not coming from the smoke stacks. Must have an equipment fire in there.”
“You think that’s why the power went out? A fire at the power station?” Susan’s voice carried a hint of hope. “That seems like something fixable, right? They could have the power back on by morning.”
“I don’t want be the wet blanket, but I don’t see how a fire at Mystic station would take down Chicago and L.A. too. Might be related, but it’s got to be bigger than just a fire at Mystic.”
“Hmumph. Well I can still hope you’re wrong.” Susan stopped at the edge of the curb. “Well, this is Rutherford Circle. This is where I go left, up that way. Which way for you now?”
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about it much: been too busy talking.” Martin surveyed the low skyline, devoid of useful landmarks. “North, generally. There’s 93. I’m gonna try hitchhiking on 93. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not legal, but these are desperate times. Hitching beats walking, and I’m more likely to find a longer ride on 93 than down here on the surface roads — which aren’t moving much anyhow. What about you? How much further ‘that way’ do you have to go?”
“Oh, not far at all. I live over on Wheeler Street.” She pointed under the elevated deck of 93. “It’s maybe a half dozen blocks.”
Half a dozen blocks sounded like a lot of exposure to angry, impatient people. He felt a boy scout’s obligation to escort her home. He was about to offer to escort her home, but stopped. Years of feminist browbeating had made chivalry old fashioned and politically incorrect. Despite all that chivalry within Martin refused to go away.
“Tell you what. I could walk you to your door, just to make sure you get across all the crazy traffic and stuff. If you want.”
Susan’s smile was gone. “That really won’t be necessary.” Martin could see subtle defensive body language cues.
Oh great job, Bozo. Now she thinks you’re some sleazy stalker weirdo, he berated himself.
“I’m not trying to get all forward or anything. It’s just that, well, people are being kinda cranky today. Like that guy behind the W.B. Mason truck? I’d feel better knowing you got home okay before I headed on. That’s all. Nothing else. Honest.”
She still looked reluctant. With chivalry expunged from the culture, men were left with only one sinister motivation for being nice to a woman. Noble intentions had to buck a hundred years of feminist diatribe.
He surrendered with a sigh. “But, you’re probably right. Well, take care. Hopefully see you around the bank sometime soon.”
Martin expected to see Susan turn, perhaps with a polite wave, and hurry away, having escaped the clutches of a sleazy stalker. Instead, she stared into his eyes for a long moment. He wondered if it was better for suspects in a police line-up to maintain or avoid eye contact.
The furrows disappeared from her forehead. She glanced around at the noisy traffic congestion. A burst of honking and shouting underscored his point. “I guess people have been a little weird today, but I don’t want you to be going out of your way.”
“No bother at all.” Martin felt a rush of relief, like when he needed just one more act-of-kindness for his citizenship merit badge and old Mrs. Nymore finally agreed to let him rake her leaves.
Susan shrugged acceptance and they set out west on Washington.
“I’ll veer off whenever you want. You just say when. Totally up to you,” added Martin, trying to sound indifferent and as un-creepy as he could.
“Okay.”
Within the regular chorus of honking, the wail of sirens grew louder. Some sounded like police sirens, some more like ambulances, or some other emergency vehicles.
“Not a good day to be trying to rush to a hospital,” said Martin.
“That’s for sure.”
“Say, this is a neat looking old neighborhood you have here. Bow-front Queen Anns. Some Greek Revivals. A classic Mansard. Oh, and a cool Gothic across the way there. All very quaint,” said Martin.
“You researched old house styles?” Susan asked.
“No, it’s just one of my nerdy hobbies. I grew up in a cookie-cutter subdivision where all the houses looked alike. So, the old styles always fascinated me. The narrow streets around here are kind of old-world too. Of course, that means it doesn’t take more than a couple cars to completely choke them off. Where does everyone think they’re going?”
“Don’t know,” said Susan. “Judging from the bundles and boxes strapped on their roofs, I’d guess they’re trying to go stay at a friend’s or relative’s house for awhile. But, from what you said, they won’t have power either.” Susan and Martin threaded through a jumble of cars at one intersection, then another.
“Do you live in one of these neat old houses?” Martin asked. “That would be so cool.”
“I do, and it is kinda cool. It’s a really cute Victorian. Blue with white gingerbread trim. I was really lucky to get it. When I was…well, looking for an apartment, I didn’t have a lot of time, so I couldn’t be too choosy. Most of the places I looked at were pretty rough, or in a sketchy area, or way out of my price range. Then I saw the listing online for this one and jumped at it. My apartment is on the second floor. Just three small rooms, and not much of a view or anything. But the kitchen has pine wainscoting and chair rails! I was totally sold just from the pictures.”
Martin thought she must not be too worried that he was a shady creeper, or she would not have described her house to him. “Sounds charming.”
“It is. Still, it has its down sides. Next door is an ugly old triple decker they rent out to college kids. The boys on the second floor can be pretty obnoxious at times. They like their loud parties late into the night. ”
“But that’s enough about them. What about your house?” she asked. “You never said where you were going…just ‘north’.”
“Oh, well, I…have kind of a plain white house. Not old or quaint…”
“No no no. That’s not what I meant. Where is your house? How far do you have to walk?”
Martin’s face felt hot. He felt embarrassed at his plan to walk home. He felt foolish at being only partially prepared for it. He had never hiked that far before, and had only vaguely figured he would just deal with whatever came up when he got to it. As a ‘plan’ it sounded half-baked at best, but closer to stupid.
His ego whispered that this was a prime time to lie. He could say just about anything — he lived in Winchester or Stoneham or any place up the road. What did it matter? He could lie to alcoholic panhandlers. He could lie to a pushy bank manager. He hardly knew Susan, yet somehow he felt uncomfortable lying to her.
“Um…New Hamps
hire?” He winced.
“Wait. What?” Susan stopped and grabbed Martin by the arm. “You’re going to try to walk to New Hampshire?”
“Well, not if I can hitchhike most of the way.”
“But still. New Hampshire?”
“You say it like it’s the North Pole or something. It’s only fifty miles.”
“Only fifty miles.” She mocked his tone.
“Sure. It’s totally do-able.” Martin tried to sound like it was old-hat, though he had never done it before.
“Even if I had to walk all the way, which I hope not to, fifty miles at three miles per hour would be only sixteen hours. I’ll grant you that I won’t be able to keep that pace for sixteen straight hours. So, it might take a couple days. I camp out one night under the stars. How bad is that? Regardless, I am not sleeping in my office again.”
“So, sleep in a hotel instead. Walk to New Hampshire? That sounds crazy and dangerous.”
“Hotel? No, I want to get out of town, not find someplace else to stay in it.”
Susan continued her scolding tone. “I’ll admit, sleeping in an office doesn’t sound all that appealing, but walking fifty miles sounds…” She was stuck for stronger words. “That just sounds crazy.”
“It’s not that sleeping in my office would be all that bad by itself. It’s just that this time I’ve had this little feeling in the back of my head that staying in the city is a bad idea. Given the scope of this outage, I feel like, if I don’t get out now, I may not be able to get out later.”
“And why not?” With her hands on her hips she was clearly expecting a darned good reason.
Martin felt cornered and looked away. He had never articulated his concerns out loud to anyone, so he had no well-practiced lines or phrases. “It’s nothing I can put into words easily, but more a collection of little things. Like, after Katrina, officials talked about what a headache it was with all those suddenly homeless people to deal with. That whole Superdome thing looked far worse than a night under the stars. Or hurricane Rita, with thousands of people stranded on the highways for days. Then after the Marathon bombing, all the travel restrictions with the city in lock-down and authorities telling everyone to ‘Shelter In Place.’ That’s all fine if you’re already home, but at the office? There’s other stuff too, but it all boils down to a feeling that if I don’t get out of the city quickly, I might not be able to get out at all.”
Martin looked at her with a feeble forced smile. His explanation did not sound as compelling out loud as it did in his mind. “I suppose it still sounds nuts.”
“You’re right. It still kinda does.” Her tone was softer. She pointed to the gridlock in the streets. “But, given how the traffic keeps jamming up, no one else is getting out of the city anyhow.”
“That’s why I plan to keep moving. Get as far as I can before dark. But, the first order of business is to get you home. Then I can get started hitchhiking.”
They walked along without speaking for several blocks. Martin broke the silence, pointing at a plume of black smoke rising over the rooftops. “Really a bad day to have a fire. I doubt the firetrucks could ever get up these blocked narrow streets.”
Susan looked at the smoke for moment, then her face went pale. “That’s coming from near my house.” She bolted and ran.
Martin ran behind her. He could hear sirens in the distance, but he could also see another plume of black smoke rising further south. Were the trucks headed towards this fire, or that one? The sirens sounded roughly between them.
As they rounded the corner onto Wheeler Street, Susan stopped. “Oh thank God. It’s not my house. It’s the triple-decker.”
They ran along the opposite side of the street. A crowd of neighbors had gathered there, gawking blankly as if the fire was street theater. Martin and Susan stood and watched too for a few minutes. Fire filled the second floor deck, curling up to consume the third floor deck. Thick smoke poured out of the second floor windows.
Martin turned to Susan, “I really don’t think the fire department is going to get here very soon. Look how those sparks are carrying. The way those flames are spreading, your house might go up too.”
Susan gasped. “It can’t! This is all I have.”
“Maybe we better run in and save some of your stuff — just in case.” Martin pointed to embers floating down onto the roof of the Victorian.
Susan let out a little scream, then rifled through her purse for her key. They ran up the wooden porch steps, through the heavy door and up the switch-back stairway. She struggled to get the key into the lock. She pushed open the door, ran in, but halted in the middle of the living room.
“What do I save? Where do I start?”
“Start with things you can’t replace: important papers, things like that. I’ll go grab some clothes out of your closet, just in case.” Martin rushed into the bedroom while Susan plucked family photos from the mantle and shoved them into a canvas shopping bag.
Martin threw open the closet doors. He grabbed an armful of clothes from the bar and tossed them on the bed. The gap in the closet revealed some luggage. He opened the roller bag on the bed and tried to fill it with roughly equal quantities of shirts, pants, sweaters, etc. The roller bag filled up quickly. He pulled out a duffle bag from the closet.
He yanked open the dresser drawer, intent to scoop out socks and things. His hands froze in mid-scoop. Bras and panties. It had not dawned on him that volunteering to get her clothes would mean bras and panties. He hardly knew Susan. Chivalry had no business touching her underwear. Why had he not thought there would be bras and panties?
He was startled out of his paralysis when Susan rushed into the room. “I’ve got my photos and papers.”
Martin, feeling both relieved and guilty, quickly pulled back his hands. He pointed to the bed. “I put as much as I could in your roller bag. Here. I’ll hold this duffle and you scoop out…um…what you want from the dresser.” He was content to hold the bag, but still had to look away while she filled it.
Susan grabbed a thick sweater from the pile on the bed. They hauled their burdens into the living room. “My dishes?”
“Replaceable?”
“Yes.”
“Then never mind.” Martin pointed to the bathroom. “Prescription meds?”
“None.”
“Okay good. Man, it’s getting warm in here. Winter coat? Boots?”
“Closet.” Susan flung open the door. She draped a long coat over her arm and grabbed a pair of boots.
The side window shattered from the heat. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here!” Martin pushed Susan towards the door. The stairway was starting to fill with lazy wisps of smoke.
Once back across the street, in the cool air, there was nothing much to do but watch the fire among the rest of the neighbors. The radiant heat was becoming uncomfortable, even from across the street.
A little balding man came up to Susan sheepishly. With a heavy Portuguese accent, he said apologetically, “It was those boys. No has power. They try cook on porch, deep fry, on grill. Grill fall on old sofa. Big fire. Boys try to put out.” He looked to his right. A young man stood among the spectators, staring in shock, his hands wrapped in towels. Another young man stood beside him with a red face and no hair on the front of his head.
The bald man shook his head. “No can put out.”
“This can’t be happening! It just can’t,” Susan said to no one in particular. “My house can’t burn down. Where will I….Why isn’t somebody doing something? Where’s the fire department, for God’s sake?” She paced quickly up and down the sidewalk. “How can they NOT see this fire?”
“I hear some sirens,” offered Martin. “I’ll go see if they’re coming.” He trotted to the end of the block. At the intersection, he peered up and down the street. It was full of gridlocked cars and many pedestrians, but no fire trucks. The sirens did not sound any closer than before.
He walked back to Susan, not eager to bear bad news. She was rus
hing from one bystander to the next, half-shouting at them and flailing her arms. The bystanders gave little response, as if they did not understand her or were deaf. Martin thought some of them had an it’s-not-my-job look on their faces. They were there to watch, not to do anything.
He was still a dozen yards away when Susan turned and their eyes met. There was a flash of wild expectant hope on her face. Martin’s stomach knotted. Such a pleading look for rescue, and all he had was bad news. He shook his head.
Susan slowly collapsed, as if she were an inflatable lawn Santa whose blower had been unplugged. Martin rushed over to help her up off her knees. She stared blankly. The roof of the old Victorian burned vigorously. Then flames crept down the siding. Through the crackle and roar of the fire, sirens continued to wail in the distance. No fire trucks came. The street-side windows burst. Billows of gray smoke poured out, followed by licks of orange.
Susan’s shoulders began to quiver with silent sobs.
* * *
Chapter 3: No room at the Inn
The three porches of the brown house collapsed onto each other when their posts had burned through. The semi-circle of spectators jumped back or ran a little further up the street, only to turn and resume gawking, like zebras the lion had not caught. Sirens continued to howl in the distance.
Martin felt uncomfortable interrupting Susan’s vigil for the Victorian’s last hours, but watching it burn did not seem like a healthy thing to do.
“Um. Susan? Susan. There’s nothing we can do here.”
She continued to stare.
“I think we should get you to someplace else where you can stay. Can you stay with one of your neighbors?”
“What?”
“Can you stay with one of your neighbors for a few days? I’ll help carry your things there. Do you know one of your neighbors well?”
“No. I’ve only been here a few months.” She continued to stare as the fire slowly consumed its prey. “The only one I know is Mr. Mendes.” She glanced towards the little bald man. “Sometimes I’d say hi as I walked home, if he was out watering his tomatoes.”