Firesuite
My house burned down on the day that the World Trade Center was destroyed. It started as a small fire in the kitchen when some oil caught alight, but there weren’t enough firefighters to come out until it was too late and the fire couldn’t be contained anymore. Considering what happened that day it’s hard to feel angry at the lack of response, but I lost everything I owned that day, with the slow motion erasure of my past beginning as the embers cooled. I have collected pictures of those two towers since that day, kept safe alongside my other photos in a fire resistant case kept under my bed.
My doctor tells me that fading memories are just a symptom of aging, and I can’t deny that I’m losing more every day, which is why I’m writing everything down now. My first pure memory of that day is standing in front of my house and looking up as I waited in vain for someone to help, and seeing ash smear the air all round my neighborhood, whether from my house or the destroyed towers or a combination of both I really couldn’t say.
Going back I woke up at the usual time, hitting snooze on my clock radio twice as always, and after showering and dressing I went into the kitchen to make breakfast. I had a little time before I needed to leave for work, so I decided to make some bacon and eggs with home fries, and after I put the potatoes into the oil I turned the television on to tune into the world. That was how I learned about the disaster unfolding in town, and I stood there watching in silence as smoke poured from those towers like a chimney while behind me the oil caught fire in the kitchen, untended.
By the time I smelled the smoke the flames had reached the wooden cabinet above the cooker, and I had no idea what to do. I ran into my bedroom and dragged the comforter off my bed, and I tried to throw it over the spreading fire but it didn’t really do much, as the fire had already spread too far for that. I ran to the phone and tried to call 911 but I couldn’t get through, and the burning cabinet collapsed. I ran out onto the street to see if I could find anyone to help, and looking back at my front door I could already see smoke following me out before drifting up into that clear, blue sky.
Out on the street I couldn’t see a soul in either direction. It was strange – mostly I hated the noise from my street from kids running up and down at all times of night, but they were already in school and their parents were on the way to work. I ran next door to Mr Lipinski’s house and bashed on the door, and I got really angry as I heard him shuffling slowly down the hall. It’s not his fault that he’s old, I knew, but I was frantic and the adrenaline was in the driver’s seat. He opened the door and I screamed at him that my kitchen was on fire as he recoiled from the attack. It was too much for him, he had no idea how to react, so I told him to call 911 while I tried to find someone to help me with the fire. He snapped to a little, said okay and shuffled back inside to the phone, wearing the slippers and dressing gown that I had only ever seen him in since he retired.
I ran back out onto the street and felt almost sick with energy, my head snapping back and forth trying to find someone, anyone, who could help. I noticed a big black guy at the end of the street getting into a large white van and I ran down to grab him. You’ve got to help me, I yelled, my house is burning down. He looked at me suspiciously but I must have looked as frantic as I felt and he followed me slowly as I ran back up to my house. When he caught up to me I was standing at the front gate watching as flames licked across the ceiling of the hallway towards us.
Shit, he said, what are we going to do? I had no idea at all, and I wondered what he was doing as he ran back down the street until he returned with a hosepipe and asked where he could attach it. Over there, I pointed to the tap on the side of the front porch, and he went across and attached it before spraying the water into the hallway. I could see a rainbow in the spray as the water arced into my house before hitting the flames and returning again as steam.
It seems now as though the world went into slow motion at that stage, and looking back I can see the flames licking tentatively at the doorframe, tasting it briefly before greedily rolling over and outside like a lava flow, devouring the door whole. The guy was yelling something in my direction, but I have no idea what he was saying. I was hypnotized by the flames, leaping and dancing as though in a show, just for my pleasure.
I felt something push me to one side, and as I looked back I saw the firefighters in their big jackets, the fluorescent strips wide across their shoulders, their helmets black and solid and squat on their heads as they moved unhurriedly towards the flames. I guess they were used to the qualities of fire, and weren’t likely to stare in wonder at it anymore. Someone pulled me away and threw a blanket over me, although I had no idea why, as the big hoses of the firefighters kicked in, covering the doorway of my house. The fire felt the water and retreated, looking for something safer to burn, away from the danger of the water.
That was when the house gave in, collapsing on itself at the middle.
The firefighters leaned back and watched, waiting for a sign that they could continue. When the porch roof fell they swooped in, pulling debris away as they cleared a path into what remained of the hallway. A burp of flame spat out the door before retreating from their charge, a last barrage before submission, and it was only moments later when one of the firefighters re-emerged, followed by a small stream of water tumbling down the front stairs, and came over to ask if I had anywhere to stay before heading back to the truck. That was when I realised there were only three of them, and they were gone in a beat towards the city as the remains of my house smoked behind me.
Mr Lipinski shuffled hesitantly towards me, anxious not to say the wrong thing, and asked if I wanted to come in for a coffee. Sure I said, unthinking, and followed his rumpled figure into the depths of his house. It’s the same layout as my place I thought, I wonder if he put a toilet in under the stairs too. I walked down the hall and he was already in front of his ancient cooker putting the old fashioned kettle onto the stovetop and flicking open a box of matches and lighting one, the gas whomping into life as he headed towards the fridge, pulling out a carton of milk and a plate of cookies he’d clearly made earlier in the week.
It looks pretty bad over there, he mumbled. Yeah, I sighed. He busied himself with the mugs and the instant coffee as I looked out the back window into his small yard, looking through the chain fence into my yard as the thinning black smoke spiralled into the now darkened sky. I felt like I should say something, but there was some sort of blockage in my head stopping me from forming words. He seemed to realise, reaching his small, bent hand up to my shoulder and gently pulled me towards the laminate table in the middle of the room, sitting me down before putting a steaming mug in front of me and gesturing towards the plate on the table.
I took a cookie, dunked it into the coffee and bit off the soggy end, waiting to see what would happen next. When you’re up to it maybe we should go take a look, he proffered, just to see what’s left. There’s no one else coming, what with that business downtown, if you heard about it. Still unable to speak I simply nodded, sipping my coffee as he slumped into the seat opposite me and wearily picked up his own beverage.
Eventually we headed back down the hall and onto the street, and as we passed through my open wire gate I heard someone say oh my God through an open window opposite. My front window was broken and the remains of the door were hanging off one hinge as we gingerly walked through. The front room was destroyed, with the remnants of my armchair and television recognisable by their shapes alone in the black room, now lit mostly by the hole in the roof and the wall to the kitchen, which still slowly leaked water from the bathroom above. I pointed to a small black heap in the back corner, saying that was where I kept my photos, before walking through the wall.
There was nothing recognisable left in the kitchen, and walking through the broken back door I could see scorch marks on the panelling on the back of Mr Lipinski’s house. Sorry I mumbled, but he was too busy taking in the destruction to hear it. I pushed past him gently as I walked into the hall, saying I better take a look upstairs, it might be safer for you to stay down here before gingerly tiptoeing up what remained of the stairs.
My wardrobe used to stand where the hole in the floor now lived, and the front of the top drawer fell off in my hand as I tried to open it. Sifting through the burnt rags of my underwear drawer my fingers felt what I couldn’t yet admit I was looking for, and my eyes watered as I pulled out my grandmother’s engagement ring, given to me by my mother in the last year of her life as a last effort to get me to follow her design for my life.
If she’s the one, give it to her she said as she slid the small blue drawstring bag across her kitchen table, looking smaller and more ruined than I had remembered her from my last visit. I just want you to be happy, and if she makes you happy then that is enough for me. She lived long enough to watch me as I drew up the courage to offer her ring to my girlfriend, passing away not long after I came to share the news of what had happened with her.
The heavy breathing behind me made me turn to the door where Mr Lipinski stood, one hand on the door frame for support, the other holding an old nylon sports bag held towards me. To put anything left into he wheezed, and I took the bag to save him the burden. Most of the other drawer fronts fell off as I looked for anything salvageable, sticking the remaining intact clothes into the small bag before moving to the spare room, where the only items left were some small hand weights sat beneath a framed photo of my mother, the glass cracked but otherwise intact.
Come on, he croaked from the hallway downstairs, there’s nothing for you here now. Come with me, I’ll make you a sandwich. With no other options left, I followed him back next door sheepishly, sneaking a sideways glance at the ruins of my house one more time before re-entering.
I found him in the kitchen, where two glasses of milk sat on the table next to the cookies as he slapped together a couple of salami sandwiches. Thanks Mr Lipinski, I started, you’ve been very kind. He looked over and said it’s Stan, although my wife always preferred Stanley before returning to his work. Thanks Stan I whispered as I pulled the ring from my pocket, putting it on my little finger to look at it for the first time since the day. The small bag smelled of smoke, but the ring was unblemished.
What have you got there? he asked as he put the sandwich on a plate in front of me and sat down opposite, taking a big bite and looking at me intently. It’s my grandmother’s ring, I started, my mother got it when she passed away, and gave it to me before she went too. She wanted me to get married, and thought that if she gave me an engagement ring I wouldn’t have any economic arguments against the idea, at least.
Did it work? he asked quietly. I don’t recall any women coming or going, or at least not for too long. I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed it carefully, before continuing. There was a girl, once, I stated, and I thought she was the one. We lived together for a while, not far from here, and everything happened pretty fast. Maybe too fast, looking at it now, but it didn’t seem like it back then.
It all came rushing back to me: her long hair, the way her mouth permanently curled down into a pout unless she smiled, the way she swayed from foot to foot when she was impatient to tell me something, how she covered her eyes with her hand when something scared her on television before she slowly split her fingers open to see it again anyway, the way she would lean hard into me if we were walking in a new neighbourhood after a few drinks at night.
She met my mother, but they didn’t get on: too much competition, I think. But they respected each other, even if they only admitted it when the other one wasn’t there. Maybe they were too alike. The ring was for her, and it was only a matter of time before she knew. I looked for a moment at the picture of my mother in my hands before turning it over and removing the back to reveal the photo hidden behind. This is her, I sniffed, and passed it to Stan. She’s a looker he said admiringly before handing it back. Yeah, I agreed, but she never knew it, and wouldn’t believe me when I told her.
I put the photo down on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of my hand. I remembered the times I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the trash before removing it, shamefaced and drunk, later that night near the bottom of the whiskey bottle. Stan, as though reading my thoughts, stood up and reached behind a formica shelf before returning with a green bottle and a couple of tumblers, pouring a measure for both of us before looking at me expectantly once again.
That’s what did us in, I continued, she hadn’t heard it enough before to be able to hear it from me. I worshipped her, and it was never enough. Things were great, and we never needed anything apart from each other, but I know now that it was never going to last. One night we came home from the bar, talking endlessly and happy drunk, and I thought this was the moment: I reached into my underpants drawer, pulled out the ring, and presented it to her.
I wiped my eye as I returned to the scene of the crime, and saw myself swaying on two knees, laughing, as I held the ring towards her. Suddenly she was not laughing, and it didn’t take me long to stop, either.
What happened? he asked, anxiously looking across the table. I took a slug of the cheap whiskey and waited for the burn in my throat to cool, before continuing. She said no, she wasn’t ready to settle down, that she wasn’t worthy of it. Of course you are I said, but she wouldn’t hear it. I begged her, but she turned away.
Come to bed, she said, I can’t talk anymore. Hold me.
I was crying now, and to his credit Stan looked diligently at his sandwich as I regained composure. She was going to move out within two weeks, she said the next morning, and nothing I could say would change her mind. Those weeks turned into a month and she was still there, our lives in a shared limbo, and we shared a bed but were never together again. Eventually she asked if I would move out instead, as she couldn’t afford to find another place, and like a fool I agreed.
I went to see my mother, to tell her what happened, and the first thing she asked was did I still have the ring. Reassured, she said I’ll be gone soon, and I need to give you something before I go. I stopped there, seeing her frail, brittle frame shuffle to the back of her house, her long grey plait swaying dully behind her, before she returned with an envelope. She’d never bought a house, for one reason or another, but she gave me the number of her bank manager and said that could be a deposit, if you’re careful. And I was.
I took another slug of the whiskey, not normally to my taste but on a day like this it didn’t matter. I saw you watching me as I viewed the house, and I thought at least the neighbourhood would be safe. The house was vacant so I could move straight in, and you probably saw me that day: I had so little stuff that I could move in a cab. I left her with everything we had, because I thought it was the right thing to do, but every night I would look at the bag of photos and the few other pitiful items in my new house and cried, because everything there reminded me of her.
He was crying now too, and poured a couple more shots as we sat together. I saw her once, from across the road, in midtown: she had new sunglasses, new clothes and her arm wrapped in the arm of another guy, but I would recognise her anywhere. I called her name and started walking towards her, but she wouldn’t look at me: I stopped halfway across the road, and they walked past me without turning to look. I hear they moved down south, not long after. I don’t know what happened to her, from there.
I looked out the back window: the sky was blue again, as though it had never been otherwise. And now there’s nothing left of her, except this photo. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown, stood up and reached behind the shelf again, and brought a packet of cigarettes back with him. He raised his eyebrows at me and I nodded, once: he lit two and handed one to me before exhaling heavily.
That’s a hard story to hear, son, he began. And forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I’m an old man who has been alone for a while myself, so I might be a little rusty on the airs and graces front. Things were maybe a little simpler in my day, but like you I just knew when I met Maisie that she was it. We were married six months later, moved into this house, and spent all our time together, reading the newspapers and drinking coffee, happy in the silence together, and wondering if anything could make us happier than each other.
Then she fell pregnant, as they used to say, and we knew there was more happiness than we could ever have believed. I built a cot for the little one in the spare room out the back, and every night when I’d come home from work she’d be a little bigger, a little happier, a little more content. It was summer, and we’d lay in the tub together, lying in the cold water and watching her belly move. Looking back now, I swear there were nights when she glowed stronger than the streetlights outside.
He paused, looking at me coldly before choking down a shot of whiskey. But she died.
It was a complication in childbirth. It was something in her blood which wouldn’t let it clot. It was a weekend. It was too far to the hospital. It was a lack of cabs. It was his eagerness to get out and join us. It was a hundred reasons and none. They were gone, and I didn’t know how to be alone. It was thirty odd years ago, but it stabs me in the heart like it was yesterday, still. A single tear slid down his cheek, a solitary guard fallen over for want of some sleep.
I came home and I burnt that damn cot in the yard, he wavered, and the shame of it is I did nothing else after that but sit right where you’re sitting now and watch it fall to embers. And then I stayed sitting there. And maybe you’re hurting now, I know that you are, but there’s been too many times since that day when I’ve thought if only I burnt the rest of it too, burnt it all down to the ground so I had to start again.
The heart won’t let go, even long after it should. You’ve seen my house, you’ve seen the photos of her in the front room, on the stairs. My heart wouldn’t let me leave here, even though my brain knew it was the best thing for me to do, because if I left this house then maybe I’d leave her too, because she touched ever part of this house, and she touched every part of me with it. I knew that staying here meant I wouldn’t move on, but knowing it and doing it are a world apart from each other.
He paused, peering intently at my face for something he didn’t see. He took another shot, grimaced, and continued. Now maybe you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, and no doubt you’ve been through a world of shit today. But I reckon the world is changing today anyhow, and I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking anyway. I took a shot too, and waited for the punch.
I reckon you’ve got an opportunity here, if you’re man enough to take it, an opportunity I wish I'd been given. You lost something here today, no doubt, but you haven’t lost everything. And until you do, I think you're going to stay sitting in that damn chair the same way that I did, until it’s too late. He looked at the photo in my hand, and I felt a chill run down my neck. I want you to give me that, and then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, if you’ll join me outside.
I felt my hand move across the table without realising I was doing it, and he snatched the photo quicker than I expected, holding it between his thumb and finger by the corner, upside down. I’m going to tell you what I wish someone had told me, if only there was someone who could. I want to burn this photo, because it’s the last thing holding you here. Everything else in your house is gone, and this is the last link of the chain. Burn this, and you’re free.
He stood there, old and frail but suddenly wild with life, the photo in one hand and his matches in the other, and I heard myself say okay before taking both and leading him into the yard. I stood in the middle of that small concrete area, gulped in the cool twilight air as I looked at the cold remains of my former house, and I struck the match, holding the photo until the greenish flame licked my fingers and I dropped it, standing over it until the ashes turned black and we headed back inside.
Do you have anywhere to go? he asked, his fingers re-closing the back of my mother’s photo frame, knowing before I said anything that the answer was no. Then stay with me, he commanded, I’ve got the spare room and nothing to put into it, and you can think about what you’re going to do next, give you time to get your affairs in order, insurance and such. And then, one month from today, I’m going to kick you out again, and you’re going to go start your new life, whatever you decide it will be.
Thank you Stanley, I stammered. Don’t mention it son, he sighed, just remember me from time to time, because you’ll be living for the both of us.
And maybe this was the one story I didn’t need to write down, because how could I not remember the story of that day, even after all these miles, after all these years? But when the rest of the world thinks of the horrors let loose on that day, I will only ever remember it as the day that Stanley Lipinski set me free.
(April 2002/October 2016)
My doctor tells me that fading memories are just a symptom of aging, and I can’t deny that I’m losing more every day, which is why I’m writing everything down now. My first pure memory of that day is standing in front of my house and looking up as I waited in vain for someone to help, and seeing ash smear the air all round my neighborhood, whether from my house or the destroyed towers or a combination of both I really couldn’t say.
Going back I woke up at the usual time, hitting snooze on my clock radio twice as always, and after showering and dressing I went into the kitchen to make breakfast. I had a little time before I needed to leave for work, so I decided to make some bacon and eggs with home fries, and after I put the potatoes into the oil I turned the television on to tune into the world. That was how I learned about the disaster unfolding in town, and I stood there watching in silence as smoke poured from those towers like a chimney while behind me the oil caught fire in the kitchen, untended.
By the time I smelled the smoke the flames had reached the wooden cabinet above the cooker, and I had no idea what to do. I ran into my bedroom and dragged the comforter off my bed, and I tried to throw it over the spreading fire but it didn’t really do much, as the fire had already spread too far for that. I ran to the phone and tried to call 911 but I couldn’t get through, and the burning cabinet collapsed. I ran out onto the street to see if I could find anyone to help, and looking back at my front door I could already see smoke following me out before drifting up into that clear, blue sky.
Out on the street I couldn’t see a soul in either direction. It was strange – mostly I hated the noise from my street from kids running up and down at all times of night, but they were already in school and their parents were on the way to work. I ran next door to Mr Lipinski’s house and bashed on the door, and I got really angry as I heard him shuffling slowly down the hall. It’s not his fault that he’s old, I knew, but I was frantic and the adrenaline was in the driver’s seat. He opened the door and I screamed at him that my kitchen was on fire as he recoiled from the attack. It was too much for him, he had no idea how to react, so I told him to call 911 while I tried to find someone to help me with the fire. He snapped to a little, said okay and shuffled back inside to the phone, wearing the slippers and dressing gown that I had only ever seen him in since he retired.
I ran back out onto the street and felt almost sick with energy, my head snapping back and forth trying to find someone, anyone, who could help. I noticed a big black guy at the end of the street getting into a large white van and I ran down to grab him. You’ve got to help me, I yelled, my house is burning down. He looked at me suspiciously but I must have looked as frantic as I felt and he followed me slowly as I ran back up to my house. When he caught up to me I was standing at the front gate watching as flames licked across the ceiling of the hallway towards us.
Shit, he said, what are we going to do? I had no idea at all, and I wondered what he was doing as he ran back down the street until he returned with a hosepipe and asked where he could attach it. Over there, I pointed to the tap on the side of the front porch, and he went across and attached it before spraying the water into the hallway. I could see a rainbow in the spray as the water arced into my house before hitting the flames and returning again as steam.
It seems now as though the world went into slow motion at that stage, and looking back I can see the flames licking tentatively at the doorframe, tasting it briefly before greedily rolling over and outside like a lava flow, devouring the door whole. The guy was yelling something in my direction, but I have no idea what he was saying. I was hypnotized by the flames, leaping and dancing as though in a show, just for my pleasure.
I felt something push me to one side, and as I looked back I saw the firefighters in their big jackets, the fluorescent strips wide across their shoulders, their helmets black and solid and squat on their heads as they moved unhurriedly towards the flames. I guess they were used to the qualities of fire, and weren’t likely to stare in wonder at it anymore. Someone pulled me away and threw a blanket over me, although I had no idea why, as the big hoses of the firefighters kicked in, covering the doorway of my house. The fire felt the water and retreated, looking for something safer to burn, away from the danger of the water.
That was when the house gave in, collapsing on itself at the middle.
The firefighters leaned back and watched, waiting for a sign that they could continue. When the porch roof fell they swooped in, pulling debris away as they cleared a path into what remained of the hallway. A burp of flame spat out the door before retreating from their charge, a last barrage before submission, and it was only moments later when one of the firefighters re-emerged, followed by a small stream of water tumbling down the front stairs, and came over to ask if I had anywhere to stay before heading back to the truck. That was when I realised there were only three of them, and they were gone in a beat towards the city as the remains of my house smoked behind me.
Mr Lipinski shuffled hesitantly towards me, anxious not to say the wrong thing, and asked if I wanted to come in for a coffee. Sure I said, unthinking, and followed his rumpled figure into the depths of his house. It’s the same layout as my place I thought, I wonder if he put a toilet in under the stairs too. I walked down the hall and he was already in front of his ancient cooker putting the old fashioned kettle onto the stovetop and flicking open a box of matches and lighting one, the gas whomping into life as he headed towards the fridge, pulling out a carton of milk and a plate of cookies he’d clearly made earlier in the week.
It looks pretty bad over there, he mumbled. Yeah, I sighed. He busied himself with the mugs and the instant coffee as I looked out the back window into his small yard, looking through the chain fence into my yard as the thinning black smoke spiralled into the now darkened sky. I felt like I should say something, but there was some sort of blockage in my head stopping me from forming words. He seemed to realise, reaching his small, bent hand up to my shoulder and gently pulled me towards the laminate table in the middle of the room, sitting me down before putting a steaming mug in front of me and gesturing towards the plate on the table.
I took a cookie, dunked it into the coffee and bit off the soggy end, waiting to see what would happen next. When you’re up to it maybe we should go take a look, he proffered, just to see what’s left. There’s no one else coming, what with that business downtown, if you heard about it. Still unable to speak I simply nodded, sipping my coffee as he slumped into the seat opposite me and wearily picked up his own beverage.
Eventually we headed back down the hall and onto the street, and as we passed through my open wire gate I heard someone say oh my God through an open window opposite. My front window was broken and the remains of the door were hanging off one hinge as we gingerly walked through. The front room was destroyed, with the remnants of my armchair and television recognisable by their shapes alone in the black room, now lit mostly by the hole in the roof and the wall to the kitchen, which still slowly leaked water from the bathroom above. I pointed to a small black heap in the back corner, saying that was where I kept my photos, before walking through the wall.
There was nothing recognisable left in the kitchen, and walking through the broken back door I could see scorch marks on the panelling on the back of Mr Lipinski’s house. Sorry I mumbled, but he was too busy taking in the destruction to hear it. I pushed past him gently as I walked into the hall, saying I better take a look upstairs, it might be safer for you to stay down here before gingerly tiptoeing up what remained of the stairs.
My wardrobe used to stand where the hole in the floor now lived, and the front of the top drawer fell off in my hand as I tried to open it. Sifting through the burnt rags of my underwear drawer my fingers felt what I couldn’t yet admit I was looking for, and my eyes watered as I pulled out my grandmother’s engagement ring, given to me by my mother in the last year of her life as a last effort to get me to follow her design for my life.
If she’s the one, give it to her she said as she slid the small blue drawstring bag across her kitchen table, looking smaller and more ruined than I had remembered her from my last visit. I just want you to be happy, and if she makes you happy then that is enough for me. She lived long enough to watch me as I drew up the courage to offer her ring to my girlfriend, passing away not long after I came to share the news of what had happened with her.
The heavy breathing behind me made me turn to the door where Mr Lipinski stood, one hand on the door frame for support, the other holding an old nylon sports bag held towards me. To put anything left into he wheezed, and I took the bag to save him the burden. Most of the other drawer fronts fell off as I looked for anything salvageable, sticking the remaining intact clothes into the small bag before moving to the spare room, where the only items left were some small hand weights sat beneath a framed photo of my mother, the glass cracked but otherwise intact.
Come on, he croaked from the hallway downstairs, there’s nothing for you here now. Come with me, I’ll make you a sandwich. With no other options left, I followed him back next door sheepishly, sneaking a sideways glance at the ruins of my house one more time before re-entering.
I found him in the kitchen, where two glasses of milk sat on the table next to the cookies as he slapped together a couple of salami sandwiches. Thanks Mr Lipinski, I started, you’ve been very kind. He looked over and said it’s Stan, although my wife always preferred Stanley before returning to his work. Thanks Stan I whispered as I pulled the ring from my pocket, putting it on my little finger to look at it for the first time since the day. The small bag smelled of smoke, but the ring was unblemished.
What have you got there? he asked as he put the sandwich on a plate in front of me and sat down opposite, taking a big bite and looking at me intently. It’s my grandmother’s ring, I started, my mother got it when she passed away, and gave it to me before she went too. She wanted me to get married, and thought that if she gave me an engagement ring I wouldn’t have any economic arguments against the idea, at least.
Did it work? he asked quietly. I don’t recall any women coming or going, or at least not for too long. I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed it carefully, before continuing. There was a girl, once, I stated, and I thought she was the one. We lived together for a while, not far from here, and everything happened pretty fast. Maybe too fast, looking at it now, but it didn’t seem like it back then.
It all came rushing back to me: her long hair, the way her mouth permanently curled down into a pout unless she smiled, the way she swayed from foot to foot when she was impatient to tell me something, how she covered her eyes with her hand when something scared her on television before she slowly split her fingers open to see it again anyway, the way she would lean hard into me if we were walking in a new neighbourhood after a few drinks at night.
She met my mother, but they didn’t get on: too much competition, I think. But they respected each other, even if they only admitted it when the other one wasn’t there. Maybe they were too alike. The ring was for her, and it was only a matter of time before she knew. I looked for a moment at the picture of my mother in my hands before turning it over and removing the back to reveal the photo hidden behind. This is her, I sniffed, and passed it to Stan. She’s a looker he said admiringly before handing it back. Yeah, I agreed, but she never knew it, and wouldn’t believe me when I told her.
I put the photo down on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of my hand. I remembered the times I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the trash before removing it, shamefaced and drunk, later that night near the bottom of the whiskey bottle. Stan, as though reading my thoughts, stood up and reached behind a formica shelf before returning with a green bottle and a couple of tumblers, pouring a measure for both of us before looking at me expectantly once again.
That’s what did us in, I continued, she hadn’t heard it enough before to be able to hear it from me. I worshipped her, and it was never enough. Things were great, and we never needed anything apart from each other, but I know now that it was never going to last. One night we came home from the bar, talking endlessly and happy drunk, and I thought this was the moment: I reached into my underpants drawer, pulled out the ring, and presented it to her.
I wiped my eye as I returned to the scene of the crime, and saw myself swaying on two knees, laughing, as I held the ring towards her. Suddenly she was not laughing, and it didn’t take me long to stop, either.
What happened? he asked, anxiously looking across the table. I took a slug of the cheap whiskey and waited for the burn in my throat to cool, before continuing. She said no, she wasn’t ready to settle down, that she wasn’t worthy of it. Of course you are I said, but she wouldn’t hear it. I begged her, but she turned away.
Come to bed, she said, I can’t talk anymore. Hold me.
I was crying now, and to his credit Stan looked diligently at his sandwich as I regained composure. She was going to move out within two weeks, she said the next morning, and nothing I could say would change her mind. Those weeks turned into a month and she was still there, our lives in a shared limbo, and we shared a bed but were never together again. Eventually she asked if I would move out instead, as she couldn’t afford to find another place, and like a fool I agreed.
I went to see my mother, to tell her what happened, and the first thing she asked was did I still have the ring. Reassured, she said I’ll be gone soon, and I need to give you something before I go. I stopped there, seeing her frail, brittle frame shuffle to the back of her house, her long grey plait swaying dully behind her, before she returned with an envelope. She’d never bought a house, for one reason or another, but she gave me the number of her bank manager and said that could be a deposit, if you’re careful. And I was.
I took another slug of the whiskey, not normally to my taste but on a day like this it didn’t matter. I saw you watching me as I viewed the house, and I thought at least the neighbourhood would be safe. The house was vacant so I could move straight in, and you probably saw me that day: I had so little stuff that I could move in a cab. I left her with everything we had, because I thought it was the right thing to do, but every night I would look at the bag of photos and the few other pitiful items in my new house and cried, because everything there reminded me of her.
He was crying now too, and poured a couple more shots as we sat together. I saw her once, from across the road, in midtown: she had new sunglasses, new clothes and her arm wrapped in the arm of another guy, but I would recognise her anywhere. I called her name and started walking towards her, but she wouldn’t look at me: I stopped halfway across the road, and they walked past me without turning to look. I hear they moved down south, not long after. I don’t know what happened to her, from there.
I looked out the back window: the sky was blue again, as though it had never been otherwise. And now there’s nothing left of her, except this photo. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown, stood up and reached behind the shelf again, and brought a packet of cigarettes back with him. He raised his eyebrows at me and I nodded, once: he lit two and handed one to me before exhaling heavily.
That’s a hard story to hear, son, he began. And forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I’m an old man who has been alone for a while myself, so I might be a little rusty on the airs and graces front. Things were maybe a little simpler in my day, but like you I just knew when I met Maisie that she was it. We were married six months later, moved into this house, and spent all our time together, reading the newspapers and drinking coffee, happy in the silence together, and wondering if anything could make us happier than each other.
Then she fell pregnant, as they used to say, and we knew there was more happiness than we could ever have believed. I built a cot for the little one in the spare room out the back, and every night when I’d come home from work she’d be a little bigger, a little happier, a little more content. It was summer, and we’d lay in the tub together, lying in the cold water and watching her belly move. Looking back now, I swear there were nights when she glowed stronger than the streetlights outside.
He paused, looking at me coldly before choking down a shot of whiskey. But she died.
It was a complication in childbirth. It was something in her blood which wouldn’t let it clot. It was a weekend. It was too far to the hospital. It was a lack of cabs. It was his eagerness to get out and join us. It was a hundred reasons and none. They were gone, and I didn’t know how to be alone. It was thirty odd years ago, but it stabs me in the heart like it was yesterday, still. A single tear slid down his cheek, a solitary guard fallen over for want of some sleep.
I came home and I burnt that damn cot in the yard, he wavered, and the shame of it is I did nothing else after that but sit right where you’re sitting now and watch it fall to embers. And then I stayed sitting there. And maybe you’re hurting now, I know that you are, but there’s been too many times since that day when I’ve thought if only I burnt the rest of it too, burnt it all down to the ground so I had to start again.
The heart won’t let go, even long after it should. You’ve seen my house, you’ve seen the photos of her in the front room, on the stairs. My heart wouldn’t let me leave here, even though my brain knew it was the best thing for me to do, because if I left this house then maybe I’d leave her too, because she touched ever part of this house, and she touched every part of me with it. I knew that staying here meant I wouldn’t move on, but knowing it and doing it are a world apart from each other.
He paused, peering intently at my face for something he didn’t see. He took another shot, grimaced, and continued. Now maybe you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, and no doubt you’ve been through a world of shit today. But I reckon the world is changing today anyhow, and I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking anyway. I took a shot too, and waited for the punch.
I reckon you’ve got an opportunity here, if you’re man enough to take it, an opportunity I wish I'd been given. You lost something here today, no doubt, but you haven’t lost everything. And until you do, I think you're going to stay sitting in that damn chair the same way that I did, until it’s too late. He looked at the photo in my hand, and I felt a chill run down my neck. I want you to give me that, and then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, if you’ll join me outside.
I felt my hand move across the table without realising I was doing it, and he snatched the photo quicker than I expected, holding it between his thumb and finger by the corner, upside down. I’m going to tell you what I wish someone had told me, if only there was someone who could. I want to burn this photo, because it’s the last thing holding you here. Everything else in your house is gone, and this is the last link of the chain. Burn this, and you’re free.
He stood there, old and frail but suddenly wild with life, the photo in one hand and his matches in the other, and I heard myself say okay before taking both and leading him into the yard. I stood in the middle of that small concrete area, gulped in the cool twilight air as I looked at the cold remains of my former house, and I struck the match, holding the photo until the greenish flame licked my fingers and I dropped it, standing over it until the ashes turned black and we headed back inside.
Do you have anywhere to go? he asked, his fingers re-closing the back of my mother’s photo frame, knowing before I said anything that the answer was no. Then stay with me, he commanded, I’ve got the spare room and nothing to put into it, and you can think about what you’re going to do next, give you time to get your affairs in order, insurance and such. And then, one month from today, I’m going to kick you out again, and you’re going to go start your new life, whatever you decide it will be.
Thank you Stanley, I stammered. Don’t mention it son, he sighed, just remember me from time to time, because you’ll be living for the both of us.
And maybe this was the one story I didn’t need to write down, because how could I not remember the story of that day, even after all these miles, after all these years? But when the rest of the world thinks of the horrors let loose on that day, I will only ever remember it as the day that Stanley Lipinski set me free.
(April 2002/October 2016)