The tip of the candle’s flame barely kissed the mattress, but it was enough to ignite a furious inferno that shot crackling flames across our beds and climbing up the walls. There was a notorious city wide blackout, and our family became one of its unintended victims.
“Lor, come here”, Sue whisper-shouted to me from the bedroom, and as I entered the room, gasped and thought, she’s in big trouble now! She, my sister Susan, both was blamed for most of the trouble our family suffered, and the cause of it. Susan was defiant, and even young as she was, pushed the buttons of both parents until they reacted with anger and emotional, verbal, and sometimes physical violence.
Panicked, unsure what to do, I was only 10, I jumped to my feet, ran into the bathroom, grabbed a small paper dixie cup, the kind we used to rinse our mouths after brushing our teeth, filled it with water, and raced back to the bedroom. In the few seconds I’d been gone, the fire had consumed our two beds, and was on its way to devour the other two. This cup was useless.
8 year old Sue sat on the floor, bug eyed, mouth agape, enthralled and paralyzed by the dancing flames. Butchie Boy looked sleepily between the bars of his crib, and Joy-Joy in her bed, inches separating her from the building inferno, remained still, except for the slow and steady bumping of her head against her balled up schmata, humming the Ring Ding jingle.
Mom shouted from the living room, “What’s going on in there?”
“Fire, Ma, there’s a fire! Come quick!”
“What are you talking about….”Her voice trailed off as she and Dad flew into the bedroom.
“Christ almighty!” Dad plucked Butch from his crib/bed with one arm, turned and grabbed Joy with the other, thrust them at Mom, then grabbed a coat hanging on the corner of the door, began beating the flames.
“Get the hell out of here,” he shouted, picking Sue and I up by the scruffs of our necks, pushing us along, out of the blazing bedroom, “Move, move, move. Get out!”
“Go pull the fire alarm on the corner” Dad shouted to Mom, or anyone.
I watched his silhouette, raising and slamming the coat against the flames, a matador battling the beast. A man’s voice called, “Fire trucks on the way” and I could faintly hear the shrill alarm, but the fire was growing bigger, roaring now. The heat was so intense I could feel it in the foyer, near the front door to our apartment. Thick smoke filled the hallways and rooms, and the noise, who knew fire was so loud. Neighbors crowded around, “what’s going on? Is everything alright?”
No, nothing was alright.
“Daddy, Daddy,” I yelled, scared, for him, and for my Sleepy Dog, my stuffed animal companion, my security blanket, to whom I whispered all my fears, hopes, and dreams, and without whom I could not go to sleep. I ran toward the inferno, “Daddy, Daddy. Sleepy….”
“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!
The room was a kaleidoscopic mélange of chaos, orange, red, yellow flames, crackling, black smoke billowing, the roaring, so deafeningly loud, the air so thick, and stiflingly hot.
“Daddy!” please, please, please be OK. “Daddy!”
A great whoosh of fire claimed the bedroom doorway. Mom backpedaled, pushed us out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of the building, into the cold, dark November night. We hurried around the corner, to where our windows faced the street. Sue and I had only recently come home after our Hebrew School lessons, and wore only our slips. The little kids wore pajamas, and we stood, nearly naked, shivering, barefoot, huddled on the street corner, holding our breath, watching flames lap at the exterior brick walls, painting them black.
Daddy…
And then there he was! Climbing out of the bedroom window, jumping, then limping toward us, coughing, sweaty, blistered, wearing only a t-shirt and work pants. Firetrucks screamed their arrival, and fireman sprung into action, opening hydrants and unraveling hoses. Someone draped scratchy wool blankets over our shoulders.
We watched, horrified, as our meager possessions went up in smoke. Dad hugged me tight and put Sleepy in my arms.
