We locked eyes and kissed, fumbling with each other’s clothing.
Stripped completely naked, we held each other, shivering, knitting our limbs.
Breathing into one another, fighting for oblivion.
The ride back was slow and silent, and I managed to keep reality at bay till we got off the freeway. Robin slept, as she had since we’d crossed the L.A. county line, low in the seat, half smiling.
It was one forty-two in the morning and Sunset was nearly bare of cars.
The familiar eastward cruise was solitary and peaceful. As I approached the Beverly Glen intersection, I prepared to shoot through the green light. Then wailing sirens sounded from somewhere I couldn’t pinpoint, surrounding me, growing louder.
I slowed and stopped. Robin was startled, sitting up just as flashing red lights popped out from around the bend and the sirens became unbearable. A hook-and-ladder came at us from the east, bearing down, for an instant I felt trapped. Then the fire engine made a sharp right turn, northward, onto the Glen, followed closely by another fire truck, then another smaller unit. A cherrytopped sedan brought up the rear as the sirens tapered off to a distant whistle.
Robin was clutching the armrest. Her eyes were gigantic, as if the lids had been stapled back.
We looked at each other.
I turned left and followed the shrieking caravan.
A hundred yards in I could smell it. A pot left too long on the stove, overlaid with gasoline.
I put on speed, just able to see the fire car’s taillights. Hoping the company would continue on up, toward Mulholland and beyond. But they hooked west.
Up an old bridle path that led up to a solitary property.
Robin held her head and moaned as I floored the truck. Coming to my street, I sped up the slope. The road was blocked by the newly arrived fire trucks and I had to pull over and park.
Work lights were scattered about, highlighting the firefighters’ yellow hats.
Lots of movement, but the night blocked out the details.
Robin and I jumped out and began running up the hill. The burnt stench was stronger now, the sky a black, camouflaging host for the plumes of dark smoke that shot upward in greasy gray spirals. I could feel the fire–the caustic heat–better than I could see it. My body was drenched with sweat. I was cold to the marrow.
The firefighters were uncoiling hoses and shouting, too busy to notice us.
What had once been my pond gate was charcoal. The carport had collapsed and the entire right side of my house was smoldering. The back of the building was haloed in orange. Tongues of fire licked the sky. Sparks jumped and died, wood crackled and crashed.
A tall firefighter handed a hose to another man and pulled off his gloves. He saw us and came forward, gesturing us back.
We walked toward him.
“It’s our house,” I said.
The look of pity on his face cut me deeply. He was black, with a big jaw and wide, dark mustache. “Sorry, folks–we’re working hard on it, got here as quick as we could from the Mulholland substation.
Reinforcements just came in from Beverly Hills.”
Robin said, “Is it all gone?”
He removed his hat and wiped his forehead, exhaling. “It wasn’t as of a few minutes ago, ma’am, and we’ve controlled it– you should start to see that smoke turn white real soon.”
“How bad is it?”
He hesitated. “To be frank, ma’am, you’ve suffered some serious structural damage all along the rear. What with the drought and all that wood siding-your roof’s half gone, must have been pretty dry up there. What was it, ceramic tile?”
“Some sort of tile,” I said. “It came with the house, I don’t know.”
“Those old roofs. .. give thanks it wasn’t wood shingle, that would have been like a pile of kindling.”
Robin was looking at him but she wasn’t listening to him. He bit his lip, started to place a hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself.
Putting his glove back on, he turned to me.
“If the wind doesn’t do squirrely things, we should be able to save some of it. Get you in there soon as possible to start taking a look.”