Robin started to cry.
The fireman said, “I’m real sorry, ma’am–if you need a blanket, we’ve got some in the truck.”
“No,” she said. “What happened?”
“Don’t know exactly, yet–why don’t you talk to the captain –that gentleman over there? Captain Gillespie. He should be able to help you.”
After pointing to a medium-sized man up near the carport, he ran off.
We made our way to the captain. His back was to us and I tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned quickly, looking ready to snap. One look at us shut his mouth. He was in his fifties and had a deeply scored face that was almost a perfect square.
Tugging at his chin strap: “Owners?”
Two nods.
“Sorry, folks–out for the night?”
More nods. I felt encased in sand. Movement was an ordeal.
“Well, we’ve been at it for about half an hour, and I think we got to it relatively fast after ignition. Luckily, someone driving up the Glen smelled it and phoned it in on cellular. We’ve got most of the really hot spots out.
Look for white smoke soon, Mr.–?”
“Alex Delaware. This is Robin Castagna.”
“Ron Gillespie, Mr. Delaware. Are you the legal owners or tenants?”
“Owners.”
Another pitying look. A whooshing sound came from the house. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back.
“We should be able to save at least half of it, but our water does some damage, too.” He looked back again. Something creased his brow. “One minute.”
Jogging over to a group of new arrivals, he pointed at my flaming roof and spread his arms like a preacher.
When he came back, he said, “You folks want something to drink? C’mon, let’s get away from the heat.”
We followed him down the road a bit. The house was still in sight.
Some of the smoke had startened to lighten, pluming upward like an earthborn cloud.
He pulled a canteen out of his jacket and held it out to us.
Robin shook her head.
I said, “No, thanks.”
Gillespie opened the bottle and drank. Screwing the cap back on, he said, “Do you know of anyone who’d want to do this to you?”
“Why?”
He stared at me. “Usually, people say no.”
“There is someone,” I said. “I don’t know who–it’s a long story–there’s a police detective you can talk to.”
I gave him Milo’s name and he wrote it down.
“I’d better call him now,” he said. “Our arson investigators will be in on it too. This is an obvious intentional, we’ve got three discrete points of origin and we found a gasoline can out back that’s probably the accelerant–looks like the bastard didn’t even try to hide it.”
“No,” I said. “He wouldn’t want to do that.” He stared at me again.
I looked back without focusing. Gillespie said, “I’ll go call that detective now.”
Milo spent a few seconds of silent comfort with us, then he huddled with Gillespie.
The fire went out, sending off columns of white smoke. Some time after–I still don’t know how long–Robin and I were able to tour the damage, accompanied by a fireman with a flashlight who looked out for our safety but hung back, diplomatically, as we stumbled and cursed in the dark.
The garden and the rear half of the house were a total loss, the air still hot and bitter. The front rooms were sodden and putrid, ash filled, already moldering. I ran my hand along scorched furniture, fingered hot dust, looked at ruined art and decimated keepsakes, TV and stereo equipment that had blistered and burst. After a while it got too difficult. I pulled the paintings and prints that looked intact off the wall and made a neat stack.
Short stack. My Bellows boxing print seemed to have come out okay, but the frame was blackened around the edges.
Robin was across the living room when I said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”
She gave a dull nod–more of a bow. We carried the art out and took it to the truck.
Beyond the vehicles, Milo and Gillespie were still conferring and a third man had joined them–young, chubby, balding, with bristly red hair. He held a pad and his writing hand was busy.