Oakfield
When I think about it now, it’s strange how much of that week is still so vivid. It was the day after Independence Day, and cheap plastic stars and stripes were still hanging from the eaves. We were sharing a family sized bucket of chicken; the kids were yelling at each other, fighting over the last Hot Wing. We barely noticed when the fire alarm began to sound at the Miller place across the street.
Being the youngest, Michael won the battle. He took a victory bite, and wiped dark red barbecue dip from his mouth with a freshly laundered sleeve. His sister Emily scowled at me in that special way that only a wronged 10 year old can; I threw her my best ‘not my fault’ shrug. Suddenly we all became aware of the loud electronic tone.
“What is that?” said Emily. Lea, my wife, got up and walked over to the window.
“I think it’s a burglar alarm,” she said, parting the slats of the blind with two fingers and squinting between them.
“Fire alarm.” I corrected. “Joel set it off at their barbecue, remember?”
“Should we call the fire department?”
“Are there flames, Mom?” said Michael, visibly excited by the possibility that he might get to see a fire truck.
“No, honey,” Lea replied, “no flames or smoke, that I can see. Steve, what do you think? Should I call them anyway?”
“Somebody will already have called by now,” I said, stacking plates. “Besides, it’s probably just a false alarm. This hot weather screws with those things sometimes.”
A fire appliance arrived about ten minutes later. I took Mikey out onto the front step, so he could watch the flashing lights.
Hi, my name's Mark. I'm trying to come up with some ideas for a book. Think of this as my online writing notebook: ideas, stories, beginnings, endings. Things that just pop into my mind. I'm also on Twitter as @markeebee.
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