wombat football

Oakfield, VII

We slept deeply on that first night of silence. I dreamt about the seventies, when Oakfield would still have been a hotbed of construction, filled with young families; the hope and optimism of their America not yet faded. My dreams were interrupted by Lea, gently kicking my foot.

“Hon,” she said softly, “do you smell something?”

“Go back to sleep.” I murmured. A moment later, I became acutely aware of the acrid stench filling the room. I opened my eyes. The walls were flickering a malevolent orange, and a thin veil of smoke was just visible at ceiling level. It took me a moment to identify the smell: burning cavity insulation.

“Shit!” I grabbed Lea by the shoulders and pulled her upright to face me. Her eyes widened. “Get Emily up, quick!” We both leapt out of bed. I sprinted across the landing, and in seconds I was in Michael’s room: I scooped him up, still wrapped in his sheets. I was half way down the stairs when I saw Lea standing in the front doorway, with Emily at her side.

“What’s wrong?” I shouted, still running towards them. “Hurry! Get out!”

“It’s not our house.” said Lea. “Look.” She pointed out across the street.

“What’s happening, Dad?” Mikey asked sleepily, burying his head into my shoulder. We stepped out on to the porch.

The Miller place was an inferno. Half the roof was gone; tall, thick tongues of flame licked at the exposed rafters. The whole area looked like a scene from ‘Apocalypse Now’. It was then that I figured it out: the smoke in our bedroom had actually just drifted across the street, and in through the open window.

Most of the neighbourhood were standing out on their lawns, in their pyjamas and nightgowns. Some were talking on their cell phones, to family, other neighbours or friends; saying yes yes it’s burning right now, in front of us. A few of the couples held each other close, staring up at the sky where the flames morphed into an dark, impenetrable column of smoke.

To me it all seemed symbolic, like the events of the past week were trying to point me toward something. A fresh start, perhaps, like the one the Millers had been forced into, only I still had the choice. I watched the fire for nearly two hours, long after Lea and the kids had gone back to bed, and the other onlookers had shuffled off into their respective homes. By the time I went inside, the flames had died down substantially: there was barely anything left for the fire to feed on.

I walked back into the bedroom, to the sound of Lea’s gentle snoring. It was only as I laid my head on the pillow that I had a momentary thought: despite the fact that there were probably a hundred people watching the Miller place burn that night, nobody had called the fire department. I didn’t have time to think about it too much; I sank almost immediately into dark, motionless sleep.