fire — ” The wire melted like
black licorice. He dropped the phone. Smoke stung his eyes as he stumbled toward
the stairs, groping along the wall. “Fire,” he tried to yell, but his voice
cracked. He spit out the charred taste of smoke and tried again. A croak came
out.
Hands out, probing, Howard found the stairs. He inhaled smoke with every
breath. He covered his mouth with the tail end of his shirt and climbed two
steps. Water streamed down his soot-stained face, his lungs struggling to take
in air. His head spun.
“Is that you, young Howard ?” Joe Oliver, the oldest resident,
yelled from above.
“Yes, Mr. Oliver. I’ll get you out.”
“Don’t come up here, lad. You’ll get yourself killed.”
A wave of flames shot down the stairs, forcing Howard back. “I’ll get help, Mr.
Oliver,” he said. Exhausted, he crawled on hands and knees to the exit.
Mr. Hull raced from the sidewalk and dragged him to a safe distance.
“It’s like the fire of hell in there,” Howard said. “The poor residents won’t
stand a chance if we don’t help.”
A fully equipped Bickle fire truck rolled to a stop in front of the Home. Like
a well-choreographed dance routine, District Chief Baker and six firemen leaped
to the ground with an easy, practised movement, each man in tune with the other.
They dislodged hatchets, unloaded the two ladders, and unwound the hose with
grace and efficiency. “How in God’s name did this happen ?” the chief said to no
one in particular as he assessed the building. Flames burst out through all the
windows on the eastern section. Four elderly men cowered together in the top
flat window. “Get the ladders on the building, boys,” Baker ordered. “Call in
the central fire station. We need all the help we can get.”
A wiry, bent old man hung a leg over the window ledge.
“Good Jesus,” a bystander said. “He’s going to jump.”
The ladder slapped against the side of the house. A fireman raced up the rungs
like a black widow spider. “I got you, old-timer,” he said. “You’re safe
now.”
Low murmurs rippled through the crowd as the fireman bought each man down. Two
more firemen tried to enter the building through the front door to no avail
while erratic spurtsof water sprayed the burning building. “The
fire’s everywhere,” the oldest firefighter reported to Baker. “And the hose is
frozen to the ground.”
A Bickle fire truck from the central station skidded to a stop on the black
ice. Baker quickly apprised Chief Cadigan of the situation. “I’ll take care of
the Annex,” Cadigan said, and signalled his men to get out the hose for the
other building.
Three windows on the second floor blew out, one after the other. Slivers of
glass showered down like hail on the people below. “Move back,” Baker instructed
the crowd.
A hunched-over woman dressed in a nightgown appeared in a corner window. “The
hall’s filled with fire,” she cried. “I can’t get out of my room.”
“Hold on,” Baker said. “We’ll get the ladder to you.”
“It’s too late,” the woman screamed, fire snapping at her heels. She crawled
onto the window ledge and jumped. The tail of her green nightgown glowed yellow
with fire. Three men ran to the building and held their arms out to catch
her.
Baker ran over. “How is she ?”
One of the men cradled the woman to his chest, her head turned up to him. He
blessed himself and gently closed her eyes.
Fire Superintendent Vivian pushed through the crowd. He gazed down at the
remains of the old lady, a blanket draped over her broken form.
MRS . DUGGAN SAT UP IN bed. The room looked
unfamiliar, then she remembered Mr. Hull had asked her to move the night before.
A putrid smell had awakened her and she now realized it was smoke. She sidled to
the edge of the bed, her arthritic knees cracking. Fatigue acquired from long
monthsof tuberculosis hindered
black licorice. He dropped the phone. Smoke stung his eyes as he stumbled toward
the stairs, groping along the wall. “Fire,” he tried to yell, but his voice
cracked. He spit out the charred taste of smoke and tried again. A croak came
out.
Hands out, probing, Howard found the stairs. He inhaled smoke with every
breath. He covered his mouth with the tail end of his shirt and climbed two
steps. Water streamed down his soot-stained face, his lungs struggling to take
in air. His head spun.
“Is that you, young Howard ?” Joe Oliver, the oldest resident,
yelled from above.
“Yes, Mr. Oliver. I’ll get you out.”
“Don’t come up here, lad. You’ll get yourself killed.”
A wave of flames shot down the stairs, forcing Howard back. “I’ll get help, Mr.
Oliver,” he said. Exhausted, he crawled on hands and knees to the exit.
Mr. Hull raced from the sidewalk and dragged him to a safe distance.
“It’s like the fire of hell in there,” Howard said. “The poor residents won’t
stand a chance if we don’t help.”
A fully equipped Bickle fire truck rolled to a stop in front of the Home. Like
a well-choreographed dance routine, District Chief Baker and six firemen leaped
to the ground with an easy, practised movement, each man in tune with the other.
They dislodged hatchets, unloaded the two ladders, and unwound the hose with
grace and efficiency. “How in God’s name did this happen ?” the chief said to no
one in particular as he assessed the building. Flames burst out through all the
windows on the eastern section. Four elderly men cowered together in the top
flat window. “Get the ladders on the building, boys,” Baker ordered. “Call in
the central fire station. We need all the help we can get.”
A wiry, bent old man hung a leg over the window ledge.
“Good Jesus,” a bystander said. “He’s going to jump.”
The ladder slapped against the side of the house. A fireman raced up the rungs
like a black widow spider. “I got you, old-timer,” he said. “You’re safe
now.”
Low murmurs rippled through the crowd as the fireman bought each man down. Two
more firemen tried to enter the building through the front door to no avail
while erratic spurtsof water sprayed the burning building. “The
fire’s everywhere,” the oldest firefighter reported to Baker. “And the hose is
frozen to the ground.”
A Bickle fire truck from the central station skidded to a stop on the black
ice. Baker quickly apprised Chief Cadigan of the situation. “I’ll take care of
the Annex,” Cadigan said, and signalled his men to get out the hose for the
other building.
Three windows on the second floor blew out, one after the other. Slivers of
glass showered down like hail on the people below. “Move back,” Baker instructed
the crowd.
A hunched-over woman dressed in a nightgown appeared in a corner window. “The
hall’s filled with fire,” she cried. “I can’t get out of my room.”
“Hold on,” Baker said. “We’ll get the ladder to you.”
“It’s too late,” the woman screamed, fire snapping at her heels. She crawled
onto the window ledge and jumped. The tail of her green nightgown glowed yellow
with fire. Three men ran to the building and held their arms out to catch
her.
Baker ran over. “How is she ?”
One of the men cradled the woman to his chest, her head turned up to him. He
blessed himself and gently closed her eyes.
Fire Superintendent Vivian pushed through the crowd. He gazed down at the
remains of the old lady, a blanket draped over her broken form.
MRS . DUGGAN SAT UP IN bed. The room looked
unfamiliar, then she remembered Mr. Hull had asked her to move the night before.
A putrid smell had awakened her and she now realized it was smoke. She sidled to
the edge of the bed, her arthritic knees cracking. Fatigue acquired from long
monthsof tuberculosis hindered
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