Holy water isn\u2019t meant to extinguish flames like these.<\/p>\n
I check the address on my GPS. These old country routes are sometimes finicky, but there are no homes for miles, only grapes. This is the place. I push aside the vials in my pocket, grab my cell phone, and dial 9-1-1. Slowly, I drive past a dusty mailbox and along a dirt driveway lined with almond trees in full bloom. In front of me, an old ranch house, white with blue trim, and a couple Subarus parked out front. Half the house cackling with fire.<\/p>\n
Thick ash cuts through the blooming flowers. I struggle to breathe, even from this distance, even with the fire confined to half the home.<\/p>\n
The operator asks my address. I flip over my liturgy book and read the words hastily scribbled onto the back cover. Yellow Post-it, blue ink. \u201c49 Orchard Ln, Clarksburg, CA 95622. And it\u2019s a client\u2019s home. Not mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs there anyone inside?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe? I was supposed to meet a Mr. Shrif at three.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre there cars parked out front?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. One.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe fire department is on its way,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
I am close enough now I can feel the heat. So close I can practically see inside.<\/p>\n
She continues, \u201cETA fourteen minutes. In a location this secluded, that\u2019s the best we can do.\u201d<\/p>\n
I feel guilty. Like, maybe I should have brought more vials. Or maybe I should have scheduled our appointment sooner. Maybe then, maybe, this wouldn\u2019t have happened. Mr. Shrif did say it was an emergency, and I blew him off, because\u2014let’s be real\u2014there are no house blessing emergencies, especially when you\u2019ve lived in a place fifteen years.<\/p>\n
But the fire. It\u2019s spreading. Fanning into the garage and up the roof. A totem of soot stretching toward the heavens. And, on the far side of the house, at one of the eastward windows where there is nothing but smoke\u2014I squint\u2014and I see a girl. Just standing there in the haze, completely still. Trapped. But not moving.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a girl in the house,\u201d I yell, nearly dropping my phone. I shut off my engine and step outside for a better view. Cough.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir, I need you to maintain a safe distance from the house,\u201d the woman says, but I can tell from her voice, which up to this point has been clerical, detached, I can tell from her rushed tone she\u2019s hoping I\u2019ll ignore her. That I\u2019ll go inside. Try and save the girl.<\/p>\n
But I don\u2019t. I imagine myself trying\u2014searing my hand on the doorknob, kicking in the door, backdraft bursting out at me, fighting through the soot, and excavating the girl standing at the window. And I feel proud of myself. For what I would have done. What I almost do. But, don\u2019t.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The cop pulls me aside to one of the faraway almond trees where it is easier to breathe, and also, where, shielded from the firetrucks and paramedics, I don\u2019t have a clear view of the house. Not that I want to see. But, after staring at that window north of ten minutes trying to figure out if that really was a girl I saw\u2014briefly\u2014before the flames took in\u2014and after watching the house crumble and sear, after watching with dread for what felt like forever, slack-jawed and dumb, the scene playing before me as if on dusty celluloid, and by that, I mean, as I watched, I wasn\u2019t sure any of it was real, because it couldn\u2019t have been real, because it didn\u2019t feel real, and yet, at the same time, it felt too real\u2014after all this time to be pulled away from the fire you watched grow up, and to leave before seeing it extinguished, leaving now felt premature.<\/p>\n
\u201cWalk me again through exactly what happened,\u201d the officer says, standing between me and the house, or rather me and the trucks. Pen and pad in hand.<\/p>\n
I tell him about the three o\u2019clock appointment, how I was a little late, but not much. And I share how as soon as I saw the smoke, I called. And, I mention, there was a girl. Maybe. I\u2019m not sure.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had an appointment,\u201d the officer repeats, glancing up from his notepad. It doesn\u2019t sound like a question, but I think it is.<\/p>\n
I nod, yes.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of appointment?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was, um\u2026I was going to bless the house,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
The officer smirks. Absolute fucking gallows humor. Tries to conceal it as a cough. Then, settles back into police posture. \u201cYou\u2019re clergy,\u201d he says. Another half-question.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot exactly,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m ordained, but it\u2019s more like I assume the role of clergy sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell does that mean?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
He removes his sunglasses and stares at me so hard I can practically feel his knee against the back of my neck.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s more like I do odd jobs\u2014weddings, funerals, blessings. Plus palm readings, tarot cards\u2014you name it, I can probably do it. And, if I can\u2019t, I\u2019ll find you somebody who can.\u201d I grab my wallet and hand him my two business cards, one white and blue with Christian iconography and the other with embossed gold over a black background and all sorts of astrological symbols.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese don\u2019t conflict?\u201d he says, skeptical.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would they?\u201d<\/p>\n
I watch him stumble. The whole thing seems to throw him off, which is why I tend to hand people either one or the other. The officer clearly isn\u2019t interested, so I reach back for the cards, but he tucks them into his hip pocket instead. He looks me up and down like he wants to beat the shit out of me. Like I\u2019m some fraud. \u201cAnd do you have a way to account for your whereabouts between two o\u2019clock and the 9-1-1 call placed a three-zero-six pm?\u201d<\/p>\n
Oh, shit.<\/p>\n
\u201cAm I a suspect?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot unless there\u2019s a confirmed crime,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
I sure feel like a suspect.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, did you hear what I said about the girl?\u201d I ask. \u201cWere you able to find her?\u201d<\/p>\n
He just keeps writing. Handcuffs dangling beside the gun at his belt.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd can anyone confirm your appointment with Mr.\u2014 what\u2019s his name? The owner of the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do the scheduling myself. There\u2019s a post-it in the car, but that\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease bring me the Post-it,\u201d he says. Stops. Tucks his pad into his pocket. \u201cActually, I\u2019d like to get it myself if that\u2019s okay. Permission to enter and search the vehicle?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nod. Notice a little body camera just above his badge.<\/p>\n
\u201cVerbal permission, please.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have Mr. Shrif\u2019s number\u2014here, in my phone. In case you want to call him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSir, I\u2019m asking for verbal permission to enter and search your vehicle.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry. Yes\u2014yeah.\u201d I try to sound natural even though I have nothing to hide.<\/p>\n
The officer flashes a picture of the Post-it with Mr. Shrif\u2019s name, address, and the time\u20143 pm. Then with a gloved hand, he touches the corner of my liturgy book so gently it\u2019s like he believes in it. He turns the page, frowns, turns a few more. There\u2019s nothing there.<\/p>\n
Part of trying to seem natural means not watching the officer\u2019s every movement, since, you know, I have absolutely nothing to hide. So I drift a bit right of my car, a clear lane between the two firetrucks\u2014and a view of the house, finally. The place is charred black. Like an imprint of what once was. Half a roof. No door, canted beams where the attic used to be, and the far windowed room reduced to a charred Tetris-shaped pillar of drywall.<\/p>\n
The smoke now burns light grey instead of deep black. Flakes of ash rain down the almond trees like pesticide and settle all over my clerical shirt.<\/p>\n
Next to the firetrucks sits an ambulance with flashing lights but no siren. Another cop car. And a few pickup trucks parked along the levee, glazed-eyed onlookers hanging out the windows and sitting on hoods, nothing better to do than stop and stare at a distant neighbor\u2019s home engulfed in flames. Something about the bystanders makes me indignant, like they don\u2019t deserve to be here. They weren\u2019t here for the real fire, forty-five minutes ago when the house burned bright. They didn\u2019t see what I saw, but tonight at home or tomorrow when they check into their jobs at the gas station or Walmart, that won\u2019t stop them from talking. The story on their lips is less earned than mine. Because, I\u2019m sure, they\u2019re less traumatized. Just curious.<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t get me wrong, I\u2019ve seen my fair share of shit. That\u2019s how I became clergy in the first place\u2014clergy tangential now. Back when I believed in things like love. Grace. But past trauma rarely protects us from new trauma, I\u2019ve found.<\/p>\n
The officer moves from the driver\u2019s side of my car to the trunk. He\u2019s jotting down my license plate, probably writing me up for expired tags. But I fear he\u2019s about to charge me with a whole lot more.<\/p>\n
Up front, two firemen roll their hoses while two more move about the shell of the house. And, behind the Tetris-pillar, at the hole where there was once a window\u2014where there was once a house\u2014two of the EMTs load a body bag onto a stretcher. The body is too large to belong to the girl in the window. And the bag is zipped, thank God. But my imagination runs with it. Mr. Shrif. His skin the texture of burnt chicken. And his cheek\u2014just a few tendons remaining. Teeth exposed. I don\u2019t have to see inside the bag to know it\u2019s fucked. And also, maybe I am too.<\/p>\n
My knees hit the dirt. I don\u2019t know how it happens\u2014it just does. I cry. Then cough. Cry, then cough. And as the EMTs load the stretcher into the back of the truck, I cry some more. Wipe my face with my sleeve. Black char smears across my cheek. And I watch as the EMTs unload two more bags, black, zippers down the middle. Half the size of the last. Bags built for bodies that aren\u2019t yet grown. The girl. And, another.<\/p>\n
Someone taps my shoulder. The officer, finished with my car. His radio to his ear. His sunglasses pressed back onto his face. \u201cFollow me,\u201d he says. \u201cYou don\u2019t need to see this.\u201d<\/p>\n
He holds a ticket half-written for my tags, but he crumples it up and after repeating my phone number back to me says just go. But I don\u2019t leave. I\u2019m afraid to. We stand side-by-side watching the almond trees. The officer pats me on the back and says if the station needs anything else, he\u2019ll call. But, we both hope, he won\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I imagine myself trying\u2014searing my hand on the doorknob, kicking in the door, backdraft bursting out at me, fighting through the soot, and excavating the girl standing at the window. And I feel proud of myself. For what I would have done. What I almost do. But, don\u2019t.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":19475,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[3061,2432,3211,3212,505,899],"class_list":["post-18743","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-cops","tag-dark","tag-flames","tag-grown-men-crying","tag-religion","tag-spirituality","writer-greg-rapier"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18743","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18743"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18743\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19476,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18743\/revisions\/19476"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19475"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18743"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18743"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18743"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}