Barns and Brimstone

“Charlene! Charlene! The barn is on fire! Wake up! Call the fire department!” Even in the dim light I can see Buddy’s face red with adrenaline, a mixture of panic and excitement busting out of his in his wide-open eyes. Just as quickly as he arrived, he's gone again, his large six-foot-five and heavy frame smashing down the stairs as if his strides will stop the flames.

I reach over to my nightstand, grab, my phone, and call 9-1-1.

“Hello, what is your emergency?” The operator asks matter-of-factly.

I yawn. “My barn is on fire.”

“Your barn is on fire, mam. Is anyone hurt or in danger?”

“Just some spiders, I think. Maybe a barn cat.”

She’s as unaffected as I am: “What’s the address mam?”

“223 Laurel Run Road, Gimly.”

“Okay, fire has been dispatched. Please keep everyone away from the fire, mam.”

“Thank you.” I hang up, stretch and stand. Out in the hall, I look out the back window while I put on my robe. Buddy is on his knees as if in pain fifty yards from the big, empty red barn, as flames crawl up toward the roof at an impressive speed. I wonder if he would have the same reaction if I was on fire.

After an hour, the flames are out. The frame still stands in a smoke pile of black ash and charred metal.

“I just can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. The horses are going to arrive on Wednesday. What are we going to do? How could this happen?” Buddy cries.

The fire chief just explains that it was probably an electric fire, common in old barns around here, people don’t pay close attention to the effect the elements have on old wiring. But that’s not the answer Buddy was looking for, he’s asking how after three years of careful planning and a lots of money spent (not on wiring, mind you) how his dream retirement toy just went up in smoke. I’d say “I told you so” but we’ve been married too long for such antics.

“I don’t know, Bud. Let’s go make some coffee.” It’s 5 a.m. He's too wired to sleep, and it’s too close to dawn for me to rest my head again. The day has already begun.

After coffee Buddy just sits on the back porch staring at the rubble. After cleaning up the kitchen and dusting the first floor, I go upstairs to switch my Winter clothes to Spring in the armoire. It’s a beautiful piece that came with the house (what we learned on our tours is that old farm houses like these never have closets, let alone walk-ins) but it’s functionally annoying. I have to store all out-of-season clothes under the bed and switch them out every few months. I long for my old walk-in in the city.

Once that task is done I go to the kitchen to make lunch where Buddy has migrated with this paper. If you ask him if he’s waiting, he’ll tell you “no, I just like to read my paper in the kitchen around this time. The light is best here.” If Pavlov’s dogs come to mind when reading this, you are correct: men are dogs.

“Are Emma and George still coming over tonight?” He asks, taking a bite of his turkey and mustard sandwich.

“Well, only if you want them to, Bud. I think they’ll understand if you’d prefer to have some time after the fire. I can save the roast for another night.”

“No, that’s okay. They can come. Maybe it would be good if they came.”

“Okay. If you think so.”

The afternoon passes quickly. I make the homemade sourdough, the pie, toss the salad. Buddy runs out for some beer and wine, and spends the rest of the afternoon making arrangements, calls to the insurance company, the horse seller, off site barns, cleanup crews, etc. I knew he’d recover quickly. Buddy has always had a resolve for action. That’s what made him such an effective attorney in Baltimore. If the hard route would produce better results for his clients, he’d take it, even if it meant missed date nights, vacations, and parent-teacher conferences. He was a good dad, don’t get me wrong. When he was around he was present. It didn’t leave much time for me, but I accepted it. Sarah and Danny came first.

Emma and George will be right on time. They never come a minute early or a minute late, and it’s a minor thrill for me to observe this. They are city people like us, retired to the country, but, much like me, they’ve kept their downtown ways. For them country just means a bigger home and patio sunsets, not cleaning out pens and repairing fences. At 5:59 I watch the clock until the doorbell rings a minute later.

“What in the world happened to the barn?” Emma asks as we hug.

“Oh, that. Well it burned down last night.”

“My god. Was everyone okay? Buddy didn’t get the horses in yet, did he?” George, a true gentleman, is helping wife with her coat.

“No, thankfully, no. They were supposed to come on Wednesday. Come have a seat, dinner's almost ready.” I usher them to the dining room where they’ve sat many times before, and call out to Buddy upstairs. Before heading to the dinning room to greet our guests, he stops by the kitchen and grabs a bottle of white, for Emma, and the Shiner Bocks he and George always drink too much of. While the roast sits, I grab the salad and the dressing and put them at the center of the table. Buddy is busy retelling the story.

“I woke up all of the sudden, I thought I heard a crackling sound, but I don’t know. Some thing just didn’t feel right. I went out to the hall and looked out the window and there it was, flaming. I ran outside but, of course, I knew I couldn’t do anything. I ran back in and Charlene called the fire department.”

“Well, it’s a lucky thing you woke up!” George said, “And that no one was hurt, of course.”

“I can’t imagine, Buddy. I’m so sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to using that barn.” Emma chimed.

“Thank you, Emma.” Buddy said.

“I guess you’ll build a new one?” She replied, reaching for the salad bowl. I sit down across from Buddy and pour myself a glass of wine.

“I don’t think so. It’s just not meant to be.” Buddy replies as he grabs his beer. I knew that’s what he would say. If it were ten years ago, he would have been on the phone as soon as the fire was out, asking contractors for estimates and timelines. But he’s grown superstitious in this season of life, hearing and seeing coincidental sights and sounds as signs on the road. Even the decision to move way out here in the fields was born of a conversation that was “meant to be” on the plane from Hawaii, where Buddy had been celebrating his retirement with his brothers.

“What about the horses?” Asks George.

“I talked to the seller, he’ll keep them if I let him keep thirty percent. He had a few other interested buyers. They’ll be better off.” Buddy takes another sip of his beer, keeping his head down.

“Well, enough about the fire. It’s all we’ve been thinking about all day!” I need to change the subject. I’m sick of the barn, the farm, the whole bit. I am sick of the pity everyone always feels for Buddy. He’s had a good life, he’ll have a good retirement too, barn or no barn.

“Tell us about your trip to Costa Rica! Were you able to take a helicopter to the volcanos from San Jose?” Barn arson wasn’t what I envisioned for my life at sixty-three, but I think Buddy and I might just make it to finally see those volcanos.