Rescue From the Fire

When I was eight years old, I rescued my baby sister from a burning house. The house belonged to my Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Rob. Neither of them made it. After, we discovered Uncle Rob had spilled his cheap whiskey all over the bed and passed out with a lit cigarette.

I don't remember much. Only, my parents dumped us at Aunt Jeannie's the day after Christmas to go on a trip.

We'd stayed with Aunt Jeannie, our Mom's younger sister, just one other time. I hated her house. It made me feel itchy and smelled faintly of cat piss. I hated Uncle Rob's too loud, racist jokes and the way he'd shake my shoulders and exclaim, "You need toughin’ up, boy.”

Aunt Jeannie, with her peroxided hair and unnaturally red lips, barely registered our existence. When Mom and Dad left, Jeannie plopped Marcy in a crib held together with duct tape and me in front of the never-cleaned TV screen.

I remember waking up on the living room couch. I felt like someone had shoved my face in the fireplace. My eyes blurred with stinging tears. I tried to shout upstairs for my Aunt, but smoke choked out my words. Marcy was asleep in the flimsy crib by the back patio door. I rushed to her, hoisted her out of the crib, and ran.

I remember patches of ice in the yard, numbing my feet. I can still see the inky black of the bone-biting cold night. I remember Marcy's head banging against my jaw. The smell of ash and something acrid swirling with the crisp scent of a New Hampshire winter.

Somehow, my scrawny body managed to hoist a kicking and screaming toddler fifty yards from the flames. When I stopped running the next street over, a crowd formed. A weeping lady grabbed Marcy from my arms, and I collapsed. For hours, I threw up half-frozen pizza bites from Aunt Jeannie’s. I vomited until a hacking, dry cough overwhelmed me.

I remember sitting in the back of an ambulance with a fireman’s jacket draped over my shoulders. My thick hair, the color of soot, hung in clumps. My flushed cheeks masked the years I’d aged in a few short moments. The adrenaline rushed from my body, and I collapsed into tears.

Marcy and I stayed at the hospital until our parents could drive the two hours from their cheesy getaway in Providence. An elderly nurse shoved stale cookies and paper cups of warm punch into my hands. I just stared at the walls, numb to my surroundings.

Mostly though, I remember what came after.

***

The local papers dubbed me "Ben Murphy, Hero Boy." Boston's finest morning show interviewed me. Tom Brady called me "brave" and sent me a signed football. The Archdiocese of Providence gave me a medal and named me "St. Benjamin."

My transformation from an ordinary kid—who loved video games and climbing trees but sometimes hit his sister and picked his nose—to a superhero was swift.

I walked on clouds in a blurred, dream-like state. Unsolicited donations for our family poured in. “For your college," my Dad said, but even then, I knew he and Mom were spending every dime.

My Mom called me hero boy, as in "Hero Boy, you might be holy, but I wish you could clean ya damned room every once in a while" or "Hey, hero boy—I'm goin' to the casino with somma da girls. Don't tell ya Dad. You can watch ya sister, right?"

My Dad praised me.

"'So prouda ya, bud.” He’d say with a mixture of fear and awe.

I’d catch him watching me from the front porch as I played street hockey with the neighborhood kids. He never took his eyes off of me as he chomped on his dirty cuticles until they bled. When I scampered up the porch stairs, he hid his hands under the long arms of his flannel jacket.

“Ah, good game, Benny.” He’d say, running off to complete a vague chore. He thought an angel—or an alien—had replaced his boy.

Dad hugged me a lot when I was little, but when I ran to embrace him “after,” he'd step away. Dad would place a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Love you,” he’d force.

Before the fire, if I asked for a new toy, he’d rant about money trees and the working man and other stuff I tuned out. After, his eyes reflected a glint of fear. He bought me anything I wanted.

Once when I was ten, I decided to visit him in his tool shop—a dilapidated shed in our back yard. I asked if I could join him, and he nodded without turning from his work. In silence, I watched the dozens of model planes hanging from the ceiling in their mockery of flight. They sparked a snowfall of dust and cedar chips, and my Dad whispered, "God bless you," as I sneezed. But he never turned around.

The space between us hung with a tension I didn't understand. The fire crackled inside of me. I wanted to cry. But instead, I grabbed my ten-speed bike and rode until my internal volcano went dormant. I yearned to break out of my skin. The halo was too heavy to carry.

My Mom was different too. Before, Mom—with her trumpeting, nasal voice—showered me with praise and uncomfortable, public hugs. After, she only spoke to me when she had to, and her voice dripped with disdain. If I didn’t do my homework, or if Marcy and I fought, she brought up my heroics.

“I thought you were a saint now, kid. Shouldn’t you spread cheer and hard work everywhere ya go?”

She chain-smoked and poured her weight in alcohol down her throat. The weekends became her escape from her “saintly” son, and she took trips to the casinos strewn up the Cape. After one excursion, she appeared in our foyer with fourteen bags of new clothes—all for her. She left Marcy, Dad, and I behind, soaking in the gray life.

Once the donations hit $200,000, Mom quit her medical assistant job. She and Dad walked around emotional tripwires in silence. He looked like a kicked puppy when she was around, but he never reached out to bridge the chasm. Mom would dole out slices of forced affection in public, but they were too cloyingly sweet. They made my stomach bubble.

The kids at school distanced themselves too. I was an unformed superhero, according to their parents who would ask, “Why can’t ya be more like Ben Murphy?”

Even the teachers insisted on calling me St. Benny until my freshman year of high school. Years passed, and no one ever let me forget the fire.

I lived quietly in the cracks between school and home. It was just Marcy and me then. And that was alright with me. Marcy still laughed at my corny jokes:

What did the mama tomato say to the slow, baby tomato? Ketchup!

We played “Knights and Princesses” in the wooded park by our house. We joked and argued. I was just Ben, her fellow actor in the magical escapism of fantasy.

***

When I was twelve years old, my mother left.

It was August—the muggiest of months. Sticky and sweet like molasses, the deep summer clung to our skin. Marcy and I spent our time at the public pool or sitting in front of the window air-conditioning unit, making ourselves sound like Darth Vader.

“Luke, I am your father,” we’d say, the AC grates distorting our voices.

I’d scrounge through my closet for change, and we’d adventure our way to Cumberland Farms. We ran to escape the past. We ran to flee our home.

I’d stayed up late playing Minecraft the night before Mom left. I could lose myself in the world of gaming. I’d lock myself into my dark bedroom haven, sit atop a mountain of dirty clothes on my bed, and play until a symphony of crickets and the pink light of dawn beckoned me to sleep.

That night, I was sprawled out across my twin bed and had entered the splendor of REM sleep. A shrill wail pierced my bliss.

“Ben!” Marcy’s voice screamed as she pounded on my door.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I thrust open the door.

“What the hell, Marcy?”

Anger oozed from my pores. And then I saw her shiny face. Her cheeks were crimson mud, and her puffy eyes made her look like a boxer.

“What’s up, Mars?”

I crouched down to her eye level. Internal flames roared in my brain.

“She finally did it.” She hiccupped.

“What? Who did what?” I rubbed her back.

“Mom! She left. She told Daddy she doesn’t want us no more.”

“Anymore,” I corrected her and then pulled her in close.

Mom left without a word to either of us and a note to Dad on the counter:

Sean,

I can’t do this anymore. You can keep the kids. Don’t try to find me. I’m gettin the hell outta Hampshire.

Sorry,

Janet

We received birthday cards from her the next year postmarked from Saratoga Springs, FL but never heard from her again. We never tried to look for her; she didn’t want to be found. And the pieces of Dad shattered. He grew even more distant. His giant, muscular frame hunched over, and his eye contact fell to the ground. He spent all hours in his workshop.

One day, Marcy and I snuck out to spy on him.

“Do you think Dad is building an actual plane out there?” Marcy asked. “That would be so cool!”

We crept up to the lone yellowed workshop window and took turns jumping up to catch a glimpse. He sat at his bench with his head buried in his arms. The myriad planes he’d spent years working on lay in broken shards all around him. And he sobbed.

We slinked back to the patio. Although Dad clothed and fed us for the rest of childhood, he no longer felt like our Dad. He was the sad ghost who haunted our home.

***

When I was fifteen years old, I went to juvie.

I spent three years in the Sununu Youth Services Center on felony assault charges. Saint Ben, my ass.

The drab brick building and desolation within the bland walls suited me. For the first time since the fire, no one cared about my perceived heroism. For the first time, I could shed the world and focus on myself.

When I entered high school, I discovered while I skated by academically, I was excellent with my fists. I punched out my fears and frustrations until my knuckles bled. My victims were always perpetrators first—bully kids who deserved to get knocked down to size. The molten lava of rage would erupt over me, and I couldn’t stop myself.

In October of my sophomore year, I snuck out to the bleachers during homeroom. I’d picked up smoking the week before and was trying to practice my smoke ring skills without hacking up a lung. A pack of older boys in varsity letterman jackets huddled around an unseen kid on the track. They took turns kicking their invisible target. Their shouted barks dripped with venom, but I couldn’t make out the words.

I scooted down the bleachers to get a better look. Adrenaline punched my veins. Heat rushed up my cheeks and blurred my vision. A mop of red hair behind a protective shield of arms bobbed in the distance.

“Ya fuckin’ queer!” A pockmark-faced, buzz-cut kid spit as he kicked.

“Do you really have my picture taped to ya lockah, fag?” The tanned, rugged face of our football team captain contorted.

Kick.

“What the fuck, fag? Go back to theater where you belong!”

Kick. Kick.

My hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists. Before I knew it, I was rushing the track.

I focused on my unworldly anger, taking out the tormentors one by one. The world slowed, all ambient noise muted, and I cocked my fist back. I connected with Pockmark first. His head leaned back as I slammed my palm into his temple. He fell to the ground, clutching his ear.

A dark-haired kid on the periphery of the group muttered, “Sorry,” and booked it back to school.

Mr. Football stood his ground, though.

“What the hell? Aren’t you Ben Murphy?" He looked puzzled. “I thought you were a ‘saint’? This isn’t your fight. Walk away. We’re just teaching Patrick here a lesson.”

He nodded toward a weeping figure curled in the fetal position on the track.

I sized the weeper up. Stick skinny in rock star jeans. Ethereal dark red hair swooped in a retro, falling pompadour. I’d seen this kid around—a theater geek. Bold in his own identity, he’d taken to expressing crushes on many of the homophobic, popular kids—a death sentence in my high school.

He lay on his stomach, crying.

“Please, Hunter,” he whimpered to Mr. Football, “I swear I’ll take down the picture, okay?”

I didn’t wait for Football to respond. I punched him in the throat, and he went down. He sounded like a dying lawnmower and coughed up blood before passing out. Patrick slid away from me, trembling. I bent down to check Football’s pulse.

“He’ll be alright,” I extended a hand to Patrick.

“Thank you,” Patrick whispered, scrambling to his feet.

He brushed a clump of pebbles from the front of his ripped jeans. His hands flew to the left side of his head—now deep purple and bleeding. “Ow.”

I pointed to his bleeding head. “You should probably go to the nurse.”

“I will. I’m Patrick, by the way.”

“I know,” I clapped his back. “I’m Ben.”

Pockmark and Mr. Football moaned and stirred behind us.

“See ya around, Pat.”

“Patrick.”

He smiled and stumbled toward the nurse’s office. I took a deep breath of the crisp October air and jogged toward the woods behind the school. When I’d plunged into the plush, leafy depths, my false bravado gave way to shaky hands. I threw up three times in quick succession.

***

The cops showed up at my front door at noon on Saturday. I was asleep when I heard my Dad cry from downstairs. Marcy, with curls flying, burst into my room like a hurricane. I sat up in bed.

“Mars? What’s up? Is Dad okay?”

She shook her head. Her broken stare pierced my heart as her eyes pooled with brimming tears.

“What did you do, Benny? What did you do?”

Apparently, I’d broken Mr. Football’s larynx. He required three reconstructive surgeries to heal. I required time in juvenile prison.

My Dad and Marcy visited once a week during my first year in juvie. The flames licked my life. The center’s atmosphere of sick violence, shame, and broken dreams sank into my family. I could see the rancid mix hanging like vapor over them during each visit.

After the first year, my Dad stopped coming around. He’d cleaned out the charitable fund and sold the house to pay Mr. Football’s medical bills. The weight of my regret meant little to him—or to Football and his family. Dad wondered how a boy “gifted with sainthood by God” could fall so low. I finally released him from his obligation to me. Although he sobbed, he left the stark, cold visiting room with a lighter step.

Marcy and I exchanged letters and emails—I was still just her big brother, Ben. Even now, as 2000 miles separate us, we don’t let a week go by without speaking, but I haven’t seen her in twenty years.

My MIA Mom caught wind of my situation and wrote to me—sympathizing with my plight. In the last paragraph, she wondered if I could send my “beloved Mom” some money. My love for her had shriveled and left cobwebs in its stead. Even if I’d wanted to help, the money was gone—used for Mr. Football.

I flushed the letter down the toilet.

After my release, I spent a night at home in Concord and then gathered my meager belongings and took a Greyhound to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve never looked back.

***

When I am thirty-eight years old, I awake on a Saturday morning to a smudged gray sky.

The heavens gape and the torrential daily downpour of Oregon Spring begins. I rub my sleep-filled eyes and stumble to the kitchen. As I wait for a pot of coffee to brew, I find myself staring out of the bay window behind the sink. My sooty past clings to me in a way I can’t shake.

The flames licked my corners two months ago when Kelly, my last girlfriend, moved out.

I stood, frozen, watching her lug her belongings to the car. In the beginning, she’d found my halo and forced it back atop my head. I couldn’t bear the ruined look I knew she’d wear when she discovered its tarnish. The sparks of fire curled around the edges of our lives together. It was best I push her out to protect her from the flames.

Kelly is my primary focus as I blow on my too-hot coffee and watch the rain drum against my window. My cell phone bleats from the kitchen counter and crashes to the ground. I snap out of my trance.

“Shit!”

I grab the cell from the ground. The Caller ID says “Mars,” and I notice three missed calls.

“Shit!” I repeat. When I pick up, my sister’s panicked voice spills disjointed words.

Dad. Heart Attack. Please come home, Ben. I need you.

My Dad, who hasn’t talked to me since that first year in juvie, is dead. Marcy and her husband, Dave, brought the girls over to his condo for a scheduled visit. Dad’s car was in his parking space, and he wasn’t answering his phone or his door.

Dave used the spare key under the doormat and walked in first. Dad was slumped over the dining room table. He’d suffered a massive coronary sometime that morning.

Sadness, anger, and regret race to gain control of me. Before I hang up with Marcy, I’m packing.

“You’re a good man, Ben,” she says, but my past screams out as jury and executioner.

The rain still sprays like bullets on my roof. I’m numb. I’m raw. I feel nothing. I feel everything.

I begin my cross-country trek an hour later. The rain follows me. Even perpetually sunny states like Colorado cloud with grey wetness.

I spend my first night in Iowa, where I talk to my Dad from a dank, dark hotel room. I tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son. I tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t be the saint who made him proud and fixed his marriage. I’m met with an accusatory silent response.

On the second day, stale 7-11 coffee and crappy road trip food take their toll. I pull into a Days Inn parking lot with plenty of daylight left to burn. I flip through hotel cable, and Die Hard with a Vengeance is on. The sparks of flames return in my heart. I remember the four of us—Mom, Dad, Marcy, and me sitting around the kitchen table. I’m eleven. Marcy is six. My Dad is pleading the case for this sequel as the best action film of all time. Mom and I take a stand for the original Die Hard. Marcy shouts over all of us for The Little Mermaid. We break into laughter and pile on top of her with hugs and kisses.

I curl on top of the hotel bedspread and a pang in my heart breaks it open. I find myself sobbing. I mute Bruce Willis and I cover my face in my hands. After I’ve emptied myself, I look out the window and see the sky has emptied too.

When I awake, I’m stiff, achy, and shivering. The rawness has rubbed its edges from my heart. I feel scrubbed clean.

I decide to linger a bit. The pamphlet on the peeling dresser's corner indicates a short, wooded hiking trail on the edge of the motel property. I throw on a hoodie and a waterproof windbreaker. I jog to the trail. I want to keep the flames at bay as memories wash over me.

Marcy squeaks, “En garde!”

She stabs at me with a sword made of an old paper towel tube.

She breaks into giggles, and a smaller me mimics grievous injury.

"Oof, you got me, Mars!"

We collapse in laughter.

A dog barks in the distance, and the memory breaks. I jam my hands in my pockets and smile. I call Marcy to let her know I’ll have to drive straight to the funeral. Marcy takes my delay in stride and even lets me chat with the girls.

“Uncle Ben! We eat your rice!” Five-year-old Bailey squeals. “I can’t wait to see you! Oh! Also, I got a new stuffed animal.”

“Give it!” I hear seven-year-old Emily in the background. She pries the phone from her sister’s hands and swallows the receiver.

“Ben!” She pants like a creepy stalker.

“Em,” I laugh. “Try pulling the phone away from your face a little bit. You don’t need to eat it.”

“Ah! I'm not eating it! Hahaha," Emily thinks highly of my comedic skills. "Uncle Ben, I can't wait 'til you get here! I wish we could scrunch up all the land between Oregon and New Hampshire. And then you could just jump on over!"

She still struggles with her "r"s, and I melt. These faraway girls, whom I’ve never met, have my heart.

Marcy jumps back on the line. “They can’t wait to see you, Benny. How ya holding up?”

“I’ve had my moments,” I say. “But I haven’t seen Dad in years. I’d imagine I’m doing better than you.”

She clears her throat and sighs. “I can’t wait to see you. I can’t believe it’s been twenty years.”

The flames lick my vision.

“Whadya mean? I see you on Facetime every week.”

But I know what she means. The flames burn my throat.

“I love you, Benny,” Marcy manages and wishes me safe travels.

“Love you,” I say, not conveying what I mean at all.

***

Marcy doesn’t think the girls could make it from a ceremony at the church to an outdoor burial, so she combines the two. I plug the cemetery address into my GPS and drive like a grandma. Siri lets me know when I am fifteen minutes from my destination, and a familiar dread washes over me. My palms become instant pools of sweat, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel.

I enter old wrought-iron gates a few moments later. Our Mother of Mercy Cemetery, a cracked sign hanging from an ivy-covered archway declares. There’s no turning back now. A mile into the cemetery, I crest a hill and park.

I find Dad’s plot and a sea of unrecognizable people trying to find seats. I take a deep breath and wipe my hands on my pants. I grab for reasons to climb back into the car and head home. And then, I see her. She's shorter than I remember, but her blond curls still bounce. Unbearable heat rises from my bones.

Ben! She mouths and waves me over.

I stumble toward her and stand awkwardly as my nieces wrap themselves around my legs. We look at each other, not knowing what to say. Suddenly, my sister wraps her arms around me.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Ben.”

I stiffen, rejecting her blend of joy and grief. The heat extinguishes all at once, and I find myself returning my sister’s embrace.

“It’s good to be home, Marcy,” I comfort her. The fire turns to ash. “It’s good to finally be home.”

And I weep too.