nothing is on fire
by Susan Phillips
Nothing in the town is on fire—yet. It’s the dry season and a dense forest is about five miles away. Everyone in town is tense and alert. Would a careless camper leave a campfire glowing? Would a careless hiker throw away a lit cigarette?
Every summer the town’s residents worry. The fire chief checks the weather report every day and updates the large signs at both ends of town that proclaim the day’s fire danger: low, moderate, high, very high, extreme. In June the school principal awards blue ribbons (fire danger moderate) for the best posters drawn by students in each class. Local businesses hang the pictures in their windows throughout the summer. The hardware store stocks fire extinguishers. Mr. Olsen, the owner, encourages year-round and summer residents to buy one for every room in the house. Sometimes he even sells them to visitors staying in the town’s hotels and motels. “You can never be too safe,” he tells them.
There was a fire in the town once, 150 years ago. No one knows how it started, but rumors ran through the town. Joe Miller got blind drunk in front of a roaring fire in his fireplace and never woke up as flames engulfed his house. A jealous shopkeeper set fire to another merchant’s store. A cow kicked over a lantern in someone’s barn. None of the rumors was ever proved.
The fire swept through quickly and destroyed half the local businesses and homes, the high school and two churches. Thirty residents died and a number were seriously injured. Some people moved away, but most stayed and helped rebuild the town. There was a spirit of cooperation then not seen before or since—with neighbors helping neighbors, residents vowing to shop at local stores when they reopened, and aid for whoever needed it. Citizens were proud of their community spirit and glad to help whomever they could.
There was one old man who knew how the fire started, but he’s been dead for years now. Jim Brown’s great uncle Tom started the fire and never regretted it.
Tom was engaged to Melanie Blake, considered the prettiest—and most conceited—girl in town. They were planning to get married in eight months when John Willard, who owned the town’s largest hotel, hired a new cook. “He can prepare dinners like you’ve never tasted before,” John boasted. And he was right. The dining room at Willard’s Hotel became the best place to celebrate weddings, anniversaries, birthdays. Businesses held lunch and dinner meetings there. Visitors from nearby towns and tourists from far away made a point of stopping there for a meal or two. Once a month John invited all the single women in town to a special afternoon tea, where he would present one lucky girl with a pitcher or vase or platter to add to her hope chest. Four months before her wedding day Melanie won a Blue Willow platter. It was beautiful but she knew that Tom could never afford to buy dishes to match it.
A month later Melanie and John eloped. They returned to town after a two-week honeymoon with a full set of Blue Willow dishes for twelve.
Tom vowed revenge. Melanie had broken his heart. Townspeople clicked their tongues but were sure he’d get over it. He wasn’t the only young man who’d been jilted that year. Look at Paul Jones and Ralph Smith. Their girls had thrown them over and they were both happily engaged now.
But Tom didn’t get over it. He brooded in public and plotted in private.
When he heard that Melanie was pregnant he decided to do something to hurt her, to ruin her life. In the middle of the night he sneaked over to the large house John had recently built. He set fire to the house and then fled town. He changed his name and ended up in a big city, which he never left. For the rest of his life he kept to himself and never wrote to his family or old friends.
John had just had the nursery painted for the baby’s arrival. The fumes made Melanie sick and they decided to stay in the hotel for a few nights. When they woke the next morning half the town was in flames, though the hotel was untouched. After John helped the fire brigade put out the fire, he had his cook prepare a special banquet for the firefighters and volunteers.
Then he went to inspect his own house. All that was left were shards of Blue Willow dishes.
Susan Phillips, a native of Chicago, is now a Boston area writer, photographer and teacher, whose work has been published in many newspapers and magazines. Her short stories have been printed in over 18 magazines, including Lacuna, Poetica Magazine, Literary Brushstrokes, Rose Red Review, Lissette’s Tales of the Imagination and in the anthology All the Women Followed Her. She is currently working on two historical novels and three collections of short stories.