Issue 22 - 1992

Coe Review • Issue 22
than 30 seconds had passed since he had bumped the ignition),
his old gray chino pants slick against the black-diamond interior.
“Sue! Grab that blanket!” So Ma dropped me back down to
Mother Earth and helped Uncle Lloyd sweep up the blanket lying
underneath the truck (both of them not realizing that gasoline had
spilled on it, as well), rushing over to Pops and attempting to
smother the fire out. This was a mistake, as the concentrations
of fuel hidden deep within the fabric now burst forth with an
orange glowing fury. Pops was whining as Evelyn, our next-door
neighbor, leaned out her door (telephone in hand) screaming, “I
called the paramedics!” as 911 was not in use back then.
Ma, Pops, and Uncle Lloyd were all huddled together now, as if
playing touch football, and I could only contribute weak sobs to
their harsh little game.
The happy red of the fire trucks gleamed merrily
as they flashed around the corner, men jumping onto the
asphalt while the engine was still in motion, bringing foam,
smiles, and comfort. The sidewalk in front of our house
was now a Sunday matinee as all of our friends and neighbors
came to enjoy the free entertainment,
their mouths agape, eyes glittering.
In 20 minutes the scene would be over, then they would
shuffle disappointedly back to their homes, returning
to their television sets and dinner tables, their nostrils still filled
with the remote, pungent smell of burning flesh
as mothers checked on
their pot roasts and tuna casseroles.
But they have forgotten all about me, for the moment, a silent
witness screaming in my own agony, wanting all of the attention for
myself. Piaget was wrong, I am not being egocentric. I look down
into the pinkness of my fingernails, but they
tell me nothing. The firemen are loading up
now, taking Pops away, and the only ones left with a
clear mind are myself and the windshield in my father’s ‘57
Chevy pick-up truck, the sun glinting joyfully off of our
wet, delicate corneas.
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