Product of sitting inside on a gloomy day, staring at a fireplace. Attempts at a happy story: 2 Successful attempts at a happy story: 0
We never used our fireplace, and I never really questioned why. Not now, anyway. When I was much younger, barely five, I asked my father. My father was a gentle and kind man so when he looked at me as if he were about to hit me, it made an impression. His usually mild countenance twisted with fury and frustration, saying that we never used the fireplace, and we never asked about it either.
It made an impression. The kind of impression that a leaf leaves on soft clay. I was young then, malleable. And my father was a large oak tree, bursting with full, large leaves of wisdom. And he pressed the fireplace leaf firmly to my skin, and it left its mark. I grew up, solidified as myself, lost my softness and pliability. But the imprint from that leaf remained. I listened to my father’s words.
But I never lost the curiosity. Every time I passed the large multicolored and carved stones, the elaborately twisted iron, I wondered. If ever I sat in the overstuffed wingchair with birds embroidered on it, the silhouette of the barren fireplace visible out of the tiniest corner of my eye, and I wondered.
My house was full of beauty and my father had a story for nearly every nook and cranny. I suppose that is what you get when you live in a house that your family has owned for nearly 250 years. The huge fireplace was the crown jewel of the entire home. A home full of dark wood and elaborate stained glass windows. Each room crafted more beautifully and carefully than the last. I was allowed everywhere. The house could have been a museum, a place an adult could easily prohibit a child to touch anything, ever. But I was allowed everywhere. I could touch whatever I wanted. My home was my playground. But the fireplace was forbidden. And I listened to my father’s words. I never asked again.
But I also turned into a teenager, a time when you don’t ask. Of course, you still need to, but don’t . And I didn’t.
I should have.
It was a Monday evening. There was no school that day and my father was having drinks with a friend down the road in a pub nearly as old as my house.
Tommy Stanton was over. I liked him, so when he started asking me about the fireplace, I answered him with such assurance I almost believed that the stones were from India and the iron was crafted in France. I glowed under his approval of the fireplace.
And he asked to light it. I said of course, instantly, and ran off to find some matches. I remember, I was halfway between the kitchen and the living room when I hesitated. I stopped, suddenly, midstride, and remembered the strange encounter from my father nearly 10 years earlier. After all, the impression he left remained.
But there was a cute boy in my living room, and I wanted so desperately to impress him. So I strode forward, confidant. I entered my living room and smiled at Tommy. I chose a match, struck the matchbook, and inhaled the strong scent of sulfur. The match flared, exploding into flame, nearly burning the tips of my fingers. I dropped it into the fireplace.
Nothing happened. I tried again. Still, nothing. The wood refused to light. I looked sidelong at Tommy, who was frowning at the silent and dark wood. I started to panic and heat rose to my cheeks. I reached for another match, but before I could light it, the fireplace roared to life.
I knew immediately that something was wrong. The fire was too hot, too ferocious. Tommy looked at it, amazed, seemingly unfazed by the pervasive feeling of wrongness that radiated from the flames. He seemed drawn to it. He leaned in closer, fascinated.
I remember saying his name, trying to warn him not to get to close.
His expression did not change, my words did not register in even the smallest capacity. I grabbed his green flannel shirt with my thin and shaking fingers and tried to pull him away. Pull him back. He didn’t move. He didn’t sway. He sat on the ground as if anchored to the mahogany floors. I couldn’t move him. And still he leaned closer.
I got up, ran for the kitchen, and filled up a brass pot with water. I ran back to the living room, where Tommy sat completely unaware that I had left or perhaps that I was even there to begin with. I threw the water on the white flames. Nothing happened. The fire didn’t sizzle, the wood didn’t steam. The flames simply raged on. And Tommy was close enough to touch it. The frames of his glasses started to wilt.
I screamed. Long and loud. And the flames, for one moment, blinded me, and my scream was cut short from surprise. I shielded my eyes with the crook of my arm, shutting them so tightly that bright and terrible patterns bloomed on the backs of my eyelids.
It was quiet. Slowly, I lowered my arm and opened my eyes. The fire was gone, put out as if it were never there to begin with. The only sign that it ever existed was a strange, sparkling and pale smoke that hung in the air.
And Tommy was gone. I looked around, as if in the short moments I closed my eyes he might have had time to get up or leave. First I ran outside, hopeful that my concept of time had somehow been altered by fear or confusion. Then I ran through the entire house, saying, calling, then shouting his name. Finally, I returned to the fireplace. I sat, crumpled and small.
The front door groaned open, then clicked shut. I heard the soles of my father’s shoes scrape on the wooden floors. Then it was quiet. Still. I could envision him looking around, hearing the loud silence of the house and seeing the strange smoke. He probably set his wallet and keys on the glass table under the mirror, removed his glasses, and ran his fingers through his graying hair, as he always did when he was worried or upset.
I heard his shoes again. Drawing nearer and nearer. And then he was crouched beside me. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I stared at my hands, tears sliding down my cheeks. My father sighed.
“Was Tommy over?” He asked me.
I looked up at him, surprised. I didn’t understand how he could possibly know that. He looked tired and withdrawn and he was staring at the fireplace, unblinking. He gave an infinitesimal jerk of the head. I turned my head, following his gaze.
I stared at the stone he appeared to be looking at. I squinted my eyes, and slowly edged forward, leaning in so I could see better. It was a lovely stone, green, like soft flannel. And there was an impression. Of a boy. Carved perfectly into the stone. I looked up at my father, shocked, horrified.
He looked down at me.
“We don’t talk about the fireplace” He said to me.
Then he stood, stroked my hair once, and walked out of the room, leaving me there staring at the hard green impression of a boy I used to know.
We don’t talk about the fireplace. We don’t use it either. Once was enough. Once was more than enough to make an impression.
