The Forgotten Room

37

Jeremy Logan maneuvered his vintage Lotus along Ocean Avenue, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. It was a fine evening; the sun had set, and the still-gathering clouds high in the darkening sky were suffused with a pink afterglow. He felt better than he had in days. No doubt he had Pam Flood, and their impending date, to thank for that.

“You’d like her, Karen,” he said, speaking to his dead wife, whom he imagined was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

This was a habit he’d fallen into — talking to her now and then, when he was alone — and after the shock of unexpectedly seeing her on the expansive Lux greensward the day before, the imaginary interaction was something he was eager to have returned to a pleasant, controlled basis.

He turned onto Coggeshall Avenue and headed north, toward downtown. “She doesn’t have your subtle wit,” he went on, “but she’s got your spunk and a self-possession I think you’d approve of.”

Sirens were sounding in the distance. Logan glanced at his watch: quarter after nine. He’d be there in just a couple of minutes now.

He drove on, the tall, manicured hedges that lined both sides of the road forming leafy walls in the gathering darkness. Ahead, in the sky, the afterglow was brighter now; more orange than pink. “I find myself letting down my guard with her,” he said. “And there’s something else — she’s made me realize, quite unconsciously, that life can be pretty lonely. Even when you’re juggling two careers.”

Abruptly, he fell silent. What, exactly, was he trying to say to Karen — and, by extension, to himself?

Coggeshall turned into Spring, and the road narrowed a little. The charming old houses grew denser. Ahead on his right, he could just make out the vast, genteel lines of the Elms.

The sirens were louder now, urgent blatts overlapping in a hysteric fugue. He could make out a column of smoke ahead, roiling upward. As he stared, he realized that the bright orange glow illuminating the undersides of the clouds wasn’t afterglow anymore: it was the reflection of flame.

He drove on, past Bacheller Street, past Lee Avenue. The shrieks of sirens grew louder still. And then, quite abruptly, he could go no farther. The way ahead was blocked by police cars and emergency vehicles.

Pulling the Lotus up onto the curb, he got out and began walking. Now he could hear voices: cries, shouts, barked commands.

Some instinct told him to run.

The entrance to Perry Street was cordoned off, and a crowd was gathering: gasping, pointing, stretching to see past the police cars. Heart racing now, Logan ducked behind an ambulance, skirted the cordon, and began running once again down the street. A moment later, he stopped abruptly.

The charming old Victorian house was consumed by flame. Huge tongues of fire were licking out of every front window — first floor, second, round attic oriel — blackening the wood even as he stared. He took a step forward, staggered, took another. He could hear the crackling of flames, the groan of timbers. It was almost as if the house were moaning in pain. He could feel the heat even at this distance. Three fire trucks were parked outside, jets of white water pouring uselessly onto the conflagration. He’d never seen a fire so furious, so angry. Smoke stung his eyes, dried the back of his throat to chalk.

Another rending of timber; the old structure gave out a scream.

Suddenly, without thinking, Logan dashed forward, making for the front door. He ran ten feet before being restrained by a policeman.

“No!” Logan said, struggling furiously.

“It’s no good,” the cop said, tightening his hold.

Just then, the roof of the house collapsed in an inferno of sparks. Embers, ash, bits of fiery matter rose in a mushroom cloud of ruin. And — as the policeman relaxed his grip — Logan collapsed as well, sinking slowly to the pavement, staring on in grief and horror, the death of the house reflected on his face in streaks of yellow, orange, and black.