The firemen and trucks arrived, setting to work with practiced efficiency. An hour later, they wandered home to warm up and put their food away. They could hear the power hoses dousing the building for hours, and loud rumbles they assumed were floors or walls collapsing. When the wind changed direction, they could smell an acrid burnt odor.
By morning, the snowstorm was over, and 20 inches lay on the ground. Celeste trekked to the corner. The fire was out. The street-facing brick wall of the building had collapsed exposing four floors of disfigured toy parts—doll heads, arms, legs, bodies, shoes, dollhouse furniture. Mounds of burned pastel-colored plastic were heaped on each floor and piled on the sidewalk. The cars parked on the street had become ice sculptures overnight. They wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. A charred smell radiated from the building.
A man in a wrinkled overcoat lingered on the sidewalk, gazing at the destruction, kicking at bits of plastic in the snow. His shoulders were slumped, and he rattled a ring of keys for which there were no doors.
“I’m sorry about your factory,” Celeste said. “The firemen got here quickly and did everything they could. It was a fast-moving fire.”
The man ignored her. She walked to the bodega and bought two coffees. He took one when she offered it and maintained his mute reflection, clutching the cup.
Celeste noticed an object on the edge of the second floor. It was slim and black amongst mounds of burnt fragments. She knew from its length it was a clarinet. The mouthpiece reed ligature, the barrel bands, and the complex assemblage of keys and finger hole rings sparkled in the sunshine where the snow had started to melt away. It must’ve been left there, near the front windows after he last played. Celeste wanted to thank him for the music, but she couldn’t find the right words.
He’d played so beautifully.
Suzanne C Martinez 