by Michael Plante

Fire is a companion that will never let you down. It says, I will always love you; I will never let you go, but if you ignore me, I will burn your house down. Fire needs to be nurtured and as it grows requires more attention; just as a young child requires attention. If a child is ignored, then just like fire, they will burn your house down.  

What I remember about the building where I grew up: long-carpeted hallways, sequential apartment doors that faced each other, and red bricks that reached twelve stories towards the sky. The Queensway Manor was near completion when we moved in. The hallways on the top two floors weren’t carpeted, the flower beds still needed to be filled with the topsoil piled out front, the seam of the newly laid sod surrounded the building, everything fresh for a family starting a new life.

Our mother was a tough woman not to be messed with. I don’t remember seeing her cry, although sometimes I would see her staring off into space as I walked into the kitchen early in the morning. A pot of Quaker Oats on the stove, milk and hardened brown sugar sitting on the table and mom smoking her cigarette while her tea went cold. The oven door would be open with her feet on it, the red-hot element glowing. I’d stab at the hardened brown sugar with my spoon trying to break off small chunks to sweeten my oats. The pounding and scrapping wouldn’t faze her, she’d just be sitting there staring off into oblivion.    

Our mother never read us a bedtime story. If we were lucky, she’d check in on us to ensure we were in bed. I don’t recall a hug and a kiss on the forehead like in the movies. Just a, “get to sleep” or, “sweet dreams” and with that she’d turn off the lights. My brother, sister and I watching the darkness consume the room as mother closed the door. The muffled sound of the television distracted us until the sandman crept in from the shadows offering us dreams in lieu of reality. We always took him up on his offer.

One day I sat on the floor watching television as my mother sat on the couch. She was talking to someone on the phone and smoking her cigarettes. I folded a sheet of paper into a plane with a sharp point. Each fold I made had to be precise, there could be no overlapping edges. Each wing of the plane had a tab folded into it designed to guide the plane as straight as possible. I inspected my work; the lines of the folds were perfect; the tabs a 90-degree angle to the wings; the point of the nose bang on. I reached into my mother’s purse taking a cigarette lighter without her noticing. Told her I was heading to the store to buy a piece of gum.

Slowly closing the apartment door I watched as the image of my mother disappear. The quiet click of the door latch felt like freedom; it was my time to fly. I pinched the plane between my fingers and launched it down the hallway. Gliding upon the air the plane was in its natural state, doing what it was meant to do. It existed between two points, where it was released and where it would land. After it landed, I picked it up and walked to the garbage room. Stepping inside I took the lighter out of my pocket, lit the tail of the plane on fire, then dropped it down the chute. I was momentarily transfixed as I created a new reality. A reality where people would see me and know my name. I would never be ignored again. I closed the chute and went to buy some bubble gum.

My siblings were allowed to play outside after dinner, but because I was only 6 years old, I had to be in the apartment well before sundown. Which meant I couldn’t go out after dinner unless I was with my brother or sister. Most days they didn’t want me tagging along so I either played in our room or watched television as our mother chatted away. Sometimes I’d make paper airplanes and watch their flames disappear down the garbage chute. Each time I’d come back home, replace the lighter into my mother’s purse and chew bubble gum waiting for the sirens to come. I was quite content to let my work speak for itself; each time the building’s fire alarm would sound, the fire trucks would arrive with their sirens blazing, then silence. 

Towards the end of our first summer at the Queensway Manor I made my way down to the underground parking lot. There was a steel drum near the entrance that was used for garbage. It called to me; Light me up, let me live, let the world see who I am. A compulsion that would forever change my life. Lighting the corner of the cardboard gave me a heighten sense of awareness; the possibility of being caught, the possibility of punishment. I felt like a prisoner at the gates of a prison after a long sentence. So close to freedom I could taste it on my tongue. Content with what I did I ran back into the building with a grin on my face. As I flew up the stairs I saw the Superintendent’s son Richard. He was friends with my brother and knew who I was. I passed him and made my way back to the apartment. Soon the fire alarm sounded, the fire trucks arrived, then silence. After the silence there came a knock at the door. I sat watching as two detectives from the police department explain to my mother that they suspected her son was the arsonist plaguing the building.

I wasn’t allowed in the courtroom during the proceedings. I had to sit outside on a chair as my future was being decided. I used the time to practice extreme patience and methodical thinking. I purposely wouldn’t move off my chair as I visualized the many different patterns formed by the 12 by 12 tiles on the floor. So many possibilities and variations of angles could be made. I found it an amusing challenge. When I finished with the tiles on the floor I shifted my attention to the ceiling tiles. Afterwards my mother came out to the hallway. She smiled and said, “let’s go get something to eat.” We walked over to the vending machine that dispensed sandwiches. I ate a tuna sandwich and drank my orange soda pop as she explained the next step. 

“They want to send you to the hospital”
“Why?”
“They want to scan your brain”
I sat there in silence trying to figure out what scan your brain really meant. Eventually I said,
“okay,” not having a choice in the matter. 

It was a grey day when mother took me over to the hospital. Lucky for us it was on the other side of the highway. It only took 10 minutes to walk there. The whole sky was one big cloud stretching from one horizon to the other. The streets picked up the dullness of the sky. Walking through the cool air felt like walking into a wake. My condolences to summer, but don’t worry, our death will be soon.  Inside the hospital was no better; just as gloomy as outside. The dull lighting and pale-yellow walls left little to be desired. Maybe that is why no one wants to go to the hospital, even in an emergency. They purposely make it look and feel like vomit. 

After the scan there was a series of visits to a psychiatrist’s office. I sat in front of a doctor as he flashed white cards with black ink blotches on them. The doctor asked me to interpret what I saw. I later found out this was the Rorschach test. Another test was placing a bunch of wooden shapes into their corresponding places on a board which is the Seguin Form Board test. They conducted their tests; I complied. When everything was complete, they labelled me Emotionally Up-set. I had no idea what that meant or why it applied to me, but it was a comfort to them. Once everything was done, I was forgotten. At least for a little while.

Fire has a way of following some people. It’s a force that is attracted to existing energy. I was the proton, and the fire was the electron circling me, just waiting for an opportunity to collide. Something so natural, so instinctive it cannot be removed by human ideas or conditioning. Six years had passed since the doctors labelled me. In that period I had taken up with another kid that had the same delinquent behaviour as myself; we believed we were a force to be reckoned with. One summer’s day we arrived back at the Queensway Manor after a tour of our neighborhood. We came upon a car that had been leaking some kind of liquid. My friend lit the liquid with a stolen lighter. There was an eruption of flames as the gasoline caught fire. In no time the whole car was engulfed in flames. It was like visiting an old friend. A crowd gathered to watch it burn as we waited for the fire trucks to arrive. People yelling, “it’s going to blow! It’s going to blow,” as the sound of sirens grew in the distance. Once the fire had been extinguished, my friend said to a firefighter, “we were beside the car when it caught fire”. He responded, “follow me boys.” 

I was excluded from any charges since I was not the one who lit up the car, although this made my mother suspicious. I think she was horrified by the knowledge of what could happen if I became active again, so she arrived at a remedy of her own. One that would give her some kind of peace. On a Saturday around noon I was called from the bedroom into the kitchen. Mother was standing next to the stove. I could see the red-hot burner in the shadows. She stood there like a statue carved by adversity: stern, patient, and resolved. “Give me your hand,” she said. I complied and she took my wrist, forcing my hand towards the burner. “You want to play with matches, then you’re going to learn how to burn,” she screamed. I yelled back pleading with her to stop. Tears rolling down my cheeks as I used all my strength to pull my hand away from the burner. A deep fear sparked in me, I could feel it in my stomach and in my mind. I continued to scream, “no, no, no!” until she finally released my hand. “If you continue to play with matches you will burn”, she said. “Now go back to your room.”    

I sat in my room sobbing trying to understand her actions. As my tears dried, I came to understand that our fears reveal our hidden character. Her willingness to control her fears led to a horrible and disturbing action. I could forgive her if she only sat on the floor making paper airplanes with me. 

Image: Hand Holding A Paper Airplane. Adobe Stock Free Trail.