Incomplete Checklist

The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs is a background noise that Charlie has lived with his whole life. From day to day it had been as loud as a thunder storm cracking across the night sky to as soft as the patter of waves lapping against a sandy shore.

                As a little boy, Charlie remembers running up and down his stairs until he drove his parents crazy. He loved to hear the clang of the cold metal echo beneath his feet.

                Every morning his father would wake up bright and early to make sure every gear was in working order. When Charlie was young, he never fully understood why. They never seemed to have any problems during the night. Charlie often wondered if their time would be better spent doing other things. Obviously, he wished he could be playing, but even cleaning his bedroom made more sense to him than fixing something that wasn't broken.

                Often Charlie’s father would go into town and leave Charlie to finish the check list of maintenance. Every time Charlie’s father left, Charlie would try really hard to finish the checklist before his father returned. It made them both proud. Charlie looked forward to that moment when his father came home to find the checklist complete. Charlie liked it so much that more than once when he didn't finish the check list, he would tell his father did it anyway. As much as Charlie loved it when his father was proud of him, he hated it even more when his father was disappointed in him. Looking back, Charlie didn't think his father would have been disappointed at all; he would have simply helped him finish the inspection. Yet, for some reason the assumption was always there.

The first time Charlie didn't finish the checklist, when night came he was a little nervous. Charlie was relieved when he woke in the morning to find he had slept right through the night. The uneventful evening only served to prove his theory that there was no need for his father to check and recheck every nook and cranny of that old machine.

Charlie will never forget the day that he realized just how important it was for his father to be so painstakingly thorough.

The second or third time he didn't finish the checklist—but told his father he had—the night did not pass without incident. He can still hear his heart thumping in his chest. Each palpitation was much louder than any blaring noise that evening.

The roar of the waves lulled him to sleep that night. A ship’s horn found its way into his dreams, but it was the squeal of the fog signal that really startled him. Footsteps stomped up stairs and down stairs. His father’s frantic voice called out to him. Charlie shoved his blankets aside and leaped from his bed. He hit the floor and ran out of his room.  At the foot of the stairs, he looked straight up to see if his father was at the top. He could barely make out any movement. What Charlie saw was a sight he had never before seen. The light was out—in the middle of the night. Charlie knew exactly what that meant.  He ran upward taking two steps at a time. In the distance, more horns alerted their presence.

“What’s wrong, Father?” Charlie had to scream over the clashing thunder.

“The Sun Valve is not working,” Father yelled back, as calmly as he could. “It won’t allow the pilot light to ignite.”

“It was working just fine when we went to bed, wasn't it.”

“It was.” The wind howled. Waves crashed.

“The Sun Valve has never given us problems before,” Charlie said.

“Because we have checked it every day,” His father replied.

There was nothing Charlie could say.  He stood frozen with a look of horror widening his eyes.

“Son, you finished the checklist didn't you?” His words still repeat in Charlie’s ears.

Charlie’s father did not wait for Charlie to respond. He just went to work, bypassing the Sun Valve as so many keepers had done before him. There was no anger or disappointment in his eyes. He only knew what had to be done; he knew what his responsibility was.

The guilt ate at Charlie’s stomach. He knew he had made a terrible mistake and that any accident that happened during the night was because of his inaction.

From then on, Charlie helped his father check and recheck every seemly unimportant point on their checklist. 

The House of Phoenix

                Orange and black flames dance in the wind. Smoke plumes above the blaze while walls buckle under the pressure. At one time, this house stood tall and proud with a noble heritage, but today its eves hang in shame.

                Anger burns in Torche’s eyes. The shaking began in his legs, but is not yet visible in his hands. His feet hit the path in the woods. Fervency heats up his face. As the black starry sky illuminates Torche’s path, each step of his feet pull him closer to his brother and sister.

                Yanking open the door, Torche stumbles into the empty restaurant panting, “The house, the house,” Torche forces the words out in a blur.

“What is it?” Sam’s words are calming and soothing, but give an air of unconcern. Torche has cried wolf one too many times.

“What about the house?” Zarahemla’s accusations jab at Torche.

“It’s on fire, it’s practically gone.”

“Is it actually on fire or are you just bored?” Zarahemla’s eyes roll with impatience for her younger brother.

“I was out, I came home, and the house was on fire,” Torche lifts his hands for the first time since he had walked into Sam’s restaurant. The gesture reveals dark soot staining his hands.

“That’s a lie. If the house is on fire, I wouldn’t doubt that you did it,” Zarahemla flares in irritation and then runs out the door.

The three siblings blaze through the path between the restaurant and the only home they’ve ever known to discover the truth.

“What have you done, Torche?” Zarahemla screams, but the flames have subsided enough that her elevated voice comes out as rage.

Sam crosses his arms. His body relaxes without contempt. Though his face is still and serene, his eyes tell an entirely different story.

“May I repeat that I did nothing here?” Pleads Torche.

“Don’t you dare start,” Zarahemla says.

“Enough!” Sam shouts for probably the first time.

White ash and black charcoal create a striking contrast within the fire. The house that stood before is practically a pile of rubble. Glimpses of the same orange flames that invaded the humble abode peek in and out of the boards.

Their ancient home encompasses an acre of land. A courtyard once honored the very center of the house, but that too was no longer visible. The flames kiss the trees on the opposite side of the property. 

Zarahemla’s fists squeeze tight. She bites her tongue, trying to hold back her emotion and frustration. A tear escapes her control. Visions of her peaceful escapes to the forest haunt her memory.

Sam’s eyes reflect the smoldering flames. Sam’s heart beat accelerates, the only telltale sign that his past consumes him.

The smoke sticks to the air as they slowly walk back to the only thing they have left…an empty, lifeless restaurant. They know which path to take, but their motions lack desire.

At the still vacant restaurant, Sam calls the fire department because that is his job as the oldest brother. Ashes adorn his bright white shirt. The air seethes with thoughts from their past.

Zarahemla paces around the room. Her vibrant red hair is freckled with black.

“I was born in that house,” her anger still apparent.

“So was I,” Torche says sympathetically, the soot camouflaged in his black hair.

“We all were,” Sam says as he hangs up the phone.

“Mom was too,” Zarahemla says directing her resentment at Torche.

“And Grandma, and our Great Grandfather, I know, I get it,” Torche began. “How many times do I have to tell you, it wasn’t my fault?”

“How many times do you have to tell me?” Zarahemla repeats. “Until I believe it, Torche. That’s how many.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“I’ve heard it one too many times, that’s why. You’re a liar, you’re destructive, and you could care less about the feeling of others.”

“That’s not true.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, maybe the first part, but mostly the last part,” Torche stutters.

“That’s rich, you care, you, Torche Phoenix? It doesn’t really show!”

“Enough, you two! That’s not going to help,” Sam scolds with patient annoyance.

“Blaming me is not going to bring the house back,” Torche continues unfazed.

“It doesn’t matter if it brings the house back. You just need to learn to own up to it,” Zarahemla sighs. “It would make me feel better,” she mumbles.

“How?” Torche asks.

“How, what?”

“How, is it going to make you feel better?” Sam clarifies. His words are in the conversation, but his eyes fixate on the fork in front of him as if the fork has all the answers.

“I don’t know. It’s just that I have so many good memories from that house.”

“Yeah, you have good memories from that house,” Torche accuses.

“So you’re saying you burned down the house because you don’t have good memories from that house?” Zarahemla accuses Torche.

“No! I didn’t burn the house down. Why would I do that? Where would we go? What would we do? Where are we going to live now?”

“We can sleep upstairs…” Zarahemla says. Her voice is not as frantic as it was before.

“No,” Sam whispers, still lost in reverie.

“No?” Torche and Zarahemla say at the same time.

“Let’s just sell the place and move,” Sam says, his eyes starting to brighten up.

“Just up and move?” Zarahemla scoffs.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Why not? Because our family has been in that house for generations, that’s why not!” Zarahemla scolds her older brother.

“And what good has it done our family to stay?” Sam says.

“Um, isn’t being our home good enough for you?” Zarahemla says.

“Look Zarahemla, this house may have been a great place for you, but it wasn’t for me and it certainly wasn’t for Torche.”

“But it was where our Mother was born,” Zarahemla pleads, hoping for someone to agree with her.

“Mom was not happy in that house,” Sam comforts his sister, covering her hand with his.

“What about Grandma and her Dad?”

Sam just shakes his head.

“What is so horrible about that house? I don’t get it,” Zarahemla says, her face sad and withdrawn.

A dark shadow falls over Sam’s face. “Was it really so wonderful for you?”

“I told myself it was,” Zarahemla says softly.

“Let’s do it,” Torche pleads.

“You better not be admitting to burning down the house just so we can move.”

“I didn’t do it!” Torches shouts. “Honest, I have no idea how it happened,”

“Yeah, like you had no idea how my curtains got singed when I was ten?”

“No, that’s different.”

“What about the dog’s hair cut when you were nine?”

“That was an accident!” Explains Torche.

“You killed our dog!”

“I was nine!” Torche says. “I wasn’t perfect, I’m not perfect, but I wouldn’t do that to our home, Zarahemla.”

“Why am I the only one that doesn’t see how wrong this idea is?” Zarahemla sighs.

“Do you though?” Sam says seeing through his sister’s façade. “Do you really think the idea is wrong?” Sam removes his hand from his sisters revealing soot where his hand had been. Whether the black stain was there before or it came from his hands, Sam is not sure.

At the familiar sound of the siren, the three of them quickly return to their home in a renewed silence.  The light from the fire truck shines on their home, blinking red on the fire. The myriad of colors seep into the flames and smoke adds to the confounded dizziness of the children of the house of Phoenix. 

Fighting the fire is the easy part. Watching is harder. Yet, so often in life we think of water and the air that we breathe as life giving forces. In the case of the Colorado River, however, the opposite is true.  It is those life giving elements that were the cause of great destruction. The Phoenix children were drowning in the life that they had before. Just as the fires of molten lava offers rebirth to the rock of the Earth, the fire that burns down their home provides the way to a new beginning. The Ghosts of their painful past are slowly being destroyed in that fire, too. Their future will not be decided tonight, but as the beams and walls finally fall to the ground, a part of them dies; a part that they were willing to let die.