Windward Review Volume 19 (2021): Empathy and Entropy

REPORTER
When I flew in, you could uh, you couldn’t see the ground.
CHILD
This is my first trip up here, to see the farm, to see my dad
-
The lights turn the dusky orange of the background, and the stage becomes
painfully bright, almost blinding. The cello becomes frantic. The noise becomes
almost too much to bear. Everyone is obscured, then it all goes black.
There is silence for a moment, then all onstage begin a slow inhale, gaining
volume and power in a crescendo.
FIREFIGHTER and CHILD
Where do the stories go?
-
There is a sharp exhalation of breath, and with it comes light on FATHER, still
standing before his chair
FATHER
I think we lost everything. We barely made it out. Jesus Christ, I could feel
the heat from my bedroom, All we had time to grab was a suitcase of clothes
and the dog and we just ran. No matter how far we drove in any direction, it
was still there. We could have gotten out sooner, it’s-it’s my fault we didn’t.
I told my family to stay cause I heard looters were clearing out evacuated
houses, and that wasn’t going to be my home, you know? Least not if I’ve got
something to say about it. We’ve been through fires before, and the damn
governor orders evacuations every time. Evacuate my ass, I decide where I go.
If I’m going to abandoned everything I’ve worked my whole life for, I’ll decide,
not the government. But I’ve never seen anything like this. I looked outside
and my heart dropped into my shoes. I could barely think. All I could do was
keep my eyes forward and move, cause if I stopped… I didn’t know if I could
move again. It isn’t- It’s not normal. When all you can see is smoke and fire,
your mind empties out. There’s a pit in your chest. It’s primeval, instinctual.
Driving through it felt like hell on earth. And with the whole goddamn state
on fire, there was no way to outrun it. There was nowhere for us to go. We just
had to keep driving. My wife tried to comfort my daughter, but what do you
even say? After about an hour or so I saw this boathouse on a little lake, and
I pulled up to it. I figured if it’s over water, it’ll be harder for the fire to get to
us. And maybe we can wait it out. We can just wait till it’s safe then drive out.
I’m so worried about my family, my daughter. I just don’t know what else to
do. How do you fight something like this? All I can see around us is fire. I can’t
even see the sky. I’m supposed to keep my family safe. What the hell am I
going to tell my daughter? How do I tell her I failed to keep her safe?
-
Behind him, and during his story, the dancers begin a pseudo-pantomime of his
words. Their bodies tell his story in their own language. They are filled with the
same sort of rage and need to survive. They dance to a climax, then FATHER
and his chair crumble into ash.
REPORTER
Words spoken by the voiceless, heard in the ceaseless empty.
-
ELDERLY is seen once more, standing beside his chair
ELDERLY
This, my house, this was a wedding gift from my ma to my pa, back a long old
time ago. She was the only lady contractor in the tri-county area, and she got
told over and over that no one would buy houses made by a woman. So she
builds this place, and boy did she build it. Local fellahs came in the night and
tried to firebomb the house, and- nothing. They barely left a scratch on the
place. Which, let me tell you, was not how they fared once Ma came after em.
I’ve lived here my whole life. I can’t imagine no other place bein home. This
house is a legacy, my Ma’s legacy, her gift to this family that’ll last for generations.
I’ve raised a family here, watched my kids grow up and start their own
families. Watched my grandkids learn to walk on the same floors as my own
children. All in these same rooms. This house is in my blood. It’s a part of me.
Windward Review: Vol. 19 38