[When the painter arrives the day before]

MONICA BERLIN

When the painter arrives the day before Christmas, my son has just finished organizing a toy parade through the front rooms of our house. The painter steps gingerly through the line-up, following me to the bathroom. He closes the door behind us, and we stand together in this space too small for more than one body. Although he is not a big man, we crowd in as I point to trouble spots. In the hallway, after the painter’s jotted down his notes, he eyes the parade heading our way. He says, It’s been a long time since I had a little one around, since I had to walk so carefully. Because I am not expecting a complicated answer, I ask, How old is your little one now? I should know better, should always know better. Looking me in the eye, the painter says, He’s gone now, almost three years, in the fire. I don’t need to ask. I know which fire he means: that smoky air, the rubble we watched for months, the shape of downtown changed overnight. It’s a near-empty space now, everything cleared away and grass growing. In this narrowing hallway, I might have looked down. I might have put my hand up over my mouth, in horror or sadness. I might have touched the painter’s arm, gently, or muttered something of an apology. When my in-laws house burned to the ground, when my father-in-law abandoned his walker to try to save the cats, when they lost every last thing, each person I told had their own fire story. Everyone has their own fire story, I guess: standing on the lawn in pajamas, clutching a sibling’s hand, pulling at the dog’s collar, watching the soaking; or coming home from a trip to find everything gutted, or gone, or smoldering; or a phone ringing at work, the voice on the other end saying, You better come quick, it’s all going up. I think to tell the painter about my husband’s friend, trapped in the stairwell at the Cook County Administrative Building: how the door locked him in, how he died there, with five others, trying to escape; how he left behind a young wife; how his brother, expecting his first child, named the boy after him, although they call the child by another name—couldn’t say John without thinking of John, I imagine; how I still can’t stop worrying—like a threadbare sleeve made thinner by the finger’s tips—that kind of dying; my husband’s friend in that stairwell, that trapped-ness. But I don’t say anything. The toys, at our feet now, have reached their destination. My son, pushing them from down the hall, partially hidden from view of this stranger, is checking to make sure I am still there. It’s what we do, he and I—we look in on each other, often, to make sure we are where we remembered. The painter laughs, waving sweetly at my son, and says, How can you not love them as much as you can for as long as you can? Stepping over the miniature procession, he heads to the door. Snow’s coming, again, he says. And then, We’ll be back in a few days to prime, so pick a color.

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