Overview

The house is a shambles, much more than you'd imagine a killing fire would create. The investigators, Hannah whispers. They tore apart everything. Neither one of us has a flashlight. We navigate by the thin fissures of sun piercing each plywood window. We pause at the stairs. Be very careful, she says, with the confident authority of an explorer that has made the journey many times before. I watch where she places her feet, only on the outside six inches of the stringers, where the balusters used to be. Towards the middle, the treads are charred, some are even split in two. Below us, the black murk of the basement. A tumble might mean severe injury, even death. I carefully follow, to the landing at the top of the stairs. We take a few steps forward, suddenly find ourselves standing in the middle of Hannah's once-bedroom. I am amazed by her courage to revisit this place, even if it is hallowed ground. In here, ground zero, where the devastation was most extreme, the flames the hottest, the smoke the thickest. In here, two young girls died in the scantest of moments, less time than it takes to walk to the corner and back. We enter a windowless hallway. Dark, unbelievably dark. Creepy dark. But I know that for Hannah and her family the remains of their burned home constitute a kind of religious shrine, sanctified by the daily unearthing of melted toys, sodden clothing, and water-stained photographs. It's the only reason the fire officials allow them back in here. Despite the dangers inside, indicated by the big red X stapled onto the front clapboards, they are fulfilling the mandate of every major religion: to worship their dead. Public safety has its bounds, but certain latitudes are given where the needs of a grieving family are concerned. The house is a shambles, much more than you'd imagine a killing fire would create. The investigators, Hannah whispers. They tore apart everything. Neither one of us has a flashlight. We navigate by the thin fissures of sun piercing each plywood window. We pause at the stairs. Be very careful, she says, with the confident authority of an explorer that has made the journey many times before. I watch where she places her feet, only on the outside six inches of the stringers, where the balusters used to be. Towards the middle, the treads are charred, some are even split in two. Below us, the black murk of the basement. A tumble might mean severe injury, even death. I carefully follow, to the landing at the top of the stairs. We take a few steps forward, suddenly find ourselves standing in the middle of Hannah's once-bedroom. I am amazed by her courage to revisit this place, even if it is hallowed ground. In here, ground zero, where the devastation was most extreme, the flames the hottest, the smoke the thickest. In here, two young girls died in the scantest of moments, less time than it takes to walk to the corner and back.

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Philip Austin is the author of seven books, including a memoir, The Paintbox of Everything. His first novel, On Bethel Ridge, a Christmas fable published in 1998, was hailed by Publisher's Weekly as 'a sharply etched tale reaching across cultures with universal spirituality.'

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