Story 2
I think we took a train from Paris to Cannes. And then a taxi from the station to our
hotel, but I feel that it was a long taxi ride. Paul sat in the front with the taxi cab
driver. Daddy, Barb and I sat in the
back and I curled up on Daddy’s lap. I
was half asleep, I think they thought I was asleep and they talked about the
house fire.
My mother’s orchestra dresses hung in the closet
of my nursery, I was two then. Our
neighbor’s nephew set that fire to bring the engines with sirens to him in
hopes his mother would come back, too. They had taken her away, they could bring her back. She
had died, he didn’t understand and he knew he could make the sirens return if
he lit a fire. I was not in my bed when
he lit that fire, but Daddy thought I was.
He ran up the stairs and into the flaming room to save me. I was outside in a stroller with Jane
watching with two year old eyes. The
first floor of the house burnt. We spent
a night in the studio. There were four
of us kids, Mom, pregnant with Geoff, and Dad.
In the taxi cab in France they discussed why he
started that fire and how Daddy figured it out.
I’m sure I did not hold on to the psychological intricacies of a
traumatized boy, but I knew I had been safe.
It was pitch black inside that cab and I was in a foreign land, in my
Dad’s arms listening to sadness, afraid, but aware I would always be safe with
him. I know I had that bond of safety
in those early years. I remember these
little stories throughout the first 10 years of my life and I know I was secure
no matter what happened afterwards.
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