Fire in the Attic
Fire in the Attic
by Cary Stage | Wisconsin Dells, WI
Eight days out of Paris, on the Tours route, my wife Linda and I wander into Suèvres exhausted. Down a narrow alley, we find the Halte pèlerins Presbytère and are greeted by Brigette, a church member. The old parsonage now shelters pilgrims.
We climb the steps to the kitchen where she stamps our credentials. She leads us up the stairs past an attic door, then down a hallway to a room of mismatched beds.
“Tonight, you’re the only ones here, so feel free to lock the door. I live next door. Let me know if you need anything.”
After a spaghetti dinner and a bottle of wine, we call it an evening, happy to crawl into bed early.
Around 1:00 a.m., I wake to a creaking sound and rise to one elbow.
“What is it?” Linda whispers.
“I think someone’s on the stairs.”
But the door is locked. I pull on my pants and try the light—nothing. An orange light glows under the attic door. Could someone be here? When I push it open, the room is ablaze, crackling with fire.
“Oh God. Oh God,” I hear myself say, Linda echoing my words behind me.
We rush down the hall, grabbing flip-flops and clothes. We hurtle down the stairs. With our phone lights, we find our packs—snatching clothes from the drying rack, whatever we can find—then burst into the cool night air where all is still. Except our attic is on fire.
“We need to tell someone,” I say.
“Brigette,” Linda says, worried, with her house almost touching next door. Linda calls while I pound on doors yelling, “Feu! Feu!” But no one answers.
Hoping to flag someone down, Linda runs to the end of the alley while I dial 112, the European Union- equivalent of 911. “Where are you?” they ask. My mind goes blank. I pull out our guidebook and give the address.
Linda returns with a man carrying a bat, who thought she was being attacked. Once I explain, he calls to the neighbors and windows begin to open.
A firetruck inches around the corner, lights flashing. A crew of men and women takes over, unfurling hoses.
“My shoes,” I say to Linda. “I forgot my shoes.”
“I’ve got ’em,” she says, pulling them from her pack.
The chief of police, a burly man with a cigarette, takes our statement. Explaining to his deputies who we are, he taps the shell on my pack. “Pilgrims,” he says.
“Where will you stay?” he asks.
I hadn’t thought about it. “I guess we’ll walk.”
He looks at me as if I’m in shock. “Hold on,” he says, then disappears to return with Brigette. “She’ll take care of you.”
We spend the night in comfortable beds, surrounded by dolls for her grandchildren. In the morning, we’re greeted with breakfast. Brigette insists on returning our €30, and we all laugh. I tell her I feel bad that this happened while we were here.
“Yes,” she says. “But just think if you weren’t.”
