“Oh, sweet Christ!” A dark plume of smoke trails out of a single-story house and seemingly chases the last of the day’s light. “Oh, sweet Christ!” he says again, now a little louder. Already, he can hear the commotion, the crowds of people, and the urgent voices of the firemen. He sprints down the narrow, cobble-stone streets normally empty at so late an hour, but now congested with people watching the smoke and flames from afar.
When he gets to the once quaint grey house now on fire, he sees his wife standing some distance from it. Her frail body is still dressed in her work attire of a nurse, her deep brown hair is strangely disheveled and her eyes are frosted over with profound regret.
“Betty,” he cries. His wife snaps around, tensed, then relaxes as she sees the familiar face of her husband. “Betty,” he says again, only with less urgency. “I heard fire engines and I saw the smoke, I had to come down. What on earth happened here?” he finishes, panting a little from the run. His wife is still for a moment.
“I can’t say,” she mutters. Then, she continues quietly, “They say he was bound for it from the start. That he was bound to die like this, by his own fault.” She looks down, coughing. Her hair hangs like the lonely branches of an old tree, covering her face. “But it really wasn’t fair. We were making progress, I know we were. Just a few more months, and we could’ve pulled through. He hardly ever mentioned Ernest anymore.” She abruptly turns her gaze towards her husband. “Oh Arnold,” she cries out, her eyes welling up, “don’t you know? We could’ve done it, I know we could’ve! Who let him go? Who said he was cured and could go home? Oh, I did! I did!”
He looks tenderly at Betty, the way someone might look upon a young child in great distress. “You couldn’t have known. He’d been mumbling about that old man since the day he was taken in. And you, you changed that. Oh, all of us had seen him, looking brand and in a new tie and a beautiful suit. We’d all have let him go home. That’s what he wanted, too. It’s not your fault, Betty, it never could have been.” She collapses on the ground and begins to sob. He watches Betty, somewhat protectively, as she is distraught, trying to stop the flow of tears, which seem to keep falling by the dozen. He is about to start speaking, but then stops. Betty opens her cracked lips, only partially colored with blood-red lipstick, to reveal a desperate voice wanting to materialize the feelings within.
“They all said he’d never make it. That no schizophrenic that imagined they’d killed an old man with a crazy eye could ever recover. They all thought he was a lost cause, mumbling on and on about Old man Ernest with a ‘wretched ol’ heart.’ They all said, ‘Give up Betty. He’s gone.’ But it wasn’t true!” She continues sobbing, but is gaining more control of herself. Her bleary eyes are fixated on the blackened house dancing in painful orange flames. Arnold tries to soothe her, but she brushes his hand away, and stands up weakly.
“You’re right. You proved them wrong. But this, this isn’t your fault. You thought you cured him, and, by god Betty, you did!” says Arnold, emphasizing the last word, trying deperately to comfort his wife, who appears immune to all his attempts. The firefighters start to push the citizens back. “It’s dangerous here. Get back. Get back!” they shout.
“No, you don’t understand.” She cries exasperatedly, still looking into the broken building lit on fire. “He wanted help. That’s why he was there. But nobody, nobody wanted to help him. Everyone said to give up, just let it go.” Arnold is still now, watching his wife swaying somberly in front of the house, having given up trying to calm her. Her voice is broken and lost and ash-filled. “He needed help.”
Now Arnold looks around. The smokey grey plume seems to have chased out the last of the daylight. The onlookers are gasping, screaming, and pointing at the ghastly sight. Yet he knows that every single one of them has blood on their hands.