Here it was again. How many times in your life did you phone in an arson? The fire had to have been the first thing that came to Alice Yinson’s mind.

“You could see the barn clearly from your house, couldn’t you?” said Macey.

“Oh, yes. I’d been in the barn apartment, actually. Lovely little place.”

“Tell me about it,” said Macey in a cuddly, feminine voice Austin could never have duplicated.

“It had this charming sitting room, open to the rafters, and the curtains were bright red, and the rugs too, and the sun came up and filled the place with light. The kitchen was just darling, tall, thin white cabinets and little handles shaped like apples. The dining table was pushed up against the window, with a beautiful view of the yacht club.”

How could she remember the apartment so well and not remember Mr. Sibley? thought Austin. But then, women seemed to care more about stuff like pillows and pictures. It was another of his parents’ problems. Dad failed to notice anything in the way of a scented candle or new dried flowers. He certainly failed to understand why hard-earned money should be spent on them. Mom shrieked that he might as well be a hound dog sleeping on an old blanket in the garage. Dad yelled that … oh, well.

“Nobody could believe that the owners would … um …” Alice Yinson coughed.

Austin knew the rest of the sentence. Nobody could believe that the owners rented to a black man instead of me, Alice Yinson Devers. Homemaker and native of the town.

I’m no different from this awful woman, he thought. I couldn’t believe I was trapped in that fire. I didn’t deserve it. Not me. Not rich, white Austin.

Alice finished coughing. “My husband and I were living with my parents that year,” she said, “and just happened to look up and see flames across the brook. We telephoned the fire department. Back then you didn’t have 911, you know. You had to look up the phone number like any other number.”

Austin made a resolution. When he got married, he would not live with his in-laws in a little teeny house with little teeny furniture and spend his time gazing at the apartment he had not gotten.

“Did you go see the fire?” asked Macey.

“No. That brook is dangerous at high tide.”

It was 1959, not 1659, thought Austin. You could have gotten in the car and driven over, like everybody else who was curious.

But Alice got to that. “We were not the kind of people who drive to fires and clutter the roads, gawking at the misfortunes of others. I’m sorry, Miss Clare, but I have a client waiting. Good luck on your project.” She hung up.