Uptown Kingston Fire 181 Wall Street

My street feels like it is in mourning. This past Monday there was a fire in a house down the street in the middle of a beautiful post Hurricane Irene afternoon.

Only a half hour before the fire broke out, Rye called me at work to say that he had gotten called down the fire house. The volunteers were helping to control the flooding, pumping put basements in downtown Kingston. While the kids were home, Grandma was next door, so I could continue my day at the office. Within a half hour, I had another call. This time it was Garin, now 20, and with an adult knowledge of when to be concerned.

“Mom, the house on the corner is on fire.”

Did we all know that for some reason, this fire was different? Was it a collective unconsciousness that allowed me to rush and close the 30 various windows open on my computer screens and quickly rush the five blocks home? I don’t know, but I had a sense of urgency as I gather up my things and raced home.

My office is five short block from my house on the same street. I could see the fire trucks had arrived as I quickly walked. Before long, i could smell the burning. The smoke was obvious, billowing in the sky, filing the neighborhood streets. Along with the bright lights of the emergency responders, the colors of the flames gave proof that this was a active, roaring fire. Then came the sounds of sirens. As I got closer, the voices chimed in, cries of panic, voices raised in alarm. They all repeated the same word:

The baby, the baby.

There was a baby still trapped; not just the burning building, but the burning room, alone.

The streets were swarmed with neighbors, on lookers and the buildings residents. Voices all spoke out in chaos, each repeating what little knowledge they had learned, passed down, from mouth to ear, telling the sad tale. Before reaching my house, I was hearing part myth, part rumor, part truth, but what would become the narrative of this fire.

The baby had been left alone.

The father got out the pit bulls but left the baby.

Why didn’t he get the baby? What’s wrong with him?

I listened to my neighbor across the street as he told of hearing screaming and running out to see what was going on. How the father stood in the street, screaming that the baby was still in the burning building. How Eric had run to get his ladder and with Matt, another neighbor and father to my kid’s friends, went to the first window, only to find a cat which they removed from the building. That cat survived, another cat did not.

Not being able to reach the baby through that window, they followed the father’s directions, and took the ladder to the back window, where they could barely approach the opening due to the heat and flames. By then the fire department had begun the arrive. This all happened within minutes, says Eric, but already I could hear how bad he felt for not being able to get in to the baby.

Other neighbors were crying. My mother in law came over to where we stood just across the street from my home, crying over the trapped baby as well. More fire trucks arrived, including Rye’s truck. No longer pumping basements, I suddenly realized that being the wife of a volunteer fireman meant that he would be going into burning buildings like this one. I only enter churches for weddings and funerals, but Catholic upbringing rose up; as I ran out of my house after dumping off my work bags, I quickly said a prayer. Luckily, Rye’s certification was not complete and he had to stay outside of the building.

Did they get out the baby? What about the baby?

I made my children stay on my porch; far away enough that they could not see too much. Enough time had gone by that I knew; when that baby did come out it would not be good and I did not want the kids to see that.

I watched the firefighters gear up, ready themselves and enter the building. I watched as one of the firefighters came out, only to collapse in front of his comrades from smoke inhalation. Many arms reached out and caught him as his knees buckled. Shouts rose up and calls for a stretcher from one of the many ambulances standing by. EMTs raced over, oxygen masks applied, and more sirens wailed as they left the scene.

I watched as the mother of the child returned home from work, confused and concerned that this was happening to her home, she went to her partner for information. I watched as he explained the situation, as he formed the words that would communicate to her the dire circumstances of what she saw. I couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but I knew what was transcribing before my eyes. I saw when she looked up to his face with a desperate hope and knew she was asking about the baby. I knew what it meant when he slowly, solemnly shook his head no. And I understood that she understood when she collapsed into his arms crying hysterically.

More voices: they got out the baby. Is that the mother? Where was she while her house burned down and her baby was trapped?

I, thankfully, did not see the baby when they pulled her out of the fire. Rye did. Blue and grey with burns on her legs from the flames, she was carried out, cradled in the arms of a firefighter, and placed on a gurney. Rye reports that they performed CPR on her tiny still form before taking her to the hospital. I’m not sure how old she was, seven, eight, nine months old, and I don’t know her name, but no matter how many people hoped and prayed for a good outcome, it was not to be the case.

It was a few hours later, after most of the fire fighters had left, leaving just a few to make sure that no more smoulding remains sparked up again, when Rye called me from the hospital to confirm what we all and assumed and whispered quietly; she didn’t make it.

With the baby now removed, the attack on the house and the fire within commenced. Venting the roof, pumping in the water; still we all watched. The firefighters had set up a pop up tent in the middle of the street. It wasn’t our quiet neighborhood anymore, it was triage and disaster and a news story. Reporters with news cameras, video and note books walked among us and asked questions.

Do you know what happened? What about the baby?

The tight lipped frowns and slow shakes of heads….no, no baby.

I didn’t cry that day, though tears did come to my eyes as the setting sun threw a tiny, but perfectly formed, brightly colored rainbow directly over the house. I do often go for signs form the heaven, but I could not help but think…that’s a baby rainbow…

The house that caught fire had four apartments in it. The family of five immediately downstairs watched as their home was destroyed by fire, smoke, water. They had four pit bulls that were stuck, though safe, in their car. With the rumors flying about that a pit was saved rather than the child, the dogs and their owners were given many a stink eye. I guess Rye either overheard or saw people giving them a hard time and asked me to go see if I could get them away from the fray. When I got there, she was in tears, her husband worried. He said people were giving them a grief because the dogs were in their car. He was worried about where his kids would sleep that night and have clothes to wear, not his dogs safe, out of the craziness, in the car. Let’s put them in my yard, I said.

Our dog, Lilly, was locked in the house least she decide it was a good time to socialize. The pits went into the yard where we then had to take turns keeping them company as they knew to be upset too. The older female was able to jump our fence to go be with her people, so they kept her on the leash, but the two young ones and the gigantic red male, Champ, just needed human companionship. I have to admit, I was fearful of Champ – his mouth alone looked bigger than my head – until it was my turn. We spent about an hour and a half together; me sitting on top of our Punic table, making enough room so he could sit on my lap and have access to my face to slobber on kisses. I had to shower later to get off all the dog slobber.

Eventually, things began to quiet down. After hours, the fire was completely out. Just the puddles of water, ruin and burnt timbers, residual smell of smoke, and police caution taped remained. Except for the water, it is all still there, a reminder of a bad memory, lurking on the corner of our neighborhood. As it got dark, Rye came home and flowers , candles, began to be quietly dropped off on the corner. Neighbors left, other neighbors came by, some returned to stand in from of the carcass of a house, and stare at the destruction. Donations for the victims of the fire began to be collected on our front porch. What was not taken by them would later go to our neighbors in the Catskills who were wiped out by flood due to Hurricane Irene.

What makes this even worse than the sad tragic story about a sudden loss of life is that this fire, this death, could have been avoided. What’s makes this story even sadder is that while dealing with the loss of their child, people are being horribly cruel and judgmental. What truthfully pisses me off is that every single person that lives in this city contributed to this death.

While much is still not know about the fire, this is what I do know:

The house that caught fire was a living hellhole. It has been a problem building for almost the entire 15 years I have lived on Wall Street with my family. I can see it from my front porch. When I first lived here, it had another owner and it had prostitutes working out of it. Eventually, it a three more surrounding buildings, the pink “Pepto” house across the street, the blue house next door, and the one behind the blue, were bought up by a young local chiropractor. He gave them an much needed fresh coat of paint and we all rejoiced. This corner, our own “bad” section would be taken care of by a Kingston citizen rather than a absentee landlord who did care. We were to be disappointed.

It was the second house owned by this guy to catch fire. After the coat of paint, little was done. Sad and forlorn the buildings are ugly, flowerless, often neglected, unshoveled, filled with trash. The first fire was a bit over two years ago, a few pet cats and birds died in the house behind the blue. It was yellow then. This winter the apartment building catty-corner from the baby’s house had a fire too. It still sports the police caution tape. Two corners of my block look like a disaster zone.

For years, we have called the landlord about his properties. We call when we have to call the police due to his tenants fighting at midnight in front of our house. We call when the police are there arresting someone or making a drug bust. We call to talk about the garbage in front of his buildings, or the dead tree in his yard that is going to fall or the drug buys that we see going on from our porch.

Everyone who lived in my neighborhood knew they were bad houses. I would caution friends and coworkers not to rent an apartment from there no matter how cheap. When nice people would mistakenly move in there, they would move out as soon as they could. There was a woman who and made this address her home for years eventually moved out because she could not deal with the conditions or other tenants. No one cared about that baby living in that house until there was a fire. I am guilty of this myself.

Now, people are trying to point fingers and blame others. Now, I hear ridiculous rumors that I know to be untrue. Now, the judgment comes as we deal with our collective guilt, but this is what I know:

• Mom was at work, not home as the papers reported.
• Dad was home with the baby and at least one other child, maybe two under 5?
• The baby was napping. It was a small apartment, in a small house, that had a family of definitely four, maybe five. They had a small nursery area set up off the bed room, in a nook. The area also had clothes hung in it, but the baby was not “in a closet”.
• Dad was outside when the fire broke out. Many people are saying “Why was the baby alone?” to that I say “Who watches a baby nap?” Seriously if the baby is napping you don’t watch her sleep. That’s when you go and get something done. If you have other children you take them outside so they don’t wake the baby especially in a tiny apartment, especially on a beautiful day.
• Dad was outside with the pit bull, making the dog had to go out, maybe he grabbed a smoke, but he did not know his house was on fire. There was a guy on a bike who road past and saw the smoke. He told the dad and knocked on the other unit doors to alert the resident.
• The father of the dead baby had singed hair. He had burns on his face and arms. He is currently at Westchester Medical Center, heavily sedated, with smoke inhalation, burned lungs and esophagus. To me, it is obvious that he tried to go back in an get his child. He could not, just as the firefighters, wearing full gear including oxygen masks, could not.
• The dog followed him out and saved himself. Imagine finding out your house was inflames and not being able to get in to get your baby. Imagine being burnt and hurt and in shock and helpless. You might just stand there, holding on to what you got left, even if it is only your dog, watching your life fall apart.
• The fire department reported that the baby’s bedroom was the starting point of the fire. The room was fully engulfed, floor to ceiling. I was told by a neighbor that an old air conditioner started it. I was told the A/C was right over the bed. I was told that the flaming bed was between the door and the baby.
• I know there were no smoke alarms in the house. I understand there was a fire extinguisher that did not work. I’m pretty sure that if the bedroom had the smoke alarm it was required to have that this baby would still be alive. Imagine that when the fire started, the smoke alarm and gone off and woken the baby, alerting the father. Instead, he might have not enjoyed what was a beautiful day.
• I know there were four apartments intact building…three families and a guy who was arrested for selling crack just the week before. I know that none of the apartments had smoke detectors. I know the pink house across the street has live ball and tube wiring in the attic.
• I know at least 14 people live in a house considerably smaller than my own 1500 square foot home that is filled with only five. I know it was above the occupancy code. I know the sheer numbers of people that hang out on the porch of the pink house next door make me think definite overcrowding.
• I believe that some residents of these buildings are on social services and not all of them are exactly upstanding citizens. Some have obvious issues, some just seem down trodden and damaged by hard lives, some are just down on their luck, and some probably just aren’t nice people. I know a loaded revolver was found in the baby’s apartment.

That’s what I know or what I have been told that really sounds like it might be based on fact.

The whole situation just makes me feel sad and angry. Sad that it did happen and angry because it did not have to. Just needless suffering.

So many people are responsible for this tragedy. The landlord of these buildings who does not maintain them. The City of Kingston who either does not have enough code enforcers, or strong enough codes, or whatever; because no one should be allowed to live in these sorts of “homes”. The department of social services and RUPCO who spend tax payer money to put the people that need help in these houses. And everyone around who sees people living in these kinds of “homes” who look away. These are not homes. They are slums.

I don’t understand people who think that somehow it is “OK” for other human beings to live in these situations, in these conditions; but as a society we do; because the tenants have the audacity to be poor. I don’t care how poor a person is. I don’t care if they are receiving social services. I don’t care what color they are. How can anyone feel that they even have the right to rise up, the ability to better themselves, the hope of another way, if they are not even worth a decent place to lay their head down at night. What do we say to people? We say ” You are shit, you deserve to live in shit and you will never be anything but shit. So live with it and like it.”

I could go off now and tie this into adoption and go off on a whole other tangent, but I won’t.

I’ll save further rants for the Common Council at Kingston City Hall, but I had to write this out, I had to process this, I had to purge this anger from my soul…

Something like this affects the whole neighborhood. There is this big hulking mess lurking on our corner, the same one I go past every day to and from work. Candles have been lit every night in a make shift memorial, the original one have been randomly stolen by some guy in a truck. People walk by slowly, stop and stare, you can hear the murmurs, “there was a fire…a baby died…”

There is a sadness in the air, and still, the smell of smoke right in my neighborhood…