Late in the morning, Crusher, Kenny, and Ralph emerged from the basement. Kenny said, “Best you don’t know anything, kid.”
The day dragged on with three EMS runs and a kitchen fire by afternoon. Mitch struggled to focus. He got the pipe at the kitchen fire and quickly extinguished it. The boss congratulated him on a job well done, and Ralph kept his mouth shut. This should have felt good.
During the afternoon Mitch studied the training manual at the joker stand where he could hear radio transmissions and watch people come and go in the neighborhood.
Rattling at the front door startled him. Chief Corliss yanked on it, scowling. The chief’s hair was as black and shiny as his patent leather shoes. Mitch had heard from the others the chief was not well respected. His nickname was Slick Dick because he was always screwing with people. Mitch unlocked the door.
The chief pushed by him. “Where’s your boss?”
“Should be in the office, sir.”
The chief barged into Captain Reemer’s office without knocking. Several minutes later, the captain’s voice came over the PA system. “All members to the kitchen, immediately.”
Crusher, Kenny, and Ralph were waiting in the kitchen when Mitch got there. Kenny grinned at Mitch. “Wait ’til you hear this, kid. It’s a masterpiece.”
The chief marched into the kitchen and slammed a glossy eight by ten photograph on the table of three men mooning the camera with doughnuts dangling from their butt cracks. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”
The faces weren’t visible, but Mitch could see it was Crusher’s broad ass, Kenny’s scrawny ass, and Ralph’s dark, wooly ass.
Captain Reemer stood behind the chief, gazing at the ceiling. Crusher, Kenny, and Ralph exchanged glances, shaking their heads.
“I’d say those are some mighty fine tushies there,” Kenny said. “But I can’t say I recognize them.” The others snickered.
The chief poked his finger at them. “Goddamnit. I don’t need this shit in my battalion.” He turned to Captain Reemer. “Captain, a report. I want somebody on charges. Try to control these misfits. Jesus Christ.” The chief threw up his hands and stomped down the hallway.
Captain Reemer leaned over the table. “So this is how you jags get back at Thirty’s?” He glared at the giggling group. “You guys are unbelievable. I’m in awe. I don’t know how you came up with that one. It’s genius.”
Laughter bounced off the walls.
“Kenny, fill Mitch in. He looks confused,” the captain said.
“We had a box of doughnuts delivered to Thirty’s this morning with a note from the neighbors of the tavern thanking them for protecting their house.” Kenny smirked. “Then we had that picture delivered in the afternoon mail addressed to Engine Thirty with a note that said ‘Tasty?’.”
As sick as this was, Mitch couldn’t resist laughing along.
“So, boss. We all on charges?” Crusher asked.
“If this goes upstairs it makes the battalion look bad and he’ll catch hell. I’ll tell him you misfits will write personal letters of apology to anyone who ate the doughnuts. I’m pretty certain nobody’s going to fess up to eating doughnuts from your wrinkled asses. So, miraculously, nobody ate them. Problem solved.”
Kenny, Crusher, and Ralph headed to the alligator pit, clapping each other on the back.
After supper, Mitch took the training manual to the bench in front of the firehouse. The familiar odor of ripe garbage hung in the muggy air, but he barely noticed anymore.
Mitch felt the booming bass before the dark blue Mercury Cougar with huge chrome wheels and low profile tires slowed to a stop across from the firehouse. The tinted window slid down. The driver sneered at him, flashing his gold teeth. Alexus ran out of the house as Jasmine emerged from the back of the car. The little girl hugged her big sister. The two of them hopped up the steps and went inside. As the car pulled away, DeAndre stuck his arm out the window, splaying fingers in the One-Niner’s gang sign.
Chapter 22
“A glorious day for the funeral,” Mitch heard someone say when he went downstairs in the morning to ask Miss Bernie if she needed help with anything. Seemed a strange thing to say. The crowded kitchen buzzed with activity, thick with the smells of baking casseroles and pies and the chatter of finely dressed ladies.
The funeral was being held one week after Jamal’s passing to allow estranged relatives from Alabama to make the trip north for the services. Miss Bernie had the funeral parlor place an obituary in the Tuscaloosa newspaper. Late in the week, four cousins arrived. They stayed with her and pitched in. Stories were shared of aunts and uncles Miss Bernie never met. Miss Bernie came up to Mitch’s flat in the evenings to get away from them. She knew they meant well, but she didn’t much like people fussing over her. She told Mitch it helped take the sadness away to be with someone who shared her love of Jamal. None of the cousins or church friends had known him. When he was a kid, he hated going to church. Once he was a grown man, Miss Bernie couldn’t get him to go anymore. And she didn’t push him. She believed everyone comes to the Lord in their own time.
The night before the funeral, Miss Bernie came up and took her seat on the couch. She rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed. “Oh, Mitch. How can there be another tear left in me?”
After the tears ebbed, Miss Bernie wiped her eyes and kissed the back of Mitch’s hand. “I have so many proud memories of my boy. I was remembering back when DeAndre stayed with us and came home crying because the older kids were beating on him after school. Jamal walked DeAndre home every day after that.” She smiled somberly. “I was so proud of my boy. It’s easy for a child to stand back when somebody else getting picked on. Easy for grown folk too. We all need someone standing up for us. That’s what Jamal would do. That was his gift.”
Mitch thought back to the training academy and how Jamal got between him and LaMont and saved their jobs. Now he understood. Jamal couldn’t stand to see anybody getting messed with.
* * *
It was a glorious morning. A warm September breeze blew through the Core. Mitch pulled the truck to the front of the house and waited for Miss Bernie with the engine rattling, filling the air with diesel fumes. Miss Bernie ambled down the steps accompanied by three heavy ladies, all dressed in brightly colored dresses, wearing crimson lipstick and wide floppy hats. It surprised Mitch to see such vibrant clothing for a funeral.
One woman urged Miss Bernie to ride with them, telling her she can’t be riding to her son’s funeral in that noisy, smelly truck.
“I’m going with Mitch. And that’s that,” she said. The other women scoffed, but nobody argued.
Cars, fire engines, and ladder trucks jammed the street in front of a faded white one-story brick building that could have been a corner store at one time. A small sign in front said: New Hope Baptist Church, Reverend Turner Presiding, Sunday Services 8:00 A.M. and Noon.
Engine Fifteen was parked behind Engine Twenty-Seven, Jamal’s company. Firefighters congregated around the rigs, some in dark blue dress uniforms and others in their on-duty powder blue shirts with badges.
Miss Bernie sniffled and wiped at her nose with a purple handkerchief. “Lookit all the people. Oh, Lord, give me strength.”
Mitch needed a hanky himself. With nowhere to park, he pulled to a stop in the middle of the street and helped Miss Bernie down from the cab. A flock of brightly dressed ladies swarmed to her and hustled her into the church.
Mitch drove three blocks before finding an open spot to park. He trotted back to the church. Captain Reemer, Kenny, and Crusher greeted him by the rig. They were in street clothes since it was their off day. Ralph was nowhere to be seen, which didn’t surprise Mitch. Captain Stockley and Lieutenant Hager from the academy were off to the side talking to a group of battalion chiefs. Half the department must have been there to pay their respects.
As Mitch’s crew made awkward small talk, a deep voice resonated through the crowd, “Is there a Mitch Garner here?”
Mitch rushed to the steps and found the voice belonged to a short, corpulent man with a trim goatee, wearing a long black robe. The loose coal-black skin of his neck spilled over the white collar.
“You Mista Garner?” the minister asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come with me. Bernice will not let the service begin until she has you next to her.”
Mitch followed the minister as he pushed past people crowding around the front of the small church. Inside, every seat appeared to be taken. Parishioners lined the walls. A heady mix of aftershave and perfume saturated the stuffy room. People fanned their faces with the funeral programs. Heads turned as the minister led him down the aisle. The legs of brown metal chairs screeched on the bare concrete floor as people adjusted themselves. There were no pews or benches, just rows of folding chairs.
A bright red flag with Milwaukee Fire Department inscribed in white, draped the mahogany casket at the front of the church. A solitary stone-faced firefighter dressed in dark blue honor guard colors, his white-gloved hands crossed at the waist below a brass buckle, stood guard at the head of Jamal’s casket.
The minister steered Mitch to two open chairs next to Miss Bernie. “Here he is, Bernice. We should get started before we lose the congregation to the heat.”
Miss Bernie struggled to rise.
Mitch bent and hugged her, gently sitting her back down.
She nodded at the minister. “Okay then.”
Mitch nodded at Miss Bernie’s cousins and church friends seated in the first row. Glancing around the church, it struck him that he was one of only several white people in the crowd.
The minister took his place at the black metal music stand serving as the pulpit and signaled to the back of the room. Amazing Grace wailed from three bagpipes. The Honor Guard solemnly marched down the narrow aisle and lined up at the front of the church. Two of them meticulously folded the flag that had draped Jamal’s casket. They handed the folded triangle to Miss Bernie, thanking her for her son’s service. They stepped back and the entire line of firefighters pivoted to Jamal and slowly raised their white-gloved right hands to their foreheads and saluted a lost brother. They spun back in unison and methodically marched up the aisle accompanied by sniffles and blowing noses. Miss Bernie stared at the flag that had covered her son’s casket. Mitch struggled to hold it together.
“What a blessing to have these noble members of the Milwaukee Fire Department honor our brother Jamal in such an inspiring fashion,” the reverend said. “Praaaise Jesus.”
“Praaaise Jesus,” the congregation answered.
“Welcome brothers and sisters in Christ. I welcome you to the New Hope Baptist Church to rejoice in Jamal Jackson’s journey to meet our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Amen, brother. Preach, brother. Tell it,” erupted from the congregation, irritating Mitch. This seemed disrespectful. The reverend’s voice thundered through the small church, then lowered to a whisper. He waved his hands to the heavens, then dropped them to the side. He was the conductor and the spirited mourners the symphony. As the service continued, Mitch realized the reverend invited the loud responses.
The reverend paused and motioned to a tall bald man dressed in a dapper gray suit. “Brother Williams will sing for us.” Mitch remembered seeing him with Miss Bernie at the graduation.
Brother Williams swaggered to the small stage. His bald head shimmered under the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights. He looked over the mourners, cleared his throat and sang soft and slow. The congregation raised their hands in the air with fingers spread wide, waving as he sang. Brother Williams’ velvet voice swelled to a melodic roar. Tears flowed down the huge man’s face as he repeated the song’s request to just stand, each chorus louder and louder until his voice cracked. The entire congregation stood, swaying back and forth with hands in the air. Mitch helped Miss Bernie up, and they swayed together. The exhilarating music filled Mitch with a strange, radiant mixture of joy and sadness.
When Brother Williams finished, the reverend resumed the sermon with impassioned pleas to praise Jesus and rejoice in Jamal’s journey home. Sweat drenched the top of his robe. He swabbed at his face with an oversized black handkerchief. When it appeared there was no way he could continue, he asked them to sing. While they sang, he sat, pursing his lips, struggling for air. They sang joyful gospel songs, not the melancholy hymns Mitch knew from the Lutheran Hymnal. When they finished, the minister rose and continued the service with renewed vigor.
Throughout the marathon sermon, Miss Bernie kept gazing back up the aisle. Mitch knew who she was looking for. The empty chair was for Lettie, Miss Bernie’s lost daughter.
* * *
Mitch jogged to the truck when the service concluded. Miss Bernie’s church friends tried to persuade her to ride with them in the procession to the graveyard. She was having none of it. She’d ride with Mitch.
Mitch followed the hearse as the procession wound through the inner city. Miss Bernie pointed to an empty rail yard surrounded by vacant parking lots. “That’s where Daddy worked. Them lots was filled back then.” She bowed her head.
They drove on in silence, slowing when Jamal’s firehouse came into view. Out front, Jamal’s boots, turnout gear, and helmet were neatly stacked with the helmet’s black and white frontpiece facing the street. The members of Engine Twenty-Seven stood at attention behind the solitary gear, saluting the procession as it approached.
Miss Bernie stared at the display. “Those Jamal’s?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Stop for a minute and help me down.”
He stopped. The hearse kept going. “Miss Bernie, what about the others?”
“They gone have to wait. Get me down from here.”
Mitch lowered her to the pavement and followed her to the line of nine firefighters standing at attention behind Jamal’s turnout gear.
“Y’all work with my boy?” She asked them.
Their captain stepped forward. “Yes, Ma’am. This is his crew.”
Miss Bernie hugged him. “Bless you. Bless you. Bless you.” The captain awkwardly patted her on the back. She gave the captain a kiss on the cheek, leaving a bright red trail of lipstick.
Miss Bernie worked her way down the line of firefighters, hugging and blessing each one in turn. Mitch stood in awe of her grace.
When she got to the end of the line, Miss Bernie asked the captain, “Can I take my son’s fire hat?”
He handed her the shiny black helmet.
The long line of cars in the procession waited.
Back in the truck, Miss Bernie ran her hand over Jamal’s helmet. She brought the liner of the helmet to her face. “I can smell my boy in there.” She smiled. “Let’s get this done.”
The line of firefighters snapped to attention, saluting as the procession inched away.
This tribute for a fallen comrade, a fallen brother, his friend, reignited Mitch’s desire to be a part of this fraternity. In spite of all the craziness he had seen, these were honorable people with a tremendous amount of pride and respect for one another. He ached to be one of them.
Chapter 23
“Firefighter Garner to the office,” blared over the PA system. Mitch tried to remember whether he had scrubbed the captain’s toilet this morning. After the funeral yesterday, he was struggling to keep it together.
“Mitch, have a seat,” the captain said when Mitch entered.
“Boss, sorry if I missed anything.”
“You doing okay?”
“One minute I’m down, the next I’m so pissed I feel like I’ll explode. District Five keeps saying there’s no leads.”
“Yeah, not surprising.”
“Jamal gets murdered and nobody gives a crap?” He realized he was yelling at the captain. “Sorry, boss.”
“Aach.” The captain waved him off. “I’m supposed to tell you we have an employee assistance program if you need it. Here’s the number.” He held out a small card.
Mitch reached for the card. The captain pointed to flecks of light purple paint on his forearms. “Doing some painting?”
“Jamal’s mom’s house.”
“How she doing?”
“Not good. She only had two children. And her daughter ran off years ago.”
“Sad. Painting the house yourself?”
“Keeps my mind off things.”
“What else she need done?”
“Roof’s shot and the porch is falling apart.”
“I’ll give Twenty-Sevens a call. They’ll want to help. And we’ll take a department-wide collection. She’s one of the family now. Tell her that.”
“I will, boss. Thanks.”
“Oh, Mitch. That tavern fire two weeks ago? The cops want to know if any of us saw anything suspicious. You see anything?”
Mitch shook his head. I was too busy screwing up. “Why?”
“It was a homicide. The crispy critter Kenny found inside was the owner. M.E. said he died from gunshot wounds, not the fire. And get this, earlier that night he kicked some One-Niners out for harassing a customer.” The captain tapped his pipe in the ashtray and rocked back in his chair. “Of course nobody knows anything.”
“He was shot?” Mitch resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air.
The captain refilled the pipe. “Watch yourself out there.”
* * *
Twelve firefighters with tool belts and ladders descended on Miss Bernie’s home in the morning. Six of them swarmed to the roof, stripping shingles. The others scraped and sanded the wood siding. Mitch went to Home Depot on Capitol Drive to get paint and planking for the porch. A father of one of the firefighters who owns a roofing company had arranged to have shingles delivered after lunch.
Miss Bernie busied herself feeding the crew with casseroles left over from the funeral. Mitch was glad to see her out of the recliner where she had been spending so much time since the funeral.
After two days, the home had a new roof, a rebuilt porch, and a coat of light purple paint. Before the firefighters packed up and left, Miss Bernie called them together. “I thank the Lord for each and every one of you. You can’t know how much this lifted me. Not so much what you done here but the love you showed doing it. This is truly the good Lord’s work, whites and blacks working together. And I pray you keep finding ways to do His work. The peace of the Lord comes to those who help others.”
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