“Why do I piss him off so much?”
“Ralph fancies himself quite the mechanic. When the rig broke down the other day, he worked on it and gave up. You come down and fix it in what, ten minutes? Of course, we had to give him some shit. That probably didn’t help.”
“So I shouldn’t have fixed it?”
“You showed him up. You’re a threat, and that stubborn kraut will do anything to beat you. He can’t stand to lose. That’s what makes him a damn good firefighter. Where others back out, he’ll keep pushing deeper into the fire.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Might not want to tell him to get fucked anymore.” A faint grin spread across Crusher’s lips.
“Why does he have to be such an asshole? He couldn’t even come to Jamal’s funeral?”
“That asshole is my friend.”
“I didn’t mean…”
Crusher drained his beer, then said, “One more thing about Ralph. Five years ago his wife was diagnosed with MS. When she has a bad bout, she’s bedridden. He has to do everything for her; you know, bedpans and all that fun stuff. So Ralph’s pissed at the world. Oh, and that’s why he didn’t show at Jamal’s funeral. The wife was in pretty bad shape.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Assumptions will bite you in the ass. Okay, enough about Ralph. I better fill you in on the blue-shift boss, Lieutenant Laubner. If you work on his shift, or if he works on ours, watch your ass. The man’s pert near a perfect imbecile. Course, nobody’s perfect, hey?”
“Why’d they make him a boss?”
“Ohhh, he talks a good fire. Great with books. But the man couldn’t extinguish a match. So when he gives an order, we ignore it. You do the same if you don’t want to get your ass burned.”
“Won’t he write me up?”
“Doesn’t have the balls. When he gives a bone-headed order, act like you’re gonna do it, then put the fire out the way Ralph and the boss show you.”
Crusher shifted his gaze to the back of the bar. “Three years ago the fucking idiot lost a cub in a fire. The place was charged. Him and the cub laid a line to the first floor. Never checked the basement. The idiot didn’t know there was fire rolling right below them, so they crawled into the first floor directly above the fire. The kid fell through into the burning basement. Didn’t stand a chance.” Crusher sighed. “Shitty way to die.”
Kenny nodded while Crusher told the story. When Crusher finished, the three sat in silence listening to polkas play on the jukebox.
Crusher took a deep breath. “You want to know what you can do? Don’t get yourself killed.”
Chapter 27
There was no morning bull-session over coffee the next shift. After Mitch finished with the morning routine, he headed to the kitchen. He heard Kenny’s knife hammering the wooden cutting board. Inside, Mitch saw him violently hacking carrots.
“What can I help with?” Mitch asked.
“Might be best to make yourself scarce for a while.”
“Sorry about the other night.”
“Ralph’s still smoldering.”
“Don’t know why he’s pissed. He jumped on me.”
Kenny pointed the knife at him. “Just stay out of his way.”
Mitch kept busy through the morning spray-painting tools. He kept watching for Crusher and Kenny, hoping they would start working on him again, play a prank, anything to lighten the mood.
* * *
Crusher, Kenny, Ralph, and Mitch were silently eating lunch when the captain strolled in. They couldn’t be sitting any farther apart.
The captain glanced around the table and stopped at Mitch. “What the hell’s on your neck?”
Before anyone answered, Mitch said, “Some kind of rash.”
The captain furrowed his brow. “Strange looking rash.” He went to the large kettle on the stove and slopped goulash into an oversized bowl. He was halfway through when he slammed the end of his oversized spoon against the table. They all jumped. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
The captain scrutinized his crew. “Nobody’s got anything to say? That’s a first. I don’t know what’s up, but you ladies need to settle your hissy fit. Any of you don’t like it here; I’ll be glad to get you a ride out.” He dumped the rest of his goulash into the garbage and ambled back to the office, mumbling.
Ralph pointed a finger at Mitch while facing Crusher. “He needs to go. And you two need to stop sucking up to him like a couple of butt buddies.”
Fuck you, Ralph. The words were on Mitch’s lips, but he held back.
Ralph stomped off to the TV room.
Crusher clicked his tongue. “Not your fault, kid.”
He was coming between these old friends and pissing off the boss. It was his fault.
* * *
After lunch, Mitch was studying at the joker stand when Maggie suddenly appeared in his thoughts without warning. Never a day passed without Mitch tormenting himself by playing the fire over in his head. As he sank into the all-too-familiar hopeless pit, a throbbing headache set in.
Tapping at the front door. The image faded. Jasmine and the five children stood outside, staring at him. As soon as he let them in, they scrambled by. Jasmine tilted her head. “You okay?”
“I have something for the kids.”
Jasmine raised an eyebrow, then followed the children inside.
When Mitch got to the table, Alexus pinched her nose. “What stinks?”
“I was painting tools this morning.”
“Hey, can we paint something?”
Mitch rapped on the table. “Guys, I have something for all of you.”
The chattering stopped.
Clear plastic containers were stacked against the back wall. Mitch placed one in front of each child. “Go ahead, open them.”
The kids peeled back the covers and squealed. Mitch’s headache eased.
The containers were crammed with crayons and coloring books and markers. To get his mind off Ralph, he had gone shopping yesterday and found coloring books picturing black children.
“Dude,” Kyle said holding up a bright green and gold jersey with “Driver” printed across the top and the number “80” below it.
“Go ahead, put it on. It’s yours.”
Kyle slid it over his filthy T-shirt, swiveling his hips and pumping his skinny arms like he scored a touchdown. The children snickered.
“There’s one for each of you. You can take them home. Just make sure to wear them when you come here. We’ll be Team Driver, the Eight-Ohs.”
“We like a gang? Get to mess with people?” Kyle asked.
“No. We’re a team. We help each other.”
Kyle wrinkled his grimy forehead. “Rather be a gang.”
A flurry of squirming arms and heads popped through the jerseys.
Jasmine folded her arms and grinned.
After they went through the containers and settled down, as much as five and six-year-olds can settle down, Mitch told them how Donald Driver had lived in the hood when he was a kid. And how Donald’s family was homeless and lived in their old car. Donald knew he needed to work hard at school if he wanted to play football someday. If he quit school he would never have gone to college and would never have played for the Packers.
“He the man,” Kyle said.
“You can be too, Kyle.” Mitch glanced around the table. “You guys ready to learn something?”
Kyle rested his chin in his hands. “Can’t we just color in our new books?”
The others joined in. “Yeah, let’s color.”
Mitch threw up his hands.
“Ever think of asking for help?” Jasmine asked.
“Didn’t think you’d want to.”
“Maybe you don’t know as much as you think.”
“Any ideas?” Mitch asked Jasmine.
She smirked. “Asking for help?”
“Ah, forget it.”
“Dude, chill. I’m playing. These kids been in school all
day. They all schooled out.”
“They’re all yours.”
Jasmine went to the boom box on the workbench and tuned it to hip-hop. She cranked the volume. “C’mon, shorties. Let’s shake some booty.”
Mitch couldn’t make out the words over the heavy bass.
The kids jumped up and wiggled their bodies to the music. Jasmine joined them, her moves fluid and rhythmic.
Alexus grabbed Mitch’s hand. “We been doing what you want. Now you gotta do what we want.”
Mitch swung his hips to the music, nowhere near the beat. The kids squealed with laughter.
Jasmine giggled. “Man, watching white people dance is painful.”
When the song ended, Jasmine said, “Now, listen up and do what the man say.”
Mitch had the children write their names on the plastic containers and let them color in their new coloring books. When time ran out and they were putting their things back in the containers, Mitch went to the kitchen and came back with Snickers bars. “Nice job, Team Driver.”
The kids snatched the candy and ran out the door, except Alexus and Jasmine. Alexus hugged Mitch’s waist and said, “You da bomb.”
As they left, Jasmine turned to him with a confused expression on her face, “I don’t get you.”
“I’m the bomb. Didn’t you know?”
He watched the pint-sized Eight-Ohs scatter through the neighborhood, then went back to the watch desk, basking in the excitement of the children and Alexus’s beaming face, the headache gone.
* * *
Mitch was anxious to get home in the morning to tell Miss Bernie about the children, hoping it would cheer her up. It was getting hard to visit her. She rarely had anything to say. He had been harvesting the ripening vegetables from her garden and leaving them on her countertop. After several days, he’d find the vegetables untouched. She told him not to bother, so he stopped and the garden filled with weeds.
Mitch smelled something rotten coming from Miss Bernie’s flat. He slipped inside to grab the garbage, not wanting to disturb her in case she was napping. The stench caught in his throat; the same putrid stench of the old woman infested with maggots. Not as intense but even more sickening coming from Miss Bernie’s flat. He ran to the darkened front room and stopped in the entryway. The windows were closed and shades drawn. She was in her easy chair, head tilted back, and mouth gaped open. He froze. An intense wave of sorrow washed over him. He was inundated with visions: their talks on the front porch, her warm hugs, and her radiant face. From the smell in the flat, she had been gone for some time. There was no rush to dial 911. He collapsed in the hard wooden chair next to her, feeling hollow and alone. He put his hand on hers.
Her eyes snapped open. They both shrieked.
“Good Lord, Mitch. You give me a fright. My heart’s a poundin’.”
“I thought you were…”
“Thought what? I passed?” She rubbed her temples. “I’m surely ready, but that’s up to the good Lord.”
Mitch caught his breath. “God, I’m sorry. Something smelled bad. I thought…”
She furrowed her brow. “Thought it was my dead body?”
“I didn’t know what to think. You’ve been so down. Just wish I could help.”
“Mitch, honey, only one can help me is the good Lord. I been praying hard for him to show my daughter the way back.”
He searched the flat for the source of the odor. When he opened the cabinet under the sink, he gagged. At the back of the cabinet, behind a bucket and a bottle of Pine-Sol, was a colony of decaying mice and a box of D-Con. He had to laugh at himself. Dead mice. You’re quite the EMT. After scraping up the slimy mess and bleaching the cabinet, he went to tell Miss Bernie. Her head was bowed and hands folded. She jerked when she noticed him. “Oh, Mitch. Seems I’m not even here most of the time. I keep thinking back to when Lettie and Jamal were kids and the love we had in this house. If I could only go back to them times and forget all this mess. It pains me so.”
Mitch nodded. If only they could both go back.
He told Miss Bernie how he repaired the Richardson house and how Jasmine brought the kids back. And how he bought supplies and Green Bay Packer jerseys for them. It felt good telling her and to see it lift her spirits.
“Benita used to come to our church,” Miss Bernie said when he finished. “She was always so full of the spirit, smiling and praisin’ the Lord. She’d have her three girls dressed all fine. They had the prettiest skin. Daddy was mixed. And that oldest one, such a beauty.” Miss Bernie gazed at the ceiling while telling him this as if she could see them all up there. “We used to be good friends, me and Benita, until the devil took that oldest one. Her man couldn’t take the pain. He left her with those two girls. It broke her. Lost the will to mother them. I tried to help, but she push us all away.”
Mitch remembered seeing the photos of the three girls in Jasmine’s room.
Miss Bernie closed her eyes and nodded slowly. “I never could understand how she gave up like that when she had two little ones. Now I do. I feel like I’m ready to break just like Benita. If my girl don’t come home soon, I’m afraid I will.” Miss Bernie gave him a warm kiss on the cheek. “You go on now and get some rest. God bless you Mitch, honey. You a good man.”
He wasn’t so sure. But her words felt good.
Chapter 28
Mitch reported for duty at six a.m. His whole life he had been getting up at five to milk cows and still found it hard to sleep in. Coming in this early gave him quiet time to get himself together before his crew came in at seven-thirty. He lingered in the basement trying to think of something he could do to cheer Miss Bernie up. After thirty minutes and no ideas, he headed upstairs to check the rig. While checking his mask, he felt her breasts press against his back. She ran her fingers through his hair. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. You have the thickest black hair.”
“Hi, Nic,” he said, spinning around. Her tight jeans and low-cut V-neck sweater hugged her curves. A black lace bra was visible under the loose knit of the sweater. It looked like one of the Victoria’s Secret bras from the catalogs that came to the farm. This was the first time he had seen her with her hair down. On duty, she had to keep it tied up. She was stunning, but the sexual tension was gone now that he knew she wasn’t into guys. In a way, it was a relief because he was hanging onto a thread of hope he could get Jennie back. In another way, he was disappointed. No more erotic fantasies.
“You ready yet?” Her lips turned up seductively.
“You didn’t work yesterday?”
She jutted out her hip. “Does it look like I worked yesterday, Einstein?”
He grinned sheepishly. She had a knack for making him feel stupid.
“I flipped days with Ralph so he could take his wife to the doctor. Today you’re my cub.” She cupped her hand on his crotch and squeezed. She pulled her hand away and dashed off to the locker room before he could react.
When Mitch finished his morning duties, he reported to the kitchen to help Kenny.
Kenny waved the huge butcher knife in the air. “Me and my dick can handle it. Making Woof-n-Poof.”
Several times a month Kenny made this firehouse dish of hamburger, potatoes, onions, carrots, and celery mixed with tomato soup and baked in an industrial-sized casserole pan.
Mitch went to the locker room to get the training manual. Nic sashayed up to him in baggy red shorts, a blue T-shirt, and tennis shoes. “C’mon, I need somebody to spot me. You can study later. Throw on some sweatpants and meet me in the basement.”
The cool, damp basement reeked of smoke from the soot-stained turnout gear along the wall. A single fluorescent fixture hung from the ceiling, dimly lighting the large room and the bare gray concrete walls. Nic was sitting on a faded gold carpet remnant with her legs spread, stretching her hands toward her feet. He watched her loose-fitting workout shorts ride up her tan legs. He wondered if she had gone down to Mexico with a girlfriend. He imagined the two of them sunbathing in the n
ude and later…
“Mitch, let’s go before a run comes in, hey?” She got two jump ropes off the back table and handed one to him. “You jump?”
“Let’s go.”
Nic started off slow and built up speed, the rope clacking off the concrete floor. Mitch struggled to keep up. She snorted every time he tripped on the rope. She spun the rope faster, skipping from foot to foot. The rope became a blur as it made two revolutions with each jump. Mitch stopped, frustrated and pissed that she was laughing at him. Her breasts barely budged. She was not wearing a Victoria’s Secret bra.
By the time she stopped, the sweaty T-shirt was plastered to her body. “Hope I didn’t damage your frail male ego.” Her smoky laugh made it hard to stay pissed.
She went to the weight rack and grabbed two twenty-five-pound dumbbells that once must have been black but were now gray and mottled. Mitch lifted two dumbbells marked forty pounds off the rack.
“Can’t let a girl beat you, hey?” She laughed and alternated curling each dumbbell to her chest.
They stood side by side facing the six-foot mirror on the back wall so they could watch themselves, except Mitch wasn’t watching himself.
She smiled smugly. “You aren’t bad either.”
Still playing the game.
When they finished, she went to the weight bench. “Help me load a hundred-fifty.”
“No kidding?”
They slapped the weights on the bar, and she lowered herself onto the bench.
He helped lift the bar off the rack and watched as she lowered it. When it hit her chest just above her breasts, she blew out a loud breath, then rammed the bar upward, gritting her teeth. Each time she lowered the bar her thighs stiffened. When she pushed the bar up, her breasts pressed together. Her T-shirt rode up, exposing rippling abs. The view was almost too much, lesbian or not. He was helpless to stop the excitement swelling below his waist, and she was staring at the evidence. “Hey, cub, you’re supposed to be spotting not gawking.”
He guided the bar into the rack. The moment was over.
“How much you want?” she asked.
“Two-eighty.”
Beneath the Flames Page 15