“Fire!”
James smelled it then, the unmistakable scent of burnt metal. Wood, heat, ashes, and smoke billowed out of the sky and rumbled down onto the street in front of Mr. Morgan’s restaurant.
More people ran in and cut through, words piecing together all James needed to know.
“Pop!”
James sprang to his feet. He ran to the back, Mr. Morgan beside him. The back of Pop’s business was still there, but the heat and smoke coming from it forced them back, down the alley, to one end or the other to get away or to get help. James threw up an arm and pushed around the building. It hurt, it burned, but he pressed on, around Pop’s building, to the front.
Flames licked up the sides of the shop, the front a furnace. Black smoke lunged for the sky. James scoured the crowd, smoke and heat burning his eyes. He threw his arm over his eyes and tried to move closer. Men he recognized were backing away, men who’d worked for Pop for years.
“Where’s Pop?”
James turned. Harold, clad in an apron from his store, stood at James’ side. They looked at each other, the heat beating them back.
“Ran back in,” a man coughed.
James felt Harold’s hand wrap around his arm. “In there?” James yelled. Harold’s hand tightened. James threw it off, stripped out of his light jacket, soaked it in a pail of water, then threw it over his face and plunged forward. Pop would only go back if there was something he really wanted. Maybe in his office. He had to be in the back corner.
A hand touched his back as he reached the building. The heat blazed; the smoke blinded him. He shrugged away from the hand and shoved it off with one arm. “Get back, Harold!” James shouted. “You have Sandra to think of.”
The hand came again. It held on.
“Get back!” James screamed. He kicked at the small door to the side, one that would get him to Pop’s office the quickest, farther from the main shop floor where the bulk of the fire seemed to be. The door crumbled, sparks exploded, and James stumbled backward into the person behind him. “Harold, get away!”
“Your brother’s back there.”
James turned. He squinted against the smoke. Mr. Morgan looked at him, his face dark, sweat making rivers of black down his tan face. James turned back to the open doorway and pushed through, Mr. Morgan behind him.
It was impossible to breathe, impossible to see. James heard Mr. Morgan cough. He wheeled around to tell the man to get out when he saw it, a long, lanky body stretched nearby, both arms clutching something to the chest. Pop.
James hurried forward, fumbling, closing his eyes against the heat and smoke. He felt his father’s back and latched on. He tugged and pulled, dragging him inches at a time toward the door. James yanked hard and stumbled, lost his hold and fell. Scrambling on all fours, he grappled in a circle like a blind man. “Pop!” He tried to call, but he choked, his chest constricted into a deep cough. He squinted to the right, where the light of outdoors should be. There was nothing but black smoke. He tried to stand, holding back a cough, panic setting in. Where was Pop? Where was the door? Where was Mr. Morgan?
Crouching, James broadened his circle. He stumbled forward and fell again, wind exploding from his lungs. He gasped for air, drew in a deep breath of smoke, and choked, lights bursting in his head. Whatever was beneath him kept him off balance…he fought against it…a body...it had to be Pop. He grasped at the figure. His hand hit something sharp and hard. He shoved at it and tried to stand, pawing over the body, searching for an arm. He tumbled to the side and rolled to the floor and lay there. Something clutched him from behind. He felt himself heaved upward. The body beneath him moved also. He tried to get a foothold, use his legs to help, but his coughing erupted; it was fierce. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.
The smoke began to thin. The air lightened. Whatever had him by the back let go and dropped beside him. James landed on a body. He coughed, he gagged, and then everything went black.
Chapter 49
Lana 1941
Lana stared at the baby boy in her arms, his black hair, his almost olive skin. Babies change. Sometimes they started with dark hair, then it lightened. Had blue eyes at first, then later brown. “What will you be?” she whispered. He slept. He was peaceful. He was to have been her miracle child, love’s child, the one that made Cletus happy again. Another son, the only thing he wanted for children.
“He came early,” she’d told Cletus. “He’s small because he wasn’t ready to be born.” Cletus had stared at the baby, then at her. “He resembles Carla, don’t you think?” The boy did resemble Carla, but Lana saw in Cletus’ eyes there was no similarity.
“That boy,” he’d said, “isn’t mine.”
“He is, and you know he is.” Lana had said it firmly to his back as Cletus left the room. He didn’t believe her.
She’d been gone too long, several months ago. She’d left town and stayed with Grandma. Ella had taken over for her for a few days. Jim had brought her back, stayed to eat with them, then left. Cletus’ silence had been deafening. He really didn’t care, yet he did. Some strange part of him claimed her yet didn’t want her. She’d tried to explain how sick she’d been at Grandma’s, how she couldn’t suffer a long ride on the train, how Claire was heavy with child and couldn’t ride with them but didn’t mind if Jim brought Lana home. Jim was kind, a childhood friend, but nothing more.
Lana had vomited then, spilled out the undigested supper she’d eaten, all over their bedroom floor. She stared at her meal at her feet. Cletus had come near, stood over her in nothing but his long johns. She’d touched him, forced herself to reach for him, her fingers tracing the weave of fabric around his waist. She thought she’d vomit again. The room seemed dark, the floor swirled and spun, but she held on, following a trail around his back, her fingers leading her arms around him.
“Please, Cletus. I’m so tired…” Then everything went black. She woke up the next morning in their bed, nothing on, last night’s vomit dried on the floor. He was gone, and she wondered. Had he? She’d run her hands down her bare body. He must have.
The baby repositioned in her arms. One tiny fist struggled free from the blanket. He brought it to his face and rubbed the ball of fingers against his nose and cheek. Lana smiled. He was so small, so soft, and so warm. This birth had been easy, maybe because of his size. She thought of his father, and tears came to her eyes. “You’re special,” she whispered. “You need a special name. One that will dub you with kindness all your life. I think I’ll call you James.”
Chapter 50
James 1960
They came, they all came, and they stood just as they had stood around the table James’ whole life. But there was no table here, and there were no chairs. Just a train platform and a waiting train alongside it.
“All strikeouts,” Harold said. “Pitch those no-hitters.” One arm was around Sandra. She smiled, her face rosy, and James wondered. By the time he came back from his first season of playing ball, he’d know, but he suspected by then Harold would be the father he always said Mama had been.
“I will,” James promised. “Only winning games.”
Betsy stepped forward and hugged him. Gail and Jackson handed him a bundle wrapped in burlap.
“From Harold’s store,” Gail offered. “A good jacket. Want you to look perfect while you’re out there in the world.”
James smiled. Perfect. It’s what Gail did. Poor Jackson.
The whistle blew on the train. James’ heart jumped. He wanted to go, yet he wanted to stay. Carla and Miles stepped forward, and Carla wrapped both arms around James. She felt like Mama. She smelled like Mama. James was glad Carla hadn’t married a Pop like Mama.
“Alex will be sorry he missed you,” Harold added. “Just another week and you could have seen him before you left.”
James thought of Alex as he’d last seen him. Muscles that loved enough to break a wooden post for James’ sake, muscles that had fought in a war to escape the hurts at home, now coming bac
k to take over Pop’s shop. Pop…
“Don’t think about it, little brother.” Magdalena slipped an envelope into his hands. “It’s his own fault,” she leaned close and whispered. “I told you that before.”
The stench of welded metal scorched into James’ skin was nothing compared to the smoke that had seared his lungs. Two days? Four days before he came around? The white of the hospital room’s walls couldn’t erase the black smoke James saw in his mind, or the burning cloud he tasted with every breath. James had survived the fire. Magdalena and Mama were at his bedside when he first awoke. “Pop?” he’d tried to ask. He sounded like an old man, his throat burned raw. Mama laid her hand on his. James couldn’t read what he saw in her eyes. Love? Fortitude? All of the things Mr. Morgan had said were there? Certainly beauty. “Pop made it,” Magdalena had said. “Barely. He won’t be the same ever again, though.” That’s when James saw him, just after Magdalena said it, those dark eyes, that dark hair, standing back and watching. Mr. Morgan, also in hospital attire. Magdalena had nodded. She knew James’ question, and she knew he had seen the answer. Mr. Morgan had saved them, saved James and Pop. Mr. Morgan was there.
The train huffed impatiently behind him. James fingered the envelope and looked at his sister. “Save it for later,” Magdalena said. He slipped it into his shirt pocket and nodded.
“All aboard!”
James glanced at the conductor, a car away, waving his arm toward the train. He turned back to his family, the ones who had loved him all his life, protected him, told him he was different without ever really saying why.
Choke up on the bat. Passengers filed past, heading to the train. James glanced around them, through them, searching for the one who’d given him that advice years ago. He wasn’t there, but everything he’d given James, over the years, was.
“It’s time to go.” James turned to his family. They pressed close, they touched him; no one said goodbye. “I’ll write,” James promised, looking at Mama.
Tears formed in Mama’s eyes as she drew him to herself and hugged him. He felt her nod, her head close to his, a faraway look in her eyes when she stepped back and released him.
“I know you will, James,” she said. “I know you really will. It’s what family does, but you really will.”
He boarded the train at the conductor’s final warning. Pop wouldn’t have come to say goodbye even if he could have.
James found a seat near the window. He laid Gail’s bundle beside him and put his satchel at his feet. His family stood on the platform. They spotted him, and he planted his palm on the window’s glass as if he could touch them. Stand back and gain perspective. There he was. Mr. Morgan. Far back, his dark hair, eyes so like James’ own, so like Mama’s, also. Your father will be there today. The train lurched forward, James’ family passing by on the other side of his hand.
He couldn’t see them.
His eyes were drowning in tears.
Epilogue
Magdalena 1960
Mama had six children after she had me, one right after the other except for James, mostly because Pop couldn’t leave her alone. It wasn’t that he was in love with her. He just loved hard the same way he worked hard. He worked her hard too, and us kids. Mama never complained, not for a long time, no matter what Pop did, so we mostly didn’t either. My brothers and sisters were too afraid of what Pop would do when they were growing up. I learned later in life I was only afraid of what he didn’t do.
“Guess what, Pop. Got another letter from Jim!”
Pop flinched. It was all he could do. James had walked out of the hospital after the fire, but Pop never could. He was carried home. The disfigurement the fire left made his flesh match his heart. That was an ugly thing to say, but it was true. While James went on to play baseball, Pop took to his bed.
Sometimes I borrowed Max’s car and took Mama to one of James’ games if it was fairly close. James traveled a lot, and when he was on the road, he always wrote. He described every inning of every game in great detail. For Mama’s sake, so she’d feel as if she was there. He wrote each letter well, because I heard her cheer when she read them. When she was finished, I always took his letters into Pop’s bedroom and waved them in the air. I waved one now as I dragged a chair near his bed. Pop hated it when I said “Jim.” I did it because it was medicinal. It made me feel good and it kept him alive.
As I read James’ letter, Pop never interrupted. I’m not sure he could. He never responded when I finished, either. He never did. I know he reacted on the inside, though. He just never let it show. I stuffed the letter back into the envelope.
“Alex says everything’s fine at the shop.” I waited. I could see Pop thinking, but there was nothing to say. No thanks for reading, no thanks to Mr. Morgan for saving him, nothing to Mama, me, or Betsy for taking care of him.
I did want to thank Pop for something, though, but it would have been cruel. When Mr. Morgan had pulled Pop and James from that fire, he had taken something from Pop’s arms before the three of them were carried away on stretchers. A box, a small metal box that housed some papers, a letter, and a key. Mr. Morgan handed it to me when I went to visit him in the hospital. The papers were a ledger of the money Pop had given Mama years ago when he paid for us kids to see a movie or her to do as she pleased. Guilt money. Probably to counter the key, a key to a house Pop had bought. I claim that house now. Mama and I chased away the woman he had living there, and I made it my own. The letter was James’. I’d handed it to him before he boarded the train, his first acceptance from the scouts, never burned after all. But almost.
“Need anything before I go, Pop?” I still didn’t mention the house.
Silence. I left his room.
Mama kept all of James’ letters in a small box on her dresser in my old room where she slept. I set this one at the back, all of James’ letters in a row in the order they’d come. I walked back downstairs through the living room, through our old dining room, and onto the back porch. I stopped at the washstand and gazed into the old mirror. I lifted my hair the way Mama had done once, then let it drop. I call myself just Magdalena now. I live in a house paid for by Pop, and I help take care of him, but I’ll never be Magdalena Paine again. That girl grew up and became so many Magdalena somethings I lost track. Each one was different, yet each one the same. I didn’t see it until Mama pointed it out to me. Every last name I took on was attached to a man who was like Pop in some way. Magdalena Paine died then, and a new Magdalena was born. I like this one. This one is beautiful.
Beautiful like Mama. Just like Mr. Morgan had said. I turned from the washstand and stepped outside.
Mama was out there. She really was beautiful. She looked better than she’d ever looked. The wind whipped her faded housedress against her legs. She was still tall and slender, her auburn hair fluttering around her face.
I walked up beside her and stared out over the pasture where she was looking. She was smiling. I reached down and took her hand. I pressed a small token into her palm and closed her fingers around it.
“What? More?” Her eyes twinkled. “I swear…”
“Save ’em up, Mama. Someday you’re going to be ready for one of those sundaes again. And you’ll have enough tokens to last you the rest of your life.”
Mama smiled and turned toward the pasture, but not before I saw James in her eyes. I watched her let herself through the gate and disappear over the rise. Mama loved the pasture. Mama just plain knew how to love.
A word about the author...
Born and raised in the Midwest, Colleen is at home in that rural atmosphere but enjoys experiencing other cultures also. She works as a laboratory technician by day, but devotes her nights and weekends to literature, both reading and writing. Other hobbies include outdoor activities, treasure hunting in antique malls and flea markets, yard work, and theater.
Colleen’s multiple awards for her short stories, include:
2nd Place, Mighty Mo Award, 2008;
1st Place, Jim
Richardson Memorial Award, 2010;
1st Place Ozarks Writers League Award, 2012;
Honorable Mention,
Ozark Creative Writers Nostalgia Short Story;
Honorable Mention, Mighty Mo Award, 2012.
~*~
Also by Colleen L. Donnelly
and available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Mine to Tell
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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