by Cole Savage
Battalion 3 was standing on the corner of Chestnut and Kirk Street, wearing his clean white turnout jacket, pristine white helmet, looking at the blaze, hand held radio to his mouth, howling commands to units, standing between the slew of hoses strewed on Chestnut and High Streets, like giant serpentines; water spraying from couplings improperly tightened, red lights pulsing off the glistening black-top.The Chief yelled at Morgantown Police Officers who failed to keep onlookers at bay, then fielded questions from units looking for direction. Chief Riley was a medium sized jolly old Joe, who quit working out years ago. He spent thirty years with the Philadelphia Fire Dept.— where he retired. Retirement didn’t suit him, so he moved to Morgantown to be a Battalion Chief, because he couldn’t stand being at home with his wife of thirty-eight years, twenty-four seven.
Second alarm trucks started rolling in, and unfatigued firefighters watched as flames devoured the conglomeration of buildings surrounding the dry cleaners—buildings aglow with red and white flashing lights in a refulgent display. The chief walked around directing units, giving instructions, showing trucks where to spot and set up operations. From the spectator’s perspective, the scene looked like a sea of confusion, firefighters like to call controlled chaos.
“Wally take 23 and put your aerial behind 17. Take a line in the front door and back Kyle. I’ll have Hose 2 bring two lines from the hydrant on Foundry and Chestnut.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Battalion 3 to Rescue 17.”
“Rescue 17, QSK (what).”
“Marty, take your guys with an extra tank to 17. They’re on the west side of the building, with a line inside.
“QSL, Chief. Rescue 17 is in route.”
Firefighters walked around with pike poles and axes, three firefighters were on the roof with a K-12 saw ventilating the building. Firefighters were manning two-and-a-half-inch hand lines, visible on three sides of the burning structure, holding back their attack until the building was evacuated. The channel twelve and five news vans were pulling up to film the carnage but unable to get close—police barricades and hoses strewed down Chestnut and Kirk made the streets impassable.
“Battalion 3 to all units. Do not open hand lines until all units inside have cleared. I repeat—wait for my word.” The Chief watched the fire jump to an adjacent building.
“Battalion 3 to all units… Evacuate the building. We’re going defensive. I repeat—
Everyone get the hell out… Engine 17 and 23 pull out. Rescue 17 evacuate now… Captain Strober, take two guys, make sure 17 and 23 get out. Go get them if you have to—and get 6 off the roof. Precious seconds had passed, and finally, Engine 17, Rescue 17, and Engine 23, backed out of the front door with their lines and watched as the roof came down.
“Battalion 3 to Quint 23.”
“Quint 23, QSK (what).”
“Mike, how’s your water supply?”
“Chief, we got a little cavitation. Soft suction’s a little spongy, but I think we’re good.”
“QSL, 23. Let me know if we have to notify Public Works to ramp up the pressure.”
“QSL, Battalion 3. Will do.”
The bulk of the Morgantown Fire Department had three aerial trucks, a tower truck, and two Quints extended over the burning building, each spraying a thousand gallons a minute into the collapsing roof of the dry cleaners. Two water towers parked on High Street and Kirk, also sprayed water from cannons onto buildings, near and around the dry cleaners, preventing the spread to other businesses. Units stayed on the scene through the night dousing flames with multiple master streams, water towers, and hand lines.
Eight A.M., and what was left of the building was a smoldering burned out concrete shell, covered with burned trusses, bathed in soot and ash. Water was running out of the building in a steady stream, across the sidewalk, down the incline of the street and into storm drains. First responding units returned to their stations for relief by the following shift. After rolling and stowing wet hose on the trucks, Chief Riley cut Engine 17 and Truck 6 loose.
“Engine 17 to dispatch. Be advised, Engine 17 has secured the scene. Our status is still 10 (out of service), QSL?”
“QSL, 17—scene secure, still ten—Code 6.” (in route to quarters).
Back at the firehouse, firefighters showered and went home— their shift ended two hours ago, and relief crews assumed their spots on the apparatus.
Kyle was a six-foot four Hillbilly with gorilla-like qualities, on a redwood torso, whose motto was every day is just a roll of the dice—an authority on chaos and confusion, endowed with a Sean O’pry je ne sais quoi dreaminess, winsome smile, and alluring green eyes that made a population of women shutter. He sported short dark, wavy hair, and a sculptured chin that scarcely needed a razor, a source of contention for Kyle who loved the traditional stubble or beard before he joined the Fire Dept., but the fire service had a strict no-beard policy to facilitate a good seal on firefighters breathing mask. Kyle’s motto wasn’t a punch line. He was a gentle giant from soup to nuts, at home wielding the metaphorical sword, whose only vices were an occasional beer and frequent skirmishes with what he likes to call ethnically challenged folks who pursue rollicking confrontations with the people of his state. When he wasn’t punch-drunk and pugilistic, he had a staunch belief in egalitarianism. He liked to press on, straight ahead, with a profound conviction in living his life with an organizing principle, and he fought fires like a man genetically equipped to move persistently into oblivion. Kyle carried an aura that gamboled and glistened around him, proclaiming him a leader of men, whose stature alone would make it an act of idiocy to cajole him into a showdown that usually ended in a ride to the trauma unit for those individuals too inebriated, or too mentally challenged to see the subtle warnings that Kyle, despite his politeness, lived for those moments and should not be trifled with. But Kyle was always at odds with his brain. An organ that he considered alien, whose battles of preposterous idealism were matched only by its reveries of unfettered violence and swinish self-indulgence. His failed relationship with Nicki epitomized his moral confusion. Plagued with pleasures of sensuality, and feverish attempts to satisfy certain carnal appetites, Kyle was imperishably tormented with erotic fantasies. But deep, down to his core, lay the hidden fear that to maximize pleasure, and pain, were appealing goals, something he had a staunch belief in. He was a man committed to disciplining his body and soul, but as much as he tried, he was unable to forgo the addictive pleasures of his mind. The straw the broke the Camel’s back with Nicki, right before she left him.
CHAPTER 3
SUNDAY
Nicki’s family was Southern Baptist, as most folk from Franklin, and though Nicki only went to church on Sundays to pander to her mom, she did believe in God, but the thought of going to the chapel on Sunday abhorred her, and the revelation of the tumor made her cynical about the existence of a god. When the results came back, Dr. Smoot’s diagnosis wasn’t welcome news. He called it an Invasive Squamous Carcinoma. The news had been devastating, not just because she had no money, the doctor told her that the cancer was in stage four, and chemo would likely not help. She pried the doctor for a prognosis, and Dr. Smoot told her there was no prognosis. He explained to her that her tumor was terminal, and he suggested that Nicki get a second opinion from an Oncologist in Louisville, who could perform a biopsy, to be sure. No Angel inspired Nicki to bare the prophesy of her body’s sickness to the people of Franklin, and she didn’t at first because she wouldn’t accept that it was real. But slowly, as her acceptance of the Cancer registered, she became unrecognizable to the people of Franklin. The world where she thrived started to vaporize, and she found herself wondering what event or miraculous convergence would come to define the new world she was trapped in. For three days after the news of her Cancer, Nicki pushed the news from her mind, as if it wasn’t happening, and dealing with the prospect of what to do with the boys was something not in her arena at the moment, so she lived in denial for the moment, allowing her a secon
d to catch her breath. Nicki always told Karen that prince charming would ride into town and sweep her off her feet— her troubles over, but instead, for the last ten years, Nicki was stuck raising kids and working two jobs with no fairy tale in sight.
She would have stayed in Bowden after the divorce, where she lived with Kyle and the boys, but her mother Karen was suffering from Emphysema and Arthritis, so Nicki made the decision to move back in with Karen in Franklin, so she was back in the house where she grew up— the house that Tyler almost burned down in the winter of 2007, when Tyler decided to light Granny Stills cat on fire. Boots ran into the woodshed trying to extinguish the flames, and the woodshed caught fire. Tyler was lucky that Trent was home from the mine that day, so Trent and Karen used buckets of water to douse the flames, but the fire had already spread from the woodshed to the house, and it burned most of the kitchen, so Karen couldn’t cook for two weeks. Karen dropped the hammer on Tyler, and he had to sleep in the woodshed for a month—in the middle December. When Kyle didn’t come back right away, depression descended on Nicki like a cloud of campfire soot that hangs in the outer fringes of the night time forest. Kyle had worked at Kessler Mining since graduating high school, but after the divorce, Kyle left Pendleton County and Nicki had not seen or heard from him in ten years
Nicki and Karen (Nicki’s mom), raised Tyler and his younger brother Cole— two years his younger, while Karen watched her husband, Trent, die of Black Lung Disease, but people joked that Karen had talked Trent into the ground, the way she torched him with her gums. When Karen emerged from her house, behind her congenial and feigned façade, she became a magnet for proselytizers, missionaries and custodians of the truth, who only needed five minutes to see that Karen was indeed a wool in sheep’s clothing— a title bearer to five acres in Hell. Everyone thought that Karen was on the verge of insanity, but Karen thought the world was.
After church, Nicki answered the door barefoot, wearing short denim shorts, a low-cut razorback tank top—her hair in an up-do, and Dirk was standing on the porch. Dirk was a local boy that Nicki had known since she was walking—she even dated him a few times.
“Hey, Nicki,” Dirk said.
“Hey, Dirk, where’s Bo?” Dirk walked in.
“He’ll be along. They held him over.”
Standing in the doorway next to Nicki and Karen, Dirk took his Budweiser hat off. Karen was visiting Emma Flanders and had just come from across the street carrying a flyswatter. She was wearing a white cardigan, over a long blue nightgown, and open-toed slippers, even though it was warm outside. Karen passed Dirk at the door and pulled her harlequin glasses down to look at him.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Griggs.”
“Dirk,” said Karen. Dirk was stick thin, long beard, wearing cowboy boots, torn denim, and, to impress Karen, he wore a tie.
“Nice tie, Dirk. Did you lose your only shirt? cause you ain’t sittin’ on my couch without one.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Griggs, Ma’s launderin’ my shirt.”
“Might not be a bad idea to have a second shirt, Dirk.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Set an old woman straight, Dirk.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I’m hearin’ rumors round town that you smell so bad at church, the bathroom locked you out.”
“I don’t reckon that’s true, Mrs. Griggs. I had an incline to go to the shitter last Sunday and I got inside with no troubles.”
“Jesus, Dirk, don’t give Momma another reason to assassinate your intellect,” said Nicki.
“Huh.”
“Never mind.” Karen laughed so hard she started to hack.
“You all right, Momma?”
“I’m okay.” Karen stood rigidly and pointed the flyswatter at Dirk.
“Now, Dirk”-
“Momma put a lid on it,” said Nicki. “We get it. Dirk’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Dirk seemed confused.
Nicki sat in an old Queen Anne chair, legs under her butt. Dirk plopped himself on a small couch next to Tyler and Cole, who were still laughing at Dirk. The battered western print couch was a tight fit for three people. Karen sat on her Oak rocker across from Nicki. Bo came late, and his face told the story when Nicki opened the door. Karen didn’t waste any time standing and delivering Bo a sermon.
“Nice shirt, Bo. I’d like to have two of them, one to shit on, the other to cover up that train-wreck you call your face.”
Bo, a former boyfriend of Nicki, was a redneck from top to bottom. The only shoes he owned were the boots that Kessler gave him to work at the mine. Bo unlaced his boots because Karen always made Bo take his shoes off before he stepped through the door. Coal dust, black crud, and mud covered Bo’s shoes. He wore suspenders like his papa before him, and his skin looked like driftwood— wrinkled and dry from years of drinking, smoking, and his other vice— Hippie lettuce. He coughed constantly from early stages of black lung disease— a disease prevalent in Coal miners in Appalachia. He had a long beard that Nicki complained about when they went out. His wranglers were tattered and torn—his only pair of jeans. Bo thought it wiser to spend money on hippie lettuce than waste twenty-six dollars on a new pair of jeans.
“Momma, what’s wrong with you? This isn’t a classroom, Bo’s not keeping to a schedule.”
“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Griggs. They held me over at the mine.”
“Sit down, Bo. You look stiffer than a honeymoon prick.”
“Momma, what’s wrong with you? Where’s your manners?”
“Nuthin’, sweetheart. Bo’s lucky he caught me in one of my better days.” Tyler and Cole were on the couch, Tyler wearing cargo shorts, a plaid shirt with the sleeves torn off, Cole with jeans and wife-beaters. Bo was glad when she turned her attention to the boys.
“Tyler, Cole, run outside and play with Wyatt and Margie for a spell—don’t even think about lighting Boots on fire again. And damn it, stay out of Granny Stills woodshed…Bo, you and Dirk can sit right there.” Standing by the door, flyswatter in hand, she said, “Would you boys like a smoke, coffee?” Karen said, struggling to catch her breath.
“Momma, you wonder why you can't breathe? No, Bo and Dirk don’t need a smoke— just bring them coffee.” Karen walked into the kitchen where she had fresh pot. Bo stood, adjusted his pants and suspenders, stretched his legs and looked at Nicki about as serious as Bo could.
“Nicki, let me rear these boys. I do alright working at Kessler. I know my trailer ain’t much, but it’s paid for. I think me and the boys can have a hoot with one anuther.”
From the kitchen, Karen said, “Is that what you call that rattrap on wheels, Bo? That skunk box ain’t fit for an animal. You’re clean out your mind if you think my grandbabies are living in that termite hotel.”
“Momma mind your manners,” Nicki said looking at Bo, the phone ringing in the kitchen.
“I got it, Momma.”
“No, I got it. You sit right there and make these boys sweat a little.” Karen answered the phone on the seventh ring.
“Bo, that’s so sweet, and tempting as it sounds, I know you work twelve-hour shifts up on the mine. Tyler and Cole need someone to take them to school, make them breakfast and read to them. Besides, I don’t want them coming home to an empty house. Remember, the whole idea is to get them as far away from Pendleton County as possible. Now you boys are older now and you probably can’t change what’s coming… I want my boys to have a better life than me, without the fear they’re gonna get sick one-day living in this God forsaken town… But thank you, Bo. That means a lot to me.”
From the parlor they could hear the screen door slam shut, and Karen walking out the back door talking, her voice filtering into the parlor, and even with the door closed, she sounded agitated—barking into the phone, something in Karen’s wheelhouse, so no one, especially Nicki, seemed alarmed at the tone and ferocity of her voice. A few moments later, Karen walked into the parlor carrying a tray with a pot and coffee cups, which she put on the coffee tabl
e. The room went silent and everyone watched Karen laugh to herself.
“Who was on the phone, Momma? Was it Mirna? I can’t believe that after all these years you still treat people like your cleaning your feet on their face?”
“As a matter of fact it was Buford down at the diner.”
“Buford? What did he want from you? Don’t tell me he wants you to fill my waitress position at the diner?” Everyone in the room laughed, then Nicki said, “unless, of course, he wants to close shop for good, cause Momma, ain’t a soul in this town gonna eat at that fine establishment if your flyin’ around that restaurant torchin’ folks with your bitter tongue?”
“What are you shit-for-brains laughin’ at?” Karen said, “I can waitress. I was waitressin’ before you sum-bitches was a twinkle in your bastard father’s eyes,” Karen said, her body hunched over, pointing a finger at the them.
“But if you must know, Nicki darlin’. He was callin’ cause he’s desperate. Buford said he’ll double your salary if you go back and work the supper shift. That sum-bitch claims he lost pertin’ near half his supper customers when you left, and they said they ain’t goin’ back unless you’re there serving their supper in that tight cocktail dress that’s made you the Belle of the Ball at the Starlight Diner.” Karen said, “That sum-bitch shoul’da givin’ you a raise when I asked him to six months ago.”
“What do you mean six months ago, Momma? You asked Buford for a raise—
for me?”
“You’re darn tootin’, I did. You was to yellow to do it yourself and it was turnin’ my stomach when I cashed your Chicken Little checks at the bank. That sum-bitch should have been payin’ you double back then, if for nuthin’ else, for entertainment value. Every sum-bitch in this God-forsaken town, every Yankee that rolled into my stompin’ grounds with their greasy wallets bleedin’ money, has seen that ass of yours, including these backwoods hicks sittin’ next to you. I can’t wait till Buford closes shop. I’m gonna help the sum-bitch put the sign up.”