Close To The Fire

by Suzanne Ferrell

  She held up her hands without touching the money. “You heard my mom. Food’s free to employees.”

  “My food might be free, but you’ve more than earned a tip.” Determined not to look like a mooch he pushed it towards her a little more. “Take it. Please?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and picked up the bills. “Okay, this once.”

  “See you at five,” he said, pocketing the rest of the money and heading out the door. The chimes sounded behind him as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, the little hick town didn’t seem too bad. But he’d learned years earlier that appearances could be deceiving.

  A chill crept over him. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. Not that he could tell. No use borrowing trouble. Bad news would find him soon enough.

  For now he’d just enjoy having a job and maybe a new friend in Rachel. As he headed back in the direction of Colbert House he glanced up in the sky, expecting to see storm clouds gathering and lightning headed his way.

  Not a cloud marred the bright-blue expanse. Maybe that was a good sign. For once maybe his luck had turned.

  * * * * *

  Despite the late-summer heat, Deke drove down the highway with the windows down and kept the air conditioning off. To fight the claustrophobic feel of the enclosed cabin, he needed the feel of the wind blowing on his face. After he’d nearly bolted from the courtroom and out of the building, he didn’t know how long he sat on one of the benches that dotted the lawn of the century-old building and faced the town square.

  Watching the ebb and flow of townsfolk and Amish-country tourists wander past from his shaded spot, he’d fought to get his breathing and heart rate under control. Thank God no one he knew well wanted to stop and chat. The last thing he needed to do was explain to someone how every time he remembered Bill Wilson, he broke out in a cold sweat and had flashbacks to the fire that killed his friend and nearly took his own life.

  He hated seeing pity on people’s faces, especially when he didn’t deserve it. Right after the fire their sympathy ate at him as he nearly choked on his own guilt. So instead of facing them, he’d crawled into a bottle and drowned his pain and misery for months. Probably still be there if it hadn’t been for Gage’s dad.

  The drumming in his head grew louder until the realization that someone was pounding on his door finally penetrated the groggy fog in his brain and pulled him up off the couch. He stumbled to the door and jerked it open.

  “What?” The sound of his own voice made him wince. Squinting, he tried to focus on the man standing in the doorway.

  Lloyd Justice, sheriff of his hometown fifty miles south of here, looked him up one side and down the other from behind his reflective sunglasses, his lips pressed in a firm line. “Put some pants on, boy. You and I are gonna have a talk.”

  He stumbled back into the apartment and his bedroom, searching for jeans among the pile of laundry littering his floor. Once he had them on and zipped he took a minute to grab aspirin from his bathroom, swallowing them down with just enough water to keep from choking on them.

  Dammit. What the hell was Gage’s dad doing here? Had he done something stupid while drinking?

  A quick look out the bedroom window showed his pickup just where he’d left it. No dents anywhere he could see. At least he hadn’t been drunk driving.

  So what did the Sheriff want with him? No reason to stand here wondering. Gage’s old man never pulled punches with either of them. He had no doubt the man would get to the point. Quickly.

  Then he could get back to the job of pickling his liver with some Jim Beam.

  The smell of coffee hit him as he walked back into the living room and slid onto one of the barstools at the island separating it from the kitchen.

  Lloyd, minus sunglasses now, set a mug in front of him and some containers of creamer. Then leaned down over his elbows to stare straight at him. Ever since his father died in an accident helping a man fix a flat tire, Gage’s dad had become like a second father to him. “Figured whatever you had in that fridge was curdled, so brought you something to lighten the coffee.”

  After doctoring his coffee with the cream, he took a few tentative sips of the hot caffeine, then a few bigger swallows, waiting for the jolt to hit his system.

  Nearly all of his cup was empty when Lloyd spoke again.

  “Your fire chief from up here in Akron called me a few days ago.”

  Yeah, he’d ignored calls from anyone from his old company.

  “Gage said he tried to call you, too.”

  Man, he was a shit for not talking to his friend, but he just wanted to be left alone.

  “Your mama was in to see me yesterday.”

  Deke took another swallow of coffee, preventing a frustrated groan to escape. Ignoring co-workers, friends and former bosses, he could get by with that. Not talking to his mama? No way would the old man let that one slide.

  “Sorry. I’ll call her today.”

  “Not drunk or hung over, you won’t.” Lloyd leaned back on the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s been six months since the fire and four since you were released from the hospital, boy. You’ve had time to come to grips with things. But all you’ve seemed to do was try to drink yourself to death. Is that what Bill Wilson died for? So you could wallow in self-pity and booze?”

  Jeez. Talk about a gut punch.

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  Suddenly he felt like a kid in school again. “No, sir. Bill wouldn’t appreciate me not honoring his sacrifice.” But he’d understand the guilt.

  “Good. I want to see you at my office first thing tomorrow morning. I have a job for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not interested in being a deputy, sir.”

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t have you.” Lloyd slipped a piece of paper in front of him. “The county is starting a fire division in this area of the county. We want you to train our volunteers.”

  Train inexperienced people how to not die fighting a fire? No. He couldn’t do it.

  “Yes, you can, and you will.” At Lloyd’s words he realized he’d actually been thinking out loud. “For Bill’s memory and to keep my county’s residents safe, you’re going to pull yourself out of this pitiful-me funk and get on with your life. The life Bill died saving.” He stood and strode to the door, stopping to put his sunglasses on and fix him with a don’t-mess-with-me-boy stare. “And once you’ve sobered up, call your mama.”

  And that’s just what he’d done.

  Sobered up. Called his mom. Packed his things. Moved back to Westen. One step at a time, he’d tried to make amends for his mistake and make Bill Wilson proud. Then Bill’s mother became ill and Libby came back to town. He’d never talked with her and couldn’t beg her forgiveness—still couldn’t after all these years.

  As always, he pushed memories of Libby, their lives together before the fire, and the pain he always saw in her liquid blue eyes into the back corner of his mind. Some things were better left alone. What he needed to do was focus on the job of keeping Westen and the surrounding area from burning to the ground.

  Newly mowed hay hit his senses as he turned off the highway onto the two-lane road leading into the farms owned by several large Amish families. Large horse-drawn wagons half-loaded with hay set in the middle of the fields, surrounded by piles of cut hay still drying. He was glad to see the farmers were getting their fields mowed and the dry stalks cleared out of the hot summer sun. The sooner they got the fields empty of potential fodder for burning, the less likely any stray spark would ignite it all.

  Damn what he wouldn’t give for a good ground-soaking rainstorm. Unfortunately, both the weather service and the farmer’s almanac weren’t predicting anything in the next week or so.

  Turning onto the gravel road, he waved back at the small groups of farmers dressed in plain black pants and suspenders, white shirts with the long sleeves rolled up to show tanned arms, and straw hats perched on their heads.
They reminded him of worker ants as they steadily walked up the road to Thomas Elder’s farm. True to his name, Thomas was one of the elders of the community. As such, important meetings were held at his home, like this one Deke had asked Thomas to host.

  The community’s shunning of modern conveniences like televisions made word-of-mouth information in a face-to-face meeting the best way to get the fire warnings out to these farmers. He suspected they already knew what he was going to say, had been saying it over the years, but he wanted to be sure they knew the extra hazard they had this long, dry summer.

  He pulled his truck into the gravel drive at Thomas’ house. The tall, lanky farmer with the thick beard, who looked like he could be a direct descendent of Abraham Lincoln, stepped off the porch, one hand raised in greeting and a broad smile on his sun-wrinkled skin.

  “Welcome, Deacon, welcome.” Thomas shook his hand in a firm grip, then slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Always a pleasure to have you visit with us. My Naomi has made some cool lemonade and treats inside. You would like some, ya?”

  “Can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more, Thomas.” Deke grabbed his notebook and followed the farmer into the house.

  If Naomi was up to her usual standards, he’d be leaving with a basket full of baked goods, several jars of homemade jam and some freshly picked vegetables. He removed his hat as he entered the kitchen. Naomi Elder was as short as her husband Thomas was tall. No one looking at the tiny woman would guess she was the mother of eight. “Hello, Naomi.”

  “Welcome, Deacon. It has been too long since last you visited.” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a hug then a pat on his arm as she moved away.

  “I apologize. This summer has kept me pretty busy.”

  “It has been very dry, hasn’t it? Perhaps you can come for dinner when you have time. The other men will be here soon. But you be sure to stop in here before you go,” she said with a wink and pointed to the already-prepared basket before handing him a cold glass of lemonade.

  Score.

  There were a few perks to this job. Naomi’s cooking was one of them.

  He followed Thomas into the large living room area where Naomi had already set out a tray of small, homemade fruit-filled pastries.

  “She likes to spoil you, Deacon,” Thomas said, settling into what appeared to be his favorite leather chair.

  “And I like letting her, Thomas. You’re a very lucky man to have such a fine cook in your wife.”

  “Ya. My Naomi is very special.” Thomas fixed him with a perceptive eye. “Do you not think it’s time you found a good woman for your life?”

  The image of Libby as she’d looked in the café and the courtroom this morning flashed in his mind. Then the sadness in her eyes hit him. “I don’t think there’s a woman out there for me.”

  “Nonsense. A man isn’t complete without a woman by his side. It is how God intended, my friend.”

  Except the one woman for him was out of his reach forever.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He put Libby out of his mind once more and forced a smile. “Besides, I don’t think there’s a woman as fine as Naomi on my horizons. You wouldn’t want to give her up, would you?”

  Thomas laughed. “I could never live without my Naomi.”

  “Then it’s a bachelor’s life for me.”

  They both chuckled and sipped on their lemonade as the other farmers and the young men of their families filtered into living room. Once they were all present and greetings exchanged, Thomas stood.

  “As ye’ve noticed the weather has been as dry as the almanac predicted this summer.”

  His proclamation was greeted with many “Ayes” and nodding of heads.

  “Many of ye know Deacon Reynolds, the county fire chief. He’s come to talk with us about fire safety. I know many of ye have already made sure you’re doing everything ye can to prevent fires, but it never hurts to review all the steps we can be taking and Deacon always has ideas we might not have considered.”

  Deke stood in the center of the room. “We’ve been talking about fire prevention every year for the past ten years, haven’t we?”

  Many of the men answered with “Ya”, or nodded their heads.

  “And just today on my drive here I’ve seen the fields being cleared of dried hay and debris. I think you could teach some of us English how to maintain our yards and fields in a better fashion, that’s for sure.”

  This got him some rumbling chuckles.

  “I’ve asked the phone company to check the connections on your phone in the shanty.” This was a small wooden structure the Amish community used to house a communal phone for business and emergencies, since this particular community didn’t allow phones in their homes. “Everything is in working order and you know the number directly to the firehouse is 5-7-9.” To decrease response time in the county one of the first things he’d done when he started the fire department was institute a direct number, since the usual 9-1-1 would have to go through the sheriff’s office first.

  “Everything is in working order there. As a precautionary measure during this drought, the sheriff’s department and members of the fire department along with volunteers will be taking turns driving through the rural areas, watching for any signs of fire. If you have any concerns or hot spots, let them know and we’ll check it out. How are you doing with maintaining water supplies around the barns?”

  “The creeks and ponds are down several inches,” Samuel Miller said. “But the deep springs are still flowing well. My sons and I have been filling barrels to feed the animals and keep near the barns.”

  Most of the other farmers said they were doing the same and would share with anyone who needed help. Another thing he’d always admired about the local Amish community. Their willingness to help others without question or complaint.

  “Good. Until the rain comes, which the almanac and weather service agree for once won’t be for a few more weeks, we’ll need to keep from any burning outdoors.”

  “Tell that to the English,” Josiah Miller, Samuel’s younger brother said. “We found some boys camping in the woods not far from our back pasture and they were using an open fire instead of a grill. They put out the fire when we asked them to do so.”

  “How old were the boys?”

  “Old enough to know better. They looked like what you’d call footballers.”

  Interesting. He’d heard of some teenagers in other communities who taunted and terrorized the local Amish, but they’d never had it in Westen County. “I’m giving a talk to the high school on opening day about fire prevention, but until then I’ll see if I can find out who these boys were and make sure they know no open pit burns until we get some rain.”

  When there were no more questions or concerns, the informal meeting broke up, a few men remaining to talk about the crops and cattle. Deke excused himself, thanking Thomas before heading into the kitchen where Naomi and her eldest girl, who was about ten, were making dinner.

  “Sarah, bring that dish.” Naomi pointed to the small casserole dish on the counter then handed the wicker basket to Deke. “I’ve made you a shepherd’s pie with homemade mashed potatoes, peas and carrots from our garden and sausage we set out last fall. It will fill you up.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” Deke took the dish and laid it on top of the basket.

  “Of course I should. This way you have to visit sooner to return the dish,” Naomi said with a grin and her daughter giggled shyly.

  He promised he’d do just that then headed out to his truck. Tucking the food into the floor board of the seat, he made sure nothing would spill on the trip home. Thomas came over to lean in the window just after Deke climbed in the driver’s side.

  “Something wrong, Thomas?” he asked at the serious look on the church elder’s face.

  “These boys that Josiah mentioned. Should we be concerned?” Deke knew he was speaking as an elder of the church now. Part of his responsibility as a community leader was protecting the members of their commun
ity from outsiders who might harm them.

  “We’ve never had issues before, but I’ll talk it over with Gage. Maybe he and his deputies can keep an eye out for them when they make their safety rounds. I’ll give my boys a heads-up, too.”

  “Good. Good. Thank ye for talking to us. ’Tis always good to be made aware of the dangers and what we can do to prevent a fire.”

  “Anytime, Thomas. And if you have any problems, you let me or Gage know.”

  As he drove away from the farm and back down the gravel road, his heart was lighter than it had been before leaving the courthouse. Lloyd and Bill would both be proud of how he’d incorporated the Amish community into the county’s safety plans. And Naomi’s homemade food would certainly fill him up.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. Just enough time to get Naomi’s goodies home before he had to meet Gage at the high school practice field. After talking to the farmers, assisting Gage in coaching might be a good thing after all. He’d get a chance to read the attitudes of the boys and also get some fire safety information in as well as defensive football moves.

  * * * * *

  The whirring of blow dryers and the friendly chatter of customers and hairstylists greeted Libby the next morning as she wheeled her mother’s oldest friend, Mrs. Lafferty, into the Dye Right hair salon.

  It was a lovely salon, with cotton-candy-pink-and-black damask walls, and black trim along the baseboards, crown molding and windows. Black-and-white checked curtains framed the three large street windows, while large black-and-white images of Parisian icons such as the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Louvre hung on the walls.

  The chairs, in Libby’s opinion, were the best part of the salon. Instead of hard plastic that melted to your thighs in summer and felt cold and sticky in winter as some places had, the Dye Right had large wingback chairs with stand-up dryers behind them and overstuffed Queen Anne-style couches for those waiting their appointments. All were upholstered in various pink-and-black striped or black-and-white damask fabrics. Soft, comfortable, stay-a-while-and-chat furniture, with distressed tables to hold cups of tea and the lovely treats offered from the local bakery stationed beside them. She’d been bringing “Aunt” Julie here every Tuesday to get her wash and set ever since she’d had to move into the local nursing home. Now it was one of Libby’s little pleasures.