The Fireman's Wife

by Jack Riggs

  I look down and see a fire rake and a bush ax on the ground, pick them up, tossing Partee the ax. “These might come in handy,” he says.

  “That's what I was thinking,” I tell him. Then I look at the Boy Scout ranger, smile like I'm really happy to be here. “Well let's go start a fire,” I say.

  The boy nods, “All right, let's go,” and then he radios that we're walking in from the north perimeter, headed into smoke.

  We seem to be doing all right, the boy recognizing the lay of the land as we move out. There are hot spots along the way that we take care of, Partee smiling when I rake over one that's right in front of him. “This looks like it might be okay Chief, fighting fires without water.”

  But the boy looks concerned that we're finding hot spots. He stops and looks around, and for the first time I notice that we're standing on burned land, black soot- filled dirt that crunches under our boots when we walk. When we start to backtrack, it makes me think that I need to pay closer attention to what's going on. We end up in trees that are scorched, not the fresh land I thought we were supposed to light afire. “This land we're supposed to burn,” I ask, “has fire already come through it?”

  “No,” he says. “Not that I'm aware of.”

  “Then we're in the wrong place,” Partee says. “This ground's been burned over already.”

  The boy pulls out his map, reaches into his pocket for a compass. Out in smoke, there is no direction, hard to tell what's east from west, north from south. There's a small holly bush that somehow has been spared from the fire. We've passed it before. That's the only way I know where we are. When the boy sees it again, I can tell it bothers him.

  He can't find his compass, so I give him mine. “Keep it,” I say. Just figure out where we are.”

  I hear fire close by. The heat makes our turnouts feel more like ovens. Lightning flashes around us. Partee says, “Is that rain coming in?”

  “No,” the boy says. “It's coming from the fire, static electricity or some shit like that.” The boy kneels to the ground, works the map, finds his coordinates, radios back that we have missed the mark and need to backtrack to reestablish our proper direction.

  “Where's the crew?” I ask.

  “We got to double back,” he says. “We overshot them.”

  “You mean they're behind us?” Partee is standing beside me. I can tell he's pissed off.

  “Yeah, just back that way.” The boy throws a thumb over his shoulder as he folds the map. He tucks it all, map and my compass, in his coat, starts to move fast back in the direction we have just come.

  I look at Partee. “We keep following this kid and we might never fight the fire.”

  “I could live with that,” he says.

  The smoke is getting so thick now, it's hard to breathe. I tell Partee to put on his respirator if he needs it, but it seems foolish to waste air until we know where we are. We hold off, wrapping wet bandanas around our faces for now. When we catch up with the ranger he seems even more confused, not even looking at the map now, just walking in a little circle like he can't find a landmark that should be there. What worries me is the ground we are on. It's still smoldering. The fire's just been through here. We were on old burn a minute ago, but the only earth I see around us now is black and smoldering, trees that are burned, but not down. It's like the fire raced through here too fast to finish it off. I didn't pay close enough attention to the land to notice this, so I'm a little confused, standing here waiting for the ranger to come up with a direction.

  The wind picks up, swirling the smoke. “Shit,” the boy says.

  “Where are we?” Partee asks, his impatience with the kid too much. I put an arm on Partee's shoulder, pull him back. “Where do you want to go?” I say, trying to help the kid out. “Where would the crew be waiting for us?” But the boy doesn't answer. He looks panicked.

  By the time we start to move again, the wind is brisk, coming from the south. “Should we walk north?” the boy asks.

  “That might work,” I say. Even when you are a seasoned firefighter, been in buildings with flame surrounding you, places so dangerous that if you stopped to think about it, it would freak you out, there are still moments when fear creeps into your bones. That moment comes to me when we walk directly into an exploding wall of flame. I'm not sure where it comes from, a backfire set or the raw burn of fire out of control, but it rises up in front of the three of us, just startles the shit out of me. “This might be a good time to get in your air,” I tell Partee.

  We double back, find fire on three sides now, moving quickly in the one way that offers us egress. It doesn't feel right walking this way either, the wind in our face, which makes me feel we'll find flame sooner rather than later. But hell, there's no other way to go. I hear a voice crackle across my radio.

  “Peck, where the hell are you?” J.D. says.

  “Not sure, bro,” I say, pulling my mask off to talk. I look at the ranger, his eyes glassed over, coughing smoke. He won't be much good to us like this, but I have to ask him. “Any idea where we are?” I say.

  The boy pulls out his map like he's looking for a place to pull over and eat. I get back on the radio. “We're lost,” I say. “Give me a second, J.D. Let me look at the map.”

  I go over to the boy, take the map and compass from him, let him use my air while I look at coordinates, find north, and plot a direction out of this mess. I click my mike. “Looks like we walked north, maybe east and then back south,” I tell him. “We just went in a circle. Now it looks like we might have gotten between the crew and fire, might be smack in the middle of the whole goddamn thing.”

  “I got a map, Peck,” J.D. says. “Can you see a road near you?”

  It's getting smoky again, the boy and Partee huddling over me. “Yeah,” I say. “I got the road. It's about a hundred yards to the north.”

  I wait for J.D.'s reply. Behind us there is flame in the trees, sixty- foot sticks of fire breathing down on us. “We got to move, J.D.,” I say. “We've got flame coming up behind us.”

  There is a crackle over the radio, J.D.'s voice ominous when he comes back to me. “Peck, you're in the middle of it. The wind shifted, it's coming back over you. Can you move north? There's a crew north of you on an old logging road.”

  It takes me a moment to register what J.D. tells me. I look at Partee and the boy. “We're in the middle of it,” I say. “We're fucked.”

  “Can you go north?” J.D. asks again.

  I look at the map, but it's not doing me any good now. The compass points north and I can see smoke, but no fire. “We'll try,” I say. “I'll get back to you.” I jam the map and compass into the ranger's hands, tell him to tuck it away, and we start to move, our pace brisk. We're using up air fast, spreading apart too far because we're panicking. We come up on fire moving in from the east, and then see it following us. We start moving randomly then, everybody getting confused out here.

  I was taught early on as a rookie to keep perspective, to stop and survey the scene, make sure proper procedure was in order, things done in a way to ensure maximum safety. I have always done that, pulled myself out of a fire or a bad accident to take in the scene, find potential dangers before they become deadly. I didn't do that today. I didn't lead. I followed. I rode in the third seat, and then let this Boy Scout ranger lead us into fire. Now we're in a world of trouble.

  Because we are not following a road, or taking any definite path, we separate and I can't see either Partee or the boy after a minute or two. I hear them yelling, but I can't find them, smoke and flame coming in on me. I pull my mask again, get on the radio. “Where are you, Partee?” I say.

  “We're out,” he says. “We found a break. I thought you were right behind us.”

  “Nope,” I say. “Which way, brother, I need to get out of here.”

  “We went east,” he says, “due east. There was a little fire, but nothing big, just run through it when you get there. It goes into an open field.”

  I reach for
my compass, realize I gave the goddamn thing to the boy. “Jesus,” I say. Then I just have to laugh at this. “You'll have to bring me my compass,” I say, the joke's timing perfect to me, but no one else gets it.

  “Goddamn, Peck,” J.D. says. “Where are you?”

  “Well I'm not east,” I say. “And I got fire coming in on me.” I look up, but there's no sun to help me find a direction. It's all blotted out, heavy smoke starting to roll in, hot fire boiling the air over me. Suddenly there's a large boom as a bolt of lightning streaks in, exploding just outside the flames, my eyes spotted blind. It shuts me down for a minute, a precious minute that does me in for good. There's nowhere I can go. The heat and winds are creating a huge thunderhead that feels like it's right over me. “I got to go down,” I tell J.D. “Somebody's going to have to come get me.”

  “Cover yourself, get your mask on,” he says. “Partee, you going in?”

  “We're moving now,” he says.

  I find my fire rake, try to use it to dig a hole in ground hardened by fire and drought, but it's useless. The flames roar in closer now, heat making it hard to breathe even with the respirator covering my face. I give up on digging the hole because the fire's right on top of me, the lightning too. One or the other's going to get me, if I don't get low, get covered fast. I pull the fire blanket from my pack, throw the drip torch as far away from me as I can, sling it high and deep into the encroaching flames so it won't blow up anywhere near me.

  The blanket looks like something an astronaut would use, silver, light, though I'm told it will hold off hot flame. Guess I'll find out now. It's gathered along the edges like a fitted sheet for a bed. I pull the air tank off my back, tuck my feet into the blanket before pulling it over the rest of my body and gear. I don't know how much air is left, the cumbersome tank making it hard to stay covered, but I need to breathe. It's hugged in tight to my chest as I try to secure the edges of the blanket so flame won't find a seam.

  The radio keeps chattering, J.D. telling me to keep covered, Partee yelling that it's too hot, the fire coming too fast. There's a call to pull back, J.D.'s voice calm in all of this when he tells me to hold tight, that they've got to pull back for a minute. I let him know I understand, two clicks on the mike to say that I'm good to go. Then I shut it down, turn the radio off because I don't want to hear it anymore.

  What's left is the roar beside me, the heat making its way into my turnout, my mask fogging when I start breathing hot air, the last of the tank finished. I can feel the soles on my boots starting to smolder, Cassie's ring blistering my finger, even in the gloves I wear. It's like an oven—no, maybe an open flame—inside my suit. It's hard to explain. I just hunker down, hold on to the sides, yell out that I'll be okay that I'll make it.

  It's like night inside this little oven, so hot I want to pull off the blanket and run like a motherfucker, find Partee and that Boy Scout. Hell, I want to run all the way back to the beach and sit out in the waves for the rest of my life, cool my ass off forever. There is great pain across my body fire in my lungs as the storm rushes in on me, and then there is no pain at all.

  I find sudden quiet, the worst of the firestorm having passed. I think about Kelly, close my eyes and see her standing on the mound, two outs, bases loaded. She winds up, delivers a ball that has sparks coming out of it. The girl waiting at the plate swings, but the ball just burns right through the bat. They win the game and Cassie is there jumping up and down in the bleachers, my father too. I look at him and see he's whole, both legs on the ground, and he's looking good, the way I remember him when I was a boy. The place goes crazy over my little girl. I smile, hoping when all this is over, I'll be able to tell Kelly about my dream. Tell her what I saw in the fire that ate the earth around me.

  When I figure the worst is over, I peek out and find the ground around me untouched by fire. There are footsteps coming, my eyes adjusting, so I don't know if I'm dreaming or if this is real, J.D. and Partee running in after me. I feel a tap on the shoulder, hear a voice familiar and good, so I lift up, shade my eyes from the white light, and see Pops standing there above me.

  “Well, hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  He smiles, a strong full set of teeth in his mouth. “Hey yourself. Now you don't look no worse for the wear. You okay?”

  I pull myself up, sit on the ground like I've just been awakened from sleep, the blanket down around my waist. I check my body find nothing missing, the turnout clean, my boots and fingers cool. “Yeah, I'm okay” I say.

  “You made it, then,” he says.

  “Yeah, I made it. I'm all right.”

  “Then you were lucky today,” he says, smiling, “Let's go. Let's get on out of here.” He holds his hand out, offering to pull me up, and we walk side by side off into air that is clean and cool and fresh. “It's like riding a wave,” I say, “it feels like magic.” Pops just smiles at me again, tells me to hold on as he takes me by the hand. And then, we are gone. We are long gone.

  Cassie

  BY WEDNESDAY MORNING John Boyd still has not driven by. He doesn't call. He doesn't come looking for us, doesn't send one of the development boys over here to try and break our legs. For all practical purposes, I might as well have not slipped a copy of the deed through his mail slot. It's like it never happened. Still, I'm excited and can't help myself when I call Peck at home and then try the station, though I know he won't be at either place. The fires are big down there now, so I imagine he's busy doing what he does best. I let it go, wait to leave the house until it's time to watch Kelly pitch in an afternoon game.

  I'm worried about Momma. Since we delivered the deed to John Boyd's front door, she's been frightened of what might happen. I woke up this morning to find her sitting in the living room, her watering can beside her on the loveseat. “I can't go out there,” she said. “What if he comes by?”

  “Smile and tell him it's a lovely day” I said. “He's not going to know what hit him.”

  Momma cooked breakfast while I made phone calls looking for a good lawyer. I had no idea where to start, so I got in touch with Kimberly Jordan's parents in Cashiers. Kimberly's father was in real estate for years, so I figured they'd know a good lawyer or two. They told me Kimberly was married to one, that her married name was Holton now, and that she was living over in Asheville.

  When I called that morning, Kimberly cried. She was so happy to hear from me after all these years. I tried to explain why I never got back in touch with her after that summer in Myrtle Beach, how I had started to call her a thousand times, but felt ashamed and disappointed about what I had done while at the church camp. She stopped me before I could finish and said, “That was when we were still children, Cassie. I'm just glad you knew you could call.”

  She laughed when I told her I needed a good lawyer. “I know the perfect guy” she said, then put her husband on the phone.

  Bit Holton knew John Boyd, said he was a tough character, that he was in cahoots with developers all over Jackson County, but that he would gladly help me with the deed or whatever else might come up. “I'll be in Sylva on Thursday,” he said. “Maybe we can have lunch.” When we were finished, Kimberly took the phone again. “I wish I could see you, Cassie,” she said. “It's not right we lost touch like that. Life's too short.” I wept after I hung up the phone, Momma sitting beside me holding on tight while she kept an eye on the road looking for signs of trouble.

  It all feels like it's going to work out now. John Boyd never shows and we are out and on our way to Cullowhee before noon. The day is beautiful. A cool breeze blows through the car with all the windows down, the radio catching AM signals whenever we start climbing out of the gorge along Highway 107. We arrive early at Western Carolina, plenty of time to see Kelly before she plays.

  She is beautiful, so sure of herself, skin tanned, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She runs up when she sees us walking to the field, hugs me hard, all giggly and excited that Meemaw gets to see her pitch. “I wish Daddy was here,” she
says. There's no poison in her words, just a longing to have Peck watch her play

  “He sends his love,” I tell her. “He's thinking about you.” It's all good, the best I have felt in years. I touch my tummy, feel a slight swelling, and know that soon I will need to talk to Kelly, let her know she is going to be a big sister. It feels right, this baby inside me, it feels like Peck's.

  Coach Lambert walks over and I introduce Momma. I thank him for all he has done for Kelly. “She looks wonderful,” I tell him.

  “Kelly's settled in,” he says. “She's a natural.” He's cordial, but there is something there, a brief glint of sadness in his eyes. He tells Kelly to go warm up, asks Momma and me to come with him. “Is this about Kelly?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “But someone is here who needs to talk to you.”

  Coach Lambert walks us up a hill away from the field. White clouds float across the blue sky like giant islands in an azure sea. I think about that first summer at Myrtle Beach, Kimberly and I not much older than Kelly. We rode together in a car with other girls from surrounding churches, screaming like it was Christmas morning when we first saw the ocean. When we got to the camp, I ran straight down to the pier, stood at the end barefoot, the skin on the bottoms of my feet blistered from the scorched wood, and gazed out onto something I had never seen before. The white-capped water—its vast flatness took my breath away. The smell in the air, the deep white sand as far as I could see, the hot wind on my face made me feel I was in a strange and exotic new world.

  Now, walking up the hill so far away from that place and time, I suddenly feel like that girl again, and Peck is there with me, a subtle breezy whisper, so close that I almost turn to see if he is beside me. Be strong, he says, words of reassurance, even in his saddened voice. It feels odd.

  Coach Lambert leads us to a concession stand, a small cinder-block building that is closed except for the door entering from behind. When I walk in, I find Clay waiting, sitting on a stool, his head bent, his hands limp in his lap.