Through the Fire

by Shawn Grady

  Chief Anderson started back toward the scene. “And there’s coffee and drinks at the back of the safety officer’s rig if you’d like.”

  Julianne waved again, like only a girl can wave, wiggling fingers and all. Chief Anderson returned the gesture before he realized I was watching. His face fell into a frown. “Morning, Aidan.”

  I stifled a grin. “Morning, Chief.”

  He disappeared behind the ladder truck. I walked around the hood of the Tahoe. “How do you do that?”

  She clipped the handheld radio on her belt. “Do what?”

  “You’re like a snake charmer.”

  She smiled and put a finger by her lips. “Shh. You’ll reveal my secret.” She started toward the house, briefcase in hand.

  “Here,” I said. “Let me get that.”

  She pulled it away. “I’ve got it.”

  She walked on and I stared at her for a moment. I quickened my pace to catch up. “Is it the straightaway that gets them or the curtsy?”

  She stopped and twisted her lips, looking up to her right. “Probably a combination of both. But the straightaway seems to give the whole thing a sort of British flare that just melts their butter.”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s so awesome. You’re like the Chief Whisperer.”

  We suction-cup-stepped through mud along the side and back of the house. Yellow fire-line tape cordoned off an area that, from the looks of the scattered concrete pillar foundations, had once held a wooden deck. A large black triangle stained the building side, showing where the flames had lapped up at the soffit and attic vents. Three little orange flags, like the kind used to mark damaged turf on a field, stuck out from the charred debris on the ground. Julianne flipped open the briefcase and pulled out a digital camera. I stepped back as she snapped several photos.

  She donned exam gloves and picked out a pair of tweezers; a long, thin scalpel-like device; and three plastic bags. As she bent under the fire-line tape, I leaned forward to hold it up for her, watching as she took care to place her feet only in the existing footprints in the mud.

  I let the tape back down. “You’re a natural at this. What a crime to keep you cooped up in a lab.”

  She hunched over the first flag and tilted her head with a dismissive shrug. “You should see me when I get things cooking indoors.”

  Whoa. Deep breath. “So . . . what do you see?”

  She poked around with the long instrument. “Looks like another one of Blake’s interpretations of a suspicious char fragment.” She opened a ziplock bag one-handed and used the tweezers to pluck and deposit the piece.

  The next two didn’t prove to be much different. She retraced her steps and I again held the tape as she ducked and returned to the briefcase. She opened one of the bags and transferred a kernel into a test tube.

  I sat on my haunches. “Now what? Chemical tests?”

  She uncapped a small vial and plunged fluid from it with a pipette. “I’m starting a series of algorhythmic experiments to test the reactivity of the unknown. The sooner you do it, the better chance you have of detection before it decomposes or evaporates. You’d be surprised at how fast a little heat and humidity can eradicate evidence.” She said all this as she worked, deliberate and methodical, exacting in her measurements and procedure. She gave a swirl to one of the tubes. The liquid changed to a faint amber.

  I raised my eyebrows. She looked at me and nodded. “Could be something.”

  She drained the test tube and returned the fragment to its bag, marking the outside with a pen. “All right.” She capped the vials and placed the tools in a separate plastic bag. “These will need to be cleaned.”

  “Wait.” I stood. “What is it? What about the other two pieces?”

  She shook her head. “There are further tests I need to do.” She shut the briefcase. “We need to get this back to the lab.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  S he drove with hands at ten and two, staring straight ahead.

  I adjusted my seat belt. “What is it?”

  “I keep thinking I’m forgetting something. I bagged the samples, the scooper; I have the radio . . .” An alarm beeped from her wristwatch. She glanced at it. “Oh. Dad.” She stopped at a light and played with the zipper on her vest.

  Dad? “You need to make a stop?”

  “Do you mind taking a detour?”

  “No, not at all. Whatever you need to do.”

  “It might take half an hour . . .”

  “That’s fine. It’s no problem.”

  She switched on her blinker and glanced at her watch again. We drove for about ten minutes before pulling into a parking lot with a sign that read Pathways Memory Care.

  She shut off the engine and exhaled, staring at the steering wheel.

  “Your dad,” I said. “I thought he was . . .”

  “Dead?”

  I nodded.

  “No, he’s alive. But I did lose him. Just in a different way. That week before your father died, that time on the bridge, he hasn’t recognized me since.”

  I ran my finger across a fine layer of dust on the center console radio. “Alzheimer’s?”

  She shook her head. “Stroke. Massive bleed.”

  “Does he remember anything before the stroke?”

  “Some scattered things. But not me, so far.” She pressed her lips together. “He can’t walk anymore.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m . . . I just can’t believe that I almost forgot to visit my father at a memory care.” She smiled.

  I chuckled. “You know, I’ll wait here. Take as much time as you need.”

  “No, I’d . . . If you want, I was kind of hoping you’d come in.” Her eyes met mine, and I realized that she was inviting me inside—not into a building, but into her garden, into a recess of her heart.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  Ornate woodwork and flower patterns adorned the entryway walls. Gilded-frame prints hung throughout, broad representations of the European impressionists. The air held the odor of an aerosolized garden scent.

  At the front desk we met a joyful round-faced woman with a curly cloud of white hair. She wore a thick aqua blue cardigan joined in the front by three big buttons. The youthful glow of her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes marked her too young to be in her eighties, but she was too respectfully aged to be less than sixty.

  “Julianne.” Ruby-colored reading glasses dangled from a black beaded string around her neck. “Missed seeing you at church Sunday. How are you?”

  Julianne leaned over to give her a hug. “I’m doing well, Pearl. How have you been?”

  She took a deep breath through her nose and tottered her head with contentment. “Just wonderful.” She gave the impression that breathing air was like sipping sherry.

  Julianne squinted. “Have you fallen in love?”

  She laughed and placed a hand on Julianne’s arm. “Dear one, let me tell you. His love is better than life, His presence sweeter than wine.” She walked around the desk and gave me a once-over.

  Julianne stretched out a palm. “Pearl, this is my friend Aidan from the Fire Department.”

  She shook my hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” She smiled and paused. “Well, your dear father. Let me take you to him.”

  Julianne followed alongside. “Is he playing pinochle with the guys again?”

  Pearl stopped, running her fingers along the cuff of her sweater. “I’m afraid he hasn’t been playing with them this past week.”

  “What has he been doing?”

  She looked at the floor and considered. “Thinking, I’d say. Thinking, and perhaps a little praying, too.”

  “Has he been in his room the whole time?”

  “Oh no. Of course not. He eats his meals and everything just like before. But late afternoon like this, when he usually plays cards with the other gents, he’s instead been sitting out in the atrium, gazing at the flowers and the fountain. I make it a point to cha
t with him. He gets very quiet out there, but I know he likes me talking to him. I pray with him and give him a hug, and I know that he knows he’s loved. At dinnertime, it’s as if his period of afternoon quiet is over and he goes back to his normal routine.”

  “Why wasn’t I contacted? Has the doctor been to see him?”

  “Yes. And that’s why I didn’t call you. He says this is normal, that the stress on the mind of feeling lost and without bearing can become too great over time. Sometimes the body’s normal and healthy reaction is to seek the quiet of something familiar, something grounded.”

  I looked at the floor. An instant later I found myself embraced in Pearl’s thick cardigan, squished with Julianne in a group hug. “God has a plan for him.” Pearl squeezed us tight. “He does for all of us.” She straightened her glasses, which had gone cockeyed. “Now, let me show you the way.”

  I watched Julianne in the atrium with her father. She studied the lines and angles in his face, searching for any sign of recognition. After a while she just sat with him, placing her hand over his, watching a fountain spill water from staggered bronze leaves into a shallow basin.

  I wondered what kind of pain that brought, and how it differed from a loved one’s sudden death. It was a form of loss either way. The doctors were unable to fix what had happened with Julianne’s father. I was unable to stop what had happened to mine.

  None of it seemed right. None of it seemed just.

  All of it was out of my control.

  CHAPTER

  26

  T he gray shade of dusk pulled over the city, blurring the edges of the high-rises. I left Julianne to her tests back at the lab and picked up some items I needed from the store—fresh basil, portabellinis, fettuccini, sun-dried tomatoes. My mother would be over for our weekly dinner soon.

  At home I rinsed the basil in the sink and stared at the detached garage beyond my small patch of browning grass. Colors melded and shadows shaped images. A translucent figure morphed into Christine emerging from the door, book bag slung over her shoulder, keys jangling from an index knuckle, tilted-up oversized sunglasses diverting the flow of her hair. Her face wore the serious expression of a metropolitan woman moving in the pace of city life and Starbucks-instigated New York Times urgency. She followed the flagstone path to the back door . . . and vanished.

  Water streamed into the sink. The basil in my hand bent low, sopping wet.

  The doorbell rang.

  I grabbed a towel and walked to the front door. The old brass knob squeaked when I turned it. “Hey, Mom. I—”

  Cormac stood on the doormat. “I had to see you with my own eyes.”

  “Cormac. Wow. Come—”

  My face mashed against his shoulder. He pushed me away and stared at me. “How’s your vision? Been getting headaches?”

  I wiped my hands on the towel. “Good to see you, too. . . . I didn’t expect you here.”

  His beard had been trimmed down to a long bushy moustache.

  He ran his hand along a smooth jawline. “I had to make sure you were all right. How do you feel?”

  “I’m all right. You know my head is a little—”

  “It tore me up that I couldn’t be there when you woke up.” He walked in. “I heard you’d left the hospital and I couldn't believe it. This morning I drove to San Diego and caught the first plane I could get out here.”

  “It’s good to see you. Come in. Yeah. Do you have a place to stay? I mean, you’re welcome to the guest bedroom.”

  “No, no. I’m good. I’ve got a hotel. I’m only here for the night.” He put his hands on his hips. “Wow. Look at you. The eternal hourglass turned upside down again.”

  I shook my head and glanced at the floor. “Well, I definitely feel fortunate.”

  He stood there smiling, cool air feeding in from outside.

  “Hey, come on and have a seat.” I closed the door and took his coat. “Mom is going to be here any minute.”

  “Alana?”

  I smirked. “Yeah. Unless someone changed moms on me.”

  “Aidan, I didn’t realize I was interrupting plans.”

  “No, don’t mention it. I always make plenty for dinner.”

  He strolled into the living room and sank into the leather chair. Dad’s old chair. I’d kept a lot of the furniture when I bought the house from my mother. She couldn’t see staying there alone after my dad died, but couldn’t see parting with it, either. Seeing Cormac there was a bit surreal. I was pretty sure he hadn’t talked with my mom since he’d left to live in Mexico. She, too, had been upset with him for leaving, but there was something more than that, an awkwardness that hung between them.

  I uncapped two bottles of Guinness and handed one to Cormac.

  “Thanks, Aidan. House smells great, by the way. What are you cooking up?”

  “Irish fettuccini alfredo.”

  He cocked his head. “Really? What makes it Irish?”

  I tipped my bottle in the air. “I drink this while I’m cooking it.”

  The doorbell rang.

  My mother hugged me at the door, Gaelic eyes smiling over rosy freckled cheeks. “How’s my boy?”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “I’m all right.” I motioned toward Cormac. “Guess who was able to make it up for dinner.”

  She saw him and tensed. “Cormac. How are you?”

  He stood. “Very good, Alana. Thank you. I’m much better now that I know Aidan is okay.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Let me take your coat, Mom.”

  “Oh yes. Thank you. I read about the roof collapse. How is your partner, sweetie?”

  “He’s getting better. I—”

  “Roof collapse?” Cormac said.

  I started toward the kitchen. “Yeah.”

  “When was this?”

  “It was this large footprint department store. Trusses failed. I actually need to check on those noodles.”

  “Wait,” my mother said. “Isn’t that what you were talking about?”

  Cormac shrugged. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Mom, would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Aidan, what was Cormac talking about?”

  Cormac glanced between us. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she didn’t—”

  “I was at a beach in Mexico and got thrown onto a rock by a wave. It knocked me out and I woke up in the hospital. I’m fine.”

  Cormac shook his head. “Aidan here is too humble about his recovery. I saw it all. No breathing. No heartbeat. It wasn’t until that doctor—”

  “All right, all right,” I said. “I was just trying to spare her the details.”

  “Aidan, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “I just didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

  “You dying is a big deal.”

  “Well, I didn’t die, Mom. See, here I am.”

  “Your heart not beating sounds a lot like dying to me.”

  “He was dead. And now he is alive.” Cormac made a fist. “The incarnate will to power.”

  I put my hand out. “Cormac.”

  My mother’s eyebrows knitted. “How could you keep this from me?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Did Dad come home and tell you about every near miss?”

  “How many near misses have there been, Aidan?”

  “It’s not like that. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

  “I already worry. Do you think I don’t already worry? Twenty-four years with your father and I worried every time he left. I don’t think you quite understand what it’s like. Have you told Christine yet?”

  “That is a different situation altogether.”

  “No, it is not.” She turned and looked over the living room.

  Cormac forced a jovial tone. “Well, fortunately, Aidan doesn’t take well to dying.”

  I shot him a just shut up glance.

  My mother ran her hand over the edge of the leather chair. “Every night that James was at work, he called me. And I would sit he
re and answer the phone and hear his voice and he would always say how he would see me in the morning. Every night. Even that last one.” She blinked away moisture in her eyes. “He wasn’t lying. I know that I will see him again, when I am with the Lord. I have peace in that. But not knowing is the worst. Promise me you won’t keep things like that from me.”

  “I've never understood how you could be at peace with God when He took Dad from you.”

  “I wasn’t ready for your father to go. And I’m not ready for you to. I pray for you so much. But you have to trust in Him. Your father did.”

  “And look where it got him.”

  “God has plans for you, Aidan Paul. He may have to take you through the fire to accomplish them, but listen to Him. Have faith in Him. Stop being so stubborn and wise in your own eyes.”

  A pot lid clattered on the stovetop.

  “I’ve got to get that.”

  We spent the better part of dinner in silence. Conversation stayed simple and polite. Cormac did the dishes and left right before my mother did, shaking my hand and wishing me well. I walked my mom to her car. She put a hand on my cheek and then drove away. Behind me the front door hung open. An amber hallway, warm but empty, waited within.

  CHAPTER

  27

  T he next morning gave me all of five minutes at work before the tones went off. The dispatch printer etched in a frenzy.

  “Battalion One . . .”

  Here we go.

  I pulled on my turnouts as Kat slid down the pole beside me. Butcher jogged across the app bay. Peyton slid the pole by the ladder truck’s tiller cab. A loud smack sounded off like pieces of wood clapped together. Peyton yelled, clutching his ankle on the floor.

  “What happened?”

  He winced, squeezing his eyes together. “Pole was wet. My foot slipped.”

  Engine One growled to life. Butcher shouted out his window. “Let’s go.”

  Sower saw Peyton lying on the floor. “We need a tillerman?”

  Peyton stood, using the pole to pull himself up. He yelled even louder when he bore weight on his ankle. He cursed again.

  Sower motioned to Butcher. “You guys go. I’ll take Aidan to tiller.”

  “Go,” said Peyton. “I’m out, man. Go.”