Gone to Green

by Judy Christie

  "Tammy, you did the best you could. You always do. Now tell me what happened, step-by-step."

  She began one of her breathless Tammy explanations, offering details from the type of soft drink she sipped when she pulled up to her realization that the building was on fire.

  "It must have just started when I got here," she said. "There weren't any flames or anything."

  She hesitated.

  "It was creepy, though," she said. "Didn't smell right inside. You know how The Item always smells. That sort of ink, paper, musty smell? It was different today. More like a funky sort of electrical smell, like when you forget you left the iron on or something."

  I had worked in newsrooms for nearly three decades and knew exactly the first smell she spoke of. Newspapers have a distinct odor when you walk in ... and that varies only slightly from paper to paper. The scent was comforting to me. I dreaded how The Item would smell after the fire.

  "Then I caught a whiff of smoke and ran back outside, looked up, and saw lots of smoke and called the fire department," she said. "Not many people downtown today, you know. Except a car or two ... Sunday-driver types. Wish they would have called."

  Over the next few minutes the fire department, made up of a mix of paid staff and volunteers, put the fire out, with little visible damage outside. Not surprisingly, a sort of carnival atmosphere had sprung up over the past hour as people rushed to the scene, a common occurrence in Green.

  As people gathered, someone I didn't recognize served hot chocolate and bottled water from the nearby cafe and another person handed out leftover Christmas candy.

  "Sometimes I think this town doesn't even need a newspaper," Tammy said, waving to a group nearby. "Neighbors spread the word faster than CNN."

  Applause broke out as the firefighters wrapped up, although the deputy still looked miffed at the crowd's intrusion. The head of the fire department motioned for Eva, Stan, and me to come nearer and offered to show us the damage. "This is by invitation only, not a public viewing," he said. "Send your folks on home. We've got it under control, and there's nothing they can do today. It has to cool down. We'll watch it."

  Kevin, who had been busy bandaging a slight burn and getting a big splinter out of a firefighter's hand, invited several people to her parents' house on the lake. "We all need a bite to eat," she said, "and to catch our breath. Let's go over and see if we can't manage to get this year headed in the right direction. We'll get my daddy to pray over us. If that doesn't help, nothing will."

  Slowly, the crowd wandered off, reluctant to leave the scene. "We'll be there in a few minutes," I said, wishing I could escape with them. "Keep an eye on Tammy."

  As the fire chief described the damage, I took notes, an old habit and my only way of remembering with my brain so addled. The power had been turned off in the building, and the captain gestured with a large flashlight, almost as though conducting an orchestra.

  Stan walked next to him, listening intently and occasionally asking a question. The damage, which had seemed so extreme during the ruckus, was not too awful. However, everything was a mess-a complete, soggy mess.

  "Why, here's your problem right here, I believe," the chief said, making a clucking noise and shining his light closer. "Looks like that plug caught on fire. We'll check that out when the insurance fellow and the fire marshal from Shreveport come take a look."

  Stan squatted down, frowning, and examined the cord without touching it. "That's odd," he said. "I just replaced that cord about two months ago. When we thought Miss Lois was going to sell the paper, we got everything all spilled up."

  I was surprised, not knowing he had been getting everything in order to help me. My efforts to sell the paper secretly had been a big bust, thank goodness. The next thought that popped into my mind was how happy I was to have kept the paper-pretty funny under the circumstances.

  Stan looked closer, and I leaned in. "Can we get her running by next week?" I asked. "Or should I start making some calls to our backup print sites?"

  "I'll give it all I've got," Stan said. "Luckily, we printed our holiday issue on Tuesday, so that buys us a little extra time. If I can't get the old girl up and running, nobody can."

  With inspections and production questions and suspicions whirling, we headed over to the home of Marcus and Pearl Taylor. A lively, supportive crowd had assembled, each person with an opinion on the fire. I glanced around, amidst hugs and words of encouragement, but couldn't see the one person I wanted to see more than anyone else. Where was my neighbor Chris? He always made me feel better.

  We gathered in a circle in the living room and held hands while Mr. Marcus prayed one of his awesome prayers. "Oh, Mighty God," he said in his deep southern voice, "I thank you for this New Year, for the blessings of the year past and for the safety of Your servants who fought today's fire. We beg for wisdom for the months ahead and ask that we may be useful to Thee, no matter what the days bring."

  The black-eyed peas tasted good, but I could not fully enjoy them.