by Lyle Howard
She was probably right, Garcia thought. For all their irreverence, they were the most well-oiled shift he had ever worked with. He looked down at his wrist watch almost hating to remind them of their scheduled appointment. “I hate to tell you people, but I hope you remember that Cutter is going to be here in half an hour.”
Chapman, Muller and Ortiz all groaned in unison. Muller didn’t want to answer any more stupid questions, he just wanted to sleep. “Aw, come on, Lieutenant, we’ve already told ol’ purple eyes everything he wanted to know. Why’s he coming back here?”
Garcia never really regarded Cutter’s eyes as being purple, but when the light did hit them just right, they might have cast off what could have been considered a sort of violet hue. “There’s been a second incident this week, and Cutter just wants to go over the details of what we saw one more time.”
Muller sat up, leaning on his elbows, and pleaded his case. “Does anybody around here actually believe in spontaneous combustion in human beings, huh? Can anyone sitting,” he looked around at his partners’ positions, “or lying here, honestly say that they believe that someone can just burst into flames without any warning? Come on, give me a break!”
Felicia Ortiz threw away the soggy blade of grass she had been sucking on and plucked a fresh piece from the sod. “You know that Lance has never mentioned spontaneous combustion, Brandon.”
“He didn’t have to. We all knew damned well what he was implying.”
Julie Chapman rubbed her eyes and rolled over on her side to face Muller. “I don’t know why you’re coming down on Lance, Brandon. He used to be one of us, you know.”
Muller couldn’t have cared less about Cutter’s illustrious background. He just couldn’t agree with his outrageous theory. Actually, Muller was plagued by jealousy. At twenty-seven, Lance Cutter was one of the youngest fire fighters ever named to the Broward County Sheriff’s Arson Squad. In Cutter’s meteoric rise to such a prestigious position, Muller probably saw some of his own inadequacies. “That was before my time,” the rookie snapped. “I just think that all of his jabbering about spontaneous combustion is pure crapola.”
If anyone in the engine company should have felt slighted by Cutter’s brisk promotion, it should have been the Lieutenant, Manny Garcia. He was up for the position as well, but accepted the department’s rejection with class and dignity, wishing Lance only the best. The promotion had to be awarded solely on merit. In Cutter’s short tenure with the station, he had received more commendations for valor and bravery than any other firefighter in Broward County’s history. Garcia may have had the wisdom of experience, but that didn’t give him an exclusive on courage. To this day, the lieutenant was still in awe of the way that Cutter used to assault a burning building. It was as though the searing temperature of a raging fire didn’t faze him.
“Regardless of your personal feelings,” Garcia reminded Muller, “this is an official investigation and I expect you to cooperate fully with the inspector when he shows up!”
Muller leaned forward and retied the laces on one of his boots that had come loose. “Yeah, whatever you say, Lieutenant.”
Garcia bent down until his face was mere inches from Muller’s. “Hey, don’t screw with me, paleface, or else I’ll have you scrubbing all three engines by yourself for a month. Understood?”
Muller nodded his comprehension. “Good!” Garcia looked around at the other firefighters who weren’t nodding off. “Anybody else have a complaint?”
Chapman and Ortiz nodded silently. “I didn’t think so.” Garcia turned to leave, but then paused and turned back to the group. “I’ll expect to see all of you showered and ready in the lunchroom in half an hour.” Then he pointed at Ortiz. “Make sure you wake those other sleeping beauties before Cutter arrives. They’re starting to sprout roots!”
Lance Cutter had matured into a bronze statue of a man. His golden skin was molded tightly over a firm, but not bloated, muscle structure. His hair had lightened, and his eyes no longer required the protection from those awkward sunglasses he wore as a child and teenager. This was a new day and age, and a pair of blue-tinted contact lenses permitted him to function normally with only the slightest suggestion of his abnormality.
After losing his mother and feigning his own demise in the tragic Air Florida disaster, Lance had methodically worked his way from Washington back to his grandparent’s fish hatchery in Wyoming. It took him nearly a year, but he survived the long trek cross-country by taking on any odd jobs that were offered to him and by staying anonymous. Through trial and error, he found that he enjoyed doing manual labor, and he grew increasingly stronger as the long summer days wore on.
Halfway to Wyoming, the blazing Iowa sun seemed to invigorate him as he worked tending cattle. All around him, his fellow workers were passing out from heat prostration, but Lance seemed to thrive in the sweltering warmth.
During the icy winter in South Dakota that followed, Lance worked for the National Park Service at Mount Rushmore. While he was content to wear tshirts or short sleeves while working as a ticket-taker at the park entrance, the rangers who would pass by his booth were decked out in fur-lined parkas and insulated underwear. The rangers all needled Lance about his absurd attire, but he dismissed it with the wisecrack that he hated to wear more than one shirt at a time. Actually, by his eighteenth birthday, it was evident to Lance that he possessed an uncanny ability to adapt to temperature changes much more easily than anyone around him.
When he finally reached his grandparent’s ten-acre spread outside of Laramie, his startling resurrection nearly caused his grandfather to have a stroke. It was an oppressive summer afternoon and the smell of freshly fried chicken greeted Lance as he stood just outside the white picket fence on the dirt road that led up to the Cutter’s three-bedroom farmhouse. His grandfather was gently rocking on a swinging bench on the patio and rolling his empty lemonade glass against his forehead to beat the heat. Had the creaking of the old swing not shattered the impression, the scene might have looked like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
After a few anxious minutes of standing with his hand on the gate, Lance realized that the creaking from the patio had stopped. His grandfather was leaning forward on the bench and squinting in Lance’s direction. The squeaking of the wooden swing had been replaced by the nervous rattle of ice in the old man’s glass, provoked by his now trembling hands. Floyd Cutter rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and held up the lemonade glass to the sun to examine it. Lance could tell that his grandfather must have thought he was hallucinating, and that someone had to have spiked his drink.
His grandfather’s face was just as Lance remembered it, cracked and weathered like an old sidewalk.
“Aren’t you gonna invite me in, Grandpa?” Lance asked, through quivering lips.
Floyd Cutter covered his mouth with both his hands as he let the glass fall to the warped and splintering planks below his feet. The glass bounced once on its base and then shattered. Hearing the noise and thinking the worst of it, Eva Cutter threw open the screen door and called out to her husband. “Floyd? Are you all right?”
Lance’s grandmother hadn’t changed in three years, either, although he thought that her face looked much sadder than he could recall. “Floyd?” she asked, grabbing her husband of forty years by the sleeve of his L. L. Bean denim shirt, “what in tar nation is the matter with you?”
Floyd pointed his bony finger out toward the apparition in the front yard. “Tell me that I’m not imagining it, Eva. Just tell me!”
Her eyes fell upon Lance and they filled up like a bathtub that was about to overflow. “It can’t be, oh, good Lord, it can’t be!”
Lance was crying too. “It’s me, Grandma. I promise, it’s me!”
After the initial shock had worn off, Lance stayed on at the hatchery and decided to keep the Cutter name in memory of his mother. During the next year or two, a handful of government officials paid visits to the Cutter farm, but Lanc
e stayed hidden upstairs. After 1985, the inquiries became less and less frequent.
During his stay at the farm, under the careful supervision of his loving grandparents, Lance learned more and more about the physical gifts he had been endowed with. But more importantly, Floyd and Eva Cutter instilled in Lance a sense of family and belonging. Their love filled an emotional void that Lance realized he cherished more than anything he could have ever asked for.
Never having known his father, Lance quickly came to idolize his grandfather. When the two men weren’t busy caring for the hatchery, or trading sentimental stories about Lance’s mother, they would fill their free time serving with the community’s volunteer fire department. Floyd had been performing as a volunteer for over twenty-five years, but he had never seen anyone take as quickly to the skills of fighting fires as his grandson did. Lance seemed to be fearless of the omnipotent heat and intensity of the flames.
The Cutters weren’t rich by anyone’s standards, but they always managed to put food on the dinner table. For his twentieth birthday, Lance’s grandparents surprised him with the tuition for a two-year program in fire science at the local community college. In a little less than two years, by overloading his schedule, Lance received his associate’s of science degree two months before his twenty-second birthday. After a long and tear-filled discussion, the Cutters all agreed that it would be in Lance’s best interest if he started fresh, somewhere far away from the snooping eyes and ears of the government. Lance was always partial to Florida, so it was decided that he should leave as soon as possible. It was a sorrowful farewell, but Lance still kept his promise to them by calling home every Sunday night.
The lunchroom in the fire station was filled with an aromatic combination of food fragrances. Every member of the crew was responsible for their own meals, and each waited patiently for their own opportunity to show off their culinary skills at the oven or microwave. Although it may have looked to an outsider like mass confusion in the tiny kitchen, the hungry fire fighters glided around each other like a blue-shirted synchronized dance team.
Everything from omelettes to charbroiled hamburgers to fried chicken wings were prepared and consumed by the fire fighters with robust enthusiasm. It was as if they had already forgotten that only a few short hours ago, each of them had unpretentiously risked their lives and limbs for people that they did not know. The lieutenant believed that eating together and rehashing the morning’s events was a vital stress reliever. He was of the opinion that it was as important an outlet for lessening tension as was washing down the engines or straightening up the firehouse for the next shift.
At one end of a long wooden table, Muller, Ortiz and Chapman munched away on a cool fruit salad that Felicia had made the night before. To make it easier on themselves, the three friends had agreed to make meals for the others on alternating days. This way, each of them would only have to cook every third or fourth shift. Both Muller and Chapman looked forward to the days when Ortiz brought in food. She was a health enthusiast, and her fresh fruit and yogurt pies, or her cold mango, watermelon and cantaloupe salads, were a treat fit for royalty. Today, the icy fruit was especially refreshing and satisfying.
Muller spit a slippery brown watermelon seed into his fist and let the pink pulp of the fruit slide appreciably down his parched throat. “I hope Cutter gets here soon,” he said, looking up at the digital clock mounted on the pale blue concrete wall of the lunchroom. “My shift is over in an hour, and whether the lieutenant likes it or not, I’m out of here at three o’clock sharp!”
Chapman toyed with her fruit salad using her fork. “Why are you like this, Brandon? Lance is just doing his job. I’m sure he’d show you the courtesy of hanging around if you were running late.”
“What are you my, mother?” Muller asked sarcastically as he spit another seed into his fist.
Chapman and Ortiz looked at each other and could only shake their heads in shared futility. They had never met anyone with the total disregard for authority that Muller possessed. Without saying a word, they both understood that, someday his disregard would come back to haunt him.
Felicia speared a piece of mango and held it up on her fork as she spoke. “So what’s the emergency?”
Muller also skewered a slice of mango, but he took his piece and dropped it onto Ortiz’s plate. “I hate mangos!”
Ortiz looked up from his plate. “So, why do you have to be out of here in such a hurry?”
Muller lowered his voice. There was no end to the razzing that he would take if the others found out. “I’m helping Crystal move into her new place.”
Julie Chapman looked up from her salad and winked at Felicia. “Three weeks before the marriage, and the woman’s already pulling out the old ball and chain, lover boy?”
Muller winced. “Hey, pipe down, Julie,” he said, motioning with his hand, “Crystal needs all the help she can get now, she’s really bummed out about having to get rid of Spunky!”
Felicia let her thoughts drift back to the night of Muller’s engagement party and the ten-year-old Scottish terrier, who, looking for affection, took a liking to her calf. “That dog had better stay away from the front bumper of my car!”
Julie laughed. “Oh, you’re just upset because your leg hasn’t dried yet.”
Ortiz grimaced. “The hound with the peanut-sized weasel from hell!”
“Hey, come on now,” Muller pleaded. “We had to get rid of the little fellah because the stupid condominium bylaws exclude pets.”
Chapman leaned forward and addressed Muller like a teacher would reprimand a dimwitted student. “So, why didn’t you just find somewhere else to live?”
Muller waggled his head back and forth as if he were weighing the issues in his mind. “Well, she really wanted to live on the beach, and you know Crystal … she wanted the best.”
Boy, oh boy, did Julie and Felicia know Crystal! She was probably the most possessive woman that had ever blossomed from the union of a sperm and egg. First, there were the hourly phone calls in the middle of the night at the station to see if her darling Brandon was behaving himself with the two women. Then there were the early morning drive-bys while they were all washing down the engines. Muller pretended that he didn’t see her, but the flaming red Corvette was hard to miss. There was a secret gambling pool that had formed at the station when Brandon wasn’t around to see it. The short odds were giving the marriage six months.. .the long odds, a year.
Julie was just about to add a piece of pointed advice to the conversation, such as dumping the bitch, when the door to the lunchroom sprang open. Lieutenant Garcia held the metal door open for Lance Cutter as he strolled in. They stood for a moment while Garcia whispered something in Lance’s ear which caused the young inspector to giggle and look out toward the two women eating in the back of the room.
“Everybody!” Garcia called out. “Can I have your attention, please?” He surveyed the room until everyone was looking in his direction. “You all remember Lance Cutter? He used to work here at the station, but now he’s with the sheriff’s arson squad.”
Lance nodded and smiled. Ortiz kicked Chapman under the table, causing Julie to smile coquettishly. There was such a thing as carrying a torch for someone, and then there was Julie’s three-alarm fire down below.
Garcia put his hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Well, the inspector is here because, believe it or not, there’s been another incident similar to the one at the bank last week.”
There was a murmur in the crowd from those firefighters who were unaware of the second episode.
“Now the inspector,” Garcia continued, “has a few questions for those who responded to the bank fire. He may also want to ask others of you a few questions as well.”
Lance hated being the focus of everyone’s attention. The last thing he wanted was to be in the spotlight. “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he interrupted politely. “Since I know so many of you, how about if I just mosey around the room, and ask my questions indiv
idually while you continue enjoying your food? I really don’t want to infringe upon your lunch hour. I know you’ve all had a busy morning.”
The lieutenant smiled agreeably. “Sounds good to me.”
Lance made his way through the maze of tables and chairs until he stood behind Felicia. Although he put his hands on her shoulders, he was looking across the table at Julie Chapman. “How are you all doing?” he asked cordially.
Although the question was asked of all three of them, both Ortiz and Muller both knew that the question was directed at Julie. “I’m fine,” Muller mimicked. “Are you fine, Felicia?”
Ortiz answered in her perkiest voice. “Sure I’m fine, Brandon. How are you?”
Muller batted his eyelids. “Why, I’m just peachy! How about you, Julie?”
Julie Chapman never heard the comedic tête-à-tête. Her concentration was engrossed on Lance’s soft violet-tinted eyes. “It’s been a long time, Lance,” Julie lamented.
“Too long,” Lance conceded. Muller and Ortiz looked at each other. Felicia hated to break the spell that seemed to have suddenly engulfed the couple, but Muller couldn’t have cared less. “Hey, you two! Enough is enough. Do you want to talk, or do you want to rent a motel room?” the rookie suggested, again checking the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get out of here soon, so if you both can stop making goo-goo eyes long enough that Lance can ask his questions, I’d really appreciate it!”
Lance never missed a beat. Without so much as an extra breath, he turned to Muller and grinned. “Felicia, I’ll put five dollars on less than three months!”
Felicia Ortiz nearly gagged on a watermelon pit. It caught in her throat and she began choking unmercifully.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Muller asked innocently.
Julie covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Her eyes were tearing as she watched Felicia struggling not to lose her lunch.
“Can I sit down?” Lance asked.