Laying Down the Paw

by Diane Kelly

  Minutes later, when we finally uncovered a leg, Reed called into the rubble. “Search-and-rescue here. How you doing in there?”

  There was no response. The man was either dead or unconscious. I prayed for the latter.

  “Is he okay?” cried the woman from where she now knelt on the countertop, trying to get a better look. “Is he okay?”

  As much as I wanted to give the woman good news, I had to tell her the truth. “We don’t know yet!” I called.

  We continued to pull debris away from the man, keeping one eye on the machines towering over us. Creeeaaak.

  Uh-oh. One of the machines had begun to shift.

  “Get back!” cried Reed, scurrying to his left. “It’s gonna fall!”

  I scurried in the opposite direction.

  The machine wobbled atop the pile for a moment, letting out another creak, before toppling over backward and sliding away from us. While the machine had exposed the man buried below, it had also removed the main means of support for the other washer, which had started to inch its way down a slope of debris.

  The rescue worker reached down and wrapped his hands around the prone man’s left ankle. “Grab a leg and pull!”

  I reached down, wrapped my hands around the man’s right ankle, and yanked with all my might. We managed to pull him toward us and out of the way a mere instant before the washing machine slammed down into the space with a resounding BANG! A second later and the man would’ve been crushed to death.

  Back on the countertop, the woman put her hands to her mouth and screamed.

  “We got him out!” I called to her, hoping my words didn’t give her false hope. We’d gotten the man out of the rubble, but whether he was alive was yet to be determined.

  The man looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a few lines beginning to form around his closed eyes. The rest of his face was slack, as if he were taking a restful nap. I only hoped it wouldn’t be a permanent nap. A large, oozing gash on his left temple indicated he’d suffered major head trauma.

  Reed put two fingers to the man’s neck and exhaled a quick, sharp breath. “We’ve got a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there.”

  I looked over at the woman. “He’s still alive!”

  “Thank God!” she cried, putting her left hand on her heart and raising the other to the sky. “Thank God!”

  A paramedic team ran up with a stretcher. While the three of them finagled the man’s limp body onto the device, I picked my way back to the woman, helped her down from the counter, and gave her a shoulder to lean on as she limped her way through the rubble to join her son in the ambulance.

  Brigit and I worked the rest of the day and late into the evening before being relieved from duty. During that time, I helped to pull three more seriously injured people from structures in the area. EMTs had set up a makeshift morgue in the bank building, one of the few structures that had suffered only minor, cosmetic damage. Several times I spotted teams going by, the limp forms on their stretchers covered with sheets. I nearly lost it when a woman’s hand flopped out from under the sheet, the sparkly diamond ring and festive pink nail polish at odds with the dark situation.

  Captain Leone stopped by in person just before nine, giving me a once-over. “You look exhausted,” he told me. “We’ve got officers en route to relieve you. Go on home.”

  He’d get no argument from me. My muscles were so sore and tired they quivered. I was no use to anyone in this condition.

  Brigit and I rode back to the station with Derek. I didn’t bother to thank him for the ride. It was his job to help out a fellow officer, after all. Besides, he’d complained the entire time that my furry partner and I were making his patrol car smell of “wet bitch.”

  I loaded Brigit into my Smart Car and drove back to my apartment. I’d never been so happy to get out of my uniform and into a warm shower. Afterward, I took a brush to Brigit, running it over her fur until her hair was tamed.

  I set the brush aside and cupped her face in my hands. “That looter was right. You are a pretty girl.”

  She gave me a sloppy kiss, then trotted across the kitchen to munch on her kibble. Crunch-crunch-crunch.

  I, on the other hand, had no appetite. I did what I’d been longing to do all day. Curled up on the futon and cried.

  TWENTY-SIX

  PARTNER PITY

  Brigit

  Her partner lay on the couch, curled up in a fetal positon, bawling and shaking. Tired as Brigit was, she knew she had to try to cheer Megan up. Heck, she could use some cheering up herself.

  She abandoned her overdue dinner of dry kibble and walked over to the couch. Ignoring Megan’s cries of protest, Brigit cleaned the tears from her partner’s face with her warm, wet tongue. Shlup-shlup-shlup.

  Eventually, Megan unfurled, stretching her legs out on the sofa and patting the space in front of her, inviting Brigit to lie down with her. Brigit hopped up and flopped down, turning her back to Megan so her partner could scratch her chest while they cuddled and comforted each other.

  Megan dug her fingers into the fur just below Brigit’s neck and gave the dog a nice scratch.

  Ahhh. That’s the ticket.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BLOWING SMOKES

  Dub

  Dub parked the van in the back lot of the apartment complex. He didn’t want to tell his mother about the van. At least not yet. She’d wonder how he’d gotten the money to pay for it and then she’d want to know whether he had any money left over. Dub didn’t mind helping her out. But he wanted it to be on his terms. Besides, if he gave her any cash, he was afraid what she might buy …

  He walked fast up to the apartment. It was nearly five o’clock now, and his mother would be home in half an hour.

  Inside, he slid the second set of car keys into his backpack and looked around the apartment for places to hide his remaining $466. The toilet tank was too obvious. Same went for his mother’s mattress. He thought about taping it under one of the kitchen drawers, but with his mom’s history of delinquent rent payments he didn’t want to risk them being evicted and someone else ending up with his cash.

  Where should he hide it?

  He realized then that the safest place to stash the cash was in the van itself. He rushed back out of the apartment, down the stairs, and was almost past the laundry room when Marquise stepped out of the doorway and blocked his way.

  Shit.

  Marquise’s upper lip quirked. “Where you going in such a hurry, WC?”

  None of your fuckin’ business. “Where d’you think?” Dub snapped, bumping shoulders with Marquise as he pushed past him. “To see a girl.”

  “Ah.” Marquise laughed. “Gonna get you some, huh?”

  “You know it.”

  Dub continued on into the parking lot, looking back to see if Marquise was still watching him. Luckily, the guy was no longer in sight.

  Dub climbed into the van. Though the vehicle might be a safer place to hide the cash than the apartment, Dub knew thieves sometimes broke into cars looking for electronics or drugs, especially in neighborhoods like this one. Dub also knew the glove compartment would be the first place someone would look if the van were broken into. He needed a better hiding spot.

  He looked around. There were no floor mats to hide the cash under, and the back of the van had only straight metal walls. Spots of clear, dried glue told him there had once been carpet in the back of the van, but it was gone now. As he leaned back to check out the cargo bay, he noticed the vinyl backing on the passenger seat had separated at the seam, leaving a gap just wide enough to shove the money through if he folded it into a wad. He pulled the cash from his wallet, folded it in two, and shoved it into the seatback.

  Good.

  He turned back to the door and almost screamed when Marquise, Long Dong, and Gato stood at the driver’s door, staring in at him.

  Had they seen him hide the cash?

  Would they take it from him?

  Be
fore he could decide what to do or say, Marquise yanked the door open. “What’s this, WC? You been holdin’ out on us?”

  “Yeah, man,” Gato said. “You got yourself some wheels and didn’t tell us?”

  So they’d seen the van but not the cash. Good.

  “Just got it.” Dub slid down from the driver’s seat and pushed down on the manual door lock. “Traded my twelve cartons of Camels for it.” He was blowing smoke, but he didn’t want these guys to know about the lottery tickets. He knew how these relationships worked. As the newest member of their gang, it wouldn’t take much for the other three to turn on him.

  “You move fast,” Marquise said, watching Dub closely. “No grass growin’ under your feet.”

  “You got that right.” He closed the door behind him. “I’m going to use this van to start a lawn business.”

  Long Dong scowled and waved a hand. “A business? Shit, man. You should be having a party in there!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE SUN WILL COME OUT TOMORROW

  Megan

  Sunday dawned warm and bright, not a cloud in the sky, almost as if Mother Nature were mocking us. Scared ya, didn’t I?

  After a late breakfast I had no real appetite for, I checked my work e-mail and the news reports for updates. Seven people were confirmed dead, three more were still missing, and over a hundred had been injured. Weather experts verified the tornado as an EF5, the strongest possible category of tornado. The only saving grace was that the twister, though strong, had been narrow and stayed on the ground only a short time, giving the city a quick bitch slap before vaporizing.

  My emotions were all over the place. When someone was hurt in a violent crime, it was easy to assign blame. But a natural disaster was an entirely different story. Who was at fault here? God? Satan? Corporate polluters whose emissions caused climate change? All of us who drove cars that decimated the ozone layer, leading to more frequent and extreme weather conditions? And, while catching a criminal and bringing him to justice could provide some closure, where was the closure here? When would this tragedy be “over?” When the last victims had been either buried in a cemetery or released from the hospital? When the grief of those who’d lost loved ones became manageable, if ever it would?

  Blurgh.

  Though I could certainly use a spiritual fix this morning, I’d slept too late to make it to Mass with my family. Maybe I could hit the Wednesday evening service this week.

  The only thing lifting my spirits after yesterday’s tragic events was the fact that I’d be leaving this crappy apartment behind by the end of the day. Even mean Mother Nature couldn’t put a damper on that.

  I dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee—moving attire—and began to pack up my apartment, glad to have the distraction. Given that I wore uniforms to work, had a limited off-duty wardrobe, and virtually no remaining shoes thanks to Brigit’s chewing habit, it didn’t take me long to pack my clothes. My coffeepot, toaster, and blender went into a large box with my small collection of plates, pots, pans, and utensils. The few items from the bathroom fit in a recyclable shopping bag.

  My books were another story. I had an entire bookcase full of them. Rather than pack them in a large box, which would quickly become too heavy to lift, I stacked them in a series of smaller boxes and, when I ran out of those, slid the remaining few into a rolling suitcase.

  A knock sounded at my door a few minutes before one o’clock. Brigit normally announced a visitor’s presence long before they reached our door, but today she’d been sound asleep on the futon, snoring even. She was as drained by yesterday’s events as I was.

  Seth and Blast stood on the walkway. Seth looked as tired and defeated as I felt. Being a first responder wasn’t easy, physically or emotionally.

  His green eyes met mine, clouding with concern as he seemed to assess my mental state. I must have looked even worse than I’d realized, because Seth immediately stepped forward and gathered me into his arms. I’d thought I’d cried every tear I had by then, but it turned out a few more had been hiding in reserve. I wet Seth’s shoulder with them as he stroked my hair and held me. Neither of us said anything. But, really, what was there to say? Words couldn’t change anything that had happened. But Seth’s strong, comforting arms could make me feel safe and secure, give me some hope.

  When my reserve ran dry, I gently pushed him back and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Time to focus on the task at hand. Moving. “Thanks for getting the truck.”

  Seth had rented a small Budget truck this morning and driven it to my place.

  “No problem,” he replied, following me into my apartment. After he and Blast gave Brigit their standard greetings—a head pat from Seth and a butt sniff from Blast—Seth gestured to the futon. “Let’s start with the big pieces.”

  We waved the dogs off the couch. While our canine partners wrestled and wrangled noisily on the floor, Seth and I folded the oversized cushion in half and performed our own wrangling, carrying the cushion out the door, down the stairs, and to the truck, laying it on top of a clean tarp Seth had spread across the floor.

  At the back of the truck sat a huge rectangular gift more than three feet long and nearly as tall and wide. It was covered in red Valentine’s wrap covered with cartoon cupids, as was another flat box wrapped in the same paper. I had a Valentine’s gift for Seth, too, though mine was small enough to fit into my purse.

  Seth caught me eyeing the gifts. “Not yet,” he said with a coy smile. “Not until we’ve got you moved into your new place.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Party pooper.”

  My current next-door neighbor, Rhino, was sitting on the wicker loveseat I’d bought secondhand several months ago and placed by the pool. He put down the guitar he’d been noodling around on and stepped to the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool. Rhino, so named because he wore his hair glued to a point over his forehead, had played in a seemingly endless list of alternative rock bands with such illustrious names as Crotch Rot and Toe Jam. Though his late-night practice sessions often impaired my sleep, he was otherwise a decent guy.

  He draped his forearms over the fence. “You moving out?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “I found a roommate with a house. Brigit needs a yard.”

  “Sweet!” he called. “I mean, not sweet that you’re moving but sweet that your apartment will be up for rent. Our drummer’s been looking for some new digs. If he moved into your place we could carpool to gigs.” He stepped out of the gate. “Y’all need some help?”

  “We’d appreciate it,” I said. “Thanks, Rhino.”

  He followed us up the stairs to my apartment. While he and Seth each took an end of the futon frame and finagled it out the door, I folded the legs on the cheap card table that served as my dinette set and collapsed the chair that went with it. I returned to the truck with these lightweight items and slid them into a space behind the futon.

  Seth and Rhino brought the bookcase down next, while I carried the big box of kitchen utensils. After a couple more trips to load the boxes of clothing and books, the last thing I brought down were my most-prized possessions, my twirling batons and fire batons. I’d recently performed with my fire batons at the stock show and rodeo, earning loud applause and even a few catcalls from the audience.

  I ordered Rhino a pizza as a show of my gratitude and, while Seth kept the dogs entertained outside, vacuumed the dog fur off the carpet and performed a quick cleaning of the apartment. It was a tiny place, so it didn’t take long.

  Once the vacuum and cleaning supplies were stashed in the moving truck, I went to Grigsby’s apartment to return my keys.

  He answered the door with a television remote in his hand. “You clean the place?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes,” I said. “You can go check if you want.”

  I knew he wouldn’t. The guy was as lazy as they come.

  He waved a dismissive hand, which he then held out to me. “Keys?”

  I d
ropped my apartment and mailbox keys into his hand. “Did you lease my apartment yet? Rhino has a friend who’s looking for a place.”

  “I thought I had it rented,” Grigsby said, “but the guy’s deposit check bounced.” He leaned out the door and hollered across the lot to Rhino, who’d settled back on the wicker love seat and resumed his noodling. “Rhino! Come on over here!”

  I left the two of them to their negotiations, rounded up Brigit, and put her in my Smart Car while Seth loaded Blast into the cab of the truck.

  As I pulled out of the lot, I took one last look back at Eastside Arms, expecting a tug at my heart, a brief sense of melancholy. Nope. Couldn’t muster up any feelings for the place other than a big sense of relief that I wouldn’t be living there anymore.

  C’est la vie.

  Seth followed me in the truck to the rental house. We had to detour a few blocks out of the way to avoid the crews still working on Berry Street and the surrounding areas. Unlike yesterday, many of those working today were civilians. Tree trimming services. Contractors boarding up broken windows. Plumbers capping off leaking pipes. Store owners trying to salvage what they could from the remains of their shops. Insurance adjustors assessing damage.

  I turned into the driveway of the house while Seth pulled the truck to the curb. Brigit and I climbed out of the car and met Seth and Blast in the front yard, which bore a scattering of broken tree limbs, leaves, and trash, evidence of yesterday’s storm. The magnolia tree was missing several branches and the mailbox stood crooked now, but fortunately, the house itself was intact.

  Seth’s gaze traveled from the sidewalk, then across the front of the house. “Nice-looking place.”

  The front door opened, and Frankie stood there, still wearing flannel pajamas even though it was the afternoon. Her short blue hair, which had mostly been covered by her helmet when I’d met her, stuck up all over the place, looking as if she’d styled it with a cheese grater. Her eyes were still pink and puffy, which meant she’d shed a few more tears over her ex, but at least she was able to smile today. Her cat stuck his head between her calves and mewed.