The Broken Places

by Susan Perabo

  Following Casey Engine 14, they came upon Ben and the mayor standing beside an enormous red convertible. Paul had never seen a car like it before: long as a stretch limousine and wide as a Winnebago, the car’s backseat consisted of two couch-sized plush beige seats facing each other. On the side of the car in white script was written “Bernie’s Classic Cars.” A man, whom Paul assumed to be Bernie, was in the “driver’s seat” — a giant recliner covered with fake white fur — guzzling a bottle of Mountain Dew. Bernie wore a wide red cowboy hat and a bright red blazer, had the broad, smile-lined face of a man who had clearly found his true calling parading down small-town Main Streets.

  Sonny whistled under his breath. “Nice wheels.”

  “And check out that hat,” Ben said, nodding at Bernie.

  “The best for the best,” the mayor said proudly, slapping Sonny between the shoulder blades. “We keep a little cash in the kitty for occasions like this.”

  “So where do I sit?” Sonny asked, rubbing his hands in anticipation, as if instead of riding in the car he was going to eat it.

  The mayor cleared his throat in a long, drawn-out grumble, picked a ball of fuzz off his yellow wool sweater. Paul thought he looked a little uneasy; he was, after all, mayor only on weekends and when something needed fixing. He wasn’t exactly respected, but he was likable and easily manipulated, which was plenty to get elected mayor in a town of nine thousand.

  “Well, Sonny,” the mayor began, “I was planning on having you in the car here, but Ben was just saying you’d prefer riding with the rest of the firemen, up ahead on the Casey truck.”

  Sonny glanced quickly at Ben, then at Engine 14, then back at the convertible. “Huh,” he said, obviously puzzled. “So . . . who’s gonna sit in the car then?”

  “Well, I’ll be up front with Bernie,” the mayor said. “I thought Ian Finch could sit in the back. And of course your family is welcome to sit with Ian, if they’d like.”

  “Wha’dya think, worm?” Ben said, winking at Paul and patting the car door seductively. “Pretty sweet, ain’t she? Why don’t you hop in and try her on.” He turned to Sonny. “Let’s go, huh? We’ll get you outa these church clothes and into the gear like everybody else.”

  Paul watched his father’s fingers curl and uncurl. He lightly touched his narrow blue tie as if it were something precious. “It’s just . . .” he started. “Well, see, I was thinking I might just ride in the car here. You know, with Ian . . . and Laura and Paul.” He paused, carefully. “You think anybody’d mind?”

  It was perfectly clear to Paul from the look on Ben’s face that — even if nobody else gave a rat’s ass — he himself minded. Minded pretty much, in fact. “The guys were thinking we’d all ride together,” he said stiffly. “The whole team thing, you know?”

  Paul stared intently at a crack on the sidewalk. The mayor looked at his watch. Up ahead, the Girl Scouts were mounting their horses. Ian Finch still hadn’t appeared. No one spoke until Laura, mercifully, broke the cumbersome silence.

  “Honey, it’s okay,” she said, touching Sonny’s sleeve. “You go on and be with your team. This car, this whole thing . . . it’s a little silly, really. Paul and I will just watch from the side.”

  Paul knew she was trying to give his father an easy out, trying to let him save face in front of everyone. It was a generous gift, but his father wouldn’t accept it, no sir. This was his parade, dammit, and he wanted to be in the shiny red car.

  “I . . .” he started. “Well, I just think . . . you know . . . the family should be together.”

  Paul blushed at the lie as if it were his own, glanced warily at Ben. He’d seen Ben Griffin mad before, and it wasn’t pretty; he did a Jekyll and Hyde number, one moment a big stuffed teddy bear, the next a live gorilla who would happily pluck the beating heart from your chest. This talent was helpful in certain situations, allowed Ben and Sonny to play the fireman version of good cop/bad cop when trying to extract information about a suspicious fire. But this, really, was not the time nor the place for the gorilla to make an entrance, not with the whole town waiting for a parade. Before Ben could really lose it, Paul managed to catch his eye, just for a moment, managed to say please without actually saying a word.

  “All right, then,” Ben said gruffly. “I’ll tell the guys.”

  He turned to leave and Paul breathed a quiet sigh of relief. His father had his hand on the door handle when Ben, nearly out of earshot, but not quite, muttered: “All for one and one for all . . .”

  Sonny spun around. “You got a problem?”

  Ben was still walking. “Forget it,” he said, raising a dismissive wave.

  “Come on,” Sonny began. “I don’t —”

  Now Ben stopped, turned back. “I said forget it, Sonny. Do what you need to do. It’s just you keep saying how we’re all heroes, how we all worked together on this thing, and you sittin’ back here might make some of the guys think you don’t really mean all that.”

  “Which guys?” Sonny asked. “You and who else?”

  Ben ignored the question. “A team rides together. You know that.”

  Sonny’s jaw stiffened. “Yeah, well, the team wasn’t underground for six hours.”

  At that moment Paul caught sight of Ian Finch. He was wheeling himself down the sidewalk toward them in wide, clumsy jolts.

  “There’s Ian!” Paul said, shouted actually, in an attempt to distract everyone from what had just come from his father’s mouth.

  “What’s the holdup?” Ian asked, coming to a sudden and awkward halt with his wheels halfway over the curb. His pupils were obscured by a fog so dense even Paul knew he was stoned. His hair was damp and he wore ragged jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt with the words THE GRAVE written in white block letters.

  Sonny turned to him, blinked at his outfit; by the time he turned back, Ben was twenty feet gone, already pulling himself swiftly aboard the rear of Engine 14. A ways up ahead, the marching band burst into a trumpet-heavy version of “Twist and Shout.”

  “You need some help there, kiddo?” the mayor asked Ian.

  Ian scowled. If there was ever an anti-kiddo, Paul thought, it was Ian Finch. He gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up, out, and precariously against the car door. “Fold up the chair,” he growled, “and slip it in here somewhere.”

  Once they were settled — the mayor in the front seat with red-hatted Bernie, Sonny and Ian facing Paul and Laura in back — Bernie whipped the keys from the pocket of his red blazer with a flourish and started the car.

  “Let ’er rip!” the mayor shouted, slapping the side of the car as if it were a wily steed. The giant convertible rolled forward at three miles an hour, followed the Casey engine slowly up Post Road and made a wide turn onto Main Street. A huge cheer erupted, and Paul was stunned, struck dumb, at the sight. He’d never seen so many people in Casey before. The sidewalks were packed five deep as far as the eye could see. Streamers flapped from lampposts; bunting adorned the awning of every downtown business. People along the street waved Mustang pennants, handkerchiefs, and American flags. Most of the kids had blue and white helium balloons, and they bobbed and waved in the fall breeze.

  “Wow,” Sonny said breathlessly. “Will you look at that?”

  “Smells like horse shit,” Ian said, wiping his nose.

  Sonny turned on him. “Cool it,” he said. “What are you thinking anyway, showing up like this? You look like a damn bum.”

  Ian shrugged. “The maid forgot to wash my tuxedo.” There was a plastic wastebasket of candy on the floor between the seats, and he took out three Tootsie Rolls, unwrapped them, and stuffed them into his mouth. Most of the scars on his hands had healed to faint lines the color of bubble gum.

  “You’re supposed to throw the candy,” Sonny said.

  “Missed breakfast,” Ian said, chewing grotesquely, a gob of stringy chocolate sticking to his upper lip.

  Paul smiled. Victory was imminent. Whatever brief bond Ian and his father had
shared the week before was over, soaring away at this very moment like one of the colorful helium balloons, its string unwound from the wrist of a reckless child.

  “Throw some candy, honey,” his mother said, nudging the wastebasket in his direction with her foot.

  Paul picked a few Jolly Ranchers from the basket and tossed them halfheartedly out into the crowd. Frankly, he found the whole thing a little embarrassing now that he was in the middle of it. He spotted Joe Bower and Carson Diehl perched on their bikes outside Pete’s Pizza and Subs, angling droopy triangles of pepperoni pizza into their mouths, and he wished he were with them instead of with his parents. He felt like a fool. This car wasn’t cool at all; it was a joke, a circus car. It was like having ponies at your birthday party.

  “Where’s your arm, quarterback?” Sonny asked. “Let’s see you wing a couple.”

  “Isn’t this a great day for a parade?” the mayor called back to them. “This old town is really something.”

  “It’s something all right,” Ian said, his words barely audible through the wad of candy in his mouth. “Something that stinks.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Just for a few minutes,” he pleaded. “Just for this one time, act like a hero, why don’t you?”

  “You’re the big hero, dimmo,” Ian said. “Not me.”

  At least he’s got that straight, Paul thought, lobbing a handful of jawbreakers over the outstretched fingers of young children and into the laps of Carson and Joe, who promptly picked them up and gleefully winged them back at the car.

  “Ian,” Laura said sternly, sounding exactly like an algebra teacher. “How about we all try to get along?”

  Ian frowned. “Who’s not getting along? I’m getting along fine.”

  “I’m just saying —”

  “Shoot, a couple months and we’ll all be on vacation together. Mom and Dad and Paul and Ian. California or bust.” He picked some chocolate from his teeth with the nail of his pinkie finger, tossed the wing of black hair from his eyes. “Your mom got a bikini?” he asked Paul.

  Paul stared at him. Their car had slowed to a stop. Up ahead, the cycle club was riding in figure-eight formations; the angry sputter of their engines drowned out all of the marching band but the steady throb of the bass drum.

  “Practically the law out there,” Ian shouted over the roar. “Not like the town pool, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Vacation?” Laura asked, her eyes narrowed in doubt. “What are you talking about?”

  Ian snorted. “S’up, Sonny? Didn’t you tell them?”

  Paul turned to his father. He had his back squarely to them and was waving enthusiastically at the crowd from the idling car, doing his best to pretend he couldn’t hear a word anyone was saying.

  “Tell us what?” Laura asked.

  Ian shook his head, cupped his hand at his ear.

  “Tell us what?” she shouted to him.

  Ian leaned forward. “They’re gonna fly us out to Hollywood while they shoot the movie. Sonny and me’re gonna be technical advisors and Gordon said Sonny could bring you guys along if he wanted.”

  “Who’s Gordon?” Paul asked.

  “The producer,” Ian yelled. Now he poked Sonny in the back. “Shit, ain’t you told them anything?”

  “I was waiting,” Sonny said, finally turning to them, his cheeks flushed pink. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Plus,” he added, covering his feeble primary lies with equally feeble secondary lies, “I wasn’t even sure they’d want to go.”

  The car lurched forward again; the cycle club had completed their maneuvers. The marching band launched into the theme from Superman.

  “Hey, I wanna go,” Paul said. “Can I?”

  “There’s the news!” the mayor shouted over his shoulder, pointing ecstatically to a TV camera set up outside the St. Charles Diner. “Everybody wave!”

  They all waved, even Laura, though her wave looked more like a swat. Her eyes were fixed on Sonny with a mixture of irritation and confusion. Paul was familiar with this look; he was treated to it himself occasionally, when he promised to take the dogs for a walk and then forgot, or promised to do the dishes and then was caught shoveling crusty plates into the dishwasher without doing a prerinse.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” she asked.

  “He was gonna,” Paul said emphatically. “Can I go, Dad? Can I?”

  “What about school?” Sonny asked. “You can’t miss a whole month, right?” He looked imploringly at Laura, for support or forgiveness it wasn’t clear. “Right? He can’t just —”

  “Shit,” Ian interrupted. “It’s just old Casey Junior. What’re you studyin’ now anyway?”

  Paul ignored the question, looked back and forth between his parents; his father still looked embarrassed, his mother still bewildered. Neither of them spoke. A horse far ahead of them whinnied wildly, eliciting shrieks of excitement from children lined along the sidewalk in front of Larry’s Barbershop.

  “Constitution,” he told Ian.

  Ian shrugged. “We the people. Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness. Survival of the fittest. That’s all you need to know.”

  Paul shook his head. “Amendments, too.”

  “Not important,” Ian said, scratching the thin black stubble on his chin. “If they were important they’d a put ’em in to begin with, right?”

  “Listen, we’ll be working,” Sonny said, smiling weakly at Laura. “Me and Ian, we’ve got real jobs on this thing. They want me to help with the rescue scenes. I’m gonna be working all day. I’m not gonna be having any fun.”

  “Keep trying,” she said tightly. She snatched a blue jawbreaker from the wastebasket and winged it toward the crowd with a force that startled and impressed Paul. He’d always thought he’d gotten his arm from his father.

  “Babe, I —” Sonny started.

  “No, no . . .” she said. “Keep trying. You’ve almost got yourself convinced.”

  Sonny blanched, and Paul remembered something. A few years before he’d badgered his parents into taking him to Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey. They had a new roller coaster there, three full loops, and most of the other kids at school had already been. Paul talked about it the whole car trip there, stood in line in the blazing heat with his parents for an hour and a half. Then they finally got on the thing, pulled back the padded safety bar, and began what he would always remember as the four most harrowing minutes of his life. Who the hell ever thought of this? he’d wondered at the crest of that first impossibly steep drop. What lunatic ever imagined this would be fun? Sitting there in Bernie’s classic car, he felt like he was on that awful roller coaster all over again, the one he couldn’t wait to ride that turned out to be a no-holds-barred nightmare.

  “He wants us to come,” Paul said desperately. “Don’t you, Dad?”

  “Of course I do,” Sonny said, frantically loosening his tie as if it were suddenly choking him. “Of course. Of course I do.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Paul said. “We’re all going. Right, Mom?”

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  Ian barked a loud laugh. “That’s a fat-ass no if I ever heard one.”

  Laura flattened herself against the seat, crossed her arms across her chest. It was clear that, despite the four Main Street blocks that remained to be traveled, her participation in the parade had come to an end.

  “We love you, Sonny!” shouted someone from the crowd.

  Three weeks passed. Trees resigned their leaves. Christmas lights and holly wreaths appeared on lampposts in downtown Casey. The Pony football season ended, and Paul began spending his afternoons playing video games with Carson and Joe in the Diehls’ basement, or fumbling his way through his E-Z Carols for Guitar songbook in the otherwise silent house on Willow Lane. His mother was staying late at school almost every afternoon, coaching the geeks in math club in preparation for the math bee regionals in Harrisburg. And his father, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared.

&nb
sp; The day following the parade, citing innumerable requests for interviews and appearances, Sonny had taken a temporary leave of absence from active duty. He met with reporters from Esquire, People, Firehouse Magazine, The Mustang Monitor, walked them around the rubble of the Neidermeyer house, telling and retelling his story. He appeared on talk radio in Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, and Washington, D.C., flew overnight to New York City for a spot on Dateline’s “Survivor Stories,” became official spokesman for Trusty Construction and half a dozen other local businesses, received invitations to speak at firefighters’ conferences in Boston, Baltimore, and Chicago.

  Paul was happy for him. He knew his father had spent most of his life butting up against the edges of Captain Sam’s shadow, struggling to cast one of his own. So here, finally, was his opportunity. But it was weird . . . even when he wasn’t giving an interview, even when Paul knew full well he was in town, Sonny rarely seemed to be around. He’d pop into the house and read his mail, have a snack, but he was never there long enough to even sit down. He slept there, of course, but usually didn’t get home until after Paul was in bed (at which point, occasionally, unintelligibly whispered conversations could be heard from the living room) and was still in bed when Paul left for school in the morning. Twice a week, Paul knew, his father drove Ian to Hershey Medical Center for physical therapy. But there was nothing else, really, to explain his frequent absences. Adding up his hours with Ian and his hours as a celebrity (which Paul had done on more than one occasion), there were still several hours in his day unaccounted for, hours he could have been at home, with his family, enjoying his time off work. So where was he?