All Men Fall

by C. M. Lally

Mrs. Durban greets me, then proceeds to walk me into her kitchen to feed me, as she usually does. “You need to eat up. It’s gonna be a long night ahead and I don’t know when we’re going to be able to get food down us again. We need our strength to fight this monster,” she tells me.

  I give her my biggest smile and grab a plate. As we eat, she explains where the fire is and how fast it’s approaching. She’s already had several of the fighters come by to check on her and ask her to leave. She refuses, but it’s their job to make sure she is safe. She doesn’t argue, and they let her be. Stubborn woman, but I love it. Sometimes you’ve got to fight for what has meaning to you. She loves this place that Coach Durban built for her. Letting it go up in flames would be like saying good-bye to Coach again, and I’m not going to let that happen.

  She drives me around the property in her John Deere Gator truck to assess what we’re working with. I was just here in March, and the drought has been so bad that not much has grown since then. Although the fire trench needs to be dug again, it doesn’t look that bad. I can smell the fire burning. Big plumes of dark gray smoke are floating over the back side of the property. I just hope the wind doesn’t shift. I can hear the faintest sound of limbs snapping and men calling to each other, so I know the fighters aren’t that far away.

  We cleared the property of grass and vegetation last year to within three hundred feet of defensible space, but it’s the blowing embers that will take down a house. She sits atop the valley in a wind cavern. The location was chosen for its view, but forest-fire science has recently shown us that this isn’t the best location. So we fight to maintain the house—and the view, if we can.

  I ask Mrs. Durban to start hosing down the yard and house really well. I grab my Pulaski Axe and start re-widening the fire trench. We work for what seems like hours. My body aches from digging this axe into the ground. The stench of burning wood is getting stronger. The smoke is getting blacker and heavier. We both keep going back and forth to the pump house to wet the bandannas covering our faces. I hear Mrs. Durban’s coughing pick up, and ask her to take a break inside the house for a bit. I really need to invest in a mask, but I’m generally not this close to the fires since my job is preventative.

  The snapping and crackling of leaves, tree limbs, and forestry is getting louder by the minute. I walk around the back side of the property and see several tall evergreen, fir and cypress trees on fire at the edge of her land. I pray the low burning grasses on the other side of the fire trench don’t jump with the wind. I visually try to estimate the height of the trees to double-check my defensible perimeter in case one of these trees falls towards the house. I’m pretty sure I’m good, but tree height can fool you sometimes. If only her neighbors cared about her and her property like they do their own. Neighbor loyalty is hard to come by these days.

  I step into the pump house to wet my bandanna again. Through the door I hear a loud popping noise, followed by a thunderous crack. A few seconds later, the pump house shakes. I push on the door but can’t get it to open. One of those damn trees must have fell and is blocking the fucking door.

  I know the roof on this pump house is old, but I don’t know if it’s got the fire rating it needs. Damn it. I grab the little stepladder Mrs. Durban keeps in here, and climb up. The smoke is clinging to the roof, and my face is sweating from the heat of the flames. I unfold my bandanna and wrap it around my head.

  Thank God I came in here with my axe. I start swinging at the roof and can see it starting to give way. But this causes more smoke to rush in quickly, and I’m coughing heavily. My lungs are on fire. I climb back down to re-wet the rag protecting my head. I lay down on the floor and take a few deep somewhat-clean breaths down here. The air is still dirty with smoke, but it’s nothing compared to what’s up next to the roof, where I need to go back to.

  I look up and see the roof starting to sag where I chopped at it. I guess the flames are finally melting the roof. I just hope I can climb through without getting too burned, but I’m not going to die in here today. I stand and pull up another bucket of water, dousing my entire head and clothes several times, praying this shirt and jeans are flame-retardant. I hope the Levi Strauss Company knows what they’re doing when they make their clothes.

  It takes me several minutes to get back up to the top of the ladder. My lungs feel like the flames are licking the inside of them. My tongue is starting to swell from thirst, so I suck on the edges of my bandanna. I’m chomping on wood grit in my mouth from the embers floating around inside the pump house. My nose and eyes feel like they’re on fire, and I’ve got sweat pouring into them. I keep wiping them with my shirt, and I’ve got so much shit in my eyes, I hope I don’t go blind. I take a few swings at the roof again, and it finally gives way. A burning branch falls into the hole that I just cut open. I jump back from it and knock the ladder off balance, causing me to fall down to the ground, and scream out in pain as I hear my left ankle crunch.

  I lay still for a few moments dazed and in excruciating pain. Finally, catching my breath, Jenna comes to my mind. I’m not dying in here today. I’ve got to get out of here for her. I’m not leaving her.

  The small house is filling with acrid black smoke, and I know I’ve got very little time left. My head feels light and dizzy, and my lungs are about to explode. How the fuck do you climb a ladder with a broken bone? I fill the bucket with water and untie it from the rope, then hobble up the ladder, wincing with each step. I pitch the water up at the burning branch and watch as most of the flames go out, then take off my shirt and wrap it loosely around my hands, swatting at the remaining flames like a fire flapper to extinguish them.

  The tanned skin on my hands and arms is starting to blister and swell. The smell of my singed hair fills my nose. I feel weak and sick. I’m a few minutes from passing out and I’ve got to get out of here to fresher air. I can hear voices hollering outside, but they’re faint through the burning tree. I can’t tell how close or distant they are.

  I drop the bucket down to the floor and climb up to the highest rung of the ladder. I grab hold of the melting roof and push my weight up through the small hole I made. Roofing nails claw at me and jab into my skin. My palms are burning on the hot shingles, but I push through and roll onto my side.

  I’m too tall for the roof and too tired to control my body; I end up going over the other side, land on my back on the hard ground, and knock the last breath I was holding onto out of me. I look up, struggling to take air into my burned lungs, and see little slivers of blue sky pierce through the smoke. I know that for now, at least, I’m alive.

  Then I pass out.

  When I come to, I’m being jostled up over the shoulders of another man. He just pitches me up and over, carrying me somewhere like a sack of potatoes. My body is screaming with every step he takes, but I can’t get my voice to work. He doesn’t seem to have any idea that I’m awake.

  A siren screams, getting closer. Whoever is carrying me finally decides I’m too much weight, so he drops me on the ground next to Mrs. Durban’s driveway. I hear gravel crunching, doors opening and slamming, and then feet shuffling over the brick pavers I am laying on. The voices seem distant, but I can make out someone telling them what happened with the tree and the pump house.

  I try to roll my head sideways but my body has gone ten rounds with the devil himself tonight and I’m too weak to move. My only thoughts are God, don’t let me die. I need to see Jenna again. I need to feel her lips on mine and run my hands over her. I need to hear her laugh and sing again. I need to get lost in her blue eyes, as they flutter while drifting off to sleep.

  I open my eyes as I feel someone bump against my leg. A man in an EMT uniform fills my view as he starts asking me questions and shines a light into my eyes. I try to speak, but I can’t. I grab at my throat to let him know I can’t talk. I shake my head violently yes or no with every question he asks.

  Then I’m rolled onto a stretcher and lifted like I weigh no more than a kitten. I can feel someone prodd
ing my arm, and then I feel the sharp, stinging prick of a needle. Fuck, I hate having an IV in my arm. I can hear loud voices all around the yard, and Mrs. Durban is standing back from the ambulance with her purse in hand. It’s very loud, and I can’t block out the noises. I just want to close my eyes and rest for a minute.

  They begin rolling the gurney; my ankle throbs with the jostling over the brick pavers and cobblestone walkway. I lift my chest to point, but I’m pushed back down by the man at my head. I lift my ankle and point to it. They stop rolling and the man behind me tells the other to look at my feet. He pushes up my pant leg, and finally notices my ankle. It must be swollen to ten times its size.

  They turn me around to place me into the ambulance head first and I startle as someone snaps some ice packs over my ankle. Then I feel the bitter cold of them on my skin; everything else on me is burning up, but my ankle is freezing. The difference in temperature is too much for me, and I feel nauseous again. I hear them tell Mrs. Durban that she can ride up front, and I feel the slamming of the back doors of the ambulance.

  This is a familiar feeling. I’ve been here before and survived. Pain means I am alive, right? I can make it through this. I’ve done it before. This time, I’ve got someone to live for. I am not leaving her.

  The siren blares out to everyone that we are moving. Everything gets fuzzy, and then I fade out.

  Chapter 20

  Jenna

  I’ve been in Los Angeles four days, and I already hate it here. Other people have arrived at the house, and I assume they’re on a recording schedule like I am. But I’ve barely seen them, or this house.

  I can’t do this for two weeks. It’s been a myriad of starts, re-takes, and singing some of the same verses over and over again. I’ve only made it through the first song twice and there are supposed to be eight songs in total. God help me. I am exhausted. My throat is sore. I want to go home. My home. The one with my things and my bed.

  I almost thought my dog. He’s not my dog.

  Nick. I still haven’t listened to the message that I have, or looked at the texts he sent. I can see my little text message envelope has the number 3 circled on it, and the phone receiver has a 1 circled over it. They glare at me, taunting me to view and listen, but I can’t. I’m lost.

  I wish I knew what we are to each other. We never talked about anything deeper than the here and now of our time together. I usually don’t get to that conversation before they leave me. Nick is a good man. I know it deep inside my soul. People have mistaken the man for his talent, and when the talent made a bad decision they held the man accountable. Fucking die hard Raider Nation.

  He’s more than just a football player bringing them a Super Bowl championship. I can remember Dad talking to one of our driver’s one time about football. He was all hyped up about their chances for a division title and championship birth, but Dad was saying the Raider’s front office was chaos, especially after the owner died. In the end, deals were hashed out that probably shouldn’t have been made in the face of grief. Raider Nation—and apparently Nick—suffered for the sins of the administration. The public crucified him. I don’t know how he lives with that every day.

  I eat a late dinner of re-heated chicken, and notice I have a text from my Mom. I open up the message window to see she sent me a video file from the local news. The caption says: “Isn’t this the man whose dog you were watching?”

  What the fuck would Nick be on the local news for?

  I watch the video and sob. He’s hurt really bad. I’ve got to get to him now.

  I call my Mom, grateful that she answers on the first ring, and explain that I’m coming home as soon as I can get a flight and I’ll need her to pick me up. I’ve got to see Nick. She agrees to come get me.

  I turn on my laptop and buy a ticket for the first flight I can get to San Francisco. It leaves at 5:48 tomorrow morning. I text it to my Mom, then rush around packing everything I brought again, because I know I won’t be coming back. This gig is done.

  I text Brent and let him know that I’ll need him to pick me up at 3:00 am for a ride to LAX. He responds quickly with a “yes ma’am.”

  I fire off a text to Media Music and explain that I have a family emergency at home and I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. I get silence in response. I’m just another singer to them, one penny in a sea of shiny copper. They won’t miss me and I won’t miss them. Why do I feel better admitting that?

  I get a quick shower and slide into bed. I pull my phone out and gather up enough courage to finally look at Nick’s texts. At this point, I’ve lost all frame of reference to them since I find myself smiling as I see that he hopes I land safely, he wants me to have a great time, and to show them how great I am.

  No one has ever encouraged my singing. My parents just accepted it as my talent. The closest thing to encouragement they gave me was telling me to come and do this Media Music thing, so I didn’t regret not experiencing it.

  I scroll down further to the last message; it’s a little longer and has a link attached. I read his words, missing him too, and push the link. It’s a Justin Bieber song, “Let Me Love You.” I snuggle down into the pillows and listen to the words. As they wash over me, I can feel Nick telling me he loves me. He just hasn’t said it, and now I may never get to hear it. Tears are trailing down my face, and now I know what regret feels like.

  Why did I leave like that? He should have been my first priority, before the band and the dog. Everything else could have waited a few minutes. Minutes. That’s all it would have taken to call him back. Time never seems to be on my side. I wanted to see him face-to-face. I wanted to look into those green eyes and see if he was going to miss me. I wanted him to tell me I was someone he was going to miss. I wanted him to kiss me crazy and not let me go.

  And now that I know he missed me, he’s in ICU and I may never see him healthy and smiling again. I don’t know anything about love lost. I don’t want to ever know anything about it. As long as there’s a chance he will live, I’ll be there and love him.

  I scroll over to turn my alarm on for an early wake up, and see that I never listened to his voice message. I push the voice mailbox icon and listen to the deep timbre of his voice “Jenna, it’s Nick.”

  I hear him take a deep breath. He sounds nervous. I wait, holding my breath for his next words.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I never wanted to hurt you. I never want to hurt you again. I don’t know what we are to each other. We should have talked about it. All I know is that you’ve had a string of men come in and out of your life, and I wanted to be the one that you chose to keep. I’ve watched you for so long at the bar that I feel closer to you than we actually are, I guess. All I know is that when I couldn’t get hold of you and you didn’t return my calls right away, I thought Luke had come back and I honestly thought he had hurt you. I was worried sick that I hadn’t protected you from him, and I disappointed you. I had crazy thoughts float into my brain and all I knew was that I had to get to you. I raced around your house and couldn’t get inside to you.”

  I hear him choke back a sob and I imagine he’s crying. God, I hurt him when I ran away. What have I done to this man? This whole mess is all my fault.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  I hear his voice crack. He sounds defeated. My pajama shirt is soaked with my tears. I use the bottom hem to wipe the rest of them away.

  “I needed to bust inside and get to you, but then I saw you coming down the street, laughing with Zeus, and—God, Jenna.”

  He pauses and I’m sick to my stomach wondering what his next words are going to be. I was so awful to him. I threw a tantrum like a fucking three-year-old.

  “I don’t know. I was so happy just to see you unharmed and laughing, like you should always be. Out of nowhere, a rage filled me. I was mad that I worried for nothing. I wasn’t mad at you, but I took it out on you and I’m sorry. I realized I had no real connection to you, and that we hadn’t talked about us. I felt like no
thing to you and I didn’t like it. I lost control, and I don’t like feeling that way either.”

  There’s a long pause and then the message just stops. Oh God, why did it stop? Was that when he got hurt? Are these his last words to me? No, they can’t be. I’m a fighter, and I am pretty damn sure Nick is, too. I will use everything, every resource I have, to make him better. He just needs to live.

  “God, please don’t take him from me now,” I pray. “He’s a good man, and I know you can make him whole again. He wants a wife and family to share his love. He deserves that. Please give us that chance. Please, I beg you.”

  I roll over and flip through the pictures of Nick and Zeus on my phone. I find my favorite one and just stare at it until I fall asleep.

  I get off the plane and make my way to passenger pick-up. I can see my Mom waiving at me. We load my luggage into the back of the car and take off towards Highland Hospital in Oakland. Taking a chance someone has his phone, I dial his number. It just rings and finally his voice message picks up. I hang up and call again. This time, a female answers. “Hello.” She sounds groggy, like I woke her up.

  “Aran? Is that you? This is Jenna, Nick’s friend.”

  “Well, I think you’re more than his friend, but thank God. I’ve been waiting for your call. Are you coming back from Los Angeles soon?”

  “Um, yes, I am actually on my way there now—to Highland Hospital. I should be there by 8:00 am. Can you tell me where I am going?”

  “Just go to the main entrance, and I’ll meet you there. I’m the redhead. You can’t miss me.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  “Jenna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for coming.” And she hangs up.

  We pull up at the main entrance, to a massive crowd of news reporters and cameras. There are people milling about, some talking on air and others on their phones. Some wait with cameras hanging from their necks, ready to snap a pic at a moment’s notice.