Summer of Fire

by Linda Jacobs

  “Christ, who …?”

  “We’ve got Joe, Sheila, Mako, Rodriguez … ”

  “Sound off!” Sergeant Travis clipped.

  It began as before, proceeding briskly all the way to J.

  Private Billy Jakes, who had answered the previous roll call with a sob, did not reply.

  “Jakes!” Travis shouted. “You there?”

  A low murmur began.

  “Jeez, not Billy … “

  “Sound off, I said.”

  The rest of the roll continued more slowly, from Lomatewa through Sanchez to Young.

  “Ah, hell … ”

  “Billy.”

  Clare had handed Billy her own shelter after his blew out, but fate had evidently decreed it his day to die. Several of the male soldiers dashed at tears with the backs of their hands, while the two women let themselves cry without wiping their faces.

  Dry-eyed, Clare pushed to her feet. She moved among the survivors, checking for burns and other injuries. She watched for signs of shock and instructed a shivering Rodriguez to wrap himself in a shelter.

  She stepped toward Sergeant Travis last. His quick emergence from the shelter and attitude of command led her to believe he was not in serious trouble, but she needed to be sure.

  As she approached, Travis stiff-armed her back. “Go away,” he said through set teeth.

  It seemed to take a long time for help to arrive from the Storm Creek Camp, even though it was only about five miles as the crow flies. After their initial reactions to identifying Billy, most of the soldiers sat silently on the clean sides of shelters spread on the ground. Their shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

  Steve sat beside Clare, looking lost in his own thoughts. Periodically, he cleared his throat and spat mucus into the ash. She did the same at intervals, aware of her raw throat.

  The dead man lay at a little distance. No one looked in that direction.

  Clare did not need her eyes to see a vivid picture of the face death wore today. Before entering the fire department, the only corpses she had seen were the pale products of an undertaker’s art. Masquerading as sleep, death wore pancake makeup.

  In the field, it was different. A heart arrested and a woman toppled off the toilet. A middle-aged man died during sex and lay in an awkward sprawl, the sheets soiled with his bowel’s release. Billy Jakes’s humanity was lost along with his skin. The sour cooked smell and stink of singed hair clung cloying in Clare’s nostrils.

  About thirty minutes after she’d radioed, headlights approached in the gathering dusk. How fortunate that the burned trees were mostly standing, or the vehicles would not have been able to drive in on the dirt track.

  Without waiting for orders from Travis, the soldiers got to their feet and climbed wearily into the back of the Army transport. Travis waited with Clare and Steve while the ambulance attendants made a perfunctory check for a pulse. The senior man shook his head and his assistant brought out the body bag.

  When they lifted Billy into it, Clare caught the malevolent flash of blame in Sergeant Travis’s eyes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  September 4

  Good lord, what happened to you?” A powerful-looking woman in a Prescott Arizona Hotshots cap looked at Clare from the next sink. They were alone in the women’s shower trailer at the Storm Creek Camp.

  “Setting backfire on the Hellroaring.” Clare’s boots sat side by side on a bench, along with a fresh set of Nomex. She stripped off her stained shirt and trousers and dumped them on the floor. The once-polished stainless mirror gave a blurred suggestion of her blackened face with bloodshot eyes.

  Clare suspected that the woman had not asked about her merely because her clothes and skin were filthy, but because of her strained white look beneath the soot. The set of her mouth said she was at the limit of endurance.

  “Rose Chee,” her companion offered.

  “Clare Chance.” Because Rose had a kind face, she confessed, “Around six it blew up and we went into shelters.”

  “Everybody make it?”

  Clare swallowed around a hard lump.

  Rose waited. From the pocket of her fire trousers, she produced a gold tube, twisted it with an adept hand and applied a coat of crimson lipstick. She pressed her wide lips to even the color.

  Clare met her serious dark eyes. “We lost a young infantryman out of Fort Lewis. They were just in and I was training them.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  Pulling a stack of the paper towels offered for drying, Clare headed to a shower stall and pulled the white plastic curtain behind her. She dropped her charcoal-mottled turquoise brassiere and underpants into the trashcan on the rubber mat. As she reached for the taps, the tears came.

  With them surged the memory of harsh questioning after Frank’s death. Hadn’t she known they should retreat from beneath the burning overhead? Had she given Frank any signal to back off? Had he, in turn, tried to go back and found her blocking his way? How was it possible that the roof had come down without warning, as she suggested?

  She imagined the combined firepower of the National Park Service and the Army descending on her. Did not Sergeant Travis express concern at the safety in the area, long before the actual emergency? Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to delay a judgment call until it was too late?

  For God’s sake, the Hellroaring had been tame earlier. She’d given her own shelter to Billy Jakes.

  Somehow, she did not believe that would be enough.

  They hadn’t let her see Frank’s body. He’d been brought out of the apartment house in the same type bag they’d closed Billy in; the one that served as equalizer for kings and paupers. Frank’s casket had been closed.

  Seeing Billy’s disfigurement made it real. Clare slid down the fiberglass shower wall and hugged herself beneath the spray. Great gulping sobs wracked her and she hoped Rose Chee didn’t hear. Without success, she called on her resource of coolness, the one that permitted her to package the dead.

  This happened to the best of them. Some firefighters called it processing, an impartial cover-up for the tears, the rage, the obsessive washing that failed to remove the taint of smoke and burnt flesh. Everybody handled it her or his own way and Clare had congratulated herself at partitioning it when the victims were unknown.

  Even after Frank, she’d been in denial. Despite her few bouts of crying, she’d set her backbone in a straight line and run to Wyoming. Now, she let the cleansing water mingle with her tears. Frank was not waiting back at the station the way she sometimes imagined. The good knife he’d brought to chop onions and spices had gone home with his widow. Someone else’s clothes hung in his locker.

  When she finally emerged from the shower stall, two women were talking excitedly about the prospect of the thousand people in the Storm Creek Camp being evacuated before morning. The fire that had threatened Silver Gate and Cooke City at the east entrance had backed around and was heading for them.

  At this latest proof that there was no haven, Clare wondered if what she, and everyone on the lines had gone through today wasn’t enough.

  Now she faced the prospect of phoning Garrett. Sergeant Travis had probably bent his ear an hour ago, before the transport carrying the troops back to their base had left. Billy Jakes’s comrades had been excused from the fire line.

  Clare had decided to stay overnight at the camp, rather than ride to West Yellowstone under Travis’s baleful eye. His farewell had been to succinctly turn his back and walk away. Not a word to suggest she might give a shit about what happened to Billy.

  With a shock, she remembered that Devon’s plane arrived tomorrow afternoon. For the past few hours, it had been wiped from her mind. Now that she knew the fire was coming, she wished she’d hitched a ride to pick up her rental parked at Old Faithful. If the camp was evacuated to Mammoth on the north end of the park, she might have trouble getting to the airport on time.

  Near the dining tent, she queued for a pay phone. It would be more
private than talking to Garrett over one of the radios.

  His deep voice was unchanged and reassuring. “Anderson.”

  She bit her lip against the horror of Billy’s screams.

  “Yo, talk to me.”

  “It’s Clare.”

  “Gal.” His voice said he knew. “You okay?”

  She sucked in her breath. Did trembling inside qualify as okay? Even though she’d bathed, the scorched stench had permeated her head and she could not shake it.

  Garrett spoke into her silence. “These things happen,” he said in an uncanny echo of what the folks at the station had told her about Frank.

  “Yeah,” she managed.

  “With your daughter coming, you take some time. Show her the sights,” he offered.

  “Yeah.” She discovered how hard she’d been gripping the receiver only when her fingers relaxed.

  “I’ve been briefed on what happened, but I’ll need your story. Are you up to it now while the memory is fresh?” His voice was steady.

  “Okay,” she agreed. Around her was a throng of yellow-shirts. From eager students to men and women with graying hair, they all risked themselves, as she did.

  She just didn’t know if she wanted the job anymore.

  The Storm Creek Camp’s dining tent bustled at ten p.m. Hundreds of firefighters, pilots, and support personnel grabbed a meal before too little sleep and a too-early call.

  Despite her aversion to the thought of food, Clare joined the line. A loudspeaker garbled a country tune while servers heaped her plate with greasy pork chops, lumpy mashed potatoes, and canned green beans.

  Since the troops had left, the only person she knew at the tables was Steve.

  When she paused beside him, he looked up from his Styrofoam plate. His blond hair was clean and, like her, he had turned in his soiled Nomex for fresh. Some medic had bandaged his more seriously burned left hand, and his right was pink in places. Her own hands stung, but she didn’t think she needed a bandage.

  Clare climbed onto the bench beside Steve. As she settled in, her arm brushed his. “Excuse me,” she murmured.

  She reached for a plastic saltshaker. Steve passed it, their hands touching briefly. His face, still pink from a day of sun and the heat of the fire, seemed to turn a bit redder.

  Looking at her plate, Clare salted, lifted a mouthful of the tasteless green beans, and salted again. Her raw throat protested.

  Steve looked at her and the night wind ruffled her hair. The errant gust traveled through the tent, making the sides sway and firefighters grab for their napkins.

  Clare met his eyes, remembering that afternoon, his weight on hers in a way that couldn’t help but make a man and woman consider. She told herself it was the adrenaline and the danger. Death had been on the wind, passing so close that the shelter’s flapping might well have been the Harpy’s wings.

  Billy Jakes had worn a wedding ring. Had someone called or was his wife still passing a pleasant evening? When the phone rang, she’d answer in a breezy familiar way thinking it must be him …

  A mouthful of pork resisted Clare’s attempt to swallow.

  As if he read her thoughts, Steve reached for her hand. He forced her stiff fingers straight. “Don’t beat yourself up over Billy Jakes, Clare.”

  His touch did what a hot shower and Garrett’s kindness could not. She found herself able to take a full breath and at least attempt to relax. Her shoulders and back stayed tight.

  Steve circled his thumb on the inside of her wrist near her pulse. “There’s nothing you could have done,” he soothed.

  “Done about what?”

  Clare looked up to find Deering. His smile said he saw she’d abandoned her bra. He appeared not to notice that Steve held her hand, or that she was close to tears.

  She pulled back and faced the remembered intensity in Deering’s eyes.

  A beat late, he said, “Doctor Haywood.” Without an invitation, he sat across from them. Evidently, he had been to the showers, too, his hair leaving a damp trail on the collar of a khaki shirt. He wore his aviator sunglasses on top of his head.

  After what had happened today, Clare was torn between being glad to see him and plain not caring. She cut a slice of pork and failed to convey it to her mouth.

  “I can safely tell you that West Yellowstone is secure this evening,” Deering said.

  She was too exhausted to celebrate, but glad for the townspeople.

  “I must have dropped a hundred buckets of water on the edge of town.” Deering acted as though she had not walked out on him. “The downdrafts were so bad I had to tell myself I was going in for a closer look when I was putting on throttle and dropping like a rock.” He forked up a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  The last thing she needed tonight was braggadocio.

  Next to Clare, Steve shrugged at the hero talk. “I’d have expected you’d be trucking that useless chopper out of town.”

  “That’s a million dollar machine.” Deering cut his eyes to Clare as though he hoped to impress her.

  “Did your claim get settled?” she asked.

  “Or did the salvage folks take your Bell?” The taunting vehemence in Steve’s voice shocked her. “You didn’t hear about that?” he said. “The salvage company gets it if flyboy here doesn’t come up with the money.”

  Deering slammed a fist on the folding table, making it shudder for ten feet. Curious glances were directed their way. “Okay.” His voice carried. “I tried to cover up what really happened … for you.”

  “For me?” Steve glared.

  “Guys.” Clare held up a hand.

  Deering ignored her. “I know your job’s on shaky grounds, Haywood. You don’t need for anybody to know you fucked up.”

  “I fucked up?” Clare saw Steve’s muscles bunch as though he were about to rise.

  “But since you want to play hardball,” Deering seemed oblivious to people staring, “I’ll have to tell First Assurance I had a passenger who wrapped the bucket cable around the skid. Screwed the pooch.”

  Clare put her hand on Steve’s arm. She didn’t know whether she meant to support or restrain him.

  “Everybody knows about you, Haywood,” Deering taunted. “It’s already around how you fucked up again today and lost your truck. How you’re scared to fly after that crash with your wife and kid and trying to drink yourself to death.”

  The music and talk in the tent seemed far away. Clare felt Steve’s arm tighten and realized that he clenched his steak knife’s handle beneath the table.

  Without thinking, she slid her hand down and put a hard grip on his fingers, heedless of his burns. “Don’t let him do this to you,” she murmured.

  The knife fell to the earthen tent floor.

  Steve sat back, cradling the hand she’d grabbed with his other. She moved her hand back to his arm and thankfully, he failed to leap across the table for Deering’s throat as she half-expected.

  Ignoring Steve, Deering turned to her as though nothing had happened. “If the wind doesn’t shift, the Storm Creek’s coming right through camp. You ought to let me fly you out of here.” His tone was proprietary as he reached across to brush her bangs out of her eyes.

  She jerked away before she even thought.

  And felt Steve’s shocked eyes on her. Of course, he couldn’t have known she’d been seeing Deering.

  “Mister Haywood? “ A slight Hispanic man in TW Services coveralls stood behind Steve’s shoulder. “I go to the terminal at Gardiner for supplies. Do you need a ride home?”

  With another scathing look at both her and Deering, Steve rose. “Thanks, Miguel, I’d like to get home tonight.”

  “How could you?” Clare threw at Deering. Her voice carried and people were still swiveling their heads to look at them. He shook his head, a play to the crowd that said he thought both she and Steve were the ones in error.

  Clare shoved back her plate. A murmur of voices trailed her departure.

  She looked for Steve, her steps speedin
g when she realized there were too many men in yellow shirts. Away from the dining canopy and bright lights, she knew she’d lost him. Standing in the parking lot, she tasted smoke, a pervasive foul taint on every wind.

  On a nearby Army tent, a hand-lettered sign proclaimed ‘Valley Forge West,’ referring to a shortage of boots in the military ranks. The Army boot soles were not nearly as heat resistant as the heavy White’s brand boots worn by the firefighters. Clare’s own feet felt hot inside hers, as though they had not cooled from the roasting they’d gotten during the Hellroaring’s blowup.

  Rapid footsteps sounded on gravel. She stopped, hoping it was Steve.

  “Wait,” said Deering.

  She set her teeth. Tonight when he’d first arrived, his smile had still had the power to make her feel that extra awareness of him. She had sat there next to Steve and across from Deering and been torn by feelings for both of them, until he had attacked Steve.

  Deering touched her shoulders.

  She went tense. “Look,” she said, “we had to go into shelters this afternoon and I’m completely wired. My daughter is flying in to Jackson Hole Airport tomorrow.”

  He moved his fingers, massaging. “I can make it better … “

  “Dammit!” Her voice went shrill. “A man died.”

  He lifted his hands. From the dining tent, the wail of Crystal Gayle entreated her man. The camp generators droned.

  Clare turned on him. “How could you?” she challenged. “What you said about Steve’s wife and child … “

  Deering’s eyes showed his own pain. “He’s been nothing but trouble for me, ever since he got on board my Georgia back in July. Now I’m stuck flying military surplus.” Deering pointed to Karrabotsos’s helicopter behind the fence erected to deter buffalo and elk from damaging aircraft. “I asked Garrett where you were tonight because I wanted, no, needed to see you. After a full day in the cockpit, I fly over here and find you holding hands and making moon eyes. “

  The heavy growl of a diesel roared toward them on the bulldozed track leading out to Highway 212. The headlights of the big machine swept over them. When the glare subsided, Clare saw Steve in the passenger seat.