Chapter 1
The dream never seemed to have a beginning. She found herself driving a car on a road that became narrower and narrower; too narrow to turn around. Ahead she could see the glimmer of water, the road disappearing gradually beneath it. She never stopped even though she was terrified. Into the waves she drove the car.
Sometimes it floated and she reached the other side; sometimes it sank and she felt the cold water rise up her body until it closed over her head. This time, she could feel the car floating, floating...but would she get to the other side? It seemed so far...
She woke before she could find out. Sherlock’s cold nose was nudging her hand, followed by apparently apologetic licking. At least his tongue was warm. I can’t help it, his deep brown eyes said, I have to GO. Though she always dreaded throwing the warm covers off and the moment when the chilly air would hit her body, for the sake of crazy old Sherlock, she wouldn’t even hesitate.
She grabbed her pink chenille bathrobe, then wiggled her feet into her blue fuzzy slippers that looked as if she had slaughtered Cookie Monster for them, and padded to the back door, Sherlock dancing around her feet despite his humongous size. She always suspected that this was how the medics would find her, splayed on the floor after tumbling over the dog. Part of her hoped it would be today and another part wanted it to be far in the future.
Down two steps from the laundry room her fuzzy slippers went. Sherlock was standing on the tiny landing--so tiny she couldn’t get her feet on it--so she leaned across him to unlock the door. His tail was thumping her legs to some strange tune in his head, she supposed. The door swung open and she let go of the knob to keep her balance until Sherlock’s bulk plummeted out the doorway and she could get her feet on the landing.
She braved the crisp autumn air to stand outside and watch the handsome dog who had been known to wander off. Cold from the cement seeped through the bottom of her slippers and up her legs. Just like the water in her dream. She shivered. Why that dream, over and over? Well, she didn’t have time to think about that now. Maybe after school.
The thought of school filled her with a dread no mere student had ever known, no matter what test might lay ahead. She was tested every day; would she pass today or be found wanting? With flying colors or by the skin of her teeth? Or would she come home hating herself, feeling she had failed? There was only one way to find out. She didn’t much care for the way.
Sherlock did his business, glancing at her to see if she was watching. He was rather hoping to follow a tantalizing smell to the Safeway a few blocks away. The wind was just right to waft the bakery smells to his impressive nose. Nope. Not today. She was watching. Damn. He trotted obediently toward her with a look saying aren’t-I-a-good-boy on his goofy face. She knew that look. ‘Liar,’ she said fondly.
Cutting up the sweet potatoes and chicken the vet had prescribed for Sherlock’s digestive distress, she glanced at the clock. Just enough time to make some coffee, say the short version of Morning Prayer, and put together some outfit for work. It was cold enough for her felt hat with the chrysanthemum today. For a few seconds the sound of Sherlock’s rapturous gobbling amused her. Then the smell of coffee comforted her. It’ll be all right, the aroma said.
She settled down at the dining room table, Sherlock now curling contentedly at her feet, the fuzzy slippers a convenient pillow. Sipping her coffee, she opened her prayer book to the well-worn page. She sighed. Why did she get more comfort from the coffee than the prayer, she wondered? Lately she had begun to think that God must get tired of hearing the same old thing day after day from thousands of lips. Static in his ears. God’s ears. The thought made her smile. She plunged in and hoped the prayer would work, her talisman for the day ahead. She closed the prayer book with a fervent TGIF.
An hour later she sneaked into the school building through a side door as furtively as a burglar. She didn’t want to run into her principal (unlikely, since he cloistered himself in his office), Ms. Redfield, who never seemed to cast an eye on her without finding something to criticize, or the teachers she thought of as the perky chirpers. Safely in her room, she took off her coat and flung her hat, artistically, she hoped, onto the hat rack. She refused to flick on the lights which would greet her with the fluorescent glare she hated. She made her way to the reading center where she’d placed a floor lamp with a three-way bulb and turned it on low. The cushion on her rocking chair glowed deep red in the warm light. Opening the blinds (why, she wondered, did the janitor always shut them?) she walked to her desk and pulled the chain to turn on her banker’s light, a name she found ironic, given the difference in their salaries. Still, she loved the shade’s green glow.
She looked around this room where she spent most of her waking hours. She had made a cozy nest for herself and her kids. She always thought of them as her kids and, truth be told, one of them had even called her ‘mom’ in a moment of wishful thinking. Her desk was in the darkest corner so her kids could enjoy the light streaming through the windows. The reading corner was full of pillows she had to keep her students from fighting over, because all of them seemed to have a favorite and too many kids liked the same ones. She had bought a bright Turkish carpet (on sale, very much used) and a few wooden bookshelves to add to the sterile metal one provided by the school.
The bulletin boards were covered in orange paper. One with a scarecrow on it was for excellent work, its caption: “Be Outstanding in Your Field.” She loved puns. Another board was full of autumn artwork: leaves pressed between waxed paper; 22 acorns with each child’s picture on one--she hoped this wasn’t a subconscious opinion that they were nuts-- with a colorful caption welcoming them back to school. It was about time to change that one, since they were into October already. She wrote the date on the board: October 5, 1990.
The door clicked open and she started. Alison Redfield, the other third grade teacher strode in. “Observations are to start next week. Yours is first,” she glanced meaningfully at Penny. “I guess you’ll have to stick to the curriculum and your lesson plans, won’t you?” Then she laughed to indicate she was joking. She wasn’t. “Oh, and we need to meet after school today to discuss the field trip. We don’t want any fiascos like last time, do we?” Why, Penny wondered, did she always couch her orders in the form of a question when there was only one acceptable answer? Then Ms. Redfield was gone, having successfully put a knot the size of a baseball in Penny’s stomach.
Reminding herself to breathe deeply, Penny glanced at the clock. 7:40. Plenty of time to get ready before the 8:15 bell. Her lunch stowed in the mini fridge, the better to avoid the teacher’s lounge, she reminded herself of her lesson plans for the day. She wondered if she would stick to them. Or would life interfere and demand something different?
As soon as the bell rang, she knew something was wrong. A man was shouting in the hall. She ran to her door. There was George, looking panicky, a grown man chasing him. His father, presumably. “Git back here, you thief ! Open that backpack!” He grabbed the pack, jerking George to a stop. George was frozen in place, his eyes looking beseechingly into Penny’s. The man was huge and angry; Penny didn’t think any words she might say would stop him, but she had to try. “Mr. Wazi, please come inside and we’ll straighten this out.” At least George would be in familiar surroundings without so many eyes staring at the scene. But Mr. Wazi ignored her, never taking his bulging eyes off his son.
“Goddamn you, you little liar!” The kids in the hallway gasped. They might hear this language at home, but never at school, except maybe on the playground. Penny glanced around for help. The nearby teachers, waiting at their doorways, were watching, some with let’s-see-how-she-handles-this looks on their faces. She was pretty sure that whatever she did would be wrong in their eyes. And they wouldn’t come to her rescue. She tried doing what they would have done. “Mr. Wazi, we don’t allow that kind of language here.” Finally, he glanced at her. Who was she to talk to him like that? “He’s my kid and I’ll talk to him any damned way I please.”
From the other end of the hall swept a massive black woman in a floating caftan with the speed of an avenging angel. She came to a stop behind the man, thinking he would be startled and turn away from George and Ms. Pound to pay attention to her. It worked. He spun around. Suddenly the avenging angel was all sweetness and light. “Mr. Wazi, how nice to see you. You just come to my office and we’ll straighten this out right away. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” He wrenched the backpack from George’s shoulders, but he turned to follow her. A miracle! thought Penny. Glory winked at her. Penny felt warm and safe again. She greeted her class, taking George by the hand and patting it. She swore she could see her lesson plans drift lazily out the window. Maybe today needed to be about bullies...
The first thing her class did every day, right after the Pledge of Allegiance, was to gather around her on the Turkish carpet and talk about anything they wanted to (“Losing 15 minutes of teaching time,” Ms. Redfield had hissed when she walked in on them). But these 15 minutes knit the class together and Penny would not give them up. So she called it Verbal Skills time. Unable to argue with that, Ms. Redfield retreated from the field of battle to consider her next attack. She had determined that Ms. Pound would be gone by the end of the year.
Gracie was holding George’s hand. Leave it to Gracie, Penny thought. Gracie couldn’t bear to see a classmate hurting. Chatter came to an end and several hands shot up. She chose Keith, who was rarely chosen for anything and who spoke haltingly. “Ms. Pound...um...what was...” he glanced at George, unwilling to hurt him further. “Uh...is everything ok?”
Penny was always honest with her students, one of her greatest offenses in the eyes of many of the other teachers. “Well, dear, things weren’t ok a few minutes ago, were they?” She always validated a child’s feeling. Who was she to tell them they should feel differently? Remembering Glory’s reminders to live in the present, she said, “But they’re okay now, aren’t they?” She smiled. “Does anybody have anything funny to share?” Humor healed so much, she’d found. Her extremities were beginning to warm up after all the blood had gone to her vital organs during the confrontation. Her second of the day, she realized. And it wasn’t even 8:30 yet.
To her amazement, George’s hand shot up. “Yes, dear?” she said.
Suddenly a big grin was lighting the little boy’s face. “Yes, Ms. Pound. Last night Chopper got his head caught in the fence and we had to grease his head to get him free. And then he kept trying to lick the grease off and he couldn’t reach it!” George burst into laughter, slapping his knee. “He looked so funny turning himself around and around trying to get at that grease! Then he had to get a bath. He hates baths!” George guffawed. The child’s ability to shift his mood so quickly amazed her.
The kids were laughing now, picturing dogs in all manner of mess endlessly circling and trying to reach a spot they never could. Joy was restored. Maybe the lesson plans would come back, Penny thought hopefully.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Mr. Wazi had not reappeared, so Glory must have worked her magic on him. Spelling, handwriting (she still taught it, although most teachers had given up on it in favor of preparing kids for the gauntlet of testing ahead of them), reading and writing went smoothly. Normalcy could be a great comfort. After lunch there was story time (Listening Skills, she called it), math and science or social studies. Then the end of the day. Even the meeting with Ms. Redfield hadn’t been too bad, with minimal mention of past disasters and very practical suggestions regarding the upcoming trip to the arboretum and butterfly garden.
She wondered if plants would interest third graders. She hoped there would be a Venus Flytrap. They would love a plant that ate bugs. They would also love the butterfly garden, she knew. She had been to the humid dome herself and looked forward to introducing her students to her favorite butterflies: the blue morphos.
It had been a pretty good day. B+, she decided as she drove home. The week as a whole? Yes, she decided she’d give that a B+, too. And now for a lazy weekend of dog snuggles, lesson planning--she did plan them, really she did--and paper grading.
Sherlock greeted her in a frenzy of leaps and vocalizations, expressing his long-held fear that one day she would leave him and not come back and he would have to break out and eat at the Safeway. But without her scent and her snuggles, even the Safeway wouldn’t be any fun. Having thoroughly expressed his delirium over her return, he grabbed his bone and flung it into her shins.
“Good aim, you crazy animal.” He rolled over and she rubbed his chest. Not for long enough, of course. She tossed her flowery bag onto the sofa and went to the kitchen to cook dinner for the two of them.
~~~~~
Although she’d been up for while, Penny was surprised when the phone rang before nine the next morning.
“Hey, are you up and about yet?” Glory’s voice traveled through the telephone wires directly into Penny’s heart, warming it.
“Are you kidding? You know Sherlock would never let me sleep this late.” She patted his head which was never far from her knee on days off.
“How about I bring over some homemade cinnamon rolls and we sit in your back yard and talk?”
“Sounds heavenly,” Penny was smiling at the thought. She hadn’t really noticed how glorious the day was until now.
“Be over in 15. If you’re still in your jammies, don’t get dressed for me.”
She was in her pajamas, although the chenille robe gave them a bit more formality, she thought. She would wrest her hair into presentability, though. The mirror told her that her hair looked as if she’d been recently electrocuted. Was it because it was red, she wondered? In winter static electricity made it stick out, in summer humidity frizzed it, and her cowlicks nearly always determined what was possible in terms of style on any given day. By the time she got it in some semblance of order, brushed her teeth, and brewed the coffee, Glory was there.
“Where shall we eat, the patio or under the trees?” Penny asked, as they piled her blue and white crockery and flatware onto a tray.
“Why not both? We can use the patio for eating and the lawn chairs for drinking too much coffee after.”
“Perfect.”
Glory seemed naturally to collect the sweet possibilities of life like nectar and then spread them around to others. Come to think of it, she dresses like a butterfly, too, thought Penny. Today she was swathed in a bird of paradise print against a deep purple background.
The patio, its bricks warmed by the risen sun and bordered by Penny’s trellised roses greeted them like an old friend. Sherlock flopped himself at Penny’s feet and emitted a low groan of contentment.
“Oh, good. The frost hasn’t claimed your roses yet,” the pale pink cupped blooms drooped from the trellis, a sweet scent still emanating from them.
“No. No killing frost yet, but it’s coming,” a thought which saddened Penny.
Glory looked at her perceptively. “But not today,” she said, leading Penny gently back into the present.
For a while they just sat there, absorbing the sun’s weakening but still warm rays. The cinnamon rolls, yeasty, frosted and slathered with melting butter seduced them into eating several. She remembered her grandmother’s scones fresh from the oven. The proper English teas shared in the garden wearing feathered or flowered hats.
“Where are you now, honey?” Glory asked, putting down her coffee cup.
The irretrievable past forsaken, Penny smiled. “Right here enjoying the best cinnamon rolls in Redfield. In Ohio. Probably in the world.”
Glory laughed, and when Glory laughed, her whole body trembled like a mountain about to erupt, but with something kinder than fire.
“Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.” Glory gathered the compliment to herself, tucking it into some treasure chest in her voluminous heart.
Casually, she asked, “What do you hear from Sam these days?” Her eyes remained trained on her friend.
“Not much. He still wants to be a Marine, which terrifies me. I keep hoping it’ll pass, like his obsession with trains when he was little, but not so far. His dad is even taking him to work out with the poolies.” She shook her head, remembering the first time she’d seen her little guy on the field with all those Arnold Schwarzeneggers-in-training. “But it turns out the kid can hold his own, even among the big guys.” Penny sighed.
“Poolie?” Glory rolled the word around on her tongue, tasting it. “What on earth’s a poolie?” asked Glory. “Sounds like somebody that hangs out in a pool. Or shoots pool, maybe.”
“Far from it. They’re the guys who want to be Marines. The recruiters work with them. It’s pretty intense physical training from what I hear, although Sam seems to revel in it.” She shook her head. “He never complains about it. Unlike he does about much pleasanter things at home.”
“Well,” Glory spoke thoughtfully, “Maybe this is his path.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Penny sighed again. “But that means it’s mine, too, and I’m just not up to it.”
“Maybe you don’t feel up to it, but you will be, when the time comes.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
Glory laughed again.
She laughs easily and often, thought Penny. It must be a gift.
“Honey,” Glory leaned forward and locked eyes with her, “I know you.” She let that sink in. “Look at what happened yesterday with Mr. Wazi.” Penny thought back to that poor little boy and his bullying father.
Glory continued. “You should have seen the look on your face. Fire blazed in your eyes. Your fists were balled up. I do believe you would’ve slugged that man if you’d needed to, to protect George.”
Penny thought for a moment. There was no way she would have slugged a man, much less a man the size of Mr. Wazi. Would she?
Wasps were beginning to circle the few remaining cinnamon rolls, so she took the sweets into the house, while Glory carried their coffee cups to the lawn chairs beneath the trees.
When she was seated, Glory said, “Do you remember your Winnie the Pooh?”
“Of course! I read it to Sammy and I still read it to my kids. Especially the part about them trying to unbounce Tigger. I don’t want some other teacher to unbounce my kids someday.”
“How about this part? ‘You are braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem.’ ” Glory looked quite satisfied with herself for coming up with the quote. ‘That’s you, Penny Pound, and don’t you forget it.”
Penny hoped that was true. The problem with bravery was that you never knew when you might need to use it. And would it be there when you did?
~~~~~
That afternoon, Penny filled her flowery bag with music and went to practice for tomorrow’s service. She had played the organ since her feet could barely touch the pedals.
“Don’t you want to take dancing lessons, like Ivy?” her mother had wheedled.
Dancing lessons were so much cheaper.
How could Penny explain, at the age of 7, that when an organ played the vibration set something off, a sympathetic resonance, that shook her to her toes? That the notes became her breath and the rhythm the beat of her heart? Even if she could have said it, she wouldn’t have trusted her mother with that secret. She had a lot of secrets she couldn’t trust her mother with.
For once she hadn’t been agreeable; hadn’t backed down. And one day, her dad and Mr. Beardsley had loaded a spinet organ onto the back of a truck. Her mother was not about to let her child’s victory go unchallenged. Pointing her unforgiving finger at the back end of the truck she said, “There goes your work until the day you leave home.”
And that hadn’t taken the joy out of it. Even though she had to practice every single day right after school and even on the weekends, first for half an hour and later for at least an hour; even though, like every other musician she had cried in frustration and made huge crashing chords when she failed to execute a passage to her satisfaction. The joy, the transcendence of the sound had never left her.
Her heart sped up and her fingers tingled as she pulled into the shaded parking lot of the elegant cream-colored church. The tasteful sign in front proclaimed, “Immanuel Episcopal Church, All Are Welcome.” It would never have said, “Come as you are,” like the Methodist Church down the way. That might leave the congregation to think they could wear just any old thing to church. Episcopalians had a dress code.
Immanuel, she thought. God with us. But was he really? She wasn’t sure. But she certainly hoped so. She unlocked the scarlet painted door and walked into the cool interior. The day had warmed up, but the warmth had not yet penetrated the thick masonry walls. She entered the sanctuary. Its beauty always made her catch her breath, even though she’d been the organist here since her teens.
The walls were cream, the better to reflect the jewel-tinted light streaming through the stained glass windows. Mostly reds and blues, with occasional shapes of amber and green, danced on the walls. She and Andrew had won a partial victory in their battle not to have the acoustics dampened by carpeting. There was a strip of moss green carpet along each aisle, but the rest of the stone floor remained inviolate. In consolation for having their feet left on the cold hard stone, elderly posteriors found themselves comfortably ensconced on brand new pew cushions. She and Andrew had fought these, too, pleading that, just like the carpet, they would absorb sound and the natural reverberation would be lessened. They were right, of course, but the vestry was firm in its unspoken opinion that bony posteriors must be catered to if generous bequests to the church were to be left in wills.
On either side of the altar, candelabra gleamed, while the altar itself was flawlessly dressed by the fussy altar guild after much wrangling about a quarter of an inch here or there. Penny mounted the steps to the chancel. Carved choir stalls lined one wall but on the other side sat the queen of all instruments, the organ. She slid onto the bench and kept going, nearly sliding off the other side.
“Damn!” resounded--although not as much as it would have before the carpet and cushions--around the sanctuary. The altar guild had been at it again, polishing every surface in sight. Including her bench. She righted herself and turned on the organ. She could hear the pipes come to life, a resurrection of her own making.
Behind her was the one clear window in the sanctuary. An enormous gothic arch, it filled most of the eastern wall behind the altar, blinding the congregation, Penny suspected, as it baked her back causing sweat to trickle down it in summer despite the air conditioning. But it looked out onto majestic pines that filtered some of the light and swayed gracefully in the wind. What was a sweaty back or too much sun in the eyes compared to that view? Especially in winter when the boughs drooped with snow.
She and Andrew had chosen the music for All Saints Sunday, which was still more than three weeks away. But she had better start thinking about music for Thanksgiving. She hated most of the traditional stuff, but knew the congregation would insist on singing it. ‘We Gather Together’ began innocuously enough, but soon devolved into declaring that God ‘chastens and hastens his will to make known.’ Penny thought that if God were really like that, the world would be better off without him. Then there would be Advent and, thank heaven, Christmas, the season she lived for the whole year long. Glorious music, angels all over the place, humble shepherds and most of all, God as infant; vulnerable to human-not-so-kind.
She shook herself out of her reverie. Time to practice.
Two hours later, she was surprised by the bang of the side door. The scent of his perfumed hair preceded Andrew Monckton, choirmaster extraordinaire. “I thought I heard your dulcet tones...from the parking lot,” he emphasized, as he made his entrance with feline grace.
“The organ is nothing if not subtle,” Penny rejoined, laughing. She knew her own propensity for playing until the rafters shook and the pedal tones set off seismographs. But she couldn’t help it. She wanted her cells penetrated by the sound waves, the better to exorcise all the demons she suspected of lurking there. She expected she’d be deaf by the time she was sixty. But she knew she’d still hear the music.
“I know what you’re here for, but why am I here, you ask. Well,” he rubbed his manicured hands together. “I’m here to play a little trick on the choir.” His grin had a hint of the devil about it.
“Oh, do tell!” She never grew tired of his pranks to ruffle the extremely sensitive feathers--or should that be scales?--of the choir.
He pulled a folder out of his briefcase with a flourish. There should be trumpets, thought Penny. “Ta-daaaaaa!” he sang. “A brand new seating arrangement!”
My God, he’s brave, thought Penny. “Really?” she said aloud. “After what happened last time?”
“Especially after what happened the last time.” He tapped the folder. “They’ve got to know you can’t keep a good man down. Tomorrow morning they will arrive to bless the congregation with their all-too-often atonal voices and Voila! They will discover that Brigid Hadley is no longer sitting next to Dolly Maven so that they can whisper through the sermon. Granted, the sermon often deserves to be whispered through, but still. Here we sit in front of God and everybody, whispering! Nor will Kenny and Bruce be able to listen to sports scores on game days. No hiding behind the bulkier folk now! They’ll be smack-dab down front. Oh, this is going to be fun!
“You are one brave man. Aren’t you afraid they’ll throw their prayer books at you?”
“My dear, this time I have Father Huddleston’s imprimatur on the subject. They wouldn’t dare!” He looked as if he were about to lick cream from his whiskers.
“How did you get that?” She knew perfectly well the last brouhaha had not gone down well with their peace-loving vicar.
“Simple. I told him I’d quit if he didn’t let me run the choir my way and he gave me carte blanche. He knows perfectly well we have the best music in the diocese and he doesn’t want to lose that. And so, my dear,” he crept closer and whispered conspiratorially, “We, the magnificent music committee of Immanuel Parish, are invincible!” He brushed his hands together. “And now, to work!”
He set about moving everyone’s belongings muttering, “My God, look what they keep back here!” or “This has to go!” while digging oddments out of the racks which were meant to hold prayer books, hymnals and anthem folders, but which, it was now discovered, included breath mints, kleenex--both quite understandable--a matchbox car, a set of earplugs, hand lotion, hair clips, lipstick, chewing gum and a whistle.
Penny collected her music and turned off the organ. She always felt badly as the breath went out of the venerable beast.
“Have fun, Andrew. I look forward to observing the fireworks tomorrow.” She wished that were true. Actually, she hated confrontation, but she knew he was looking forward to it.
“Have a lovely evening, my dear. Go to a bar. Find yourself a man. Find ME a man.” He sighed dramatically. “Ah, well, at least I have Princess Tomkins.” Tomkins was his cat and she and Sherlock loved one another with an interspecies passion neither Andrew nor Penny had ever seen before. At the blessing of the animals, she thought they were going to mate; the cat rubbing ecstatically against Sherlock’s furry chest with a purr that was almost a pedal tone, while the dog looked down, clearly besotted, and baptized the cat with his slobber. The blessing of the animals was always a show, and Sherlock and Tomkins had stolen it.
She went home to her cottage feeling more at peace than she had in weeks. She wondered how long it would last. After supper she snuggled up on the sofa with Sherlock, gathered student papers, colored pens, stickers and other assorted grading paraphernalia. She listened to the crackling fire as she graded, always looking for patterns in the mistakes that would help her understand how a child was thinking and, therefore, how she could help him.
Hours later, stiff from sitting still too long, she climbed into bed. Propped up, she prayed her favorite service of the day, Compline, which ended with her favorite prayer:
“Keep watch, dear Lord,
With those who work, or watch, or weep this night,
And give your angels charge over those who sleep.
Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying,
Soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love’s sake. Amen.”
In the wee hours of the morning, the wail of a siren pierced Penny’s dreams. Penny said a half-conscious prayer for the victims, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 2
“House fire. 208 East Elm.”
A simple statement, an address, and firefighters, men and women who, in all likelihood, knew nothing about the inhabitants, would climb a monstrous truck, race to the fire, and risk their lives. They’d do it today and tomorrow and the day after that, year in and year out, until their bodies gave out, it was time to retire, or a fire claimed them as its own.
It still amazed Jake, 15 years in, the selflessness of it all. Not his; he had his own reasons for doing what he did. No, it was the selflessness of his crew that struck him anew with every fire. But he didn’t have time to think of that now. He had to go over in his mind what he knew about the place. Housing development from the 1960s. Mostly ramblers, some split-levels. He could picture where the hydrant was from the last time he’d been there.
His mind sorted it all; windspeed and direction, gear most likely to be needed, the brief reports from dispatch given to the 911 operator by whoever had called it in.
The giant truck ground around the corner and he could see it, the orange yellow flames and the all-important smoke. Yellowish-grey meant mostly wood was burning; the thick black stuff came from petroleum products. You wanted yellowish-grey. Less likely to blow up. They pulled up to the house. Mostly yellow- gray smoke. Tonight they were lucky.
The firefighters jumped off the truck, their movements as choreographed as a ballet, the battle about to ensue as unpredictable as war. Dick Messer, the crime beat reporter was there. Always Johnny on the spot, Jake thought. Eight, maybe ten neighbors stood around. Maybe the firebug was here, if there was one, watching.
A kid broke loose from the adult who had been restraining him. Couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old, still in his pajamas and pelting toward Jake.
“You gotta----you gotta---,” He was gasping for breath and shaking from a cold he didn’t feel, “My brother---”
Jake knelt down to listen. He shut out the crackling and popping sounds that the fire sent out, sounding like a campfire gone wild, to listen to the small, stammering high-pitched voice of this terrified little boy.
“Kevin. He’s in there,” and with that, the little boy pointed to the burning house.
“Which room? Do you know?” Jake had perfected the tone required for such a question. Urgent, but not enough to panic the witness.
“No, I--he sleeps---sometimes he’s--”
Waiting for the other end of the sentence might take too long. “You aren’t sure.”
“No--”
Jake gestured to another firefighter. “We’ve got somebody in there.” The other firefighter nodded. He knew the drill. They practiced it all the time.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked the little boy. “Over there,” and the little guy pointed.
“Okay, you go stay with her for now. We’re gonna find your brother.” He patted the kid on the shoulder, then turned toward the fire. Jake wondered if the kid recognized him in his gear.
Team one had already entered the house. They crawled on all fours to stay below the billowing smoke and flames roaring overhead. Kelly would lead them in, his gauntleted right hand feeling the wall, leading them deeper into the house, room by room. White was number 2, grasping Kelly’s boot and sweeping to the left, while Havlicek grabbed White’s boot and swept right.
Peering below the writhing smoke and flames, they caught a glimpse of where they must go, but it was that blessed wall that would lead them in, lead them to the victim, and lead them out again. It was the braille of the house to those who could read it.
Living room, clear. Dining room, clear. The heat was getting worse. Kitchen fire probably. Down the hall. Bedroom one, clear. Bedroom two, hand signals, a shout, “We have a victim.”
Nearest egress point, a window above the garage, smashed. Kelly lifted the limp form from the bed, handing the child to a waiting pair of arms. Trying not to think how similar it was to the way the doctor had handed him his newborn son only a few days ago. Then it was time to lead the crew out to search for more victims, following the wall, that blessed wall.
EMS reported that it was too late. The child was dead. But at least he was not consigned to the flames. Sometimes, that had to be their victory.
The fire was extinguished as rapidly as it had blazed. The sifting through ash, the cataloging of charred detritus, the careful observing of burn patterns, the questions gradually leading to an understanding of how this fire came to be--these had just begun.
A camera crew had just arrived, but the guy who wrote about crime for the local paper had got there first. The vultures picking over the carrion, as Jake thought of them.
His crew safe, he went to find the little boy and his mother. They had been mercifully removed to the far side of the engine where they couldn’t see their home burning, the child’s body being removed. Someone had made coffee and the mother was holding it in her hand, but forgetting to drink it. She had the absent look many victims of shock wore. Her steps were unsteady. The boy clung to her, but seemed to be more her support than she was his.
“Ma’am,” he tried to gain and hold the woman’s eyes, but they settled nowhere, searching for who knew what. “Ma’am, I’m Jake Richards. Can you tell me your name?”
For the briefest of moments her eyes focused on him. “Marcy. Marcy Cadell.” Then she was off again.
Jake knelt. To the little boy he said, “And your name, son?” He already knew it, but this was for the record. “I’m Keith. Where’s Kevin?”
You didn’t have to tell everything you knew all at once. “He’s over there. The EMTs are trying to help him.”
Keith didn’t miss much. “Trying to? They can, can’t they?” “I’m not sure. We’ll see.”
We’ll see. The dreaded ‘we’ll see’ that meant, not maybe, but most likely not.
We’ll see meant you probably wouldn’t get to stay at your friend’s house; you probably wouldn’t get that Gameboy you wanted for Christmas. We’ll see meant disappointment. And this would be the worst disappointment of all.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where the fire started?”
She just looked at him, through him, really. Her mouth worked, but no words came out.
He turned to Keith. “Son, do you know where it started?”
Keith shook his head, his face full of fear and--was he imagining it?--guilt. “Where were you when the fire started?” He was asking both of them now, willing them to be capable of speech.
Marcy looked up to the cold, clear sky and laughed, and laughed until she was hoarse from laughing and only a dry cackle was left.
Keith took one look at Jake and ran, ran as fast as he could, he knew not where.
The dream never seemed to have a beginning. She found herself driving a car on a road that became narrower and narrower; too narrow to turn around. Ahead she could see the glimmer of water, the road disappearing gradually beneath it. She never stopped even though she was terrified. Into the waves she drove the car.
Sometimes it floated and she reached the other side; sometimes it sank and she felt the cold water rise up her body until it closed over her head. This time, she could feel the car floating, floating...but would she get to the other side? It seemed so far...
She woke before she could find out. Sherlock’s cold nose was nudging her hand, followed by apparently apologetic licking. At least his tongue was warm. I can’t help it, his deep brown eyes said, I have to GO. Though she always dreaded throwing the warm covers off and the moment when the chilly air would hit her body, for the sake of crazy old Sherlock, she wouldn’t even hesitate.
She grabbed her pink chenille bathrobe, then wiggled her feet into her blue fuzzy slippers that looked as if she had slaughtered Cookie Monster for them, and padded to the back door, Sherlock dancing around her feet despite his humongous size. She always suspected that this was how the medics would find her, splayed on the floor after tumbling over the dog. Part of her hoped it would be today and another part wanted it to be far in the future.
Down two steps from the laundry room her fuzzy slippers went. Sherlock was standing on the tiny landing--so tiny she couldn’t get her feet on it--so she leaned across him to unlock the door. His tail was thumping her legs to some strange tune in his head, she supposed. The door swung open and she let go of the knob to keep her balance until Sherlock’s bulk plummeted out the doorway and she could get her feet on the landing.
She braved the crisp autumn air to stand outside and watch the handsome dog who had been known to wander off. Cold from the cement seeped through the bottom of her slippers and up her legs. Just like the water in her dream. She shivered. Why that dream, over and over? Well, she didn’t have time to think about that now. Maybe after school.
The thought of school filled her with a dread no mere student had ever known, no matter what test might lay ahead. She was tested every day; would she pass today or be found wanting? With flying colors or by the skin of her teeth? Or would she come home hating herself, feeling she had failed? There was only one way to find out. She didn’t much care for the way.
Sherlock did his business, glancing at her to see if she was watching. He was rather hoping to follow a tantalizing smell to the Safeway a few blocks away. The wind was just right to waft the bakery smells to his impressive nose. Nope. Not today. She was watching. Damn. He trotted obediently toward her with a look saying aren’t-I-a-good-boy on his goofy face. She knew that look. ‘Liar,’ she said fondly.
Cutting up the sweet potatoes and chicken the vet had prescribed for Sherlock’s digestive distress, she glanced at the clock. Just enough time to make some coffee, say the short version of Morning Prayer, and put together some outfit for work. It was cold enough for her felt hat with the chrysanthemum today. For a few seconds the sound of Sherlock’s rapturous gobbling amused her. Then the smell of coffee comforted her. It’ll be all right, the aroma said.
She settled down at the dining room table, Sherlock now curling contentedly at her feet, the fuzzy slippers a convenient pillow. Sipping her coffee, she opened her prayer book to the well-worn page. She sighed. Why did she get more comfort from the coffee than the prayer, she wondered? Lately she had begun to think that God must get tired of hearing the same old thing day after day from thousands of lips. Static in his ears. God’s ears. The thought made her smile. She plunged in and hoped the prayer would work, her talisman for the day ahead. She closed the prayer book with a fervent TGIF.
An hour later she sneaked into the school building through a side door as furtively as a burglar. She didn’t want to run into her principal (unlikely, since he cloistered himself in his office), Ms. Redfield, who never seemed to cast an eye on her without finding something to criticize, or the teachers she thought of as the perky chirpers. Safely in her room, she took off her coat and flung her hat, artistically, she hoped, onto the hat rack. She refused to flick on the lights which would greet her with the fluorescent glare she hated. She made her way to the reading center where she’d placed a floor lamp with a three-way bulb and turned it on low. The cushion on her rocking chair glowed deep red in the warm light. Opening the blinds (why, she wondered, did the janitor always shut them?) she walked to her desk and pulled the chain to turn on her banker’s light, a name she found ironic, given the difference in their salaries. Still, she loved the shade’s green glow.
She looked around this room where she spent most of her waking hours. She had made a cozy nest for herself and her kids. She always thought of them as her kids and, truth be told, one of them had even called her ‘mom’ in a moment of wishful thinking. Her desk was in the darkest corner so her kids could enjoy the light streaming through the windows. The reading corner was full of pillows she had to keep her students from fighting over, because all of them seemed to have a favorite and too many kids liked the same ones. She had bought a bright Turkish carpet (on sale, very much used) and a few wooden bookshelves to add to the sterile metal one provided by the school.
The bulletin boards were covered in orange paper. One with a scarecrow on it was for excellent work, its caption: “Be Outstanding in Your Field.” She loved puns. Another board was full of autumn artwork: leaves pressed between waxed paper; 22 acorns with each child’s picture on one--she hoped this wasn’t a subconscious opinion that they were nuts-- with a colorful caption welcoming them back to school. It was about time to change that one, since they were into October already. She wrote the date on the board: October 5, 1990.
The door clicked open and she started. Alison Redfield, the other third grade teacher strode in. “Observations are to start next week. Yours is first,” she glanced meaningfully at Penny. “I guess you’ll have to stick to the curriculum and your lesson plans, won’t you?” Then she laughed to indicate she was joking. She wasn’t. “Oh, and we need to meet after school today to discuss the field trip. We don’t want any fiascos like last time, do we?” Why, Penny wondered, did she always couch her orders in the form of a question when there was only one acceptable answer? Then Ms. Redfield was gone, having successfully put a knot the size of a baseball in Penny’s stomach.
Reminding herself to breathe deeply, Penny glanced at the clock. 7:40. Plenty of time to get ready before the 8:15 bell. Her lunch stowed in the mini fridge, the better to avoid the teacher’s lounge, she reminded herself of her lesson plans for the day. She wondered if she would stick to them. Or would life interfere and demand something different?
As soon as the bell rang, she knew something was wrong. A man was shouting in the hall. She ran to her door. There was George, looking panicky, a grown man chasing him. His father, presumably. “Git back here, you thief ! Open that backpack!” He grabbed the pack, jerking George to a stop. George was frozen in place, his eyes looking beseechingly into Penny’s. The man was huge and angry; Penny didn’t think any words she might say would stop him, but she had to try. “Mr. Wazi, please come inside and we’ll straighten this out.” At least George would be in familiar surroundings without so many eyes staring at the scene. But Mr. Wazi ignored her, never taking his bulging eyes off his son.
“Goddamn you, you little liar!” The kids in the hallway gasped. They might hear this language at home, but never at school, except maybe on the playground. Penny glanced around for help. The nearby teachers, waiting at their doorways, were watching, some with let’s-see-how-she-handles-this looks on their faces. She was pretty sure that whatever she did would be wrong in their eyes. And they wouldn’t come to her rescue. She tried doing what they would have done. “Mr. Wazi, we don’t allow that kind of language here.” Finally, he glanced at her. Who was she to talk to him like that? “He’s my kid and I’ll talk to him any damned way I please.”
From the other end of the hall swept a massive black woman in a floating caftan with the speed of an avenging angel. She came to a stop behind the man, thinking he would be startled and turn away from George and Ms. Pound to pay attention to her. It worked. He spun around. Suddenly the avenging angel was all sweetness and light. “Mr. Wazi, how nice to see you. You just come to my office and we’ll straighten this out right away. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” He wrenched the backpack from George’s shoulders, but he turned to follow her. A miracle! thought Penny. Glory winked at her. Penny felt warm and safe again. She greeted her class, taking George by the hand and patting it. She swore she could see her lesson plans drift lazily out the window. Maybe today needed to be about bullies...
The first thing her class did every day, right after the Pledge of Allegiance, was to gather around her on the Turkish carpet and talk about anything they wanted to (“Losing 15 minutes of teaching time,” Ms. Redfield had hissed when she walked in on them). But these 15 minutes knit the class together and Penny would not give them up. So she called it Verbal Skills time. Unable to argue with that, Ms. Redfield retreated from the field of battle to consider her next attack. She had determined that Ms. Pound would be gone by the end of the year.
Gracie was holding George’s hand. Leave it to Gracie, Penny thought. Gracie couldn’t bear to see a classmate hurting. Chatter came to an end and several hands shot up. She chose Keith, who was rarely chosen for anything and who spoke haltingly. “Ms. Pound...um...what was...” he glanced at George, unwilling to hurt him further. “Uh...is everything ok?”
Penny was always honest with her students, one of her greatest offenses in the eyes of many of the other teachers. “Well, dear, things weren’t ok a few minutes ago, were they?” She always validated a child’s feeling. Who was she to tell them they should feel differently? Remembering Glory’s reminders to live in the present, she said, “But they’re okay now, aren’t they?” She smiled. “Does anybody have anything funny to share?” Humor healed so much, she’d found. Her extremities were beginning to warm up after all the blood had gone to her vital organs during the confrontation. Her second of the day, she realized. And it wasn’t even 8:30 yet.
To her amazement, George’s hand shot up. “Yes, dear?” she said.
Suddenly a big grin was lighting the little boy’s face. “Yes, Ms. Pound. Last night Chopper got his head caught in the fence and we had to grease his head to get him free. And then he kept trying to lick the grease off and he couldn’t reach it!” George burst into laughter, slapping his knee. “He looked so funny turning himself around and around trying to get at that grease! Then he had to get a bath. He hates baths!” George guffawed. The child’s ability to shift his mood so quickly amazed her.
The kids were laughing now, picturing dogs in all manner of mess endlessly circling and trying to reach a spot they never could. Joy was restored. Maybe the lesson plans would come back, Penny thought hopefully.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Mr. Wazi had not reappeared, so Glory must have worked her magic on him. Spelling, handwriting (she still taught it, although most teachers had given up on it in favor of preparing kids for the gauntlet of testing ahead of them), reading and writing went smoothly. Normalcy could be a great comfort. After lunch there was story time (Listening Skills, she called it), math and science or social studies. Then the end of the day. Even the meeting with Ms. Redfield hadn’t been too bad, with minimal mention of past disasters and very practical suggestions regarding the upcoming trip to the arboretum and butterfly garden.
She wondered if plants would interest third graders. She hoped there would be a Venus Flytrap. They would love a plant that ate bugs. They would also love the butterfly garden, she knew. She had been to the humid dome herself and looked forward to introducing her students to her favorite butterflies: the blue morphos.
It had been a pretty good day. B+, she decided as she drove home. The week as a whole? Yes, she decided she’d give that a B+, too. And now for a lazy weekend of dog snuggles, lesson planning--she did plan them, really she did--and paper grading.
Sherlock greeted her in a frenzy of leaps and vocalizations, expressing his long-held fear that one day she would leave him and not come back and he would have to break out and eat at the Safeway. But without her scent and her snuggles, even the Safeway wouldn’t be any fun. Having thoroughly expressed his delirium over her return, he grabbed his bone and flung it into her shins.
“Good aim, you crazy animal.” He rolled over and she rubbed his chest. Not for long enough, of course. She tossed her flowery bag onto the sofa and went to the kitchen to cook dinner for the two of them.
~~~~~
Although she’d been up for while, Penny was surprised when the phone rang before nine the next morning.
“Hey, are you up and about yet?” Glory’s voice traveled through the telephone wires directly into Penny’s heart, warming it.
“Are you kidding? You know Sherlock would never let me sleep this late.” She patted his head which was never far from her knee on days off.
“How about I bring over some homemade cinnamon rolls and we sit in your back yard and talk?”
“Sounds heavenly,” Penny was smiling at the thought. She hadn’t really noticed how glorious the day was until now.
“Be over in 15. If you’re still in your jammies, don’t get dressed for me.”
She was in her pajamas, although the chenille robe gave them a bit more formality, she thought. She would wrest her hair into presentability, though. The mirror told her that her hair looked as if she’d been recently electrocuted. Was it because it was red, she wondered? In winter static electricity made it stick out, in summer humidity frizzed it, and her cowlicks nearly always determined what was possible in terms of style on any given day. By the time she got it in some semblance of order, brushed her teeth, and brewed the coffee, Glory was there.
“Where shall we eat, the patio or under the trees?” Penny asked, as they piled her blue and white crockery and flatware onto a tray.
“Why not both? We can use the patio for eating and the lawn chairs for drinking too much coffee after.”
“Perfect.”
Glory seemed naturally to collect the sweet possibilities of life like nectar and then spread them around to others. Come to think of it, she dresses like a butterfly, too, thought Penny. Today she was swathed in a bird of paradise print against a deep purple background.
The patio, its bricks warmed by the risen sun and bordered by Penny’s trellised roses greeted them like an old friend. Sherlock flopped himself at Penny’s feet and emitted a low groan of contentment.
“Oh, good. The frost hasn’t claimed your roses yet,” the pale pink cupped blooms drooped from the trellis, a sweet scent still emanating from them.
“No. No killing frost yet, but it’s coming,” a thought which saddened Penny.
Glory looked at her perceptively. “But not today,” she said, leading Penny gently back into the present.
For a while they just sat there, absorbing the sun’s weakening but still warm rays. The cinnamon rolls, yeasty, frosted and slathered with melting butter seduced them into eating several. She remembered her grandmother’s scones fresh from the oven. The proper English teas shared in the garden wearing feathered or flowered hats.
“Where are you now, honey?” Glory asked, putting down her coffee cup.
The irretrievable past forsaken, Penny smiled. “Right here enjoying the best cinnamon rolls in Redfield. In Ohio. Probably in the world.”
Glory laughed, and when Glory laughed, her whole body trembled like a mountain about to erupt, but with something kinder than fire.
“Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.” Glory gathered the compliment to herself, tucking it into some treasure chest in her voluminous heart.
Casually, she asked, “What do you hear from Sam these days?” Her eyes remained trained on her friend.
“Not much. He still wants to be a Marine, which terrifies me. I keep hoping it’ll pass, like his obsession with trains when he was little, but not so far. His dad is even taking him to work out with the poolies.” She shook her head, remembering the first time she’d seen her little guy on the field with all those Arnold Schwarzeneggers-in-training. “But it turns out the kid can hold his own, even among the big guys.” Penny sighed.
“Poolie?” Glory rolled the word around on her tongue, tasting it. “What on earth’s a poolie?” asked Glory. “Sounds like somebody that hangs out in a pool. Or shoots pool, maybe.”
“Far from it. They’re the guys who want to be Marines. The recruiters work with them. It’s pretty intense physical training from what I hear, although Sam seems to revel in it.” She shook her head. “He never complains about it. Unlike he does about much pleasanter things at home.”
“Well,” Glory spoke thoughtfully, “Maybe this is his path.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Penny sighed again. “But that means it’s mine, too, and I’m just not up to it.”
“Maybe you don’t feel up to it, but you will be, when the time comes.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
Glory laughed again.
She laughs easily and often, thought Penny. It must be a gift.
“Honey,” Glory leaned forward and locked eyes with her, “I know you.” She let that sink in. “Look at what happened yesterday with Mr. Wazi.” Penny thought back to that poor little boy and his bullying father.
Glory continued. “You should have seen the look on your face. Fire blazed in your eyes. Your fists were balled up. I do believe you would’ve slugged that man if you’d needed to, to protect George.”
Penny thought for a moment. There was no way she would have slugged a man, much less a man the size of Mr. Wazi. Would she?
Wasps were beginning to circle the few remaining cinnamon rolls, so she took the sweets into the house, while Glory carried their coffee cups to the lawn chairs beneath the trees.
When she was seated, Glory said, “Do you remember your Winnie the Pooh?”
“Of course! I read it to Sammy and I still read it to my kids. Especially the part about them trying to unbounce Tigger. I don’t want some other teacher to unbounce my kids someday.”
“How about this part? ‘You are braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem.’ ” Glory looked quite satisfied with herself for coming up with the quote. ‘That’s you, Penny Pound, and don’t you forget it.”
Penny hoped that was true. The problem with bravery was that you never knew when you might need to use it. And would it be there when you did?
~~~~~
That afternoon, Penny filled her flowery bag with music and went to practice for tomorrow’s service. She had played the organ since her feet could barely touch the pedals.
“Don’t you want to take dancing lessons, like Ivy?” her mother had wheedled.
Dancing lessons were so much cheaper.
How could Penny explain, at the age of 7, that when an organ played the vibration set something off, a sympathetic resonance, that shook her to her toes? That the notes became her breath and the rhythm the beat of her heart? Even if she could have said it, she wouldn’t have trusted her mother with that secret. She had a lot of secrets she couldn’t trust her mother with.
For once she hadn’t been agreeable; hadn’t backed down. And one day, her dad and Mr. Beardsley had loaded a spinet organ onto the back of a truck. Her mother was not about to let her child’s victory go unchallenged. Pointing her unforgiving finger at the back end of the truck she said, “There goes your work until the day you leave home.”
And that hadn’t taken the joy out of it. Even though she had to practice every single day right after school and even on the weekends, first for half an hour and later for at least an hour; even though, like every other musician she had cried in frustration and made huge crashing chords when she failed to execute a passage to her satisfaction. The joy, the transcendence of the sound had never left her.
Her heart sped up and her fingers tingled as she pulled into the shaded parking lot of the elegant cream-colored church. The tasteful sign in front proclaimed, “Immanuel Episcopal Church, All Are Welcome.” It would never have said, “Come as you are,” like the Methodist Church down the way. That might leave the congregation to think they could wear just any old thing to church. Episcopalians had a dress code.
Immanuel, she thought. God with us. But was he really? She wasn’t sure. But she certainly hoped so. She unlocked the scarlet painted door and walked into the cool interior. The day had warmed up, but the warmth had not yet penetrated the thick masonry walls. She entered the sanctuary. Its beauty always made her catch her breath, even though she’d been the organist here since her teens.
The walls were cream, the better to reflect the jewel-tinted light streaming through the stained glass windows. Mostly reds and blues, with occasional shapes of amber and green, danced on the walls. She and Andrew had won a partial victory in their battle not to have the acoustics dampened by carpeting. There was a strip of moss green carpet along each aisle, but the rest of the stone floor remained inviolate. In consolation for having their feet left on the cold hard stone, elderly posteriors found themselves comfortably ensconced on brand new pew cushions. She and Andrew had fought these, too, pleading that, just like the carpet, they would absorb sound and the natural reverberation would be lessened. They were right, of course, but the vestry was firm in its unspoken opinion that bony posteriors must be catered to if generous bequests to the church were to be left in wills.
On either side of the altar, candelabra gleamed, while the altar itself was flawlessly dressed by the fussy altar guild after much wrangling about a quarter of an inch here or there. Penny mounted the steps to the chancel. Carved choir stalls lined one wall but on the other side sat the queen of all instruments, the organ. She slid onto the bench and kept going, nearly sliding off the other side.
“Damn!” resounded--although not as much as it would have before the carpet and cushions--around the sanctuary. The altar guild had been at it again, polishing every surface in sight. Including her bench. She righted herself and turned on the organ. She could hear the pipes come to life, a resurrection of her own making.
Behind her was the one clear window in the sanctuary. An enormous gothic arch, it filled most of the eastern wall behind the altar, blinding the congregation, Penny suspected, as it baked her back causing sweat to trickle down it in summer despite the air conditioning. But it looked out onto majestic pines that filtered some of the light and swayed gracefully in the wind. What was a sweaty back or too much sun in the eyes compared to that view? Especially in winter when the boughs drooped with snow.
She and Andrew had chosen the music for All Saints Sunday, which was still more than three weeks away. But she had better start thinking about music for Thanksgiving. She hated most of the traditional stuff, but knew the congregation would insist on singing it. ‘We Gather Together’ began innocuously enough, but soon devolved into declaring that God ‘chastens and hastens his will to make known.’ Penny thought that if God were really like that, the world would be better off without him. Then there would be Advent and, thank heaven, Christmas, the season she lived for the whole year long. Glorious music, angels all over the place, humble shepherds and most of all, God as infant; vulnerable to human-not-so-kind.
She shook herself out of her reverie. Time to practice.
Two hours later, she was surprised by the bang of the side door. The scent of his perfumed hair preceded Andrew Monckton, choirmaster extraordinaire. “I thought I heard your dulcet tones...from the parking lot,” he emphasized, as he made his entrance with feline grace.
“The organ is nothing if not subtle,” Penny rejoined, laughing. She knew her own propensity for playing until the rafters shook and the pedal tones set off seismographs. But she couldn’t help it. She wanted her cells penetrated by the sound waves, the better to exorcise all the demons she suspected of lurking there. She expected she’d be deaf by the time she was sixty. But she knew she’d still hear the music.
“I know what you’re here for, but why am I here, you ask. Well,” he rubbed his manicured hands together. “I’m here to play a little trick on the choir.” His grin had a hint of the devil about it.
“Oh, do tell!” She never grew tired of his pranks to ruffle the extremely sensitive feathers--or should that be scales?--of the choir.
He pulled a folder out of his briefcase with a flourish. There should be trumpets, thought Penny. “Ta-daaaaaa!” he sang. “A brand new seating arrangement!”
My God, he’s brave, thought Penny. “Really?” she said aloud. “After what happened last time?”
“Especially after what happened the last time.” He tapped the folder. “They’ve got to know you can’t keep a good man down. Tomorrow morning they will arrive to bless the congregation with their all-too-often atonal voices and Voila! They will discover that Brigid Hadley is no longer sitting next to Dolly Maven so that they can whisper through the sermon. Granted, the sermon often deserves to be whispered through, but still. Here we sit in front of God and everybody, whispering! Nor will Kenny and Bruce be able to listen to sports scores on game days. No hiding behind the bulkier folk now! They’ll be smack-dab down front. Oh, this is going to be fun!
“You are one brave man. Aren’t you afraid they’ll throw their prayer books at you?”
“My dear, this time I have Father Huddleston’s imprimatur on the subject. They wouldn’t dare!” He looked as if he were about to lick cream from his whiskers.
“How did you get that?” She knew perfectly well the last brouhaha had not gone down well with their peace-loving vicar.
“Simple. I told him I’d quit if he didn’t let me run the choir my way and he gave me carte blanche. He knows perfectly well we have the best music in the diocese and he doesn’t want to lose that. And so, my dear,” he crept closer and whispered conspiratorially, “We, the magnificent music committee of Immanuel Parish, are invincible!” He brushed his hands together. “And now, to work!”
He set about moving everyone’s belongings muttering, “My God, look what they keep back here!” or “This has to go!” while digging oddments out of the racks which were meant to hold prayer books, hymnals and anthem folders, but which, it was now discovered, included breath mints, kleenex--both quite understandable--a matchbox car, a set of earplugs, hand lotion, hair clips, lipstick, chewing gum and a whistle.
Penny collected her music and turned off the organ. She always felt badly as the breath went out of the venerable beast.
“Have fun, Andrew. I look forward to observing the fireworks tomorrow.” She wished that were true. Actually, she hated confrontation, but she knew he was looking forward to it.
“Have a lovely evening, my dear. Go to a bar. Find yourself a man. Find ME a man.” He sighed dramatically. “Ah, well, at least I have Princess Tomkins.” Tomkins was his cat and she and Sherlock loved one another with an interspecies passion neither Andrew nor Penny had ever seen before. At the blessing of the animals, she thought they were going to mate; the cat rubbing ecstatically against Sherlock’s furry chest with a purr that was almost a pedal tone, while the dog looked down, clearly besotted, and baptized the cat with his slobber. The blessing of the animals was always a show, and Sherlock and Tomkins had stolen it.
She went home to her cottage feeling more at peace than she had in weeks. She wondered how long it would last. After supper she snuggled up on the sofa with Sherlock, gathered student papers, colored pens, stickers and other assorted grading paraphernalia. She listened to the crackling fire as she graded, always looking for patterns in the mistakes that would help her understand how a child was thinking and, therefore, how she could help him.
Hours later, stiff from sitting still too long, she climbed into bed. Propped up, she prayed her favorite service of the day, Compline, which ended with her favorite prayer:
“Keep watch, dear Lord,
With those who work, or watch, or weep this night,
And give your angels charge over those who sleep.
Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying,
Soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous, and all for your love’s sake. Amen.”
In the wee hours of the morning, the wail of a siren pierced Penny’s dreams. Penny said a half-conscious prayer for the victims, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 2
“House fire. 208 East Elm.”
A simple statement, an address, and firefighters, men and women who, in all likelihood, knew nothing about the inhabitants, would climb a monstrous truck, race to the fire, and risk their lives. They’d do it today and tomorrow and the day after that, year in and year out, until their bodies gave out, it was time to retire, or a fire claimed them as its own.
It still amazed Jake, 15 years in, the selflessness of it all. Not his; he had his own reasons for doing what he did. No, it was the selflessness of his crew that struck him anew with every fire. But he didn’t have time to think of that now. He had to go over in his mind what he knew about the place. Housing development from the 1960s. Mostly ramblers, some split-levels. He could picture where the hydrant was from the last time he’d been there.
His mind sorted it all; windspeed and direction, gear most likely to be needed, the brief reports from dispatch given to the 911 operator by whoever had called it in.
The giant truck ground around the corner and he could see it, the orange yellow flames and the all-important smoke. Yellowish-grey meant mostly wood was burning; the thick black stuff came from petroleum products. You wanted yellowish-grey. Less likely to blow up. They pulled up to the house. Mostly yellow- gray smoke. Tonight they were lucky.
The firefighters jumped off the truck, their movements as choreographed as a ballet, the battle about to ensue as unpredictable as war. Dick Messer, the crime beat reporter was there. Always Johnny on the spot, Jake thought. Eight, maybe ten neighbors stood around. Maybe the firebug was here, if there was one, watching.
A kid broke loose from the adult who had been restraining him. Couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years old, still in his pajamas and pelting toward Jake.
“You gotta----you gotta---,” He was gasping for breath and shaking from a cold he didn’t feel, “My brother---”
Jake knelt down to listen. He shut out the crackling and popping sounds that the fire sent out, sounding like a campfire gone wild, to listen to the small, stammering high-pitched voice of this terrified little boy.
“Kevin. He’s in there,” and with that, the little boy pointed to the burning house.
“Which room? Do you know?” Jake had perfected the tone required for such a question. Urgent, but not enough to panic the witness.
“No, I--he sleeps---sometimes he’s--”
Waiting for the other end of the sentence might take too long. “You aren’t sure.”
“No--”
Jake gestured to another firefighter. “We’ve got somebody in there.” The other firefighter nodded. He knew the drill. They practiced it all the time.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked the little boy. “Over there,” and the little guy pointed.
“Okay, you go stay with her for now. We’re gonna find your brother.” He patted the kid on the shoulder, then turned toward the fire. Jake wondered if the kid recognized him in his gear.
Team one had already entered the house. They crawled on all fours to stay below the billowing smoke and flames roaring overhead. Kelly would lead them in, his gauntleted right hand feeling the wall, leading them deeper into the house, room by room. White was number 2, grasping Kelly’s boot and sweeping to the left, while Havlicek grabbed White’s boot and swept right.
Peering below the writhing smoke and flames, they caught a glimpse of where they must go, but it was that blessed wall that would lead them in, lead them to the victim, and lead them out again. It was the braille of the house to those who could read it.
Living room, clear. Dining room, clear. The heat was getting worse. Kitchen fire probably. Down the hall. Bedroom one, clear. Bedroom two, hand signals, a shout, “We have a victim.”
Nearest egress point, a window above the garage, smashed. Kelly lifted the limp form from the bed, handing the child to a waiting pair of arms. Trying not to think how similar it was to the way the doctor had handed him his newborn son only a few days ago. Then it was time to lead the crew out to search for more victims, following the wall, that blessed wall.
EMS reported that it was too late. The child was dead. But at least he was not consigned to the flames. Sometimes, that had to be their victory.
The fire was extinguished as rapidly as it had blazed. The sifting through ash, the cataloging of charred detritus, the careful observing of burn patterns, the questions gradually leading to an understanding of how this fire came to be--these had just begun.
A camera crew had just arrived, but the guy who wrote about crime for the local paper had got there first. The vultures picking over the carrion, as Jake thought of them.
His crew safe, he went to find the little boy and his mother. They had been mercifully removed to the far side of the engine where they couldn’t see their home burning, the child’s body being removed. Someone had made coffee and the mother was holding it in her hand, but forgetting to drink it. She had the absent look many victims of shock wore. Her steps were unsteady. The boy clung to her, but seemed to be more her support than she was his.
“Ma’am,” he tried to gain and hold the woman’s eyes, but they settled nowhere, searching for who knew what. “Ma’am, I’m Jake Richards. Can you tell me your name?”
For the briefest of moments her eyes focused on him. “Marcy. Marcy Cadell.” Then she was off again.
Jake knelt. To the little boy he said, “And your name, son?” He already knew it, but this was for the record. “I’m Keith. Where’s Kevin?”
You didn’t have to tell everything you knew all at once. “He’s over there. The EMTs are trying to help him.”
Keith didn’t miss much. “Trying to? They can, can’t they?” “I’m not sure. We’ll see.”
We’ll see. The dreaded ‘we’ll see’ that meant, not maybe, but most likely not.
We’ll see meant you probably wouldn’t get to stay at your friend’s house; you probably wouldn’t get that Gameboy you wanted for Christmas. We’ll see meant disappointment. And this would be the worst disappointment of all.
“Ma’am, can you tell me where the fire started?”
She just looked at him, through him, really. Her mouth worked, but no words came out.
He turned to Keith. “Son, do you know where it started?”
Keith shook his head, his face full of fear and--was he imagining it?--guilt. “Where were you when the fire started?” He was asking both of them now, willing them to be capable of speech.
Marcy looked up to the cold, clear sky and laughed, and laughed until she was hoarse from laughing and only a dry cackle was left.
Keith took one look at Jake and ran, ran as fast as he could, he knew not where.