Beneath the Flames Page 2

  “Give us water on the second line,” Jim said into his radio. The limp hose snapped erect. The nozzle hissed as Mitch bled trapped air from the hose. When water came, he slammed the bail open, nailing flames with a torrent of water.

  “C’mon, people,” Jim barked, the words muffled by his mask, “step it up, it’s getting away from us. The Hillenbrands’ll lose everything.”

  The crew yanked plaster off the wall with axes and pike poles. A ball of flames flashed at them from inside the opened wall, turning the room into a blast furnace. Mitch stayed low like he’d been taught, knowing if he stood, the heat would melt his mask and helmet. One breath of the nearly thousand-degree super-heated smoke only feet above him would be fatal.

  Searing heat penetrated his gear, stinging his back until he couldn’t take it any longer. He dropped the hose and crawled toward the doorway. The open hose line flailed around the floor like a crazed snake.

  “It’s in the walls. Get ’em open,” Jim shouted. “Mitch, where’s that second line?—Mitch, where the hell are you?”

  The others dragged their hose line over him and blasted the flames, but the fire intensified.

  “Someone grab that second line before we lose the whole goddamn place.” Jim’s booming voice broke through Mitch’s panic.

  Mitch corralled the flailing hose. “I got it.”

  Even with both lines on the fire, it showed no sign of surrendering. The tinder-dry wood in the frame of the old farmhouse offered no resis­tance. Flames licked at them from every freshly opened wall, spreading fire through the second floor.

  “You three with Engine Thirty-Six, change your air bottles,” Jim said. “We’ll change ours when you get back. Make it quick.”

  Mitch struggled to understand Jim’s muffled orders over the roar of the fire.

  While Engine Thirty-Six’s crew went to their rig to replace the fiberglass air bottles, the others worked to keep fire from engulfing the entire floor. They advanced on the fire, got pushed back, and advanced again, the Red Devil leading the dance.

  When Jim and Mitch went to change their bottles, Mitch glanced at the chopper, which had landed in the open field next to the house. “I gotta see if she’s okay.”

  “She’s in good hands. C’mon, we gotta get back in there.”

  “I don’t see Lydia.”

  “Probably in the squad. Let’s go.”

  Mitch followed Jim back into the firefight. The fifty pounds of gear he wore felt like hundreds. He struggled to grip the heavy hose line. They’d been fighting the unrelenting demon for less than forty-five minutes but it seemed like hours. Throughout the firefight, Mitch’s thoughts kept spinning back to Maggie, limp and lifeless in his arms.

  “Listen up,” Jim said. “Dispatch says they got a grass fire in Johnson Crick and a barn fire out on Eighteen. We’re on our own. I know you guys are gassed. Let’s give her hell one more time for the Hillenbrands. If we can’t get it, we’ll have to let her burn.”

  The room erupted with the sound of plaster crashing to the floor as the men ripped at the walls and ceiling with axes and pike poles. The hot smoke-filled room echoed with angry grunts of a weary crew. Mitch hit the fire with the full force of the hose line. He barely heard Jim above the deluge of water blasting against the walls. “We’re getting it, guys, keep pounding her.”

  With the walls open, the fire was exposed with nowhere to hide. Alarms on air bottles blared, warning of only a few more minutes of air.

  Jim was at Mitch’s back. “C’mon, finish it.”

  Mitch advanced on the orange glow and drowned the remaining fire with a torrent of water. It flickered and died. The smoke gradually cleared, revealing the burned out second floor, plaster gone from the walls and ceilings. The deeply charred studs and joists resembled black alligator skin.

  Mitch pulled off his mask. The acrid stench of smoke stung his nostrils. The family’s beds, furniture, and clothing were reduced to smoldering piles of rubble. But the house still stood, the Red Devil denied.

  They spent another half-hour shoveling rubble and ashes out windows and extinguishing the last of the dying embers.

  Jim grabbed Mitch by the back of the neck. Mitch swallowed hard, figuring he’d be getting a bite in the ass for dropping the hose line. “Nice job, Mitch. A rescue and a fire. Way to hang in there.”

  Euphoria tickled his insides. Maggie was okay.

  Jim surveyed the burned-out room. “Nice job, everyone. Let’s pick up.”

  Mitch carried a load of hose down the stairs. He stepped onto the porch and squinted against the dust storm kicked up by the clattering rotors of Med Flight as it lifted off. When the dust cleared, he saw three EMTs gath­ered at the side yard beside a bright yellow sheet covering a small bundle.

  Mitch dropped the hose and ran, struggling to breathe. Bob, the veteran EMT, stepped in front of him. “Mitch, Mitch! She didn’t make it.”

  The words hit with the force of a sledgehammer.

  “Why didn’t they take her to the hospital?”

  Bob stayed between Mitch and the tiny bundle. “Med Flight worked her for over an hour. They did everything possible. We all did.”

  “Why didn’t they take her?” Mitch couldn’t stop shaking.

  “She was pronounced at the scene. Coroner has to investigate.”

  “That’s bullcrap.” Mitch’s heart pounded in his ears. “Why didn’t they take her?”

  “Sorry, Mitch.”

  “You guys take her then.” He leaned into Bob, his fist clenched.

  Jim stepped between them. “She’s gone, Mitch. Nothing more anyone can do.”

  “Please, Jim, tell them to take her.” Mitch stared at the motionless sheet.

  “Let’s get you checked. You took a snoot-full in there.”

  A faded red Ford pickup sped into the gravel drive and slid to a stop alongside Mitch and Jim. John and Betty Hillenbrand leapt from the truck.

  “Holy Christ,” John said, scrambling around the truck to Mitch and Jim.

  Betty gripped her husband’s arm. A vein down the center of her fore­head throbbed. “Mitch, where’s the kids?”

  Mitch couldn’t get any words past the knot in his throat.

  “Lydia’s pretty shook up, but she’s okay,” Jim said.

  “What about Maggie?” The heavy bags under Betty’s eyes drooped. “Please say she’s okay.” She cupped her hands over her mouth.

  Jim looked over to the yellow sheet in the yard where the three EMTs were silently putting away gear. His voice cracked. “Betty…”

  She ran to the bundle and tore the sheet off. The tiny child was covered in soot with defibrillator pads still pasted to her bare chest. Betty dropped to her knees and wiped the soot from Maggie’s face with the bottom of her white blouse.

  Jim clutched Mitch’s arm. “Let’s get you checked out.”

  Mitch pushed him away, threw down his fire helmet, and stomped toward his truck. A siren wailed. He looked back. It was not a siren. Betty Hillenbrand was kneeling on the lawn, rocking her little girl, holding Maggie’s head to her chest.

  Chapter 2

  Mitch trailed well behind his brother and father into the ancient country church. Warm reds, blues, and greens from stained glass windows washed over the somber assemblage. Pictures of Maggie with Jesus, drawn by the children of the congregation, lined the back wall. She was smiling in all of them.

  Sid, Chris, and Mitch slipped into the back pew, their usual seats since the three of them rarely stayed awake through an entire sermon. Sid and Chris could be twins separated by years, stout and fair. Sid’s hair was long-gone and Chris’s already thinning. Mitch also took after his father’s short stature but favored his mother’s thick black hair and dark eyes.

  Mitch tugged at the collar of his ill-fitting suit. Last time he wore it was four years ago at the Wisconsin High School Wrestling Awards Banquet in Madison. He won the State Championship in the 152-pound weight division, having gone undefeated senior year.

 
The sweltering August afternoon had the parishioners fanning them­selves with funeral programs. Mitch shuddered as sweat ran down his forehead. The pastor’s impassioned sermon echoed off the thick stone walls. He shared how Maggie was excited to be starting school next week and already had her backpack filled with supplies. He choked up and had to pause, then continued, telling the congregation she was in the hands of the ultimate teacher, Jesus.

  Mitch struggled to focus. Images flashed through his mind: cradling infant Maggie in his arms, her squeals of glee when he chased toddler Maggie around the farmyard, and the laughter they shared over nonsensical jokes as she learned to talk.

  After Mitch’s mom died, the Hillenbrands stopped by every Sunday. Betty made them proper farm meals while John helped with chores. When Lydia, then Maggie, came along, Mitch took charge of them while Betty worked in the kitchen. There was no better medicine than a hug and an Eskimo kiss from Maggie when he was feeling down.

  Mitch’s thoughts drifted to memories of his mom: her sad face the last time he saw her alive and her cruel words, “I wish you were never born.” Her funeral had been held in this same church over twelve years ago. He was only ten.

  Lydia’s wails rose above the muffled sobs, bringing Mitch back to the sermon. His attention fixed on the tiny white casket with gold handles at the front of the church. On each side of the casket, banners hung from flower-filled vases displaying inscriptions: Precious Daughter, Loving Sister, Cherished Angel. None of this seemed real but it was. Maggie was in that tiny white box.

  In the closing prayer, the pastor said, “We are so blessed to have such courageous firefighters serving our community and pray they find peace in knowing they did everything possible to save our beloved Maggie. Let us pray. Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  Mitch rose. “I’m gonna start the milking. You guys can stay.” Heads turned as he rushed out.

  Yeah, right, courageous. Bullcrap. The drive home was a blur.

  * * *

  Mitch had always found refuge from the outside world in the milking parlor. The hum of the compressor, the steady kachink—kachink—kachink of the milking machine, and even the sweet-sour smell of manure mixed with the antiseptic smell of iodine was familiar and comforting. At milking time, the herd comes in from the pasture and lines up at the parlor, each cow waiting her turn to take her place in a stall. There’s a rhythm and order to it: the animals, crops, and humans working together to nourish her, the farm.

  The parlor door squeaked behind him.

  “Need help finishing?” Sid asked.

  “Nah, I got it.”

  “John and Betty wanted me to give you this.” Sid held out the grimy baseball cap with the John Deere logo. “Said you left it at their place with Lydia. Poor girl blames herself for Maggie. Walks around in a trance, crying. Just a damn shame.”

  Mitch flung the cap in the corner. “Yeah, a damn shame.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  “You just, I don’t know.” Sid’s voice trailed off. “You don’t seem right.”

  Mitch swabbed the teats of a cow with orange antiseptic.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mitch. You ain’t said more than five words to me or your brother since the fire. And Jennie keeps calling. At least talk to her.”

  Through clenched teeth, Mitch said, “I don’t feel like talking. I need time. I’ll handle it.”

  “Handle what?”

  “Dad, let it go.”

  “You’re acting like your mother.”

  “I’m not her,” Mitch whispered.

  Sid grunted and left.

  * * *

  After chores, Mitch walked into the woods bordering the farm. Twigs and decomposing underbrush crunched under his feet. Pine scent saturated the air. He plodded toward a majestic oak that towered above the other trees and saplings as if standing guard over its children. He leaned against the weathered giant’s scales of bark and gazed at the elaborate tree house perched twenty feet up in the thick limbs. They built this together, Mitch and his dad, before Mitch’s mom died.

  Mitch climbed the metal deer-stand ladder and pushed open the trapdoor, coughing from the dust cloud he stirred as he crawled inside. Dust-covered books were scattered on the floor and bookshelves. The musty smell of aging books took him back to his childhood.

  Mitch’s mother had scoured used book sales, encouraging him to read. She’d quiz him about the books he read when she wasn’t in one of her dark moods. He spotted the copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, remembering how she told him that while it wasn’t an adventure book, it was her favorite when she was a young girl. When she gave it to him, she told him to wait and read it when he was older. He’d understand it then.

  He brushed off the hardcover book and settled back into the old wooden rocker. He paged through the well-worn book, the rickety chair creaking as he rocked. Handwritten words on the last page set off a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Mitch, when you finish reading this let me know what you liked about it. Love Mom.

  She was gone before Mitch had the chance to tell her how much he loved it.

  The rectangle of light on the floor from the window was fading. He placed the book back on the bookshelf, climbed down the cold metal ladder, and trudged to the house, the leaves rustling behind him in the cool, evening breeze.

  Dinner came after milking and chores. Tonight was Chris’s turn to cook, and he put out burgers and chips, his specialty. Sid sat at the head of the solid oak table with Mitch and Chris on each side. The chair across from Sid was left vacant. It was hers. The twelve-foot ceiling of the cavernous kitchen echoed with grunts of men devouring chips and burgers. Dirty pots and pans littered one side of the countertop. Opened boxes of cereal, pancake mix, and Hamburger Helper were stacked on the other side.

  “Think Sherman can handle being coach and general manager?” Chris asked.

  Sid chomped on his hamburger without responding. Mitch had nothing to say. Green Bay Packer football usually prompted a lively discussion.

  Headlights swung into the drive and flashed into the kitchen followed by the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

  “Guess I’ll get that. You two keep talking,” Chris said and headed for the door.

  “Mitch, it’s Jim Nelson,” Chris called from the front room.

  Mitch hustled to the front room. Big Jim filled the doorway, holding Mitch’s charred fire helmet. The once-white front piece was blackened.

  Jim handed him the helmet. “That was a hot son of a bitch, eh?”

  “What’s up?”

  Jim took two steps inside. “Chief wants everyone down to the station tomorrow. He’s bringing in a psychologist.”

  “If I can get the hay in.”

  “Mitch, you’re a good fireman. You need to know that.”

  “Sure.”

  Jim turned to leave, then stopped. “How you doing? Really?”

  “See you tomorrow, Jim.”

  After Jim’s truck rolled down the drive, Mitch went upstairs and flung the charred fire helmet into the corner of the closet alongside the grimy John Deere cap he had brought up from the milking parlor. He stretched out on the small single bed, praying this was all a bad dream.

  * * *

  Next morning at breakfast, Jennie McAdams strolled into their kitchen wearing blue nursing scrubs, her auburn hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wasn’t well-endowed nor did she have full lips or a small, perfect nose, but to Mitch, his high-school sweetheart was damn sexy, country sexy. “You guys sure are a lively bunch.”

  Chris waved her over. “Hey, Jen. Sit. Talk. Forgot what humans sound like.”

  “Stopped by to say ‘hi’ to my man on the way to Madison,” Jennie said. “Haven’t heard much from him lately.”

  Mitch tried to grin. “Hey, Jen.”

  “Wow, try to restrain your excitement. Jeez.”

  Sid rose. “C’mon, Chris, let’s get to work.”

  “He talks,” Chris said and followed S
id out.

  Jennie moved onto Mitch’s lap. “Why won’t you talk to me when I call?”

  “It’s hard for me to talk right now.”

  “Yeah. I get that. Anything I can do?”

  “Just need time.”

  “Mitch, please, let me help.” Jennie lifted his chin, forcing him to look at her. He adored that face: her freckled nose, mouth a bit too wide, and those chocolate-brown eyes.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  She clutched his chin. “Please talk to me.”

  “Talking won’t bring Maggie back.”

  “At least talk to Pastor,” she pleaded. “Maybe he can help.”

  “Sure, accept Jesus Christ as your savior and the peace of the Lord is yours. I sat through those sermons all my life. It’s a pile of crap.” He couldn’t stop himself from shouting. “My dad says just get over it. Well, that’s what I’m gonna do—just get over it—if you and everyone else would leave me the hell alone.”

  She winced. “Fine.”

  After a long pause, she gently asked, “Mitch, really? Is that what you want?”

  No answer. She left.

  Mitch plodded to the machine shed and climbed onto the faded red Massey Ferguson tractor. The manure spreader was hooked up and loaded. Out in the field, the antique tractor clattered and belched while struggling to pull the heavy load in the hot sun. Spinning rotors at the rear of the spreader were supposed to fling manure behind it, but the rusty fossil pitched the mess in all directions. Everything within striking distance became splattered, including tractor and driver. Mitch bounced along the field on the metal tractor seat, the pungent smell of manure filling the air. The deafening noise, black oily smoke, and his aching back took his mind off Maggie and his mom.

  After spreading manure, he headed to the hay field and baled hay until after dark, missing the meeting at the firehouse. He’d get over this. Just like he did when his mom died.

  Chapter 3

  A black BMW sports car inched up the long gravel drive toward the farmhouse the following morning. Mitch watched from the machine shed where he was pulling gears from the old Massey Ferguson tractor.