Beneath the Flames Page 3

  A tall, slim man in a gray suit uncoiled himself from the small car and gazed across the farmyard. He didn’t see Mitch and Mitch didn’t feel obliged to greet him. The man bounded up the porch steps. Billy, their chunky black Labrador, ambled across the porch, sniffed the man’s crotch, then returned to his blanket. The front door opened and the man stepped inside.

  Mitch knew it wouldn’t be long before Sid sent the salesman packing. When the man didn’t come out after half an hour, Mitch’s curiosity gnawed at him. Besides, he was ready for some lunch and ice water. It was over ninety degrees and only eleven o’clock.

  He trudged to the house, stepped into the mudroom, and slipped off his black muck boots. He hung his grease-stained coveralls from a hook on the once-white wall that was now the color of mud and cow crap. The small room reeked of farm and fermenting sweat. Muffled voices filtered in from the kitchen. Mitch washed up in the metal scrub basin, then went into the kitchen.

  The Buddha-like figure of Sid, rotund middle and bald head, was reaching across the table with open palms, asking something of the salesman. Conversation stopped when they spotted Mitch.

  The salesman stood and offered his hand. “You must be Mitch. I’m Doctor—”

  “Look, I have a tractor to fix. I don’t have time.” Mitch walked past Sid and snatched a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He pressed the cold plastic bottle against his sweltering forehead. “Any ham left?”

  “Talk to the man. I’ll take care of chores.”

  “Your captain asked me to stop by. Can we?” The doctor dropped his outstretched hand and gestured toward the table.

  Sid left.

  “Suppose, since Jim sent you.” Mitch slugged half the bottle of cold water, then slumped into his chair.

  “I was at the firehouse yesterday talking to your partners about the fire. Losing that child has been extremely traumatic for everyone.”

  “Maggie’s her name.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Maggie. Captain Nelson said you were the one who found her. Tragic.”

  “Yup, tragic all right. That all you wanted to tell me, Doc—what was it?”

  “Mallory, Jeff Mallory. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, Mallory, Jeff Mallory, we’re all sorry, and I don’t see how sitting around talking about it’s going to change a thing.” Mitch pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Your dad shared some painful details of your past. Please, sit. I know about your mom.”

  I know about your mom. Mitch slumped back into the chair. “What’d he say?”

  “Mitch, I’m a clinical psychologist. I help people deal with post-traumatic stress.”

  “So, you’re a shrink.”

  “I work with police and fire departments around the state. Things you people see and do can result in the same type of distress as our military people.”

  I know about your mom. “Still don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I’ll try not to sound too clinical, but this posttraumatic stress disorder or PTSD can manifest in numerous ways. When a person experiences a traumatic event, it’s like an injury to the brain. The person might shut down, trying to ignore the event or start acting out in anger. They might start drinking heavily or self-medicating with drugs. They might struggle with relationships, alienating from family and friends.”

  I know about your mom. “I have to get back to work.”

  The doctor thrust his palm at Mitch. “The result can be serious chronic depression. We see this not only in the fire and police service but also in children who’ve suffered traumatic events or abuse.”

  Mitch slugged the rest of the cold water. “So, what do you do about it?”

  “Early intervention is critical. Some therapists prescribe anti-anxiety drugs. Personally, I believe in cognitive-behavioral therapy. We’re starting to see some encouraging results, especially with children.”

  The water bottle crackled as Mitch pointed it at the doctor. “Yeah? Why couldn’t you shrinks help my mom?”

  “Your dad said you were only ten. That’s a lot to deal with.”

  “Thought you were here to talk about the fire?”

  “I’m concerned the trauma of coping with the tragic death of Maggie could trigger painful memories.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Suicide devastates those left behind, especially children. They tend to blame themselves.”

  “I’m fine,” Mitch said in a whisper, his heart racing.

  “Your mother’s suicide was not your fault, and from what Captain Nelson said, there was no way you could have saved Maggie. In fact, he said your efforts were extremely heroic.”

  “Real heroes save lives or die trying so that counts me out.”

  The doctor rose and handed Mitch his card. “Help’s available when you’re ready.”

  Mitch followed him to the porch.

  The doctor stopped, faced Mitch, and held out his hand.

  Mitch took it and said, “Guess I was kind of a jerk in there.”

  “According to your partners, you’re hardly a jerk. Far from it. You’re dealing with devastating issues. Get some help. And you’re wrong about heroes.”

  Chapter 4

  Nights became unbearable. During the day, Mitch worked himself to exhaustion but no matter how tired he was, sleep came in short, fitful bursts, interrupted by visions of Maggie’s soot-darkened face and piercing screams.

  Moonlit shadows crept across Mitch’s bedroom wall. The light blue display on the bedside clock flashed 4:15. He gave up on sleep and rode the four-wheeler out to the back pasture. The cows were spread over the pasture, resting peacefully, shadows under the full moon. He shut down the four-wheeler and stretched out, resting his feet on the handlebars. The warm night air was dense with moisture and filled with the scent of cows and ripening crops. Mitch relaxed and soaked in the loud hissing of cicadas and the incessant chirping of katydids and crickets. This is where he always had felt connected and at peace. But no longer. For the last two weeks, he couldn’t stop thinking about what the doctor said about his mom’s suicide and PTSD. Maybe he should get help. Maybe Jennie was right.

  The bright moon still owned the sky, but the birds were already chirping in anticipation of another sunrise. To the east, a tinge of orange peeked over the tall ripe cornfields, casting an early morning glow across their farm. Red-winged blackbirds chased each other over the pasture. The clear sky promised another long day in the wheat field.

  He went to the house and poured himself a thermos of black coffee and threw together three cheese and salami sandwiches to eat on the run. He dragged himself to the field and went to work.

  The sea of golden wheat undulated in hypnotic waves as Mitch plowed the enormous John Deere 7720 combine through row after monotonous row. Dry, hot gusts of wind whistled through the rattling door of the combine. He struggled on. One good downpour could put a halt to the harvest. The greasy sandwiches, sleepless nights, and sweltering afternoon had his head bobbing. The blaring radio no longer helped. He couldn’t fight the exhaustion any longer. One last trip to the edge of the field by the ravine, then he’d head back to the house for a short break and to refill the empty coffee thermos.

  Before reaching the end of the row, he had to close his eyes, just for a few seconds.

  * * *

  Mitch slammed against the side of the cab. Then the other side. The steering column rammed him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He tumbled over and over and over, helpless as the combine crashed into the ravine. His forehead slammed against the top of the cab.

  Everything went still.

  Stabbing pain shot through Mitch’s chest when he tried to straighten. Flames engulfed the engine compartment, spreading fast. Oily smoke filled the cab. His nostrils burned. The combine was on its side with the door wedged against the ground. Mitch kicked at the side-window escape hatch, sending sparks of pain up his spine. The window didn’t budge. There was no other way out. Ignoring the pain, he
bashed the window again with a ferocious kick. Nothing. His legs went rubbery.

  He drew both legs back, grimaced, and gave it one last desperate blow. “Ahhh.”

  The window flew into the marsh. He crawled from the cab. The metallic taste of blood gagged him. He hacked up bright red froth, slobbering ribbons of it down the front of his T-shirt.

  He scrambled up the ravine, clutching his chest to control the sharp pain that came with each breath. He had no cell phone and no choice but to hobble over the choppy soil of the wheat field to the milking parlor, which was a good quarter mile away.

  * * *

  Mitch burst into the parlor, trailed by the smell of smoke. He bent low at the waist, gasping for air. Sid and Chris spun around, their mouths gaping open as if he were some bloody apparition.

  “Holy Christ,” Sid said.

  “Call 911. Combine’s on fire. It’s in the ravine.”

  “What the hell is it doing down there?”

  “Just call, Dad. I’m gonna grab extinguishers.”

  Mitch limped to the machine shed and threw two dry-chem extinguishers on the four-wheeler. He sped back to the combine to find it engulfed in flames. He shuddered. He could still be in there.

  Fire had spread to the wheat field and marsh. With the dry summer, the marsh was a tinderbox patiently waiting for the smallest spark. The extinguishers were useless. He waited helplessly for the fire engines and water tankers to arrive.

  Flames tore across the tall marsh grass sending plumes of smoke into the howling winds. By the time the Milroy Department arrived, the fire had already consumed fifty acres of marsh, leaving black, scorched earth behind. The wheat field had been reduced to smoldering stubble.

  Big Jim bounced across the open field in the fire department’s all-terrain Gator while pumpers and tankers rolled into the farmyard. Jim leapt off the Gator, his head swiveling. “Holy shit.” He pointed at Mitch’s face. “You need that looked at.”

  Mitch swiped his clammy forehead. His hand came away smeared with blood. “I’m staying.”

  “Have it your way. Chief wants everyone in the farmyard.”

  Mitch raced to the farmyard ahead of Jim. He skidded to a stop at the driveway. Wide-eyed cattle trotted by with Billy running alongside, barking. Sid and Chris jogged behind the herd, hollering at the confused animals, pushing them along. Sid scowled at him as they passed.

  The chief shouted orders to a dozen firefighters at the top of the drive. Mitch and Jim hurried to the group.

  “Sid’s evacuating the herd,” the chief said to Jim. “Let’s clear the farm­yard, anything that can burn. And start wetting down the house with foam.”

  Mitch stepped forward. “What about a fire line?”

  “We’ll clear a fire line when I get enough people. Now, everyone, get to work.”

  The firefighters pulled chainsaws and axes from the rigs. Mitch clutched Jim’s arm. “This is bullcrap. We should be setting up a fire line.”

  “Chief’s right.”

  “But, Jim, if it gets to the woods, it’ll take out the whole farm.”

  “Grab a saw and start in on the bushes surrounding the house.”

  “I’m not cutting down my mom’s bushes.”

  “Then help with the foam.”

  Mitch pulled a hose line from the engine and began lobbing foam onto the house. He had to look away from the sight of his mother’s cherished lilac bushes being cut down and hauled away.

  Neighboring farmers lined the road with cattle haulers. A steady procession of fire rigs lumbered in from surrounding rural departments.

  Rigs shuttled water back and forth from town to the farm. Ten rural departments and close to a hundred firefighters spread over the farmland to stop the fire’s advance. Crews hollered over the deafening staccato of chainsaws. Firefighters scurried for tools and hose lines. Officers clamped radios to their ears trying to hear commands over the racket.

  The rampaging fire closed in on crews who were clearing a fire line in the marsh, forcing them to retreat. Within minutes the fire reached the dense woods. Dry brush and timber exploded into a firestorm, shooting flames high in the air. Less than two hours after the combine went up in flames, fire had covered over three hundred acres and was now hurling through the woods toward the Garner homestead. The spectacle sucked the wind out of Mitch.

  “Okay, people,” the chief ordered over the radios. “Move the rigs to the road. We can’t hold this any longer.”

  Big Jim traipsed over to Mitch. “That’s it, then.”

  Mitch continued spraying the house.

  Jim grabbed him by the arm and yanked him toward the street. “You can thank me for saving your ass later.”

  Farmers, firefighters, and rigs assembled along the road, powerless to stop the Red Devil from laying waste to everything in its path. Crews posed next to their rigs like mannequins, watching. Chris, Sid, and their dog, Billy, watched with the crew from Johnson Creek. The defeat on the old man’s face devastated Mitch. For three generations their family had worked this farm.

  The wall of fire thundered toward the house. Mitch’s face stung from the radiant heat. At the far end of the property, the machine shed exploded in a ball of flame. The deafening blast sent a shiver through him. This was it. He thought about walking down the road and never coming back but was transfixed by the writhing kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, blues, and greens swirling through the flames. He sat on the running board of the Milroy fire engine paralyzed by the sight, waiting for their home to explode in flames like the shed.

  Billowing smoke blotted the sun, casting an eerie orange haze over the landscape. The entire woods was aflame, crackling in the howling wind with only the farmyard separating the raging fire from the house and barn. A cloud of steam rose from the foam blanketing the house.

  Chapter 5

  By mid-afternoon, the flames faded into a white, smoldering haze. Fire crews descended on the marsh and woods to stomp out any dying embers that could flare up if the wind suddenly changed direction. The tallest trees still stood, but everything else in the woods was reduced to ash by the fast-moving fire.

  Mitch went to work shoveling dirt onto hot embers, ignoring the racking pain in his ribs. Throughout the late afternoon, he silently worked alongside his crew from Milroy, staying far away from Sid.

  He kept gazing back at the farmyard. It didn’t seem real. The side of the white house facing the woods was blackened. Ashes covered the barn and milking parlor. The chief was right. The foam and farmyard clearing saved their home, barn, and milking parlor from the blistering attack of the Red Devil.

  Most of the departments pitched in until late in the night. After the last rig left, Mitch walked across the burned wheat field to the ravine. The brittle, charred stubs of wheat crunched under his boots. The smoky stench left by the fire obliterated the farm’s earthy smell.

  Mitch sat for a long time at the edge of the ravine staring down at the burned-out shell of the combine lying on its side in its barren grave­yard. Why did he fight so hard to get out? The bright moon illuminated the desolate earth for as far as he could see. There was no sadness, just a hollow ache for the nightmare to end.

  Mitch wandered the property and lost track of time. Morning couldn’t be far off. He walked into the woods stirring up noxious ashes with every step, stinging his eyes and leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. The towering oak still stood but was gravely scorched. At the base of the tree, was the burned rubble of his tree house with piles of burned and half-burned books. Mitch picked through the books until he found the hard copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The cover was singed, but it had protected the book from burning through. He turned to the inscription on the last page. Mitch, when you finish reading this, let me know what you liked about it. Love Mom. He clutched the book to his chest, smearing soot across his blood-stained T-shirt.

  After wandering on in a trance, he found himself in front of the remains of the machine shed. In the middle of the ruins stood the blackened skelet
on of his treasured Massey Ferguson tractor, the machine he had nursed back to health so many times over the years.

  Sid stomped down the porch steps and called across the farmyard, “Mitch, let’s get the cattle. They need milking.”

  A wave of nausea hit him. He fell in behind Sid and Chris as they tramped to the pasture where the neighbors had moved the cattle. They walked in silence. The sun poked over the horizon. Mitch felt no warmth in the dawning of a new day.

  “Dad, I don’t know what to say. Bad stuff just keeps happening.”

  “Not now.” Sid kept walking as if he were marching to war, hunched forward swinging his arms.

  “Dad, you need to know …”

  Sid spun. “Now you want to talk. Okay, let’s talk. You crash the combine, almost burn us out, destroy the wheat crop, and this just happens? Bullshit.”

  “Dad, please.”

  “We’ve walked on eggshells for the last month. You told us to leave you alone. We did. Now we almost lose the farm. Still might. How we gonna pay the bills with no wheat? How we gonna harvest corn with no combine? Is that just gonna happen? Go ahead, talk.” Sid latched onto Mitch’s shoulders and shook viciously. Sid’s watery bloodshot eyes bored into him. Mitch went numb. Sid shoved him. “Just like your goddamn mother. Get out of my sight.”

  Chris stepped in front of Sid. “Dad, c’mon. It was an accident. He’s your son for God’s sake.”

  “That’s no son of mine.” Sid pushed Chris. “We got work to do.” He pointed at Mitch. “Go.”

  Mitch drifted back to the house in a fog. Billy greeted him at the porch, panting, wagging his tail. He ignored the dog and went inside.

  The image in the dingy mirror in the mudroom shocked him. Streaks of sweat lined his coal-black face. The gash on his forehead had stopped bleeding. He explored the raw flesh lining his mouth, then ripped off his T-shirt and tossed the blood-stained rag into the trash. The noxious smoke had saturated everything: skin, hair, and clothes. The stinging pain of the open gash as the hot water hit comforted him in a strange way. He stood under the shower until the water ran cold, then dried off and pulled on fresh shorts.