Beneath the Flames Page 8

  “Up here,” came from inside. The stairwell reeked of stale urine.

  A haze of tobacco smoke greeted them on the second floor. Three black men and a pregnant young woman hunkered around a yellowed laminate table, sucking on cigarettes and arguing. Empty forty-ounce bottles of Olde English Malt Liquor littered the small table.

  A shirtless man with gold front teeth pointed down the hall. “Back there.”

  “Why’d you call?” The captain asked.

  “Go see yourself. Got no time for this shit.”

  Ralph took a step toward the man.

  “Ralph, let it go,” the captain said. “Let’s see what we got.”

  Halfway down the hallway, Mitch smelled rotting flesh, like the carcass pit at the farm, but this was different, a sickening, sweet odor he could taste in the back of his mouth. From behind the closed bedroom door came what sounded like the hum of a barn fan. Captain Reemer pushed it open to the drone of a thick cloud of flies. The smell of rancid feces and rotting flesh in the small hot room gagged Mitch. He fought the urge to vomit. He was used to the heady smells of the farm, but this foul stench was beyond anything like that.

  “Mouth breathe, kid, or you’ll lose it,” Kenny said.

  Ralph approached the bed of a shriveled old woman with matted, gray hair. He lifted the sheet which was stained dark yellow and brown. “Holy shit, she’s breathing.”

  Her paper-thin lips parted with random, haunting moans.

  Ralph yanked off the sheet. Maggots squirmed in the loose folds of her skin and cockroaches scurried from beneath her legs. “They’re eating her alive for Christ’s sake.”

  There was no stopping the sour bile shooting up Mitch’s throat. He dropped the med kit, bent over and retched.

  “C’mon people, she’s breathing. We gotta work her,” Captain Reemer said. “Med unit’s on the way.”

  “Open the window,” Kenny shouted at Mitch. “And bring the kit.”

  Mitch couldn’t stop gagging.

  Ralph scowled at him and rammed the window open. “Fucking useless cub.”

  The captain stepped in and took vital signs, Mitch’s job, while Ralph slid an oxygen tube down her throat. Kenny brushed the fly larvae from her wrinkled chest and pasted the defibrillator pads on her.

  Mitch hung his head out the open window.

  By the time the paramedic unit arrived, his spasms calmed. The first paramedic choked when he saw their patient. Mitch couldn’t look away from the tiny creatures devouring the helpless old woman. The sole of her left foot flopped open exposing muscle, bone, and more writhing maggots.

  Once the med unit left, they silently organized their equipment. Mitch was still queasy but not from the old lady. He let his crew down.

  The four people in the kitchen hadn’t moved.

  “I’ll need some information. Who knows her?” the captain asked.

  The man with gold teeth examined the smoking cigarette between his fingers. “We don’t know shit.”

  A black scripted “19” tattooed on the man’s neck caught Mitch’s attention.

  In an even tone, the captain said, “Just need her name and anything else you can tell me.”

  “Said, I don’t know shit,” The man said, grinding out his cigarette in the full ashtray. “Now get the fuck out my crib.”

  Ralph pushed in front of the captain. The man rose from the table and pressed his bare chest into him. Ralph’s bulging eyes threatened to leave his skull. “You miserable piece of shit.”

  The other two men slammed their chairs to the floor. The skinny one with spiked black braids and a scraggly goatee leered at Mitch with a toothless grin. Mitch peered into eyes he had never seen on a living creature, dark and vacant. The man reached around his back. The blood drained from Mitch’s face.

  The captain shoved Ralph toward the stairway. “Sorry to bother you gentlemen.”

  Mitch followed, breathing hard.

  Ralph sneered at the gold-toothed man, who looked like a hungry predator eyeing prey.

  At the rig, the captain called in a request for the police. After explaining the situation to the dispatcher, he pointed at Ralph. “You’ll get us killed flapping your jaw like that. From now on keep your mouth shut.—That’s an order. Got it?”

  Ralph glared at the back of Crusher’s seat.

  They drove to the grocery store in silence.

  Chapter 13

  Back at the firehouse, Mitch went to work mopping the second-floor locker room, trying to get the images and smells out of his head. Someone stomped up the stairs. The door slammed open, and Ralph marched across the room. Mitch backed away. Ralph bashed his hand into the locker inches from Mitch’s ear. “Fucking useless cub. The boss should be pissed at you, not me.”

  “I—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Ralph’s bloodshot, bulging eyes had the manic look of a rabid dog. “9/11 comes along and now everyone wants to be a goddamn hero. Go back to Podunk, cub. This ain’t no place for you.”

  Ralph went downstairs leaving Mitch shaken. Ralph was right. He was useless.

  Mitch made sure to have the kitchen table set and coffee brewing well before lunch. The comforting smell of fresh coffee and chicken baking in the oven couldn’t eliminate the foul smell of that small hot room lingering in his brain.

  At exactly noon, Kenny served the one-pot meal, a combination of chunks of chicken, white rice, and black-eyed peas all mixed with cream of mushroom soup. Crusher viewed the concoction, smirked and said, “Hey, Kenny, nice job with those maggots you scooped off the old blister.” Crusher shoveled a heaping mound of casserole into his mouth. “Excellent fricassee of maggot.”

  Kenny and Crusher laughed. Ralph and the captain ignored them.

  “Mitch, I made this for you,” Kenny said. “What’s wrong? They still wiggling?”

  Mitch forced a weak smile.

  After lunch, Mitch cleared the table. He went to empty the ashtray that was heaped with Ralph’s cigar ashes. The irregular clay ashtray looked like a grade school project, painted bright red like the fire engine. He banged it on the inside of the trash can.

  “Bust that and I’ll bust your ass,” Ralph said.

  After dishes were washed, the crew deserted the kitchen. While mopping the floor, Mitch couldn’t stop agonizing over the old woman and how useless he had been.

  “Firefighter Garner to the office,” sounded from the PA system.

  Mitch tensed. He was going to get an ass-chewing, and he deserved it. He hustled to the office.

  A dark brown briarwood pipe hung from the side of the captain’s mouth. “Mitch, have a seat.” The sweet smell of pipe tobacco was much more agree­able than Ralph’s bitter cigar smoke. “Tough morning, heh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was a bad one. You’re not the first to lose it. I’ve seen veteran paramedics fall apart down here. You’ll see plenty more.” Captain Reemer tapped the pipe on the ashtray. “I need you to keep it together. If she required resuscitation, we would have needed another set of hands.” He paused, studying Mitch. “I need to count on you. Can I?”

  Mitch wanted to tell the captain he was sorry for letting him and the crew down. Shame blocked the words. All he got out was, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, let’s forget about this morning. Need to have a short memory, or you’ll drive yourself batty.” The captain stuffed his pipe with fresh tobacco and lit it with a wooden match, sending a cloud of sulfur and tobacco smoke into the air. “Any questions?”

  “I was wondering about that lady.”

  “Just got off the phone with the meds. She was a diabetic with lousy circulation. The maggots were eating the dead flesh, keeping her from dying of septic shock. She won’t live much longer. Too far gone.”

  “How could they let her get that way?”

  “Don’t know. We patch them up best we can and send them off to the hospital or the morgue.” The captain pointed the tip of the pipe at Mitch. “You’ll need to learn to smile at the dying. Yo
ur mug might be the last thing they see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing. We have this program called the Literacy Project where inner-city firehouses invite neighborhood kids over in the afternoon.

  Around three, some kids’ll show up here. Since you’re the cub, it’ll be your job to tutor them.” Captain Reemer chuckled. “Lucky you, heh?”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Most can’t read yet. Al just gave them firehouse coloring books.”

  * * *

  Mitch waited at the joker stand, listening to dispatchers call out runs to other companies.

  The heavy glass door rattled. A knobby-kneed little girl in a bright yellow sundress squinted at him. Black braids lined her head in neat rows. She waved and grinned wide, her two front teeth missing. Four pint-sized children jostled around her. Behind them stood a scowling older girl, her arms clamped to her chest.

  Mitch opened the door and the children ran to the apparatus floor. The older girl leered at him as she walked by.

  The kids scraped chairs up to the oval table at the back of the appara­tus floor. The older girl stood behind them twisting a thin, silver-colored chain necklace.

  “Okay, kids. What do you want to do?” Mitch said.

  The girl in the yellow dress raised her hand. “Where’s Firefighter Al?”

  “How about telling me your names so I know who you are?”

  The girl in the yellow dress said, “I’m Alexus. People call me Lexus. Wish they call me Lexi, but nobody listen to me.” She pointed to the older girl. “She my sister, Jasmine. Takes care of me. We live across the street. And these my friends. This here Kyle.”

  “Why don’t we let them introduce themselves. And, Lexi, glad to meet you and your big sister.”

  The children sorted through the coloring books, grabbing the few unbroken crayons, ignoring Mitch. Kyle snatched a red one from the girl next to him. She kicked him. “Kyle, that mine. Give it back.” He tipped her and the chair over backward. She shot to her feet and wrestled him to the ground, biting the hand holding the crayon. He howled and let go. She got back in her chair and colored as if nothing happened.

  “That bitch bite me,” Kyle said rubbing the red crescent on his hand. He punched the side of her head. She sprang from her chair and the two clawed at each other.

  Before Mitch could separate them, Jasmine pulled them apart. “Kyle, sit your behind down. Mess with Peaches again and I’ll tell her dad.”

  Kyle and Peaches stuck their tongues out at each other and went back to coloring.

  “I can see you real good with kids,” Jasmine said, frowning at Mitch.

  “Thanks for helping.”

  “Just make sure no one messes with my Lexus.”

  “What grade you all in?” Mitch asked.

  “We starting kinner garden, except Kyle. He starting first grade,” Alexus said.

  Mitch cringed. Maggie would have been going into first grade this year.

  Alexus nodded at Jasmine. “My sister starting eighth grade.”

  “Anyone else ever get to talk?” Mitch asked, glancing around the table.

  The small heads shook in unison. He liked this little girl already.

  “How about I read a story?”

  “Can’t we just color?” Kyle said.

  “What kinda story?” Alexus asked.

  “There’s some kid’s books on the back bench. Go ahead and pick one out.”

  “They all about white kids,” Kyle said. “Just let us color.”

  “Okay, go ahead, color.” Mitch stood off to the side, observing the kids, feeling helpless.

  * * *

  Captain Reemer’s voice blared over the PA system, “Four o’clock. Class over.”

  The five children threw down their crayons and ran outside. Jasmine stayed, studying Mitch.

  Mitch smiled at her while collecting the crayons. Her flimsy silver-col­ored necklace was kinked where she twisted it. Then he saw them. Those fiery jade eyes. He dropped the crayons.

  “Now I know who you are,” she said. “Wasn’t me broke your mother­fucking window. Cops come to my house and tell Momma she got to pay for it. That crackhead she got for a boyfriend beat my ass good. Hope that makes you happy, goddamn cracker.”

  “You shouldn’t be breaking into people’s trucks.”

  Jasmine stepped into him, their faces inches apart. Her lips and cheeks puffed in and out. “Come in here acting like you all that. Acting like you care about those kids. What you know about us?” Her green eyes blazed. “Lock your truck like an ignorant cracker and wonder why people break your window. You don’t know nothing about nothing.”

  “How the hell do you know what I care about? You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you white. That’s all I need to know.” She clutched the tarnished silver-colored necklace, spun and left.

  Chapter 14

  Mitch was relieved to see hamburgers for supper and not chicken and rice again. He was still queasy. Watching the crew eat was like feeding time on the farm.

  “Cops called with an update on the investigation from this morning,” Captain Reemer said between bites. “The lady was a retired teacher from Chicago. Had medical issues, so she moved here to be with her loving daughter. This daughter has an impressive rap sheet: prostitution, drugs, violence. Known to hang with the One-Niners. Anyway, those assholes were cashing the old lady’s social security and pension checks. That’s why they didn’t want her going to a nursing home. Checks would stop.”

  Ralph sneered. “Bastards are a fucking waste of skin.”

  Through the early evening, they responded to two false fire alarms, a diabetic with low blood sugar, and an asthmatic whose inhaler was empty. After the ten o’clock news, the crew filtered into the dormitory carrying their boots and bunker pants. They kept them at their bedside so when an alarm came in they could jump into the boots and pull up the bunker pants before sliding the pole to the rig.

  Mitch stayed up, reading the training manual until his eyes blurred. He crept into the dorm, trying not to disturb the others. The dorm smelled like a dank calf barn. Ralph and Crusher snored a loud duet. Mitch crawled under the sheets and felt small, hard lumps scattered around him. He reached under the sheet and found a dinner roll. He collected the rolls from the bed and piled them on the floor. The rolls left the bed full of scratchy crumbs. Mitch tried to sleep on top of the bedspread but couldn’t stop reliving the day, his first day on the job. Ralph was right. He was useless.

  * * *

  Six rings chimed over the alarm system. “Engine Fifteen respond to a report of a shooting at 845 West Meinecke Avenue.”

  Mitch slid the chrome pole to the apparatus floor before the dispatcher repeated the message.

  “Damn, kid, you sleeping on the rig?” Kenny said as he climbed into the cab.

  Approaching the scene, Crusher slowed the rig. The street was alive with a carnival of flashing lights from a swarm of police cars. Throngs of half-dressed people, some in nightgowns and some in shorts, milled about the adjacent yard. Kids ran around as if it were the middle of the day instead of middle of the night.

  Mitch followed the captain up the crumbling steps of the small one-story bungalow, carrying the med kit and the oxygen. He had to hold it together this time. Prove he wasn’t a total loser.

  A disinterested, stocky police officer met them in the entryway. “Over there.” He pointed to a group of cops in the front room.

  “Oh, Lord. Not my baby boy. Please, Lord,” echoed from down the hallway, followed by guttural wailing.

  The cops parted, exposing a young man reclining in a brown leather lounger. A white-haired officer stepped in front of the captain. “Don’t move anything until we’re done with the investigation.”

  Captain Reemer pushed by the officer. “We’ll decide what we need to do after we assess the patient.”

  “Fine. Have at it. Just don’t touch the gun.”

&nb
sp; The patient was a young black man in his teens or early twenties with a smooth face and short stubble on his head. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. A silver .357 caliber handgun lay at the side of the recliner.

  Mitch snapped open the med kit and fished out the blood pressure cuff. A cop clicked on a lamp next to the recliner, illuminating the wall behind. Mitch gasped. The wall resembled an abstract painting, a rainbow of gray and red. The back of the young man’s skull was gone.

  Ralph pushed on Mitch’s back. “Get in there, kid. Check vitals.”

  Mitch got a metallic whiff of blood and brain. He mouth breathed like Kenny told him. He could not let himself puke.

  The young man sucked in a loud gurgling breath. Mitch jumped back.

  Kenny snickered.

  “Ralph’s working on you,” the captain said. “We don’t work patients with their brains blown out.”

  “He’s breathing.”

  “Agonal breaths, the death rattle.”

  Kenny and Ralph inspected the artwork created from the man’s blood and gray matter.

  “Think he was shooting for Monet or Matisse?” Kenny said.

  Ralph shoved Kenny. “Stop talking like a jag.” He faced the white-haired officer. “Took the route, hey?”

  The officer shrugged one shoulder.

  Crushing sadness gripped Mitch. This kid had killed himself. Mitch didn’t know a thing about him, just the horrible, relentless agony and hope­lessness he must have been feeling right before he wrapped his lips around the cold barrel.

  “Hey, kid? How about spaghetti next day for lunch?” Kenny said with a wise-ass grin.

  The captain frowned. “Let’s get you ghouls out of here. The M.E.’s got this.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the firehouse, Mitch kept flashing from the image of the young man’s serene face to the image of blood and brain on the wall.