by Lynn Ricci
Mason cleared his throat and opened his eyes, blinking a bit to focus. He had no idea how long he had been talking and even wondered if he had spoken everything – his vision of the past being so strong in his mind it had been like watching a movie.
He turned his head to look directly at Sarah. “That was the last time I ever saw Mum, and although I did find my dad, he was already dead.”
Chapter 16
After a few quiet minutes, both deep in thought, Sarah picked up his coffee mug along with hers. She stood above him, not having said a word about the incredible story, but instead asked if he wanted more coffee before he continued. Mason nodded and looked around the room. He was exhausted; although he wasn’t surprised between the lack of sleep and being emotionally drained from the memories. He knew as difficult as that had been, it was going to become even more so if Sarah let him continue. And at this point, he wasn’t sure what she thought of his tale.
She returned and set the coffee down.
“Are you feeling better?”
“I am .thanks. I’m even hungry. I don’t have much here but can I make us a quick breakfast before you continue?”
“Please don’t bother on my account.”
“No bother, but it’s not going to be fancy. Plus, my mom and dad are probably up and I need to call them.”
Mason picked up his coffee staring ahead towards the closed sheers as Sarah returned to the kitchen. A moment later he heard her speaking with her mom assuring her that she felt better but was snowbound. After some silence except the distinctive scrambling of eggs, Sarah answered her mother’s obvious question, letting her know she was not alone and that he was still at the building and keeping her company.
He wondered how he would sound to someone else. He had not had a friend or ally in over fifty years and of all people to show up here at the brownstone, Sarah had walked in.
The conversation in the kitchen area sounded like it was coming to a close with assurances that she would call her mother back later. The toaster popped and he heard the cabinet open and close but still he stared straight ahead, making critical decisions on what he would say next and how much she could take in one sitting.
“Do you take pepper and salt?”
“Yes, please.”
Sarah was back in front of him and set his plate down with a napkin and fork along with the salt and pepper shaker. She returned a moment later with her own plate and mug. Mason took a bite of his toast and realized how hungry he was.
“Sarah, I . . .”
“No, Mason, please. I want to say something.” Looking into her coffee cup and then back up to him, she took a deep breath.
“I want you to know, as strange as this all sounds; I am trying to keep an open mind about this. I am sorry about your parents.”
Mason nodded, watching her absentmindedly pull at her earlobe while she continued. “And, although this all sounds a little crazy, I really want to hear the rest if you are able to continue. I can’t figure out why or how yet, but I have a feeling there is still a lot more to tell. Eat first.” Sarah motioned with her head towards the plate in front of him. “Before it gets cold.” She smiled sweetly and he did as he was instructed.
Finishing his breakfast, Mason put the plate down, taking along swallow of the rich coffee before getting comfortable in his seat and folding his hands over his full stomach. He looked down at his hands, clasped together, and then held up his right hand. Sarah watched with a curious look as he examined the front and back of his hand.
“Is something wrong?”
He clenched is hand into a fist and unclenched again, watching his fingers react properly. And at the purple marks that had plagued his hands and that now seemed to be disappearing. He shook his head wondering if his good eye was playing tricks on him, or maybe it’s all this talk of the past that was clouding his ability to see. What strange magic is afoot, he wondered.
“No, I’m fine. So, yes the story.” He glanced down once more at his hand and knew for sure the marks were fading and he was almost certain the back of his hand looked smoother.
Once more, Mason clasped his hands and settled back into the chair. He didn’t want to describe the sorrowful days after finding his father, a piece of stone from an exploding building having hit him square in the chest, crushing his ribs and no doubt suffocating him or causing heart failure. Or the long days wandering the streets and checking lists that were posted looking for his mother. Instead, he moved forward in time to the place he lived for the next few years and what brought him eventually to Catherine. And, Selena.
“After my parents were gone, I had no place to stay. No money. There were many families either left homeless, or without financial support with twenty thousand unemployed as a result of the fire and so many small merchants losing their wares and businesses. So, at least I was not alone in that respect. Boston, however, started cleaning herself up and rebuilding immediately. There was so much activity in the city at that time . . .” He shook his head remembering the scramble to erect bigger and more beautiful fire safe buildings many still standing in Boston today.
Mason then thought back to the darker memories – to the hunger, the clothes he was quickly outgrowing, and the holidays as an orphan and facing that first bitter cold winter. And he remembered the day he met O’Malley and Ben.
“I met Lieutenant Patrick O’Malley in March of the year 1873. It was about five months after the fire and one year from when we landed on Boston’s shores. O’Malley had been in the Boston Common, speaking with another man leaning on a cane, and Black Ben was standing beside him. Black Ben was one of the fire station horses that had survived the equine flu. The horse was a magnificent creature with muscles like I had never seen on a steed. O’Malley, who was busy doing all the talking, was tall and shaped like a barrel. Not fat and soft, mind you, he looked like he was as strong and fearless as Black Ben. The two made a good team.
I walked up to Black Ben, just behind where O’Malley was standing wearing a warm pea coat over his uniform that I immediately coveted. The two men didn’t notice me approach as they had been arguing about one of the buildings going up on Summer Street and the man’s distaste for the new flat style roofs. I listened to the discussion, rubbing Black Ben’s coat and looking into his large brown eyes. The horse seemed to be listening to the men, too, and didn’t care for the topic much either.
O’Malley’s jowly face was reddening as he tried to explain that the new buildings were following the latest in fire prevention. Something Chief Damrell had asked for and warned about for years. O’Malley, along with his higher ups, had helped draft the new rebuilding ordinances for the fire commission’s report. The other gentleman argued that it was costing the land owners more money to re-build following all these newfangled guidelines and basically the French Mansard roofs were missed for their stylish nature.
Being it was a beautiful early spring day and I had nowhere in particular to go, I continued to pat the horse while listening to the men argue. When I could see O’Malley’s raised voice was causing the poor horses ears to twitch I finally spoke up, addressing the wretchedly greedy man with the cane.
“If the landowners don’t like it and want to build in a way that they know will burn easily and cause another calamity, they should ask their neighbors permission to do so and see how far they get. I would hope everyone should have learned a lesson or two from what we all lost. And shame on them if they didn’t.”
The other man started to turn purple in rage over a youngster not only listening but barging in on his conversation. Starting from his half exposed neck all the way up to his balding hairline, his color flushed and he silently started to mouth several protests before being able to speak. He stomped his cane on the ground.
“Good day, O’Malley, I should be departing for my lunch.” He tipped his hat and without another look in my direction, walked away at a brisk pace obviously not really needing the fashionable cane.
Once out of earshot, O’Malley
said, “What a Bolger,” and let out a laugh so infectious that after a few minutes we were struggling to catch our breath.
Once the laughter subsided he put out his hand which I immediately took as I was taught. “Lieutenant Patrick O’Malley. My friends just call me O’Malley.”
I answered with my given name, Aiden Murphy, which I have had to change over time.
“It’s grand to meet you, Murphy.” He said shaking my hand vigorously and with a twinkle in his eye like he was really enjoying this encounter.
“Is he an Irish draught?”
“Aye, he is.” He introduced me formally to Black Ben, or Ben for short, and noted I had a good way with the horse. He produced a piece of carrot for me to give to Ben, and he explained to me that this big black beauty was one of their strongest but only O’Malley had a way with keeping him in line. Most had wanted to be rid of him before the horse flu but, with the drop in animals, Ben quickly became the most powerful steed in their stable.
“Where are you from?” He asked, smiling down my way. “I know the accent. Is it Dublin, now?”
“Yes sir, just South. At Rathdown, near Killiney Bay.”
“I’m from Galway, me self. Came over when I was a wee lad, not too much younger than you. Ah, but those were difficult times.” O’Malley shook his head, taking a good long look at me up and down. The threadbare clothes, the too short pants, and, to be honest, I was in desperate need for a bath. “Where are your parents, lad?”
Ben snorted and I rubbed his nose, pausing to decide if I should lie or tell the truth. I had been trying to make a go on my own, making money for food and sleeping where I could. Keeping a low profile and avoiding the law to avoid an orphanage. O’Malley was watching me closely from his cheerful eyes and open face and I felt I could trust him not to turn me in.
I couldn’t look up, and Ben being such a good distraction, I decided to be direct. “They died, sir, in the great fire. We had only been in America for six months or so. I have been making my way by helping with the clean-up efforts since we really didn’t know too many people here, but now with the re-building underway, I don’t have much experience. And with so many other men with families looking for day work. . .”
“Well, I have work for today only, if you need it, of course. We got fresh hay in just this morning into the new firehouse. Do you want to come back to Engine 4 with me now and help clean out the stalls? You seem like you know your way around a horse.”
That was how I ended up at 5 Bullfinch Street, at Engine 4 and Chemical 1, for the next five years. It wasn’t all bad, I loved the horses and caring for them. Ben was always my favorite. The horses were kept in stalls on the ground floor of the station and the men’s quarters were a floor up above. In years past, the horses were kept nearby in stalls but they discovered they lost too much valuable time getting out to the stalls to unlock them and hook them up to pull the steamers. This fire station had built a spiral stairway to the second floor to keep the horses from trying to come up the stairs.
O’Malley had fed me that first day and rounded up a pair of pants that fit better. He suggested I stay there the night since they had an extra bed and came up with one excuse of work or chores after another to keep me there at the station and always a warm meal in my belly. After a few weeks, he just stopped asking and expected me to stay. I couldn’t have been happier and I was forever grateful to him.
O’Malley’s wife Delia was a fine woman too. She was barren and with me being alone, I think they felt I was somehow sent to them to watch over. Delia took a liking to me right away and when O’Malley couldn’t come up with anything at the firehouse, Delia would bring me over to their house to help fix something that she said O’Malley couldn’t, or to their church, St. Mary’s, to wash the floor or wax the pews. Anything to make me feel needed and wanted and it was exactly what I required to mend my broken heart and soul.
Every now and again, especially after a Sunday dinner, Delia would ask if I wanted to stay at their house but I liked the fire house and the constant male camaraderie. In the afternoons and evenings, after the work was done, we’d sit around and play bee-up or three card brag. They were a good group but every time a fire box went off I would panic that I would lose one of them. I couldn’t help it, and I think a lot of people probably felt that way. That fire of ’72 killed a number of people, including eleven firefighters, so I am sure many of them had that pang of anxiety when the bell went off.
And of course the horses were a big part of my wanting to stay at the station. Those animals were what kept me busy and when they weren’t being worked I would take them out for exercise. I became friendly with the blacksmith and would watch as he crafted a new shoe. And, the farrier who would go around to the different ladder stations and check the horse’s shoes or replace them would let me help and was training me. With running fast and hard, pulling the great weight of the steamers over cobblestones, these grand horses would go through many more shoes then most so we were constantly seeing the smithy and the farrier.
Over the years, I saw some of the horses retire. They were proud beasts that took their job seriously. Many times they were auctioned off or sold to a merchant for deliveries and if one of those horses heard the fire bells ring they would turn and pull their wagon as fast as they could towards the fire. It was in their blood, that fearlessness of fire, but not mine.
O’Malley was getting set to retire in the year 1880 and he wanted to get me into the department. He was waiting for the construction to be completed of the first brass fire pole in Boston based on a design from Chicago. It was believed the firemen would get from the living quarters on the second floor to the equipment and horses faster and was quite modern.
I was certainly old enough to become a firemen; many much younger than me were part of Boston’s Firefighters, and I was already fully employed by the station as a keeper at this point, knew their system, and could hitch the horses faster than anyone there. The men trusted me and I them, but I did not even want to smell smoke that wasn’t originating from the hearth, never mind be close to a burning building or house. The pure fury of a fire left me frozen in fear. It was the main reason I decided to find employment elsewhere so I could make O’Malley and Delia proud, and avoid being forced into a life facing my worst fear.”
Sarah cleared her voice, coughing a little, and Mason opened his eyes.
“Is that why you didn’t want the candle burning last night? Are you still that fearful of fire?”
“It is. I am ok with a fire in the fireplace and being well tended, but it’s ridiculous, I know.”
“Not at all.” She shook her head, her eyes growing large with sincerity. “It just makes sense now. So, what did you decide to become? You’ve done such lovely work here, did you become a carpenter?”
“No, not really, although I have done my share.” Tilting his head, he looked at her closely, watching for any indication from her expression, “So, do you believe me then?”
“Yes, I believe I’m starting to. With this tale, the detail, and with the sorrow in your voice you could not be trying to trick me. And really, why would you?”
It’s not a trick, I assure you. Although I would imagine all this is hard to believe.”
“The only question I have is did you become a fireman after all? Was this,” she motioned with her palm upward towards him, looking embarrassed and not knowing what words to use for his scarred and twisted body, “was it from a fire?”
Mason sat forward, elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. He noticed his scalp was smooth under his hair; the bumps like a toad had disappeared. Again that morning he wondered what was happening.
“It was a fire; but no, I was not a fireman.”
Chapter 17
Checking his pocket watch Mason stood, feeling his muscles stretch after sitting so long felt good. Sarah and Mason decided this would be a good time to take a break. He wanted to check on the snow and she desperately wanted to s
hower now that she felt better. They agreed to figure out food options and then come back to the story after Mason returned.
Mason checked Sarah’s bedroom before he left and there did not appear to be any sign of the cat on the fire escape. And, after opening the sheers, they found the blood smear on the window had dissolved somewhat with the wet snow. Rising up from her position on the couch, Sarah had followed him around the apartment and then walked him to the door.
“I’m ok, really. Go do what you need to do and I will shower, clean up, and figure out what we are going to do about food later.”
“I’ll be back up soon.”
Mason was hesitant to leave but she seemed much calmer than she had in the early morning hours. He went downstairs and when he reached the lobby he approached the entrance to check out front.
Even standing inside the massive front door with its one oval window, he could feel the cold seeping in. It must be bitter outside, he thought as he looked out onto the white landscape and listened to the howling wind.
The snow had covered the front walk again but the gully between both sides of the walkway was still very pronounced. He estimated that there had been another four inches but it was only mid-day and the snow was still coming down. He decided to wait on the shoveling, but in the back of his mind he knew it wasn’t just the continuing snow and bitter cold that was stopping him. He really wasn’t sure what was out there trying to get in.
Looking out the window up at the sky he was amazed how dark gray the clouds were, hanging low so you could see their tumbling movement. The storm clouds appeared to swirl over the South End, his block in particular, and he felt mesmerized like looking up into a giant tornado. Story of his life, he thought, a gray cloud over his head. He turned towards his apartment, crossing the warmly lit lobby that echoed his limp in his ears.
