by Rhett DeVane
“Oh, my God!”
I had seen enough movies about fire to know that I shouldn’t enter a burning building. I glanced toward the pool house, then sprinted across the yard and fumbled for the hidden key ring.
“C’mon! C’mon, dammit!” The lock finally clicked, and I scurried to the extension phone we had recently installed under the dressing room shelter.
“911…what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Fire! My kitchen’s on fire!” My mind was a turmoil of thoughts.
“Your address, please.”
“Umm… umm… 133 Davis Road off Highway 269 south of Chattahoochee. Please hurry!”
I dropped the receiver, trying desperately to tame my panicked mind. “Fire extinguishers! In the shop!” I placed Sarah carefully into a small fenced play yard by the swing set. “Stay here, honey.”
I ran to my father’s wooden workshop behind the farmhouse and located the two large extinguishers behind the door and lugged them outside, one by one.
“Too heavy! I can’t carry them. The ATV! Get the ATV!” a voice in my head prompted.
I ran to the front yard, wheeled the vehicle into position, hoisted the extinguishers onto the wire rack on the rear, then screeched back to the front yard. In the distance, I saw Margie and John running up the driveway.
I was struggling with the pin on one of the extinguishers when my neighbors reached the house. “Margie told me she saw smoke! Did you call the fire department?” John called out.
“Yeah! On their way!”
John ran toward the pool. When I saw him head toward the pump with a long coil of hose, I remembered Bobby saying something about always having the backwash action of the pool pump as a means of putting out a fire. Margie and I had the fire extinguishers ready and dragged them toward the kitchen door.
“Wait!” John called. He opened the screened door and felt the wooden door for heat.
“Should we wait for the fire trucks?” I asked.
John shook his head. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get all the way out here from town. Let’s at least see if it’s anything we can start on. If it’s too bad, we’ll get right back out! The door’s cool. Let me go in first with one of the extinguishers, then y’all follow with the other one and the water hose.” He opened the door and a gush of black smoke boiled from the opening. “Stay down low!”
John began to express the chemical foam. The smoke cleared slightly. “I can see the flames. They’re comin’ from the stove end of the kitchen!” He waved. Margie and I flanked John. I sprayed the walls with water as they used the extinguishers on the stove and space above the exhaust hood.
Sirens sounded in the distance. In a few minutes, the professional firefighters burst into the smoke-filled room and helped us outside. As the three of us coughed to clear our soot-filled lungs, the crew successfully drenched the remaining flames.
“I know exactly what caused the fire,” I said, in answer to the chief’s question. “I put a small pot on the stove. I was boiling water to make some tea.” I stared numbly at the smoldering remains of my mother’s country kitchen.
Chief Hall cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”
“Oh…sorry. Anyway, I guess I forgot it. My daughter and I went to the pond to feed the fish.” Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. “How stupid of me!”
He squinted his eyes. “This was a pretty intense fire, Hattie. Looks more like a grease fire.”
“Oh my God.” The realization hit me full in the face. “The oil we used to cook the French fries for the cookout yesterday…it was on the back element of the stove where I left it to cool. Like I’ve done a million times before.” I shook my head in disbelief. “There was a large Dutch oven full of oil. I guess I accidentally turned the wrong knob.” I closed my eyes. “I am responsible for torching my mother’s kitchen…my kitchen!”
Chief Hall rested his hand on my shoulder. “Hattie, this kind of thing happens. Why, my wife and I have left pots of oil sittin’ on the stove to cool off, just like you did. The important thing is — you and your daughter are all right. Heck, it’s almost like Mr. D. built this house with a kitchen fire in mind.”
I wiped my tears with the backside of one soot-stained hand. “What do you mean?”
“I remember my daddy helpin’ Mr. D. on this house years ago. Your daddy built this farmhouse a section at the time…as he and your mama had the money. There used to be an old wooden house on this site. As I recall, your daddy built the kitchen first, right before you were born. Then, he added the living room and master bedroom, I believe. I think the back two bedrooms were the last he did. Anyway, it effectively stopped the fire from spreading fast. The cement block walls between the kitchen and the other sections were double thickness, on account of the way he constructed the rooms. We’re checking over the rest of the house. Looks like the professional cleaners will have to deal with some minor smoke damage in the living room, but the doors separating the bedroom sections were closed off. Overall, you’re pretty fortunate. Any other house, you would have had a lot more damage, maybe even lost the entire structure.”
Spackle licked my fingers, as if to say he felt sorry for me. My heart sank.
“Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Shammie. My cat. I can’t remember…was she in the kitchen when I left?”
“Jerry?” Chief Hall called to one of his firefighters. “Is it safe for Mrs. Lewis to go in and look for her cat?”
The firefighter coiling a hose nodded. “Yes sir, boss. Floor’s pretty slippery, but the roof’s stable. Only one place right over the stove’s burned all the way through.”
“You go on and hunt for your cat,” Margie called over to me from the swingset. “John and I will watch over Sarah.”
The sight of the charred kitchen made the bile rise in my throat. Blackened water and foam stood in sludgy pools on the melted flooring. I took a deep breath. First things first.
“Shammie? Kitty…kitty,” I called in a soft voice.
She’d be cowering somewhere, if she was alive. A disgruntled yowl sounded from the underside of my favorite recliner. Fortunately, the chair was on the side of the room that had escaped the formidable heat and smoke.
I flipped the footrest up and leaned down to peer beneath the ragged underbelly of the chair. A sooty, frightened feline face blinked back at me. Shammie wormed her way from under the upholstery and studied me with large yellow eyes oozing with disdain.
“YOW-ULLLL!” she cursed.
“I know, I know.” I scooped her into my arms and sobbed into her soiled fur.
I stepped from the remains of my kitchen, soot covering my face, clothes, and hair, my face bent toward the scruffy cat cradled in my arms. By this time, the neighbors from as far away as two miles had arrived.
The news of the fire’s location brought the family screaming from town. As soon as they phoned Bobby and Leigh, Evelyn and Piddie broke the posted speed limit hurtling toward the Hill in the Lincoln. Joe had already left for the Sunday Men’s Breakfast at the Baptist Church, but immediately followed in his truck as soon as word of the fire reached him. Jon and Jake skidded to a halt in the 4Runner. My family and friends surrounded me like a mother octopus.
Jake pushed a damp hank of hair from my eyes. “Sister-girl, you can stay at the mansion. I’m sure Holston would want you to do that tonight.”
“We got the extra room, Hattie. Why don’t you stay with us?” Evelyn offered.
“I’ll whip up some cathead biscuits for you, sugar,” Piddie said.
I sank onto one of the swing set seats. “Lord help me. How am I going to tell Holston?”
“Everything will be okay, Hattie,” Bobby said. “I know lots of builders around here. We’ll have the kitchen good as new in no time.”
Jake plopped down on the seat next to me. “I can help you redecorate. Look at the bright side — you wanted to update the appliances and fixtures anyway.”
/> My soot-dusted neighbors stood to leave. “We’re gonna go on home and get cleaned up now, Hattie. Margie and I will watch over the place for you. Don’t you worry about that.”
Evelyn rested her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you and I go gather up some of your and Sarah’s clothes and essentials and pack a bag to take to town. You both need some rest. It’s been an excitin’ morning for you. We’ll all think more on this tomorrow after a good breakfast…after the shock’s worn off.”
“I’ll take Spackle and Shammie back with me. We can keep them at the mansion for now,” Jake said.
I felt numb, tired, and sick at heart.
“Sister-girl,” Jake said as he circled me in his arms, “it’s probably best if you wait and call Holston in the morning. He’ll be at the funeral today, and you’ll be a little calmer by then, hmm?”
Before she left the house for the Triple C, Evelyn made the coffee, strong — just the way I needed it. To my amazement, I had slept soundly the night before. Sarah, her normal morning self, didn’t seem to notice, or mind, that her surroundings had changed. She sat in an old wooden highchair Joe had rescued from the attic; a leftover from visits from the grandchildren when they were young.
“Goo-gah!” Sarah babbled to Aunt Piddie.
“Yeah, my little chinaberry, I’m your Goo-gah!”
Piddie and Sarah continued the conversation in mixed English and baby-eze. Joe, draped in an apron, was browning a pan of thick-cut country bacon. “Over easy, Hattie?”
“Hmm?”
He grinned. “Your eggs. How do you like them?”
“Oh, Joe, don’t go to any trouble on account of me being here.”
He waved the spatula in the air. “No trouble. You need to eat, and I like to cook. Started up when Evelyn needed to spend so much time at the workshop. I’m thinking of taking some classes next semester. I can handle the simple stuff, but I kinda think I’d like to try my hand at gourmet cooking.”
I sipped the strong black coffee. “In that case, eggs sunny-side up.”
Joe whistled as he broke two eggs onto the hot griddle. Finally, Evelyn’s professionally-outfitted kitchen had a true chef at its helm.
At noon, I reluctantly dialed Holston’s cell phone number. His deep voice brought fresh tears to my eyes. After we talked for a few minutes about the funeral and his ex-wife’s family, I broached the subject of the fire. “Honey…do you love me?”
“Madly.”
“You sure?”
He chuckled. “Of course I do, Hattie. Please tell me you’re not feeling insecure about me being up here around Claire. Believe me, it’s not an issue.”
“No, I’m okay with all of that.” I hesitated. “You remember when I told you I thought I might like to buy a new stove?”
“Yes.”
“…and a new refrigerator — one with the ice and water dispenser on the front?”
“Yes.”
“And, umm, how Jake wanted to redecorate and update the kitchen a bit?”
“Yes.”
“Well… it seems as if we’re going to get to do all of that.”
There was brief moment of silence on the other end of the line. “For some reason, I feel a little uneasy. Should I, Hattie?”
I swallowed around the golf ball-sized lump that had formed in my throat. “I burned down the kitchen yesterday.”
A sharp intake of breath sounded. “Everyone’s okay?”
“We’re all fine. The only thing that’s hurt is my pride.”
Holston chuckled softly. “You been taking cooking lessons from Evelyn, hon?”
I laughed hard: a deep, gurgling belly guffaw. My entire physique dissolved into a hiccupping, snorting fit. Tears rolled down my cheeks as pent-up fear and tension left my body.
“Hattie….Hattie….HATTIE?”
“Yes, Holston,” I managed when I was able to speak.
“I’ll come home first thing tomorrow,” Holston said. “Where are you now?”
“At Joe and Evelyn’s, but I figure we can stay at the mansion while the kitchen’s being rebuilt. Jake has the animals there, already.”
He sighed. “I’ll come straight to the mansion when I get back. We can ride out to the Hill together, later…to look things over.”
“Holston?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry I was such a big dope.”
“I’ll think of a suitable punishment for you when I get home,” he said in a low, sexy voice.
“It don’t much matter what side of the tracks you come up on. Bad circumstances can be overcome, with a little doin’. Where you think they find diamonds? In the rough, that’s where.”
Piddie Davis Longman
Chapter Twelve
Moses Clark
Two dirt and rain-splattered trash bags leaned against the side of the tool shed in the rear of Hank Henderson’s yard.
“That dang Aflonso!” Moses muttered under his breath. “He was supposed to take those to the dump two days ago.” Antagonism toward the older boy bubbled like a festering peat bog.
Moses halted the lawnmower at the edge of the grass and grabbed the yard cart. The first bag was heavy with soggy leaves and twigs. When he loaded the second bag, he heard an odd metallic clank as it settled on the cart. Moses looked around to assure no one was watching and opened the twist-tie at the top of the bag. Rooting under the top layer of leaves, he uncovered a small cloth sack containing two men’s Rolex watches, five diamond rings in assorted sizes, and a tangle of gold neck chains. Digging farther, his hand felt the hard edges of a slim, plastic-covered box. He tugged it to the surface — a laptop computer.
“Man!” He plunged his left hand deep into the muck. Something sharp pierced the soft flesh of his palm, and he jerked away from the bag. “Dang!”
Blood dripped from a gash in the center of his palm. He grabbed the filthy sweat rag from his back pocket and wrapped it around his hand to staunch the bleeding.
Using his right hand and the free fingers of his injured left hand, he twisted the bag shut and replaced the tie. A thought struck him: Alfonso would sense that someone had tampered with the bags. Moses emptied the yard cart, careful to replace the trash bags in their original position against the tool shed.
Since the garage door was closed, he couldn’t tell if Mr. Hank had left while he was mowing the back yard. Being careful to avoid making noise, Moses slipped into the house though the unlocked side door. A search for first aid supplies in the hall bathroom proved futile. Except for a spare roll of toilet tissue and a set of clean towels, the cabinets were barren. He’d find Tameka. She knew where everything was in the house.
Moses proceeded to the master bedroom. The blinds were drawn against the midday sun, giving the dark room a gloomy, closed-off feel. Moses’ eyes adjusted to the dim light.
“There’s that side table where Tameka said he keeps the gun,” Moses said to himself. Reckon it wouldn’t do any harm to look at it. He slid the drawer open stealthily and removed the SigSauer .45. The handgun felt cool and deadly in his palm. He turned it over to study it from all sides. Resting his finger on the trigger, he gently pulled. The double-action safety prohibited easy movement of the trigger. Only a strong, deliberate pressure could fire the handgun. After the initial discharge, the gun would remain cocked and ready to fire with the faintest of touches.
Moses heard a stealthy movement in the hall behind him. He carefully relaxed his index finger and the hammer eased into rest position.
“Moses!” Tameka’s scolding whisper broke the silence. “What you doin’ back here in Mr. Hank’s room?” Her eyes widened with alarm when she spotted the handgun in her brother’s hand. “Put that back!”
She rushed over and grabbed the .45 from his palm, eased it into its proper place next to the telephone book, and closed the drawer. “We would lose our jobs if he caught us touchin’ one of his guns! What you tryin’ to do?”
Moses fought the urge to laugh at her, standing there tight-lipped, hands pro
pped on her hips all grown-up acting. “I was lookin’ for you.” He held out his loosely bandaged left hand. “I cut myself. I thought you’d know where Mr. Hank keeps the Band-Aids and stuff.”
Seated in the oxblood-red leather chair of the desk in his study, Hank Henderson balanced his latest acquisition in the palm of his right hand. He had splurged on the handgun: the latest Kimber’s .45 ACP Ultracarry. With a caliber known for stopping a fight with a single hit 95% of the time, the gun was the most effective man-stopper he knew of, short of a bazooka. The precision piece sported a slick, cool gunmetal blue finish. Even more reassuring was the knowledge that it was loaded with Remington’s Hot +P golden sabers. The salesman had assured him he would see light through the hole if he shot someone coming, uninvited, into his bedroom at night.
The cherished collection currently contained thirty handguns, all clean and oiled with an obsessive regularity. Though he preferred a weapon with a visible external hammer, he owned two Glocks, complements of his jerk-off cousin’s evidence room clear-out special.
Strangely enough, his omnipotent father had spurred his passion for weapons acquisition. The love of firepower was the only interest they had shared. Hank greatly admired the family heirloom dueling pistols, still resting in their original tooled leather case. One of his favorite pieces was the Colt single-action .45, made in Colt’s custom shop; his father’s last $1500.00 deal two weeks before his death.
Hank smiled. No doubt, the Kimber .45 would bump one of his SigSauer’s back into the locked gun case. The weapon would stay close to him like a clingy new lover —far less trouble than any female he’d ever encountered. He stood and slipped the handgun into a new Wilson Combat Pager Pal, a cleverly designed concealed holster that slid under the rim of his pants with a fake pager over his belt in the front. His paunch worked to his advantage. The holster fit snugly against his body, made even more invisible by the baggy excess of material necessary to span his waist.
Hank grunted. He supposed he’d have to endure the company of the annoying group of wannabe commandos his cousin called buddies. The firing range south of town where the local yahoos practiced their limited skills was dull as dirt compared to the walk-through course the paramilitary group maintained near Greensboro — hidden deep in two hundred acre private woodland area.
