The Fireman's Homecoming

by Allie Pleiter

  “I was off duty and out of cell range for thir— fifty minutes, Pop.” Clark pushed past him toward his desk. “That’s not out of line.” Clark knew the uselessness of that remark. Pop was never, ever off the radar where the firehouse was concerned. It used to be one of his favorite weapons when he was younger—disappearing so Pop couldn’t find him—because the irresponsibility of being unreachable irritated his father so. As such, today was a deep gash in an old wound.

  His father followed him, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “But it wasn’t just you, was it?”

  “Door!” It was one of his father’s lines, a “Georgism” for “get in here and shut the door behind you before you say one more word.” Clark had never used it on his father before, but today was evidently a day for lots of firsts. His father pulled the door shut without breaking his narrow-eyed glare. Clark glared right back. “Come on, what is this? High school, and I kept Melba out past her curfew?”

  “Don’t you get smart with me.”

  “Don’t you get...” Clark chose not to finish off that thought. The painful truth was that Pop was half-right. One the one hand, Clark knew Melba was a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. On the other hand, some part of him knew he’d behaved irresponsibly. He hadn’t ignored the watch on purpose, but he had a good enough sense of time to have realized they’d gone past their half-hour restriction, and he still hadn’t said a word until she pulled away. His actions stood testament to how easily he slipped into even small shreds of the old Clark. He tossed his keys and his cell phone onto his desk, breaking the standoff. “I did nothing wrong today and you know it.” Even as the retort left his mouth, Clark felt his own doubt cutting sharp edges into the words.

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “Yes, that’s how I see it.” Clark planted his hands on his desk chair. “And it’s pretty clear that’s not how you see it.”

  His father paused for a long moment...one of his favorite, infuriating tactics whenever they argued. “‘No distractions.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  “This is different.”

  “You would always say that when I caught you not keeping your word.”

  Clark ran his hands through his hair. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pinning me to some ridiculous set of standards only you think necessary?”

  A firefighter came up to the window in Clark’s door, holding up a finger in a “Do you have a minute?” gesture. Clark shook his head and waved the man off. He looked his father straight in the eye. “Do you know what it was like to walk onto that scene today and get some insane version of ‘Just wait till your dad hears about this’ from men I’m supposed to lead in a few weeks’ time? Do you even want me to succeed?”

  Pop didn’t answer. Clark couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

  “I’ll admit,” Clark continued, grasping for some sense of reason, “that the timing was unfortunate. Awful, even. But you had no right to grouse at those guys about not being able to reach me when I was off duty and entirely within my rights not to answer my cell phone. I may have been out of line, but so were you.”

  “I stuck my neck out and recommended you, but you have to prove yourself...”

  “No, Pop,” Clark cut in. “That’s just it. I don’t have anything to prove here. I know who I am now, and how I’ve changed. I have the experience and the training to handle this job. These men are ready to accept me, but it won’t happen until you stop throwing your weight around like this. I will do the best job I know how, but I won’t be you.” He paced back and forth behind his desk and growled, sounding entirely too much like the father in front of him. “Every time I think we’ve hashed this out, we’re back at square one again.” He looked at the chief. “I want a life outside the firehouse, Pop. I don’t think that makes me a bad chief, either. Can you accept that?”

  “Is that what you’re saying? That being a good chief made me a bad father?”

  How many times had they gone over this same raw ground? “What do you want me to say? That all the things you missed because you were here didn’t matter? That I didn’t hate the sound of the siren growing up? That I ran over your beeper with my motorcycle by accident? No, it wasn’t perfect, but I’m here now because I’ve made peace with all that. I want to be chief, Pop. I do. But my kind of chief, not yours. And that means you should be more upset with the fact that Melba couldn’t get to Mort than the fact that you couldn’t get to me.”

  Pop narrowed his eyes and adjusted his baseball cap.

  “He’s fine, by the way. Rattled, but okay. Look, it’s not like you not to ask. Whatever’s gone on between you and Mort Wingate, I think maybe we need to talk about it.”

  His father’s hands shot up. “Oh, no, we don’t.” The chief started toward the kitchen.

  Clark followed him. “So there is something.”

  “I didn’t say that.” His dad had his head in the fridge again, getting ready to hide behind a root beer.

  “You didn’t have to. I told you Mort laid into me at the hospital. He thought Melba was her mother, which means his head was in the past. I’m starting to wonder now if he thought I was you.”

  His dad’s only response was to pop the top off a bottle. And this time, he didn’t offer one to Clark.

  Heaving a sigh, Clark leaned against the counter and lowered his voice so the firemen laughing in the dining room wouldn’t hear. “I like her, Pop. A lot. And I’m going to try hard not to let things get out of control because neither of us can afford it right now. But this isn’t going to go away and I’d appreciate it if you’d just help me understand what’s going on.”

  “It’s water under a very old bridge and I’ve asked you to drop it. Let...it...go...son.” It was not a request. It was a command. “If I ask you to keep clear of Melba Wingate, will you?”

  Clark could think of reasons to say yes, but far more reasons to say “No.”

  George Bradens shook his head, fired the bottle cap into the barrel with deadly accuracy, and left the room in silence. Except, of course, for the chorus of “Hey, chief!”s erupting as he escaped through the dining room.

  Clark wanted to put his fist through the cabinet door, but let his head fall against it instead. Why did this have to be so hard?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Melba wrinkled her nose; the place smelled so old. The scents and sounds of this little shack felt like falling into a time warp. On the one hand, it had the atmosphere of a treasure hunt—surely among all the boxes and crates and old leather suitcases she’d find some fascinating bit of her past, some object unleashing a rush of memories. On the other hand, it was dirty and musty and not at all like she’d have expected from the tidy father who used to keep nuts and bolts sorted into labeled jars on his workbench.

  Melba let out a little yelp as a too-large spider scurried away from a box of old hinges she pulled down from a sagging shelf. Practically speaking, she knew Clark was coming in a bit to help lug all this stuff out of the shack. There was something about doing parts of it alone, however. She couldn’t explain her need for privacy as she picked through the boxes of old receipts and guest files. Smiling, she tucked a stack of “Wingate’s Log Cabin Resort” postcards into the box she’d marked “KEEP.” It had been great fun to grow up on a vacation property. Twice, a television star had come to hide away at the resort, and Melba had the delicious privilege of letting her best friends in on the juicy secret.

  Tugging out a crate of garden tools, Melba’s eyes hit on her mother’s old sky-blue luggage. With its boxy valises and square makeup case, she could almost picture her mother getting off the train for their Niagara Falls honeymoon. Melba ran her hands over the white plastic handle—the set didn’t seem at all damaged. She’d played movie star with that luggage over and over as a child, but hadn’t given it a single thought in years until this moment
. How many other treasures were in here waiting to be discovered?

  Of course, she had to open them. How she’d loved the shiny blue lining, played for hours tucking imaginary traveling necessities into the many pockets. The first case was empty, the fabric stained from mold and time, ripping down off the lid in several places. The second case held a dank old coat with a matching hat that was probably fetching in its day, but nasty after years in confinement. Melba fished her hands in the coat pockets, bringing out a Chicago train ticket from 1983. She tucked the ticket in her own pocket before reclosing the case and dragging it and its larger partner to the lawn.

  She saved the makeup case for last, hoping it held something special inside. There was a plain pink scarf—hand-knit, had Mama made it? Two hats—nothing special or worth saving, and nothing Melba could remember seeing. At the bottom, wrapped in brown paper, was a stack of something. Letters? Documents? Melba felt a small jolt of expectation raise her pulse as she pulled the twine holding the paper and spread the envelopes out on a crate.

  Some had been through the mail, with canceled stamps and military addresses. She recognized her mother’s handwriting immediately, with the swirly Ws Melba could never quite imitate. A neat, orderly version of her father’s handwriting filled other envelopes—she’d forgotten how precise his handwriting had been when he was younger. Laying out the letters one by one, Melba pondered whether or not it was appropriate to open them. The urge to hoard disappearing memories warred with her parents’ right to privacy. This might be her only chance to glimpse her parents as a younger couple, or even to spur some treasured stories from her father before he lost his past forever.

  Halfway down the stack, a third style of handwriting startled her. Two of the letters were addressed simply to “Maria,” obviously hand-delivered rather than posted through the mail. One other was addressed to her at the resort from an address in Chicago, typewritten with “CONFIDENTIAL” in capital letters on the lower corner. All the letters were from fall of 1984, from her father’s final tour of service somewhere in the Persian Gulf. Medical information? Some legal matter? She felt better about looking in this envelope rather than her parents’ private correspondence.

  The letter inside wasn’t official. It was handwritten, two pages filled on both sides, and signed simply “G.” Who was “G”?

  “Melba?” Clark’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. “You in there?”

  She’d half considered calling Clark and telling him not to stop by. Part of her was angry, wanting to blame him for her being out of cell range when things had escalated. But she knew that was a cheap out. She’d agreed—readily, in fact—to the escape down the river with him. She was perfectly capable of insisting she keep her watch and return after the prescribed thirty minutes. She’d chosen their actions just as much as Clark had. If she was honest, a larger part of her couldn’t wait to see him again, to soak in the extraordinary strength that seemed to seep into her when she was with him. “Here,” she called, laying down the letter and walking out into the sunshine.

  * * *

  “How’s the cleanup going?” Clark reached for her hand and she let him take it. She’d forgotten the simple wonder of having someone hold your hand. “Doesn’t look so bad so far.”

  “Actually—” she felt herself smile, the sensation foreign but welcome “—it’s been a bit of an adventure. Lots of junk but some neat stuff I’ll want to save.” She nodded toward the box and they both crouched over it. “Look at these.” She held up the postcards.

  Clark chuckled at the cheesy photos and bold “Wish You Were Here” lettering splashed across the front. “Wow. You definitely need to do something with these.” He peered at the cards. “I’d almost forgotten what the place looked like.” He squinted at one card. “Hey, is that you?”

  Melba took the card to spy the little girl with a fat pink ribbon in her hair standing next to one of the too-clean sheep. The sheep that grazed over her parents’ resort looked snowy white and cuddly in the photo, but hardly ever like that in real life. Mama had fussed for hours to get that sheep looking like something out of a children’s book, and it had been dirty and tangled with burrs again the next day. The memory of taking that photo, of feeling like a princess getting her picture on a postcard, raised a lump in her throat. “I think I was five. I’d forgotten we even had these made.” Melba stepped back into the shed, seeing it like the treasure trove she’d hoped it would be. “I’m so glad we didn’t lose the shed. It’s messy, but there’s still so much stuff in here.”

  Clark peered around. “My dad always said burning buildings were sad, but lost possessions were worse.” He pointed to the stack of envelopes. “Letters?”

  “From when my parents wrote to each other during the war. They were in my mom’s makeup case, tied up all neat like a present.”

  “Have you looked at them?” Clark ran his hands over one of the suitcase’s clunky brass latches.

  “Not yet. Feels a bit like prying, you know?”

  “I suppose it would.”

  “There’s one, though, I can’t quite figure out. I haven’t read anything but the signature yet, but I don’t have any relatives with names that start with G.”

  Clark leaned in, studying the envelope while Melba still held the letters. “Wait a minute.” He shook his head. “No, it’s nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Clark motioned toward the letter. “What does Mr. G say?”

  Melba raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s Mr. G?”

  “I don’t. Just looks like a man’s handwriting, I suppose. Grandpa, maybe?”

  “No, Mom called her grandfather Poppy. She talked about him a lot. Since her own father—my grandfather—died when he was young, Poppy was in her life a lot.” Melba sat down on a crate. “It’s dated November 1984. ‘My dearest Maria.’” Melba looked up at Clark. “‘Dearest’?”

  Clark stared back with a puzzled look on his face and found an overturned bucket to sit down upon.

  Melba read on.

  “I know you’re worried, but I’m so glad you came to me for help. Don’t ever call yourself bad for what’s happened. War is a terrible thing and it causes terrible things to happen, even off the battlefield. No matter what Mort says or does, know that I will always be there for you. Always.”

  Melba stared at the letter, feeling the room spin a bit as it sunk in what she might actually be reading. She gulped down a breath as her eyes scanned back up to the date. 1984. The fall before her birthday. “Oh, Lord.” It was the start of a panicked prayer, but she didn’t even know what she was praying for.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” Clark said softly.

  “No.” Melba held out a hand. “No, please don’t go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” she said, not sure of anything. “Don’t go.”

  Melba returned to the letter, only to realize her hands were shaking.

  “You need to take care of yourself now. You and the baby. I have taken care of everything else.”

  She looked up at Clark. “The baby. Clark, that’s me. This letter is dated eight months before my birthday.”

  Melba continued to read.

  “Danny Baker won’t cause you any trouble. He will never return to Gordon Falls, never claim the child. He’s not much of a man to be so easily persuaded to leave, I’m sorry to say. I’ll never understand, my dear Maria, why you would give yourself to such a scoundrel when I’ve waited so long for you. You broke my heart, and still I can’t turn from you when you’re in such need. It’s the worst pain to know he’s had even one night with you when I have had nothing.”

  She reached the bottom of the page, dreading what other earth-shattering news might lie on the other side. Melba shut her eyes, tried to force air into her collapsing lungs. So it was true. Mort Wingate wasn’t her fath
er. Her father was some faceless man named Danny Baker. Her past was a knot of lies and secrets tying her to a complete stranger.

  Her hands shook as she turned the page.

  “If Mort is the man you claim he is, then he will not turn you out. And while this is the only time I will ever speak of this, I hope he does.”

  Melba’s hand went to her throat at the words, which were underlined.

  “For you already know that I would leave her—yes, I would leave my wife—to make a life with you without a second’s hesitation. Even after all these years, I can’t stop loving you. I know you know that or you would have never come to me with all this. You know I’d do anything to make you happy. If that means staying with Mort, then so be it.

  “My only condition is that he must know. I’ve arranged so that no one else will ever suspect, but Mort will be told—by me if not by you. If he’s honorable enough to stick with your marriage, I won’t step in. It’ll kill me, but I’ll stand by. What I won’t stand by and watch, however, is him having what I would hold so dear on account of a lie.

  “You have my word, I’ll never say anything to anyone if you stay with Mort. Just one word from you, though, and we’ll go anywhere you want and make a fresh start. You can bank on that, you and the baby.

  “I’ve always loved you. More than him, even if you can’t see it.—G.”

  * * *

  Clark felt wildly ill at ease, as if he’d stumbled into some private place he didn’t belong. This was worse than witnessing Melba’s struggles with Mort. It was like watching someone’s soul splayed out in raw pain. Firefighting made him used to seeing people at their worst. He was accustomed to people at the end of their wits in terrible crises, but this was so different. He had no training to cope with this kind of shock, this emotional burn. He felt helpless to guide Melba down the face of the huge, steep gorge that had now opened up in her life. Why had God thrust him to the edge of it alongside her with no warning? Clark didn’t know what to do with that. “I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of him, inadequate and useless. “I’m really sorry.”