by Peter Styles
The room was silent but for Pongo’s obliviously happy little grunts and growls as she continued to fight with her tail. I could feel Diaz burning a hole into the side of my head with his pleading eyes, but I stared instead at my glass of water, pretending to be completely entranced by the condensation.
Rick didn’t stop there. “You know what you may find interesting? My last name— van Buren—was actually a name my parents adopted to sound more ‘German.’ My father was Polish, and his parents made sure that he sounded like he would ‘fit in’ in case there was another invasion or ethnic cleansing. I don’t know that it worked, though. I think they did it to ensure that he lived a happy life, but he killed himself shortly before I was born, so I’m not sure it was as powerful a talisman as they’d hoped it would be. Heinrich, however—my first name—that was taken from my mother’s older brother. He was a gay Jew as well. When my grandmother was alive, she would tell me about how, the last time she saw her son, he was wearing two symbols on his shirt instead of one. She cried for an entire day and an entire night when I came out to her. She thought that someone would try to kill me. She was already afraid for me as a Jewish man in the country that had betrayed her. So, I moved to America to prove to her that everything would be okay. Fortunately, she died before she could find out that the deaths of our people have become a running gag in your country.”
Part of me desperately wanted to find some way to shut Pongo up, because a happy puppy in a room with that kind of ambience just felt wrong. I stood up abruptly. “I think Pongo needs to go outside,” I said a little too loudly. “I’ll take her.”
I wished I hadn’t said anything. Rick turned his icy eyes on me, and I saw my life flash before my eyes. I wasn’t sure what was worse: having a guy I was getting more and more into by the minute stare at me like he wanted me dead, or not being dead already before I could witness that conversation. “She seems fine to me,” Rick noted. “And besides, I’m glad we started having this discussion.”
“You are?” Diaz asked in a tone that suggested that he very much disagreed.
“Yes.” Rick gestured to my chair. “Sit, Kyle.”
I obeyed without thinking. Shit, is he training me too?
“I have a bit of a problem with the fire department right now,” he said. “I think that you two may be able to help me.”
It took a lot of effort not to say “son of a bitch” out loud. Rick really knew when to hold them and when to fold them. He couldn’t have picked a more perfect time to ask for our help—when someone’s story involves things like “my entire family were victims of the Holocaust,” they tend to gain a little bit of an edge in negotiations.
“Is this about whatever made you call Fulmon a ‘fuck error?’” I asked.
I was surprised when a small, embarrassed smile flitted over Rick’s features. Underneath the shame, though, there was a clear glow of pride. “Ah, yes. I forgot I even said that to him. But yes, it’s about that.”
“So what happened?”
Rick sighed and ran a hand through his curls. He looked over both me and Diaz for a moment. “You were both there, yes? The night of the fire.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“And what did they tell you was the cause?”
Diaz shrugged. “A couple people said it was a Molotov cocktail. But it’s not like we would know the cause for sure. We were in there making sure the fire got put out, not worrying so much about how it started.”
Rick nodded slowly. “That’s… almost correct, then. There was a Molotov cocktail. But I took care of it. I went inside to go to bed after putting out the fire on my lawn. The fire wasn’t all that bad. I didn’t expect whoever did it to come back.”
“Wait. So someone tried to Molotov you, then came back and lit your place up again?” I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Who would do something like that?”
“Apparently, someone who knows a lot about fire and has a vendetta against me.” Rick’s posture stiffened when he added, “I assume it’s the same person who drew a swastika on the Molotov bottle before they threw it.”
“Oh, fuck,” Diaz whispered. “So this is the real deal. A straight up hate crime.”
“Not according to your bosses,” Rick snipped. “Apparently, they think I did it to collect insurance money. The myth of the greedy Jew is still alive and well, I suppose.”
“And why do they think that?” I asked.
“That’s just it. They don’t.” Rick took a small sip of coffee. “I saw the investigation information in Mr. Fulmon’s office when they went out for a quick coffee run. I read the entire file. They found that the fire originated on the perimeter of the house.”
“Which would mean that, if you had started it, you would have had to have started the fire and run into the burning house and hope you survived long enough to collect the insurance money,” I clarified.
Diaz shook his head. “Bullshit,” he muttered. “Nobody would do that.”
“Exactly.”
“So why are they still accusing you?” I asked.
Rick raised an eyebrow as if to ask if my question was serious. Still, he said, “They changed all of the information. There were two reports; the one I told you about is real, but the other one is doctored. It said that the point of origin was inside the house, and they’re apparently trying to claim that I started the fire and it got out of control before I could escape properly, which was why I called you.”
“But even that’s a real fucking stretch,” Diaz murmured. I couldn’t tell whether he was talking to us or himself. “Nobody would do that. It’s not just stupid, it’s deadly. And you don’t exactly strike me as the suicidal type.”
“Excellent observation,” Rick replied dryly. “I couldn’t find anything to indicate exactly what happened, but I did notice that the doctored report listed one of your co-workers as responding earlier than he actually did. One Reggie Matthews arrived on the scene fifteen minutes later than the rest of you, but the doctored report showed him arriving at the same time.”
I frowned. “That’s bullshit. I remember him showing up late with half his gear still off. He’d taken the night off for something, didn’t he?”
“Niece’s birthday party, he said,” Diaz confirmed. “But why would someone lie about when he turned up? We all know it’s not true.”
Rick sighed softly. We seemed to be stretching his patience to its breaking point. “Why,” he asked, his voice slow and clear, “might the department ask you all to lie about a fellow firefighter’s behavior and actions on the night of a particular fire? Why might they expect you to cooperate with them and stand with your brother in arms?”
Diaz screwed up his face, trying to think, but it had already hit me like a freight truck. My body went freezing cold, and Reggie’s arrogant, smirking face was all I could see. I wanted to beat the hell out of him. “That motherfucker,” I hissed, my fists balling in rage. “That asshole…”
“What?” Diaz asked, still confused. “What’s going on?”
I turned to look at him. I thought of all the time we had spent training and working side by side. I thought of how we all took a solemn vow to protect our city and its citizens. But more than anything, I thought about the little curl of disgust that had appeared on Reggie’s lip more than once when discussing anyone who wasn’t white and straight.
“Diaz,” I said, my voice sounding hollow and completely unlike my own, “it’s Reggie. Reggie is the racist motherfucker who did this.”
Silence fell again over the kitchen. Even Pongo had stopped struggling and was instead staring up at us with worried eyes.
“Son of a bitch,” Diaz snapped, and although I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t have agreed more.
Chapter Seven
Even though we’d been spending every spare minute together, it still surprised me a month later when, after an afternoon of Pongo training, Rick met my eyes and said, “We should go get a beer tonight.”
“Yeah?” My heart leapt
at the very thought. Spending time with Rick had turned into a double-edged sword; on one hand, he was smart and interesting and incredibly hot. On the other, I was terrified of making a complete dick of myself, and that fear only got worse and worse the more I liked him.
Still, I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. We’d been training Pongo together every single day, and I finally had another stretch of time off. Work—something I had always loved before—had turned into complete and utter torture ever since Rick told us about Reggie. Every time I saw the guy, I wanted to punch him. Or, at least, I wanted to punch him more than usual.
It just didn’t make sense to me. That’s all I could think when Rick picked Pongo and me up that night in his beat-up Subaru. How anyone could hate Rick was entirely beyond me. Sure, he was a little odd and probably way too blunt, but he was also smart and quick and surprisingly fun. His sense of humor was dryer than an episode of Frasier, but it was still hysterical, and I’d never met anyone else who seemed so grand for no reason at all. He was several inches shorter than me, but he was still impressive, even a little intimidating. When he talked, I dropped everything I was doing to listen. The idea that my reaction to Rick wasn’t universal was insane to me.
And that was without even getting into the fact that I couldn’t imagine being a literal neo-Nazi.
I was surprised when we rolled into the driveway of a small, charming brick house. “Is this a bar?” I asked, confused. “Is it some kind of weird underground thing that all the kids are always talking about? Like those pop-up things or whatever.”
Rick snorted. “No, old man. This is my home.”
“I thought we were getting beer.”
“We are. I have beer.”
“Yeah, but—“
Rick held up a hand to shut me up, and I obeyed. “Kyle, you need to trust me when I say this: anything that I have in this house will be a thousand times better than the best beer you could get at an American pub.”
I rolled my eyes, but I still followed him inside. “I forgot that you Germans like your beer.”
“We invented beer.”
I frowned. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
“It is. Believe me.”
I took out my phone and did a quick Google search while Rick unlocked the door. “I was right. Looks like beer was invented in Mesopotamia.”
“Well, we perfected it,” Rick sniffed. “And don’t forget that I’m also Jewish. We invented wine.”
“Again, not true.”
“One of us turned water into wine,” he argued. “That ought to count for something.”
I laughed. “God, the Pope would love this conversation, wouldn’t he?”
“Depends on which one.” He arched an eyebrow at me and led me and Pongo into his house. “Why? Are you a Catholic?”
“Nope. Never went to church.” I thought back for a moment. “Well, okay, I went a few times, but I think it was less of a church and more of a cult.”
“Huh. I didn’t know you were Mormon.”
Even I was surprised by how hard I laughed at that joke.
Rick’s house was small, but it was incredibly cozy. Though the response to the fire at his old place had been excellent, we hadn’t been able to save all of his furniture, and it showed; there was a large, overstuffed couch with a bright paisley pattern sitting between two austere wing-backed chairs, and the rug on the floor was Christmas-themed in spite of the practically volcanic weather outside, but the house still managed to maintain a certain level of comfort. Even though he had barely finished unpacking, the place felt well-loved and elegantly arranged. There were paintings and photos hanging all over the walls. Some of them had blackened frames, but the images inside were apparently too precious to risk switching out. Most of the photos were in black and white.
When Rick came into the living room from the kitchen and handed me a beer, I pointed to one of the photos. “Family heirlooms?” I asked.
He nodded gravely. “They’re just about the only heirlooms we have. The few people who did survive the Holocaust left with very little. My father’s father spent most of the war hiding in a basement. The rest of my grandparents were sent to camps.” He pointed out a photo of a severe-looking man with a finely-trimmed beard. “That man is actually my maternal grandmother’s first husband. He died at Bergen Belsen along with my uncle. When my grandmother came home, she found a group for other survivors and met my grandfather there.”
“Wow,” I murmured. “I imagine it would be hard to find someone after something like that.”
“From what she said, it was. After all, she couldn’t even be sure that her husband was dead. It wasn’t like the Nazis kept a list of who lived and who died. Everything was word of mouth.” He looked pensively at the photo. “My entire people’s history relies so much on our memories,” he murmured. “For my grandmother, her entire world depended on what others knew and remembered. I have no idea how she moved on, but she did.”
“She sounds like a strong lady.”
Rick smiled fondly. “She was very strong. She survived Auschwitz and three battles with cancer.”
“Holy shit. How did she die? Taken out by a Terminator?”
Rick chuckled. “I doubt the Terminator would have managed. She actually died of the flu.”
I stared. “Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously.” Rick took a sip of his beer. “When the doctors told us, my mother turned to me and said, ‘She would have been so embarrassed.’ And it’s true! She would have been furious. I like to think she’s still arguing with the Almighty about that to this day.”
“Well, if there’s one person who earned the right to yell at the creator of the universe, it sounds like it would be her.”
Rick nodded. “What about you?” he asked.
“Me? I don’t think I have anything to fight God on. Your grandma’s story makes all of my supposedly tortured break-ups look like a We Sing video.”
“Not that, you idiot. I’m asking about your family.”
“Oh! That.” I felt a little embarrassed that my family and I were so distant that it hadn’t even occurred to me that someone might ask about them. “They’re… interesting. Mom’s still alive, last I checked. Dad disappeared a few years back. The police think he’s dead, but I’m pretty sure he just found something crazy to latch onto and decided to go for it. He was always the one that tried to get us super involved with cults, but Mom wasn’t having it, God bless her.”
When I looked at Rick, he was frowning. “I’m sorry you don’t have much of a relationship with your parents.”
“I’m not,” I said boldly. “I love them and I appreciate the fact that they raised me, but otherwise, I really couldn’t care less about what happens to them. We don’t have a history, like your family. We don’t have something to rally around or even anything in common, really. Both my parents turned from white trash drunks to old white trash drunks. I’m glad I don’t have to be around them to deal with that.”
“Well,” Rick said, “in that case, I’m glad you don’t have to be around them either.”
I held out my beer bottle. “I’ll toast to that.”
We clinked the bottles together, and I finally took a swig. My eyes fluttered and I glanced down at the bottle. “Holy shit.”
“I told you. Germans make the best beer.”
“You’re not kidding.” I took another drink. It was light, crisp, and just a little bit floral, and it was—thankfully—served cold. It tasted like summer in a bottle. “This is incredible. How do you guys come up with this stuff?”
“That’s what happens when all of your social events are centered around drinking,” Rick explained with a shrug. “When I was going to college in Berlin, my friends and I would go out to pubs and try to guess whether or not a business deal would fall through based on how well everyone could hold their alcohol. It was always American businessmen ending up under the table, though. I swear, you Americans don’t know how to drink at all. You�
��re almost as bad as the British, with the warm swill they try to pass off as beer.”
“I think we can hold our own, thanks. We’re the country that brought the world the Bud Light Beergarita.”
“You’re proving my point.” Rick drained his bottle with surprising efficiency. “My grandfather used to say that American beer is like making love in a canoe.”
“Why?”
He smirked. “Because it’s fucking close to water.”
I snorted so hard beer nearly came out of my nose. The idea of one of the extremely seriously black and white portraits on the wall telling a cheap Monty Python joke was almost too much for me.
We drank in silence for a bit. It was nice. Normally, I couldn’t stand the quiet. I always got antsy when there wasn’t noise or something to do. It always felt like the eye of the storm that way, and I was always the one trying to fill in the gaps and smooth things over. Quiet had always reminded me too much of the trailer, which was often completely silent aside from the occasional snore from my dad. I dreaded silence, mostly because I dreaded what would come after.
But with Rick, it was different. I didn’t feel like I needed to save the situation. Hell, for once, I didn’t feel like I needed to save anything. Rick was plenty capable of taking care of himself; he didn’t need me to be his white knight. And he didn’t need to be balanced out and apologized for like Diaz did. He was a calming presence. He was just there, and that was enough. His stoicism was infectious.
The only downside to being alone in silence with Rick was that it let my mind wander. I started to think about all the different things we could be doing besides sitting together and drinking. I thought about all the different ways that the mismatched furniture could be utilized. Worst of all, I started to think way too hard about the noises I could be hearing instead of the steady ticking of the wall clock.
My nerves got the better of me. If it stayed quiet for much longer, I was going to start showing some pretty visible signs of how much I enjoyed the idea of him yelling my name. “So,” I said, looking around and trying to sound nonchalant, “Where is your dog?”
