by Kim Baldwin
Gable was impressed that Erin was dealing so well with what had happened. She could tell that Erin seemed not quite as stressed as she’d been earlier. Her voice, once she relaxed, had an interesting timbre to it. Low and rich, it resonated warmth and humor.
“What you about you?” Erin asked. “Forgive me if you’ve told me this already—are you a cop?”
“I’m a volunteer firefighter. Still a rookie. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.”
“I doubt anybody has. Are you just out of college?”
Gable smiled broadly. “Not hardly. I’m forty-six.”
“Oh! When you said you were a rookie, I pictured you in your twenties.”
“No, only that I’ve been on the squad less than a year. Right after I moved here, I went to pay my property taxes at the township hall and saw a flyer saying they needed volunteer firefighters. So I signed up and went through the training.”
“Have you fought a lot of fires?”
“A few. Brush fires, mostly. And we respond a lot to car accidents.”
“Where did you move here from, if you don’t mind my asking? Do I detect a trace of a Southern accent?”
“I grew up in Chattanooga and most of my family is still there.”
“What brought you to Michigan?” Erin asked.
“I came up here a lot over the last several years to visit my brother Stewart, who lives in Kalamazoo,” Gable explained. “We’d drive up to Pine River to go canoeing or camping, and I fell in love with the area. In the south, you don’t really get the changes in the seasons the way you do here. And I like small town life a lot better than the noisy sprawl of a big city.”
“I feel the same way.”
Gable shifted position to get more comfortable. She wanted to lie down, but there was not enough room. She turned on her flashlight and began clearing a wider space. Amid the pieces of wood and flooring she found a framed photograph, the glass shattered. She picked it up and shone her flashlight beam on it.
It was an eight-by-ten of a bride and groom, circa early 1940s, she guessed, by the
man’s World War Two U.S. Army uniform. He looked a bit like Van Johnson, with blond hair combed back and a movie-star smile. The bride, petite and delicate, was recognizable as such only by her veil; she was otherwise clad in a nice, but everyday dress. She looked very young, and she was carrying what appeared to be a checkerboard. Kind of odd.
“I found a picture out here in a frame. A wedding couple. Are these your parents?”
“Yup, that’s them. Dad passed away a couple of years ago. Mom’s still going strong—nearly eighty but going on twenty, and a real pip. I can’t keep up with her.”
“They both look so young.”
“They were. Mom was only seventeen, Dad was eighteen. They were high school sweethearts, and he was going off to war.”
“Can I ask why she’s carrying a checkerboard?”
Gable heard the sound of laughter through the wall. It made her smile.
“That’s her purse. It was the height of style then, she keeps insisting. But we—my sister and I—we kidded her and Dad for years about how exciting their honeymoon must have been.”
That got Gable laughing too. There was another long, sustained creak, as if the house were groaning, from directly overhead. It startled them both into silence.
Gable shone her flashlight around. It didn’t look like anything had moved. But she knew Erin had to be as nervous as she was, probably much more so. Keep talking. Keep her mind off it. “So what did your dad do?”
“He was a high school teacher,” Erin said. “Calculus and trigonometry.”
“My worst subjects.”
“Mine too, unfortunately. Apparently a talent for advanced mathematics is not genetic.”
Gable smiled.
“But he did pass down his love of education. I always wanted to be a teacher. So you’re a volunteer firefighter, you said? Do you have another job?”
“Yeah. I’m a pharmacist at Lakin’s drugstore in Meriwether. I’ve always done some kind of volunteering, though, wherever I lived. In Chattanooga I helped out with the Red Cross.”
“Is volunteering something you get from your parents?”
“Not really,” Gable said. “My folks were wonderful people. But they both worked long hours. My dad usually held down two jobs. They didn’t have a lot of spare time for anything. I’d have to say it was Camp Fire that got me into volunteering.”
“Camp Fire? You mean, like in Camp Fire Girls?”
“Yup. I was involved in it for a long time. Heard of the Boy Scout oath?”
“Sure. Do your duty, be honest, and all that?”
“Exactly. Well, we had the Camp Fire Law. And even as adult, I always thought it was a pretty good thing to live by. One of the ‘laws’ is ‘Give Service.’ You know—do what you can to make the world a better place.”
“Well, I admire that,” Erin said. “I can’t say I’ve done my share. I’d like to argue I never seem to have the time, but I guess that’s just an excuse. Other people make the time.”
“It’s never too late to make a difference,” Gable said.
“That’s true.”
“So you teach piano, you said. Do you play anything else?” Gable asked.
“Well, as a music teacher I have to know something about most every instrument. But the only other ones I’ve actually played a lot are flute and trombone.”
“That’s an odd combination.”
“Well, my parents started me on piano lessons when I was seven,” Erin said. “I took up flute to play in my junior high school band, back at a time when girls were discouraged from playing what I really wanted to play—trombone. I finally got myself one a few years ago on eBay.”
“I wanted to play drums. But they made me play clarinet.”
“Didn’t you hate that? That was just so unfair.”
“Sure was.”
“Do you still play?” Erin asked.
“No, not in years,” Gable answered. “What’s your favorite kind of music?”
“Well, you’re probably not going to believe this, but I like the old standards best. You know—Cole Porter, George Gershwin, Irving Berlin.”
“Me too. I love that stuff. My current favorites are the new Rod Stewart American songbook CDs. I was never really a fan of his growing up, but I love what he’s done with those great old songs.”
“I have all three of those! Well, I had all three anyway,” Erin amended. “Guess my music collection is gone. Damn. It was a good one too. I think I had every Ella Fitzgerald album available on CD.”
It tugged at Gable’s heart to think about all that Erin had lost. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Erin. I wish there was more I could do to help.”
“I appreciate your concern, Gable. I’ll be fine. I really will. And I look forward to meeting you, when I get out of here. I really feel like I’ve made a new friend.”
“I do too. I admire the way you’re keeping your chin up through this.”
“I’m trying to be positive. I know I’m lucky to be alive, and I’m a firm believer of counting your blessings. So I’m just going to concentrate on the good things right now. I’ve got my health. A job I like. Great family and friends. And I’m still hoping Earl Grey will turn up.”
“That’s the spirit,” Gable said.
“I just wish I could get out of here. What time is it, do you know?”
Gable clicked on her flashlight and shone it on her watch. “Nine thirty.”
“Only nine thirty? Oh man, this is going to be a long night.”
“It’ll pass before you know it. We just have to keep your mind occupied. So…we’ve covered music. How about movies? What are some of your favorites?”
“Hmm. Well, Gone With the Wind is a classic. And I love all the old Hepburn-Tracy movies. Oh! And Carmen Miranda! And those Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney ‘Let’s put on a show!’ films. And most of the great old musicals. My Fair Lady. South Pacific.
King and I. Music Man. Oklahoma.”
“I love those too!” Gable broke into a boisterous chorus of “76 Trombones” and Erin joined in, with a lilting soprano that complimented Gable’s rich alto perfectly. By the end of the song, they were both laughing.
“You have a lovely singing voice,” Erin said.
Gable could feel herself blushing. “Nice job on the harmony,” she replied.
“How about…” Erin broke into “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No” from Oklahoma.
Gable countered with “Tonight” from West Side Story, and thus began nearly two hours of shared show tunes. They sang until they could sing no more.
“Okay, we’ve covered music and old movies. How about more recent films?”
Gable asked. She had to nearly shout to be heard through the wall. The rain was really coming down again.
“Well, let’s see…I really liked The American President. Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail. I love just about anything Tom Hanks is in.”
“Yeah. I like him a lot too. And Annette Benning is wonderful in American President.”
“What are your favorite flicks?”
“Oh, I’m a big man-against-nature fan,” Gable said. “Vertical Limit, The Perfect Storm, Castaway. The Edge, Touching the Void, Titanic. And old war movies: In Harm’s Way and The Longest Day, and Tora! Tora! Tora!”
They moved on to TV shows. Both never missed Survivor, Alias, Medium, and Joan of Arcadia, but Gable was alone in her devotion to the History Channel and college football, and Erin had a fondness for old Little House on the Prairie reruns that Gable didn’t share.
Around midnight they drifted to literature and found they both liked mysteries and shared many of the same favorite authors: Nevada Barr and Sue Henry, Steve Hamilton and Dana Stabenow.
They covered food for the next hour, discovering a mutual fondness for Asian and Mexican cuisine. Cappuccino. Crème brûlée. Tiramisu. And chocolate, especially dark chocolate. And both were fervent devotees of a medium-rare Victoria’s filet from Outback Steakhouse, with garlic mashed potatoes on the side.
Two to three a.m. was devoted to funny stories about past vacations each had been on.
Hobbies took up another half hour. So did religion—both were lapsed Roman Catholics.
Politics and social issues were next. Both were decidedly Democratic and they shared a deep concern for the environment and other issues.
Gable kept Erin talking while keeping an ear tuned to her radio.
About the time that dawn was breaking, the questions and answers began getting more and more personal. Gable was nearly hoarse from having to raise her voice half the night. But the rain had stopped, finally.
“How did you get your name, Gable? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone named that before.”
“My mom really liked old movies, and she named all of us after actors she liked.”
“Oh! Clark Gable! I get it! It’s unusual, but I like it very much,” Erin said. “You said ‘all of us’? I take it you have brothers and sisters?”
“Eight brothers, no sisters. I’m the baby of the family.”
“You have eight older brothers? Oh my. That must have been fun when you were young! Tell me about them. What are their names?”
“Well, there’s Grant, Stewart, Kelly…” Gable counted them out on her fingers to make sure she got them all. “Flynn, Mason, Wayne, Fitzgerald and Tracy. And we’re all very close. Dad died when I was ten, so they all kind of stepped up. Grant taught me self-defense. Flynn took me fishing and showed me how to shoot a gun. Kelly turned me into a pretty good poker player, and Fitz taught me how to shoot hoops. With Mason it was whittling and carpentry, and with Wayne it was fixing cars. Stewart’s really good with computers. I’ve learned a lot from them and they’ve all really been there for me. But they are awful overprotective.”
Erin laughed. “Well it was quite different for me growing up. My sister Sue was so much older—twenty years—that she was out of the house before I was born.”
“Did you say twenty years?”
“Yeah, I was a major surprise—Mom was forty when she got pregnant with me. It was like being an only child, really. I was spoiled rotten. Got anything I asked for.”
“Okay. Favorite Christmas presents, then,” Gable prompted.
“Hmm. Well, my first two-wheeled bicycle, when I was seven. It was pink. I got a phone in my room, when I was fourteen. And a Mustang convertible—used—after I turned sixteen. That was a memorable one, as you can imagine. And two weeks in Paris, the year I turned eighteen.”
“Pretty cool presents,” Gable agreed. “I never got anything near that good, but then I did do well in the sheer volume category.”
Erin laughed.
“Course, back when we were growing up, a lot of the presents were homemade,” Gable said. “I’d get all sorts of things whittled out of wood or molded out of clay. Homemade kites. Vases that couldn’t hold water. Wallets made at summer camp. But the boys have all done pretty well for themselves since they got out into the working world, so I’ve been really raking it in the last several years.”
“Part of me, especially as an adult, misses having a lot of siblings,” Erin said. “Sue is married, with four kids, and lives in Seattle. We hardly ever see each other, and don't often talk on the phone.”
“That’s a shame. I can’t imagine not being close to my brothers, especially Stewart—he’s only a year older than I am. And Grant, because he took me in and became kind of a second father to me.”
“Grant took you in?” Erin repeated.
“Six years after Dad died of a heart attack, Mom got killed in a car accident,” Gable said, her voice thick with emotion. “Being the only girl, my parents both really doted on me. It was real hard.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I was just sixteen. Grant—he’s the oldest—he was married by then and had a house. He took care of me until I went away to college, and he and the rest of my brothers all chipped in to pay for my tuition and dorm. I don’t know how I’d have come through it without ’em.”
“It’s wonderful to have people in your life who you know will be there when you need them.”
“Sure is,” Gable agreed.
“I certainly needed you tonight,” Erin said. “And I won’t forget all you’ve done, Gable.”
Gable smiled at the words. She knew that she and Erin and were building a very special friendship tonight. And the thought warmed her from within.
Growing up a tomboy in a house full of brothers, she'd always found it much easier to talk to men than women. She fit right in at the firehouse and was accepted as one of the guys, but they were mostly superficial relationships. Apart from the occasional poker game, she rarely socialized and never had anyone over to her house. She was an intensely private person, and her innate shyness had so far kept her from developing the kind of close friendships in Michigan that she’d had in Tennessee.
But there was something different about Erin. It was easy to talk to her—like they’d been friends a long time. Why was that?
Gable hadn’t considered her life lacking. She was comfortable with the status quo. But the thought of having Erin to hang out with…catch a movie, try a new restaurant. Maybe catch a play in Traverse City. We sure have a lot on common. The prospect sent a ripple of excitement up her spine. And won’t it be great to have someone close by that you can really be yourself with?
That brought up a whole new question. How will she react to that bit of news?
Gable had not a clue about Erin’s sexual orientation. Their love lives had not really come up—Erin had only said that she was single. She’s thirty-nine and she lives alone. She’s either divorced, or widowed, or homely as hell, or…or maybe she’s just like me and hasn’t met the right person yet. What kind of person is the right person for you, Erin? Her curiosity suddenly shifted into overdrive.
“Erin? What do you look like?” Are you cute? Are you gay? She wanted to ask, but of course she couldn’t
. You’re supposed to be professional here. You’re acting as a representative of the fire department.
“Well, I’m five-five. A hundred twenty pounds. Red hair. Strawberry-blond, really. Down to my shoulders. And I wear glasses. You?”
“I’m five-ten,” Gable said. “Short hair, dark brown. And I wore glasses too, until a couple years ago. I had radial keratotomy.”
“Ew. I considered that, but the thought of someone coming at my eyes with a sharp instrument or a laser or something gives me the willies.”
“It wasn’t so bad.” Gable couldn’t help smiling. How do I find out what your story is, Erin? “Do you have any kids?”
“Nope. Just cats. Earl Grey was number nine.”
“Nine cats?”
“Yeah. My first was Mamma Cat.” At Gable's small chuckle, she said, “Yeah, I know, real original. My mother’s choice. I was six at the time. This cat showed up at our door during a snowstorm and gave birth a few days later.”
“Hence the name. I get it. And after Mamma Cat?”
“There was Whiskers and Buford. Then…let’s see…Cookie and Crumb—they were brother and sister. Then Freeway, and Jake. And Festus—he was a Siamese. Then Earl Grey.”
“That’s a lot of cats.”
“I usually have at least two at a time. Strays just seem to find me. I never actually go out looking for one,” Erin said. “Do you have any pets?”
“Nope,” Gable said. “We had a golden retriever when I was growing up. Her name was Sally. But nothing after that.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I love having pets to come home to. What about you? Do you have any kids? Are you married?”
“Nope, no kids. Never married. You?” Gable held her breath.
There was a lengthy silence. “I was married once.” Erin’s voice suddenly sounded a bit funny. Strained. “It didn’t last very long. He was a real asshole.”
