HF01 - Almost Forever

by Deborah Raney

  Sparky barked his protests as she locked him in the car. Ignoring him, she looked up and down the street before crossing pavement pocked with potholes. There were two entrances to the building, and it took her a minute to decipher the hand-lettered signs plastered to the door. She chose the first door and tried the bar handle. It didn’t give, so she rapped loudly on the glass.

  A red-bearded man with matching wild curls escaping his thick ponytail appeared in the inner doorway. He jogged to the door and unlocked it for her. He wore hospital scrubs and flip-flops. A rush of memories assailed her. She remembered her first night at the Grove Street Shelter when a grad student from a Springfield college had showed up to take the night shift dressed similarly. Bryn had assumed he was checking in to the shelter as a resident and had been thoroughly embarrassed to realize the man was a volunteer.

  If she’d learned anything in her time at the shelter, it was that you couldn’t judge a homeless person by the way he looked. While a few—like Charlie, Tony X . . . and Zeke Downing—fit the stereotype, many of the residents wouldn’t have gotten a second look if they’d strolled through the grocery store or walked into the public library.

  “Come on in,” Red said. “You must be Charlie’s friend.”

  “He told you I was coming?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s all he’s talked about since I came on this morning.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “No complaints—well, unless I’m whipping his tail at gin rummy.”

  Bryn smiled, remembering. “I’ve got his dog out in my car. I promised him I’d bring Sparky to visit.”

  “Ah, Sparky. The famous wonder dog.”

  “You’ve heard about him, too, huh?”

  Red winked. “Ad nauseam.”

  Bryn laughed. “He’s a good dog.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s too bad they won’t let the guys have pets here. Gives ’em something to live for, you know? Somebody who depends on them.”

  She nodded, looking past him, suddenly feeling a little nervous about seeing Charlie. Though she’d kept up with Charlie through Susan, she hadn’t seen him since the night of the fire. What would they talk about? She didn’t want to rehash the events of that night. She hoped Sparky would keep the conversation centered on happier things.

  “Come on back . . .” Red turned and strode through the inner doorway, then did a quick about-face. “I’m Tim, by the way.” He held out a hand.

  She shook it, and after a glance across the street to check on Sparky, she followed.

  The room beyond was twice as big as the dining room and kitchen at the Grove Street Shelter had been. The furniture looked like something from a doctor’s waiting room. Bookshelves on one wall held a sparse offering of paperback books and board games. A big-screen TV hung in one corner, and several rows of tables and mismatched chairs took up the opposite end of the room. For the first time Bryn realized what a task Susan had ahead of her trying to get the shelter reopened and furnished.

  Tim went to a corner of the room that opened onto another hallway. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered down the hall, “Hey, Charlie? You got company.”

  Bryn heard the familiar squeak of Charlie’s wheelchair and stepped forward to meet him halfway.

  He appeared around the corner, a question mark in his expression. But then his caterpillar brows lifted and his eyes lit up. “Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

  “Hi, Charlie.” The catch in her voice took her by surprise. “Long time no see. How are you doing?” She went to him and bent over his chair, taking his gnarled hand in hers.

  “Well, I’m better now. I didn’t think you’d really come.”

  “I told you I’d bring Sparky for a visit.”

  “What’s that?” He put a hand to his ear and fiddled with his hearing aid.

  Bryn repeated herself.

  He dipped his head. “I didn’t think you meant it.”

  “Of course I meant it, Charlie.”

  He looked past her. “How’s the old fella doing?”

  “He’s out in the car. And he was none too happy I made him wait, either.”

  Charlie’s shoulders shook with silent laughter—or maybe he was crying. She didn’t risk looking at him to find out but went around behind his chair. “You warm enough? Or do you want to get a heavier coat? It’s pretty nippy out there this morning.” The words were already out when she realized Charlie may not have a heavier coat than the letterman-type jacket he was wearing now. She was pretty sure he hadn’t been wearing the heavy down coat he’d owned at the Grove Street shelter when they’d evacuated the night of the fire . . . unless he’d had it tucked into his chair somewhere.

  He reached under the lap robe covering his knees and whipped out a pair of gloves. “It’s so blame cold in here I’m bundled up all the time anyway.” He glanced in Tim’s direction and raised his voice. “Ain’t that right, Tim?”

  “Just trying to keep the place open, Charlie. I could turn it up a few degrees and pay your salary to the electric company, I guess . . .”

  Charlie waved him off. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Uh-huh . . . that’s what I thought. Now, go see that dog of yours.”

  Charlie took his hands off the wheels of his chair, tucked them beneath the lap robe, and looked over his shoulder at Bryn. “Give me a shove, will you?”

  She pushed his chair through the door as Tim held it for them. “Just knock when you’re ready to come back in. I need to keep this locked.”

  As she rolled his chair down the sidewalk to the street, Charlie reached up and patted her hand. “So, how are you doing, sis?”

  “I’m hanging in there.” She put a hand over his and bowed her head, not trusting her voice. “It’s been nice to have Sparky. He was a handful at first, but he’s a good dog.”

  “That he is. Oh . . . speak of the devil.” He pointed toward her car, where Sparky sat with his nose pressed against the driver’s-side window.

  They crossed the street and Charlie wheeled his chair beside the car. “Hey, boy.” His voice broke and Bryn pretended not to notice, fishing through her purse for the car keys. “Why don’t you park behind my car, Charlie. I’ll get him out.” She nodded toward the empty parking spot behind her Accord, then opened the front door.

  Sparky bounded out of the car and almost bowled Charlie over with his enthusiasm. He stood on his hind legs and put his front paws on Charlie’s shoulder, licking his master’s face. Bryn’s throat closed, watching the reunion.

  When Sparky finally settled down, Charlie sat there with one hand on the dog’s head and, with his other, wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “That blame dog slobbered all over me.”

  Bryn suspected his own tears provided some of the moisture he was swiping at.

  She leaned against the trunk of the car and laughed while Charlie played with the dog, throwing a stick for Sparky to retrieve and wrestling with him from his chair. While Sparky romped up and down the sidewalk across from the shelter, Bryn caught Charlie up on the news from Hanover Falls.

  “You still working at the library?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll probably be there till I die. I’m trying to get Myrna to give me some more hours.”

  “The old battle-ax ought to have work for you now that I’m not there to help her out.”

  “I think she’s waiting to get the okay from the board.”

  “Red tape. Story of my life.” Charlie clucked sympathetically. He lifted himself up by his forearms and settled in the seat again. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Something in his voice made Bryn straighten and pay attention.

  “I know Susan is trying to get the shelter up and running again in the Falls, but . . . I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

  Bryn waited, guessing what was coming next.

  “They’ve been real good to me here. It’s a better situation than I had in the Falls. They’ve got work for me that pays my way. And I
can stay in one place, not have to make that trip back and forth from the library every day, rain or shine. I’m no spring chicken, you know.” The smile he gave her broke her heart.

  “We’ll miss you, Charlie.”

  “Nothing says you can’t come and see me once in a while. Bring that mutt with you, too.” He lifted his head to where Sparky was frolicking in a pile of crisp yellow leaves. “He’s yours now.”

  “Oh, Charlie—”

  “Now, don’t tell me you can’t keep him.”

  “No. I’ll keep him. He’s grown on me. But I’m sorry. I wish you could have him here.”

  He waved her off. “Yeah, well . . . if wishes were horses and all that rot. Besides, you need him worse than I do.” He snapped his fingers and whistled Sparky over. Cradling the dog’s head in his hands, he roughed him up and hugged him close. Sparky seemed to sense something was up, and he stood still for the show of affection.

  “You behave for this young lady, you hear me, dog? She’ll take good care of you. You’ve been a good friend.” Charlie stroked the silky ears, making no effort to hide the tears that swelled his eyelids, then rolled down his leathery cheeks.

  “Thank you, Charlie.” Bryn swallowed, searching for the right words. “He sure is going to miss you, but we’ll come and visit.”

  “You think you will. You’ll mean to. But you’ve got a life to live. You need to go live it. But thanks for coming today. I—I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Of course I came. I’ve thought about you a lot, Charlie.” She was glad she could truthfully tell him that. “I’ll come. Maybe not as often as I’d like, but Sparky and I will be back to see you.” She determined in that moment to keep her promise. “And hey, in the meantime, I think . . . I think he’s pretty happy with me.”

  “Sure he is, sis. Who wouldn’t be happy with you?”

  The time they spent

  together had become

  as necessary as his

  morning coffee.

  As necessary as breathing,

  if he was honest.

  15

  Friday, January 11

  May I help you?” The woman behind the desk looked at Garrett expectantly.

  He shuffled his feet and looked at the carpet. “I’d like to speak with the fire inspector.”

  “Does it matter which one?”

  “Oh . . . I didn’t realize there was more than one in this office.”

  “We have two here in Springfield, and Bob Trenton is in the Poplar Bluff office.”

  “I’m looking for whoever covered the Grove Street fire—the homeless shelter fire in Hanover Falls.”

  She tilted her head, studied him. “Actually, they all three worked that fire, but Morley was lead.”

  “Is he in the office today?”

  The receptionist offered a crooked smile. “She is in. It’s Andrea Morley. But don’t call her that. She’s Andi—with an i—even professionally. I take it you don’t have an appointment?”

  Garrett shook his head, trying to cover his surprise. He recalled newscasters referring to an “Andy” Morley in reports about the investigation, but it had never crossed his mind that Morley might be female.

  Garrett gave the receptionist his name. “I called earlier this week . . . about your hours. But no, I don’t have an appointment. My wife was one of the firefighters who . . . was killed in that fire.”

  Recognition—and that familiar sympathetic expression—lit the woman’s eyes. She picked up the phone. “Let me see if Andi has time to see you. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Garrett had no sooner taken one of the chairs by the window than the receptionist beckoned him to the hallway, then ushered him into the first office on the right.

  “Come in, Mr. Edmonds.” A tall brunette rose and reached across her desk to shake his hand.

  Garrett had expected a burly former fireman. It took him a minute to get used to the attractive forty-something woman who greeted him. Dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt, she motioned for him to take the chair in front of the desk. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m just trying to get some information about your investigation of the Grove Street fire. It’s been two and a half months, but unless I’ve missed a news report somewhere, there still haven’t been any announcements about what caused the fire.” It was too late to take back the accusatory tone in his voice.

  The investigator picked up a ballpoint pen from her desk top and clicked it off and on. “That’s because we haven’t reached any conclusions. Believe me, we will let the public know as soon as we have anything conclusive to report.”

  “Can you tell me if Zeke Downing is still a suspect?”

  She hesitated. “His disappearance from the scene of the fire certainly gives us reason to think he may have been involved.”

  “Did someone let you know that I found his dog—or rather my friend did—at the burn site?”

  “Yes, Chief Brennan called about that.”

  “I still have the dog at my place.”

  She looked surprised at that. “Like I told the chief, when we found the collar, we thought it probably meant—”

  “Wait a minute . . .” Garrett leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the desk. “You found Boss’s collar?”

  She nodded. “Some neighborhood kids found it on the embankment behind the shelter. We figured Downing ran with the dog but ditched the collar because of the ID it contained. Of course, when the dog showed up, that kind of challenged that theory.” She folded her hands and steepled her index fingers. “But he must have dumped the dog somewhere along the way. He may have heard the police were looking for him and been afraid the dog would give him away. If it’s the same dog, it wouldn’t be surprising for it to make its way back to the shelter.”

  “Yes, that’s where my friend found it,” Garrett confirmed.

  The investigator looked confused. “Chief Brennan said it was the wife of one of the firemen who found it.”

  “Right. That’s who I meant . . . Bryn Hennesey. She’s the friend I was talking about.” It felt awkward describing Bryn that way, as if he’d been trying to conceal their relationship when he first mentioned her. “Bryn feels sure it’s the same dog.”

  The investigator shrugged. “Well, none of that really changes anything. We’re still on the lookout for Downing. We’d like to question him. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. As I’ve told reporters, the damage from that fire was extensive. In ten years as an investigator, I’ve never seen that kind of devastation. It’s a miracle they were able to get the bodies out of there at all, let alone that same night—” Her shoulders slumped, and Garrett watched the realization of what she’d said register in her eyes. He wanted to alleviate her pain, but felt paralyzed.

  There were no miracles that night. He didn’t know where God had been while Molly was breathing her last agonizing breath, but no miracle had happened for her. Or for him.

  Andi Morley closed her eyes and held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. That was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say.”

  Garrett shook his head. “It’s okay.” He knew she hadn’t meant anything personal by it. But it wasn’t okay. He scooted his chair back and stood, bowed his head briefly before meeting her eyes again. “I appreciate your time. How long . . . before the investigation is closed?”

  She rose and came around her desk to extend her hand again. “I lost friends in that fire. I promise you we won’t close the file until we’re certain there is nothing else to discover. I give you my word.”

  “Thank you.” He turned and walked out the door, feeling her eyes on his back.

  He hurried through the front office without speaking to the receptionist. Out on the sidewalk he squinted against the afternoon sun. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to learn here today, but he’d felt compelled to talk to the investigator personally. He’d left school early to get to Springfield before the investigators’ offices closed.

  Now it look
ed like the whole thing might have been a colossal waste of time. What did he think he could accomplish by talking to them anyway? He felt so helpless. But maybe it was time to let go. Leave justice up to God. But there had to be something he could do to find justice for Molly and the others who’d died with her.

  Monday, January 14

  Garrett swiped at the fogged-up bathroom window with his shaving towel and peered out to the woods behind the apartment complex. An inch of fresh snow lay over everything, and the morning sky was gray and heavy with the promise of more. The view was stunning. Like a page from an art calendar. But the temperatures had dipped into the teens, and Garrett’s spirits fell with them.

  But not for the reason his fellow teachers would guess. He’d survived his first Christmas without Molly. Bryn Hennesey had made that surprisingly easy.

  But he was depressed because after a month of relatively mild winter weather, the days had grown colder. The ponds had frozen over, and the riverbanks were crusted with ice. Snow from a week ago was still piled on the side of the road. Now with more snow on the way, Bryn would no doubt call and say it was too cold to go for their walk. And the time they spent together had become as necessary as his morning coffee. As necessary as breathing, if he was honest.

  He and Bryn had met at the riverwalk with the dogs almost every day since the first of December, and her sweet company had done more to heal his grief than any other antidote he could imagine. While he was with her, he forgot about how sad he felt. Forgot about anything but the way she made him laugh, the way she made him forget.

  They hadn’t talked about where their relationship was headed, both careful to keep their time together casual. They’d exchanged text messages and a few lighthearted emails, but other than walking the dogs—something they both had to do anyway—they hadn’t planned anything that either of them might construe as a date. They were just friends.