Firetrap

by Earl Emerson

  Trey, I’ve missed you so much over all these years, wanting so badly to hear what you were doing and to catch you up on my life and somehow to see you clear your name—or failing that, at least redeem yourself. When we were kids and even into high school, we talked in a way I’d never been able to with Shelby Junior or Stone. Shelby was simply too much older, and Stone never seemed to have any time for me. But there you were, only a year older and actually interested in what was going on in my life. I always appreciated that, and despite the fact that you all but admitted to that hateful crime, I still find it hard to fathom.

  Now, tonight, I’m near the main entrance to the mansion, having just come in, when I turn around and spot a beautiful young black woman in a pale pink dress with a flared hem, matching heels, and pearl earrings, patting her hair into place as she walks through the entranceway alongside a man I recognize with a start as my long-lost brother. To say I am startled is an understatement. I can actually feel my heart beating below my breastbone.

  Trey has filled out, and he may even be taller. His face is more mature and handsomer, though I’d always thought he was recklessly handsome as a youth, but he still exhibits that inner calmness I’ve admired since the first day I laid eyes on him. I was three and he was four when he was brought home one rainy afternoon with a shabby little suitcase and a one-eyed teddy bear and introduced as my new brother. I clearly remember eleven-year-old Stone saying, “But he’s black. We don’t want any—” Before he could finish the sentence, Father slapped him across the face, one of the few times he struck any of his sons. None of us ever forgot it, and it was the last time Trey’s ethnicity was ever mentioned. “He’s going to steal my toys,” whispered Stone under his breath, which was ironic, because later it was always Stone stealing Trey’s things or purposely trying to subvert Trey’s relationships with girls.

  Trey’s inner calmness hadn’t been shaken by his introduction into our household, or the radical overnight change of lifestyle he must have undergone, or seemingly, the loss of his original family—his grandmother having passed away only a few days before we met him. None of it had shaken him, and neither did getting knocked out cold in high school football games, or getting chased by a shark on that vacation in Jamaica, or much of anything else until the very last night he was with us.

  In the first few moments we confront each other, I can tell Trey doesn’t recognize me, and then when he does, that he doesn’t know whether to hug and kiss me or shake hands or just stand with his mouth gaping. At first I’m not sure what to do either, but then all those years as brother and sister come back to me and block out that last night, and I launch into his arms and almost knock him over, hugging him until I can’t squeeze any harder. I hope he can’t tell how soft my three babies have made me, how flabby I feel despite the personal trainer and the nutritionist, and I hope he doesn’t reject my friendship. Guilty or innocent, I at least want to know what’s happened to him over the intervening years.

  “You look terrific,” he says, holding me at arm’s length.

  “Liar. But you do look terrific.”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman. I’m overwhelmed.”

  “Young? I’m not young anymore, either. I have a husband and three kids and cellulite, and I’m starting to look like my mother, and oh, Trey, I’ve missed you. You did know Mother was gone?”

  “I heard.”

  He hugs me again, more gently than I hugged him, and I sense how deeply he’s missed me, and how much it must have hurt to be ostracized for so long and to miss his mother’s funeral service—even if it was his own doing. It is hard to know if there is any way to remedy all the scars on both sides. In some ways it would have been so much simpler if he’d just stopped denying it and gone to jail, atoned for the crime, and afterward maybe some of us could have forgiven him and moved on.

  “It’s so good to see you, Kendra,” he says. His gray eyes are as focused and as inviting as ever. His voice is deeper. “This is Jamie Estevez. Jamie, my sister, Kendra.”

  “Glad to meet you, Kendra.”

  “Me, too. I was admiring your gown.”

  After a few moments of chitchat, I begin towing Trey and his date through rooms packed with people, making introductions, working our way ineluctably toward select members of the family. As we wade through the party, I turn back to him and say, “Did I tell you I’m married?”

  “Yes, and three children, you said.”

  “Three girls.”

  “I’d love to meet them.” And of course, in the back of my mind, I realize I have to reevaluate whether or not I actually want Trey to spend any time around my girls. I push the thought off, vowing to think it through later.

  “So,” I say, turning to Jamie Estevez a few minutes later, when we are both elbowed out of the conversation by a Bank of America executive holding forth about the Z Club fire. “Have you known Trey long?” I’ve learned a few things already, that Trey’s a firefighter in Seattle, a captain.

  “I only met him yesterday. We’re working together on the Z Club report for the citizens’ group.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Does Stone know Trey’s working on the report with you?”

  “The three of us got together yesterday for a few minutes.”

  “So they’ve met? Stone and Trey?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Stone was guarded. Trey was…distant. Apparently it didn’t go as badly as it might have.”

  “He’s here, you know. Stone and his wife. And some other people Trey might not care to run into.”

  After Trey rejoins us and we work our way through the rooms, I wonder how Echo will take to seeing Trey again, how India will react, or Father. This isn’t the ideal setting for a strained family reunion, and Father hasn’t mentioned Trey in years, so when I escort Trey and Jamie to a sitting room where Father is holding court for a group of politicos, I’m apprehensive to say the least. Spotting Trey, Father halts the conversation with a wave of his hand, and after a moment walks over to him and speaks quietly. “Trey? Good God. What are you doing here?”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “How long are you here for?” Father asks.

  “Until we feel like going home, I guess.”

  “No, I mean, how long are you in town?”

  Trey pauses. “I live four miles from here.”

  Father seems taken aback, as if this newfound proximity is a threat and as if he might be able to tolerate a onetime visit, but not this other. Then Father says, “It’s good to see you.”

  “Is it?”

  “I would give my right arm to have had things turn out differently, I so regret what happened.”

  “Which part?” Trey asks, his tone sharpening.

  “All of it, son. Every bit. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  For a moment I think everything is going to be all right and all will be forgiven—though both men have valid reasons not to forgive—and Trey will be welcomed back into the fold like a lost lamb and we can all forget what happened. But then the room begins filling with people who want to talk business with Father, and because we all know this is a night for doing business, Trey makes noises as if he’s leaving, and Father makes him promise to get back to him before the evening ends. Trey agrees, though reluctantly. As we leave the room, I strain to read Trey’s face, but he maintains that blank look he used to get when he was brooding.

  Once again we make our way through the mansion, mingling. Jamie seems like an intelligent, good-natured woman, and a whole lot of the people I introduce her to already know her from television. Things are going well until somewhere near the kitchen we run into Renfrow. Barry Renfrow is a hulking man with dark circles under his eyes, gray hair thinning across the top of his head, and a perpetually greasy face that makes him look like he’s been eating oily potato chips. He’s a man who’s come more and more over the years to resemble a giant hard-boiled egg. He is just the tiniest bit uncouth in all things, smacking his lips when he
eats, double-dipping in the cheese dip, and making covert sexual innuendos at the oddest moments, a sleazy habit that I first noticed when I was sixteen. I’d avoided him my whole life and virtually shunned him after Trey left. Aside from being part of the apparatus that ejected Trey from the family, I have no idea what he does for Father or how his affairs are entangled with the Overby empire.

  Before I can think of a way to salvage the situation, Renfrow, looking bored and unflappable, puts his hand out to shake with Trey’s, who ignores the hand and says, “I was hoping your fat old ass would be dead by now.”

  “That’s no way to talk to your superior, son.”

  “I’m not talking to a superior.”

  “Mind your manners or—”

  “Don’t threaten me. I’m not some high school kid you can push around.”

  “None of us are who we were, dear boy.”

  The ripples of silence initiated with Trey’s insults spread until people in the next room grew quiet, maybe twenty guests, many with grimaces of fear on their faces—somebody, anybody, there’s an angry black man in the building!—staring at the confrontation even as these men glare at each other. What they see are two men in dinner attire, one overweight and out of shape and looking like a nominee for a heart transplant; the other with the look of a heavyweight prizefighter wanting to do some serious damage to an opponent. In light of their physical differences and Trey’s obvious antipathy, it is rather amazing how self-confident and lethal Renfrow manages to sound.

  As this is going on, I catch a glimpse of India gliding past the doorway, stopping as her eyes catch the utter stillness of the room, while we’re all standing like a flock of sheep cornered by a rabid dog. India scans the assembly until her eyes stop on Trey. Her family has known ours forever and she’s known Trey since they were kids. As she halts at the edge of the doorway, her long blond hair flowing past her bare shoulders, the strapless gown moving like a theater curtain that hasn’t quite settled, she notices me, regains the glacial composure she is noted for, and vanishes as quickly and silently as an eel in a lagoon. Whether she is avoiding Trey or simply eschewing an unpleasant scene, I have no way of knowing.

  20. THE NEWS LADY MEETS ANOTHER CHICKEN THIEF

  JAMIE ESTEVEZ>

  Earlier I’d watched a young woman, a ballet dancer with the Pacific Northwest Ballet, trying to extricate herself from a lengthy conversation with Shelby Carmichael, realizing that if she couldn’t beat his footwork, nobody could. For the last half hour the patriarch of the Carmichael clan had flitted from one woman to another, gabbing, flirting, and holding forth, a proclivity I sensed was borne of a lifelong passion for the opposite sex and a need to dominate all conversations in his vicinity rather than an old man’s loneliness. Kendra’s father was in his mid-seventies, wrinkled like an old dog, wearing a brown suit where everyone else was in a tux or a black dinner jacket. Once he started talking to me, I could see something of Stone Carmichael in his eyes, something of Kendra in his voice and choice of words, and perhaps a bit of Trey as well—Trey no doubt having adopted a handful of the family mannerisms even if he didn’t have their genes. “So, young lady,” the old man said, approaching me. “What does Trey tell you about the family these days?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know him that well.”

  “Haven’t I seen you someplace? You’re the newscaster, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How would you like to come work for me?”

  “I already have a job. Thank you.”

  “We’re building an organization that has opportunities a young woman like you could run to the bank with. Stone’s not going to be mayor forever. In fact, just between you, me, and the hatbox, a dollar against a dime says he’ll be our next governor.”

  “There were rumors last year he was gearing up for a run at governor, but I thought he squelched those.”

  “Sometimes it pays not to let the opposition in on your plans. Governor of any state, if connected in the right way—and I assure you, he will be connected in the right way—can act as a springboard to national office. How would you like to get in on the ground floor? Meet me for lunch Monday and we’ll talk.”

  “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. I have a job.”

  “This isn’t a job, honey. This is a career that will let you stop reading nonsense off teleprompters and start helping a band of revolutionary thinkers move national policy in directions it hasn’t moved in a long while.”

  “I like reading off teleprompters. And for your information, I write mostly what’s on them.”

  “You know where the vice president spent last night? In one of my guest rooms. Think about living in D.C. in ten years. Maybe eight. Think about that real hard.”

  “Father.” It was Stone Carmichael coming out of nowhere, clasping my elbow, walking me away through a gaggle of people near the food tables. “Let me borrow Ms. Estevez for a few moments,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll give her right back.”

  “You be sure and do that, son, because I don’t know when I’ve seen a prettier little gal.” I noticed he was staring at my bottom as we walked away.

  In an alcove near the rear of the house, Stone said, “I’m glad we found another opportunity to talk, Jamie. I want to be sure you know that if we work together we can come up with a report we’ll all be proud of. Last night was relatively free of street activity, but tonight I’ve received a report of rocks being thrown at cars outside the Paramount Theater, and the fire department tells me they’ve had three nuisance fires near the Convention Center. But the main thing is for you to know whichever way this comes out, you have my backing.”

  “I appreciate that, Mayor.”

  “Please call me Stone.”

  “Stone.”

  “There is one more thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “It concerns Trey. To be honest with you, I didn’t realize he was in our fire department until yesterday, but I’ve talked to some people in the department about him. We both know about his participation at the Z Club fire, but there was another fire where he lost a partner under what I gather were suspicious circumstances. He didn’t happen to mention that, did he?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Yes, well. Something about a fourteen-story fall. He’s got a past, that’s for sure, and it causes me just a little worry. I’m wondering if he’s going to be a good fit for you and for the investigation. He hasn’t done anything that you would call…I don’t know how to put this…I guess irrational would be too strong a word, but has he acted strangely at all?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “It’s probably nothing. Anyway, I’m not sure we could get him off the inquiry if we tried. He does anything…odd…I want you to call me first thing. I mean that. I don’t want to take any chances on this investigation getting derailed. It’s important.”

  “I understand, and I assure you everything is on track.”

  “What have you learned about Trey in the short time you’ve known him?”

  It was a question I wasn’t sure how or even if I should answer, and before I could reply, Kendra approached the alcove. “There you are, Jamie. I have some more people I want you to meet. By the way, what have you learned about Trey?” She gave her brother a disgruntled look.

  “I guess the most surprising thing is that you three are related.”

  “Adopted,” Stone quickly inserted. “He was adopted.”

  “Adopted and then thrown out of the family,” said Kendra.

  “How did that come about?” I asked.

  “Listen,” Stone said, as he left the alcove, “you might want to avoid the old man. He gets a little grabby after that first glass of wine. He’ll probably offer you a job. That’s his standard MO, but there’s usually no job. At heart he’s just an old chicken thief.”

  “I figured that much out.”

  “About Trey being excommunicated from our family?” Kendra sa
id after Stone had left. “See if Trey feels like telling you. I don’t want to talk out of school.”

  “I gather it’s a little touchy?”

  “It’s a lot touchy. But it was a long time ago, and I hope most of us are willing to forget it, at least for tonight.”

  Over the course of the next hour, Kendra shuffled me from one group to another, making introductions, smoothing out the small talk whenever it flagged, displaying a down-to-earth quality I liked. I could tell she wanted me to like Trey, and I could tell also that it was a major life event for her to see him again. Later I spotted Trey engrossed in a conversation with India Carmichael, Stone Carmichael’s wife, a conversation so intense and obviously personal I was afraid to interrupt.

  21. SEEING HOW THE SISTERS TURNED OUT, OR BURNING CASH FOR HEAT

  TREY>

  It was spooky being reintroduced to this stratum of society after so many years away, to be consorting once again with the sort of wealthy folk whose idea of a bad year was finding the family stock down a quarter of a point or adding a stroke to their golf handicap. I remembered as a child having senators and their families over for Sunday dinner, vacationing with the children of old money and sometimes even the local nouveau riche. Taking a week off to jet to New York City to shop for school clothes and view the latest plays, museums, and operas—all of the latter was my adopted mother’s way of exposing us, or me in particular, to culture. It was wonderful knowing anything that could be purchased was within our grasp, whether it was the latest dirt bike or a small plane like the one Shelby Junior received when he turned seventeen, or tailored suits that cost more than the average dockworker made in a week. Knowing any legal trouble we got into could be smoothed over with the aid of America’s brightest and best-paid attorneys, knowing that if we got caught shoplifting or speeding or kicking a dog, we would be coddled by professionals and excused by experts. I hadn’t thought of myself as spoiled or even particularly privileged. Not at the time, anyway.