After the Fire: The ‘Shorts’

by Forrester, Nia

  “First time it’s come this close to home though,” Viv said, looking me directly in the eye. And I knew she didn’t mean the city or even the 24th District. She meant close to my home. Close to me, and to Gideon.

  “He’s fine,” I said again. “You go home. Be with your family.”

  I said that last part not just for her, but for Ray, who didn’t have to be there at all. Who was there, I knew now, not just for Viv. The relief on his face when he heard it wasn’t Gideon was unmistakable, even though he barely knew him and had no reason to care, except that he cared about me.

  It didn’t even matter if his concern was mostly because of Viv. I was grateful to have it.

  “You sure?” Viv asked again.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I think I’ll stop by my sister’s. Maybe spend the rest of the night there.”

  Vivienne looked satisfied as I had known she would be.

  “Good.” Ray spoke up. “Because you shouldn’t be alone.”

  Chapter Eight

  I planned to go straight home but wound up navigating near-deserted streets until I was at Gideon’s. I parked out front and let myself in, almost stubbing my toe in the dark as I made my way to the second level where the kitchen and casual living room were.

  Over the last several months, Gideon had finally gotten the entire place furnished. It had taken a while not just because of his weird hours and odd days off and on the job, but because his approach to home furnishing was like a scavenger hunt. At odd times I would get a text message with a picture of a lamp, a sofa or an end table followed by a question mark. I would look at it and respond with a thumbs up or down after which he might send me a smiley face or a frown. Occasionally when I got the picture, I asked, ‘where?’ and he would tell me in which room he intended to put it.

  If I liked the piece, sometimes he responded with a dollar amount. ‘$700!’ meant he had already bought it and thought it was a steal, while ‘$700?’ would mean he was asking me if it was a good value. It was one of the ways we stayed in touch throughout the day because our jobs were too busy and demanding for long phone calls, or prolonged text message exchanges. I was almost sorry when the random pictures of furniture stopped coming, but it was cool seeing things I had only met onscreen materialize in Gideon’s house one by one.

  He made his discoveries at a mixture of estate sales, online auctions, Facebook groups and through word-of-mouth. One or two pieces he bought on drives up to Lancaster County where Mennonites and the Amish made high-quality handcrafted furniture the likes of which you could never in a million years get in a chain furniture store.

  Together, they made up what was now an eclectic home, populated with many signatures pieces that I could easily see becoming heirlooms. He had also painted the walls, warm colors like burnt orange, cranberry and a shade called mocha latte. With each change, he asked my opinion so by the time the house was done, I felt as invested in it as he was, and as comfortable as if it was my own. I sometimes wondered whether that was the point.

  I went to the kitchen now, because I was still hungry from earlier in the evening and hadn’t eaten any of the pizza I ordered back at the Center. Gideon had left a half-empty mug of coffee on the counter, and a half-eaten parfait in a plastic container next to it. He was not generally a breakfast person.

  I tossed the remains of the parfait and washed the coffee mug. In his fridge I found a barely touched takeout container of jerk chicken and emptied it onto a plate to reheat it in the microwave.

  Gideon’s favorite takeout place was a Jamaican restaurant called Caribbean Dreams where the staff was shockingly rude to their patrons, treating people like they were there to steal the food rather than pay for it.

  “I don’t know how you can stand these people,” I remember whispering to him once when the cashier shooed us out of the way to take the next order when Gideon was apparently too slow about getting his change into his wallet.

  “You kidding?” he said. “I love ‘these people’.”

  “What, rude ones?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “The ones who wouldn’t hesitate to show you the broad or sharp side of a machete when the situation calls for it. Who had to carry their grandmother on their back and two babies under their arms to safety during a hurricane.”

  “You have a pretty vivid imagination,” I said.

  “Yeah. And y’know what? Come to think of it, maybe I do like rude women. ‘Cause otherwise why would I be with you?”

  Then he laughed at my outraged expression and kissed me square on the lips, under the scowling gaze of the Jamaican cashier.

  I never got that about Gideon. The way he could tease out the positive about almost everything and everyone, even with a job that showed him more of the negative than the average person ever has to see.

  I ate the jerk chicken in the living room, with the television on, but the volume muted. Things were calming down in the 24th where the protestors had given up on marching and instead erected encampments around and near a notorious overpass. At least for the night, the police department seemed to have decided to stand down, perhaps taking a moment to tend to their injured and mourn their dead.

  The food was good, and I felt almost guilty for enjoying it but now that I knew Gideon was safe, hunger felt worth addressing. I read the tickertape at the bottom of the screen as it gave updates on the officer who was killed and the one who had been wounded. I hoped I wouldn’t recognize the names if they gave them, but they didn’t. The two officers who had been shot remained, for now, anonymous.

  If it had been anyone I knew, Eamon would have said.

  I felt comfortable enough with that thought to doze off after I ate.

  * * *

  “Hi.”

  Gideon was standing at my door with two plastic sacks from China King. I could smell the tart aroma of orange chicken, the vaguely pungent steamed rice. My stomach gurgled.

  I stepped aside to let him in, not bothering to ask why he hadn’t used his key.

  “Did your guy get out?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.

  “Jerome? No. He didn’t get out.”

  I followed him, sitting at the kitchen table while he pulled containers out of the bags.

  “Failure to appear,” I added shrugging. “I pretty much knew they’d hold him after you told me why he had a warrant.”

  “Well, he’ll probably be out tomorrow. Day after tomorrow the latest.”

  I looked at Gideon, my mouth agape. “What did you …?”

  “Not me,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t have that kind of pull.”

  “So, how d’you know he …”

  “New policy. Because of the pandemic they’re not holding anyone on bench warrants alone. We won’t even be pickin’ ‘em up. No room in detention for low-level stuff right now.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yeah. Sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t me.”

  I exhaled. “I’m not … You don’t disappoint me, Gideon. Jesus. Why are you …” I broke off and sighed once again.

  “Did you save his job?” he asked. “Your guy?”

  “I did save his job,” I said, shrugging. “So, there’s that.”

  “Good work.”

  You know you couldn’t give a shit about Jerome’s job, so …”

  He stopped what he was doing and turned to look at me. And when he did, I saw that he was still angry from before.

  “Actually, I do care about Jerome’s job because you care about Jerome’s job,” he said. “But as an independent concern?” He shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. I couldn’t give a shit.”

  I made a snorting sound. We were flirting with the fight we both knew we were almost certain to have, but no one wanted to fire the first overt shot at the other.

  “You want me to lie?” Gideon said. “Or are you just looking for something to blame me for? Something to give you the moral high ground right now when you so clearly gave that up last night.”

  “How did I gi
ve up the moral high ground?” I demanded.

  “You found out you were pregnant, Kendra! You found out you were pregnant and hid it from me, that’s how!”

  “I did not hide …”

  “Okay. How long was that test in there?”

  “Less than two days. I was … working up to …”

  “You were trying to decide what to do and then you were going to tell me, right? You were going to decide on your own and then fucking announce your decision.”

  “Well, shit! What’s so wrong with that? Last I looked we’re in the twenty-first century where …”

  “That’s the kind of thing people decide together!”

  “People,” I scoffed. “Who’s people? I actually think the right to decide is mine alone. I’m the one who would have to carry this …”

  “Oh, that bullshit. Your body, your choice, right?”

  I said nothing for a few long moments. Closing my eyes and concentrating until I was sure could control my tone.

  “You see, that right there?” I shook my head. “That’s why I have a decision to make. Because we are so different, Gideon. You think a woman’s right to choose is some leftist slogan. I actually think it’s my God-given …”

  “Let’s not bring God into this,” he snapped. “Because …”

  “Because …” I prompted.

  “You don’t even go to church.”

  “Right!” I yelled. “I don’t go to church, I can’t take Communion, I don’t believe in guns, I think I should have an abortion if I want one and I believe the Fraternal Order of Police is a fucking state-sanctioned terror organization! Why the hell would you want to have a kid with the likes of me?”

  A pall fell over the room.

  Gideon turned away again and started portioning food out onto plates.

  “If it’s because you’re Catholic …”

  “It’s not because I’m Catholic,” he snapped.

  “Then …” I exhaled and stood, going to stand close behind him, suddenly wanting to ease the tension. I loved this man. At the end of the day, there was no question about that. “Then, what? What is it you see for us? Because we’re so different and I’m just struggling with believing that …”

  That I could truly make him happy. I struggled with believing that I could make him happy. Over the long-term. Not for a few months, or a year or two, but over the length of time it takes to raise a child, or … more than one.

  Gideon turned so that suddenly I was facing his chest. I swallowed hard and looked up at him.

  “I want to know what it is you see,” he said. “You keep saying how ‘different’ we are, and I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Because you know what I see, Kendra?”

  I shook my head, earnestly, honestly wanting to know.

  “I see a woman who works her ass off for kids most people believe aren’t worth it. Who cries at the pain of strangers, who opens her arms and her heart to anyone who wants in. Who looks at me and listens to me and loves me much harder than she’ll even let herself admit. A woman who I love just as hard.

  “I see someone I want to come home to every night and wake up to every day. Who I want to live and love and fight and laugh and have lots of babies with. Who celebrates every win, every honor, every recognition I get, even though she hates my job and isn’t sure why I do it. That’s what I see.”

  I said nothing, and by then was blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.

  Gideon shrugged. “Why? What is it you see?”

  * * *

  I opened my eyes, groggy and disoriented so I almost rolled off Gideon’s sofa and onto the floor. Outside, the darkness was still dense. Images on the television screen were flickering and my phone nearby was clanging like the sound of bells drilling into my brain. Maya’s ringtone. Just as I reach for it, my vision focused, and I saw the face onscreen.

  My lips parting in silent shock, I reached blindly for the phone.

  “Maya,” I croaked. My voice broke so I could say nothing further.

  “Oh my god, Kendra,” my sister said. “Is that …?”

  “Yes.” My voice was wooden.

  “Oh my god,” Maya said again. “Oh my god.”

  “Domingo,” I said. “Gideon’s partner.”

  “Oh my god. They’re not saying which. One officer is dead and the other … but they’re not saying which.”

  “Who is the …”

  Another picture appeared, and it was of someone I didn’t know. His name was James Chamberlain and he looked young and fresh out of the academy. He probably wasn’t yet twenty-five. I thought, guiltily, that if one of them was dead, I hoped it was him.

  “Maybe they don’t know,” I said, my voice hollow, and lifeless. “Maybe they don’t know which of them is dead.”

  “Is Gideon with you?” Maya asked, her voice insistent.

  I shook my head then spoke, my voice still croaking and coarse. “No.”

  “Where is he?” Maya sounded almost hysterical. “And why the hell are you even dating a fucking cop?”

  I almost laughed at the unexpected question.

  It was a good thing she didn’t know about the pregnancy. I hadn’t told her yet.

  “But Eamon said …”

  “Eamon? Who the hell is Eamon?”

  “A … One of the other … A friend of Gideon’s. A former partner. I talked to him and he said …”

  When I asked why Gideon hadn’t called me, he said “there’s very good reasons for that.”

  So he knew. He had probably known when he spoke to me that Domingo was one of the cops who had been shot. That was probably why he had taken the time during one of the most hectic nights in the city for law enforcement, to call me back when there had to have been countless other people on his list to check in with.

  “Eamon said he knew for sure that Gideon was okay.”

  I hear a long slow hiss of breath from Maya’s end of the line, like the air being let out of a balloon.

  “Okay, well thank god. Because when I saw this picture, I recognized him and the name Domingo … I remember you and Gideon talking about Dom and …”

  I tuned out the rest, my mind drifting to Gideon and where he might be. In the hospital. Or the morgue.

  “Maya,” I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I have to go. I have to try to reach Gideon. If Dom is … I don’t know if …”

  “Of course. Call me when you hear something. Or if you hear from him. Okay?”

  I called Gideon three times in quick succession when I hung up from my sister. All three calls went directly to voicemail and I wondered whether he sent it there, or whether I hadn’t waited long enough after the second call for it to register as a separate connection.

  But I could drive myself crazy trying to figure things like that out, so instead I tried to compose a text message.

  But there was nothing I could think of. Nothing sounded good enough.

  Chapter Nine

  The next time I opened my eyes, I was startled at the light. It was morning. That realization took me aback because the night before felt endless. I was still on Gideon’s sofa and the television was still on. And I was still alone.

  Everything came back to me at once, including that sad, grainy photo on television of Domingo, looking ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner. Domingo, who might be dead for all I knew.

  Sitting up suddenly, I felt a moment’s vertigo and had to wait for it to pass before standing. I went immediately to the third level of the townhouse, hoping that I might find Gideon there, lying horizontally across his bed, the way he sometimes did when he got in late, too exhausted to undress or to think about orienting himself correctly. I’d found him that way a few times after he had a particularly taxing shift, when I came over early on one of his days off.

  He would lift his head, still groggy and smile at me, his cheek creased from having slept heavily, face pressed against the bedcovers and practically immobile all night long.

 
“Hi,” he would say.

  Just that, before letting his head fall, and his eyes shut again.

  I stared at the unmade bed now, wondering whether it was possible that he had come in while I was still sleeping and gone back out again. I doubted it. He would have woken me.

  Going back downstairs, I found my phone, but the screen was dark.

  “Shit!” I said aloud. “Shit!”

  Spinning around in a circle, I searched for Gideon’s iPad and spotted it charging in the kitchen, then realized that it used a different kind of attachment than the one on my antiquated iPhone 7. I found my car keys and practically tumbling downstairs, left the house, barely remembering to lock up behind me.

  It took me almost half an hour to get home, and once I had, it took another ten minutes to find parking. When I did, I practically cried with relief and ran like a demon the three blocks to my house and up the front steps.

  “Please,” I said aloud as I unlocked it.

  Gideon was fully clothed in dark wash jeans, and a white t-shirt beneath a grey button-down. The button-down was disheveled and gaping open, and his shoes were on their sides on the floor next to the couch. Fast asleep, he was sprawled lengthwise along it. Even my opening and then shutting the door didn’t make him stir.

  I dropped my keys and pocketbook on the floor in the entryway and sunk to the floor next to him. Sitting on my rump, knees up to my chest, I clasped my hands and said another silent prayer, this one of thanks. Studying his face, I exhaled a long, shaking breath then touched his unshaven, grizzled cheek.

  He opened his eyes. They were bleary and bloodshot.

  He lifted his head. But he didn’t smile.

  “Hi,” he said.

  * * *

  About two weeks in, the local protests made not only the local evening roundup, but the national news. It wasn’t unusual that the national cable networks were covering the protests, but our city hadn’t been worth an independent piece until now. This time, we were the lead.