Guess I'm not as alone as I thought.
“Listen, Caleb.” Simmons held up the joined salt and pepper shakers. “God meant marriage to be for life. That's why you gotta keep your vows to Catherine. You've gotta beg God to teach you how to be a good husband. And don't just follow your heart, 'cause your heart can be deceived.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“You've gotta
lead
your heart.”
Simmons's words seeped down through Caleb's defenses. He'd been twisted this way and that by the fluctuations of the past few months, letting his wife's moods dictate his reactions. His heart had been wandering off in all sorts of directions.
Yes, it was time to start leading instead.
His mind turned to the image of that cross in the clearing. Now that he'd found One to follow, an example, he knew he would have to die to his own desires before there would be any hope of resurrecting his marriage.
So, Calebâyou think you're such a hero?
Time to put that to the test.
O
n the outdoor patio of the hospital food court, between vibrant shrubbery and colorful blooms, Catherine sat beside Dr. Gavin Keller at a black wrought-iron table. He was in a light blue shirt with a diagonally striped tie, comfortable in his formal attire. She couldn't help but admire that. Her husband rarely wore a tie, and when he did he looked like he was about to choke.
I try to be in style. Is it wrong for me to want that from the man I married?
Catherine brushed back her hair. She wore a red silk blouse beneath a charcoal gray jacket.
“You seem a little down today,” Gavin noted.
He was right. He seemed so in tune with her emotions, and that only underlined her resentment toward Caleb.
She poked at her salad and pushed her roll to the side of the plate. “It's just been hard for me, you know.”
“Why's that?” Empathy filled Gavin's voice.
“I saw my parents again yesterday, and my mom's not doing too well. It's amazing how much a stroke can affect somebody's life. I just . . . I feel like she's trapped. And Dad does his best to communicate, but it's hard for him, too.”
“Catherine, I'm so sorry. You seem very close to them.”
“I am.” She raised her cup of juice and thought of her mother, stuck in that generic wheelchair, her pressure sores in constant need of cleansing. “They had me late in life, so it was almost like growing up with grandparents.”
“I see,” Gavin said. “So they spoiled you.”
“Hey, now. I think they did a pretty good job.”
“They did. They should be very proud.”
“You know what?” Catherine lowered her cup and gave him a tender glance. “You're kind of sweet when you wanna be.”
“Kind of ?”
“Well, with some training, I think you could be a fine gentleman.”
“Why? Are you offering lessons?”
Their eyes locked, and then Catherine broke into a wide grin. She looked down, embarrassed by her girlish response.
“So, what does your mom need?”
Catherine sighed. “Well, a better wheelchair and hospital bed would be at the top of the list. I've been working with RMS Medical Supplies to get them, but it's so expensive.”
“You can't put a price on helping your mom.”
Try telling that to my husband.
“That's right,”Catherine said. “I mean, it's worth the sacrifice. I'm actually hoping to have a down payment on the equipment soon, but it's hard with my own bills and everything.”
“I'm sure your mom understands.”
“That doesn't make it any easier. I do have a little surprise for her, though. I mean, it might not work out. But if it does, it's going to make her so happy.”
“You know,” Gavin said, catching her eyes once more. “They're lucky to have you for a daughter.”
Catherine gazed at him, then turned away just before
that
moment
when two people look at each other long enough to know there's something that might happen. Here she was, scraping through the ashes of a fizzling marriage, and Gavin took the time to listen to her personal gripes. Although he'd never even met her parents, he was here, without complaint, to help her shoulder this burden.
“ROOKIE, DON'T LOOK at me like that. I'm tryin' to help you out.”
From around the corner, the sound of Terrell's chastisement put a grin on Caleb's face as he entered the station's sleeping quarters. It was mid-afternoon and the men were supposed to have their personal areas straightened.
“Why does it matter,” Eric said, “what my bed looks like? I'm the one that's gotta sleep in it.”
“Man, what if Chief Hatcher walks through here?” Terrell fired back.
Caleb rounded the fire pole to view for himself the state of the rookie's area. Sure enough, the blankets were wrinkled, and his nightstand was crowded with magazines and discarded candy wrappers. Not even close to the military precision with which Terrell's bed was made.
And Terrell knew it.
“My bed says I take my job seriously. Your bed says your mama didn't drop by to help you make it up this morning.”
“You teaching another rookie how to make his bed?” Caleb said.
Terrell sneered. “Somebody's got to.”
Eric was the picture of concentration now, slicing his hand along the mattress to smooth his covers.
“You know,” Caleb said, nudging Terrell, “his looks as bad as yours did when I taught
you
. I rememberâ”
The alarm tone stopped him mid-sentence. He waited along with the others to see if the bell rang, thus indicating this one was theirs.
Brrrngg!
They bolted in unison. All three men rushed to the fire poles, hands squeaking on brass as they plunged to the bays at ground level. Lieutenant Simmons dashed in from the kitchen area, and Wayne was already beside his truck. It was second nature, part of their training, to catch the dispatcher's instructions through the speakers while gearing up.
A female voice: “Engine Two, Engine One,Aerial One, Battalion Oneârespond to 209 Eleventh Avenue. Structure fire. Residence. Time out, 15:32.”
They had a hot one ahead of them.
Terrell pulled a Nomex hood over his shaved black head, just in case. Caleb stepped into his boots and adjusted suspenders over his shoulders. Behind him,Wayne and Eric were yanking on heavy brush coats with yellow stripes and silver reflective strips.
Caleb grabbed a handhold to pull himself up into the cab of Engine One.“Michael,” he yelled, “you got that?”
“Got it.”
“Wayne?”
“Got it.”
“Let's roll.”
Horns blared and sirens called out in warning. The aerial ladder truck led the way onto Albany's traffic grid, emergency lights splashing the trees and buildings along the way with bright yellow and red. In the back of the engine's cab, Eric looked less nervous than last time around. He was still a bit awkward on the job, but Caleb figured he'd be okay with a little more experience.
Caleb reported into his radio: “Engine One is en route to 209 Eleventh Avenue. Structure fire.”
“Ten-four, Engine One.”
“Aerial One is en route . . .”
“Ten-four, Aerial One.”
“Engine Two is en route . . .”
“Ten-four, Engine Two. Public safety, to all vehiclesâbe advised, we've received numerous calls regarding this structure fire.”
Caleb turned to Eric in the back. “All right, that means there's something to this one, Eric. Make sure you tighten up.”
The rookie adjusted his hood, snapped his coat.
The parade of emergency vehicles passed by Phoebe Putney Memorial, and Caleb had a sudden image of burn victims in hospital beds. How many times over the years had he seen people here, with third-degree burns, seared lungs, or severe poisoning due to smoke inhalation?
He exhaled, pushing those thoughts from his head. Best to stay focused. In the moment.
“Remember your training,” he told Eric. “Stay with your partner.”
“Yes, sir.”
An askew column of smoke marked their destination minutes before arrival. The truck rounded a corner and approached clusters of neighbors on the lawn and sidewalk. The structure in question appeared to be a small home with bars on the windowsânot the safest area of town. Curling along the front porch and the roof, billows of gray-black smoke tried to flee the lashing flames at the windows.
“Engine One is Ten-twenty-three,” Caleb informed dispatch. He leaned out the window as Wayne brought them to the curb. “We have a single-story brick residence, thirty percent involved. We'll be using a one-inch-and-three-quarters for rescue. We'll be Eleventh Avenue Command. Engine Two, bring me a line.”
The fire crackled with new ferocity within the structure, as though enraged by their appearance. Glass panes split and shattered, punched out by the heat.
“Be advised,”Caleb said,“there is a hydrant right next to Engine One.”
“Ten-four.”
Eric was already out of the cab, stepping up to the rear of the truck to take hold of the line. Good. He'd been listening. The kid turned and stretched the hose toward the house.
“Let's go, baby,” Terrell said to him. “Let's
go
.”
Caleb carried his composite oxygen tank on his back. Daylight was already dimmed by the smoke that wafted through the trees. He approached a heavyset African-American couple on the front lawn. “You live here? Is everyone outta the house?”
“Yeah, look, my daughter's in the neighbor's house.”
“All right.”
“But listen . . .” The man grabbed Caleb's arm and pointed. “
Please
, this is our home. You gotta put that fire out.”
“We will. Just stay clear.”
The wife had her hands atop her head, her face engraved with fear. Groups of onlookers were standing far back, put off by the growing inferno.
“
Please
,” the owner said.
“Hurry up, hurry up.” Lieutenant Simmons was waving at Eric.
Caleb knew the damage to this residence was already extensive, probably nearing the point of total loss, but he and his crew would do their best to keep it from spreading to other homes or climbing into overhanging branches. This was where the training kicked in, and as fires went, it was pretty straightforward.
In a flash, that all changed.
“Oh no. No!
Nooo!
” A young white girl darted up to the captain. She was frantic, her ponytail whipping round as she turned toward the fire.
“Megan? Megan?” the homeowner said. “Where's Lacey?”
“She went
home
already.”
Caleb came to attention. “What?”
“What're you tellin' us, Megan?” the owner's wife said. “She's not at your house?”
“No! I was talkin' to her on the phone. She said she was makin' toast and forgot all about it. She thought she smelled something burning.”
Caleb processed this, realizing a rescue might become necessaryâand quickly. Beside him, the owners faced their burning house. The father's face said it all. His daughter was in there, trapped by those flames, maybe knocked out by the smoke, and in danger of dying if he didn't do something quickly.
Burly and determined, the father sprinted toward the front steps.
Behind him, his wife's shrill wail tore through any sense of calm and order that had existed. It was the cry of a mother in distress.
“Lacey!”
C
aleb knew Lieutenant Simmons had seen just about everything, yet he was still impressed by the tall, wiry black man's instant reaction. Simmons shrugged free of his helmet in a fluid motion and angled ahead in five rapid steps, intercepting the much-heavier owner, dragging him to the grass before he could do anything that would endanger more lives.
The distraught father squirmed to get free.
“No!” Simmons held him down. “No, you can't go in there.”
“Get off me! My daughter's in there . . . Lacey!”
With Simmons attending to that situation, Caleb ran back to the truck, dropped his radio into a storage bin, and grabbed hold of a red-bladed ax. “Let's go,” he said to Eric and Terrell. “We've got someone inside. Let's go, let's go.”
“C'mon.” Simmons beckoned from one knee on the grass.
“Lacey, my
baby
!” The mother was sobbing now.
At her side, young Megan was shaking her head and covering her mouth.
Caleb removed his helmet, pulled on his protective head covering and face mask, then put the helmet back on. He adjusted his breathing apparatus, while Eric and Terrell stretched out the hose to take inside. Although protocol said to follow the hose, there was a little girl in those flames. All bets were off. Wayne was alongside the truck, monitoring dials, pressurizing tanks, urging them to hurry.
Captain Caleb Holt broke for the front door, ax in hand. He hesitated for one moment to confirm that the glass was already broken, thus allowing the fire to breathe. It needed oxygen. Without it, the flames would be gasping for air like a monstrous set of lungs, and the moment they found an opening they would erupt with new life in a violent back draft.
Behind Caleb, the hose was charging, and the guys readied their grip to pound a steady stream of water into the heart of the house.
He yanked open the screen door, then aimed the butt of the ax at the entry door's catch. He swung with all his might, busting through.
The blast was intense.
Raking over his gear, the temperature made Caleb feel as though he'd lifted the lid on a volcanic crater. Flakes of paint and ash spiraled past his face mask, carried on visible waves of heat.
He dropped to his knees. Crawled forward, as he'd been taught.
“Lacey. Lacey!”
He was already breathing heavier, and he tried to tame the panic that bucked in his chest. He wanted to stand up and hurry forward. Or retreat. Neither would do him any good.