Authors: Hilary Norman
“How weird?”
Lally tried to find words. “Some of me still feels shocked, I guess – by the drama, by the speed of it all.” She paused. “Some of me feels vulnerable and anxious, because
maybe not all of me believes that such a simple procedure could really put right something so dangerous.”
Hugo glanced across at her. “But it has put it right, Lally. I’ve done a lot of checking around since Ash put in the pacemaker. They’re wonderful things, completely
reliable.”
“I know they are.” She smiled at him. “I’m just trying to be honest about what I’m feeling.” She ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. “I
can’t wait to get in the shower and wash my hair properly.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
“Maybe I’ll let you help dry it.”
“You’re too kind.”
Lally stared out of the window, relishing the snowy landscape, the beauty of the hills in the distance. “I know it’s foolish,” she said, quietly, “but another part of me
feels heroic and euphoric, as if I’ve been smoking dope and drinking champagne. I get these moments when I feel I’ve stared death in the eye and told it to take a running
jump.”
“That doesn’t sound foolish to me,” Hugo said.
“But the weirdest thing of all is that I keep alternately forgetting and then remembering with a jolt that I have this
thing
embedded in my body, this alien thing powering my
heart – ”
“It isn’t powering it, it’s just making sure it steers a safe course.”
“I know. Still.”
There were two bouquets waiting for Lally at the house, pink roses from Hugo with a card telling her how much he loved her, and a bunch of sweet peas from Katy Webber, saying
that she wished Lally would get better real soon and would she mind if she came to visit?
“Don’t look at me like that.” Hugo saw Lally’s accusing stare. “I had to tell some people – you’re not going to be taking classes for a few weeks
yet.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” He raised a hand defensively. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell Joe – though I still think he ought to know.”
“He will know, when I’m better,” Lally said, definitely. “And not before.”
“I guess it’s up to you,” Hugo said.
“It is.” Lally looked at the flowers again. “I’d better put those in water.”
“I’ll do it. You go upstairs and get into bed.”
“I’ve just got out of bed.”
“Dr Ash said you could only come home if you rested, and he meant staying in bed.”
“I could lie on the sofa,” Lally said.
“With a pillow and a blanket,” Hugo compromised.
“Deal.”
“Then go put on something comfy and I’ll cut you a slice of your welcome-home cake.”
Lally’s eyes brightened. “Chocolate?”
“What else?”
She was settled on the sofa before Hugo brought her the cake and a cup of camomile tea. “This came for you this morning.” He handed her a brown paper wrapped
parcel.
She looked at it curiously. There was no address, written or printed. It had clearly been hand-delivered. “Who’s it from?”
“I was asked to say nothing,” Hugo said. “I guess it’s some kind of gift.”
Lally held the parcel for a few moments, examining it for signs. It was rectangular in shape, about eighteen inches by twelve, and about two inches thick. She gave up trying to guess, and tore
off the paper to find a brown cardboard box. Her hands grew more impatient.
“Careful,” Hugo said. “It might be fragile.”
“It’s a painting.” Lally’s eyes widened. Gently, she lifted it out of the box, and saw that it was a portrait of herself, on canvas and framed in pale polished wood. She
was barefoot and dressed in the leotard and cotton rehearsal skirt she often wore for classes, her hair was fastened in a bun, and she was holding a pair of pointe shoes. Her eyes filled with
tears.
“There’s something written on the back.” Hugo’s voice was tight.
She turned it over.
Thank you
, it said.
Be well, and safe. Chris.
“He’s called a few times,” Hugo said. “I didn’t know how much you wanted him to know, so I didn’t tell him where you were, but once the surgery was over, I
told him you were fine and when I expected you home.” He paused. “He sounded pretty upset when he heard you were sick, and then he kept on calling, leaving messages.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not really sure,” Hugo said, slowly. “I wasn’t too clear how you felt about the Webbers.”
“Don’t you mean how you felt?” Lally asked, gently.
“Maybe.” Hugo sat down on the end of the sofa, and she moved her feet to make space for him. “You know I was uneasy about your getting involved with them. It was upsetting you,
and the man’s married, with problems – ”
“I understand,” Lally said.
“But then, this morning, he got here with the parcel before I was even out of bed, wanting to know exactly what time I was going to fetch you.” Hugo gave a wry smile.
“He’s probably sitting at home right now, chewing his nails, wanting to talk to you.”
“I should call him.”
“I suppose you should. I’ll bring you the phone.”
Chris answered on the second ring.
“It’s me,” Lally said, and watched Hugo leave the room.
“You’re home.” His voice was full of relief.
“I’m calling to thank you for my gift,” she said, trying to be careful, though she knew her heart was in her voice. “It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever
been given.”
“I’ve been so worried,” Chris said.
“I’m fine now.”
“When Hugo told me what had happened, I couldn’t believe it.”
“I had a little trouble believing it myself.”
“I kept remembering that you almost passed out when I was with you the other night, and that I just went home and left you.”
“Because I insisted. You weren’t to know.”
“I should have stayed. I should have called a doctor.”
“Chris, I’m fine now. It’s all over.”
“Hugo wouldn’t let me visit you – he wouldn’t even tell me where you were. I would have at least sent flowers.”
“I was only there two days, and they didn’t encourage visitors.”
“At least you’re home now.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“How are things with you?” Lally asked, tentatively. “How’s Katy doing? Is she home right now? I’d like to thank her for her sweet flowers.”
“Katy’s doing pretty well,” Chris replied, “but she’s at a friend’s house – doing homework together, or so the story goes.”
Lally hesitated only briefly. “And Andrea?”
“Not so good,” Chris said. “She’s still fighting them and me, still refusing to admit how bad her problems are.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She seems to understand, though, that if she doesn’t stay in the clinic, I’ll take Katy away from her. Andrea may not care about our marriage, but she loves our daughter far
too much to risk losing her.”
Hugo came back into the room, clucking like a mother hen to let Lally know that he thought she’d talked for long enough.
“I have to go now,” Lally said. “My nurse wants me to take a nap.”
“You should,” Chris said quickly. “You need all the rest you can get.”
“Thank you again for the painting, so much. It’ll be a lovely reminder to me to do as I’m told so that I can get back to teaching as fast as I can.”
“Katy’ll be glad of that,” Chris said.
Lally put down the phone and looked back at the painting. She hadn’t liked to suggest that he come to visit her, and Chris had clearly felt awkward about butting in where he might not be
wanted, but the portrait stopped her from feeling deflated. She saw the fineness of the brush strokes and saw, too, that if it was true that the beauty of a subject was in the eye of the beholder,
then this particular artist definitely thought she was beautiful. Right now, wise or not, that notion made Lally very glad.
Hugo waited till later that evening, after he had served Lally a bowl of goulash soup with fresh baked bread, to bring up the subject again of the Webber family and
Lally’s involvement with them.
“May I be honest?” He sat down in one of the armchairs.
“You always have been.”
The sitting room felt like a haven. Hugo had switched off the overhead light and turned on the two lovely red and yellow glass lamps that Toni Petrillo had had commissioned for Lally by one of
their local craftsmen two birthdays ago, and the only other illumination came from the fireplace and the world beyond the windows. Lally had asked Hugo not to draw the drapes, because it was
snowing again, and she loved sitting snug inside watching the flakes tumble past the street lamps outside.
“You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”
Lally remained silent.
“You don’t have to answer. I know you have. And it’s just as clear to me now that Webber feels the same way about you – and so he should, but – ”
“Don’t go on,” Lally said, softly. “There’s no need – I know everything you might want to say to me. Chris is a married man with a sick wife and a load of
problems, and Katy’s a pupil of mine, and it’s a lousy situation to rush headlong into.”
“But sometimes,” Hugo said, “emotions take over from common sense, don’t they?”
“They sure do.” Lally looked up at Chris’s painting propped on the mantelpiece. It was like having him in the room with her. She thought maybe she ought to find that a
disturbing notion, but she didn’t.
“And right now,” Hugo went on, “you’re extra vulnerable. Maybe too much so to be capable of making sensible decisions. You’re usually a pretty sensible woman,
Lally.”
She smiled at him. “Right now, Hugo, I have to admit that being sensible is not my first priority.” She wriggled her toes comfortably under her blanket. “Tonight, at any rate,
I’m too busy being glad to be alive and home again, and with you.”
“I reckon the only person in the world almost as glad as you is me.”
“I know,” she said, gently.
“Will you at least try to be a little careful?”
“I might not want to be exactly sensible,” Lally said, slowly, “but for the time being, I don’t feel like taking too many risks either. Not with my life, not even with
Chris Webber.”
Sam McKinley had been back on the job for a week, but today was his first day on active duty. The medical officer had read and approved all his hospital reports, and, having
checked him over personally, had agreed that Sam was good as new.
The San Francisco Fire Department looked after its own, and Sam had wanted for nothing during his brief illness, an illness that had scared the hell out of him for a few days, but which had
proven, after all, to be nothing that couldn’t be put right with a simple operation and some tender loving aftercare.
The other thing that had worried Sam almost as much as his initial fear of premature death, had been the possibility that they might not let him come back to work. Sam McKinley was not capable
of doing a desk job; he had juices running through him that responded to action, to excitement, to the unique comradeship of his particular line of work and, when all the chips were down, to
danger. If Sam had to die young, he always told his brother Andy – not his wife, of course, no one ever,
ever
talked to Susan about death – it sure as shit wasn’t going
to be in bed.
Not that Sam had any kind of death wish. If he’d ever, for a second, believed he might have had, all those thoughts had been wiped clean away the day his trouble started. Those juices that
he knew made him function had all but stopped then, and when Sam had stared at himself in the mirror, he’d seen a face that had seemed, structurally at least, to have been his own, and yet it
had not been
him
, for the essence had gone from the friendly old brown eyes that had winked back at him every morning of his life when he shaved and got ready to go to work.
Still, all the worry was behind him now, and he was back in the Department amongst his colleagues, and waiting for the first call of the shift. J.D. had said to him a half-hour ago that he
hoped, for Sam’s sake, that their first morning would bring nothing more serious than stranded cats and elevators, but Sam had a notion that something else was coming.
It came all right.
It was at a warehouse not too far from Fisherman’s Wharf, and no one seemed to know how or why it had erupted the way it had, suddenly, out of nowhere, but there were two blocked exits and
there were men trapped inside with Christ knew what kind of noxious fumes, and time running out.
Sam fought it with the others from the outside for more than an hour, and the heat was indescribable, the way it always was – once in a while, Susan asked him how it felt, but he always
shrugged it off because he knew she couldn’t take knowing – but then he heard that J.D. had gone inside and that he was in trouble, and that was the old red rag to the bull within Sam
McKinley, because J.D. had saved his life three years back in a big blaze on Fulton Street, and they’d been best buddies way before that, and if J.D. was in trouble, Sam was going to get him
out.
He saw him right away, saw that he was okay except for a big wooden crate on his leg, pinning him down, and it was hard for them to talk, with the respirator masks over their
faces, and impossible to hear, what with the roar of the fire and the hoses, and anyway, there was no need for words, for the relief in J.D.’s eyes when he saw Sam coming for him was more
than enough, and Sam had too much work to do to bother with talk.
He got the crate off J.D.’s leg, and he snapped off a long stick of wood for a cane, and they started out together, Sam keeping J.D. ahead of him so that he could be sure he got out okay
– and that was when it hit him, like ten sledgehammers, like all the fireworks on all the Fourth of Julys rolled into one.
And all the juices that were Sam McKinley rocked and rolled for a split second, and then were quiet and laid to rest. And J.D. was outside before he realized that Sam wasn’t with him, and
there was no one else left inside the warehouse to see the spurt of blood.
And anyway, there was too much smoke.