News from Heaven (18 page)

By then he'd stopped calling Ray. Married to Fran, he had someone else to listen on those drunken nights when his words ran together in his eagerness to get them out. Ray learned the details of his life thirdhand, from Georgette. Fran called her in a panic a few times a month, when Kenny drank more than usual and scared her with talk of suicide. For years he'd suffered from nightmares; often he walked in his sleep. One night she'd found him on the front porch dead asleep, her father's hunting rifle across his knees. “I have to go,” he said when she called his name. “Time for me to go.”

Each morning Fran made him breakfast, then left for her job at the A&P. If he was working, she'd drop him off at the mine; if not, she'd leave him sitting at the kitchen table with her father. They'd spend the day there, playing cards and drinking into the afternoon, until the old man left for work at the Legion. Life went on that way for years, until Fran's father found a bag of marijuana stashed in the basement. When she came home from work that night, she found Kenny alone at the table, his left eye bruised where the old man had hit him.

After the Eleven closed, he worked as a roofer, a trash collector, jobs that slipped mysteriously through his fingers. Finally he became a volunteer fireman. The work was good for him, according to Ray's mother; at least it was better than sitting home all day. Fran got pregnant—intentionally or not, Ray never knew. Probably she'd talked to Georgette about it, but by then Ray and his wife were no longer speaking. She had already filed for divorce.

T
he Bakerton Volunteer Fire Company sat at the corner of Baker and Susquehanna, what used to be the busiest streets in town. Years ago, Keener's Diner had been located across the street, flanked by a bowling alley and a pool hall. Weekend evenings, after dances or football games, these places had been crowded with young people. On warm nights the firemen set up folding chairs on the sidewalk and called to the girls walking in pairs or threes down Baker Avenue. In August came the Firemen's Festival, the town overrun by volunteer firemen from neighboring towns, drinking and gaming at the booths set up along Susquehanna. The festival closed with a parade and an open-air dance, musicians crowded onto a platform outside the fire hall: shrieking saxophones, the silvery hiss of a cymbal. Since then the bowling alley had been torn down, the pool hall converted into a Goodwill store. Keener's Diner had become the public library. All along Baker Street, the windows were dark.

That night a light snow was falling. Wind tugged at Ray's coat as he helped Evie out of the car. They went in through the side entrance. The first floor of the hall was for firemen only: garage, equipment room, and in one corner, a dark, smoky barroom known as the Firemen's Club. Once, years ago, Ray had gotten drunk there with his brother. After the mines shut down, Kenny had spent all his time at the hall, smoking and throwing darts while he was on duty, drinking himself unconscious when he was off.

They lingered in the lobby, brushing snow from their shoulders. Evie stood before the glass case in the corner, examining the trophies inside, won in games—tug-of-war, battle of the barrel—at firemen's festivals across Saxon County. Hanging inside the case was a heavy wooden plaque carved with ornate letters:
REMEMBER OUR FALLEN HEROES
. The plaque was decorated with gold nameplates.

“Did you see this?” Evie asked, pointing.

Ray leaned close, his breath steaming the glass. His brother's name was at the bottom:
Ken Wojick.
No other fireman had died since.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Let's go upstairs.”

They climbed the steps to the social floor. The room was decorated all in white: crepe-paper streamers, Kleenex flowers, cardboard cutouts in the shape of wedding bells. A polka band was setting up in a corner; the drummer was a cousin of Pop's. On the back wall, a hand-lettered sign:
CONGRATULATIONS FLORKA AND PAUL
.

“Go sit down,” Ray told Evie. “I'll join you in a minute.”

A card table had been set up near the door. Fran stood behind it, filling out name tags with a Magic Marker. Ray studied her a moment: stout, broad-bosomed, dark hair hanging in a braid down her back.

“Hey there,” he said, approaching the table.

She looked up and broke into a smile. “J.R.”

His stomach dropped. It had been Kenny's nickname for him, a character from an old TV show Ray had never seen, about the crooked dealings of a wealthy oil baron.

“Hi, Franny,” he said, embracing her. She was heavier than he remembered, twice as big around as Evie or his mother. Her braid was shot through with gray.

“I'm glad you made it,” she said. “Mom and Pop are thrilled.”

Ray took the name tag she handed him and stuck it to the lapel of his jacket. “Are you sure it isn't too much for them? All the”—he remembered Pop's word—“excitement.”

“Fifty years of marriage, I'd say they could use some excitement. Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “You've got to see this.”

She led him across the room to a table. At one end sat a pile of gifts; at the other, an elaborate tiered wedding cake. Beside it was a black-and-white photo, slightly out of focus. Ray leaned in to examine it. Pop in uniform, his skinny shoulders squared, a boy trying to look bigger than he was. Balding already, with a wispy blond mustache, the kind teenagers grow to prove themselves. Ray's mother in a simple dress, not white but pale; her face serious, her eyes sad. She was a tiny thing, narrow-waisted. It was hard to believe she'd carried a child.

“It was the only picture I could find,” said Fran. “Can you imagine? Married for fifty years and no wedding album.”

“Where'd it come from?” Ray had never seen a photo of the wedding; he'd believed none existed.

“Pop's sister gave it to me.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “They didn't have a wedding reception. No honeymoon. They just got married, and nobody paid any attention.”

Ray looked around the room. There seemed to be hundreds of Kleenex flowers. Fran must have been making them for weeks.

“The place looks great,” he said. “You did a hell of a job.”

“Thanks, J.R. I wish Kenny was here to see it.”

A tickle in his chest, his lungs tightening. He disengaged his hand. “Be right back, Franny. I need to take a breath.”

D
ownstairs at the Firemen's Club, he ordered a drink. “I'm not a member,” he told the bartender, a bearded man with a familiar face.

“That's okay,” said the bartender. “I knew your brother.”

Ray colored. It was, he realized, the same bartender as last time. A few years ago, when Ray came to town for a high school reunion, Kenny had insisted on taking him for a drink at the club. He'd ordered them each a shot and a beer, and for a moment the bartender had hesitated. He'd asked if Kenny was on duty that night.

“No, I ain't on duty. Are you?” Kenny's voice rising. “If you are, maybe act like a bartender and pour me a shot.” He turned to Ray. “It's good to see you, buddy. Don't see much of you anymore.”

“I've been busy.” It was the wrong thing to say, but Ray had no other answer. “I hired two new pups last week. I spend more time telling them what to do than it would take me to do it myself.” He was working for Exxon then, heading a crew of geologists. He told Kenny he was thinking about striking out on his own.

“Good for you, J.R.” Kenny downed his shot. Red capillaries bloomed at his cheeks and nostrils. He looks like an old man, Ray thought. An old drunk.

“You did the right thing, getting the hell out. Could be time for me to do the same.” The mines weren't coming back, he said. Fran couldn't sell a house with a coal furnace. She had gotten a real estate license, though who'd buy property in Bakerton, Ray couldn't imagine.

Ray chugged his beer. He remembered a time—years ago, during a slowdown—when a group of miners picketed Friedman's Furniture. The store had replaced its coal stove with an oil furnace. It seemed comical now: the miners' sense of injury, their belief that picketing one store would make a difference.

“Where would you go?” Ray asked. “If you left town. Any ideas?”

Years later he would remember his brother's odd smile, closemouthed to hide his missing tooth. “I hear Texas is nice.”

Ray drained his glass. “Times are tough everywhere, Ken. The drilling crews aren't hiring. They're talking about layoffs.”

Kenny frowned. “I thought you just hired a couple of guys. A couple of pups.”

“Geologists,” Ray said, red-faced. “College boys.”

The bartender came with two more beers—Iron Cities, what every bar in town poured automatically unless you asked for something different. Ray took out his wallet.

“I got it.” Kenny scrabbled in his pocket and laid a crumpled bill on the counter. “I may not be good for much, but goddamn if I can't still get my big brother drunk.”

Later—climbing the hill to his brother's house, with Kenny leaning on him like deadweight—Ray would regret that moment, the way he'd reached for his wallet. “I'm sorry, Ken,” he said, but by then his brother was barely conscious. Only later, when Ray laid him out on the couch, did he speak.

“That's okay, J.R. Ain't your fault.”

A
fter dinner Fran pulled up a chair next to Ray. “Hi, stranger. You used to come around a lot more before you struck it rich.”

He glanced uncomfortably across the room. Evie was making the rounds with a coffeepot, an apron wrapped twice around her small waist.

“I don't blame you,” Fran continued. “It must be boring for Evie. God knows there isn't much to do in this town. But maybe you could come by yourself once in a while. Mom could use the company.”

“It's not Evie. She loves coming here. It's me.” The words came out too fast. “I can't look anybody in the eye. Mom. Pop. You.”

“Me?”

“I could have done something for Kenny after he got laid off.” His heart hammered. Across the room the band was tuning up. The sound seemed very far away.

“That's crazy. There's nothing you could have done.”

“I could have found him a job.” Tightness in his chest. “Then he wouldn't have been fighting fires. He'd still be alive.”

“A job?” said Fran. “Around here?”

“In Houston.”

Fran snorted. “Are you kidding? Kenny never would have gone to Houston. Where would you get an idea like that?”

“He asked me about it,” said Ray. “The last time I was home. I made excuses, but really, I didn't want him down there. His troubles.” He met her eyes. “If I gave him a job, he would've come. He said so.”

“Kenny said a lot of things. Believe me, I heard it all. But nobody made him stay here. He stayed because he wanted to.”

Ray thought of Kenny as he'd last seen him, shoveling the sidewalk on Dixon Road in his old hunting jacket, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Don't be a stranger,
he'd called as Ray pulled away from the curb.

“He loved being a fireman,” said Fran. “It made him feel alive. He said it was like being a soldier again.”

Ray nodded, remembering how Kenny had shown him around the equipment room. How proud he'd been. Ray imagined him suited up in the asbestos pants, the yellow jacket, climbing the stairs of the Commercial Hotel. The fire had started in the kitchen but appeared contained. When Kenny charged into a second-floor bedroom, the floor had crumbled beneath him.

“The night of the fire,” Ray said. “Was he drinking?”

“He was always drinking.” Fran took his hand in both of hers. “J.R., sooner or later you have to let go of things. Stop feeling bad about what you can't undo.”

Her hands felt cool; for a moment Ray wished he could put them on his face, his cheeks burning with shame.

“I'm not just talking about Kenny. When's the last time you saw your boys?”

“I was hoping they'd be here tonight, but I guess they heard I was coming. Years, Franny. It's been years.” He met her eyes. “Do you ever see them?”

“Well, sure. Ray Junior came with Georgette at Christmas. And Bryan comes every few months to give Mom her permanent.”

“You're kidding.” Ray thought of the boy in the photo—a man now, with his diamond earring, his thinning hair. “He drives all the way out here—two hundred goddamn miles—to do Mom's hair?”

“He's done it for years. He's a sweet kid, Ray. He turned out fine.”

“Jesus.” Ray lowered his voice. “You know, I still can't believe it. My son, a beautician. For Christ's sake.”

“You sound just like Pop. ‘What's a big boy like that doing in a beauty shop?' ” She laughed. “He makes a good living. And there're worse jobs. He's not going to get himself killed giving permanents.”

Ray laughed, too. Air filled his lungs; for the first time in hours, his chest relaxed. “I failed them,” he said. “Just like I failed Kenny. And Mom and Pop. I'm not much of a son.”

“You're not dead yet.”

“I have news,” he said. “Evie's pregnant.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, J.R. That's wonderful.”

Yes, he thought, it is a wonder. His life, he knew, had been unfairly blessed. Over and over he'd been saved from what he was born to: fatherlessness in a time when that meant something. The mines. Vietnam and whatever horrors had followed Kenny back from that place. He was saved first by Pop, then by Georgette; deliverance he'd neither asked for nor deserved nor recognized when it came. Now, again, he was being saved.

“I thought I was done with all that,” he said. “After I flunked the first time.”

Fran shrugged. “That's what flunked means. You do it over, whether you like it or not.”

“You don't think I'm too old, do you?”