Soot and Sweat on Flesh
Her heart beating in excitement and
anticipation, Bette Maguire jumped out of her Chevy S-10 into the cool morning
air. Trees behind the Webster fire
station fluttered their new leaves in the breeze while with a bang and a clash,
a small deli across the street opened up the grate on its window. Since it had just turned 7 am, the rush hour
traffic had begun to stream down the busy street flanked with three-story
houses and small owner-operated shops dating from the 1970s.
The area reminded her a bit of her own
neighborhood in Webster, where she’d lived for about a year after meeting her
roommate, Rose St. Pierre. Glancing
down at her neat blue uniform, Bette smiled and picked off a few strands of cat
hair, a friendly reminder of her other roommates. The cats seemed to know exactly which clothes would show off
their shed offerings the best.
As Joe helped Bette unload the turnout gear
she’d been assigned, she noticed that a lock of his hair had fallen over his
forehead, but he didn’t brush it back.
He yanked her heavy bag from the truck bed with ease, probably due to
the rack of muscles in his upper body. He
could be a football player, a jock, but his face is too intelligent for that.
“What the Lieutenant was saying, Joe…what’s
there really to be nervous about? We do
fight fires sometimes, but that’s the job.
It’s what we signed up for.”
Joe paused and looked at her clean, fresh face, with her head of blond
hair framing it and those two question mark eyebrows. I hope she’s not a dumb
blonde, an airhead. I couldn’t handle
that. But how could she have gone through training without feeling anxious
about doing the job right, about saving lives, about dying?
“Lots of things,” he replied, dropping her bag to the ground and
straightening. “You wouldn’t be nervous
if you found yourself in a fire, alone, and your low air warning bug goes off?”
“No. I’d simply hustle back out
and get another canister.” She reached behind her seat and grabbed the bag of
clean civilian clothes to wear when the shift ended.
“You’re trapped, though,” he said immediately,
shifting the weight of his own bag on his shoulder. “And lost in the building.”
Bette chewed on a lip. “I’d radio
for help.”
“It’s broken, lost, gone.”
Bette gulped, her imagination briefly considering such an awful
situation. Could all of that happen at once? He’s just testing me. There is always
an answer to a situation. Her hands
flexed into fists.
“I’d still find my way out — somehow!”
Joe frowned and shook his head.
“It’s pitch black, you’re out of air, and you suffocate.”
They stared at each other in an awkward silence. A cool breeze rushed through the small space
where they were standing between her truck and the next, rustling the sleeves
and pant legs of their identical uniforms.
Bette shivered, slammed her door shut, then reached behind Joe to get
her large duffle bag.
“All right, I’m dead. Would you
at least give me a proper funeral?”
Joe slowly smiled. Bette probably
wouldn’t admit it, but she had been afraid there for a moment. That was what he had wanted to see.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “We’d at least
do that for you. But if you want to be
good firefighter — and keep alive at the same time — you need a cautious
nature.”
Her truck unpacked, she balanced the bags on her shoulders and began to
move across the parking lot, with Joe following. “But I thought we always rushed in.”
“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Only after
evaluating the scene, though.”
Bette frowned. “If a victim is in there needing to be rescued, you’ve got to get
to her fast, don’t you?”
“Yes, but sometimes it’s too late to do any good. They’re already dead, so rushing in doesn’t
help. You determine that first —
whether anyone is alive. You won’t know
how to do that yet, but Keane will.”
Bette stopped at the side door. She was still confused. “You mean if I see someone hanging out a
window, I should stop and ask the Lieutenant whether to put up the ladder and
save her?”
Joe knew it was rarely that simple a maneuver. Shit happened. Sometimes,
ladders didn’t quite reach, water was too far away, or, worst of all, the
civilian fell to his death.
“Bette, you’re a probie. You’ve never fought a real fire. Trust me on this. Caution and teamwork will save the day every time. Okay?”
Bette nodded, grumbling, but
pulled open the station house door.
Joe held it open while they
entered. “Bette, planning your funeral
would be a lot of work. We’d prefer it
if you stay alert and alive.”
Bette stopped short and he bumped into her. “Okay,” she said.
“C’mon in,” he told her and ushered her in.
The door had opened into a small hallway that led to the equipment
bay. Bette followed Joe, her excitement
growing, the gear hanging off her seeming light. Look at the size of this
bay. Deep inside her, she knew it
was a small station, but in her heart, it loomed large and exciting.
The high, long room held an engine, a ladder truck, and a red squad car,
all ready and waiting for the next call.
Even in the low light, the equipment and surroundings gleamed, casting
an almost holy glow over the room. Someone really cares about this place. Now I will, too.
“What am I riding?” she asked Joe.
“The Lieutenant will try you on both, although
you are assigned to our piece.”
Joe caressed the end of the engine, a gleaming red beauty only five years
old. It had arrived at the station a
month after he had. Since then, the
engine, full of speed and power, had helped save countless lives. I’m
probably not the only one here who feels this way, this personally connected to
the equipment; the others must feel it, too.
“I’m glad we’ll ride together,” Bette said, disturbing Joe’s thoughts.
Then she added in a low voice. “You
seem like you’re one of the good guys, and I haven’t met a lot lately.”
Joe locked eyes with her for a moment.
He was first of all pleased by what she said, but he was also wary that
she was so open with her feelings. That
could spell trouble at Fire Station 10, where using personal information to
annoy you was a way of life.
“Thanks, Bette, but you don’t even know me.”
Bette shrugged. “I can tell.”
Joe motioned her to a locker-room area, where he showed her where to
store her gear. “There are some other
good guys here, too. Some have a lot to
learn. All in all, an interesting
squad.”
“More interesting than Lt. Briscoe?” Bette asked.
Joe leaned toward her and lowered his
voice. Being that close, he could smell
the sweet, clean smell of shampoo in her hair.
“Briscoe is in a category all his own. But there are others. Take Manny Fletcher, chauffeur for the
ladder truck. Manny’s a decent enough
guy, but he never has a good thing to say about anyone. His personal life is a mess.”
“And the rest of you have good personal lives?”
Joe smiled. “Well, better than
his anyway.” Why am I telling her this stuff?
She’s easy to talk to, and maybe
the more she knows, the less she’ll screw up. Joe pointed out to the bay. “See that inspector’s car there?”
“Yeah,” Bette said. “You have an
arson team here, don’t you?”
“Yeah, for this district. Most of
the inspectors are great, but our shift is usually assigned Al Ramirez. We’re the only ones who can stand working
with him. He enjoys causing trouble. Be careful around him. Ramirez hates probies, especially if they argue with him.”
Bette raised an eyebrow. “You
mean…”
Joe added, “I mean, you seem to have a tendency to argue.”
“Me?” Bette placed a hand to her chest and gave him a small smile.
Joe raised one eyebrow, but she met his eyes with a confident look. She slapped him on the arm, enjoying the
thunk she made against the hard muscle.
“Don’t worry, Joe, I’ll stay cool.”
“Good,” he said. “At least until the guys get to know you,
playing it cool may be the only thing that keeps them from eating you alive.”
* * *
Joe Griffin gave Bette Maguire a quick tour of the one-story station
house. The main bay was out front
facing the street. The lockers and
showers were around the back of the building, and the offices, mess, and living
quarters were off to the sides.
Everything seemed clean and in tiptop shape; she could tell the
firehouse was a good place to work.
Joe brought her to the mess hall, where the rest of the squad had
gathered to discuss their 24-hour shift.
There was a strong smell of coffee and disinfectant in the room. Joe sat Bette down beside him at a long
table where Keane, Briscoe, and two other men were waiting. Flanking the table on both sides were sinks,
stoves, refrigerators, and large cabinets, all done in white. Their cleanliness matched the eerie silence
that confronted them.
When Keane cleared his throat, she turned to look at him sitting near her
to her left at one end of the table.
“This is Bette Maguire, our new probationary, here to spend 6 months of
her career with us, at least. Please
treat her with the same respect you always show probies. Okay?” Keane asked.
Lt. Keane knew he was asking for the minimal level of respect, but she
had to get at least that for the team to work properly. She would have to earn any more respect
herself.
The men nodded and Keane motioned to the two Bette didn’t know. “That’s Walter Frost sitting there
pretending you don’t exist, and this is Emmanuel Fletcher, otherwise known as
Manny, nursing his coffee. They both
usually man the ladder with Lt. Briscoe.”
Frost, a strong-looking black man wearing a
neatly pressed uniform, was reading a newspaper laid on the table across from
Joe and Bette. He didn’t bother to look
up when he said good morning at her.
He’d seen probies before. This
one was no different. And he wanted to
find out his stocks’ performance before Keane officially began the meeting.
Fletcher, a thin Hispanic man with long, hefty limbs and a lop-sided
grin, was sitting on the other side of Joe.
He reached over and shook her hand.
He squeezed hard and she returned the same pressure. Let’s
see how she reacts to a little conflict.
“I hear you rammed the Lieutenant’s car, a nice move on your first
shift. Classic, in fact.” Fletcher
grinned when he saw Bette flinch. “What
I need to know is: should we all get more insurance or was this klutzy move a
one-time thing?”
“Well, I intended to hit more of the cars, but I lost my concentration,”
Bette said. What an asshole.
“Ooh, she’s got a mouth.” Fletcher grinned. He realized that Bette was going to be a fun probie to tease.
Most of them were too nervous to say anything for the first few weeks. And none
of them had been as pleasing to look at as she was. “Anybody want to bet if she makes it 6 months?”
Joe had been holding his tongue, but suddenly he leaned in front of
Bette, blocking Fletcher from her view.
“You can’t afford any betting, Fletcher.”
Fletcher focused his attention on Joe, whom he
considered a little uptight for his own tastes. “Excuse me, yes, well, I don’t
have a second home up country like you do.”
“It’s a cabin in the woods, Manny, and you still owe me for that window
you broke two months ago when you were up there with one of your friends.”
Joe hadn’t meant to start this argument, and he didn’t really care about
the money. Manny’s nasty attitude and
Bette’s argumentative nature, however, seemed to have infected him as well.
“Griffin,” Fletcher clapped him on the shoulder, hoping what he said
would rile the engine man even more.
“You wouldn’t realize it since you’re a confirmed and lonely bachelor
most of the time, but it’s difficult having any money left trying to support a
wife and two kids.”
Fletcher was always making fun of Joe’s desire to be with only one woman
at a time and someday find the one who
would change his life. From Joe’s
viewpoint, however, Fletcher was a playboy who disrespected his wife and family
by sleeping around.
“And a girlfriend. Or is it two
now?” Joe said, bristling.
Doing a quick survey, Bette saw that Fletcher
seemed to be the only one in the group who wore a wedding band.
“All right, that’s enough, you two,” Keane interrupted, which silenced
the two men. “Where are the other
members of our happy squad?”
“Shic is going to be late, but he’ll be here,” Briscoe said.
“And West is always late,” Frost said.
Just as Frost finished
speaking, a curly-haired man with about two days of growth on his face bounded
in. He was small compared to the
others, but he was compact and strong.
He had a thick, gold chain wrapped around his neck. Thick black chest hair sprang from the between
the top folds of his uniform.
“Stu, glad you
could make it,” Keane said.
“I know,
Lieutenant. Sorry I’m late.” West sat down with a flourish across the
table from Bette and next to Frost, who was still reading his paper. “I had to gas up Monica’s car and bring the
dog to the vet, god damn it all. What
did I miss?”
Keane nodded at
Bette. “Bette Maguire, Stuart
West. He’s the pump operator. She’s the probie.”
West studied her,
noting with satisfaction how muscular she was — for a woman, anyhow. “Well, at least you look like you can carry
a hose. I won’t have to worry about
that. Do you have any idea what the job
is really like or do we have to knock it into you?”
As pump operator and engine
driver, West would get her to the fire scene safely, provide her with a steady
stream of water, and keep track of her movements in the building. Bette knew he was an important part of the
team and she wanted to get on his good side.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I was near the top of my class this
year. I have a bachelors degree, too.”
“In what?” West
asked.
“Communications.”
There was
silence, then West threw his arms up and grimaced. “Oh, in that case,
we’re all set.”
“Especially if we
want to do any communicating,” Fletcher said.
“Remember this,
probie: when we talk; you listen,” West said.
“It’ll be nice to
have someone else around here who knows how to read.” Frost did not look up
from his paper, but rubbed an itch on his smooth cheek.
“Are you
referring to me, Mr. Frost?” West asked, standing. “You, who does nothing else but read and work overtime?”
“It beats
spending all my time either oiling my girlfriend or my car!” Frost finally
looked up and around him, folded up the paper, and sipped some coffee from the
department mug in front of him.
West’s face was
so red Bette thought for sure he was going to launch himself at Frost. But then his stance relaxed and he sat down,
shaking his head and chuckling. He
slapped Frost on the shoulder, hard.
“At least you’re
not too hard up to make a joke,” West said.
Frost rolled his
eyes, but the tension went out of the room.
Bette felt a sense of relief until she heard footsteps and a hacking
cough approaching the mess, and then Keane swearing, “Shit” under his breath.
A middle-aged man
in a white shirt and blue pants glided into the room. Surrounding him was a cloud of cigar smoke.
“Al,” Keane
greeted, fanning the air.
“Patrick.” The older, almost-bald man poured himself a
cup of coffee, grabbed a danish from a box on the counter, and turned to face
the room.
As the smoke
around the new arrival slowly faded away, Bette could feel Joe tense up beside
her. So this was the cantankerous arson
inspector.
“Al Ramirez, this is Bette Maguire.” Keane glanced at his watch. “Al, you’re early. You usually don’t get in for another hour.”
Bette noticed how
Ramirez’s almost delicate looking hands gripped a large cup of coffee as if it
would keep him from falling. It was a
big body to hold up, too. Ramirez was tall
and massive — a body built to intimidate — although some of it had gone the way
of flab.
“I wanted to make
sure I met the probie who’s going to be destroying my fire scenes for the next
six months,” Ramirez said.
“Bette won’t get
in the way of Arson, Al.” Keane’s voice took on a hard edge. How
many times are we going to have this conversation? “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Yeah, Patrick,
you’re good at keeping them out of my path,” Ramirez said as the rest of the
men pretended they were studying their coffee cups. “But some get stuck like a deer in headlights.”
“And then run
down,” Lt. Briscoe added.
The mood in the
room shot up a notch in tension. Bette
felt a little flutter in her stomach, but forced it to go away.
“Harry,” Keane
warned. The truck lieutenant had the
tenacity of a rottweiler with its teeth sunk in. Combined with Ramirez’s irascibility, they were a dangerous
duo. “Now, Al, do you want to join us
in a briefing on the tour or do you have your own work to do?”
Ramirez stared at
Keane and continued to eat his danish.
He didn’t seem angry or in any particular rush to leave.
“I’m usually
right about probies,” Ramirez said.
“You’re wrong
about me,” Bette said.
Ramirez turned
his full gaze on her and she didn’t like what she saw. His eyes were like a hawk’s, assessing her
chances of escaping his talons.
“Be careful,” Joe
muttered out of the side of his mouth.
“Oh yeah?”
Ramirez asked. “Want to make a bet on
it, Maguire?”
“How much?” Bette
asked.
“Enough, Bette,”
Keane interrupted. “There’s no betting
on your performance. That’s bad
luck. And Al, stop encouraging her.”
Ramirez shrugged,
half smiled, and left the room. The men
sighed and relaxed in their chairs.
“Al is just Al,”
Keane tried to explain to Bette. “He
works out of this station, but he’s an independent agent reporting to the
Chief. He’s a force of nature all his
own.”
“I can see that,”
Bette said.
“Anyhow, he won’t
be working directly with you, but the rest of us will. So let’s try to put aside our differences
and work with each other. Our lives
will depend on it.” Keane paused. They
all silently listened. “Some of you
have been too argumentative lately, a real pain in my ass. So calm down and shape up. Is that understood?”
The men all agreed, but grumpily.
“Okay, Lieutenant,” Joe said. “You’re right.”
“Fine by me.” Bette glanced at Lt. Briscoe and
remembered their recent argument in the parking lot.
“Yeah, yeah,” Briscoe muttered.
Keane cleared his throat. “Your probation officially lasts six months, Bette. I put great store in the opinion of everyone
you work with. They will help decide
your fate, but I’ll make the final call.”
Bette looked at the serious faces around her. “I have to prove to you — to all of you — in
6 months that I’m not a total screw-up, is that it?”
“Or that you’re here because of affirmative action,”
Briscoe said.
“I got this job fair and square. I was as good as the rest of them.”
“Yeah, but are you up to the job?” Manny Fletcher
asked. “If not, you better leave now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Bette replied, trying to
keep the anger from her voice.
“Fletcher, how is she going to know that yet?” Joe asked with a sigh. “She just got here. She doesn’t know what it’s like.”
“Yes,”
Keane reminded them as his voice rose in volume. “And it’s our job to teach her that. Okay? Can I continue?”
His
voice had a tinge of anger in it, and finally that silenced the rest of
them. Keane hardly ever got angry in
public, and when he did, that was a warning sign not to piss him off again.
Keane went on to
discuss the business for the day. Bette
wanted to listen, but she kept replaying what had been said. How am
I going to convince a bunch of men I hardly know — most of whom are not excited
I’m here — to support me becoming a firefighter? I’m going to have to kiss some serious butt, and I hate doing that.
Forgetting where she was, Bette said, “I’m
screwed.” She said it in a low voice,
but not low enough.
Keane paused and glanced at her. “Bette? You have something to add?”
All eyes turned to her. Shit.
Across from her, engineer
Stuart West started laughing. “You are
screwed, probie, especially if you think with your mouth!”
The others
laughed, too, even Keane and Joe. To
her dismay, Bette felt herself flushing.
She hardly ever got embarrassed, but right then, she was. She did not know how to respond to so many
voices at once. It was a new and
awkward feeling. She usually knew
exactly what to say.
“Okay, everyone, relax,” Keane said. “Bette?
What was I just saying?”
She
didn’t have a clue, but guessed anyhow.
“How important it is to listen to you.”
Keane shook his head, but his eyes smiled. She
may be a woman, but she definitely has balls. “That’ll do. Now pay
attention, okay?”
Bette nodded and
prayed the meeting would end before she could screw up again.
Copyright 2004 Julie MacShane. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.