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I nodded and grabbed the ax from Cal’s hand, swinging it back before bringing it down through the door. The wood splintered but remained intact as I pulled it out and took another swing. This time the door cracked, and when I wiggled the blade, the cheap wood split in two. Tony kicked the door into the house and aimed the hose at the front entry.
It took an hour to put out the fire, and when we were done, the homeowners thanked us profusely. It felt surreal to have people whose lives had just been consumed by flame thanking us. Chief made sure they had the information they needed to get resources while the Red Cross volunteers took inventory of what their immediate needs were.
“Damn, no matter how many times it happens, it always amazes me how quickly those folks get here!” Tony said, looking at the volunteer handing the couple a booklet of resources and a small amount of cash while the other one made hotel reservations for them.
“Are they always that quick?” Cal asked, watching with awe.
“Yep, that’s the power of having thousands of local volunteers in every community,” I nodded. “They always have someone ready to go. It’s pretty amazing when you think about it.”
As we loaded up the engine for the trip home, Tony came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“You okay, B?” he asked quietly. “You don’t seem like you’re in the game today.”
“I’m okay,” I replied. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Well, you’d better get some of it off your mind before Chief calls you to the carpet,” he said, adding, “Or someone gets hurt.”
I stood by the side of the truck holding my helmet as Tony hauled himself back up into the cab, knowing I had to get Emily out of my head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emily
The sun shone through the windows in my classroom on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in February as I handed back the graded tests to my sophomore History class. I praised them for their hard work and attempts at addressing the finer points of early 20th century immigration, and reminded the ones who hadn’t done as well that they still had several more chances to make up for less than stellar grades.
“Nice work, Nina,” I said with a big smile, as I set her test down on her desk. She gave me a nervous look that quickly turned into a wide smile as she saw that the grade on the top of the page was an A.
“Thank you, Ms. Fowler,” she said, smiling up at me.
“Don’t thank me; you did the hard work!” I said, returning her smile. I handed out the rest of the papers and then went over the answers before the bell rang.
Nina hung back as her friends headed to their next classes. Nervously, she approached my desk and said, “Ms. Fowler, I need to talk to you.”
“Okay, what’s up?” I replied, looking up from the computer where I was pulling up a PowerPoint lecture for the next class.
“Not now,” she said, looking toward the door and then back at me. “After school?”
“Are you all right, Nina?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“Yeah, fine,” she nodded. “I just need to talk to you in private.”
“Okay, I’ll wait here for you after the last bell,” I agreed. She nodded, then turned and ran out the classroom door.
I spent the last two periods of the school day worried that something was wrong with Nina. I had a sinking feeling that she was going to tell me she was pregnant and ask for help telling her parents. I sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case, but I steeled myself just in case it was. I didn’t want to be judgmental, but I wasn’t at liberty to offer her any advice on how to deal with the situation outside of advising her to tell her parents.
I was packing up my things and had all but given up on Nina showing up when she entered the classroom. She looked subdued and less than happy. As much as I wanted to launch into a series of questions, I forced myself to hold back and wait for her to speak first.
“Ms. Fowler, I feel like I have a problem,” she began nervously. “I want to be able to talk to my dad about it, but I don’t know how to start the conversation.”
“Your dad’s a pretty straightforward person,” I said, hesitating a little. “It’s probably best just to approach him in a direct manner and say what’s on your mind. He loves you more than anything, and I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you about any problem you have.”
“But see, that’s just it,” she said. “It’s not technically my problem.”
“Oh, is that so?” I said, feeling my stomach begin to churn. Teenagers had a way of asking questions “for a friend” that made me wish I could free them from the shame and guilt they felt asking for themselves.
“Yeah, it’s actually kind of his problem,” she continued, looking up at me before shifting her eyes back down to the floor and shuffling nervously. I waited, knowing that if I interrupted, she might get spooked and stop talking. When she looked back up at me, she said, “Look, my dad misses you. He’s old and stubborn, and he won’t talk about it with me, but I can tell that for the past month he’s been really lonely without you.”
“Oh, I…well, it’s complicated,” I began, and then stopped. I had no idea what to say. I’d missed him terribly, but I had no idea how to approach the issue of my family with him. It felt too huge and overwhelming to have to explain the situation, and then to have to endure the humiliation of admitting that my family was the polar opposite of his, well, that felt like more than I could stand.
