A/N Hi. Any reviews positive or negative are welcome but any reviews which involve said reviewer's takes on any subject not related to my story will be removed, in other words, please do not use my review section as a forum as I've seen some authors subjected to. I don't know if I have any stories left in me,it might be my last, and yes, this is one of those John needs help stories, like it or not, let me know, it's all good. The character of John is a grown up man, not a child and I have written him as such because to do otherwise is a disservice to the character; but it was a common theme in the stories that John didn't sleep well sometimes and that he related his past with Anthropologist Marcus Parkham and that said man had made his life a living hell; that's just canon fact. Canon also states that John was sensitive and proud of his culture and that Chet hurt his feelings but they reached an agreement and became fast friends. When a person is hurt, friends stand by; I don't see John as being coddled when friends sit bedside vigil, it's what family and friends do. There have been stories which took that to the extreme, however and I attempt not to do that. What I am saying is, yes, this is a hurt/comfort story, and it is labelled as such. Honestly, this A/N probably sounds snarky but actually as I post this first chapter, I have just learned that Copenhagen Zoo in Denmark murdered a healthy, eighteen month old giraffe in front of children today for the so called reason of breeding management. Other zoos worldwide offered to adopt this beautiful creature but the Copenhagen Zoo keeper is a psychopath; he shot this baby with a bolt gun in front of little kids, cut it up, autopsied and fed it to lions in front of children! I have spent the day crying. Writing is my way of leaving the real world behind for a few minutes because sometimes ... people just suck! I'm with Gandhi and other enlightened souls, "A nation and its moral progress can be judged by the treatment of its animals and its least." DENMARK FAILED!
And on that note, off to fantasy land for a few precious moments as alas we live in the real world and sometimes it's not too bad.
XXXX
Why did it have to happen today? Any other day, Roy Desoto might have considered getting stuck in an elevator at Rampart a nice break from work. Word from maintenance on the emergency phone estimated at least an hour delay in getting the elevator operational again.
"Oh man, we're gonna be late for the meeting back at the station. I can't believe this, of all days. What if it's an important meeting, Roy? What if it's about that old lady who wanted to sue us for breaking her second story window to get her out of her house? What if it's about that restaurant owner who passed inspection and still had a fire and wants to sue us? What if it's…"
"I'm sure Cap'll wait for us, Johnny," Roy said calmly pulling a green pen from behind his ear and lowering himself to a sitting position. "In the meantime, let's use this time to catch up on our paperwork. Maybe we'll actually get to go home on tomorrow morning."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess," John agreed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He scavenged in his bag for his papers and poised them on his bent knee before frowning as his head disappeared once more into the bag. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra pen would you?"
Roy dutifully produced another pen and applied himself to his notes. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his partner scratch a few words, look up, then down, then up again.
"I wonder if we're between floors." John's pen went through his paper. He smiled sheepishly and flattened the rather now tattered notes onto the floor and tried to write that way. The elevator lurched. "Oh come on!" the paramedic cried in frustration as his attempt to cross his t for trauma caused his paper more trauma than the patient to which the documentation referred.
Roy continued to make progress with his notes as he shook his head at his partner who had given up on trying to make use of this time and had begun drumming his borrowed pen on the railings in tune to the elevator muzak version of Thank God I'm A Country Boy. Roy snatched his pen back and John looked properly punished.
"How long do you think we're gonna be in here?" Johnny asked.
"No idea," Roy unhelpfully replied.
John began to whistle Thank God I'm A Country Boy.
"Chet's gonna find that ironic, Junior and he's gonna use it if you don't get that out of your head right now," Roy offered as warning. It was common knowledge that John often whistled the same tune all day and if Chet heard John humming about being a country boy after the taunts months back about his heritage there would be no living with either of them for the rest of the day. Roy never wanted to go there again. Ever!
"So Cap never gave you a heads up as to what the meeting was about this time?" John continued to push. "I mean he usually gives you or Stoker some idea of the agenda. Don't know why he never asks me…"
This caused Roy's pen to pause on p for pupil response. It was odd that Cap had called a meeting with no itinerary consult.
"Hm, you know, I think you're right. I didn't see Mike and the Cap in the office at all either. Wow, this meeting must be really important." Roy continued to muse for a second and then cleared his throat and tried to resume his writing without success. "Why do you always have to do that?" he complained.
"Do what?" the dark haired paramedic asked innocently.
"Draw me into your musings. Make me nuts. Now I can't concentrate on my work and this time will be wasted."
"Ah, I'm sure it's fine," John told his partner. "I'm sure it's nothing," he added, snatching Roy's pen and starting to write, leaving his partner in complete astonishment.
"You've done it again," Roy muttered half under his breath.
"Done what?" John asked, dotting his i for injection with an irritating aura of newly found concentration.
"Oh just forget it," Roy grumbled, settling back to his work just as the elevator gave another violent lurch and his pen skewered through his paper and the upper thigh of his pants causing a very un-Roy-like cuss of pain.
"You okay?" John asked as Roy clutched his leg just under his pelvis.
"Yeah," Roy assured his partner. "But now I know for sure that red and blue make purple," he winced as the pen exploded as he withdrew it, spewing a small amount of blood that oozed volcano-like from the material tented between his fingers.
"Or you have purple blood, like on Star Trek, you know I heard they're thinking about a next generation someday," John said, inching closer to his partner for a better look. "The Klingons and Vulcans and all the other races have different colors of blood." He snapped his scissors open
"You are not cutting my pants off," Roy informed his partner. "And you don't have to do that, that thing you do when you're talking to patients trying to take their minds off stuff. I'm a Paramedic, a red-blooded, blue collared one for Pete's sake … but I do wonder if one of those green women would date a purple-blooded guy. Been tryin' to get Joanne to go to a Halloween party dressed as one of those green women for years."
John smiled. Even Roy fell prey to his unusual wit. He looked apologetic before clicking the scissor blades together again preparing to go where no man had gone before and wondering why not for the first time that he seemed to have his clothing cut off way more than Roy or the rest of the crew.
A grinding sound made both paramedics look up just in time to be showered with dust and debris from a welder's torch above.
Roy smacked an ember off his partner's shoulder as they both yelled for the workers to stop for a minute. Roy looked down just in time to see his paper pyro-ed by a stray ember. He shot to his feet and stomped out the flames with his uninjured foot and watched his nearly complete notes dissolve into an inky charred mess.
"Hey! Stop for a minute! You're gonna have to toss us an asbestos blanket before you can do that. And you might want to wait a couple of minutes for the shaft to ventilate or you might start a fire," John called up angrily clutching his shoulder and wrinkling his nose as the distinct smell of oil permeated the air.
An asbestos blanket was threaded through the new two inch opening about seven feet above them; they were indeed between floors. John fished for his flashlight before both men covered themselves with the blanket.
A long delayed utterance of, sorry man floated down to them followed by absolute silence.
"Uh, what's goin' on up there?" Roy called loudly unwilling to stick his head out of the asbestos blanket to be heard more clearly lest the men start welding again without warning.
"Oh my boss said the crew could break for lunch while the shaft ventilates. Since I'm only a co-op student from the college they made me stay here to put up the cool, plastic, yellow tape that says 'out of service.'
"Oh yeah?" Roy gritted out angrily. "Well, you know who else is out of service? Us! Now you go get your boss and get us out of here."
"I can't leave my post," the co-op student said with puffed up importance.
"If that kid doesn't go get his boss, he's not going to live long enough to graduate," Roy whispered in a deadly calm voice clutching once again at his thigh which was now pulsing in time to his heart.
Johnny shone his light on the temporarily forgotten wound. "You know, if I hadn't left my HT in the squad I'd call the guys to come get us," he groused.
Roy really wanted to point out that John rarely remembered his HT but as he didn't have his own his retort was gagged. Both men were now panting from heat but as the flimsy, charred ceiling tile continued to snow down they remained covered.
"Don't rub your eyes, Johnny, you'll scratch your corneas," Roy reminded even as his own eyes watered in misery from the dust and debris. We'll wash 'em out as soon as we get some saline. I can't believe we got stuck in here before we re-supplied."
"Well, we still have some four by fours and peroxide and I'm gonna have to take a look at that wound," John reiterated as his eyes watered creating paths through the chalky powder on his cheeks.
There was no sound from above. They took this as a good sign that co-op-boy as they'd dubbed him had left to get his boss and crew.
"Here, let me stretch it out a bit, it'll get it off quicker like that," John said, pulling Roy's leg toward him.
They ignored the shuffling footsteps above.
John held his flashlight between his teeth in the darkness under the blanket. It flashed across Roy's face momentarily causing him to blink more rapidly.
"Stop batting your eyelashes at me, you're gonna scratch your corneas," John said cheekily. "And with the white chalk on your face it makes you look like a flirting Geisha girl.
Roy glared at his younger partner who shuffled closer. He noted the pained expression on John's face and the heat emanating off his body. Though the burn on John's shoulder was small, it was causing him to sweat profusely. Burns hurt like hell no matter how small.
"You're really hot, Junior," Roy told John, flinching uncomfortably in the combined heat of the elevator, blanket and his partner.
"Hold still, will ya, I'm havin' trouble getting my hands all the way around it," John panted as beads of perspiration pelted down his back.
"I'm doing the best I can, can't you be gentler?" Roy shot back. "We're not used to doing this under a blanket; usually we're out in the open."
"Okay, I see the hole. It's small but oozing," John muttered, sounding muffled around the flashlight in his mouth as he peeled back some of the cloth he'd cut away.
There was more shuffling from above and a whistle.
"I can't hold this in my mouth any longer with all these fumes and heat I can barely breathe," John panted. "You're gonna halfta hold it yourself while I get the rest of this off."
There was an uncomfortable gasp from above.
"It's no use, Roy, I'm gonna have to cut your leg off to get at it," John sighed.
The thud of a body hitting the floor above them stopped them for a minute. It was after all a hospital. The two paramedics went back to the task at hand silently cursing co-op-boy for failing to return.
John handed Roy his pant leg and set about cleaning the wound which further spread the pen ink on Roy's skin as it mixed with the peroxide and bubbled.
"You know, you may need a couple of stitches to close this," John mused holding a four by four gauze which drank the ink and blood to form purple splotches on the other side of the white material. "And I read somewhere that inmates in jails use regular pen ink to make permanent tattoos. If any of this ink stays under your skin you might just have a tattoo, Pally. Maybe I can turn it into a nice butterfly for you or something. But then again if I turned it into a butterfly it'd look like Mothra from the Godzilla movies when you're eighty and get all saggy."
"You watch too much T.V." Roy ground out taking over holding the gauze himself and lifting it in an inadequately disguised attempt to find out if anything his partner was saying was true.
Loud voices from above told them that the crew had returned to much the same confusion as when they'd left.
"Why is our co-op passed out on the floor?" someone grouched. "Somebody call a doctor."
Roy and John exchanged what the hell looks but as they were calling for a doctor anyway…
"Can you ask for two saline bags to be sent down with some tubing? We're gonna need to wash our eyes out," said Roy in a long suffering voice.
About three minutes later Dr. Early's voice drifted down to them with unnecessary instructions while a bag of saline and tubing contorted and squished between the gap and thudded down next to Roy through the newly dubbed sunroof of the elevator car.
"You guys doing alright?" came Early's voice.
"We're fine, Doc," Johnny assured.
"See me before you leave, I'll want to see your eyes," Early advised.
John opened his mouth just as Roy stopped him.
"Don't tell him about my leg," Roy advised. "He'll end up waiting up there, you know how he is. Let him get back to the E.R. so he can do his job."
"I already know about your leg, Roy," Early chuckled down to them. "We're a teaching hospital after all and it seems our maintenance co-op thought he'd learned a new lesson in human anatomy listening to you and Roy field triage each other. Oh, I'll need to see that shoulder too, John."
John groaned going over his choice of words in his head – can't get my hands around it, can't breathe with this thing in my mouth…
"What! He thought … What? … Twit!" Roy yelled, borrowing one of Cap's favorite terms.
"Don't try to leave without being seen," Early reminded as his face disappeared from the two inch gap above.
"No sir," John and Roy both said guiltily, knowing there was no way they would be on time for their meeting.
Roy looked at the ruined notes, his chalky, wet blue shirt and his partner's singed shoulder and sighed.
"I'm sure they'll tell us what it was about," Roy assured squeezing out the remaining sterile saline over John's shoulder before they both sat back down wearily.
"Urgh, that's cold!" John shivered.
"No it's not," Roy assured his partner cheekily. "It's just hot in here so the saline feels cold."
"Thank you, Mr. Science," John replied. "I was enjoying the warmth in here to tell you the truth it's so cold outside."
"Supposed to be an unseasonably cold June," Roy said. "The kids have never had to wear their jackets this late. The weather's forecast to affect the tourism industry."
"Well, that's sad for business but probably good for us," John said. "No heatstroke victims who aren't used to the temperatures and not drinking enough water and less drownings."
"Well, this weather won't stop the surfers," Roy reminded his partner.
"Nothing would stop a surfer," agreed John. "Huh, what do you know, trapped together for …" He looked at his watch. "Only a half hour and we're already reduced to talking about the weather."
"We could talk about the meeting…" Roy teased to take his partner's mind off the sting that was clearly starting again on his shoulder.
The elevator gave an alarming lurch causing both paramedics to grab the railings usually reserved for unsteady patients before grinding upwards with a smoky plume and stopping about two feet from the nearest floor. Hands reached down to assist the paramedics in their expected climb.
Roy gulped before allowing himself to reach for one of the proffered palms. Thanks to his partner he'd seen the horror movie where the stuck elevator suddenly crashed, swallowing half of its victim in one bite before plunging to the bottom of the shaft to digest.
John grinned in a knowing way and grabbed the hand and was whisked to safety. In seconds his shaggy main of hair hung over the edge causing a shudder to ripple through the senior paramedic.
"Come on up, the weather's fine," John encouraged.
Roy took a deep breath and was whisked up in seconds landing on both feet and stepping as far away from the jaws of death as possible very thankful that Chet wasn't present. Before John could rib him about the fear that only he'd seen, Roy marched him off to the E.R. … down the stairs despite his own limp.
John gave up trying his winning smile at the nurses in the stairwells; they only had eyes for Roy's unique pants.
XXXX
An hour and four inspected eyes, one inspected shoulder and three stitches later, the weary men sat in the squad and made their way back to their station.
XXXX
Marco, Chet, Mike and Cap sat around the table, abandoned coffee and cookies pushed aside to make room for glossy brochures with people in white coats smiling up from the covers.
"Roy, John, we heard you had some trouble at Rampart, why don't you get cleaned up and join us in ten … um, I have to ask though, why are you half dressed?" Cap's eyes inched up and down at his literal and accurate description of Roy's pants in particular.
"Well, you see, Cap, the question shouldn't be, why are we half dressed; the nurses were sorta wondering why were half undressed. It's all in how you look at it, am I right, Roy?" John said wagging his brows.
Roy steered his partner toward the door into the bay. John almost bumped into it, forgetting to push it open whilst craning his neck back at Chet who uncharacteristically said nothing about his and Roy's bedraggled appearance and the dangling hook, line and sinker about the nurses John cast.
"Well that was weird," John remarked once he and Roy were at their lockers.
"What was weird?" Roy asked as he sighed pulling a warm towel across his face and reaching for a clean shirt.
"Chet. He usually has some smart remark when we're late, you know, like goading Cap into giving us latrine duty or something."
"We were technically at work, so we can't be late,"
"Yeah, but did you notice the … I dunno … pissed mist? Silence?"
"Let's just go see what's going on before we make any assumptions," Roy soothed, gratefully ditching his shorts/pants combo for turnout pants.
XXXX
Slightly refreshed, Roy and John made their way to the kitchen. John snatched a cookie mid-bite from Chet, turned a chair backwards and sat down facing the paper-strewn table. In seconds his mouth went dry and the cookie crumbs scraped down his throat as the hated face of Marcus Parkham from his childhood on the reservation leapt off the glossy brochure.
"You okay there, Gage? Geez, have my coffee too if it'll stop you from spraying us with cookie shrapnel," Chet said, handing over his coffee mug with feigned indifference to the suddenly reddened face of his shift mate.
John accepted the mug of cold coffee to wash down the boulders of Oreo Mountain he'd apparently swallowed.
Noting the change from red from choking to pale, Roy leaned closer to his partner. "You okay, Junior?"
"Y – yeah. Uh, fine," John rasped trying to avert his eyes from the brochures.
Cap paused long enough for Gage to compose himself but noted that his paramedic fidgeted more than was usual during meetings and kept stealing nervous glances at the brochures on the table.
"So to sum up what we've been discussing," Cap turned to Gage and Desoto. "A group of anthropologists and psychiatrists have teamed up to come up with better ways to uh … um…"
"Tell our families when our sweet chariot's come to carry us home," grumbled Chet.
"What!" yelled John, standing up and spilling the cold coffee with cookie backwash all over the falsely benign face of Marcus Parkham. "We already have a benevolent team and HQ's got that covered. We don't need these…"
But what they didn't need John wouldn't say. He clamped his hand across his mouth unwilling to have any dealings with these people ever again, unwilling to tell his shift mates why this was a supremely bad idea. As Mike got up and got a cloth to clean up the mess, John stared at Chet daring him to say something; anything. He held his breath just waiting for the smart remark that was bound to come next. But Chet apparently didn't remember Marcus Parkham's name from the book he'd read about the man's so called philanthropically inspired study into Native American culture on the reserve John had grown up on and according to John had made his life a living hell.
Mike flicked coffee and cookie crumbs off the still smiling, wet anthropologists and psychiatrists into the sink as his mind wandered away from the heavy subject of being killed in the line of duty as he watched the coffee stains swirl into Rorschach tests of overturned engines and charred remains before going down the drain. Gage's reaction to the idea that death on the job needed to be studied had bothered him quite as much as the young paramedic but as usual he'd sat quiet and said nothing. Truth was, being killed on the job was never far from any of his shift mate's minds.
Cap pinched the bridge of his long nose as voices joined John's in vehement disapproval of what the anthropologists hoped to accomplish with their studies of the fire department personnel.
Marco flipped through his copy of the brochure. "Dios! They want us to write letters to our families that would be delivered to them if we died on the job? How is it that anthropologists want to study fire department personnel? Aren't they supposed to study cultures and ways of life?"
"In essence yes, Marco," Cap sighed, but the anthropologist, Marcus Parkham heading this study has convinced HQ that fire department and police personnel have a culture of their own, a brotherhood as he puts it," Cap continued, his finger moving along the tiny print on the only dry brochure left. Look, I know this all sounds macabre but these people have apparently spent six months talking to families of fire department and police personnel who have lost a loved one in the line of duty. Their research apparently came up with the fact that the families look for more than what HQ representatives can provide when they show up on the doorstep of an affected family."
"Uh, yeah, they can't exactly give you guys back, can they?" Gage asked angrily staring at Chet, willing him to recognize the name of the anthropologist from the book about life on the reservation even though it would cost him if Chet started to squawk about his heritage again. At least it would be Chet who started a dialogue and wouldn't seem as if John was whining or something, he reasoned. John thumped the table with a lightly folded fist.
John's choice of words stayed Cap's anger. He hadn't included himself in the 'give you guys back' retort. John had no living family to be given back to. There was awkward silence for a moment until Mike returned with only moderately wet brochures which he placed on the table.
Roy's lips moved as he read silently until he looked up. "It says here the letters we write, if we choose to participate will be kept private at HQ until – well, until … You know, it's not like we haven't thought about what'll happen to our families if … I mean, now that I think of it, Jen's only six and Chris is eight. How much will they remember about me?"
"We'd take care of them, Roy, they wouldn't forget you," John replied, sounding oddly insulted.
Before Roy had a chance to explain what he'd meant, Mike leaned on his elbows in deep thought.
"You guys know Beth's nearly due with the baby. What if I got killed before she has the baby? I don't know what to write, I mean I haven't even met him yet … or her," Mike added sheepishly. It was a well known fact that Mike's locker contained a tiny baseball glove which he intended to give to either his baby son or daughter.
"You guys got this all wrong," John said in his opinionated voice everyone knew. "How do you know these people aren't going to just open your letters and read them? I mean their intention is study us." His hand splayed on his chest for emphasis.
"Oh come on, Gage don't be so paranoid. I mean we're firemen and cops, no one's gonna mess with us. They just wanna help out our families … right, Cap?" Chet said.
And so the doubts started, Gage putting as much fuel into the fire as he could without revealing the real reason he didn't want his brothers involved with the leeches leering up from the brochures. Just two weeks ago he'd refused a phone call at the station from one of Parkham's old interns that he hadn't seen since he was twelve, wanting to do a follow up interview on the so called one in a million success story from the reservation. John bristled with indignation at the memory.
"… And this is sort of bad luck," Marco said quietly, his Saint Florien medallion spinning dizzily though his fingers.
"And kind of insulting too," Mike added. "Like we intend to go get ourselves killed, like we don't have each other's backs or something."
"Look, guys, I know where this is coming from, but I have to say we have been very blessed as a shift, as a station really. At my last station I had to inform a family of their son's death. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do and the families reach out for more than you can give at that moment. The more I think about it, it might be nice to have something to give them."
Cap was right, damn it.
"I want Chris and Jen to know why I am a … um, why I was a paramedic," Roy said quietly. "I want them to know that I love = loved my job. God this is hard."
"I'm gonna give it a try," Mike said solemnly looking a little sick.
John opened and closed his mouth quickly as his shift mates each drew sheets of lined paper towards themselves, picturing a loaded pistol before the game of Russian roulette would begin.
Don't do this! Don't write! John screamed inside his head wishing for all the world that he could just come out and tell his shift mates who the man heading up the project really was without being ridiculed by Chet and by extension everyone else. That chapter at the station had finally ended but not before it had nearly cost John his best friend and maybe even a transfer to another station.
John's jaw jumped as his shift mates balled up paper after paper in frustration tossing the tight balls into a pile on the middle of the table that was worthy of a fire hazard.
"Is this meeting of the minds over or do I have to sit here and watch you guys have a pity party?" John groused.
Cap's eyebrows rose.
Roy watched Cap deliberate what to say to his partner.
"Technically, yes, John, the meeting's over but I think you should reconsider your stance on the matter and don't discourage your shift mates from exercising their right to participate in this program," Cap said firmly. He looked like he wanted to say more but John cut across him.
"Well, you guys go ahead and write your black letters and see where it gets you. This is just…"
"You're dismissed, John," Cap said not unkindly but firmly. The slamming of the door and stomping footsteps and muttering about ineptitude and lack of foresight would no doubt earn John a meeting with Cap later.
Roy balled up another paper and his and Mike's papers collided midair knocking both off the table.
"Foul ball!" Chet called out in the hopes of lightning things up a bit.
"Look, Cap, John had a hard day, I'm sure he didn't mean to be insubordinate," Roy explained.
Cap was going to say something when Stoker stood up in a poor imitation of needing to stretch.
"I can't write this, I mean, every time I pick up the pen I'm writing to someone I've never met and I'm writing it to a baby. What if we write these letters and we get killed in ten years and then my ten year old opens the letter and it's for a baby? How often are we supposed to sit down and contemplate our own deaths to update these letters? This just isn't working, Cap."
The papers were cleaned from the table but the heavy burden of unspoken and unwritten words hung in the air like an expected back draft. Sorry I died … Sorry I never got to see you graduate … never met my grandchildren … But never sorry for trying to save people; and how did one fit that in without sounding selfish? Cap slipped from the room as a fresh pot of coffee was put on and made his way to the bay.
XXXX
John made deliberate noise as he lay beneath the squad. The clang and bang of the tools did nothing to quell the memories from his past. Worse, he'd been insubordinate to Cap, the man who had been nothing but nice to him. But seeing Cap standing there with those brochures looking so trusting … it was wrong, it was familiar…
XXXX
Twelve year old John blew in the door like a whirlwind after his last day of school, shoes tied together by laces reduced to strings and slung around his neck, socks probably long since lost and his bare feet the color of new grass. His smile faded just a bit. The kitchen didn't smell of fresh baked cookies like it always did on June twenty-fifth. There were two strangers seated across from his mother.
Mrs Gage smiled fondly at her son, not noticing the young Marcus Parkham's pen click and the scratch of hurried writing across fine white pages as his eyes raked down his nose to take in the bare footed child from the toes up. Parkham's facial expression changed to jovial neutrality the minute Mrs. Gage began her introductions but John hadn't missed the eyebrow raise, the automatic judgement.
"Mr. Parkham, Ms. Parquette, this is my son, Johnny."
Johnny smiled politely, wiped his hands down the side of his jeans, which were rolled up to his knees and offered his hand to shake. Parkham shook it and Paquette merely nodded in his general direction.
"Mr. Parkham will be staying in your father's old den for a week, then he'll be staying with the Young's down the street for a week and rotating around the reservation for the summer," Mrs. Gage told Johnny.
Johnny's back stiffened. His father had been dead for a year. Johnny held onto his memory by sitting in his den often and reading the many books that lined the shelves, falling asleep in his dad's old leather armchair. The twelve year old bit his tongue and tried not to be rude, but failed, as was his way.
"Why?"
Johns' mother looked down at her lap. "Mr. Parkham will be paying room and board. He's going to try to help our community, identify some of the unique needs and … maybe find a way to bring jobs here."
John closed his mouth. Things had been tight since his father died. His mother sold baked goods to friends and neighbors and was trying to obtain a government license to bake and sell to the greater community and tourists and buy a commercial oven. Mom tried to hide rent past-due notices but John had found two of them. He gulped. It was time to be a man.
"Oh … Oh, well then, that-that's great," he stuttered.
Mom could always tell when he was upset. His mild stutter returned. She placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. Her eyes spoke of apology.
"Um, let-let me just get the room ready for you, Mr. Parkham," the new man of the house said as he tried and failed to refrain from bolting from the room.
Inside his father's study he shut the door. He sat in the old armchair, sniffed the worn leather, swearing a bit of Old Spice lingered. The man downstairs would not sit in his father's chair but John would not disappoint his mother.
John towed the heavy chair across the old, creaky, wooden floorboards to his room across the hall. It was a well-worn path. Often were the times his dad would grab a book after a hard day's work and drag that chair into his son's room for an hour of reading. In the morning, the chair would be gone, John having no memory if he fell asleep before or after the crocodile swallowed the evil pirate's hand, the story so well loved and repeated with patience time after time. He also didn't know that this summer would be the one he would become a Lost Boy.
John set up the cot in the den, fitting it with clean sheets and blankets. He placed clean towels at the end of the bed, a familiar task from when his aunt visited, only then, the old chair stayed in its place, Aunt Rose taking up different tales of blustery seas and mean old captains and vengeful whales. Those were good times. John wasn't quite as careful about smoothing out the sheets as he was for Aunt Rose. He doubted very much the man downstairs read anything but ticker tapes and stock magazines.
John straightened the hand-woven tapestry on the wall made by his great-great grandmother. He quickly ran a soft cloth over wooden carvings of bison and rabbits made by his ancestors and smoothed a throw rug on the wooden floor. His tasks completed, John sat with his hands on his knees on the top step listening to the conversation downstairs.
"So your husband was lead hand on the ranch?"
"Yes."
"And you managed to keep up the rent on the house? But where does the current ranch lead hand live?"
"Oh, that's George Mendenhall, he's a good family friend. He has a twenty minute commute to the ranch but he said he'd never want to uproot Johnny for the sake of a few miles, bless him," replied Mrs. Gage.
Johnny heard the strain in her voice. She didn't mention the rent troubles.
That night cigar smoke wafted from under the door of Dad's study. John crinkled his nose at the smell. In the morning at the park the kids smelled the new odor of tobacco on him and asked him in earnest about the new man in the house; "how long is he staying? Why is he there? Is he experimenting on you?"
The same questions were asked of Doris Blackhawk whose family was blessed with the presence of not one but three female anthropologists for the week before they'd move on to stay with another family on the reservation.
"Don't be stupid, they're not experimenting on us," Doris had said. Boy was she wrong. They might not have been removing skull caps to have a look around inside their brains like little David Sun had speculated they were going to do (which prompted some of the younger children to wear hats to bed for the rest of Parkham's visit) but they were using the whole reservation as one big laboratory and its people were the lab rats.
Parkham made a habit of following John to the barn each day to watch him do chores. He'd ask questions that John didn't want to answer but felt he had to in order to keep Parkhams's money coming into the house for the week. The tobacco smoke was John's constant companion and though he coughed while raking out straw in the cow barns Parkham wasn't deterred from puffing away and sipping on cold lemonade as he scratched out paragraph after paragraph, which Johnny thought odd since he'd given one or two word answers at best at a time. The week couldn't end soon enough.
John angrily stomped out a cigar that Parkham had failed to fully snuff.
"Um, you really can't leave a lit cigar in here."
"I left it inside a drinking glass; it's not my fault you knocked over the glass with the shovel."
"It's a pitch fork … oh never mind!"
John refrained from talking to his young horse, Pattycake as he so often did when he mucked out the stalls when he was alone. The little black and white was so named because of well … the little … cakes that he had to muck out each day. It was his intention to enter her in the pet category at the local fair. He hoped that despite of the fact that she fancied herself a cow since she'd lived with cows all her life, she might even let him ride her one day.
On the fifth day of Parkham's Inquisition as the children at the park had so named it now that there were steady reports from Doris, Johnny and two other kids, Parkham finally took things too far.
"So your mother … does she seem lonely since your father's death? … He was your father, yes?"
John opened and closed his mouth several times, the pitch fork in his long arms shaking slightly not from the labor but from the implication he felt creep up his spine. Ice swished in Parkham's glass, a smoke ring circled lazily past John's left ear. That night, John did not sleep. He sat on the top step listening to the sounds of a very expensive portable typewriter clack away and gagged on the stench of cigar smoke. His mother slept downstairs. He would protect her from their guest's cruel words. There was something not quite right about the way Parkham watched her bake and do the chores.
The week dragged. On the final day of Parkham's stay, John's mother sent him upstairs with a pitcher of iced tea for their guest. Ice danced in the tea clanking against the tall glass pitcher. Droplets of condensation slid over his fingers. He concentrated on the sound and the coolness, getting himself under control, trying to plaster a smile on his face but settling for general neutrality. He knocked. The door opened. Marcus Parkham turned his back on John not accepting the tray but willing him inside to place it on the desk.
"How old would say this tapestry is?" Parkham asked gesturing to the ornate wall hanging whilst holding up an empty glass waiting to be served.
"I don't know … sir," John lied lifting the pitcher and pouring the tea. He gritted his teeth as Parkham didn't bother to wipe the moisture from his fingers before he pawed the fine thread work.
Parkham studied the subject of the tapestry whilst penciling some information onto a notepad on the desk, his tea spilling slightly over the rim of the glass. "Is this your family history, boy?"
The tapestry depicted a journey of a man and a woman; snow flew around the wisps of her long dark hair sticking out from a leather hood framed in fur; beside her stood a tall man also with dark hair. Dogs pulled a large pack. A transition in the middle of the tapestry was marked by a tall tree on which one side stood barren and lonely while on the other side was full of colored leaves and blossoms. On that side stood the man and woman in summer, a small, swaddled bundle in their arms from which only two tiny eyes were seen; John's great-great grandparents. In the background was a tepee. John cringed. Parkham looked at him when he didn't answer. John wasn't ashamed of his history so why did he feel like Parkham was trying to picture him in the clothing of his forefathers?
"Uh, yes. Listen, I'm going down to watch some TV, do you need anything else?" John made sure to emphasize the fact that yes, he did have a television set, he wasn't off to make arrowheads or dance around a fire. John was ashamed of himself for such thoughts. Parkham and people like him were the reason his culture was dying. The old language was all but dead, known only by a few tribal elders, the joyful, beautiful dances were a thing of the past, practiced only at times of festivals for tourists and cultural events and known only by a few.
Parkham picked up one of the old carvings and put it back down into the puddle of tea on the desk. John could almost feel his ancestors breathing on the back of his neck. He strode forward and plucked the carving up, wiped the bottom and placed it back on the shelf. Parkham seemed to take no notice as he prodded the young man who had asked to be excused.
"These slippers are most comfortable, they could be sewn better however," Parkham commented. He lifted his fat foot up to demonstrate and John felt heat swoop up from his stomach. John had forgotten to take his father's slippers from under the bed. So much wanted to spew from his mouth but he swallowed it back down. He remembered his mother coming home, laughter on her lips as she gave the slippers to his father, telling him that she had taken a course in leather work at the recreation center that was taught by one of the tribal elders. His mother was a proud, modern woman who believed in keeping the past alive. She'd taken beading courses, sewing courses and even dabbled in learning the old language.
"Handmade I'd guess?" Parkham pursed.
"My mom made those," John whispered.
"Oh, and did you father hunt the animal from which the hide came?" Parkham said, leaning forward looking positively hungry, pencil poised.
"What? No! My father is … was ranch lead hand. My mother made them in a culture course at the rec center. We buy our clothing from a store just like you. It's the sixties…"
"I see," said Parkham looking very disappointed. You may go, mind you bring my cocoa by nine sharp."
John closed the door breathing very fast.
XXXX
Parkham paid the agreed room and board but made a point of not giving more despite the fact that he'd been treated like family and despite his bad manners and the extra cleaning it would take to rid the house of his atrocious smoke. His indication that Mrs. Gage could have earned more for being more 'companionable' undid her son who showed him the door the hard way, earning himself an entire chapter in the study that was released the following winter. It also earned him more attention from the anthros as he called them, who were hungry to see the angry youth on the reservation that they were predisposed to see, having been Parkham's grad students and all.
Johnny tried to play baseball after his chores, the anthros were there, waiting for him to fail. His friends stood by him for awhile until they could no longer stand the scrutiny and question periods that would eat all the spare time to play. Finally he just stayed home, venturing out to his best friend, Ben's house only when he was sure the anthros were having their secret meetings.
"Man, I can't take it anymore. They're going home at the end of August and that gives us only one week before school starts up again. They've ruined the whole summer!"
"They asked my dad if he'd ever slept in a tee pee," groaned Ben.
"They probably think people in Canada live in igloos too," John said, rolling his eyes.
"Didn't they go to school?" Ben asked.
"Yeah, too much school, no living," John replied bitterly.
The boys played Battleship and John was relieved to be asked to sleep over. They stayed up late, hyper on marshmallows they roasted over a fire Ben's dad started for them. The tolling of the bells from the nearby town hall awakened them sometime later. John sat bolt upright, running to the window and sagging in relief. He and Ben had indeed put their fire out. But there was a fire somewhere.
Ben Sr. stopped the boys from running off the front porch. The fire was down the block in the cow barns near Johnny's home.
"But Pattycake is in there!" cried John, tears in his eyes.
"Stay here, the volunteers are already deploying."
John did stay there. Until Ben's dad ran down the road to assist. John waited until he was out of sight and took off down the back alley path to the barn and up the back ramp flinging open the double doors.
Pattycake was free from her pen, rearing in panic back and forth across the sparking embers. Bales of straw were fully engulfed in the corner and fire was licking across the hundred year old beams. Individual pieces of straw floated almost lazily on the hot drafts setting new fires like matchsticks to candles. Coughing met John's ears and he covered his mouth and nose with the v-neck flannel of his pyjama top and ran inside.
"Mom!" Johnny cried.
Mrs Gage was caught under a fallen beam. She coughed and a small trickle of blood escaped down her parched lips. Johnny put all his strength into trying to move the beam. When it wouldn't budge he fell to his knees and started clawing straw out from under her. The smoke got thicker and John swore he smelled the foul cigar smoke mingled with the wood and straw. It was seconds before the assembled volunteer fire department knocked open the front doors of the structure.
"Help! Over here!" John coughed, yelping as he pulled his hand away from super heated nails in the beam he gripped with renewed hope. His eyes burned, the ever-approaching firewall reflecting in his dark orbs. The shirt did nothing to keep the smoke from his mouth and lungs.
Several people entered. John screamed and protested but he was no heavyweight and someone easily picked him up and carried him outside.
"Easy son, we're gonna get her out. It's gonna be okay."
Things happened quickly. Fire trucks from nearby townships arrived. Pattycake burst from the barn and took off at a full, frantic gallop, her tail smouldering, and his mother was carried out, limp, frail and silent.
John tried to get up but an oxygen mask was clamped on his mouth and nose and he was restrained.
"How's my mom … I couldn't get the beam off her … She must have been trying to save the animals."
"Sh, it's okay," someone said, patting his chest lightly. "You need to lie down and take some nice deep breaths. It's all going to be okay."
But it wasn't.
John didn't feel the burns to his hands; just the warmth that took all the fear and chest tightness away after a quick sting in his arm.
XXXX
Ben's dad entered John's hospital room. He drew the curtain closed to give John some privacy from the other five children in the room and his slouched shoulders and deeply grieved sigh told John everything he needed to know.
"Parkham killed my mother!" John screamed to Ben sr. until his already parched throat gave in and he was left shaking and sobbing into his shoulder.
Johh swore to everyone who would listen that he smelled cigar smoke in the barn. No one ever listened. No evidence was ever found and there had been lightning that night and several brush fires in nearby townships.
XXXX
Parkham was followed into the funeral by Paquette and his other devoted followers. He asked demeaning questions about the ability of the reservation's volunteer fire department to do their jobs. John had no quarrel with the firefighters, they had responded in literally minutes of the town hall bell tolls. This was nothing but smoke and mirrors to deflect what John would always solemnly believe happened the night his world ended. Marcus Parkham had killed his mother by careless smoking.
After the funeral, John's hand twitched on the doorknob of his home. He opened the door into the kitchen. His mother's new stove stood in a corner, still in the box with just the top lifted as if his mother's excited hands had ripped it open to take a peak. Her recipes lay scattered around the box … but this wasn't right. Mom always kept the recipes in a tin on the second shelf above the sink. Things were out of place.
John gathered the recipes in his shaking fingers, placing them back on the shelf only to dissolve into tears at the realization that he'd never taste his mother's chocolate chip cookies again. It hit him that that particular recipe had been missing. It would have stood out against the clean white pages of the other recipes because it had been used so many times. Ripping the recipes back down, John delved through them again to be sure. It was gone. He spun around taking in the rest of the room.. Nothing seemed to be in the right spot, he couldn't put his finger on specifics through his clouded vision but something was very wrong.
Running up the stairs two at a time, John burst into his father's den. He fell to his knees, his head turning in dismal awe. The tapestry was gone, as were the carvings and his father's slippers. All that remained was Parkham's autograph of white rings etched into the top of his father's desk from carelessly placed lemon-aid glasses and cocoa mugs. John staggered into his room, closing the door to his father's den as if it were a vortex from which he too might be stolen. He fell into his father's leather chair, turned his head into one of the wings and cried himself to sleep. The missing items were never recovered.
John stayed with the Mendenhalls and with his best friend's family for the next two years. Money was tight for almost everyone on the reservation but John just seemed to melt into the walls. He ate little despite their coaxing and didn't complain when added to the growth chart of hand-me-down clothing from the Mendenhall's or Ben's siblings. He mechanically did his chores, went to school and breathed in and out, People were nice to him but he just didn't seem to be thriving. The firefighters volunteer and paid, on and off the reservation raised money for a partial scholarship for the young orphan.
Marcus Parkham never came back to the reservation but his students flocked there every year making life miserable. No prosperity came from the studies, nothing changed. Aunt Rose from California had a meeting with the tribal elders when John was fourteen that it was perhaps in John's best interest to move from the reservation since he was particularly disturbed by the close scrutiny of the 'visitors'.
With tearful farewells, John packed up his belongings. George Mendenhall who'd moved into John's former home only out of need to have a lead hand close to the farm called John back inside as Aunt Rose and Mrs Mendenhall hugged each other goodbye and Aunt Rose thanked Ben's family and those gathered for their kindness in taking care of John who couldn't until now bring himself to come to California with her.
"John, I know how much this chair means to you. I know your dad used to take care of farm bills and other paperwork in here but I've seen you sit in it and it's the only time you truly look at peace. Aunt Rose's Station Wagon is a capable car and I've rented you a trailer to take it with you.
"I don't know what to say," John said, touching the leather lovingly. That chair followed him through college and into his present apartment. And once in awhile, just a whiff of Old Spice wafted through the air … or his imagination. It didn't matter; Dad and Mom were never far away.
XXXX
John dropped a wrench, swearing loudly and hoping no one heard as it dragged him from his past.
XXXX
"Something you want to talk about, John?" Cap asked, affording his paramedic the dignity of remaining under the squad and not having to retreat to the office.
"Other than to apologize, no sir," John said stoutly.
"Well, look, the guys are coming over to my place on Friday night for a couple of beers and we might discuss this. You're more than welcome to come."
"Mike'll love you for that, Cap," John said, smiling from under the squad. "Mike's been dying for someone to adopt him for Friday so he doesn't have to attend that baby shower Joanne's having for Beth. Roy'll be happy too, it'll get him out of helping out with the shower. Even Chet will be happy, he won't have to make up a story about a great Friday night date and you know Mama Lopez will send lasagne to both the shower and any meeting at your house so win-win for everyone."
"I hope you'll come too," Cap coaxed but with that he made his way to his office to not finish the never ending paper work.
XXXX
Roy approached the squad quietly wanting to get a reading on his partner's mood without being seen. John was muttering incoherently but Roy could pick up on the tone that was set by the background noise of tools being dropped and picked back up to fix the knocking Gage always heard when he was troubled.
"Knocking again, huh?"
John slid halfway out from under the vehicle so it was possible to see his face in the shadow of the bumper.
"Nah, just thought she could use a tune up, that's all." John shrugged, making the little wheeled board he was laying on tilt just a little so that his whole face came into the light.
Roy hadn't anticipated that. It was supposed to go a certain way. He was supposed to try to listen to the knock John heard, not hear it and end up getting to the bottom of whatever was bothering him. He stood there wondering when the rules changed.
"I uh, thought I heard some knocking earlier when we were on our way to Rampart," Roy tried.
"That wasn't it," Gage said.
Roy counted to ten.
"That knocking you heard was just because the gas tank's full. It always does that when the tank's newly filled," John said
"Okay … Good to know."
"Roy, look man, I'm sorry … for earlier. I just …"
And Roy knew he wasn't going to get an answer yet. Figuring this out was gonna be a tough one. He'd wait for the rant. The rant was inevitable; his partner practically invented them. But it would wait. The tones sounded.
XXXX
For a person so deeply affected by certain events, John could always be counted on to suspend any personal troubles or misgivings and concentrate one hundred percent on his job. Roy was the same. It was a good feeling. Each man knew they were covered and the outcome would be the best they could possibly make for each victim.
They pulled up in the back of Woo Hoo's Waterslide Park. Wordlessly, John pointed to a huge, six-story, blue plastic slide as he jumped out and began to gather their equipment. Roy followed his finger as he grabbed the O2 and biophone. Big Red pulled up next to them. Cap immediately called for a snorkel truck. The manager who couldn't have been more than eighteen met them at the back gate. He wore a white lifeguard t-shirt with a huge red cross on the front and back.
"You've gotta help me … him I mean. It's employee appreciation day … probably 'cause it's too cold to get any customers. The owner phoned and said we could use the equipment. He said he had the Waga Waga run fixed but …" The young man pointed. Two sections of the slide had come apart. Water poured from the broken edge down to the other part of the jagged tube about two feet from the join but still standing. For now. Most disturbing was the lone figure, dangling in between the two joins by his upper body and one foot tenuously perched on the sharp, broken edge of the lower tube.
Cap eyed the structural supports beneath the twisted, interconnecting tubing from several waterslides. There was no room for the men to set up a mat underneath. A fall would mean certain death even if the victim managed to fall inside the slide. The end of the slide no longer led to a gratifying splashdown into a pool, it twisted and tilted to a cement pad when it uncoupled.
"Chet, get that water shut off, Mike and Marco, check out the structural safety of the climbing platform. Roy, John, get your gear. We're gonna do what we can until the snorkel company gets here."
A round of aye Cap! chorused through the men as they set about their duties. Cap grabbed a bullhorn.
"What's his name?" Cap asked the trembling young manager.
"Brian."
Cap pressed the button on the bullhorn. "Brian. Just hang on, we're gonna get you out. You're gonna be fine."
Everyone on the ground reacted like a grenade went off when the teen victim managed to yell back, his voice echoing eerily in the tubes muffled by the water trickling into his panicked face. "I can't … hold on … any longer."
"Okay, listen, someone's gonna come for you. You just gotta hold on for a little longer. Everything's gonna be okay."
"My hand's cut. I can't hold on anymore."
Cap's heart sunk at the words when his HT crackled to life.
"Cap, it's John here. Mike and Marco are confident the service climbing structure is safe. Chet's got the water shut off as best he could. We're going up."
Cap gave permission and had to hope that the snorkel truck would be there before one of his men had to try a rescue from above but as soon as word was given his youngest paramedic monkey-climbed up the steel ladder followed by Roy.
As soon as John neared the top the Vader-like breathing met his ears. The victim coughed intermittently and tried to suck air thorough the still dripping tubes from faulty washers in the hoses connected to the top of the slide.
"Help me, I'm gonna fall," the victim pleaded.
"No. You're not," John said with as much authority as he could muster. "Not after my poor partner had to climb all the way up here to save you. He hates climbing. If you fall, I'm gonna have a really bad afternoon listening to him whine about climbing up here for nuthin'," Gage smiled down at the young man through a gap in the ladder.
That statement seemed to confuse the young man and take his mind momentarily from his peril.
It was a classic tactic and Roy smiled at his partner for his quick thinking in engaging the teenager, whose arms were beginning to shake from the stress of holding on. Blood ran down his arm and dripped into the lower slide to disappear into a pink swirl. It was a miracle the kid hadn't passed out from blood loss.
"I climb this every … every day," Brian said stoutly, directing his tilted gaze toward Roy.
"Then you might want to consider being a fireman when you're a bit older," the senior paramedic said. "If you're anything like monkey-boy here, you'll be a natural. Now, just hold on a bit longer and we'll get you down and patched up and I can take a nap," Roy said feigning a slight fear of heights and weariness.
"Who're you callin' monkey boy?" Gage said for Brian's benefit, putting on a harness and trying to gauge how much rope he'd need so as not to knock the kid right off the end of the slide and plummet himself over the incredibly sharp edge.
Roy did not like this scenario one bit but he knew it was the only chance they'd get to save Brian. Already the victim's eyes were beginning to droop and his head tilted back a few times. Roy tried to keep up the banter as best he could as it seemed to keep the kid calm and focused.
"Call 'em as I see 'em," Roy teased, all the while keeping an ear and eye out for the snorkel truck. He turned to John and quietly said. "Look, John, this slide's unstable. You could get in there and the whole thing could fall."
"We can't wait for the ladder. This kid's got minutes if he's lucky," John whispered back. "I'm the lightest. This is the only option."
"I think we got the rope estimation right, Johnny. You should stop about two feet from him and then we'll try to control your descent real slow so you can reach 'im," Mike said, handing John the safety hook while Roy set up one for the victim. John took the proffered harness and before Roy could say another word slithered into the slide and whipped out of sight.
Roy knew John's descent was quick for a good reason. Without full water flow he could fetch up if he didn't just go with it and fall and the strain on the slide would be too much. He held his breath waiting for the rope to tauten.
The lack of water in the slide somersaulted the young paramedic unexpectedly, the rope fetching up on his neck on the outside of his turnout coat. His hands groped for something to stop his fall but were met with slimy plastic. He tried to dig his fingernails in at every uneven join to no avail.
"OOF!"
The rope tautened with a harsh jerk in Mike, Marco and Chet's hands. Roy looked for John's shadow in the slide, which should have been two feet above their victim who was still bouncing from the sudden jolt above. Brian's foot lost purchase on the lower tube and Roy wanted to close his eyes but the kid's kicking limbs finally gained tenuous footing again.
"Johnny!"
No answer. Roy's eyes roamed the slide until he found the folded shadow in an S-bend.
Inside the darkened tube John's eyes bulged. The rope wound around his neck on the outside of his turnout coat. He had seconds. The pressure was unbearable; the only thing keeping the rope from biting into his flesh was the heavy canvas. Black spots danced on the edge of his vision. He tried to straighten his body but his weight dangled from his neck, his back bent unnaturally around the S-bend when he uncoiled.
The idiot in him that could always be counted on to help him stay conscious vaguely wondered if this was what babies who had the umbilical chord wrapped around their necks during delivery felt like. He reached up and forced his hand in between the turnout coat and the rope. The washer in the shut off valve chose that moment to let some pressure off and a little river of water trickled into his already constricted airway.
Roy sighed in temporary relief when John coughed and gagged but the shadow in the slide stopped it immediately. John's legs were loudly kicking, trying to gain purchase and take some weight off his neck. It was like watching a game of hangman through a curtain.
But there were two victims here.
"Brian, listen, take it easy. We're comin' for ya. Try to hold on. Try to breathe," Roy coaxed.
While humor had kept the young man going before, Roy watched as his eyes tilted to the section of slide above him.
"You've gotta … help your partner, man. I think … he's strangling," Brian gasped, his arms shaking even worse.
"We're gonna get you both out. It's okay. It's gonna be okay," Roy lied as above Brian his partner's kicking feet were slowing down into half-hearted jerks and spasms.