Chapter 5 – The Visit

It was well after seven before the Engine company was done opening walls and snuffing out hot spots hiding inside the piles stacked in every single room of Bobby's destroyed house. By the time the salvage company arrived, hundreds of pounds of burnt, drenched material littered the lawn. The exhausted firefighters dragged themselves into their seats atop the Engine, squinting against the morning sun.

When the tones woke John and Roy from the short morning nap they had been able to grab after returning from Rampart, the Engine still hadn't returned. John took the first shower, and changed into a clean uniform. He didn't love 48-hour shifts, but the upside was that the Station could usually get in a good breakfast if they weren't called out. He began cracking a full carton of eggs into a bowl while Roy showered and the day's first pot of coffee brewed.

Captain Stanley had just informed Dispatch that Engine 51 would be back in quarters in approximately twenty minutes, when there was knock at the kitchen door. Glancing at Roy, who was perusing the morning paper, John put down his cup and opened the door.

A tall, dark-skinned woman in her late fifties wearing a smart light blue pantsuit stood, unsmiling. "May I help you?" John asked politely.

"Good morning," the woman said, and just by her voice, John knew exactly who she was. "I'm looking for Evelyn Wayfair. I understand she works here?" She pronounced Evvy's given name with a long "E" sound, "Eev-lyn."

"Mrs. Wayfair, please come in." At her surprised look, John said, "I'm John Gage, Evvy's crewmate." He opened the door wide and gestured her inside. "The Engine is out on a run, but they're due back in quarters soon. Would you like to wait?"

"If it's no trouble," Mrs. Wayfair said, taking the offered seat.

Roy had stood, and John introduced him, "Mrs. Wayfair, this is my partner, Roy DeSoto. Can I get you a cup of tea while you wait?"

Mrs. Wayfair smiled with pleasure. "That would be lovely, thank you," she responded in a Caribbean lilt significantly more pronounced than her daughter's. She looked around the kitchen/day room with interest. "Are you not part of the firefighter crew?" she asked.

"We are, but we have a slightly different job," Roy said. "We're paramedics as well as firefighters, so we're also responsible for stabilizing victims before they're transported to the hospital. We left the scene a couple of hours ago with a patient, but the engine crew was still working the fire."

Evvy's mother asked a polite follow-up question about the paramedic program, and John was off to the races. He enthusiastically launched into an explanation of the various roles in the Station, and after a moment, got up to start beating the eggs with milk, still talking. Mrs. Wayfair observed his efforts for a moment, then asked, "Do you have any vegetables?" Perplexed, John pulled out the leftover onion, peppers, cheese, and tomatoes from the chili Marco had made for dinner the previous evening, plus, when asked, half a loaf of white bread. Under Mrs. Wayfair's direction, he chopped and combined the ingredients, poured the mixture into a baking dish, and slid it into the oven, chattering in answer to her questions the whole time.

Just as John refilled his and Roy's coffee cups, and Mrs. Wayfair sipped her second cup of tea, they heard the sound of the Engine backing into the bay. Roy shot John a look, and rose quickly.

Five firefighters groaned tiredly as they climbed down from the Ward-LaFrance. Chet stopped abruptly, mid-stretch, nose twitching. "I smell breakfast," he said, excitement momentarily overtaking his fatigue.

Evvy couldn't smell anything but soot, and she couldn't tell if the bitter aroma came from herself, her colleagues, or the memory of the burnt, destroyed house they had just left behind. Her desire for caffeine sent her trudging toward the kitchen after stowing her turnout coat and helmet, where she was intercepted by Roy.

"Your mom's here," he said quietly.

His words paralyzed her for a moment, her mind going blank. What was her mother doing at the Station at eight o'clock in the morning?

Roy looked at her anxiously. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, shit," said Evvy, who never swore.

Captain Stanley greeted Evvy's mom with his usual charm. When Evvy heard him say, "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," she knew that escaping down the highway was not a possibility. Lifting her chin, she stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs. Wayfair went stock still as she looked at her daughter with shock and disapproval. Evvy was covered in sweat-streaked soot from her hairline to the neck of her once white, now-dingy, t-shirt. Her bunker pants were more black than tan from hours of overhauling. She knew her eyes must be red-rimmed from the smoke and fumes, and much of her corkscrew-curly hair had long since escaped its elastic band and clips. Her mother stood and walked slowly toward her. The rest of the crew lingered in awkward silence.

"Hello, Mama," Evvy said.

Mrs. Wayfair studied Evvy, and reached for her hands. Evvy's nails were ringed with soot and dirt. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

"No, Mama."

Her mother regarded her for a moment longer, taking in the fading bruise on Evvy's cheek, then turned and resumed her seat, lifting her cup of tea. "I thought I would swing by to see you before I head back to Philadelphia. My flight leaves in three hours."

Captain Stanley cleared his throat. "Evvy, why don't you take the first shower, and then you can visit with your mom . . ."

"Thank you, Cap," Evvy said.

"Shower and locker room's off limits for ten," Cap said generally to the room, out of habit. The men were all gathered in the kitchen, so his reminder was not necessary, but it was automatically issued whenever Evvy used the shower to prevent intrusions on her privacy. It had come in handy over the holidays, with shifts being covered by men who had never served with a woman. Evvy nodded in acknowledgement and took off toward the locker room.

Evvy took a five-minute shower, scrubbing off all of the dirt, sweat, and soot, and shampooing the grime from her hair. As she reappeared, dressed neatly in her day uniform, her mother was holding court in a way, gently interrogating the crew as they showed her the Engine and the Squad. She walked in just as Chet laughed, "Oh, Evvy's pretty tough, she's only spent a night or two in the hospital so far."

If Evvy's eyes were lasers, Chet would have been incinerated where he stood. Roy noticed Evvy's thunderous expression and jumped into the conversation to change the subject. "Kelly," Cap said, "you're next in the shower."

"But," Chet started.

"Move. Now." Cap said in That Tone. Chet made himself scarce.

"You were in the hospital?" Mrs. Wayfair asked. "When?"

Evvy kept her face blank. "Maybe a month or so ago," she said, "I bumped my head. It wasn't serious. It's just protocol to stay a night at Rampart whenever that happens." She sent a pleading look to Roy to back her up.

The senior paramedic quickly nodded and agreed, "Yeah, it's protocol. She was fine." The oven timer dinged, and he added, "Uh, sounds like breakfast is ready. Do you have time to stay and eat with us?" Mrs. Wayfair eyed him, perfectly aware of his desperation to change the subject, then nodded. He gently took hold of her elbow and escorted her back into the kitchen. Evvy didn't miss the sharp look her Captain sent her way before following. Great, she thought, both mom and dad are disappointed with me.

John was placing a platter of slightly overcooked bacon next to the piping hot baking dish full of steaming, fluffy egg casserole. "Breakfast is served," he said proudly.

Mike sputtered, disbelief evident in every syllable, "You made this, Gage?"

John hesitated only a second before he 'fessed up. "Evvy's mom showed me how to make it." The confirmation that this was not a John Gage experiment gave everyone confidence enough to take their seats. The men ate with their usual alacrity, both starving from the long night of hard work and mindful of the fact that the tones could sound at any time. Evvy picked at her breakfast, which was much better than John's usual fare, and let the conversation drift around her. Between bites, Chet and John, primarily, entertained Mrs. Wayfair with only slightly exaggerated stories of some of the Station's more challenging fires and rescues. Every time her name was mentioned, Evvy could feel the weight of her mother's gaze on her. When the casserole dish was empty (with Cap pulling rank and claiming dibs on the last crispy corner piece, his third helping), Mrs. Wayfair reached for her purse.

"Walk me to my car, Evelyn," she said, and Evvy obediently stood. Each of the men stepped forward to wish their colleague's mother goodbye, taking her hand lightly in a show of impeccably good manners. John got a pat on the shoulder and a smile, and Evvy wondered what the heck that was all about. But she held her tongue and escorted her mother out to the rental car parked in the back. She was uncomfortably aware of the several sets of eyes watching through the kitchen window as her mother first straightened Evvy's shirt collar, then laid a gentle hand along her jawline. "You be careful, Evelyn Grace," Mrs. Wayfair said. Evvy waited for the inevitable admonition to keep herself out of trouble in a station full of men, or even a parting wish that she'd consider a more suitable job. But her mother just touched a gentle fingertip to Evvy's chin, and repeated, "You be careful." Then she opened the door to her car and slid in.

The men of 51s would never make great spies, she thought as she walked into a conspicuously casual conversation about absolutely nothing. She pretended she hadn't seen three faces disappear abruptly from the kitchen window as she turned back toward the Station, or noticed that they were still picking at the crumbs of the eggy pudding dish that was her mother's secret weapon to feed many mouths on a budget.

Later, as Evvy was finishing up her assigned chore, mopping the apparatus bay, John strolled in, skirting the wide, wet patch on the floor and leaning against the back of the Squad. Evvy swished the mop in silence, while John shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Had a nice visit with your mom this morning before you got back," he remarked. When Evvy didn't answer, he went on. "How come you've never told her what you do?"

"What d'you mean," Evvy countered, "my mom knows I'm a firefighter."

John scoffed. "Yeah, but she didn't know what you do," he emphasized. "Everything she knows about firefighting comes from TV or the movies. She had a lot of questions." Evvy looked at him in disbelief. "What do you think we talked about the whole time were making breakfast? She wanted to know all about your training, and what riding on the Engine is like, and what you do on your shifts."

"My mom," Evvy said, "never asks about my job." Her tone was doubtful, but she knew that John was not someone who lied.

"To hear her tell it, you never tell her anything." Evvy didn't know what say to that. "She's proud of you," John added.

That brought a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, she is not. Not after I rolled in here this morning looking like a chimney sweep straight out of Mary Poppins. Between her and my aunt, she's definitely losing in the 'daughter sweepstakes.'"

John shook his head. "She's proud of you, all your hard work. And she worries about you."

"Boy, that must have been some conversation." A sobering thought occurred to her, and she side-eyed him cautiously. "You didn't tell her that we went out that one time, did you?"

He chuckled, "No," but before she could relax, he added innocently, "but I think she figured it out."

Evvy's hands tightened on the mop handle. "You didn't – you wouldn't –"

His grin was mischievous and sly. "Nope. But she did give me the serious once-over, sooo . . ."

Evvy groaned, but any further interrogation was cut off by the blast of the klaxon. Station 51, possible drowning. 10991 Alverston Street. 1-0-9-9-1 Alverston Street, cross street, Fullerton. Time out, nine fifty-seven.

As Cap's voice acknowledged the call, Evvy sent the bucket of soapy water careening toward the utility closet with her foot and headed around the Engine, smiling a little as she heard John's comical yelp as he slipped a little on the still-slick floor.