Part Six - The Not-Date
John rolled up to the address Evvy had given him and checked the map for good measure. He unfolded himself from the newly cleaned, vacuumed, and waxed Land Rover and glanced up. Evvy waved to him from the attic apartment window and twitched the curtain closed. Two minutes later, she emerged from the house, and John felt his face break into a broad smile.
He had never seen her out-of-uniform before, except when she was dressed in boxers and a t-shirt for bed. Tonight she wore a conservative mid-length dress in a large swirly, colourful print, blue and green and coral. It put him in mind of what he imagined a Barbadian beach might look like. Perhaps that's why she had chosen it. He hustled to help her step carefully down the front porch stairs, balanced on platform heels. She was wearing a bit of makeup, and her hair was somehow both more and less curly than he had seen it before. He didn't know how that was even possible. She looked like a girl. She looked amazing.
"Hi," she said, shyly.
"Far out," John said, grinning. "You look incredible."
She beamed, and gave his best blue suit and slightly trimmed hair a long gaze. "You look," she paused, "like the best thing I've seen in a long, long time."
"Far out," he said again, and opened the Rover's door. She made an appreciative noise at the pristine interior as she climbed in.
He turned in the driver's seat and studied her face by the overhead light. "How'd your scrape heal so fast?" There was no sign of it. Yesterday, it had still been evident, a dark shadow against her brown skin.
"Three talented girlfriends and a ton of makeup, John."
"Oh."
It was a forty-five minute drive to the party's venue. They rode in companionable silence for about five minutes, which was about as long as John could manage. "Hey, Evvy, can I ask you a question?" She responded with an "mmm" sound. "How come you didn't tell anyone about the stuff the other shifts were doing with your locker?"
Evvy looked at him. "Why?" She sounded genuinely puzzled. "What would that do?"
"Well, I mean, Cap's a good guy, he would've . . ." John stopped, unsure how to complete that sentence.
"Yeah, would've what. Look, if a guy has a problem with my being black, no amount of talking to is going to change that. If someone has a problem with my being a woman, then calling them on it just puts me in the crosshairs with everyone waiting for me to fail and blame it on my sex. Cap has a million other things to worry about, and he can't solve any of that. It would just sound like whining."
"But, see, here's the thing," John retorted, "we know the guys on B and C Shift, we could have said something to them. You shouldn't have had to put up with that for six months."
"You did say something, though, right?"
John kept his eyes on the road. She was perceptive, that was for sure. Best that she didn't know that John, Chet, and Roy had had intense conversations with both of the other shifts, outside the presence of the shift Captains, along the lines of, Cut this shit out or it will not go well for you.
"'Future Captain John Gage' to the rescue," Evvy said, smiling.
"Heh, future Captain," John laughed. "You see yourself as a future captain–the first female captain in LA County?"
Evvy shook her head. "There's not going to be a black, female captain for at least another thirty years, John. That doesn't figure with my career timeline. I want to go into public safety in a few years, make policy around building codes and such. In the meantime, I'm learning everything I can about how structures burn, and what tools we have to fight fires. Can you imagine building an apartment complex out of materials that are truly fire-resistant, or that don't poison firefighters when they burn? Or redesigning our standard equipment past the ropes and hooks that we've been using for a hundred years." She shrugged. "I don't think I can get there just on the line though. I'll have to up my certs, maybe get advanced rescue training."
John eyed her for a long moment before returning his gaze to the road. "Who would have thought that I, John Roderick Gage, would be spending a not-romantic not-date with the brainiest, most ambitious hose jockey in LA County?"
Smirking, Evvy retorted, "I'm telling you, your standards are abysmally low. And stop making fun of me."
"I'm not making fun," John protested. "I'm just saying, I may have to ride your coattails all the way up to Battalion Command." He supposed it was fortunate he was driving; she looked like she wanted to throw something at him.
Changing the subject, Evvy asked about John's experiences growing up on the rez, and they compared notes–John with his upbringing on the Pala Reservation and Evvy's two college summers on Hualapai land. The drive flew by, and, before he knew it, they were turning into the reserved section of the parking lot at the venue. There were a few fire officials' vehicles already there. He could feel Evvy tense up as he backed into a tight parking space. While he walked around to open her door, she gathered herself with a deep breath. John altered his long-legged pace to accommodate her shorter stride as they walked across the lot, but was brought up short when Evvy suddenly stopped at the main entrance.
"Did you really get bitten by a rattlesnake after a run?" she asked, out of the blue.
"Yeah," John answered.
"And you started an IV on yourself while lying on top of the Big Red Engine?" she pressed.
"Yeah, worst rescue ever." He grimaced. "Why are you asking me about this right now?"
Evvy took his hand and squeezed it tightly. "I'm trying to think of something more horrible than walking into that ballroom right now."
John squeezed her hand back. "It'll be okay," he said, and opened the heavy door.
He had a plan to execute, if only he could get Evvy to cooperate. He had never met a female so intent on disappearing into the shadows. He could practically feel her flinch when they entered the dim ballroom, which was pulsing with loud music and filled with colleagues she didn't know. He made a beeline for Roy and Joanne, the easiest target. Joanne, dressed in a lime green maxi-dress, greeted Evvy warmly and immediately drew her into conversation. John interrupted to say, loudly, "Can I get you something to drink?"
Evvy said, raising her voice to be heard over the music, "Anything but milk!" Joanne laughed and said, "Oh, I'm going to like you!" as John and Roy moved off toward the bar.
It appeared that John Gage knew, and was known by, every single person in the Los Angeles County Fire Department. He could not go three steps without being greeted by colleagues. He returned each greeting enthusiastically, as Evvy struggled to keep up with his strides and not spill her half-full glass of chardonnay. He clearly had someone particular in mind as he circumvented the dance floor. When he finally stopped, she looked up to see an attractive black man smiling at her. Was he setting her up on a date, on their not-date?
"Evvy, I want you to meet my friend, Captain Lloyd Stone. Stoney, this is Evvy Wayfair, our newest lineman at 51s. Stoney and I trained as paramedics together, back before he was brass."
Stoney smiled broadly at her. "So pleased to finally meet you, Evvy." She guessed captains could address you by your first name if they wanted to. She knew the Department had a Negro captain, but she'd never had a chance to meet him until now.
"Where's, uh, where's Michelle?" John asked, looking around.
Stoney ducked his head. "She wasn't feeling well enough to come tonight." At John's concerned look, he added, "Swollen ankles, a bit of backache . . ." John whooped and pulled the older man into a hug, slapping him on the back, congratulating him. Stoney absorbed the blows and hugged John back.
After a moment, John said, "So, Stoney, let me tell you about Evvy–she's really coming along. She's thinking about doing advanced rescue training. . ."
Evvy realized quickly that the guys of 51 had conspired to make sure she was not left alone for more than a minute. From time to time, John was drawn into long conversations that excluded her, just by virtue of his relationship with whomever he was talking to. Before she could slink away, she would find herself rescued by Roy and Joanne, or Marco and his date, Camilla, and even once by Chet, decked out in a rented velvet tux with possibly the most bored looking woman Evvy had ever seen tugging on his arm, coaxing him toward the door. She met firefighters and paramedics from a handful of different stations; most were able to mask their surprise when John introduced her as his colleague rather than his latest girlfriend. Some were initially frosty when they learned that she was a lineman at 51s, but gradually thawed as John related over and over again the (slightly embellished and amusingly told) story of how Evvy had saved him from the brush fire and single-handedly preserved his luscious locks.
A disco song began to play, and John lit up like a candle. "I know this one!" he exclaimed. "I went down to the community center a couple days ago and learned it. Come on." Snagging her almost empty glass, he placed it on a nearby table and led her to the dance floor, where people were assembling in lines. The dance wasn't hard, as the steps repeated over and over, and she picked it up pretty quickly. The crowd yelled, "Do the Hustle!" on cue as they moved. She took a moment to appreciate John's grace and sheer joy of movement. There was nothing gangly about him right now. They stayed on the dance floor for several more uptempo songs, unselfconscious and laughing and putting aside the serious, dangerous, life-and-death mission that tied everyone in the room together. In these moments, nobody was thinking about dry brush, chemical fires, victims, or the inescapable reality of their day-to-day life that required them to run into danger when everyone else was running out. In these moments, they celebrated just beating the odds and being alive at the close of another year.
"I had a really good time, did you have a good time?" John couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth as he pulled up to the curb in front of Evvy's house. Not waiting for an answer, he bounded out of the Rover and dashed around to the passenger side to open her door. She hopped out, and he carefully guided her up the stairs of the porch. She took out her key and unlocked her front door.
"I had a very nice time, John," Evvy said. "Thank you for making me go." The night was quiet around them.
John smiled nervously. "This is, uh, this is where I would normally–I'm not going to try to kiss you goodnight, 'cause this isn't a date. . . ." he trailed off.
"Yeah," Evvy said. They stood in awkward silence.
He took a sudden sharp breath and raised his index finger. "But then again, you know, maybe–just hear me out–maybe I could, we could, I could give you a, you know, friendly kiss goodnight, just between two friends who are not on a date. Just to, you know, end a really nice evening." He shifted nervously. If it had been a real date, this would be where the wheels came off the wagon.
Five seconds ticked by, ten. Then Evvy said, "I think that would be . . .yes."
Even with her platform shoes, he was still inches taller than she was, so he bent his knees and lowered his head to meet her lips with his, framing her face with gentle palms. Her mouth was soft and tasted like her strawberry lip gloss. Her hand drifted up, and her fingertips touched his jaw lightly. After a few sweet moments, they drew apart, and he watched her eyes flutter open to meet his. Her mouth curved up in a small smile, and he let out a soft chuckle and a shy, quick flicker of a half-grin.
"Best not-date ever," Evvy said quietly. "Goodnight, John.'
"Goodnight, Evvy." She closed the door, and he retreated to the sidewalk, watching the upstairs window. When the light went on, he climbed into the Rover and headed for home.
Cap strolled into the kitchen after roll call, a piece of paper in his hand. The guys were discussing their plans for Christmas, which was only a few days away. As the calendar fell this year, 51's A Shift would be off duty on the holiday itself, and their mood was high. Evvy was saying, with zero enthusiasm, that her mother was coming to visit just after the New Year, and staying with her for a week. Cap smiled and asked, "Are you planning to bring her by the station to meet us?"
"Noooo, no. Uh, no," Evvy responded emphatically.
Cap raised his bushy brows. "You don't want her to meet the guys you spend 24, 48 hours at a stretch with?"
"Roll that sentence around in your head, Cap," Evvy replied dryly after a beat, "and ask it again." The point settled in the room, yet another unexpected reminder of the unique challenges of a co-ed station. "My mom doesn't like my job. She doesn't like that I have a job. She'd rather I be working on her third or fourth grandchild by now. I don't really want to remind her that I spend a lot of my nights in a room with six dudes."
"Oh, come on," Chet said, "we'd be on our best behaviour." He shot John a dirty look for rolling his eyes and snorting in disbelief. "The Phantom never messes with people's moms."
"Be that as it may," Cap said, forestalling the impending argument, "we'd be happy to give her a tour if she's interested." He indicated the slip of paper he held. "So, anyway, 8s B Shift is looking for a lineman to cover Christmas Day. It's good overtime–you interested, Wayfair?"
Evvy almost spilled her coffee. Cap wasn't prone to practical jokes, and she'd already mentioned that she didn't have any particular plans for Christmas. She thought about it for a second. She knew Cap at least well enough by now to trust that he wouldn't deliberately send her into the lions' den. If he thought she couldn't handle it, he never would have suggested it. And he for sure would not put his own, or 51's, reputation on the line. "Okay, Cap," she said, trying to project the same steady confidence. "Thanks."
Cap handed her the slip and turned for the door, then spun back on his heel. "Oh, by the way, you all looked very spiffy on Friday night."
Chet, never one to leave well enough alone, said, "Yeah, Mike, you should have seen Johnny and Evvy tearing up the dance floor. I didn't know that Gage could cut a rug like that."
Stoker raised his brows. "Good date?"
"Not a date," John said. He glanced at Evvy with an odd expression. He looked vulnerable and a little resigned, waiting for her response as if expecting to be the butt of a joke for the rest of the day. They would never be lovers–God, no, he was way too high maintenance for her–but he was sweet and smart, funny and kind, he did kind of make her toes curl when he smiled, and he was so, so pretty.
She tipped her head a little and looked straight at Stoker. "Let's just say, I didn't need any strawberry ice cream," she said opaquely, and let his paperback-romance-loving imagination fill in the rest.
"Far out," she heard John say quietly.
Evvy arrived thirty minutes early for her 8s shift, not so much to have a quiet cup of coffee as she normally did, but to give herself time to get acquainted with the station and its apparatus. She was pleased, in a little girl way, to find that Station 8 had a real fire pole. She hadn't used one since Academy. She tapped on Captain McEnany's office to introduce herself.
McEnany stood and came out from behind his desk. She was surprised to see Captain Stone, whom John had introduced her to at the party, also stand. "Captain McEnany, I'm Evvy Wayfair," she said, holding out her hand.
McEnany shook it firmly, and said, "Welcome to 8s. I believe you've met Captain Stone?"
By that introduction, Evvy surmised that Stone had stuck around after his shift to give his impressions of her to McEnany. No doubt, also, that McEnany and Stanley had had some conversations about her. "We've all heard a lot about you."
Stone smiled. "No pressure, though." He made for the door, deliberately walking past the knot of incoming B Shift crew and nodding a good morning. Evvy knew exactly what he was doing: making clear that Evvy had an ally and setting silent expectations. McEnany gestured her out of the office and introduced her to the crew.
Marco, Chet, and Roy had all given her a crash course on Captain McEnany. Like many of his peers, McEnany was a combat veteran, and he ran his shift with that mindset. She was pretty sure there was no Phantom here. His crew referred to him as "sir," instead of the more familiar "Cap." He believed that idle hands were the devil's tools, so every man was constantly cleaning, maintaining, and checking equipment, studying manuals and protocols, or training and drilling, when not on runs or doing inspections. The shift had a printed chore and task chart. Captain Stanley simply assigned the worst chores to whoever annoyed him the most at roll call, or to the last one in. Except, he had never assigned latrine duty to Evvy after the time she had quietly commented on the irony that the men could reliably put out fires with hoses but could not actually aim.
Captain Stanley had a specific voice he used to command at scene, easily heard over the roar of a fire or the general chaos, but in day to day interactions, used a normal, if sometimes slightly sarcastic, tone. McEnany barked everything, no matter how benign, in his Incident Commander Voice.
When roll call was over, Evvy ditched her duffel into her assigned locker and went in search of coffee. She was a beat behind everyone else when the unfamiliar tone pattern sounded, grabbed a spare 8s helmet, and took the last jump seat on the Engine. She reflected ruefully to herself that somebody was about to have a very bad Christmas morning.
The house was fully involved when Engine 8 arrived, screaming down the cul de sac. Families were already lining the street in little groups, robes wrapped tight against the morning chill. McEnany hollered at her to support the front of the house. Through the shattered window, she could see the charred remains of a seven foot tall Christmas tree. She stood behind the lead lineman, Walter Simms, and worked on knocking down the fire in that front room. It was no different from the many times she had worked the line with Chet or Marco, the same swaying rhythm, the same unspoken communication to change the pattern or the flow, the same controlled chaotic activity all around. Two men entered the house, one she recognized as a paramedic from another station, and it seemed odd that neither was John or Roy.
From deep inside the house came the unmistakable sound of wood collapsing. She heard shouts of alarm, and then, surprisingly, her name. "Wayfair, Simms," McEnany thundered, "we've got two men and a possible victim inside. Go!" Evvy dropped the hose and pulled her mask straps over her head, resetting her helmet. She followed closely behind Simms, who moved with the urgency of a man whose friends needed his help.
Inside, the hallway of the home was still roaring. They picked their way carefully past burning pieces of furniture. They followed the downed line past the hollowed out living room and found that part of the ceiling to what looked like a dining room had caved in. A yell came from the other side of the debris. "In here, we're pinned!"
Simms began to move the chunks of drywall and wood to gain entry. Evvy dug around the side, an imaginary countdown ticking by in her head. The house was unstable and every second mattered. They broke through enough to squeeze into the room, only to find that one firefighter was pinned with the male victim, probably the owner of the house, who was still clad in pajamas and bathrobe. The second firefighter was frantically trying to move the top half of a china cabinet that had toppled over. He was using only his left arm, and his right hung limply at his side.
Evvy took a position near the male victim and waited for Simms to wedge both hands underneath the heavy cabinet. "Heave!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the mask. The furniture moved a bit, and they pushed it aside with two more efforts. The fallen fireman was bleeding from his scalp, his helmet hanging by its strap. He stood and staggered, disoriented. Evvy bent to check the homeowner's respirations, but no breath moved from his mouth or nose. The tell-tale smudge around his nostrils indicated smoke inhalation. She pulled off her mask and secured it over his face.
Simms and the other fireman had managed to get their colleague between them. He had gone limp, and they dragged him over the mound of debris in the doorway. Evvy crouched, tethered to her victim by the short length of hose between her SCBA tank and the mask. Simms looked over toward her and yelled something–a question, by the upward inflection–that was unintelligible, but probably along the lines of, "You okay with that one?" She nodded emphatically, hoping that her exposed expression projected confidence. She took hold of the victim's arm. It was awkward, and she didn't have much leverage from this position, but she managed to pull him up and across her shoulders. She took a second to find her center of gravity, repositioned him, and hustled out of the room. The trio in front of her fought their way drunkenly down the smoke-filled hallway, dodging pockets of flame. She kept her eyes on them as she stepped where they did. The creaking above her head made her wish they would move faster, but her brain simply took up the mantra, One more step, one more step.
She was four paces out of the house with her burden when the second floor collapsed. She managed, just, to keep her feet and half staggered, half ran to Squad 116's staging area. She lowered the victim as gently as she could, given that he had to weigh at least a buck eighty and gravity was a thing, and landed, herself, on her right knee. Other hands pulled the air mask off of the victim's face, freeing her to straighten up, and replaced it with a respirator. She sat back on her heels, coughing violently.
Two strong hands lifted her and guided her to the running board of the Squad, and then pressed her own air mask firmly to her face. She breathed in the cool air and coughed it back out several times, feeling the spasms in her lungs. After a few moments, she felt her breathing even out. She sat there, recovering. She had never eaten that much smoke before.
Simms crouched down into her line of vision. "You okay?" His blue eyes looked her over, checking for injuries.
She nodded and pulled the mask away from her face briefly. "Yeah. How're your guys?" She sounded like an old man.
Simms looked over toward the spot where the paramedic was propped up, getting his arm wrapped into place. "Baldwin's doing good. Shoulder's just dislocated. Waterman got his bell rung, but he'll be okay, too."
She nodded again, drawing deeply from her air tank.
The fireman paused, then smiled tiredly. "You know, for a hose jockey, you make a pretty good rescue man, Wayfair," he said.
She took her helmet off and looked at the unfamiliar "8," then put it aside carefully. She pulled the mask away from her mouth again. "Station 51. I'm learning from the best," she croaked.
