A House Divided – Chet's Cataclysm
Chapter 14
"What are you talkin' about?"
Chet lifted tired red rimmed eyes at the dark haired paramedic. "You heard me, Gage."
"Yea, I heard ya…I heard ya," Johnny countered, face colored in confusion as he sat staring at the Irishman. "I just…how? I mean…"
Chet rolled his eyes then glanced around the room trying to read the minds of his other crew mates. He sat up finally allowing his eyes to settle back on Johnny who still sat with his mouth gaping. "Look, I don't think I have to explain it to ya."
"Are you sure?" Marco asked softly, watching the pained reaction on his friend's face as he cast his eyes downward.
"Yea, Marco. I did the math and it just doesn't add up."
"Wait, I think you better back up a little, Chet," Mike said holding up his hand. He and Roy pulled up chairs from the small dinette while Marco sat down on the sofa beside his partner.
Chet exhaled a cleansing breath; his chest felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. This was the conversation he had been avoiding for nearly a year but as he looked at the men surrounding him, he felt obligated to explain his behavior. Embarrassment began to warm his pale cheeks and he used his trembling hands to scrub his perspiring face. His mouth suddenly felt like it was filled with cotton balls and his tongue felt sticky against the roof of his mouth when he tried to speak. "Can I…ahem, I mean…I really need something to drink," he leaned forward to stand up but felt a firm hand on his left shoulder.
"You also need to eat and take your antibiotics. Let's get some food in you first then we can talk." Marco got up, offering a hand to his friend. A sense of relief washed over him when he saw Chet reach out and grab his proffered hand. Perhaps the young man's earlier defensiveness was waning.
Mike pulled a chair out from the table and Chet gratefully accepted it. Mike watched as Chet drank half the glass of water before slowly pushing the food around on his plate. He then felt a bit encouraged when he saw Chet place a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and slowly chew and swallow it.
Roy quietly stepped into the kitchen and prepared another glass of water for Chet. He then read the directions on the label of the antibiotic and tapped out the large pill before returning to the rest of the group. "Here you go," he said setting both items down beside Chet's plate.
"Thanks," Chet mumbled around a large bite of toast. Then, his countenance fell even further and he allowed his fork to drop with a plinking sound onto his plate. He stared at the remnants of his meal; his vision quickly blurring as his hallow word of gratitude echoed inside his mind. He sniffled a little, avoiding eye contact as he spoke. "Umm, I…I don't even know how to…to begin to apologize for…,"
"Nope, hold it right there," Johnny spoke up, knowing the others were thinking the same thing. "Look, just finish eating and take your medicine then everything will be fine."
"He's right," Roy began. "We'll finish the conversation afterwards."
"Anybody want any coffee?" Mike asked, feeling the need to stop the whirlpool of emotions swirling around and pulling them down.
"Yea," Johnny said.
"Me too," Marco chimed in.
"Roy?" Mike asked looking at the older paramedic who was watching Chet's every move.
"Sounds good…I'll help you." He patted Chet on the back as he walked behind him into the small kitchen.
E!
Hank looked at his watch and sighed. Time seemed to be standing still for him since his wife had left. She had already heard about the loss of Kyle Carrigan and had met him at the door with open arms when he returned home after shift. As he sat remembering how warm her embrace felt, he couldn't help but think how undeserving he was of such love and support. Across town, a young firefighter's body lay cold and lifeless in a morgue; a firefighter who had been under his command and had lost his life because of the assignment Hank had given him. And the partner of the deceased was fighting for his life in Rampart General Hospital's ICU. He rubbed his face, feeling the scruffiness of his unshaven jaws. "Humph, she never even complained about it," he said out loud. He knew his whiskers had scratched his wife's delicate skin but she never mentioned it. Then, he remembered holding her at arm's length, not wanting the intimacy of her touch. He didn't remember anything she had said but he certainly remembered the harshness of his words to her.
He looked at his watch again, calculating how long it had been since she'd looped her purse over her shoulder and rushed out the door wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. He had no idea where she had gone or when she might be back. "Damn it, Hank. You really messed it all up, didn't you?" He asked the question knowing there was no one there to answer him except his own guilty conscience. His mental chastisement continued for several long minutes when another thought entered his mind. He hadn't even called to check on his injured linemen. He got up and shuffled to the phone in the kitchen where he had all his men's phone numbers prominently displayed.
E!
Roy was walking out of the kitchen ahead of Mike, both men carrying two cups of steaming hot fresh coffee, when Chet's phone began to ring. He leaned over handing Marco a cup then turning his attention to Chet.
"Want me to get that for you?"
"Yea…if ya don't mind," Chet spoke softly, taking another bite of his eggs.
He reached for the black rotary dial phone hanging on the wall just as Mike passed Johnny a cup of coffee. "Kelly residence."
"Umm," Hank stumbled over his words as the unexpected voice answered the phone. "R-Roy?"
"Yea, Cap," he said locking eyes with Mike. "I'm, ah…I came over to change the dressing on Chet's foot. He's ah…he's eating breakfast right now." He watched as Chet looked up at him in puzzlement then returned his attention to his meal. "You want to speak with him?"
"Oh, ah…no, no I don't want to interrupt his breakfast. I just wanted to check on him."
"He's got to eat so he can take his meds but his wound looks good and clean. He'll be cleared for duty soon." Roy wasn't at all convinced that his friend was going to be able to return to work any time in the near future but at the moment, he didn't want to raise any suspicions from their captain.
"Ok, well…I guess just let him know I called to check on him and I hope to see him soon."
"Will do, Cap. Talk to you later," Roy said hanging up the phone. He smiled as Mike gave him an almost imperceptible nod of approval when he returned to his seat.
Chet had eaten his fill of breakfast and reached for the large white pill beside his second glass of water. "Damn, can't they make these any smaller?" He placed the pill on the back of his tongue then grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of water. He felt the large object as it moved slowly down the back of his throat and finally entered his stomach. He set the water back down dreading the upcoming conversation. "Why didn't ya tell him?" He asked, reaching for his coffee.
"Why didn't I tell him what?" Roy asked, confused.
"The truth, DeSoto. I know you guys already know. That's why you're all here so why didn't ya just go ahead and tell Cap too? Or does he already know?" He sipped his coffee while using his other hand to trace the lines of condensation down the length of his glass of water.
Roy struggled to keep his ire from rising at Chet's accusatory tone. "Because it isn't my place to tell him; it's yours. Besides, maybe you have a really good reason for doing what you did." Roy hoped the young man would take the bait he was dangling in front of his nose.
The silence in the room was deafening. Chet listened to the sounds of traffic on the street outside his home and remembered hearing those same sounds the previous night when he was sitting alone in the squad contemplating committing the act that had now brought nearly his entire shift over to his apartment. All he had wanted to do was have some paid time off to sort through the mess he had made of his life. And to get to the bottom of the mystery that had consumed him for nearly a year.
"Do you?"
"Huh? Do I what?" Chet asked; jolted from his reminiscing by Roy's flatly spoken question.
"Do you have a good reason for switching boots with Carrigan so it would look like you got hurt at the scene?"
Chet felt waves of heat undulating over him while heart palpitations pounded inside his lower throat. Sweat beads popped out along his temples and his thighs felt weak making him appreciate his seated position, unsure whether his limp legs could keep him upright otherwise. His respirations increased as he thought of how to answer that question. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he decided that he had been lying long enough. "Because….'cause I didn't have any more sick time I could take off and…I, uh…I stepped on a piece of glass yesterday mornin'. I cleaned and bandaged it but I didn't know there was a piece still in it. I mean…it hurt like a bitch all day so I just kept taking aspirin and all but….after I carried him out…I just couldn't take it anymore and…well, you know the rest." He ran a hand through his mussed up curly hair waiting for the shouting to begin and knowing he deserved every word.
"Well, that explains all the blood on your sock," Roy stated.
"Yea…bled like a stuck pig all day."
"Listen, Kelly…aspirin is a blood thinner so the more aspirin you took the less clotting you had," Roy explained; he could see dark hair moving out of the corner of his eye as Johnny nodded his agreement.
"Humph…oh," Chet muttered. He knew the others were waiting on him to continue but he was struggling to find his words.
Mike finally spoke up breaking the uncomfortable silence and responding on behalf of the group. "We're not here to judge you, Chet. You'll have to decide what to do about your foot injury. We're worried about you. What happened yesterday was just the latest. You haven't been yourself for a long, long time and we just want to help."
"He's right," Marco confirmed.
Chet propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. "I wish ya could, fellas. But…but no one can help me. I mean…my life is just so messed up that…well…," he nodded negatively as the lump in his throat prevented him from completing his sentence.
Marco stood up and placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of his hurting friend. He felt the younger man trembling beneath his touch and his heart began to ache for whatever circumstance was causing this unusual behavior. "Chet…you started saying something a few minutes ago about your Dad."
Chet pulled the paper napkin from his lap and wiped his face with it. He no longer tried to portray the macho firefighter; he knew in his heart it was all just an act anyway. He felt weak and vulnerable; last night's failed rescue had confirmed it all. He crumpled up the napkin and dropped it unceremoniously onto his plate then rested his head against his steepled hands. "Yea," he uttered in a shaky voice. "He's…Charles Kelly isn't my father…he can't be."
"Ok, we got that before but Chet what makes you say that?"
Chet concluded that Johnny's voice had never been more irritating to his ears. He used his palms to rub his face rapidly until he felt it tingle. He blew out his cheeks knowing he was stalling and then without looking up at the four sets of eyes staring at him, he began his sordid tale. "Ok…look, ahem…back almost a year ago, I went home to visit my folks and…," he hesitated realizing he had used the term of endearment in reference to not only his mother but the man who had reared him. "My…ah…well, Charles," he corrected, "was sortin' through a box of letters, pictures, that kinda thing from his time in the war. It was all spread out on the kitchen table and, ah," he stuttered, running a hand back through his hair and slinking down in his chair. "He and…um, well…my Mom…they…well, they were talkin' and seemed to be enjoyin' themselves, ya know?" He looked around realizing that he had their full attention and suddenly felt the heat around his collar return. "We all sat there lookin' through all that stuff and he asked me about the results of the engineer's exam."
"Uh-oh," Marco whispered a little too loudly.
"Exactly," Chet exclaimed feeling his spine become gelatinous.
"He wasn't too happy with your results, huh?"
"Boy, you can say that again, Johnny." Chet looked back down at the crumpled white napkin with a few smudges on it and thought about the yellowed paper work he had read after Charles had become angry and stormed out of the room followed closely by his wife who was angrily chastising him.
Chet cleared his throat and continued as his memories transported him back in time.
~.~.~.~.~.
"Seventy-fourth?"
"Well, the scores are good for a year so I can still get promoted…maybe," Chet struggled to defend himself; his voice seeming to return to its prepubescent squeak as he cowered beneath his father's stern voice.
"Charles, he did the best he could…why isn't that good enough for you?"
Chet listened to the conversation between his parents and wished he could somehow shrink into nothingness.
"Well it isn't good enough, Charlene! He chose this line of work so the least he can do is make sure he can make a decent living at it!"
Chet gulped, wanting to stand up to his father and explain that what he was doing was important; to tell him that saving lives and property was hard work and that the rewards of personal satisfaction for seeing families reunited and priceless heirlooms spared made up for the low pay. "Dad," he began standing up and facing the hulking older man. "It's my life! I've never asked you for one red cent. I'm proud of what I do and damn it, I'm good at it too so,"
"Then why the hell can't you move up, Chester Blain Kelly? Your brother is three years younger than you are and he makes twice the money you make! How can you ever support a family on what you make, huh?"
"Charles, that's enough!" Charlene Kelly stood, index finger pointing across the table at her husband. "Chet risks his life for others…and my heart swells with pride every time I think about it." Her blue eyes glared across the table burning holes into the older Kelly man's heart. She shifted her gaze to the downcast face of her oldest child. "Chet…honey, we love you and…"
"Don't speak for him, Mom. I know how he feels. He's always been harder on me than on George." Chet stood firmly rooted between his parents determined not to be the one who walked out. He saw his father's feet shuffle back towards the back of the house and heard the stairs creaking beneath the older man's weight as he ascended them.
"Chet…it isn't you, sweetheart," Madge said softly, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her fingers.
"Never is, is it?" Chet looked up at his mother's face and saw the pain and anguish the heated discussion had caused.
"Please…sit down. I…I need to explain something to you."
He raked his hands through his hair then pulled out a chair. He knew what was coming; he'd heard the explanation hundreds of times but it always seemed to make her feel better so he decided to sit through it again. "I know, Mom. It was the war. He saw things he can't talk about. He still has nightmares. He lost a lot of friends. Blah, blah, blah. I get it. I really do," he said; his voice softening as he realized he was interrupting her. "I joined up too, remember?"
She placed her soft hand on his arm hoping her touch would settle him down. It seemed to work with Charles when he became upset and she hoped it would work with Chet too. "Son, do you know why he has all this stuff out looking at it today?"
Chet looked at the box full of mementos and silently shook his head. Truthfully, he never knew the box even existed. Black and white photographs of his father as a thin young man in his dress uniform looked up at him and he wondered what horrors those green eyes had seen. Chet had not had to serve a tour in a war zone but his eyes had seen plenty of death and devastation during his career as a firefighter.
"He gets this box out every December 17th because that's the day he lost so many of his friends…and in a way, it's the day he lost a very large part of himself." She looked at her son and saw him continue to tremble with anger at his father's reaction and decided she needed to let him figure it all out on his own instead of listening to her relate the story. "I'll leave you alone for a while and let you look through these things. I think you'll understand a little better then. Just, ah…don't mention it to anyone, not even your father, ok? He's a very private man and…he wouldn't want it to ever be discussed." Madge stood up, raking her fingers across the strong shoulders of her elder son allowing them to linger and squeeze the back of his neck briefly before she went upstairs to talk to her husband and try to help him settle down after the confrontation.
Chet looked back down at the pictures of numerous soldiers and quickly recognized his father in each one. Slowly, one by one, he removed each picture reading the names on the back of each one then carefully setting them aside. He reached inside again and removed several envelopes. He found his father's enlistment papers and documents indicating when and where he had been sent for basic training. He reached inside the box again when something about the dates captured his attention. "Oh no!"
His stomach drew up in knots as he did the mental calculations. His parents had eloped two weeks before his father had to report for basic training. He spent the next three months at Fort Dix, New Jersey in basic training and was given only a three day furlough before being shipped overseas.
~.~.~.~
"Don't ya get it fellas?" Chet asked looking around the room.
"Ah, no...no, I don't."
"Shit, Gage," he slapped his hands down on the table. "I thought you were a freakin' paramedic!"
"Yea well, I never quite mastered the paramedic skill of mind reading," Johnny retorted sarcastically. "Just spit it out, for cryin' out loud!"
Chet huffed, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. "Alright look, I was born on November 22, 1944. Now back that up nine and half months or so and you get what…like, mid-February?"
"That would be about right," Marco interjected.
"Well, they married on November 4, 1943. He left for basic training on November 12th," Chet tapped his right index finger against the fingers of his left hand as if he were numbering the events that proved his paternity. "He finished up on February 10, 1944 but he only had a three day furlough before shipping out overseas." He tapped his ring finger as he continued. "Now, there's no way he made it from the east coast to the west coast and back in seventy-two hours when the only affordable way they could travel was by train or bus. They didn't have a car and they couldn't just hop a flight like we can today," he said, voice rising along with his frustration level from having to relay his story.
"So," Roy wasn't sure how to say what they were all thinking. "Um, are you saying that…you think your mom may have…uh, stepped out on him while he was in basic training?"
Chet looked directly at his friend. "God I hope so, Roy. I know that sounds like I'm callin' my mother a whore but…the only other scenario I can think of is…a helluva lot worse."
"No, Chet," Mike interrupted, holding his hand up. "Now don't think like that."
Johnny's eyebrows shot upwards pinning themselves to his forehead. "Don't think like what?"
"Like…she didn't…choose to…ya know," his staccato voice cracked.
"Oh," Johnny gulped as he realized that Chet was referring to a horrific criminal act that may have resulted in his conception.
"Think about it, fellas. I mean, even today it usually isn't reported and it's 1975! Thirty years ago, she might've been too afraid or….too ashamed to report it so…," he sniffled, unable to control the raging current of emotions consuming him at the moment.
Marco was the first to stand. He stepped over to his weeping friend who seemed to be intent on curling himself into the tiniest ball of human flesh that he could as he wrapped his arms around his own midsection. Marco sat in the chair beside Chet and reached out his arms pulling the crying man into a brotherly embrace. He felt Chet's convulsive hiccups as he once again leaned into the older man's shoulder for the second time in a little over four hours. But this time, Mike joined him followed by Roy and Johnny as they circled around their distraught shift mate. All earlier hostilities melted away dissolving in the tears their brother was shedding and for several long moments, time stood still for the four members of A-shift from Station 51. Nothing else mattered except the rescue of the man they all now held onto as he tried to cope with the nightmare possibilities of his own paternity.
E!
A/N: The date of December 17, 1944 is a reference to the Malmedy Massacre where American POW's were murdered by German troops.
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