CHAPTER 5: KINDRED FEELINGS AND SOLITAIRE
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"Stoker."
"Hey, Dad."
"Michael! What's going on?"
"Just been a while since I've called." He gripped the phone more tightly. Liar, liar.
"How's work going?"
"Work's fine." Pants on fire.
"And that pretty girlfriend of yours?"
"She's good, really good. How are you and Mom?"
"We're doing good, son. So when are you coming up to visit your old folks?"
"Uh, I'm not sure. I'm getting a lot of overtime these days."
"You know your mother won't be happy if she doesn't see you before we leave for England next month."
"I know, Dad. I'll try to visit soon."
"And bring Patty with you. She's a keeper."
"I know, Dad. I'll try." Pause. "Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"I-I was wondering if you could give me some advice on – ." The tones sounded loudly in the background, cutting Mike off abruptly. "Sorry, Dad, gotta run." The handset rattled into the cradle imperfectly, failing to disconnect the call and giving Charles Stoker the rare opportunity to listen as his son went to work: the thump-woosh of a swinging door opening, the quick resonance of boots mounting metal steps, the creaking jangle of the bay door rising, the deep-throated purr of a big engine revving up, the dying wail of the siren retreating. A long minute later, he hung up the phone, turning the truncated conversation over in his mind. What's wrong, son?
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(12-13 September)
When Mike Stoker arrived at 86s, shortly before noon, he found the table full of lunch and the station empty of apparatus and personnel. He stowed his bag in an empty locker then put the still-steaming dishes of food back in the oven to stay warm and the iced drinks, salad, and condiments in the refrigerator to stay cold. Fifteen minutes later, he heard the captain clear them from the scene and busied himself with returning the food and drinks to the table. Stoker leaned against the counter, eating an apple he'd brought with him, waiting until the engine and ladder crews trooped back into the kitchen to make his presence known.
" – it's gonna be cold by now," an annoyed voice said from the bay, "and the cheese will have that nasty skin on top. In short, it will be inedible." Mike's gaze searched out the deep bowl of cheese sauce in the middle of the table. Yep, stirred that one. No nasty skin this time.
"Now, Ben, it happens," another voice soothed. "Everyone knows that."
"Well, I just wish it didn't always happen to me," Ben replied as he stepped through the doorway, running his fingers through short dark hair in frustration. "Give me a minute, Cap, to see what can be salvaged – ." The sight of the table with hot food hot and cold food cold caused him to stop mid-stride. The sound of another bite being taken out of an apple caused the stocky man to swivel toward Stoker who continued chewing. "Who – ?"
"Mike Stoker from 51s," he replied after swallowing his last mouthful. "I'm filling in for – ."
"Me," crowed Jake Reynolds as he and the rest of the station flowed into the room, breaking around the unmoving figure and hustling toward the food. "It's all yours, man, all yours. You saved our lunch?"
"Yep," Mike replied succinctly and sucked the juices from the core of the apple before working it over with his teeth while the men took their places at the table.
"Grab a plate and pull up a seat, Stoker," Captain Halderon invited. He knew Stoker had probably already eaten before reporting for duty but it went against the grain for someone to be in his house and not be offered hospitality.
"Thank you, sir." He tossed the stripped apple core into the trash, rinsed his hands of the sweet sticky juice at the sink, took what he needed from the cabinets, and settled into the chair Jake had dragged over for him. "It looked good when I was putting it away."
"Ben's a decent cook," Jake put in, pulling a bowl of mashed potatoes towards him. "If we can keep his mind on the game, we might be able to make a decent bowler outta him, too." He winked in response to Mike's raised eyebrow.
"If that clown had goosed you, you would have dropped the ball too," the young lineman began heatedly, causing Stoker and the others to smile. Although every house is different, some things are always the same, he thought and relaxed a little bit more.
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After lunch, Mike stowed his gear on the engine, in the seat behind the driver. He double-checked his equipment to make sure everything was in place, paying particular attention to the air pack since the departing Jake had informed him of Captain Halderon's standing rule about wearing SCBAs for all fires.
The memory of Chet struggling to get his gear on during a drill – after someone had surreptitiously twisted part of the harness – came to mind when he ran his fingers over the straps which seemed to be in order. They'd ribbed him about having the slowest time for weeks until Johnny discovered a dead-tired, half-asleep Chet drilling alone in the bay at two in the morning, muttering about not slowing everyone else down. The jokes had stopped, the crew had started drilling on SCBAs as a unit, and everyone's times and readiness had improved.
Now, Stoker slipped the SCBA on over his turnout coat and adjusted the straps, settling it on his shoulders and buckling it around his waist easily. The air mask took a moment longer to get in place and tightened down to his satisfaction. He breathed off the tank long enough to verify it was working properly then began shucking the equipment off methodically, satisfied everything was in order.
"Not bad … for an engineer," a voice said behind him. Mike turned to find Ben leaning against the far end of the engine, watching him closely, dark eyes unreadable.
"Thanks," Mike replied, not rising to the bait. He didn't know the kid or his limits, so he'd refrained from piling on with the rest of the guys during lunch, but he'd run into an attitude nonetheless. When he'd offered up a sincere compliment on the flavorful cheese dip – which tasted familiar although he couldn't place it – the young man's response had been an acidic glare that Jake had tried to neutralize with another joke.
"Got a question for you."
"Shoot." He finished re-stowing his gear and leaned against the metal by the pump panel, twin to Big Red. From experience, he knew exactly where he could put his hip and be comfortable. Given Ben's vaguely antagonistic attitude, Stoker made sure his own stance was neutral and nonthreatening, sliding one hand into a pocket.
"Are you as much of a lightweight as Kelly?"
"I'm sorry?" That one really came out of left field. Is this kid a McConnikee or something?
"Are you as much of a lightweight as that clown Chet Kelly when it comes to holding your liquor?" There was a bit of a sneer in his voice, which puzzled Mike.
"Well," Mike began carefully, "I'm not exactly sure how you define 'lightweight' or – ."
"Two beers and he was puking his guts out like a little girl."
"When was this?" Mike's eyes narrowed but he stayed still.
"Last night, at the bowling alley. Found him in the men's room after the tenth frame, hugging the porcelain goddess like a veteran."
"What did he say?"
"Say?"
"When you asked him if he was okay." Although the kid had the decency to redden at Mike's even-toned question, he filled the lengthening silence with bluster.
"It wasn't my turn to babysit your boy, Stoker."
"Ah." Mike pushed himself off the engine and turned away, heading toward the office where Captain Halderon was most likely working.
"Where are you going?" Ben's voice bordered on petulant now, reinforcing the bad impression he'd made.
"Gonna go check on my brother," Stoker tossed over his shoulder without pausing.
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"DeSoto residence, this is Chris, how can I help you?" Mike couldn't help but smile at the boy's attempt to deepen his voice, an attempt which ended in an uneven warble in the tenor range.
"Hey, Chris, it's Mike Stoker. Is your dad up and around yet?" He knew Roy had pulled a double yesterday to bank an extra day for the annual DeSoto family vacation disaster.
"Yeah, just a minute." A hand was cupped lightly over the receiver. "Daaaaaad! Phone call!" Mere seconds after the full-throated bellow, Mike heard a muffled, "Sorry, Dad. I didn't realize you were – ."
"In the immediate vicinity, son?" The restrained amusement in Roy's voice reminded Mike of his own father's attempts to teach his brood manners. He could picture Roy ruffling Chris's hair and Chris trying unsuccessfully to duck out of it.
"Uh, yeah. It's Mike," Chris said, uncovering the phone to hand it to his parent with some semblance of grace.
"Thank you," Roy responded, taking the phone. "Hey, Mike, what's up? Everything okay?"
"Not sure. Have you heard from Chet in the last day or so?"
"No, not since last shift. Why?" Roy heard the murmur of dispatch in the background and realized Mike must be working a little overtime himself.
"According to, well, someone, Chet was blowing chunks after just two beers at the bowling alley last night."
"Two beers? Two beers wouldn't – ."
"Yeah, that's why I wondered if he was coming down with something. He didn't pick up when I called and – ."
"I'll run over and check on him."
"I'm at 86s today so – ."
"I'll give you a call to let you know how it turns out."
"Thanks, Roy." Mike hung up the phone in the office. "Thank you, sir," he said to the fire captain who was sitting on the corner of the other desk. Unlike Station 51, there was no payphone in this station.
"A distracted fireman is no good to anyone," Halderon replied stolidly then broke into a full-face grin. "Besides, Kelly makes a good pot of chili whenever he's here."
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"Attewell, Stoker, take a two-and-a-half in the front door," Cap ordered once he'd sized up the scene. Mike stepped off the engine, slinging his SCBA on as he hustled to the end of the engine. Ben arrived simultaneously and took a half-step onto the engine to grab the nozzle, drape the hose over his shoulders and pull the first few loops down. Mike reached up and tugged additional hose off the bed, letting the line deploy from his arm as he headed for the house behind the shorter man.
Light gray smoke was pouring out of the one-story residence, pushing out under the eaves and puffing out of the half-open front door. In the rear of the home, fire had already spurted through a damaged part of the roof and flames were clearly visible through the windows. The flashing strobes from the engine and ladder lit the house intermittently, highlighting the ever-changing billows of smoke across the urban night sky. As they reached the small covered porch, Mike paused as Ben signaled for water and rechecked his SCBA. He glanced back at the engine, unconsciously counting off the seconds as the hose grew firm, then looked up at the front of the house.
Rapidly darkening smoke slid across the ceiling of the porch, curling up over the edge sinuously, and escaping into the night air. Stoker had seen the same signs before: the fire was about to flare. The hose slid forward through his hands as Attewell advanced up the steps and onto the stone porch without him.
"Ben! Wait!" Mike yelled as he lunged forward, pulling back on the hose to impede the younger man's progress. Just as Ben turned, the front room of the home flashed, vomiting great yellow tongues of flame through the doorway. The wall of heat battering his back and the reflection of the flames in Mike's facemask prompted Ben to swallow the sharp words he'd been about to offer the other man and crouch low instinctively; the flames shot over his head as he slid headfirst down the steps.
The fire quickly sucked up the air, slithering wildly along the ceiling of the porch as the smoke had done before it, flames dribbling upward past the roofline, splashing further into the sky as though a child had stomped in a puddle of fire with house-shaped boots. Flames dripped onto the shrubbery resulting in dozens of tiny, short-lived ignitions; simultaneously sharp-edged twists of fire leapt ten or more feet above the smoking shingles of the roof.
After the fire's initial surge, it retreated slightly but still illuminated the porch brightly, revealing a broken down lounger and a child's bicycle. "You okay, man?" Stoker asked, raising his voice to be heard through the mask. Ben's eyes were wide but Mike could see intelligence in them as he nodded. "Then let's pull the teeth of this beast before Cap gets on us about laying down on the job," he said and pushed himself up from where he'd hit the deck. He grabbed the charged line and pulled it backwards until he had the nozzle in his hands. Ben automatically took the back-up position and Mike aimed the hose at the porch ceiling, dousing the flames quickly and returning the porch to a smoky, steamy semi-darkness.
The heat radiating from the front room held them at bay, forcing Stoker to direct the water into the room from the base of the threshold until a second vent above the room allowed the heated smoke and gases to escape. Staying low, the pair advanced, Stoker grinning behind his mask as the flames drowned beneath his hands.
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"Actually, I think you know my mother."
"Oh?" Mike had a good idea where the conversation was headed now.
"Hilda McConnikee Attewell," Ben said. He laid his hand against the wall, checking for hotspots.
"Ah." Stoker smiled, unfazed. "That explains why the cheese dip was so good."
"Don't be hesitant when it comes to ripping out those walls, gentlemen," Captain Halderon said as he picked his way through the burnt out room, checking the progress of the overhaul.
"10-4, Cap," Mike responded and jabbed with the pike pole again. "I'm awful fond of sleeping through the night, too."
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They'd been back at the station long enough to rinse the soot off and prep for the inevitable next run. Mike had detoured to the kitchen when his stomach reminded of the leftover cheese dip, finding he wasn't the only person with a snack in mind. While Ben babysat the cheese dip, running the station's new microwave for ten seconds at a time then stirring conscientiously until it was bubbly hot, Mike had pulled out raw vegetables, chips, and crackers suitable for dipping. Now, the two men sat at the table, munching quietly as the rest of the station began to settle for the night.
"Ben?" Stoker asked with a sideways glance.
"Hmpf?" The younger man had just put a large piece of broccoli, coated in cheese, into his mouth.
"I wanted to go over our initial entry, see if we could come up with something a little smoother to try next time." Mike crunched a bare carrot stick for a moment. "What do you say?"
"Well, okay," Ben replied after clearing his mouth, a small smear of cheese decorating his stubbly chin. "But what's the point? I mean, we're not likely to work together too often."
Stoker selected a large, ridged potato chip from the bag and skimmed it over the top of the sauce before replying. "Three reasons. First, debriefing after a close call is standard operating procedure and a good idea after any incident. Our entry wasn't the best. Going over what happened and why, and figuring out how it could have been done better helps a firefighter do his job more safely. We all need to do that." The chip disappeared into Mike's mouth in two quick bites. "Second, I am not going to put my brother at risk," he punched Ben's arm lightly in emphasis, "whether we work together on every shift or once a year, by staying quiet when there's a potential issue. I don't have the luxury of letting it go just because he doesn't particularly like me." Stoker let his words work on the young firefighter's attitude for a few minutes while he busied himself with selecting a few crunchy veggies.
"It's not about liking – ," Ben started to explain but Mike cut him off with a wave of a celery stick.
"Doesn't matter."
"I – right." He took a deep breath and nodded. "Let's talk about our entry."
"Okay. What did you see as we approached the scene?"
"Wait, you said three reasons. What's the third reason?"
Mike grinned. "Third, … well, can you imagine what Patty Mack would do to me if I didn't at least try to keep Cousin Ben safe when I had the chance?"
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(14 September)
After they'd eaten a supper of stuffed pork chops and lemon-orzo salad, Patty pulled out a deck of cards from her purse. Sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, she shuffled them silently and dealt a standard solitaire layout on the coffee table. Mike watched from the kitchen for a few minutes as she began to play then went back to loading the dishwasher, one of the perks which had sold him on this new apartment despite the hassle of moving at the time. Although he had dessert in the refrigerator for later, the dishwasher was full enough to run; soon, the hum of the machine filled the apartment, highlighting the lack of noise which had preceded it.
Her continued silence bothered him. She hardly said a word during supper. The breeze coming in through the window held more than the usual hint of coolness, along with notes of jasmine and eucalyptus. Is she getting sick? When he had finished setting the kitchen to rights, he used his long legs to settle on the couch behind her, leaning forward to watch her game.
"Black jack on red queen," he murmured a few minutes later when she appeared to be at an impasse. She neatly placed the spade over the heart, turning over the card beneath the jack and playing it as well. Patty pulled three cards from the deck and looked at the new top card: ten of diamonds. When she didn't play it, Mike murmured again, "Red ten on black jack." Again, she neatly played the card he identified.
"You know," she said casually, flipping over the next three cards, "that's about the most conversation we've had tonight." He waited, knowing there was more. "Care to tell me what's going on?" She looked up at him, tilting her head straight back to do so, and waited on him.
"Sorry. What would you – ," he began, then changed his mind mid-sentence. "That is, how is your research going for the medieval lit prof? Have you turned up anything interesting?" As a research librarian at the university, Patty spent much of her time digging out obscure references. Because she enjoyed both the search and the information, a simple inquiry would usually be enough to start Patty talking.
Not so tonight.
"Let's talk about you, specialist."
"Me?" he asked disingenuously, leaning back a bit and trying to appear relaxed even though tension crawled up his belly. "What do you want to know about me that you don't already know?" She turned then, half-facing him, ignoring the intimacy of her position between his thighs.
"Oh, c'mon, Mike. I want to know what's – ," she began almost angrily and then stopped, staring up at him, seeing something in his face, his eyes that silenced her. Various emotions flitted across her face too rapidly for him to categorize. "Never mind," Patty said finally, voice soft, and turned back to her game slowly. Stop pushing him, you idiot. He obviously doesn't want to confide in you.
Mike frowned, surprised at her actions. Most of the time when she wanted to know something, she was relentless. For her to begin a sentence with 'I want to know' and then give up was not just odd, it was downright troubling. He sat forward again, returning to his earlier position and watched her play, not sure of what to do or say. You could talk to her, that's what she wants, a tiny bit of his heart volunteered shyly but was batted down: I can handle it. And she doesn't need to hear that kind of stuff.
Patty hesitated when he sat back up, able to feel the warmth from his body surrounding her like a cloak. That was one thing which had surprised her when they'd gotten closer in a literal sense – how hot his body was, all the time. Initially, she'd thought he might be feverish but learned he was just decidedly exothermic. She'd suggested the vanity plate for his truck for that reason as much as anything else, truly surprised when he had agreed to her whimsical idea. That seems like ages ago. What happened to make him so cold and locked down?
With an inaudible sigh, she continued to play and, after a while, feeling the weight of his regard, she deliberately started missing plays, taking longer as the stack of available cards dwindled. "Red seven on black eight," he murmured finally, his voice as hesitant as she felt. The diamond covered the club as relief flowed over her, causing her to shiver slightly. Advice on solitaire ain't much but it's a lot better than – .
"Are you cold?" Mike asked immediately, making her aware of how closely he'd been watching her.
"I – maybe a little," she admitted, turning her head slightly to look over her shoulder at him. Without hesitation, he nimbly extricated himself from the couch and moved over to shut the window.
"Do you need a blanket?" he asked, opening the chest where he kept blankets and other items for avuncular sleepover events and rummaging through it without waiting for an answer.
"Not really," Patty said then stopped when he pulled out a flowery pink comforter. The name 'Anna' was embroidered neatly in one corner, indicating it belonged to Mike's youngest niece.
"Sure?" I want to make things better, hon. The earnestness in his gaze melted her heart.
"A blanket would be nice," she amended.
"Lean forward and I'll – put it around you." She leaned forward and felt the softness start to cover her shoulders then retreat. "Wait. Could you scoot forward? A little more." She obliged. Mike perched on the edge of the couch behind her, draped the blanket over her shoulders, then slid down onto the floor, one leg on either side of her, and wrapped his arms and the blanket around her. "Is this better?" There was a tiny tremor of uncertainty in his voice.
"Yes," she said, mouth dry. "Much."
"Good." After a long moment during which neither of them moved, he asked, "Did you want to continue your game?"
A laugh bubbled up from inside her. "Well, it's a little hard to do that, all bundled up like this." When he'd wrapped the blanket around her, he'd trapped her arms inside it.
"I'll be your hands; you stay warm." Keeping his elbows close to her to hold the blanket in place, Mike unwrapped his arms enough to reach the cards. "I'm yours to command, Miss McConnikee." She turned her head; his laugh when she kissed his bulging bicep – about the only part of him she could reach from her fuzzy cocoon – vibrated from his chest into her back.
"Black six on red seven," she said pertly and watched his hands do her bidding. "Turn." It might take a while longer, but I'm not giving up on you.
Three games of solitaire later, the bland interaction of the card game had relaxed into a more comfortable repartee, interspersed with laughs and silly commands Mike followed promptly, even though she'd freed her arms a game and a half ago. He hadn't told her what was wrong, what had been bothering him for the last month, but they were interacting again and that was all that mattered at the moment.
Content to be patient and secure her position, Patty leaned against him snugly and tilted her head back, inviting a second kiss. Thanks, Mom, she thought before responding to his gentle lips and letting the cards fall from her fingers, warmed by both his flesh and his renewed affection.
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(Several years earlier)
Morgana McConnikee was angry. Smoke pouring from her ears angry. Sparks flying from the ends of her long dark hair angry. Fire sprouting from her mouth angry. Green eyes burning hot enough to scare the devil into hiding under the stairway to heaven angry.
It was a sight to behold.
The man who was primarily responsible for said anger was, in a word, oblivious. Without meeting her eyes, he reached over to take the tray from her lap. "All done, love?" he asked solicitously and picked up the tray without waiting for a response.
"What if I say no?" she asked acidly, producing a tiny hesitation in her husband's movements.
"Are you saying no?" Henry asked calmly, meeting those beautiful angry eyes at last. Hold on, buddy, just hold on.
"No." She dropped her eyes and picked at the front of her nightgown, rubbing the small spot of barbeque sauce which had evaded the napkin. His eyes followed her hands and he noticed how the action pulled the silky fabric tight against her full breasts. Give it a rest, Henry Malone, and get hold of yourself, he castigated himself silently, forcing himself to look away from his wife's alluring body. He stared at the alarm clock by the bed, watching the second hand tick through a minute that seemed to last an hour.
"Do you want anything else right now?" he asked when he was able to force his voice to be calm and solicitous once more, shifting his hungry eyes back to her beautiful face.
"Yes, I want to – ." She bit off what she was going to say, holding in the angry, frustrated words she wanted to spew at him. Morgan closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. "Yes," she said in a more moderate tone of voice, "I would like to play cards." She opened her eyes, pinning him with her stare.
"Cards?" he asked surprised. She's five months pregnant and she wants to play cards? Maybe she means solitaire. Then I can go hide somewhere – .
"Cards. I would like to play cards. With you. Here." She gestured at the bed – their bed – in which she was situated. He'd carefully placed extra pillows behind her earlier, to offer her maximum support and comfort, leaning close to her but not touching her. Morgan's nostrils had twitched at the blend of scents which made up her husband. That faint smell of smoke on his skin combined with his aftershave had been intoxicating, making her hungry – but not for the supper he'd insisted on serving her in bed. As if I were an invalid.
"I'll get the deck and be right back," Henry said finally and left the room, mind whirling again. I have the most beautiful woman in the world as my wife. I go weak in the knees when she looks at me. And now she wants me to sit across from her – in our bed nonetheless – and just, just play cards? When all I want to do is make love to her from now until the morning? Oh, Morgana, my súile-glasa, you are cruel.
She smoothed her hair back in an effort to calm herself then dropped her hands into her lap again, fingering the edge of the blanket. Thanks to Henry's efforts, the creamy sheets and forest green comforter were clean and tidy. The pristine neatness, however, made her angry all over again. "If we don't rumple these sheets together again soon, buddy, I am just gonna lose it," she muttered under her breath after he left, frustration gnawing at her. "I'm pregnant, not dead."
A few hours later, she sighed in contentment and snuggled closer to Henry, legs tangled in his under the untucked sheet. He caressed her bare hip in response, lazily sweeping calloused fingers up her back, before returning his hand to her gravid belly, stroking lightly. Knew it, she thought drowsily, knew if I could just get him to interact, I'd get him to talk and then I'd figure out what was going on in his stubborn Irish brain. Forget diamonds, a deck of cards is a girl's best friend. A gentle tumbling sensation startled her back awake. "Henry!" she said softly and pressed his hand firmly against her stomach. "Did you feel that?" I'm glad you approve, little one, of your daddy's touch. So do I.
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Note: I had hoped to hook up with my technical advisors about the fire scene in this chapter but couldn't seem to make it work. I consulted the research materials I have on fire behavior and a number of videos of actual flashovers to get a better idea of what it might look like. I used a specific video as the base then modified the details to fit better in with the story. Hopefully, I haven't made too many mistakes. If I have, please let me know so I can tweak the scene or, if it cannot be salvaged, put a mea culpa at the top of this chapter.