Love, Special Delivery

Dad gave him juice, and soon water doused flames. The resulting steam sent a wave of heat rolling over him.

They were lucky. In no time, they were done. They’d caught the grass fire early. It died a quick death.

Goodbye, little fire.

Shades of Mandy, talking to inanimate objects.

Ben glanced skyward, where the moon made a daytime appearance.

A flash north of them caught Ben’s eye. At the bend in the highway, a small gray car backfired as it pulled out from under the trees and drove away. It was too far off for Ben to make out the license plate or even discern the make.

“Shut it down.” Ben called it. When the water stopped, he removed his mask and pointed to the trees. “Did you see that car?”

“I was busy.” Dad sank onto a bumper, gulping air. His mask-less face was ashen. “Watching you. And the gauges.”

A rush of anger drowned Ben’s adrenaline high. He stepped forward and clutched Dad’s shoulder, giving it a shake. “Why didn’t you wear a mask?”

Dad tugged off a glove and wiped his face. “I forgot.”

“You don’t forget. You can’t forget. You’re the fire chief.” Ben bit back a rant that might break eggs.

“Well, I did.” Dad produced his inhaler and took a hit. “What did you say before?” He drew in a labored breath that gave Ben sympathy gasps. “Something about a car?”

“I’m taking you to the doctor.” Ben tried to help him up, tried to be patient, tried not to be mad toward or disappointed in or scared for his role model.

“No doctor.” Dad shrugged him off. “Your mother will worry.”

“As opposed to her grieving...” Ben began to shout. “...when you die!” He glanced down to count the eggshells he’d broken and stomped on the urge to break more. He couldn’t let his father get to him.

“Don’t be maudlin.” The color was slowly returning to Dad’s face. “Do you suspect arson?”

Ben fumed quietly for a moment, trying to decide if he should call Dad’s doctor, or Mom, or no one at all. He made a choice. The choice to respect his father and his fire chief. “Doesn’t it seem suspicious? A car left right after we put the fire out.” Arsonists often stayed to watch the havoc.

“Maybe the driver was the one to call it in.”

“Maybe.” His mind wouldn’t let the idea of arson go. He’d studied to be a fire investigator for years. It was hard not to put any of that training into play.

Granted, the fire hadn’t been fast burning, which seemed to rule out accelerant. And it was within cigarette flicking distance from the two-lane, which would lead him toward suspecting a careless driver. But their audience... It felt like someone was flaunting their dirty work.

The wind shifted, sending smoke in their faces.

Dad bent over, hacking deeply. Ben had to help him inside the truck, where the air was cool and filtered. After Dad was settled and breathing almost normally, Ben stowed the gear, keeping an eye on the blackened ground in case an ember flared to life again. Nothing did.

“Sorry I couldn’t help with the cleanup,” Dad said when Ben returned to the cab. He looked like a defeated old boxer who’d tried unsuccessfully to make a comeback.

“It’s okay. I knew what I was getting into when I came here.” Double duty. Hiding Dad’s secret. Locking away his principles for the better part of a year.

Ben put the engine in gear and headed into town, letting his mind wander. It meandered to a tin of matchbooks.

“I just didn’t think I’d feel so worthless,” Dad said, his voice barely audible above the engine.

If Dad had been among the new generation of firefighters, like Ben, he’d have worn a breathing apparatus at every fire—big or small. He wouldn’t have developed heart and lung disease. He’d be finishing a long and illustrious career in Oakland. He’d be planning retirement and trips with Mom, making jokes about poor working stiffs.

And Ben would be switching gears, working as a fire investigator.

Those matchbooks...

“Where are we going?” Dad asked when they missed the turn to the firehouse.

“I have a hunch.” There was one person in town he knew of who’d started a fire and been mesmerized. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped he was being paranoid, falling prey to a worst-case-scenario hypothesis. But being a worst-case-scenario thinker was a plus when it came to fire prevention, and Dad had just proved his judgment wasn’t the greatest.

Ben pulled in front of the post office and wished he hadn’t.

There was a small gray sedan parked in the lot.

* * *

EVEN WITH COUNTRY music blaring from the radio in the post office, Mandy knew when the town’s fire engine pulled up. The big engine rivaled the beat of the country song on the radio.

“I’m not ready for a fire inspection,” Mandy muttered, turning the music down. It hadn’t been a week since the first one.

What she really wasn’t ready for was seeing Ben again. The past few nights, she’d stayed up late before going out to see the moon because their exchange had seemed too intimate. She’d told him about eggshells. She’d told him about sharing secrets with the moon. He must think she was an idiot!

Not that this was anything new when it came to Mandy and men.

Mandy didn’t have her act together when it came to the opposite sex. And especially not when faced—literally—with a confident handsome man like Ben. He probably liked women who were petite and polished and wore heels the likes of which Mandy didn’t have in her closet. She was launching a post office and raising a teenager. She didn’t have time for pretty clothes, stylish hair or makeup. Who was she kidding? She didn’t like clothes that showed how reed-thin her body was. She didn’t like spending more than a minute on her hair. And makeup? It gave her acne.

On nervous legs, Mandy dodged the postal service maintenance crew, their ladder and the stack of boxes they’d brought containing fire alarms, extinguishers and lighted Exit signs. They’d claimed the sorting counter as their personal staging area, but they’d spread out like high tide on a flat marsh.

Utley sat in the sunshine on the loading dock in a webbed camp chair, a burning cigarette in his fingers. How long had he been sitting there? She hadn’t noticed his arrival.

Mandy touched his shoulder as she passed.

The old man startled, dropping the cigarette on the concrete, barely missing the tin of matchbooks he’d saved from the trash several days ago.

She paused at the top of the stair. “Did I wake you?” It was hard to believe anyone could sleep through her music or the whine of drills installing new signage and fire alarms.

“No.” Utley’s eyes were heavy-lidded. “I was meditating.” He lifted his fingers to his lips as if to take a drag from his cigarette, noticed his fingers were empty, and immediately brushed at his lap as if dozing and dropping cigarettes was a regular occurrence.

“It’s on the ground,” Mandy told him, hurrying down the concrete steps to meet Ben. “Don’t light another.” She’d already told him twice he couldn’t smoke on the premises.

She’d received her first mail delivery this morning and wasn’t sure how much of a stink Ben would put up about her operating without the fire control panel working. She didn’t want to admit all her safety measures weren’t in place, but she didn’t want to disappoint her supervisor and delay mail delivery either.

She reached Ben in the middle of the parking lot.

He wore his turnout gear and smelled pleasantly like the wood fires her grandfather used to make when they went camping. She’d wondered about their next meeting. Would he be the rigid fireman or the compassionate neighbor?

Question answered. Ben wore his intimidating scowl, as if they’d never spoken in the darkness about eggshells or the moon.