Going Home - Chapter 10

I spent a few days thinking about what Rosita had said. I guess if I were being fair, I should say thinking about what my mother had said, since it was her original idea, but Rosita had put it into words that actually hit home.

True, I wasn't planning on being here that long, but being in my parents’ house had my life stuck on cruise control. I’d basically stopped living the day that kid shot me, and had just been existing instead. I still wasn’t sold on talking to Orville about a job, even one that only lasted the summer, but if I was conservative with my money, my severance would cover four months of rent without keeping me from moving to wherever I found a job next.

I think I surprised Mom when I found her in the kitchen one morning and asked for the phone number of the guy subletting his apartment.

“So you’re going to do it?”

“Maybe. I just want to talk to the guy and see what I need to do to sublet it.”

“And you’ll call Orville about the job?”

“No. I’m still planning on going for interviews next month for a teaching job, and it’s not really fair to him to bring someone in that won’t last through the summer. He needs to be focusing on finding a new deputy long term. I’ll just be a distraction.”

“You wouldn’t be, though. He’s been looking and he hasn’t found anyone yet, and it’s not like he’ll have to train you.”

“I heard all of your points already. I was serious, though, when I said I don’t want to be a police officer again. Just be happy that I’ve agreed to look at moving out. I’m sure Dad will be happy.”

“You know your father is just fine with you staying here while you get on your feet.”

We both knew that wasn’t true. Although he never said anything explicitly, he grumbled daily about any inconvenience my being there caused him. I knew he’d allow me to stay, if I wanted, because he wasn’t the kind of man to throw his kid out if he needed help, but that was the extent of it. He was very big on being ‘normal,’ and it wasn’t normal to have an adult child living with their parents, even temporarily.

Of course, I couldn’t really disagree with him, which is probably why I’d been in such a funk the last two months while I’d let my leg recover.

“I still think it’s best if I find a place to live temporarily, until I find my next thing. Now that my leg’s better and I can get around just using the cane, it shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, the sublet is a perfect solution.”

“Okay, if that’s what you’ve decided. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like we were throwing you out.”

“I don’t,” I said, patting her hand and limping my way to the phone.

It turned out it was more complicated than just calling up the guy renting the apartment and telling him I wanted to sublet it. In West Virginia, the landlord, or their management company, has to approve any sublet, which meant I needed to talk to them before he could sign the apartment over to me.

I tried to call them, but they told me I’d need to come down and fill out paperwork. If this was New York or some other major city with large apartment complexes, I’d get it. Places with hundreds, or even dozens, of tenants had to do things by strict policies, but those kinds of places didn’t operate in Buxton. Most of the apartments we had were houses converted into duplexes and a handful of buildings scattered around town, built in the seventies when coal was still big, that could house six to ten tenants at full capacity.

It was just my luck that the building Mom’s friend’s son was living in was one of these, and the owner apparently felt like they should operate by big-city large complex rules. Still, I needed their approval to get the sublet, so there was no reason to rock the boat.

I made my way down there and found the manager’s office, which also turned out to be their apartment. It was doubtful that the guy owned the building and, more likely than not, was also the building super, doing on-site repairs and such. That, at least, was familiar. The building Terri and I had lived in had the same setup. The family homes converted into duplexes were usually owned by single renters, who owned the one house, usually originally belonging to a relative, while these stand-alone buildings were usually bought up by someone from out of town looking to make a buck as a landlord. I’d actually been hoping for one of the duplexes, since those usually had better upkeep than these buildings with absentee landlords. It did explain the need for an application, though.

As soon as the guy opened the apartment door, I almost just turned and walked away. I didn’t know him, but I recognized him from Evan’s cookout. He hadn’t been one of the guys actively saying anything, but he hadn’t tried to stop any of them either, and the company he kept alone was enough to make me want to have nothing to do with him.

“What?” he said as I just looked at him for a moment.

It wasn’t clear that he even recognized me, which was encouraging. Besides, it wasn’t like I was actually going to have to deal with him regularly. He didn’t own the building, after all. He was just renting it.

“I’m here about subletting number four. They told me I’d have to talk to you first, since management had to approve any sublets.”

“You got a job?” he asked, which was another sign that he didn’t know who I was.

“No, but I have severance from an injury until the end of summer, which is when the lease ends anyway. I’m not looking for anything long term, since I’m moving out of town around the same time.”

He looked down at my cane and said, “We ain’t got no accommodations for cripples.”

“Okay, I guess,” I said, pausing slightly. “I’m recovering from surgery, not crippled. I can make it up and down the stairs and don’t need accommodations. Are you saying the apartment can’t be sublet?”

“No, I just don’t want to deal with any bullshit.”

It didn’t surprise me that he was kind of an asshole from the company he kept. It had become pretty apparent that any friend of Evan’s wasn’t someone I’d want to get to know.

“Then don’t. I’m just looking to sublet the place for a few months. If you don’t want to, then fine, I’ll find somewhere else to stay. I don’t know if the owners care if you keep apartments at full capacity or not, or if this guy is going to break his lease because he’s moving, but I’d assume the least amount of bullshit would be making sure you kept the place rented so the owners didn’t hassle you.”

“Hey, don’t get your panties in a wad. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to expect some kind of special treatment.”

“All I’m expecting is a roof over my head and to be left alone until I move out.”

“Fine, I guess. I’ll grab the application, since we gotta have that on file and we’ll move the lease over to you starting next month. Are you taking it over at the end of the month, or what?”

“This week. I was going to pay him for that part of the month since he already paid rent, and then start paying the rent to you next month.”

“Whatever. I’ll get the application.”

He shut the door in my face, which was kind of a dick move, but it seemed about right for him. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have to deal with him much and at least I’d have my own place again.

***

Another couple of weeks went by, and I was starting to settle into a routine. The new apartment was working out and I hadn’t run into the manager once, which suited me. The guy I’d sublet off of hadn’t wanted to move any of the furniture except the TV, so I’d given him a hundred bucks for all of it, which saved me having to find furniture.

I did have to go out and buy odds and ends, since I’d sold most of what Terri hadn’t emptied out of the apartment before I moved, but that didn’t cost a lot, since I went cheap. I wasn’t planning on taking any of it with me when I moved, so I settled for the bare minimum across the board. It did remind me a little bit of how I lived in college, but at least it was a step above living with my parents. In a way, I was on the same progression I’d been doing ten years before, from my parents’ house to a cheap apartment, or a dorm when I was in college, but this wasn’t that different. By this rate, I should be back to being a fully functioning member of society in another year. A depressing thought, but at least I was making progress.

Other than that, everything else was the same. I’d sleep in late in the day, walk around town to work out my leg, and end up at Rosita’s where I’d sit and talk to her for hours while she worked, occasionally helping with tasks when she got busy. It worked out for her, since she got free labor when she needed it, and I got to spend time with my friend.

My leg was feeling stronger every day, and I was having to rely on the cane less and less. I had an appointment with Doctor Thompson in a week and, hopefully, I’d be able to ditch the cane altogether. I could probably do it now, since I could walk, although not run, with a limp even without it. The only reason I hadn’t was because I didn’t want to put too much weight on my leg and slow down my recovery.

I’d convinced Rosita that, if the Doctor gave the go-ahead, we should go hiking the next week. It hadn’t taken much convincing, actually. Rosita had been completely on board the moment I mentioned it, even mentioning a trail off the property her brother had left her where she was planning on building her house. She’d been so busy since she’d moved to town, she hadn’t really had a chance to explore it properly, and thought it would be a fun excursion for us.

It was just another area Terri and Rosita differed. Rosita was as girly as they came, but she wasn’t afraid to get dirty and be out in nature. Terri’s idea of roughing it was staying in a bad motel, and she wouldn’t be caught dead out in the woods. Even when we were kids and everyone would go up to the lake, she wanted to stay by the cabin and refused to go mudding or any of the other stuff everyone else wanted to do.

The thought of getting off the cane and approved for more physical activity had me up and doing my physical therapy every morning. It was grueling and I ended up covered in sweat from what was very basic exercises, which was a little humbling, but I was willing to go through it if it got me back to normal.

Although my routine was just about the same every day, I did make one change once we’d agreed to go hiking if my leg got better. Instead of borrowing my mom’s car and driving down to her shop, I walked to the taqueria in the late afternoons before things at the restaurant picked up and Rosita drove me home each night. Of course, there was a practical reason beyond just getting strong enough to get off the crutch, since I’d have to walk further to get to my parents and get the car, or convince them to come get me, which was a call I’d never make. But it was the thought of getting out and spending the whole day with Rosita that kept me walking when my leg was really feeling sore.

A couple of days before my doctor’s appointment, I was headed out late to get to Rosita’s. Normally I left when there was still an hour or so of daylight when I started my walk, because once I crossed main street the street lights got a lot more sparse and there wasn’t much in the way of sidewalks, making the walk a lot more treacherous. That afternoon, the school districts had posted up their listing for openings and had started accepting resumes and setting up interviews, so I’d been preoccupied getting my stuff submitted and sending in a request to get on their interview schedule, which meant I was a good hour and a half behind when I normally left.

Although the high school and her restaurant were on Oak Ridge, my new apartment was three blocks west and on the other side of main street, which meant I didn’t go through the middle of town. Instead, I crossed over at the opposite end of main street where the road continued west towards the mine instead of the end that curved north, going past my parents’ house. Normally, I’d keep going up this smaller road and then take one of the cross streets over to Oak Ridge. Since it was late, though, I opted to cross over and then go down main street, so I’d have at least some street lights to keep me from getting run over in the dark.

I hadn’t walked this end of main street since just after I got into town, which is why I almost missed that something was wrong at Williams barbershop when I first started to go by. I knew the place, of course, since the two old men who ran it had been cutting my hair since I was little, but I hadn’t been here in years and the whole town was a lot more beat down than I remembered it from my childhood.

It was the smell that drew my attention first. I stopped, trying to figure out what seemed off. I could smell something burning, but that wasn’t strange, even in the summer. It wasn’t uncommon for people to burn leaves and debris in their yards, no matter what time of year it was, especially if they were clearing out underbrush for a backyard garden or whatnot. We weren’t a suburb that had heavy trash pickup that would take all your tree waste and whatnot. Out here, either you burned it yourself or you put it in the back of your truck and hauled it to the dump yourself.

It took several seconds for my brain to recognize that the smell was, in fact, coming from the barbershop itself, which is what I had noticed unconsciously at first.

The sun had gone down, so it was hard to see smoke and the window had a curtain pulled over it, although I thought I could see a flickering light, which explained the acrid tinge of burning plastic along with the smell of wood. Something inside must have been really flammable, since just as I started to take a step towards the building to see if it really was on fire, the curtains and front window blew out into the street in a wave of fire. Their obstruction gone, I could see through the front main area, which was burning along the walls and towards the back, where the stairs led up to the second floor and into the back room, which was a complete bonfire.

I pulled out my cell phone to call the emergency services, hoping that some of the volunteer firemen were nearby and able to help. Buxton was too small for full-time firefighters, so its entire force was volunteer with just enough budget to keep a single fire truck and small station running. Half those guys, however, worked in the mines, and some would be underground now, unreachable.

I didn’t have a chance to dial, however, since just as I hit the nine, I heard a voice call out from the top floor. I vaguely remembered one of the owners kept a small apartment upstairs, although the hoarse scream was hard to hear over the noise of the burning back half of the shop, now that the window was gone.

I took a half-second to consider if I should keep dialing or do something, before moving as fast as my leg would take me, putting my phone back in my pocket. I’d been on fire calls before, and even responded as one of the first units once, which gave me an appreciation of how fast a fire could spread, especially in a place like this, with wallpaper, magazines, lacquered chairs, and all other kinds of easily flammable materials.

Right now, the stairs looked mostly clear, but by the time the call went out, the volunteers got to the fire department, and drove the engine down here, the entire top floor would be engulfed and whoever was upstairs would be dead. The front door was still locked, but the door was old and had been damaged a little by the same pressure wave that had blown out the front window, which was a good thing, because it wasn’t like I could take a running charge at it. I put my shoulder into it, trying to brace off my good leg, and felt the frame give way as it popped open.

Flames had already started to creep from the back room and the edge of the stairs was already starting to go. I could feel the heat as I hugged the other side, making my way up the stairs, trying to stay low since the ceiling was already starting to collect an acrid, choking smoke.

“HELLO!” I yelled out as I got close to the door.

“Help!” the voice called out and then cut off with a hacking cough.

Reaching up, I turned the knob, which was thankfully unlocked, and pushed the door open. Looking over my shoulder, I could see most of the bottom steps had caught, which was bad. If I moved fast, maybe I could have grabbed him and run through the fire at the bottom, which was still patchy, but with my leg, moving fast wasn't really an option.

I crawled into the apartment, calling out again.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” he yelled, from a back room which I assumed was the bedroom, from the look of the front area that was sort of a living room and storage room hybrid.

Crawling over to the door to stay below the thick smoke starting to build up against the ceiling, I reached up and turned the door handle, opening the door. Mr. Cooper was lying on the floor next to his bed, coughing fiercely after every breath. He’d been old even when I was a child and safe money said he was in his sixties or seventies now. If he’d stood up and gotten a big lung full of the thick, acrid smoke, it would be enough to all but incapacitate him. I’d been on enough fire calls in New York to see what even breathing a little of that kind of smoke could do to people.

Looking back through the open door, I could already see a faint glow by the stairs. We couldn’t go out that way and it wouldn’t be long until this entire apartment was up in flames. Crawling over to the window, I looked down at the street. There weren’t any cars, but it was a good fifteen to twenty feet down to hard pavement below. I could have jumped it and gotten out without much damage, unless I landed wrong, but there was no way Mr. Cooper’s frail bones would hold up to the impact, especially if his head hit.

I looked around the apartment, trying to think. I could see flames starting to come up through the floor in the front room.

Scanning the room again, I looked at Mr. Cooper and then at the bed, and an idea hit me. I hadn’t seen it in real life, but I remembered seeing TV shows where firefighters would have a big net to catch people jumping out of a burning building. It was a little crazy to use a half-remembered TV show as the basis for a plan, but it was all I had, and time was running out quickly.

Grabbing a broom that was laying in the corner, I smashed out the window, making sure to push it along all of the edges to clear out any glass that might cut us on the way out. That done, I threw the broom down and grabbed the old mattress. It wasn’t much, but it would absorb some of the impact, which might be enough. Leaning out the window, I threw the mattress down to the sidewalk below, barely missing two people who’d come from somewhere nearby, gawking at the fire.

“Don’t move that,” I yelled down to be heard over the noise of the fire. “We’re coming down.”

I didn’t wait to see if they’d reply. I could see flames licking out of the downstairs window, which meant even when we landed, it was going to be very hot and we’d have to move fast. The longer I waited, the more that fire would start billowing out the front, making even this exit too dangerous.

Standing part way up, I put some weight on my leg, testing it out. It was feeling okay, but I had to be careful. If I landed on it, I’d definitely re-injure myself, which I didn’t want to do. Bending over and awkwardly walking to Mr. Cooper, I reached down and lifted him up. He was amazingly light, which was good, because he was also unconscious, probably from the inhaled fumes. His breaths were shallow and he’d need oxygen soon, but that wouldn’t matter if he burned to death first.

Dragging him to the window, I backed into it, kind of sitting on the cleared window sill, and looked back, judging the trajectory. Just as I was about to turn away, I saw Orville pull up, his lights flashing. I didn’t have time to wait for him to help, though. The front room was now completely ablaze and flames were licking into the bedroom.

Holding Mr. Cooper tight against my body, I rolled out sideways, putting myself between Mr. Cooper and the mattress and curling up my head to try and keep from banging it on the ground.

Thankfully, my aim was good and I landed in the center of the thin mattress. It didn’t add a lot of protection, but enough that I don’t think I broke anything. The impact coupled with Mr. Cooper landing on me, knocking the wind out of me.

Orville ran over, using an arm to try and keep the heat from the building as he reached down. I pointed at Mr. Cooper with my free hand, since I was struggling to get enough air to breathe, let alone say anything. Thankfully, he understood, grabbing the barber under the arms, and dragging him away from the building. Free of the weight, I chose the simple option and rolled away from the barbershop into the street, coughing from smoke and the impact, but finally safe from the fire.

There was all kinds of noise and commotion now as more people start to arrive and I heard the siren of the fire engine finally coming our way. I didn’t get up though.

I lay on the asphalt, staring up at the sky lit by the glowing barbershop, and fought for breath. I’d done my part. Orville and the rest of them could deal with the fire.