The Righteous Brother--Chapter 1
Here we go, folks. As promised, the beginning of a new serialized novel. The first three weekly chapters will be open to all, and I hope the story will convince you to upgrade your subscription to read the rest. I am grateful for your continued patronage, and I hope you enjoy The Righteous Brother.
Trevor Macklin dozed in one of the plush armchairs in the Thornton Wilder Poetry Room of the South Barnham library until the distant sound of sirens woke him. On the far side of the frost-laced window glass, across the parking lot, a squat man in a dark green Carhartt jacket hustled away from the entrance to Mack’s cousin Philip Fecteau’s grocery store, a bulbous white propane tank in each hand. He set the canisters down at the far edge of the asphalt and turned back to look at the building.
Mack frowned in confusion until he followed the man’s gaze up to the hip roof of the store, where a thick dirty-gray pall rose and stained the pure blue sky. Now a queue of people carried propane tanks from the open cage by the front door, shuffling comically across the icy lot to line them along the plowed-up mounds of snow. Mack’s estranged wife Karin, whom he’d followed back to South Barnham to reconcile with, was third in line.
The register at his feet belched hot air with a taste of dust in it. The cars parked in the row of spaces across the storefront, including a brand new Cadillac CTS in a handicapped spot, rumbled to life and backed away, some to the rear of the lot to watch, others out the curb cut onto Route 33 to drive away, as if they didn’t want to see what came next. Mack hoped for Philip’s sake the fire was minor—his cousin was always complaining about sinking more money into the aging building.
The last vehicle, an oversized navy SUV, shuddered on its springs as it disgorged its occupants on the far side, where Mack could not see who they were. It was Arthur Fecteau’s vehicle, though, and then the tall man slipping away from the scene, hand pressed in the middle of a tall woman’s back, betrayed himself with his cocky gait. That and the fact that Arthur never wore a hat in the winter time.
The smoke rising from the roofline surrendered to bright tongues of flame, festive yellow and orange against the charcoal shingles. The building had been ancient when Mack was a boy here, twenty-some years ago. Almost anything could be feeding the conflagration: the studs and wallboard would be dry as paper.
He shifted his feet uneasily. The double-glazed window reverberated as the town’s only ladder-equipped fire truck roared in around Arthur’s Ford and stopped parallel to the store’s front windows.
The siren whirred down into a moan, then quit. Bodies in acid-yellow Nomex turnout gear jumped off the truck, two of them sprinting in through the front door with oversized fire extinguishers.
Others wrestled canvas hose off of the pumper as South Barnham’s EMT van roared into the lot, red and white lights strobing. When another van from Cape Denton and two more from Bainsborough showed up, Mack’s stomach dropped. Something worse than he imagined was happening.
The truck’s ladder rose toward a single square window over the street side corner of the building, hazed in smoke. A firefighter clung to the top rung like the figurehead on the bowsprit of a sailing ship.
He or she—the protective gear concealed everything but size—cracked glass from the window frame with the butt of an axe and crawled inside. A stream from the now-engorged hose played back and forth across the burning roof, raising steam, then as water flowed down onto the fascia, forming icicles.
The solo firefighter reappeared in the window, removed the breather mouthpiece, and shouted down to the crowd below. The EMTs scurried like ants to roll their gurneys into the store, out of Mack’s sight. He winced.
It was only minutes but seemed like hours before the first stretcher pushed back through the exit doors, its attendants marching in slow defeat. Two shapeless lumps, unmistakable as children, lay end to end on the stretcher under a pale blue blanket. The EMTs rolled their burden to the back of the van, collapsed the legs on the gurney, lifted it inside, and slammed the door.
A feral cry stabbed through the window glass and made Mack stand straight up. A tall auburn-haired woman in a blaze orange parka leaned on the open door of her Mercedes wagon and keened.
Three more gurneys rolled out in funereal procession from the IGA’s front door, past the cardboard signs for Fresh Meat and Produce, the U. S. Post Office branch, the handwritten warning to leave backpacks in the foyer. The first two stretchers, like the first, bore two small inert bundles on each. The third—mercifully?—carried only one.
He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, feeling as if he should go and help, though he couldn’t imagine how. He saw Karin was no longer in the crowd at the edge of the parking lot.
The fire was pretty well knocked down by the time Philip emerged, the damage mainly confined to the far corner of the roof, steaming now in the frigid air. Philip stood in front of the tied-up camp wood bundles, a Levi jacket over his butcher apron, the sun gleaming off his rimless glasses. His balding head swiveled from the fire truck retracting its ladder, the EMTs loading their appalling cargo, the cars and trucks along the back side of the parking lot, the gawkers by the line of propane tanks. He shook his head, Mack hoped at the fates of the children and not at the damage to the store.
A muffled shout rose from the doorway and one last stretcher rolled out of the store at speed, the two paramedics jogging alongside. One slipped on fresh ice and nearly fell.
Mack glimpsed an adult-sized body under the blanket, the white top half of a young woman’s face, limp mousy hair. The gurney’s legs scissored down as the EMTs heaved it into the last of the ambulances and ran around front to climb in.
The van roared off, lights and siren fevered. Philip pulled the denim jacket around his small pot belly as if he only now had noticed the cold. The Fire Chief walked over to talk to him, gesturing at the building, then shook his head in answer to Philp’s question. The interior of the store was dark, lights shorted out by the deluge from the hoses.
The last of the firefighter emerged, the visor on her helmet tilted back. The breather dangled under her chin. Soot on her cheeks tracked clean where the tears rolled down. No way to know if it were emotion or smoke. She thrust a small brown and white bundle into the chief’s arms, then stalked off toward the fire truck, stripping off her gear.
That would be the picture he’d see in the paper tomorrow: the floppy pink ears, the closed eyes, as the chief carried the dog to his red Suburban pumping vapor from the tailpipe, and laid the animal on the seat. Gurney-borne bodies of children would be too much even for the most sensational press.
The chaos rendered down into a frail stability. Philip locked the front door. The fire truck moved around the corner to monitor for flareups. The crowd at the back edge of the parking lot dispersed, leaving the propane tanks ranged like moorings in the bay. The navy blue Ford SUV sat empty in its parking space at the end.
Mack took a long deep breath and gathered his bag, his laptop, and books. He’d never felt a true part of the town of South Barnham, but he could feel the pain that was coming to it. As he left the Thornton Wilder Poetry Room, the phone in his pocket buzzed.