Flames

A round-robin novel by the authors of the Mansion, in honor of the heroes of September 11th, 2001.

Prologue. Redsopple, Pennsylvania. October 28th, 2001.

He couldn't wait to get away.
Jack Bennett stood in his bedroom in his stocking feet, running through the list in his head. Hat, check. Gloves, check. Uniforms. Underwear. Gas mask -- where the devil had he put his gas mask? He'd had it out for the recovery effort at Shanksville. It must be with his boots. He padded out to the mudroom while WKTU played Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A." for what had to be the fourth time in the past hour.
Jack didn't mind. He really loved that song.
The gas mask was lying on the floor by the door. He picked it up, stared at it's grotesque profile, the curling elephantine nose. When they'd answered the Shanksville call, no one had known what to expect. Would there be serin rising from the embers? Would the killers have been carrying anthrax in their luggage? The call had come in while he and Merritt and Marcus were sitting glued to the TV in the station house, watching the horror in New York unfold. He could still hear Merritt's stunned drawl as the second plane hit: "Well, Jesus. My Jesus. Thank God we live in the middle of nowhere." But even the middle of nowhere hadn't proved safe that day. The plane had crashed less than ten miles away.
He'd never seen anything like that hole in the cornfield. He never wanted to again.
He tucked the mask under his arm and caught up his boots by the laces. Dust clung to the soles, a fine gray powder. He raised one boot to his nose, and could swear he smelled fear and death. But something greater, too. He remembered how calmly the mother of one of the passengers had told her story on the news: Her son called on his cell phone, said they'd been hijacked, said they planned to do something about it. Told her he loved her. She'd even laughed at how he'd given his full name to her -- the formality of it. As though he'd sensed he was doing something historic, even then. Jack's grip tightened on the gas mask as he imagined what it must have been like on that plane, and on the others as well.
The phone rang, and he jumped. He'd been nervy lately. Hell, who hadn't? Carrying the mask and boots, he made his way to the kitchen, while Lee Greenwood swooped into the chorus: "And I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free. "
"Bennett," he said curtly into the receiver.
"Jack, honey? Its Jan."
He made a face, then thanked God those videophones hadn't come to fruition in his lifetime. "Hey, honey," he said, trying not to let his mood creep into his tone. "What's up?"
"Nothin' much." Her voice had the purr in it that meant she'd been drinking White Russians. Too many White Russians. "I'm at Piggy's. Aren't you comin' down?"
"I'm packing." He took the phone into the bedroom, stuffed the mask and boots into his duffle bag. "For the training exercises. Remember?"
"But you don't leave until tomorrow."
"Early tomorrow."
"Does that mean you're not comin'?"
"I don't see how I can."
There was a pause. He heard ice cubes clink across the line. Lee Gr eenwood was on the jukebox at Piggy's, too. He could picture Jan in her jeans and sweater and heels, her long-nailed hand curled around the black pay phone, tapping impatiently. She'd told him that morning, when she'd dropped into the station, that she was off to have her hair done at Hiz n Herz Cutz, down at the Brookland Mall. There was a new stylist there who'd trained in New York, she'd said.
"How'd your hair turn out?" he asked her.
"Come and see," she said, giggling.
"Is it the same color, at least?" It was disconcerting, Jack had found, to have a girlfriend who seldom looked the same from one week to the next.
"You'll have to come see for yourself," she teased again.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I can't."
"You could if you wanted to."
He thought about it. He and Marcus were due in Harrisburg at seven. It was a two-hour drive. He glanced at the clock. Ten-fifteen. Half an hour to Piggy's. Half an hour back, when he finally shook loose. From the way she'd giggled, he could tell she wouldn't be in a hurry to leave. Jan liked bars, reveled in the crowd, thrived on the dancing, on having every man in the place follow her with his eyes while she shimmied and shook and tossed her long blond or red, or auburn, or, one week, pink hair. Who could blame her? There wasn't much else to do in this neck of the woods.
But he shook his head, then made the effort to speak: "I can't, honey. This is too important."
He heard her snort. "It's not like lightning's going to strike twice, you know," she said.
"Not here, maybe. But it will strike someplace else. And this time, I want to be ready to help."
More ice cubes. He could hear her sipping the White Russian through the tiny cocktail straw. "There wasn't much you coulda done for those folks on Flight 93 even if you'd had a lifetime of trainin', Jack. C'mon, have some fun. Even the President says we should get back to normal."
Something about her insouciance made him flush. "I won't be there tonight, Jan. I'm sorry. I'll see you when I get back."
"Well, I'm sorry, too!" she snapped, and the receiver clicked. Jack sighed. Maybe it was different for women. Maybe they didn't feel the impotence the way he did. All he'd been able to think of as he'd watched the towers topple, as he'd fielded the call from Shanksville, as he'd stood on the edge of that charred hole and stared at the abrupt end to forty-five lives, was: This can't go on. I have to do what I can. And then the invitation had come, e-mailed to the firehouse: FEMA training exercises to be held in Harrisburg. Harrisburg was close enough, he remembered thinking. I can go to that. He'd told Marcus, and Marcus wanted to go along, too, so they'd asked Merritt for permission. "Good idea," Merritt had grunted, his own eyes glazed from what he'd seen in the cornfield that day.
Jack went back to his list. Flashlight, check. Sleeping bag, check.
The doorbell rang.
Jan couldn't possibly have made it from Piggy's that quickly. "Come in! " Jack shouted, tucking socks into the duffle bag.
"Jack?"
"Mom!" He hurried into the living room. "What are you doing here?"
"I brought your breakfast," Edith Bennett said stolidly, making her way to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. "You'll need a bagged breakfast if you're leaving so early. Something you can eat on the road. It's an egg and cheese sandwich. On rye bread. You like rye bread."
He grinned at her. "I do like rye bread."
She turned from the fridge, hands on her hips, staring at him. "You are still going, I take it?" He nodded. "I don't understand why. What happened in Shanksvill -- what happened in New York, for that matter -- was a once-in-a-lifetime deal. We won't get fooled again."
"Want some coffee?" Jack asked his mother.
"Is it decaf?"
"I can make decaf if you want."
She eyed the half-full carafe in the coffeemaker. "Never mind. I won't be able to sleep anyway." She poured herself a mug, and then one for him. Jack hitched up a chair at the table. "It's not like I'm going to war, Mom."
"No, thank God. You're too old for that."
He reached for his mug. "You can't be sure. They may be taking 37-year-old enlistees by the time this things over."
"Don't joke," Edith said sharply, measuring sugar into her cup. "Don't even joke about that." She took a swallow of the coffee. "What does Jan think about all this?"
"Jan is down at Piggy's. She called me from there." He was surprised by how bitter he sounded.
His mother sighed. "She's been waiting a long time for you to pop the question."
"She'll have to wait a little longer, I guess."
Edith glanced through the open door to the bedroom, saw his stuffed duffle bag, and paled. "Oh, dear Lord. It reminds me so much of when your father went off to Korea, God rest him."
"I'm not going to war," Jack said gently. "It's only emergency training exercises. I'll be back in five days." The doorbell rang again. Damn. That might be Jan. He went to answer, already rehearsing what he'd say. But it was Marcus. Jack was so relieved that he threw the door open and nearly embraced him. "Marcus! Good to see you, man!" They high-fived. Marcus had taught him how to do that.
Marcus caught sight of Edith. "Not interrupting, am I?"
"Not a bit. Have you met my mother?"
"I don't believe I have." Marcus strode to the table where Edith was sitting, hands wrapped around her coffee cup. "How do you do, ma'am? I'm Marcus Winters."
After a moment, Edith extended her hand. "How do you do?"
"Marcus joined the station in May," Jack explained. "He's from Philadelphia."
"Ah. The big city," said Edith, with a hint of a sniff.
"Coffee, Marcus?" Jack asked.
"Love some."
Jack poured it.
"Sugar? Cream?" Edith asked, regaining her manners.
"No, I like it black." He grinned at her. "It's a joke. Because I am black."
"I noticed that," Edith said.
Jack rolled his eyes at Marcus, who laughed. "I guess you're not too used to black folk out here in Somerset County," he told Edith.
"We're an integrated community," she retorted. "We have everything. Wops, Polacks, Litvaks -- " She saw Jack grimace. "What? What did I say?"
"Why can't you just call them by their right names? And they're all Americans, anyway."
She shrugged. "It's how I was brought up. I'm not making excuses for that. And now you see what we get for letting anybody and everybody come waltzing into this country. I just thank God your father's not alive to see this. He'd be having fits. Why, he -- "
"Sit down, Marcus," Jack invited, hoping that might stave off his mothers diatribe.
It did. "Thanks," said Marcus, and settled into the chair beside Edith at the kitchen table, who stopped with her mouth still open. Marcus glanced over at her and chuckled. "Ever sit next to a black man before, Mrs. Bennett?"
"I don't know that I have."
He kept on looking at her. "Well?" he said after a moment.
"Well what?"
"Does it feel any different from sitting next to a white guy?"
She stared, trying to figure out whether he was joking. Then he grinned. Edith blushed. "Tell your friend to stop teasing a silly old woman, Jack, for heaven's sake."
Jack laughed. "I won't. You deserve it. You all packed, Marcus?"
"Just about. I was out of razor blades, so I was running down to CVS when I saw your light was on." He winked at Edith. "Yes, ma'am, we shave, just like white folk. Amazing, isn't it?"
She snorted at him. "Oh, you. Am I to understand you're going along with Jack for this nonsense?"
"Civil preparedness training isn't nonsense," he said gravely. "Didn't you hear what the President said? We're at war. We're all at war."
"So what is it exactly that you're going to be doing?"
"Practicing how to respond in case of an emergency," Jack explained to her -- again. "There'll be folks there from all over the state. Fire fighters, police officers, ambulance workers, poison control, K-9 crews, SWAT teams "
"And what are they going to do, pretend a bomb hits the state capitol building?"
"Something like that."
Edith drained her coffee cup and stood up abruptly. "I've got to be going. But it sounds like a complete waste of time, if you ask me. The government has got everything under control. Nothing like this is ever going to happen again."
"I hope to God you're right, ma'am," Marcus told her, rising from his seat politely.
She looked up at him. "You've got very nice manners, I must say, young man."
"Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bennett."
"Humph." She gave Jack a peck on the cheek. "Take care of yourself. Don't be the first one into the burning building for a change. And don't forget your sandwich."
"Bye, Mom. You take care, too. I love you."
She went out the back door with a vague little wave. Marcus and Jack sat back down at the table. Marcus's meaty shoulders were shaking with laughter.
"Very nice manners -- for a Negro!" he burst out.
Jack laughed, too, but his laughter had a hollow edge. "She's right, it was the way she was brought up. It's the way everybody hereabouts was brought up. I can't for the life of me understand why you stay."
"Hey, how many places are there left in America where I can be the first black man a 65-year-old woman ever sat beside? A better question would be why you stay."
"I've been asking myself that more and more lately," Jack admitted. "But Mom needs me. Who'd clean her gutters and hang the storm windows if I moved away?"
"She could always hire a black guy to do it."
Jack shot him a grin, then shook his head. "They're scared, people like her. Places like Redsopple. Their world's changing, fast. They aren't going to be running the show a whole lot longer. Hell, we got us a sushi joint down at the Brookland Mall. It's the beginning of the end." Just then, the phone rang. He went to get it, hesitated, then let it ring, so the machine would answer.
"Jan?" Marcus said knowingly.
"Probably. She called a while ago. Trying to get me to meet her at Piggy's."
"Nice lady, Jan. And a fine-looking woman."
"She wants to get married."
"Most of 'em do."
"I notice none's landed you yet."
"Why the hell do you think I got out of Philly?"
Jack laughed. Then his blue eyes sobered. "I just have this feeling I don't know how to explain it. Like if I marry her, that's it. I'll be stuck here in Redsopple forever, with every day just like the one before."
Marcus had finished his coffee. "Funny. That's what I like best about Redsopple," he declared. "I'd better go get those razor blades. You're picking me up at five, right?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks for the coffee."
"Thanks for ragging on my Mom."
"That's my job, isn't it? Yes, sir, changing the world, one bigot at a time." He went out, too, whistling, and Jack heard his Jeep fire up. He smiled to himself and went to finish packing. But he'd no sooner reached for the duffle bag than the doorbell rang again. Damn. It really could be Jan this time.
"Jack?"
"Mom?" He glanced out into the living room. She'd let herself in and was toting another brown bag. "What's that?"
"An egg and cheese sandwich for your friend. I didn't know if he liked mayo, so I just stuck one of those little packets in the bag."
Jack took the bag, biting his cheek to keep from laughing. "Why, Mom. Wasn't that thoughtful of you."
"Well, I didn't want him to think I'd left him out just because he's a... a... man of color." She hesitated. "Man of color' -- is that all right to say?"
"Absolutely," he assured her, and gave her a hug.
"You take care of yourself," she said again.
"I will. And I'll get to your gutters as soon as I get back."
"You'd best, because they're dripping with leaves." She left. Jack set the sandwich atop his in the fridge, shaking his head in wonder. Maybe life in Redsopple could change. He thought about it. Then, "Nah," he said aloud, and went to close the duffle bag. The phone rang. Jan. He let it go on ringing.
God. He couldn't wait to get away.

* * * *

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. October 28th, 2001

.

She didn't want to go.
Marisol Benitez frowned into the neatly packed suitcase that lay open on her bed. It was bingo night next door at the Seven Seas, and the sound system blared right through the walls. That Lee Greenwood song -- it was everywhere these days. "Hokey country crap," she muttered, and turned on the radio to drown it out. Salsa filled the room, and she swayed a little, snapping her fingers to the beat.
Her six-year-old niece, Elena, looked in at the door. "Why is it so loud?" she wondered.
"Hello, little one. Just making a political statement. Your mam� bring you?"
Elena nodded, coming into the room a little shyly. "She says you're going to miss my birthday party tomorrow."
"Believe me, it's not my idea."
Elena perched on Marisol's bed, reaching for the holstered gun that was inside the suitcase. Marisol slapped her hand away. "Uh-uh. You don't touch that ever, you understand me? Not mine, not anyone's. And if you're ever at somebody's house and there's a gun, what do you do?"
"Get out," the girl chanted.
"And?"
"And tell you."
"Right. Did your pap� come with your mam�?"
"No. He went to Atlantic City with T�o Enrique and T�o Carlo."
Marisol rolled her eyes. Civilization as they knew it might be ending, but that wouldn't keep her brothers from their regular blackjack night.
"Where are you going, anyway?" asked Elena.
"The middle of nowhere," Marisol said grimly.
"Where is that?"
"West of here."
"What for?"
Marisol hesitated. "You know about those buildings in New York that got blown up?"
Elena nodded. "That's why they let us out of school."
"Right. Well, everybody is worried something like that might happen again. So a whole bunch of police and fire fighters are going to a place called Harrisburg to practice what they'd do if it did. And because Captain Haring thinks I am a thorn in his butt, he is sending me."
"Is it?" asked Elena, her black eyes wide.
"Is it what?"
"Going to happen again?"
Marisol looked down at her. "I hope not, baby. So help me God, I do."
"Why are you a thorn in Captain Harings butt?"
"Because I filed a complaint that some of the men I work with were being rude to me."
"Rude to you how?"
"You ask a lot of questions, baby, don't you?"
"There you are, Elena!" Marisol's sister-in-law, Mercedes, had come up the stairs. "Don't pester Tia Marisol while she is packing."
"She's not pestering," Marisol assured her, going to kiss her. "God, you're big!"
Mercedes patted her stomach. "I gained another two pounds this week. The doctor says the baby might be as much as nine pounds. Thank God I only have one more week to go!"
"And then," declared Elena, "I will have a sister!"
"Or a brother," said her mother.
"A sister."
"So help me God," Marisol said fiercely, "if you deliver that baby while I'm off in the middle of nowhere playing stupid games with a bunch of rednecks, I'll file another complaint with Internal Affairs, and this time, I'll tell about the girlie calendar Haring keeps in his desk!"
"You make too many waves," Mercedes said, chewing her lip. "Why do you have to make so many waves?"
"Because if I don't, they'll just ignore me. Pass over me. Stick me in traffic control and school duty for the rest of my life. I want to make detective. I will make detective."
"Sometimes," Mercedes said above the blasting meld of salsa and country, "sometimes you have to go along to get along."
"It's not my style." Marisol looked at her sister-in-law. "How does Pap� seem to you?"
"Pretty much the same."
"You tell him he has to stick to the dialysis. You make sure he goes while I'm gone, will you? He can talk Mam� out of it. Tuesday and Friday. You make sure, you hear me?"
"I'll make sure."
Marisol sighed, shoving back her black curls. "Ah, what am I telling you for? It's Julio I should be telling. Doesn't he realize you could have that baby anytime now?"
"He has his cell phone on."
Marisol opened her mouth to say more -- there was a lot she could say about how her brother treated his wife -- but Mercedes met her gaze pleadingly, nodding toward Elena. "He takes good care of us," she said defensively. Marisol rolled her eyes, but held her tongue.
"Grandmam� is making asopao. I can smell it," said Elena.
"I'll be eating ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread for the next five days," Marisol said dejectedly.
"With Miracle Whip, no doubt." Mercedes laughed. "Come on, Mari! Look at it as an adventure. Maybe you'll meet a guy."
"I'll meet lots of guys. Lots of guys who live in the middle of nowhere, have gun racks on their pickups, love Lee Greenwood, think a woman's place is in the kitchen, and wouldn't know asopao if a bowl of it hit them in the face. And none of them will be able to pronounce my name."
Elena had bounced up from the bed and was peering into the open drawers of Marisol's dresser. "Did you pack underwear?" she asked.
"Yes, baby. I packed underwear."
"You didn't pack this."
Marisol glanced over. Her niece was holding up a flame-red satin bustier and it's matching garter belt.
Mercedes raised her eyebrows. "Why, Mari!"
Marisol made a face. "That was Tonio's Christmas present to me. Which explains why I'm not seeing Tonio anymore."
"It's pretty! Shiny," Elena declared, rubbing the bustier against her cheek.
"And soft."
"You could have done worse than Tonio," Mercedes noted briefly.
"I could do better, too. I could, for example, find a man who doesn't think a woman should dress up like a cheap slut to please him."
"What's a cheap slut?" asked Elena.
"You still have it," Mercedes mentioned slyly. "You could have returned it."
"There weren't any tags on it. I think it was hot."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not. Tonio had some very peculiar friends."
"If I ever get my figure back after this one, you can give it to me,"
"Take it and welcome."
"You look good in red," Elena announced, coming to hold the bustier up to her aunt's face.
"She's right. You do," said Mercedes. "Better than in police blue."
"When I make detective, I'll be out of the uniform."
"You think too much about your career," said Mercedes. "You need to start thinking seriously about a man and a family. What are you now -- thirty-one?"
"Thirty-two."
Mercedes held up a finger, wagged it back and forth. "Tick. Tick. Tick."
"What's that?"
"Your biological clock."
"Not to a cop," said Marisol. "To a cop, its a bomb. Clear the area! Everybody move back! Move away!"
Mercedes laughed. "You'll break their hearts downstairs if you don't get married soon, though."
"What, you think they want the bedroom?"
"You're impossible."
Marisol grinned, her black eyes glinting. "That's what every man I ever dated said."
Her mother called up the stairway: "Marisol! Mercedes! Supper!"
Marisol turned off the blaring radio. "Damn!" she swore, as the Seven Seas sound system swam through the window.
"What?" asked Mercedes.
"Lee Greenwood again!"
"I like that song."
"I do, too," Elena declared, singing along lustily: "'Where at least I know I'm free ...'"
"Come on, baby," Marisol told her. "Time for supper." She headed for the door with Mercedes, and started down the stairs. Elena hesitated, standing over the open suitcase. Then she took the bright, shiny red satin, balled it up, and slid it in the very bottom, underneath her aunt's neatly pressed uniform.
Marisol came charging back into the room. "You'd better not be fooling with that gun!"
"I wasn't!" Elena cried. But Marisol saw guilt on her small face.
She snapped the suitcase shut and locked it, tucking the key into the pocket of her jeans. "There. Now, what do you do if you're ever in a house where you see a gun?"
"Get out right away," Elena chanted.
"And?"
"And call you."
"Right," said Marisol, running her hand through the girl's shiny black hair. "Come and eat the asopao."

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