Through The Night by Nexxie Let's see the kitchen spice rack holds fourteen bottles: Cinnamon, Allspice, Nutmeg and...Cloves, the sweet ones. That's four. Then there's Black Pepper, White Pepper, Cayenne Pepper and Paprika, the hot ones. Hot! I bet it's very hot right now... Anyway, that makes eight...six to go. There's um...Basil, Oregano, Parsley...what's that song? Parsley Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. The Beatles did it...Scarborough Fair! Anyway that's six more making fourteen. And there's Garlic, but the rack only holds fourteen. Okay, what else can I count? Joanne lay in the queen-sized bed she shared with her husband and hugged his pillow. Light from the security lamp mounted on the garage filtered in through the slats in the Venetian blinds chopping the ceiling and walls of their bedroom into stripes of light and dark. How many slivers of light? Nevermind, I've counted those a hundred times. There's still forty-five. There were forty-five the last time. There will be forty-five the next time. When will the next time be? Oh God! How can I go through this again? How can I...? Her eyes panned the room and halted at each object hanging on the darkened walls. Citation for Bravery Above and Beyond...I know every word. How Roy laughed when he found out it was a mistake. After the countless times he risked all and came out with the victim, sometimes for naught. After all the times he's been hurt "just a little singed, Honey" and made light of the injuries, when they finally recognize his selfless dedication...it's a mistake. It was a bitter laugh. But he shrugged and went back to work the next shift ready to do it all again. He found it so ridiculous that I would frame the darned thing and put it on the bedroom wall. "Jo, it wasn't meant for me," he complained. "It should have been," I answered. It really should have been. She clutched the pillow tightly to her chest and caressed the top, running fingers over the smooth white percale and imagining it was a pair of strong shoulders. Two tears...only two, that's all she would allow, squeezed their way out of the corners of her eyes, eyes shut tightly to prevent the escape of more. A strangled sob, quickly muffled in the depths of the pillow, then two deep breaths. The kids can't know. I have to be the strong one. Oh Roy, come home and be strong for me. I'm so tired of "managing". How long will I have to pretend this time? How long will I have to paste a smile on my face and say, "I'm fine," when our friends call to ask how I'm doing? Well I'm not fine! I'm frightened. And I'm angry! And I'm so...damned...lonely. Somebody hit the dog today. Did you know that, Roy? He wasn't dead yet when I rushed into the street at the sound of the kids' screaming and found our sweet Callie laying there bloody and broken. "Best not touch him, ma'am," some stranger advised me. "They can react sometimes by biting when they are hurt." The jerk! Callie just whimpered and licked my hand. It was all that he could do. Calvin...such a silly name for a dog. You never did tell me who you named him after. Joanne sniffed and took a swipe at her face. "Damn!" "I refuse to cry. I've got to be the strong one, remember? I've got to hold the fort, keep the home fires...burning." Where are you? Are you out in the middle of that unholy mess they call a brushfire? Are you manning a triage station and treating burns, washing eyes and giving oxygen? Or are they sending you out into the fire to rescue and bring back the ones that get hurt? Are you fighting the fire itself? If only you could call. And yet I'm afraid for that phone to ring. It might be somebody calling with the words, "We regret to inform..." Would they do that by phone? Or would they come to the door in the middle of the night? Will they send a cop? Or will it be a fireman? Every time that darn phone rings, and it's somebody wanting to sell me something, or somebody that wants to find out "how poor Joanne is doing", I just want to scream, "GET OFF THE PHONE! You're tying up the line when Roy might be trying to call." But I never do. The smell of Roy's aftershave clung faintly to the pillow, its aroma comforting as she buried her face and breathed deeply to catch every vestige of the scent. Finally, unable to draw any more oxygen into her lungs, she emerged and took a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she attempted to concentrate once more. Where was I? The dog! Jenny ran to the house and returned with her favorite baby blanket. I didn't even hesitate because it was her best. It was her way of giving. I scooped up Callie and we ran to the car. Chris went to get my purse and the keys while I laid the dog in the back. He crawled in beside Callie...I let him. I already knew there was no hope. At the vet's office, I made the kids stay out in the waiting room while I carried Callie in. It seemed like an hour before the vet looked at me and shook his head. "Mrs. DeSoto," he said, "I don't know how far you want to go with this. There are internal injuries that would require major surgery, and frankly, I'm doubtful then of a good outcome." I think I must have looked pleadingly at him. I was thinking, 'Oh Roy, why do you have to be gone at a time like this?' And Honey, I was even mad at you for it. How far do you want to go with this? I knew he was telling me that it would be a waste of time and money to try and save our dog. I wish he would have just told me there were no options, no possible way to keep Callie alive. Instead he left it up to me to decide our little Callie's fate. I looked into those big brown eyes...do you know they're the same color as your partner's? I saw that little tail make a feeble wag as Callie looked trustingly at me. He was sad. I could tell he knew what was about to happen. How could I do it? How could I tell the vet to kill our dog? We've had him since Jenny was a baby. She can't remember a single day without him. How can I go out there and tell our babies that I had their dog killed? Oh Roy! "Will he suffer much?" I remember asking. Funny, now it seems like a cliche. In the movies, they always ask that, and here I'd done it too. Maybe it was requisite in these cases. The vet said he would feel nothing and just drift to sleep. He handed me a release form to sign. It gave the doctor permission to stop Callie's heart with drugs. How could I do that! I signed it, trying to push all these feelings into a little box and deal with them later. Well, it's later. And here they are back again. Darn you Roy! You were out there being a hero while I had to tell the kids to say goodbye to their friend because he was going away. It isn't fair. It just isn't fair! Pushing Roy's pillow aside, Joanne sat up, more wide awake now than she had been when she began counting things to fall asleep. With a frustrated cry, soft so the children couldn't hear, she planted a fist in the middle of the pillow and pummeled it harder and harder until her arm ached. Then she gathered it to her face and threw herself across the bed, her body shaking in uncontrollable sobs. The chiming of the clock in the living room registered as the cryfest faded into hiccups and sniffles. Four a.m. Well, sleeping doesn't appear to be an option. Guess I'll just get up. Maybe a book? A soft laugh escaped her as she headed for the living room, knowing what she really wanted to do. With a click she turned on the cabinet model TV and dialed through the channels. Nothing but test patterns rewarded her efforts until she came to the one channel that stayed on all night. She was just in time for an update. Words like "twenty percent contained" and "communities threatened" danced around the outside of her consciousness as the reporter did his level best to dramatize the situation. But there was no drama greater than the images of the great orange beast devouring acres of land as the men fought and the engines pumped and the fire raged on. Occasionally they zoomed the camera in close enough to make out the numbers on the engines. Where is 51? Where is the squad? Where...where is Roy? The reporter signed off and the images were replaced with those of children brushing their teeth with some toothpaste that was supposed to make them want to brush longer. Joanne sighed and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Only half a gallon left. Better get more, Johnny will be here for break... Will he? Will my husband and his partner get relieved? Will they be allowed to come home for breakfast? Will I hold Roy in my arms and let him 'talk out the fire' before he falls asleep? Roy! Milk in hand, she returned to the living room and curled up on the sofa, prepared to watch whatever was on between the updates and hope for a glimpse of her husband. She sat the milk on a coaster and burrowed down into the cushions of the sofa. The scenes from a movie that was supposed to be a classic played across the screen. In truth, she couldn't have said what the movie was about. Still, she watched, and waited. The jingling of the phone startled her from slumber. Exhaustion finally intervened, letting her fall asleep. She blinked in confusion, startled as much to see daylight peeking in through the living room curtains as she was to hear the sound of the telephone. "Hello? DeSoto's, this is Joanne." There was a loud confusion of engines and loudspeakers coming out of the receiver, but she could faintly hear the voice she'd been waiting for. "Jo? Honey, I'm going to be a bit late getting home. We're just heading back to the station now, C-Shift is relieving us here at the scene. Is it still okay for Johnny to come for breakfast?" Roy was yelling now as a large vehicle rolled by behind him nearly drowning out his voice. "Yes, that's fine," she called back as loud as she dared, mindful of waking the kids. Let 'em sleep. They cried themselves to sleep last night and they'll still be unhappy this morning. "What?" Roy yelled. "Jo, it's too noisy here, I can't hear you. I'm calling from a payphone at the school. We're using it as a command post. Honey, are you all right?" "I am now." "What? I can't hear you." "I said I'm JUST FINE!" she yelled back, uncaring now if she awakened the whole neighborhood. The night is over. He's coming home. THE END ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ author's note: Thanks, Marty, you were right. It does help to write about it. Dissa Puppy, we will miss you. Dorogoy, come home soon. Love, Zhena Feedback for Nexxie. return to main page