Leslie woke up and checked the clock. Three a.m. He brushed his teeth in the downstairs bathroom, splashed water on his face. As he dried off with the towel, he looked at himself. What an exhausted-looking man, he thought. He went to the dryer, grabbed a few of his own T-shirts, shoving them into a plastic bag, then opened the front door as silently as he could, crept out to his truck, and felt for the fire gear he kept in the backseat. It was there. Deirdre’s cigarette and lighter were in his glove compartment. He started the engine and pulled out, glancing at the clock on the dashboard: three-fifteen.
He got to Masha’s minutes later, parked by the side of the building. The door to the basement was still taped open, as he had left it that morning. Once inside, he peeled the tape off the door strike, ran up the basement stairs, shut the door leading to the rest of the house. That would give him a few extra minutes before the fire spread. He walked across the basement, reached behind the dryer, and loosened the fitting with his wrench, jiggling the line until he could just hear the hiss of gas. It had to fill the room slowly if it was going to catch. Swiftly, he took the laundry from its plastic bag. He placed the clothes in one of the wicker baskets, kicked the basket over to the dryer, took the cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a trembling hand. The smoke made his throat clench. He dropped the lit butt into the laundry basket, knelt down on the floor, and blew till a little tongue of flame flared.
As he stoked the fire, his breath caught the plastic bag he’d brought the clothes in; moved it, ghostlike, a few inches across the floor.
I exulted. How good was my good man now? All righteousness is a mask, I thought. The only truth is the black mirth bubbling like pitch from the center of the earth. Beauty is Truth, I thought with a chuckle, having gleaned the phrase from a skin-care advertisement in one of Deirdre’s magazines.
Having rigged the dryer, Leslie ran to his truck, drove the five miles to the end of his fire district, and picked a house. He figured he had a good twenty minutes before Masha was in any kind of trouble. Plenty of time. The phone booth receiver felt heavy in his gloved hand. He dialled 911. His hands were shaking. A woman’s voice picked up immediately.
“There’s smoke comin’ out of the first-floor window in 48 Division Street,” he said. It was a Cape house. He’d seen so many fires in this type of house.
“What is your name, please?”
“Bobik,” he answered, hanging up and hurrying back into the truck. As he sped toward Masha’s house, he heard his pager go off. “Calling all units. A called-in fire, 48 Division Street.” The whole department would report to a called-in fire.
Turning onto Masha’s street, Leslie saw smoke coming out of the first-floor window of her building. He stepped on the gas, passed the house, and made a quick U-turn so his truck would be facing the right way when he parked, as if he were on the way from his place. He called the fire dispatcher on his radio.
“It’s Leslie. I got a structural fire on 155 Marine. By the boat club. I was on the way to the other one, on Division. Be advised, I’m going in to investigate. I’m gonna be off the air for a few minutes.” He had about ten minutes before the department caught up with him. He needed to get her out himself.
He reached behind him and grabbed the heavy jacket, the helmet. He stepped into the boots, pulled on the bunker pants. The smoke coming out the window was black. This fire was moving faster than it should.
He banged open the front door with his shoulder. Worried for my own safety (who knew how much smoke a little fly could take?), I decided to zip outside and witness the rescue in absentia: I nestled in the crook of a tree and inhabited Leslie, seeing what he saw—the first floor was clotted with black smoke. He could just make out the staircase. He had no air tank with him; if he didn’t get up there fast, he’d be overcome. As he reached the first step, he looked down and saw that a wide square of the first floor was missing. The workers were putting in a new floor! He hadn’t known. The fire in the basement would flash through the house now. He ran up the stairs. The hallway was gray. Masha’s door was open. He could barely make out her bed. He radioed in: “I have located a victim on the second floor, three-four corner.”
Masha woke, confused, logy, coughing. Leslie heaved her up, walked her down the stairs, crouching low. He had to get her out. He could hear the sirens now, faintly. They were on their way. It was pitch-black on the stairs. He felt his way along the wall. It seemed as though he was creeping down those blackened stairs forever. Her body was so heavy, slung over his shoulder. The heat and smoke were hellish. He thought he would pass out. At last he saw the open front door, a faint rectangle in the evil dark.
The trucks were on the lawn as he knelt at the doorway, set Masha down on the porch gently. She flopped like a rubber mannequin. She was barely conscious, but her eyes focused on him. She knew he was the one. There were men crawling by him, carrying a hose into the building. They would have the fire out out in minutes. Curious to see the firemen at work, I flew up to the second floor and peered in a window. I could see a fireman crawling up the stairs, the light on his helmet the only illumination as he felt his way through the darkness, looking for victims. I could have told him no one else was there. I looked into Shelley’s room, to see what was left of it. A lick of light from one of the flashing trucks illuminated a hand. I stared in horror. Leslie and I had both assumed Shelley would be in the city, having gotten back together with her boyfriend. I dive-bombed down toward Leslie, screaming.
Unaware, Leslie walked to the ambulance where they had Masha on a stretcher, oxygen up to her face. The paramedic set him down on the bench and gave him some as well. I buzzed around his face frantically. He waved me away. I kept bashing myself against his mask, yelling into his mind, but he was deaf to me, swatted at me. Masha looked up at him.
“I was driving toward another fire,” he explained to her. “I saw smoke coming out of your basement window.” She nodded, then drew the mask from her face. Asked him:
“Did they get Shelley out?”
Leslie ripped the oxygen mask off his face and stood, suffocated by fear. He grabbed his helmet, tore actross the lawn, his eyes only on the blackened door of the house, running over crisscrossed hoses, through beams of colored light pulsing from the trucks. When he reached the door, Tony stepped out of the house and blocked Leslie’s path. His fire hat was set far back on his head; sweat streamed down his face.
“What’s up?” he asked Leslie.
“There’s another victim up there.”
“McCauley’s got her,” said Tony.
“Did she make it?” asked Leslie.
Tony unclipped his walkie-talkie from his vest pocket, legs spread wide. “Hey, Jim. Do you read me?” There was a pause. “Come in, Jim McCauley.”
The walkie-talkie let out a hiss. “I’m comin’ down.”
“What’s the status of the victim?”
“She’s conscious. Looks like she burned her hand.”
At this, Tony looked up at Leslie, his flat mouth turned down at the corners. “Okay, Les?”
“Okay,” said Leslie.
Tony stepped to the side, away from the door, putting his hand on Leslie’s arm. Leslie turned to face him. “The fire’s out, Les,” he said. “Nothin’ left to do. You …”
“What?” Leslie said.
“Take a load off. You gotta stop worrying about everybody so much. You’re just … too good a guy, sometimes.”
Leslie crossed his lawn. The birds were chirping. The dawn was fine and clear. He walked into the open garage, unlocked the green metal cabinet in the back, and pulled the gun from behind the motor oil. He couldn’t remember where the bullets were. He always hid them so carefully so Stevie wouldn’t find them, now he couldn’t remember where they were.
He walked into the silent house, sat down at the kitchen table, the handgun balanced on his long, splayed fingers. He looked around him, at his place, this kitchen he had built with his own hands. It seemed like a kitchen in a commercial now; nothing to do with him. What had happened? It all seemed like a dream, and now he had nearly murdered that girl. He would never see Masha again. He didn’t even want to. The shame of what he had done was unbearable.
The solution to the problem was obvious. They say it runs in families. In all the world, Leslie thought himself the least likely to. Mr. Positive. Yet here he was, bowing his head to the symmetry. Where were the bullets? He didn’t feel sad, only determined to remove himself. He still wondered at it, though, how he had been ruined so quickly. Maybe it had been coming on a long time.
For the first time, I wished I had left Leslie alone.
There was a shuffling on the stairs. Leslie felt afraid. He didn’t want to see her. It was Stevie. Tiny blond boy. Leslie was holding the gun under the table. He shoved it into the loose pocket of his sweatpants.
Stevie signed: “There was a fire?”
“Yes,” signed Leslie.
“Did you save anybody?”
“Yes.”
Stevie walked over to him, climbed up on his big lap, put his head against Leslie’s chest. In his toneless, too-loud voice, he proclaimed, “I wanna watch cartoons!”
“Is that why you came down here?” Leslie signed.
Stevie nodded. He slid off Leslie’s lap and pulled at his hand. Leslie stood up, led, shuffling, into the living room. He slumped into the soft leather couch, pulling the boy up on his knee. Stevie switched on the TV. It was on mute. The bright colors on the screen flashed and whizzed and popped. Leslie took the remote and turned on the sound. He held the little boy very close and watched the cartoon, the empty gun in his pocket. Deirdre entered. She was wearing her fluffy peach robe. She sat beside Leslie, squeezed his limp fingers.
“I didn’t hear the pager last night,” she said.
He stared at the TV. A tear made its crooked way down the crags of his face. My poor man. He had fallen, crashed into pieces, and I got no pleasure from it, after all. Stevie watched the cartoon, nestled into Leslie’s lap, oblivious.
“Did something happen?” Deirdre asked.
He turned to her. It was Deirdre’s face again, her dear face. He tried to move his arm to touch her, but it felt too heavy.
“I need you to help me, Deirdre,” he whispered.
“Of course I’ll help you,” she said, infused with sudden, startling gratitude for all she had not quite lost. Leslie stared into her, his eyes fierce, clear globes.