The early morning haze was interrupted violently by an ominous orangey-yellow. That’s what Dane looked upon as she stood her turn in the Twin Otter, hooked on a line far above the earth. Matthew, in front of her, took his hand signal from the drop coordinator and then her turn was next, but Dane had already released her carabiner from the line, barely acknowledging the order, then hurtled herself into thin air. As she surrendered to the smoky dawn freefall, arms and legs splayed out like a flying squirrel, only the wind lifted her in weightlessness. Through all her training, she couldn’t help but smile behind the gridded mask with each jump. She was not afraid, welcoming what lay aground. The sight of them, they drifted down like a string of angel’s wings into the flames below.
Of course, in front of Tuck, she told herself to grim up, because Tuck would not like the fact that she enjoyed the prospect of hurtling to her own death as she rapidly narrowed that distance to earth. She did her best to withhold any public signs of elation as it was. Nor did Tuck know she released the parachute a millisecond or two after the required time. Her index finger twitched at the cold metal lever, and she always caught the ground too hard.
Later, on the surface within the burning forest, fighting the flames, she heard, “Dane. On your left!”
She heard the warning shout in the distance over the roaring fire, but just barely. Had she taken the time to look at what Tuck alerted her to, before leaping right, the burning limb would have at least landed on her shoulder, singeing her and knocking her to the ground.
“You’re moving too damn fast, Dane. The terrain’s too steep. Slooow down,” he yelled over as he caught up to her.
She’d found out weeks ago several of them from training ended up on Tuck’s new team: Matthew, Cal, Rebecca, Owen and herself. She’d looked forward to moving on to where no one really knew her name but that wasn’t going to happen, not yet. Not sure what to think or what the deciding factors were for her to remain under the supervision of Tuck, she didn’t really care. She was as far as she could get from where she once was. The series of events that landed her in Missoula, Montana, within the burning Bitterroot Forest, never quite left her when she was conscious by day or in the dark of night. Always under the surface, the miserable pain would take hold of her and plunge her beneath depths of misery if she didn’t constantly keep it in check. And in order to keep it in check, she pushed herself harder and harder. At night, the opposite was true. Only…she tried to mask the worst of the pain with the packets.
“Let’s move!” Tuck yelled as Cal and Dane finished cutting a line for the backfire they were about to light in hopes of extinguishing its date with the coming blaze.
Sweat dripped down into her eyes as they stood at a distance watching Matthew and a few of the others move through the night in front of the nearing fire, their blackened silhouettes in a sort of choreographed theatrical display. Dripping liquid fire onto the brittle ground, Dane found beauty in the destruction.
Her hair up and held in place behind a bandana, she leaned forward to ease the weight of the heavy pack on her back and poured water from her bottle along her exposed neck. At times the heat was unbearable, the tiny hairs along her neckline long ago singed away.
“Are you seeing anyone, Dane?” Cal asked her.
His voice was like an army of earthworms. She stared first at his boots and stood up, rising slowly…glaring. “Don’t ever ask me that again. Step off, Cal, now!”
Cal first smiled and then sneered at her, the firelight casting ominous shadows across his smirked face as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He moved away reluctantly, as she wished, sidestepping in the crunching brush a few yards, and casually swung his Pulaski tool to his side in wide swaths.
She didn’t like Cal…not from the start. Her initial assessment had been right. But there was something more. He was off, somehow. All through training, he’d gone after one female or the other, was often rebuffed, and then when that didn’t work, he got pushy and insistent, even grabbing young Rebecca in the bunkroom one night while the rest of them were relaxed in front of the television watching the latest hit episode of the protesters of the day.
Rebecca screamed, “Get your hands off me.”
One of the guys jumped up. Without seeing, they all knew who the hands belonged to. He darted into the darkened bunkroom and Cal yelled, “I didn’t touch her. She’s batshit crazy.”
“Get the hell out of here, Cal.”
“I’m goin’,” he said and though Dane never cared to watch the commotion, she did hear the front door slam as Cal left the building.
That should have been the end of things, but it wasn’t. After they’d returned from a local brushfire, Dane heard Cal pleading his case again to Rebecca on the front porch.
“I’ve already filled out the report, Cal. There’s a case number and everything. Give me a reason to press send. Go ahead. You do not talk to me, touch me…nothing. You keep your distance.”
Cal must have reached for her as he said, “You don’t mean tha…”
But that’s where it ended. The next sound was a hand slap across his face. “I do mean it, Cal. Listen to my words…never…again!”
The altercation ended there for now, but there was something about the sound of that slap that instantly brought Dane back to a place she didn’t like, didn’t want to ever visit again.
By the light of the television, she stood from the comfortable chair she’d occupied.
Matthew caught her look as she passed. “I’m sure Rebecca can handle this herself,” he said.
Dane nodded. “I’m just getting a drink.” She passed the back of his chair. Matthew often watched her in a way that didn’t bother her. He had an annoying habit of looking out for her. She knew he had a crush, but she’d never acknowledge that. That was a part of life that wasn’t in the cards for Dane. Not now, not after what’d happened. All of that was gone for her now.
In the kitchen, the light over the stove arched out along the stone flooring. They kept it obsessively neat, all of them. It was always a joint effort. Probably had something to do with their structural firefighter days. The cleanliness just carried over. They all smelled like smoke continuously. That aroma was embedded in the woodwork of the table and chairs, of the fabric curtains, of the tapestry of comfy couches they lounged on. It was in the molecules of their hair and would never go away so that burning aroma was always a part of their being.
Dane opened the upper cupboard and slid out a deceptively fancy-looking acrylic glass. Upper management didn’t seem to trust them with actual glass. The plates and bowls were a Creamsicle sunny-orange melamine, too. The color always contrasted oddly with her food, made it less appetizing somehow. She’d wondered more than once if perhaps they’d been white or cream and the last crew had a penchant for spaghetti and meatballs, staining the dishware for eternity. She’d never know. Filling the glass at the sink, she looked behind her at the open doorway. Seeing no one, she reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a thin paper tube. Tearing the tip away with her teeth, she poured the powdered contents into the water and stirred the liquid into a tiny typhoon until the powder dissolved to invisibility.
Quickly, she discarded the paper vial in the trash without regard to the flavor selection this time, making sure to plunge it into the depths, never to be seen again. Matthew walked in as she held the glass to her lips, thinking to herself, Ah, margaritas. Though no one could smell the contents, her eyes widened anyway.
“They’re fine. She really told him off. We’re keeping an eye on him. Rebecca might be looking for you though. You should talk to her.”
Taking the glass away from her mouth, Dane said, “Why do you assume that? Do you somehow think girls need to girl talk after they’ve been assaulted? She’s not my job. She can handle herself. Why don’t you talk to her?”
“Ok…ay,” Matthew said nodding his head. “I just thought…I mean, you seemed concerned when you got up in there.” He pointed toward the door.
“Don’t mistake my thirst for caring, Matthew. Rebecca’s on her own. We all are,” Dane said and took a large gulp of her water, ignoring him as she looked at her reflection in the dark window over the sink.
He walked away after that, retreating back into the safe space of the living room. She noticed that much through the reflection in the kitchen window as she drank down the alcoholic liquid. The reconstituted alcohol having already seeped into her bloodstream, it began its blissful numbing affects, or so she hoped, before the triggers of the day had the torment of the past flooding in.