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I was in the newsroom when the call came in. Two-alarm fire. I said a prayer for the safety of our volunteer fire department. Those well-trained men and women were a lifeline for folks in rural communities like Laurel Falls.
Jessie was throwing her notebook and recorder into her purse when she asked if I could drive her to the fire; she’d left her car for maintenance at Bill Davis’ garage. She added an apology for dragging me into this.
You’ve got to be kidding, I wanted to say. I drove like a demon.
When we got past Hanging Dog, heading toward Beaverdam, I could see the smoke rising in a cove to our right. I parked in a meadow just below the circle of fire trucks and rescue vehicles; we grabbed our notebooks and ran toward them. At the top of the hill, an old shack was mostly burned out, smoke and stink filling the air. The shack was so remote, they hadn’t bothered to cordon off the scene, so Jessie and I could walk right up.
Jessie went off to do her reporterly thing, and I nosed around. I could see inside the shack where some charred ropes dangled from what remained of a chair. Not much else inside except three or four pieces of rusted-out—and now burned-out—farm equipment.
After a while, the smell was getting to me, so I motioned to Jessie that I’d be in the Jeep. As I turned away, something apricot-colored caught my eye just outside the smoldering shack. I’m certain my heart stopped for a few beats. I stepped closer and clearly identified two distinct buttons. That and the general tailoring told me it had once been a waistcoat.
Then I heard a loud, mournful sob. It wasn’t until Jessie asked if I were okay that I realized it had come from somewhere deep inside me. Just a few months ago that waistcoat announced Nigel’s arrival; now it might be signaling his death.
Jessie put her arm around me when I asked if the firefighters had found any bodies in the shack. “No, honey, they didn’t,” she said in a comforting way. “Just a bunch of abandoned junk like they do around here. Can’t throw anything away in case it might be needed some day.”
But that didn’t make me feel any better. Nigel was in trouble—or worse—and I didn’t know how to help.