Smoke in His Eyes

Some­body asked for some fic­tion. This is dusted off from the col­lege days.

I stood at the base of the fire tower on Ren­dezvous Moun­tain, head tilted into the late morn­ing sun, watch­ing Dad climb. Was the sway of the steps just a trick of the eye, or could the wind really beat against them with enough force to tear the tower out of the rock?

Some­how Dad made it to the top and called down, “C’mon Ed! We don’t got all day.” Just then the steps began to shud­der, threat­en­ing to rip them­selves from the tower’s frame and fall into the val­ley below. “Hurry up!” he shouted again, not sure if the wind had drowned his first call.

I took a firm grip on the rails and placed one ten­ta­tive foot on the first step, then the other. My weight on the steps seemed to ease the worst of the shak­ing, but I still felt tremors echo­ing through the steel. I remem­bered not to look down as I climbed.

“There’s exactly a hun­dred steps, Ed, I counted.” Dad poked his head through one of the tower win­dows, sur­vey­ing my progress.

“You’re on num­ber nine­teen, twenty, twenty-one—”

“Stop count­ing. I’ll know when I get to the top!” I glared in Dad’s direc­tion and tried to keep my voice from waver­ing. Look­ing up was no bet­ter than down. I tried not to look at any­thing, count­ing the steps under my breath.

Dad snorted and retreated into the tower’s cabin.

The steps dis­ap­peared into the base of the cabin, and I had to push through the  heavy trap door to ascend. The wooden door lifted, and Dad stood above me, hold­ing it open. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine—hey, I only counted ninety-nine steps. I thought you said you came up here all the time.”

“Used to,” Dad replied. “What took you so long?” Inside the cabin, dust cov­ered every sur­face and hung frozen in sun­light slant­ing through the win­dows. Nobody had been to the fire tower in a long time.

His papaw, my great grand­dad, kept watch through the dry sea­son for forty years. Dad was never allowed up in the fire tower when he was a boy, but his broth­ers taught him how to sneak up at night after every­one had gone to bed. He said he’d bring me up any time I wanted, but I wasn’t allowed to come by myself. If I tried to come alone, he’d know about it.

On the drive up, Dad told me about men who used to sit in the tower all day, look­ing for signs of a fire. Some­times they even stayed overnight, sleep­ing on the cot in the cor­ner. Most of the year a wood­stove warmed their hands. But nobody needed to watch over the val­ley any­more. Air­planes looked on from the sky now.

I could see most of Union Grove in the val­ley below. It looked like my model rail­road. Trees stud­ded the peaks, full of leaves and nee­dles and still green. The far­ther ones faded to blue, then gray. The most dis­tant ones matched the color of the sky, and I couldn’t tell where the two met.

To the east were fields, tobacco and soy­beans mostly, and chick­en­houses beyond them. The creek curved idly across the val­ley, split­ting in two but rejoin­ing itself far­ther downstream.

“See Bit­ter Creek down yon­der?” Dad rested on the cot, arms behind his head and eyes half closed, prob­a­bly remem­ber­ing some lost game he and his broth­ers once played out on the banks of that water. He was burst­ing with stories.

“They call it the Bit­ter Creek because they say it ain’t fit to drink. But I tasted it one time for myself, and damned if it weren’t the sweet­est tast­ing water that ever passed my lips. I mean, uh, dogged if it weren’t. Your momma’s been onto me about say­ing words like that, so don’t you go repeat­ing it.” He talked slow, every word drawn out and caught in his thick jaws. I didn’t mind what he said around me. I just liked to hear him talk.

“Where does the creek go? I can’t tell where it goes out to the west.”

“You ought to fig­ure out where you are before you think about where all you can go. Can you see our house? Find where the pond is and tell me how to get from there to the house.”

Our house wasn’t too close to the creek. Mom didn’t want to worry about any flood­ing like there used to be when she was grow­ing up. The sun came up in my bed­room win­dow, so that was east. In back of the house a grove of trees stretched all the way into town. I could just make out the line of a trail run­ning through the woods to the BP sta­tion. I told Dad where I thought the house was, point­ing a tri­umphant fin­ger out a side win­dow. He stood up to come look where I pointed.

“Yep, right down there. Glad nobody moved it while we’ve been gone.” Dad picked up a pack of cig­a­rettes from a shelf by the win­dow. “But it’s time to be get­ting back. Be time for lunch before we make it down.”

Dad’s hair smelled like embers. Mine was straw and manure. A match flared against the shadow inside the tower and he swept a flame to his lips.

“Mom says that’s bad for you,” I warned.

He squinted down, cig­a­rette hang­ing from parted lips. “They ain’t so bad. You want to try one?” He laughed and coughed a lit­tle when I nodded.

I couldn’t light a match, so Dad wrapped his book around one, took the edge between two fin­gers, and made a scar­ring sound. He stood, light extended, a sil­hou­ette rail against the sun drenched window.

My cig­a­rette tasted like a paved road and it shiv­ered in my mouth. Dad said his tasted like the old days. I lifted the match, try­ing to copy his fluid motion. The fire on my thumb melted through cal­luses. I spat my cig­a­rette down into the val­ley. Dad fumed, blow­ing smoke, and offered his. I refused. I couldn’t see how he let the smoke back out. I didn’t want to get it stuck inside.

“Don’t they teach you about Smokey the Bear down at the school? It’s a good thing that one wasn’t lit!”

I spit again. “Those things are gross.”

“Yeah, they prob­a­bly are.” He winked and put out his cig­a­rette on the cabin wall. “Now you know not to try one again.” He flicked his stub through the trap door. “Let’s get going. We’ve got to work on your tree­house before tonight’s meet­ing. Might rain, too.”

* * * * *

Dad always smells excit­ing when he gets called out. Some­times his coat is still hot when he comes back home, and the visor on his hel­met still has so much smoke and soot I can’t see through it. Once a fire melted the rub­ber soles of his boots.

Dad’s boots make him walk slow, lift­ing one foot after another in a steady march back to the house. When he gets to the door he lets me pull off his gloves. My fin­gers won’t stretch to the fin­ger­tips of his gloves, but I can’t lift my hands inside them any­way. Every­thing Dad wears is heavy.

When Dad gets called out at night, Mom can’t sleep. There is always a light under their bed­room door on those nights. She thinks I’m asleep when she comes to my room, but I’m wait­ing up, too. She joins me under the cov­ers and we read to each other until Dad gets home.

“You got to be a big fel­low to fight with a fire,” he says, and I’m not tall enough yet. Mom mea­sures how tall I get on my closet door, but even if I get tall enough, I might not be strong enough. My arms don’t have Dad’s mus­cle yet, but some­times when we arm wres­tle, he lets me win.

Dad makes houses out of wood and rock with his bare hands. He built the Bap­tist church down by the creek and the barn for Mr. Comer’s cat­tle with his friends. They helped build the house we live in now.

Dad starts with sharp angles and boxes drawn across note­book paper, then blank paper, paper with grids, and finally long sheets of paper that have to be unrolled. Dif­fer­ent paper every week. I always use note­book paper. He shapes the build­ings him­self and then every­body helps put them together.

When he sketches I watch over his shoul­der. Some­times I draw my own boxes, but my lines are never straight enough. Dad wants me to be a car­pen­ter, like him.

He points at a box. “This one here’ll be your room. Me and Mom will be right across the hall.” He puts my name in a box in the cor­ner of the page. I spread my fin­gers across the box and they touch the edges. I want some­thing big­ger. Mom asks for a library and he draws more lines.

“Can I go out with you to fight a fire tonight?” I’ve been ask­ing since Dad joined the volunteers.

“No!” my mom always insists. “You need spe­cial train­ing and tools to put out those things.” Mom knows about bod­ies and sick­ness because she’s a nurse, but she doesn’t know about fire.

His answer is always the same: “You ain’t hardly old enough yet. But come on with me down to the fire­house and you might learn some­thing.” They meet every Mon­day night.

* * * * *

I rode with Dad to the Union Grove Vol­un­teer Fire Depart­ment instead of going with Mom to town for the fire­works show tonight. Mom was meet­ing her sis­ters there, and they always left lip­stick on my cheeks. I made her promise to bring back some ice cream for me.

Since I started com­ing with Dad, I’d learned to mon­i­tor the CB radio dis­patch, lis­ten­ing for a call that would send our trucks scream­ing down the road to douse a fire. I could respond instantly if a call ever came in while Dad was in the con­fer­ence room with the other firemen.

Union Grove, First Alarm on a one-story frame res­i­dence with heavy smoke from three east win­dows, over.

I jumped from my chair when the squawk started, spilling my copy of Fire­house Digest on the floor. I pushed a but­ton on the micro­phone and tried to remem­ber the response code. “Uh, yeah,” I stam­mered. “10–4, right? I’ll get my dad.”

Oh, Edward! Hi, it’s Sherri. Hi! Sherry’s voice was shrill and she talked fast.

Happy Fourth! How come you’re not with your mom watch­ing the fire­works show?

I clicked the but­ton again. “Dad needs me here to mon­i­tor the radio. You’re not sup­posed to use it for per­sonal talk, you know.”

Okay, lis­ten. There’s a fire, pretty big, up on your side of the moun­tain, and I need you to get your daddy so I can tell him about it. Hurry!

I ran down the hall and lis­tened out­side the con­fer­ence room door. I heard a lot of laugh­ing on the other side. Some­body mut­tered a short word when I knocked, then Johnny Cash stopped singing on the radio. Dad says all fire­men love Johnny Cash because he sings about fire. Dad opened the door with a pool cue in his hand. A pen­cil stuck out of his over­alls chest pocket. It didn’t look very sharp. The room behind him was dim and swirling in smoke, but Dad’s eyes were bright.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s a fire!” I said, out of breath. “Sherri needs to talk to you on the dis­patch.”
Dad spat tobacco juice on the floor, just miss­ing my shoe. “Stay here,” he said on his way down the hall. He moved fast for a man with a belly that big.

Inside the con­fer­ence room a flu­o­res­cent light hung over the pool table, more haze than a beam. It swayed a lit­tle and cast one cor­ner after the other into shadow. Dad said it was hard work fight­ing fires, and some­times a guy just needs to play some pool. The sticks were still a lit­tle too big for me, but if none of the other fire­men are around, Dad helps me shoot a few balls. He says I’m a real pool shark. I can already beat him at ping pong.

Dad’s friend Red sat on an old leather couch next to the Coke machine. He wore the same uni­form as my dad: over­alls, ragged t-shirt, and work boots. He looked up at me stand­ing in the door­way and waved me over.

“Ed! Your daddy’ll be back in a minute.” Red made room on the couch.

“What were you laugh­ing about before I came in?”

“Ah, I was just telling War­ren about some guys we fired from the house we’re build­ing right now. They didn’t know how to mix cement!

Say, when are you com­ing out to work on a house with us? Your daddy says you can swing a ham­mer real good. I bet you’ll be a good man when you grow up, just like him.” His breath smelled like rot­ten apples.

Dad stomped back up the hall. Red stood up when he came through the door. “Bad night for all the boys to be out of town,” Dad said. “Looks like it’s just us two. House fire on the mountain.”

“Can I slide down the pole with you?” I asked.

It was quiet before Red spoke. “House fire? Shit War­ren, that’s crazy! The two of us can’t take on no house fire.”

“It’s my house, Red.” Dad almost whis­pered it. His face had lost its tan.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Our house can’t burn down. We built it ourselves.”

“Jesus! Is Dianne home? Is any­body there?”

“She went into town to watch the fire­works with her sis­ters. House is empty.”

“Why can’t any other depart­ments assist? Why on our own?”

“Too far away. Most of the close ones are help­ing with those damn fire­works shows. The house’ll be ashes by the time any­body else gets a truck up there. These back roads…the mountain’s steep. We’re ten min­utes away—”

“We’re ten men short, too!” They both worked the tobacco in their mouths.

“Damn, Red, the more we argue the less chance we’ll stop that fire.” Red shut up and we all made for the pole.

Dad went down first but he didn’t land right. “Take the boy around to the stairs and come down with him that way.”

Red just whis­tled and sighed when he got down the stairs. I heard splash­ing from the garage. “Just stay on the steps, Ed.”

I sat down and watched the two fire­men wade through knee-deep water towards the trucks. Our trucks were the shade of yel­low that looked like it might glow in the dark. I couldn’t make out where all the water had come from.

“Pipe busted,” Dad guessed. “Whole god­damn tank’s gushed out on the floor.” He spit into the water and opened the garage door. “I can smell it.”

We looked out in the direc­tion of our house, where I thought I could see the smoke ris­ing into the night. I won­dered if Mom could see it, too.

Red had already gone to check the sup­ply and was back with spare pipes under his arms. “You know how to put one in there, Warren?”

“Not espe­cially, but we’ll fig­ure it out quick enough.” Dad took the pipe Red offered and a wrench from his own tool­box. He started bang­ing around under the pumper truck. Red made me promise not to cuss like my dad.

When the water had receded, I decided to go for a closer look at Dad’s work. Soon as my foot touched floor, Dad looked up. “I told you to sit still, son.” I sat still. I smelled some­thing burning.

Red had all their gear ready by the time Dad fin­ished with the truck, and they had every­thing on before I could think. Dad jumped in the pumper truck. “Ed, hurry up, you’re with me! We done wasted seven min­utes on this truck,” he shouted, already start­ing the engine.

“How much water in the tank?” I asked.

“Not a drop. It was all on the floor.”

“There aren’t any hydrants near our house! Where will we fill it up?”

Dad didn’t answer. The siren blared before we were out of the garage.

* * * * *

Even in the dark I could see smoke bil­low­ing from the house, spread­ing like ink across the empty sky. Sherri had said it was com­ing from the east win­dows, my bed­room. “How much far­ther?” I asked. I started think­ing of which books I would save first.

We were still a mile away, but the roads were clear. Dad took both lanes around every curve. Two sirens squealed into the empty streets. Dad fired his horn and it ripped the air. He wanted the fire to know he was com­ing. I wished we could get there faster.

We passed Red in his lad­der truck as we skid­ded into to our dri­ve­way. The air around our house rip­pled from the heat. “Stay in the truck,” I was told.

The fire roared at Dad when he opened the door. Waves of heat beat over him and sweat gleamed his fore­head, but he stood his ground, siz­ing up the blaze. Dad built this burn­ing house, had crafted every inch. Put a book­shelf for Mom in their bed­room and one in mine. Made the cab­i­nets too tall for any­body else at first, but low­ered them so we could all reach. He bowed his head through every door­way. He let me drive the first nail.

Flames sawed through floors and ham­mered out win­dows. Dad’s own frame grew rigid. He squinted through the smoke. Red put a hand on his shoul­der and spoke to Dad. His words made both their shoul­ders sag. They ges­tured to the trees and back to the pumper truck where I waited.

Red opened the door to my truck and climbed up. Even his eyes were sweat­ing. He grinned at me and said, too loudly, “We’re going to drive this truck over to Comer’s Pond and fill it up. That okay with you?” He nod­ded to himself.

I wanted to fight the fire and stand with my dad but Red was already turn­ing the truck around. In the side mir­ror I watched Dad move delib­er­ately toward the front door as Red drove us up the driveway.

“No, wait! I have to help him!” I tried to jump out of the truck but the door was locked. Red pulled me away from the win­dow as Dad passed through the door­way and we lost sight of him around a curve.

“Why’s he going in? We don’t have any water yet. Turn around!” We needed to go back and res­cue him.

“He’s got to fight fire with what he’s got, Ed. He’ll be okay.” Red coughed and cleared his throat, squeez­ing the steer­ing wheel.

* * * * *

Comer’s Pond stood in the mid­dle of the cow pas­ture. Red wasn’t dodg­ing any of the pot­holes as we bounced along the cat­tle trail, and I hoped we didn’t spring another leak. The pond flashed fire out of the mid­dle of the field, reflected in the water.

Sleepy calves scat­tered when we pulled up beside the pond. In our bounc­ing head­lights, older cows stared back at us, unin­ter­ested, chew­ing their cud. Red unhitched a long, thick hose from the side of the truck and hauled it into the water. His legs were soaked to the knees before he dropped the sup­ply line with a muddy splash. “Hit the pump switch!”

I hit it and some­thing churned to life deep within the truck. “What now?”

Emer­ald stars burst into the bar­ren sky, cas­cad­ing in a white cur­tain over the pond. Muted applause echoed in the val­ley as the fire­works dis­play began. I thought of Dad inside the house, blinded by thick smoke, grop­ing through the dark by mem­ory alone.

Red splashed out of the water. “Don’t worry, Edward. It takes a long time for a whole house to burn.”

“How much water does that tank hold? It don’t look big enough to put out that fire.”

“Oh, it’ll hold plenty enough. The fire isn’t too big yet.” His eyes drifted toward the smoke hang­ing over my house.

I watched the pond’s rim to see if the pump was drain­ing it, but I couldn’t tell a dif­fer­ence. “How long?”

“About ten min­utes, I guess. Plenty of time. Takes a while for houses to burn up, spe­cially ones built to last like yours.” He checked his watch and looked down at me. His eyes darted away when I returned the glance.

How would Dad fight a fire with­out water, why had he walked into the fire? Dad said the only rea­son to enter a burn­ing build­ing was to save lives.

Red must have been think­ing the same thing. “Warren’s keep­ing that fire from tak­ing his house right now, Ed. He’s star­ing it down. He might beat it if we can get back quick enough. Wish this pump would hurry on up.

“You remem­ber when you all moved into the house? Guess it’s been almost four years. I remem­ber the day your dad showed me what he’d drawn for you and your mom. He worked up those plans from the day you were born. He wanted to give you some­thing spe­cial. Some­thing that would last.”

It was the same story Mom some­times told me when we waited for Dad to come back home. She lived with Dad in a green trailer when they got mar­ried. When I was born, he started talk­ing about build­ing a house of his own. “What kind of car­pen­ter don’t have his own house?” he asked her. He wouldn’t let her help pay for it, so it took another seven years to save the money. The whole town donated sup­plies and came out to help Dad build.

“Don’t worry Ed.” Red stood up and turned back toward my house. “He won’t let no fire take that away from him. Fire­men ain’t allowed to leave a burn­ing house. We stay and fight it even when there’s no chance of sav­ing the place. No chance at all.”
The pump gave one last chug and then stopped. The pond still looked as deep as it had when we got there. I helped Red pull the pump out and we drove even faster back to the house. A rocket screamed into the sky and exploded like a gun­shot, show­er­ing the pas­ture with sparks.

* * * * *

Dad was sit­ting in the dri­ve­way, look­ing singed when we got back. Things from our house sur­rounded him. His antique shot­gun, too old to fire, that had belonged to papaw. Our bat­tered gui­tar he’d been teach­ing me to play. A whole box full of Mom’s books. Blue­prints and sketches of all the houses he had helped build over the years.

I couldn’t look at the fire any­more. Dad just sat, sweat­ing, star­ing down at a sketch in his lap. It was our house. He tried to draw a deep breath but choked, gagging.

Red jumped out of the fire truck and unspooled the attack hose. I started the water and ran back to help Red brace against the pres­sure. Muddy water shot upward into the flames, hiss­ing where it hit the walls. A fresh wave of heat shot back at us, enough to knock me off bal­ance. I wasn’t as strong as Red. The hose writhed in our hands like an angry snake. We held out until the last of the water bled from the truck.

“We’ve got to stop it before it spreads to the trees,” Red said. “It’ll run through the woods and hit town before any­body even notices.” We both col­lapsed beside Dad, exhausted and sore. I won­dered why he gave up. I won­dered how the fire had started. I won­dered if Mom would be worried.

Across the creek the fire­works finale began, jets of red, white, and blue spurt­ing into the night like foun­tains. Echoes of thun­der beat against the hills, pass­ing from peak to peak, slowly fading.

The wooden husk of the house glowed orange, threat­en­ing to col­lapse. Heat still crack­led the air and my ears were ring­ing. Sirens from a res­cue squad van whined in the dis­tance, grow­ing louder as it drew close. Flash­ing lights blazed toward us.

Dad coughed and shook ashes from his hair. His voice was dry and cracked. “Nobody was inside. Had to make sure. I got as much as I could but not all of it. I went back, but…” He tried to see me through the smoke in his eyes.

“Edward, I went back in. To get your books. I tried to go back and get all of it but I couldn’t see.”

Red pulled me over to our pumper truck and handed me the CB radio. “I got your momma on the line. Click this but­ton here to talk, and let it up to lis­ten.” He closed the door to shield me from the heat.

“Edward? You there, baby?” Mom sounded far away.

I clicked the but­ton like Red showed me. “I’m right here, Mom.” I didn’t know what to tell her.

“Is Dad okay?” Her voice was scratchy. “They told me he went in the house with­out no breath­ing thing.”

“It’s a breath­ing appa­ra­tus, Mom.” I watched Red out­side, hold­ing Dad up. Two other fire­men helped him over to the truck. “They’re bring­ing him inside the truck now. He’ll be okay.”

Red opened the door again and I helped pull my dad into the truck. The other fire­men called Red back to work on the fire. It was hot inside the truck. Dad had on an oxy­gen mask and couldn’t talk.

“War­ren?” Mom asked. “Can you hear me?”

“We’re still here.” Dad nod­ded, and pulled me over to him. Black streaks ran from his eyes down his cheeks. He stared at the house in his hands.