voice was familiar, but I couldn’t make out the figure, other than it was a man. As he drew closer to me, I started backing towards the painful heat of the flames. Was this Canfield’s killer? He edged in closer and grabbed me under the arms.
“It’s okay, Betsy. It’s me, Leo,” he said gently. “We have to get out of here now.” We hobbled together to the stairs. We were now overlooking more dancing flames edging toward us on the bottom fl oor.
“Can you get down the stairs?” he yelle d over the thunder of the fire.
“I’ll try,” I said as I tried to see my own feet on the floor. How was it that the plac e was on fire and spinning too?
I put both hands on the stair railing to find it was hot, so I held on to Fitzpatrick behind me. Together we started down the stairs, one by one. When we reached t he bottom, we ran for the door.
The cleaning cart was now abandoned by the accountant’s office. I wondered if the cleaning woman got out. I tried to tell Fitzpatrick about her but couldn’t seem to speak very well. What if she was trapped in there? I could see the red-and-blue flash of the fir e trucks and police department.
Running in from the street with Zacha ry in pajamas, I saw my father.
Zachary ran into my arms. “Mom!” was all he screamed before burying his head into my shoulder. Fitzpatrick stepped back. My dad, heaving the sigh of a father whose daughter couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble, watched the building grow into a larger blaze. “Betsy, what the hell were you doing in there? I thought y ou were going to bake cookies!”
“I was,” I confessed that I found an old set of Barry’s keys. “I was in Can field’s office. I had to know.”
“It was a damn fool idea. That’s what it was. You could have been killed, do you know that? Now I’m thinkin’ having that GPS gadget on your phone w as the best idea you ever had.”
“Mom,” Zach joined his grandfather in scolding me, “you coul d have been killed. It was a …”
“Okay, okay,” I answered, holding my hand up to stop the two-generation lecture.
“Thank God Mr. Fitzpatrick pu lled you out of the building.”
I looked around behind us. I saw the cleaning lady now sitting on the curb with a paramedi c putting a blanket around her.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my father said, turning around in the parkin g lot in an effort to find him.
“That’s strange,” I said. “Why woul d he go running off like that?”
“And what the hell was he doing here in the first place?” said my dad.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After the fire, my dad left Zach with me and was going to look up Fitzpatrick’s address from that phone number I had given him. I assured him that I was fine, just a little shaken up. I put Zach to bed and st arted stirring up cookie dough.
The next day, although bleary-eyed and grumpy, I helped Zach get ready for school. Zach gave me a hug that lasted just a little too long as he climbed out of the car. I think seeing his mom being dragged out of a fire the night before had scared him. He had already lost one parent, and the prospect of losing another was just about as earth-shaking as it gets for a little guy. He had been so tired last night that he fell asleep in the car on the way home. This morning, his mood was quiet as he sat at the table eating his cereal. The silence between us made me aware that I needed to be careful no t to scare him like that again.
I, too, had eaten breakfast with only one parent for many years. My mom, while driving home from a PTA meeting one evening, was hit head-on by a drunk driver. Life for me and my dad was never the same after that. I was only eight, but I became overly protective of my remaining parent. Every time he would go to work, I was worried he would get shot. I even asked him to switch jobs to something bullet-free, like a salesman or a barber. He knew I was scared and would comfort me with the low crime statistics of Pecan Bayou. He
“It’s okay, Betsy. It’s me, Leo,” he said gently. “We have to get out of here now.” We hobbled together to the stairs. We were now overlooking more dancing flames edging toward us on the bottom fl oor.
“Can you get down the stairs?” he yelle d over the thunder of the fire.
“I’ll try,” I said as I tried to see my own feet on the floor. How was it that the plac e was on fire and spinning too?
I put both hands on the stair railing to find it was hot, so I held on to Fitzpatrick behind me. Together we started down the stairs, one by one. When we reached t he bottom, we ran for the door.
The cleaning cart was now abandoned by the accountant’s office. I wondered if the cleaning woman got out. I tried to tell Fitzpatrick about her but couldn’t seem to speak very well. What if she was trapped in there? I could see the red-and-blue flash of the fir e trucks and police department.
Running in from the street with Zacha ry in pajamas, I saw my father.
Zachary ran into my arms. “Mom!” was all he screamed before burying his head into my shoulder. Fitzpatrick stepped back. My dad, heaving the sigh of a father whose daughter couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble, watched the building grow into a larger blaze. “Betsy, what the hell were you doing in there? I thought y ou were going to bake cookies!”
“I was,” I confessed that I found an old set of Barry’s keys. “I was in Can field’s office. I had to know.”
“It was a damn fool idea. That’s what it was. You could have been killed, do you know that? Now I’m thinkin’ having that GPS gadget on your phone w as the best idea you ever had.”
“Mom,” Zach joined his grandfather in scolding me, “you coul d have been killed. It was a …”
“Okay, okay,” I answered, holding my hand up to stop the two-generation lecture.
“Thank God Mr. Fitzpatrick pu lled you out of the building.”
I looked around behind us. I saw the cleaning lady now sitting on the curb with a paramedi c putting a blanket around her.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my father said, turning around in the parkin g lot in an effort to find him.
“That’s strange,” I said. “Why woul d he go running off like that?”
“And what the hell was he doing here in the first place?” said my dad.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After the fire, my dad left Zach with me and was going to look up Fitzpatrick’s address from that phone number I had given him. I assured him that I was fine, just a little shaken up. I put Zach to bed and st arted stirring up cookie dough.
The next day, although bleary-eyed and grumpy, I helped Zach get ready for school. Zach gave me a hug that lasted just a little too long as he climbed out of the car. I think seeing his mom being dragged out of a fire the night before had scared him. He had already lost one parent, and the prospect of losing another was just about as earth-shaking as it gets for a little guy. He had been so tired last night that he fell asleep in the car on the way home. This morning, his mood was quiet as he sat at the table eating his cereal. The silence between us made me aware that I needed to be careful no t to scare him like that again.
I, too, had eaten breakfast with only one parent for many years. My mom, while driving home from a PTA meeting one evening, was hit head-on by a drunk driver. Life for me and my dad was never the same after that. I was only eight, but I became overly protective of my remaining parent. Every time he would go to work, I was worried he would get shot. I even asked him to switch jobs to something bullet-free, like a salesman or a barber. He knew I was scared and would comfort me with the low crime statistics of Pecan Bayou. He
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