Fire an water

Fire and Water 1

March 28, 2005 would live in infamy for Bill Diederich. That was the day his career collided with his family. That was the day his heart was ripped from his chest and left bleeding on the ground before him. That was the day he watched his life disappear right before his eyes.2

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Bill Diederich never hated his job more than the day he helplessly watched his home as it went up in flames. He had been the city’s fire chief for 12 years—had followed in his father’s footsteps—but he never imagined that the dreaded blaze could or ever would follow him home. 4

Bill’s wife, Melissa, never had a chance. The gas leak wasn’t obvious until she went to light the stove. And it was the explosion, the experts told him, which probably killed her. Their seven-year-old daughter Hannah died on the way to the hospital of smoke inhalation and massive third degree burns on her legs and back. Her father rode with her in the ambulance—but he could not save her life.5

Bill was at the station, reading the newspaper when he first got the call. The operator announced the address twice before Bill really heard—but by the time he and his crew arrived it was too late. His wife was unable to be reached, and his daughter died in his arms.6

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Bill couldn’t stand to look at fire after that—couldn’t put the suit on, couldn’t face his men, and couldn’t be around anything that reminded him of his family or of his previous life. He quit the force, moved to another town, and bought an apartment just outside the city—where he had a view of the lake. He barely decorated the tiny rooms he wandered around in, afraid that too many things would begin to remind him of the tragedy. 8

He did have pictures scattered, in frames and photo albums, all over his tiny apartment. His land-lady told him a few rules to get him by in the town—and one was to always have pictures around the house. 9

“It looks weird,” she said, “if a man ain’t got a past.”10

Most of the ones of his family, of his daughter and his wife, were turned around or laid face down on the mantle or coffee table or desk. But he had them so that if anyone should ever come over he wouldn’t look like a drifter. He could always blame the bare walls on simple tastes, he figured.11

He got a job mowing lawns in the city; companies hired him as a grounds-keeper—to keep the bushes trimmed and the edges neat and the grass green all the way through the winter. He worked most of the time with people he didn’t know, who didn’t speak English, and who—he got the distinct impression—didn’t like him very much. But he got his job done, and he got his check every two weeks, and that’s all that mattered to him. 12

Bill learned quickly that this town had many secrets. There were little things—cracks in the societal mask—which gave it away. And though he knew not to ask questions, he could not help but noticing the yelling in the apartments above and below him and perhaps the way two strangers would gaze at one another from across the grocery store. Bill supposed it was this way in every town. He assumed that everyone had their problems, and it was certainly none of his business to interfere with any of them.13

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On the way back to his apartment one day late in August, Bill met the man who lived three doors down from him. 15

“The name’s Howard Turner,” the fat, black man smiled, offering his hand toward Bill. 16

Bill looked a long time at the hand thrust in his direction before he considered taking it. “Bill,” he said, then cleared his throat and tried again, “Bill Diederich”.  He even managed to smile, a little.17

“Bill, eh? I’m amazed I haven’t met you before now, I know you moved in here about two months ago,” Howard said. Bill could tell this man was the jolly type, and considered brushing him off—but instead he kept talking.18

“I haven’t been out much—other than work and such. Not much of people person anymore.” Bill replied softly.19

“Well, I can understand that, people in this place really aren’t the friendly type—they’re all coming here to get away from something.” Howard noticed Bill’s glazed look, and smiled a harmless sort of smile. “Aw, I didn’t mean anything by that. I’ve been around here so long; I don’t know what I’m talking about. Hey, you want to come over for a beer? Football game’s on the TV.”20

Bill thought about declining, even had his key in his hand ready to open his door, but he nodded ok to Howard, and followed him down the hall wordlessly.21

Howard’s apartment was more cluttered than Bill’s. That was the first thing Bill noticed. Of course, it wasn’t difficult to out do Bill in decorating, but Howard’s walls were covered in pictures of cities and paintings and other kinds of odd looking things—“artwork” he called it, things he’d made down at the Civic Center. There was a fake tree in one corner of the living room, and a cutout of Darth Vader in the other. “I collect things other people don’t seem to want,” Howard explained, noticing Bill’s perusal of his place, “dumpster diving, they call it! How’s that for a profession!” He laughed another hearty laugh and lost himself into the kitchen hunting the promised beer.22

Bill took a seat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the one where he could most easily gaze out the window. Howard’s apartment was on the other side of the building from Bill’s, and his window faced the street and the crowds. Bill didn’t particularly like the scene but he liked looking out the window none the less. It gave him a sense of freedom.23

“So tell me, son, what brings you here?” Howard asked, sitting down next to him, handing him a cold one.24

Bill looked away from the window and down at the alcohol in his hands. “Did you know that it takes fire about 7.6 seconds to go from a spark to a full, raging fire?” 25

Howard leaned back in his chair and shook his head, “Nope, I don’t know anything about anything,” he said, and silently urged the other man to continue talking.26

“It takes water about half an hour to quench a raging house fire. Half an hour. And a human being just isn’t fast enough sometimes. And 7.6 seconds is never enough time to save a life.” Bill grumbled, squeezing the neck of the beer bottle.27

“Sounds like you have some bad experiences with fire, my friend.” Howard said, taking a short sip of his beer, he leaned forward and looked hard at Bill, yellow eyes glinting in the fading light, “what happened before you came here?”28

Bill turned his head to look at the other man. A hard, glassy coldness filled his eyes, and a disgusted look wiped itself over his features, “my wife died in a matter of seconds,” he said, “she never even knew what hit her. My daughter,” he fumbled with his drink and his memories and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, handing it to Howard as a visual, “my daughter died in my arms.”29

Howard gazed over the pictures—family portraits of Bill and a woman and young girl—school portraits, pictures of that same child as an infant, “Where were you when this happened?” Howard asked, bluntly but kindly.30

“I was at work,” Bill spat, jerking his head to one side to indicate that it was farther away than it should have been, “fire chief for twelve years, and I can’t even protect my own family!” Bill didn’t cry, but he wanted to.31

Howard handed the wallet back to him, and set his beer on the table. “Bub, I hate to say this, but you ain’t the only one in this town that’s lost someone they care about.”32

Bill jerked his head up, glaring, but when he saw the look on Howard’s face, he realized that he was sitting in a room with a man who’d also lost someone very dear to his heart. “What do you mean?” Bill said, and squinted his eyes.33

Howard shook his head, stood and left Bill at the table, disappearing into one of the back rooms. After a moment, he returned with a necklace. “This belonged to my daughter.” Howard said, and bent over beside the other man to show him the jewelry. The necklace was silver, heart-shaped in design, and had an S engraved onto the front of it. “I got it for her twelfth birthday, that was the first time I’d seen her in a year and a half, because when her mom died, she was put in foster care, and moved so far away it was impossible to travel to see each other. She spent the weekend with me—I lived in the city then—and I took her out for her birthday dinner. On the way to the restaurant—she’d chosen Giuseppe’s, it had been her favorite since she could eat solid food, I think—” He broke off and cleared his throat. Bill looked at him with wonder and understanding. “The drunk driver came out of nowhere,” Howard sighed. “There was nothing I could do except stop, but he crashed into my tail end anyway. That’s when we found out he wasn’t a drunk driver at all—it was a gang, and they wanted everything I owned, or they were going to kill Saharah. I gave ‘em my wallet, but I didn’t have enough in it to satisfy ‘em. So they slit her throat, and threw her over the bridge.”34

“I’m sorry to hear that; people these days can be very cruel,” Bill said, and flipped the pendant over and over in his hand. Noticing there was a small crease along the side; he slid his fingernails into the grove and opened the locket. 35

“That’s her mom and her.” Howard said. It was all he needed to say. 36

Bill shut the locket again and handed it back to Howard wordlessly. They both sat in silence for a long time, just drinking their beer and staring out the window. It wasn’t until the bottles were empty that Bill spoke up again, “how did you get over it?”37

Howard grinned a thin but genuine grin, and leaned forward in his chair. He ran his hand through a half bald head of hair then scratched the back of his neck. Sniffing, he pushed his glasses up further on his thick nose, “have you been down to that lake you stare at all the time yet?” he asked.38

“No. Why?” Bill furrowed his brow, looking at the older man curiously.39

“Everyone who gets over what they have to get over has gone down to that lake. I don’t know how to explain it. Whether it’s God, or Karma, or some kind of other worldly spiritual presence—whatever you believe in—that’s what it is. But they say something happens to you. Something changes you.”40

Bill didn’t ask any more questions, even though he wanted to and Howard didn’t say any more about it. They sat and enjoyed each other’s company until the view from the window was completely dark, and Bill finally decided it was time he got back to his own place. 41

“It was good to talk to you, bub.” Howard said, and thrust his pudgy hand into Bill’s again, “I hope we get to do this more often—unless, of course, you decide you don’t want to hang around here much longer.” The smile on Howard’s face was a knowing one, but Bill only nodded, and thanked him for the drink, and returned to his own apartment. 42

Every day after work, Bill came back to his apartment building expecting to see Howard waiting for him but the older man was no where to be found. Finally, one afternoon when he got off work early, he decided to take his new friend out to dinner. He knocked on Howard’s door three times, and no one answered. He called his name, but there was no noise from the other side of the door. Puzzled and a little worried for Howard, Bill tripped down the stairs to find his land-lady and he asked her if she had checked a Howard Turner out of the building.43

“Honey, Mr. Turner’s not been here in two years.” The lady said, smacking her gum loudly. “He only stayed with me for about six months—” but she broke off her sentence and looked at Bill curiously, “why’re you asking about Mr. Turner, anyway?”44

Bill stared at the woman, not believing his ears, it couldn’t be that he hadn’t lived in the building in two years—his apartment was fully furnished not five days ago, Bill was certain. “Ma’am, I just wanted to thank him for giving me some advice,” he said, not really knowing how else to explain his reasoning. 45

“I’m afraid you have the wrong name, sir,” she said, shaking her head, “Mr. Turner’s been dead since June of 2003. He died in his apartment—it’s in the record-books, if you want to take a look.” She flipped the book around so Bill could read the names. 46

Bill shook his head and backed away from her, “no, that can’t be. The man I spoke to was alive. Perhaps I do have the wrong name,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. But there was no doubt in his mind that Howard Turner was the man he had shared an ice cold beer with and watched the sun set over the town, and talked about his family with, there was no doubt at all.47

The woman shrugged and closed the door behind him, and Bill wandered out of the apartment building and around the corner. Before he knew where he was going, his feet left the sidewalks and found grassy fields and dirt pathways. He noticed the park and the benches and the lake before him, and he remembered Howard’s words. ‘Something changes you.’ He’d said.48

Bill began to walk toward the lake, his hands and knees were trembling, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “I’m making this up,” he said aloud, trying to comfort himself but as he grew closer and closer to the water’s edge, he realized that there was something very eerie about the lake itself. He turned his focus towards the bridge which connected the highway between the town and the city, and he noticed that there had been a car wreck near the middle of it. The smoke rising from the automobiles was unmistakable—the accident was serious. 49

He stopped when the grass gave way to mud and rocks and though the eerie feeling did not dissipate; his attention was no longer focused on the lake, but the bridge just above him. He could hear shouts, men and women; he could the light of a fire, and the “merowl” of the police sirens and firetrucks. He noticed there was a fight between two people, standing on the edge of the bridge, and he watched closely as a man backhanded a woman and she fell hard against the railing. Bill stepped forward, and felt the toe of his shoe grow cold and damp with muddy water, and he immediately stepped back, “you’re not the rescuer anymore,” he verbally reminded himself, and shook the thought of going to the woman’s aid out of his head. But the battle raged on, and the man took the woman by the shoulders and threw her hard against the railing, and this time she couldn’t keep her balance. 50

Bill watched as the body of the girl fell the twenty or so feet to the water. And as soon as he heard the splash, his feet raced his own body forward, and he belly-flopped into the lake, lurching toward the figure of the young girl who’d been thrown from up above. The impact of the water had knocked her out, but Bill was able to drag her body to the surface and tow it with him back to the shore. 51

After he checked her vitals, and found her still breathing, he began to look for something to identify her. Her pockets were empty, and she had no jewelry on, except for a necklace, a silver heart-shaped pendant, on the front of which was engraved an S. Bill’s breath caught in his throat and he looked up to the bridge again, the wreck was gone, the police and fire trucks were gone, there was only the humming of passing cars.  52

His hands shook as he dug his nail into the groove of the locket and flipped it open, inside were pictures of a beautiful woman, and a lovely young lady—“That’s her mom and her” the voice in his head was none other than Howard’s. He looked up, expecting to see the man standing in front of him, but there was only the wind, and the rippling of the water. Looking over the young girl in his arms, the likeness to Howard was unmistakable, she had his jaw line, and his nose—he guessed she was no more than fourteen years of age. 53

Nothing made sense to Bill. ‘How could this girl be Howard’s daughter, if he’d said she died? And the land-lady told me that Howard himself had been dead for two years, how can that be?’ his head was whirling when the girl began to sputter and moan as she spit some of the water out of her mouth and shook her head to clear it. Bill helped her sit herself up and asked her if she was alright. “I’m fine,” She said, “my head just hurts.” 54

“You had quite an impact there, nothing’s broken, and you don’t have a concussion, but you hit pretty hard. You’ll need some rest. Come with me, I have a place you can stay.” He said, not really thinking clearly. 55

The strange girl followed him wordlessly back to his apartment, and after he got her into a pair of old pajamas and had her wrapped up in a heavy blanket he made her a cup of hot chocolate and sat down across the couch where she had nestled, and began to ask her questions his mind could no longer contain.56

“What happened up there on the bridge?” he said, crossing one leg over the other.57

“My father and I, we were going to dinner. But some idiot came hurtling towards us, in the wrong lane.” Her voice was far away, as though she was having trouble remembering. “My father had to swerve to try to avoid him, but the collision was inevitable.” 58

“I could see and hear the ordeal from the shore.”  Bill nodded, and urged her to continue.59

“My father got out, to see if the other driver was ok, but he was dead. I got out too, because the smoke from the cars was scaring me. I was backing away from the wreck when I lost my footing and my balance, and fell over the railing.”60

Bill knew that’s not what he’d seen. He’d seen a man hit her, he’d heard screaming and yelling, there was more to this story than the young girl was telling him. “Child, what is your name?” he asked, needing desperately to find a separation between his superstitions and the facts.61

“Saharah.” She said, and took another sip of her hot chocolate.62

Bill’s breath caught in his throat, “and your father, what’s his name?” 63

“Mr. Turner. Mr. Howard Turner.” She said.64

The next morning Bill awoke from a most vivid dream sweating and shaking all over. “That was a dream?” he said out loud and looked around his room for any sign that the night before had been real. Everything was in its usual place—his cologne wasn’t missing, his clothes were neatly folded, his coat was hung on the back of the door. There were no stains on the previous day’s clothing—nothing had been touched. Bill slipped his robe around him and crept from his bedroom afraid that the dream still might have been a reality, only to find his apartment empty. 65

He made himself a pot of strong coffee, and went to sit on his couch to contemplate his dream. Gazing over the brim of his coffee mug, he noticed one major difference in his apartment, one thing that had changed significantly from the day before: every picture he had facing the wall or laying face-down, was turned toward him. 66

For a moment, Bill just sat and stared at each picture individually, allowing the memories wash over him and fill him with happiness and grief at the same time. He decided that this was a sign—that he needed to pay the lake one more visit—he had too many unanswered questions to stop now.67

That evening, after he had returned his apartment to the way it had been the day before, he dressed in his most comfortable jeans and a t-shirt he’d gotten from a bizarre the fire station had held, and quietly made his way down to the lake. Sitting in the same place he had stood the day before, he gazed out over the horizon; he watched as the city lights flickered on and off, he listened to the cars on the bridge as they drove to and fro; he had almost given up hope, when night had fallen and the crickets were chirping, when beneath the rising moonlight, he saw a small rowboat out in the middle of the lake, and it was heading his way. He watched it until it reached the shore and the man in the boat greeted him with a jolly smile and a big, chubby hand to shake, “hey there, bub. Long time, no see, eh?”68

Bill nodded and smiled a little thin smile. “Long time, no see. That’s right.” She said to Howard. “Where have you been?”69

“I’ve been getting some things together,” he said, “I’m planning on leaving soon—and you should too, bub,” Howard said, as he climbed back into his boat and motioned for Bill to join him.70

“Where are you going to go?” Bill said, climbing in after the older man.71

“Away from this place. It’s time for me to leave—you know? I’m not running away from anything anymore—so it’s pointless for me to stay in this sleepy town.”72

“And what makes you think I have to leave too?” Bill said, leaning back and pushing them off, “who says I’ve stopped running?”73

“I didn’t say you’ve already stopped, I said you will stop, so you need to get your things together.” Howard smiled again, and grabbed the oars with his thick, hairless arms and began to row.74

“I don’t understand.” Bill said, “Am I dreaming?”75

“I don’t know if you are or not, bub. That’s the crazy thing about this place. You can’t tell if you’re awake or asleep. That’s why I don’t like it any more.” Howard was purposefully being vague.76

“Why did you bring me out here?” Bill said, trying his best to grasp some meaning—some concrete meaning—behind what he was experiencing. 77

“Wait. You’ll see.” Howard said, and gave the oars a few more strong turns, before pulling the boat to a stop, and tossing a small weight over board. “Look at the moon, bub, look how big it is from here. Isn’t it amazing?”78

Bill was confounded. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, he stared up at the moon, and he felt himself grow tired. He felt himself grow calm and he felt his muscles relax.79

“You don’t a see a moon like this one here in the city.” Howard said, but his voice was far away. Bill closed his eyes, and he saw in his mind the shape of the moon. It reminded him of his daughter’s face, of his wife’s breast, of a ball of pizza dough, of a light bulb—and the light behind his eyes exploded, and Bill began to weep. Howard was no longer the one speaking, but Hannah, his seven year old daughter, “Look, daddy, I drew the moon and the stars for you!” And she had drawn that picture, and the fire had eaten it and it had eaten his wife, and it had stolen them both from him.80

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His pillow was soaked with tears and he could not stop himself from crying. It wasn’t dawn yet. It was cold in his room. In the darkness, lying curled around his sopping wet pillow, Bill Diederich cried like a baby.82

Hours later, when he finally managed to pull himself to his feet, Bill emerged into his living room where he noticed that once again every picture was sitting in it’s place, the frozen, happy faces glaring back at him from the behind the clear glass prisons of the frame. Still not satisfied with what he had experienced, and feeling as though there was something still greater to come, Bill prepared once again to make his way down to the lake. 83

That evening, as he sat on the shore thinking about the previous nights—the dreams he’d had—and he wondered if they were dreams or if they were real. He could not decide which. Bill took his jacket off and laid it next to him on the grass. He slipped his loafers off and tugged at his socks and stuffed them in the toes of his shoes. He got up, watching the horizon as the sun began to set, and waded into the water. 84

Knee deep. He felt nothing except the cool, wet cloth of his jeans as it sucked at his skin. Waist deep and still he felt nothing except a rapidly dampening t-shirt and jeans which had grown heavy from the absorption of water.85

Bill stopped when the water reached his chin. He stopped and he closed his eyes. He could feel the frigid water, but every second he spent with his eyes shut tight the water grew less and less cold and less and less wet. Slowly, he began to feel warm, the kind of dry heat from a fire, and he heard his wife’s brief scream before life was sucked from her lungs. He heard his daughter’s footsteps; she’d come down the stairs to see what was the matter. He saw her terrified face and was unable to comfort her. He felt the flames lapping at her heels and her back as she ran from them. He tasted and smelled the smoke as it filled his lungs and he coughed aloud, causing the water to splash his face. He felt like dying.  86

Taking a deep breath, Bill immersed himself completely. As the water embraced him light burst forth from behind his eyes and he saw his wife’s smiling face. He saw his daughter laughing, giggling, and running towards her. Bill felt their happiness in his heart. It was happier than he’d ever felt in his life; he was filled somehow with gladness, and acceptance. Somehow, he knew that his wife and his daughter were together somewhere, happy and safe from further harm. 87

Bill was smiling when he felt a strong arm grab his shoulder and yank him upward. “Whoa! Dude! Are you trying to kill yourself!” the kid’s voice was cracking in surprise and Bill shook himself out of his happy dream to look up at his rescuer. 88

“I’m sorry, I must have—” but he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, the kid waved him off.89

“C’mon, let’s get you back to the shore before you drown!” the kid lurched forward and Bill allowed himself to be drug behind. The collapsed upon the shoreline and Bill tugged his shirt over his head and began to wring out his jeans. “Are you crazy, sir,” The kid finally commented, huffing from the effort, “Trying to swim with all your clothes on?”90

“I must have lost my head,” Bill said softly, not looking at the kid. The young man waved him off with a “be careful, man!” as he hopped back into the water and swam back toward a group of young people not far away. Turning back toward the shore, Bill gazed at the water for a while. He stayed until the sun vanished, and then he picked up his shoes and his jacket and padded back into his apartment building.91

When he walked back into his apartment, he looked around at the pictures as they stared up at him. The faces frozen in time no longer bothered him. It no longer hurt him to see smiles that did no longer exist. Walking to the mantle he straightened a few of the frames and then sauntered into the kitchen to make a cup of hot chocolate. 92

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Bill did not dream that night. It was the first night in a long time. When morning came, he rose with the sun, and sat in his apartment gazing over each of the pictures individually. As calmness settled over him, Bill realized that what fire had stolen from him, water had given back. “Sometimes, I guess,” he grinned to himself, “it takes a little longer than I expected for water to put out the flames.” 94