PART
I
“FIRE”
Chapter 1
“Kitty, get up, get up! The House is on fire!” Tommy
begins shaking me so violently, it’s as if the bedroom is being rocked by an
earthquake.
Groggy, I glance around the room. Everything seems fine.
Mr. Bug, Tommy’s little pug, looks up sleepily from the
couch as his master kneels over me, grasping me by my shoulders. “Wake up!” he
implores again as he lets go and pulls on his jeans and shirt.
I sit up and grab for him. He sometimes has flashbacks of
Vietnam.
“Tommy, it’s just a dream. It’s okay.”
He rouses me again by my shoulders, his face
horror-struck. “Listen to me, The House is on fire! We’ve got to go, now!”
“Oh, my God, not The House! How do you know this?”
I hear myself say the words but my mind hasn’t caught up with what’s happening.
Tommy tells me in a rush of words, “Bruno had been
calling me at The House, and he just remembered that we said we were staying
here. He saw the sky glowing on the way home from the Brass Rail, where he was
playing pool until two. The fire engines we heard earlier must have been going
to our place.”
I remember, through my sleepy haze, Mr. Bug’s making a
little “O’ with his mouth as the wail of sirens carried through the town.
I jump up and put on my jeans and pajama top. Tommy grabs
my coat and holds it for me as I slip my feet into my boots. In the next
instant we’re both out on the street. There’s a cold drizzle falling, and the
roadway is glazed over with ice.
“Oh, my sweet Jesus,” I murmur. The sky is blazing in the
direction of The Carriage House, the historic restaurant that has been home and
employment for Tommy and me along with a few very close friends for the past
eight years. Why we both decided to stay at my apartment instead of his on this
particular night is just short of miraculous, since Tommy’s second-floor
apartment in The Carriage House has always been viewed as a deathtrap in the
event of a fire.
As everything sinks in, I have no thoughts except for
terror and horror—and questioning reality in one way or another.
“What time is it?” I ask Tommy.
“A little after three,” he says, choking out his words.
We round a street corner near the restaurant and are
immediately met by flashing lights and a fireman waving a flashlight. The road
is closed and Tommy pulls his Mercedes to a sliding stop.
A young fireman comes up to the car and says, “Hey,
Tommy. I’m sorry, but you can’t go down there.”
Everyone around these parts in upstate New York knows Tommy Defalco, the manager
and co-owner of the area’s finest dining establishment, where he also serves as
its maître d', And for many years, before coming to The House, he managed The
Country Club, which in its way is just as prominent.
Tommy possesses dark features and a wide, bright smile
that coaxes people into liking him immediately. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s
extremely smooth and graceful in whatever he does. But tonight Tommy is out of
the car and on the move, not concerned with appearances. He grabs my hand as we
run to the driveway leading to the main building. The House, as everyone has
come to call it, stands cloaked in a hideous film of blazing glory. Brilliant
orange flames lick from every crevice of her skin, like a serpent’s tongue
flicking and teasing us to try and do the impossible and stop the devastation.
We hear Bruno, The House’s head chef, calling to us from
behind, and we see him pushing past the fireman and running after us. The
police hold all of us back as we reach the main parking lot.
Tommy reels as if the wind has
been knocked out of him, his face glowering like a jack-o-lantern in the
reflection from the fire.
Bruno comes up to us; his words are hesitant and his
voice is choked. “I thought you guys were in there.” He covers his eyes. “I
called Troy and
told him that you both were okay, that you spent the night at Kitty’s place.
Oh, Jesus God, you guys could have died in there!”
Tommy puts his arm around Bruno’s shoulder and pulls him
close. By now my world has turned into slow motion. I’m drifting between
universes. I see and hear what’s happening but it doesn’t touch me. Standing in
the cold rain, I’m just an observer watching a building burn amid the oddly
comforting din of the immense diesel engines in the fire trucks.
I see Tommy reach out with his other arm to me, and I hear
his words, “Kitty, come here.”
It’s not until he draws me in that I feel the heat, smell
the stench, see our working lives swallowed by this now grinning monster. I
start to spin into uncontrollable sobs. Tommy hugs me tight as he whispers,
“Just hold on to me, sweetheart,” his words most assuredly more for him than
for me.
A firefighter drapes a blanket around our shoulders. He
knows all our names.
We hear the words, “Sorry” and “Too bad” and “Tragedy.”
Someone else comes up and asks if we’re okay. Everyone seems to know us. It
soon occurs to me just how many people are around us, coming from other bars
after their late shifts. This is monumental news for a small town, and the
night people utilize a grapevine that races like quicksilver.
Tommy says, “Look at me, Baby. Was everything turned off
when we left last night?” His face is drawn and pale as he searches my face for
the answer.
“Yes, Tommy, I turned everything off. Like always, I
checked my bar, the kitchen, and shut off the fireplace.” I’m a little
irritated he would question me, and then he persists.
“Are you sure?” He slowly adds, “Think carefully.”
“Yes, I’m absolutely sure. Was anything left on in your apartment?”
He shakes his head, “No, nothing.” He doesn’t press any
further—and I decide not to as well.
Bruno meets Tommy’s partner, Troy Meitzer, coming down
the walkway. Troy
pushes him out of the way and gasps when he sees The House, appearing now like
a defeated dragon with its head lowered in shame. “Oh, my God,” he repeats
several times and nothing else.
Firelight paints age lines across Troy's face, making him look well beyond his
thirty-two years. Troy’s
father bought him this old relic of a building to fulfill his son’s dream of
owning his own restaurant. Troy
was only twenty-four at the time, but his father, who planned to be around to
help open what was to become an elegant eatery, passed away that same year. Troy’s mother joined his
father a few months later, the result of a long bout with cancer. But before
she died she contacted Tommy, as they were close friends at The Country Club,
and she arranged for him to help Troy
open and get settled in the business. Tommy hired Bruno, a highly talented
chef, who in turn brought in Victor as his sous chef. With the knowledge of a
top wine steward, Phillip Fairchild, and a few polished fine-dining servers,
The Carriage House thrived and in a few years became an award-winning
restaurant and a landmark in the community.
Even during the business’s formative years Troy partied hard, and
although he was touted as the restaurant’s successful young owner, he never
grew into or accepted his responsibilities. Tommy was forced to discipline him
as a father might, and he managed to hold a tight rein over the restaurant’s
books. However, during the past two years Tommy began to trust Troy more and he relaxed his authority. This
allowed Troy to
gain control over most everything. Rumors swelled as the staff noticed blatant
signs of Troy’s
drug use. Tommy worried about the financial health of the establishment. Then
it happened.
Tommy uncovered a massive misappropriation of funds,
which he learned were used to feed Troy’s
cocaine habit. As a consequence, the business was now in the red. Tommy’s
patience with Troy
had worn thin and conversations between them had a way of exploding into fiery
exchanges. Tommy addressed Troy’s drug use many times, only to drive Troy
deeper into resenting Tommy’s counsel in his personal life—as well as his
advice regarding the business.
Troy
catches sight of Tommy and rushes at him, pushing him nearly off his feet.
Tommy’s face registers his total surprise. Troy shoves him again, and Tommy falls back
against a fire truck. Troy
shouts, “You bastard! Where in hell were you?
If you were here this would never have happened.”
He starts to take a swing at Tommy but stops midway, as
Tommy is instantly ready to fight. This Italian never needs much of an excuse
to lose his temper. So I quickly duck away, searching for someone who might
have the courage—and bulk—to intercede.
From seemingly out of nowhere Bruno comes at Troy and slams him away
from Tommy, and against the fire truck. He yells at Troy while holding him back, “Tommy had nothing
to do with this, you asshole. The man has lost every goddamn thing he owns,
including his home—and he and Kitty could have lost their lives. So back off or
deal with me.” Troy
knows he’s no match for Bruno, who is built like a bull, so he shakes him off
and steps away.
A fireman, standing nearby, pulls Troy aside. “Let me tell you something, Mr.
Meitzer, the fire came up so damn fast that no one would have had a chance in
hell of escaping. She went up like a skyrocket due to the Christmas tree and decorations.
We had one hell of a time getting this blaze under control. It was just plain
lucky that no one was in that house.”
Tommy pushes past me and walks down the lane. When I
reach out, he snatches his arm away. He’s angry and hurt and Bruno tells me to
let him go. The two of us stand there shivering in the cold gloom, watching
countless memories ride the sparks into the night sky, forever gone now, our
beautiful business and life as we’ve known it for so many years just a passing
glimmer.
I imagine the flames consuming the beautiful lounge,
licking their way around my gleaming bottles, dancing across the cushions of
the sofa in what we called The Pit in front of the fireplace, and sliding down
my beautifully polished bar like a massive spilled drink. The countless hours
of laughter and fun I created there as The House’s lead bartender, clad in my
uniform of tuxedo tails and fishnet stockings that earned me the nickname Legs.
All those nights that Tommy and I entertained the customers with our fake
arguments and cocky byplay.
Many memories of past years surface, pushing Roy McGrath
to the forefront and causing fresh tears to form in my eyes. Roy McGrath, who
loved me, who never tired of asking me for a date or trying to steal a kiss.
Sweet Roy, who delighted in seeing me nightly at work, who lived for our mutual
banter with one another. Roy McGrath, for whom I was to the point of giving up
the bar business—living with the guilt that it was I who almost caused his
death.
Troy
comes over to Bruno and apologizes as he shakes his head. He says he is just so
overcome. They embrace and pat each other on the back.
“Tommy’s the one you need to find and say you’re sorry,”
Bruno says, craning his neck. “I don’t know where he went.”
No sooner are the words out of Bruno’s mouth that Tommy
appears and wraps his arms around me. I need this. He buries his face in my
neck and hair.
Troy offers his apology
but Tommy says nothing, meeting Troy’s
eyes briefly and nodding.
We walk over to the back of a fire truck and sit on the
wide back bumper. The House is altogether down now. Only the two end stone
walls remain standing. I can’t stop looking at the one with the fireplace,
where so many happy times were spent. Strangely, I wonder about the elk heads
hanging atop the mantle and how they paid witness to Tommy’s marriage proposal
to me on a particularly busy night not that long ago.
The fire chief approaches us, nods to me and says to
Tommy, “I told Troy
this, so I’ll tell you the same thing. Right now, this fire looks as if it was
started at three locations, indicating arson. We did our best, but there was no
saving this one. Whoever set this wanted the place to go up in a hurry.” He
shook his head and clasped Tommy by the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.
We’re going to conduct a thorough investigation.”
“Arson,” Bruno whispers as if in a dream, and he looks at
us with knotted brows. “What the hell. . .don’t know what to say.”
The rest of the staff gathers around us in shocked
silence as the news of suspected arson spreads. One by one, like war victims,
we cling to each other. We’re all in tears. Soon we cluster in twos and threes
within the blankets the firemen provide, like lost children.
Polly, our head waitress, wordlessly falls in with Tommy
and me. She wipes her eyes and holds onto us while Bruno and Victor talk with
the rest of employees who care enough to come out and hold hands in collective
grief. We are all family here, not by blood but through our work. There has
never been a more dedicated staff at any establishment. We are the closest of
friends, and for most of us the only family we have are those standing around
us at this very moment.
The night becomes dawn and the funeral begins in earnest.
Early-morning mourners in car after car slowly file past to pay their respects
to the beloved landmark, some stopping to say a few kind words to us as well.
The local news teams come and go, with their sound and camera equipment. Holding
dour expressions, reporters gaze into camera lenses as smoke still rises behind
them. Some interviews are granted. Tommy waves any news person away from us.
We’re embraced by familiar arms as sad comments come to
us from cracked voices; people wiping their eyes and shaking their heads;
saying how much they loved The House.
Mildred Vassar and her son, Mike, appear, and she rushes
to where we are all standing. It’s amazing to see her at such an early hour. Millie
is my most cherished bar customer. Her husband is a renowned surgeon and
president of The Country Club, where I also worked before coming to The
Carriage House six years ago. She is enormously wealthy but treats everyone as
an equal. Millie is as close to a mother as I could ever hope for, and she
views me and the entire staff of The House as her children. She claims her age
to be in the early sixties, and she looks it, although I have a suspicion she
is closer to the mid seventies. Her blond hair is meticulously styled and her
make-up is always flawlessly applied. She has an elegant aura about her; a lady
of means and style even though night after night she succumbs with simple
gratitude to three gin martinis.
“I thought you all would be out here,” she says. “It’s
all over the local news.” She stands with us, in her fur-lined gloves and
expensive fur coat, her diamond jewelry sparkling in what is now a light rain.
“You didn’t lose anything. This tragedy heralds a new start. Now you rebuild a
bigger and better place to call home. This is a new beginning for everyone.
That’s what life gives us when it takes things away—a second
chance. Get rid of the old and start new all over. By summer, this will all be
a bad dream not worth remembering, and you will be back together and things will
be true.
True to Mildred’s grace and
hang-tough attitude, she offers us the first hopeful smile since we all came
together. She tells us to go someplace warm, and that all the wishing in the
world at this moment isn’t going to bring The Carriage House back.
The rain is
becoming heavier, and Polly suggests, “What do you say we go to my place? This
is crazy standing out here in this damn freezing drizzle. We can be just as
miserable there as here, and I need some hot coffee.
Tommy has
said little in over an hour. When I ask him if he wants to go over to Polly’s,
he peers over my head and into the smoking mess, then back at me and says with
a sigh, “I just want to go home.” He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and
shrugs. I know what he means, and my eyes fill with tears for him. He whispers
to no one, “Arson. Who would do this—and why?”
I tell our friends we will see them
later. Maybe meet at a local diner we all frequent and talk this out.
Back at
the apartment I start the coffee, and we take a shower together to warm up.
Our clothes smell so much of smoke that we throw our
garments in the washer and then cuddle in bed, where it’s warm and dry. Tommy
has nothing to wear, and it suddenly dawns on me that this man came over last
night with only the clothes on his back.
Now, as we lie together with Bug curled alongside us, listening to soft music, Tommy is
painfully quiet. When it seems he’s searching for an answer in his thoughts, he
looks into the air around him and then meets my eyes with his for a moment as
if to see if the answer is in them. Should the answer appear in my eyes, he
slowly shuts his for a moment as if in thanks.
I reach over and take his hand and thank God we decided
to spend the night here at my place. We wanted to get an early start moving my
belongings to his apartment at The House. Last night was to be my swan song to
my little digs in the tiny town of Bigley, New York, where I called
home for the past eight years. Now it seems that I’ll be meeting with my
landlord to renew the lease.
I smile and say quietly, “You are a wealthy man, Mr.
Defalco. You have this woman who is your best friend and forever lover beside
you, your trusted Mr. Bug on your other side, and your baby blue Mercedes
parked safely at the curb outside.” I point to his photo albums. “And here are
your memories that we took with us—just by chance, to look at this morning—all
of which could have been destroyed last night. We have this roof over our heads,
be it what it is, so we have a home for now. We have so many things to be
grateful for. And Troy
will rebuild The House, as Millie said, and it will be bigger and better.”
“I know that, Kitten.
I’m just so damn tired and confused.” Slowly his eyes focus on me. I
feel strange. “Who called last night just before we closed up the lounge?
Remember, you ran to the bar to answer the phone?
I had to think for a moment. “It was a hang-up. No one
was there.”
Tommy rolls out of bed and calls the phone company. After
a long while he comes back and sits atop the covers, his face grave. He studies
me then mentions one name: Lillian.
I sit up quickly
“You don’t think . . . she could be capable . . . of arson?”
“I have no idea. But why would she call after closing and
not say anything?”
“What are you getting at? Oh, my god, do you think she
wanted us to be caught in the fire? Oh, my God—”
Interrupting my own thoughts, I feel sick to my stomach.
I gather myself and reach for Tommy. I’ve never seen him appear so troubled.
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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