In Case of Emergency (26 page)

By our seventh call I’m used to the way the wail of the sirens emulates the singsong repetition in my head.
Will she call will she call will she call…
There is nothing else to do but wonder. I’ve left messages and sent texts. Stubborn in my mind is the thought that she won’t and can’t give up, that what has begun between us is simply too good for either of us to let go of, but this thought is coupled with doubt. Maybe I really don’t know her. Maybe everything I thought I knew about her is a projection, hers or mine. Maybe she was just waiting to walk away. Maybe I’ll be better off if she does.

“8421 Gramercy, at 84
^th
,” William says. “Just head down Manchester.”

“Again?” I ask. He shrugs.

Will she call will she call will she call
…

It’s dark when we pull up to the little gray house. The man who lives here was having a few drinks with his neighbor when he decided to tell her the story of earlier, even reenact it for her by propping the rifle in his lap and waving his hands at the freshly bandaged foot. When we prepare to take him to the hospital for shooting himself in the same foot a second time, the man refuses to answer any questions. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and his neighbor hides behind the sofa in order to cover her laugh. William is not so considerate.

At the hospital, my partner’s mood shifts. “We need to clean it again,” he says of the back of the rig. “It’s starting to smell. I think blood must have soaked down into the floor plates from that kid.”

During a break at station, I press my cell phone to my ear with the top of my shoulder so that I can use both hands to rattle the chain-link fence that borders Station 710’s parking lot. I can’t believe what Marla’s saying. “You did
what
?”

“Piper, it was a one-time thing, please don’t—”

“Jesus, Marla. Are you going to tell Tom?”

Marla slept with Alexander. The whole world is going to shit. Letting go of the mesh, I look down and start counting William’s stubbed cigarettes. About thirty. There are others, too, but I’m counting only Marlboros.

“Please don’t overreact about this, okay? Not everything is like your life. This is different.”

“So you’re not going to tell him. He’s an addict, Marla. What were you thinking?”

“It’s not like that. Does Alexander look like a drug addict to you?”

“Is that what you’re basing this on? Can you even hear yourself?” Marla doesn’t respond. Next door the sound of heavy bass booms through the walls of the club amid hooting and laughter. “Well, how was it?”

“It was good. Not anything like what I remembered.” She hesitates. “He’s lost a lot of weight. And it was… more
urgent
somehow. I don’t know, there’s something about spending time with him—it’s like it makes me stronger.”

Back in the days of my post-Jared misery, I remember Marla coming over to Ryan’s place to comfort me. I barely let her talk. I was too busy spouting all the useless sayings, the kind of shit you’re supposed to say, about things having a purpose, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. It was almost as if I was trying to cheer her up. Marla finally cut me off. “Don’t do that,” she said. “You’re strong enough.”

“Marla—”

“Forget it. We’ll talk about this later. How are you? How is Ayla?”

I know that if I talk about what happened, the thin string that has been holding me up will break. Instead I tell her about earlier, how William and I had been eating lunch with the two-car crew at a fried-chicken joint when we looked out the window and saw an SUV veer into a telephone pole, so decisively the rear of the vehicle lifted up. How the driver popped out like an angry puff of smoke, tore a large stuffed baggie from where it was taped to his chest and threw it as hard as he could into oncoming traffic before turning and running down the street. How by that point the four of us were already on the sidewalk, patting our pockets for gloves, but when we heard the police sirens we said, “Guess they got this one,” and went back inside to finish our meals.

I expect Marla to laugh, but she’s hushed, waiting for the punch line. We end the conversation awkwardly. I slip my phone into my pocket and swivel around to head inside.

Ayla leans against my car not fifteen feet from me. She pushes up one of her thin sleeves, then tugs it back down. I mentally play back the last ten minutes, starting with when I walked outside to take Marla’s phone
call. Ayla must have been in the parking lot the whole time. How could I have missed her?

“What are you doing here?”

Her face is puffy, her eyes bloodshot. “I love you,” she says. “You probably already know that, but I just thought, in case you didn’t…”

I feel a sharp spike of terror at her words and try not to show it. Ayla rubs one shoe over the gravel, back and forth, a scrape-swish sound. “I acted like a real asshole yesterday. I came here to tell you that.” She raises her eyebrows. “I guess you know that, too?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait. Listen. I don’t even remember half of what I said to you yesterday, but that still doesn’t—what I mean is, you don’t have to forgive me or anything. That’s not why I came here.”

It’s so hard to move—my legs are stiff, my hands can’t seem to do anything but hang limply at my sides—but I manage to walk toward her.

“I’m going to figure it out,” she says. “The school thing, getting my degree, all that. I’m not going to let yesterday—”

“Of course you are,” I say. We stare at each other. Her hair is unusually flat. “Wait, how did you get here?”

“Took the bus from Silver Lake to South Central. I must really like you.”

37

I’m not sure at what point I become aware of William standing there. For a while all I’m aware of is Ayla’s generous mouth, but maybe it’s a noise—the sound of someone gaping—or maybe it’s just his unmistakable tall and freckled presence announcing itself. When I open my eyes William’s mouth is hanging open, an unlit cigarette precariously glued to his bottom lip.

“William!” It’s all I can do not to laugh. “William, this is my”—I give
her a quick look for confirmation; she squeezes my hand—“girlfriend, Ayla. Ayla, this is my partner, William.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ayla offers.

He reaches up and plucks the cigarette off his face, but even after this slight recovery, all he can manage is a nod. He heads toward his usual spot in the parking lot and lights up.

“Which one is he?” Ayla asks. “I know you… Is he the one who’s always joking around?”

“No, that’s Carl. William is—” In the back of Ayla’s planner, she’ll sometimes draw diagrams as a way to remember people and how they know each other. I told her about Carl and Ruth, J-Rock and Pep, Steve and Phil, not to mention some of the firefighters. How could she possibly keep track?

“William’s all right. I used to hate him, but he’s growing on me.”

Around midnight at station I brush my teeth, strip down to my shorts, and sit at the edge of a creaking twin bed, arranging my pants around my boots so that with only two steps and a yank I will be in full uniform again. Ayla loves me. I have a girlfriend. I’m in love. Falling back into bed and pulling the sheets over me, I think about a story I heard long ago, about a king who learned to sleep with his eyes open in order to spook any would-be assassins. Anything is possible, I tell myself, and then proceed to sleep soundly, with both eyes shut.

William and I get woken only once, and it’s obvious from the moment we step inside that our call will get canceled. The daughter had called from another state because her mom wasn’t returning her phone calls; we discover the woman dead in her small, unkempt apartment, surrounded by fashion magazines and newspapers. The firefighters unstick the body from the floor and roll it onto its side to note the dark blotches caused by collected stagnant blood, as well as the unnatural stiffness of the limbs.
Someone uses a sheet to cover the body, tools and equipment are gathered, and single-file and silent we tromp out the door, down the cobbled steps, past the pool, and out the gate.

I stand in the middle of the street talking to Dag and Tyson while William returns the empty gurney to the ambulance and the police call the coroner. The fire engine has already left, but the gleaming medic squad is parked behind us, its engine still running, its lights still flashing. The rotating glare casts all our faces in horror-movie red.

“I’ve noticed you’re pretty strong for your size,” Tyson is saying. “Have you ever thought about becoming a firefighter? We could certainly use more women in the department.”

“Do a ride-along with us sometime,” Dag adds. “Just let us know and we’ll talk to Captain Greger.”

Focusing on the weight of the jump bag in my hand, I give it a subtle, unnecessary bounce to reestablish my grip. I feel so distracted by the woman in the apartment. I wonder if this is similar to what happened to Ayla, how even after coming home she would remember the corpses she saw in Iraq, the dead goat whose body hid a bomb. I had been nervous to look at the woman’s face because I knew the image would imprint—I can still see the ants, the blood bubbles; I can still remember it was the left side of the dog-owner’s face that got eaten off—but in the end, what choice did I have? The image I can add to the growing pile: a woman’s glaring eyes, swollen, protruding tongue, the look of absolute reproach.

The last postcard my mother ever sent me shows her smiling face as small as a fingernail, and yet that tiny image is always how I picture her now. It’s as if all the memories I had from being a kid got replaced by that grainy photograph.

“I’ve definitely been thinking about becoming a firefighter,” I tell them. Tyson starts to explain the hiring process of different departments, the types of physical training; I nod to show I’m listening.

38

In photos of Ayla in Iraq, she wears tan T-shirts tucked into belted camouflage pants. Dog tags dangle between her small, round breasts, and well-kept beige boots jut out below the perfectly cinched and tied cuffs of her pant legs. She wears this outfit when she’s at ease, smiling from inside the tents or resting on the cots. When on duty as a Military Police mechanic, either prepping a convoy or headed for the arms room, the camera peers at her through dust clouds, and reveals her in a camouflage jacket and body armor, a helmet strapped tightly to her pointed chin, an M249 held with both hands.

These days, the slicked-back ponytail is gone. She wears jeans with faded sneakers, soft, loose T-shirts that can’t hide her strong shoulders, and, even when it’s warm outside: thin zip-up hooded sweatshirts in shades of gray, blue, and green. Ayla didn’t keep any of her uniforms or army paraphernalia after getting discharged; she returned the entire contents of her TA-50 back to her unit—her uniform and Gortex, the rain gear and rucksack, but while there’s more variety in color and style, even now, in the drawers of Ayla’s dresser, crisply folded stacks of shirts and socks are stored, as if at any moment the staff sergeant will be coming by the barracks to inspect her cleanliness.

Tonight Ayla will meet my father. In preparation, she changed her shirt three times; when I went to pick her up, shoes were spread all over the floor of her apartment. Now, outside the restaurant, she wears a green button-up and skinny jeans. She looks a little panicked.

“Are you sure I look all right?”

Absolutely, I tell her.

Introducing Dad to my new girlfriend was Ryan’s idea, and he was visibly shocked when I didn’t resist too much. Having told myself many times it doesn’t actually matter if Dad approves, I feel relatively calm.

“Does he know about me?”

“That you’re gay?”

“No, the brain thing.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

Dad picked the restaurant, an Italian family place, Costa Mesa–style—an overpriced menu and huge portions, plenty of garish distractions on the walls to keep the kids cross-eyed, plenty of strong cocktails for the adults. Through the window I watch a small child get “Happy Birthday” sung to her by a group of twentysomethings. They’re wearing fake mustaches and crowing boisterously, and, like her, I find myself charmed by the bartender for knowing how to play the accordion.

Dad walks hurriedly to the entrance, almost passing us. It’s obvious he came straight from the office—he looks dressed up and slightly out of place in his suit and tie.

“Am I late? Sorry about that.”

“You’re fine, Dad.”

I kiss him on the cheek and introduce Ayla.

“Michael,” he says, pumping her hand. “So good to meet you.”

When we walk inside, the hostess greets us warmly. Dad requests an outside table, where the noise level is manageable and strings of light bulbs hang over the tables.

“The doc says I got to eat healthier,” he says as we look at the giant menus. “I’m thinking about going vegetarian.” He peers at Ayla. “You look like you’re in shape—are you vegetarian?”

She smiles shyly. “No. I just work out a lot.”

He makes a humming noise. “That settles it. I’m going back to the gym.”

Eventually a frazzled waiter comes to take our order, putting a basket of bread and some olive oil on the table. Dad orders a Coke and I get a lemonade; Ayla sticks to water. I raise my eyebrows when Dad asks for fried zucchini sticks as a side dish to his entree. “What? That’s vegetarian.”