The Fireman's Homecoming. Allie Pleiter

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      “Where’s your slice?”

      Barney rubbed her hefty stomach. “Already gone. Someone had to make sure it was up to snuff.”

      “You’re a doll,” Dad said behind a mouthful of cake. “Delicious as always.”

      Picking up her handbag, Barney tapped Melba’s shoulder. “I’ll be at church for the women’s committee till four. I’ll be back to check on you and put the casserole into the oven at five so you all can eat at six. You all call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

      “We’ve got cake, we’ll be fine as can be,” Dad said.

      Barney smiled, but caught Melba’s eyes with a silent “You going to be all right on your own?” raise of one eyebrow.

      “Fine as can be,” Melba echoed, banning all sounds of worry from her voice. In truth, she was more than a little nervous, wondering if Dad’s fits of anger or anxiety would soon loom larger than she could handle. Looking back at him now, she saw just a happy old man eating cake in his favorite chair.

      * * *

      They passed the afternoon without incident, Dad napping while Melba formatted half a dozen digital catalogue pages for work and plowed through the pile of emails left unattended during the hospital stay. “I’ll need to learn to give myself wider margins on deadlines,” she wrote her boss, Betsy, in the email that submitted the catalogue pages, thankful that she’d had the cable company install wireless internet a week ago. “Life can get upended on a moment’s notice over here.” It annoyed her that the pages were a day behind schedule—usually Melba managed to get things in early. “On time is late for Melba,” Betsy used to joke. She doubted anyone would say that anymore.

      “Melba?” Dad’s voice startled her, it was so clear and strong.

      “Right here, Dad.”

      “It’s four-thirty, isn’t it?”

      She glanced at the clock above the kitchen table where she’d been working. “Four twenty-eight, to be exact.”

      “Aren’t I supposed to take one of those enormous pills now?”

      Melba pulled the huge, multi-compartmented pill sorter toward her—recently refilled with some new additions—and consulted the list. “Wow, Dad, you’re good. Yep, it’s one of those big yellow ones.” She filled a glass with water and brought him the pill with two others in the “Afternoon” compartment.

      Dad made a face. “These are monsters. They used to be small and white.”

      They did. His memory was still there, peeking out, holding on. “Well, Doc says you need a double dose for the next few weeks.”

      “Let him choke ’em down, then.” He slid the collection into his mouth, grimaced, then swallowed. “I might need more cake to ease the way.” Dad grinned up at her like a mischievous child.

      “You’ll spoil your supper.”

      “Fine by me.”

      He seemed so here, so alert and happy. “How about a cup of tea instead?” Some huge part of her wanted to sit with him right now and make him tell her all of whatever he’d begun to say back there in the hospital. Another part of her wanted to run, to put her fingers in her ears like a disobedient child, and pretend she’d never heard a thing. Mostly, she craved the connected gaze of his eyes, the true conversation he seemed capable of right now. The urge to hoard his salient moments, to stockpile his wisdom and affection, surged up until she bent over the recliner and gathered him in a fierce hug.

      “What’s this fuss?” His words spoke surprise but his eyes told her he knew what was behind her embrace.

      “I’m just glad you’re home,” she managed, blinking too fast.

      “You and me both, Melbadoll.”

      She laughed. “I think it’s been fifteen years since you’ve called me that.”

      “You told me you hated it back in high school.”

      “What did I know back in high school?”

      He laughed. It sputtered into a small cough, but it was a laugh just the same. Melba jumped on the tiny boost of courage it gave her. “Hey, Dad, guess who I ran into this morning from my high school days?” It felt safer not to start with Clark’s visit to the hospital room.

      “Who?”

      “Clark Bradens. It took me a minute or so to recognize him, he’s changed so much. I never thought he’d clean up his act. He’s going to be fire chief when George retires next month, right?”

      The mention wiped the smile from Dad’s face. “So they say.” He reached for the television remote.

      She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know what had caused the strong reaction to Clark’s visit at the hospital. “What’s he like?”

      “How would I know? I don’t see that boy.” He turned on the news and turned up the volume. The conversation had been declared over. She wasn’t really surprised that Dad had said “that boy” with the same tone people had used to refer to Clark in high school. Usually around the phrase “stay away from that boy.” Clark was no hero back then.

      Melba was opening her mouth to try again when Barney pushed open the back door. “Lord, save me from church committees!” she declared as she shucked off her coat and set her handbag on the table. “A lot of good may get done, but a whole lot of not-good creeps in around the edges. Some town gossips ought to just hush up and stay home.”

      Melba left her dad to his television news and leaned against the kitchen doorway. “Tough day at the office?”

      “Talk, whisper, talk. And then they wonder why the young people leave this town.” Barney shook her head. “We’ve known for two weeks since the town council meeting, but the yammering hasn’t stopped yet. You’d think there’s never been a second chance given in the whole wide world the way some of them went on about Clark Bradens this afternoon. Ain’t too many of us could stand up to judgment by who we was in high school.” She gave out a trio of disapproving tsk-tsks as she moved the casserole dish from the fridge to the oven.

      “Clark Bradens? Why’d he come up?”

      “Some folks want to throw him a nice party when George retires and he takes up as fire chief. I say it’s a fine thing to celebrate a son coming home like that. Others, well...they don’t see it that way. All they can see is a young high school punk coasting on his papa’s coattails. Honestly.” Melba wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “How many years has it been, and since when isn’t a man allowed to grow up and get it right?”

      “Who says he’s grown up and gotten it right?” Melba could hardly believe Dad was standing behind her. He’d gotten up out of the recliner all on his own?

      “He seemed nice enough to me.”

      “When’d you meet him?”

      Dad was fine, Dad wasn’t so fine. It was like living on an emotional Ping-Pong table. “I just told you СКАЧАТЬ