Beyond Lucky (21 page)

Her face looks neutral—like this is just a story—but this is happening now with life on the line. She asks, “But what if the planes don't come?” I can tell she's scared. Even through the TV, I can see it in her eyes.

Dad throws the clicker across the room. “Where is the backup? The helicopters? He didn't have to be doing this. He could have stayed in school, where he would have been safe.”

James Morris Franklin tugs at his scarred skin and looks up into the sky. He says, “I am sure they are on their way.”

Suzanne cuts to Paul, the announcer in the studio, who says, “As soon as we know more, we will come back to California. Thanks, Suzanne, for that dramatic report. Until then, we will keep those brave firefighters in our thoughts.”

A fire is a dangerous thing. It can explode without warning. I once read if you're close enough, it sounds like screaming.

The only thing we can do is wait.

Good things happen to bad people. Bad things happen to everyone.

But I always believed Mom was wrong, that she worried for nothing. No matter what Sam did, no matter what risks he took, he'd be fine.

Sam never failed. He was always in control. He fought for what was important to him. He was a hero. He was Superman.

At least, that's what I believed.

 

At 7:45, I wake up on the overstuffed recliner.

Mom points to the couch, where Dad is curled up, eyes closed, glasses still on. “Come to the kitchen. Let's let him sleep. He was up all night.”

We tiptoe out of the room. Eat toast with butter and raspberry jelly. Mom even gives me a little bit of coffee for my milk. There is no news.

Mom's lips are bright jelly red. “I think that's a good thing. If he was dead, they would have had to notify us.” There are raspberry seeds stuck between her teeth.

One more time, we call Sam's cell. We listen to his voice on the message, “This is Sam. You know what to do,” and we start laughing/crying, because we really don't know what to do. Or say. Or think.

“Call us,” Mom says. She squeezes my hand. “We love you.”

We call the base too, but instead of a person, we get that odd ring that means the phone is disconnected. Or out of service. When we call the state office, the last resort, we find out that the town of Redding has turned off the power due to the enormity of the fires. Mom says, “Thanks for letting us know. Keep up the good work.”

Strange. She's calm.

We do Dad's work. We go to the market, collect the donations, and mail a huge care package to all the firefighters at the base. She makes chocolate chip brownies from the mix. At noon, Dad finally wakes up. She cooks him a scrambled egg with cheese, toast, and a baked apple, which in the history of Fish breakfasts, might be a first.

Dad scrapes his plate. He jokes, “You know, I could use you on Sundays.” But when the doorbell rings, he goes upstairs. “I'm just not ready for the well-wishers.”

Neither am I, but Mom makes me stay. I talk to Mom's friends from the hospital and the entire staff at the restaurant. I call Mac, Soup, Eddie, and Coach, and they come over as fast as they can. Coach cancels practice. He says, “We took a vote and it was unanimous. We are not going to play until we know Sam is safe.” When the rabbi walks in with three containers of soup, I get nervous. The rabbi never comes to your house when there is good news.

When he hugs me, he pats my back, and says something in Hebrew. I wait for him to bring up my Torah portion—to tell me how important it is to deal with tough tasks, but luckily he doesn't turn this into a lecture. He asks Mom, “What can I do? Would you like me to lead a healing prayer? Or do you want me to make phone calls.”

“Don't make phone calls. Not yet.” She tells the rabbi, “I hate that he thinks I'm not proud of him.”

The rabbi opens his book. He talks for a long time about journeys that are worth something and the honor of responsibility. He says that nothing really good comes easy, and that God is with Sam right now, because God is righteous.

He says, “God never turns away from those in need.”

But everyone knows that isn't really true. God lets good people die all the time. When good people are in need, sometimes God is looking the other way. I wish he would explain this.

Sometimes the good guy loses. Sometimes good men die.

That's why my dad writes to all those people.

The rabbi hands out copies of some prayers and invites everyone to join in. Some I know; some I don't. Mrs. Elliot sits next to Mom and sings along. Quietly. The rabbi sways back and forth.

After the last
Amen,
Mom gets up and goes to the kitchen, picks up one of the containers, opens it, and pours it into a saucepan. In the background, the TV stays on. The twenty-four-hour news stations discuss politics and theater, weather and one oil man's attempt to bring back the electric car. At three, they say the fire is twenty percent contained, and everyone cheers. By four, fifty percent. By seven, it is over.

Now we have to wait for a call. From Sam or a stranger. For the names. Every time the doorbell rings, I look away. I do not want to see a man in a uniform. I do not want someone to ask for Mr. and Mrs. Fish, the parents of Samuel Martin Fish of the Redding Five. I do not want to write a speech about the responsibility of remembering a brother who sacrificed his life, of a God who didn't hang around.

Mac, Eddie, and Soup sit in my room and play gin rummy and crazy eights—anything not to talk. Mac deals me the same three Jacks three times in a row.

Mac is usually a pretty good shuffler.

The next hand, he holds all the eights, and he doesn't even realize it.

He stares at the Wayne Timcoe poster. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if Wayne Timcoe hadn't gotten injured?”

I don't answer—not because I don't have my theories, but because Coach is here. He sits on my bed. “You know, when Sam played for me, I just knew he was the kind of guy who was going to make a difference in somebody's life.”

My mom comes in too, and we trade stories about Sam, all the oldies but goodies. Like the time he got caught driving the car . . . at age twelve. Or the time he threw a party when Mom and Dad were at services.

I say, “He offered me one hundred dollars if I could kick one goal past him. He gave me ten shots.”

Coach laughs. “Did you do it?”

“Kick number eleven. It went right through his legs. He told me it was a sign that I was going to be just as good as he was.”

Mom dabs her eye. “I told him I'd give him the money if he let his brother score.”

Everyone laughs.

I excuse myself and go to Sam's room. Dad is there. He stands next to the words Sam painted on his wall.

I say, “It was cool that you let him do that.”

We look at Sam's trophies and jerseys, and his MVP certificate. Dad asks, “Do you think I expect too much from you? That I set the bar too high?”

“No. I don't know. What do you mean?”

My dad kisses the top of my head. “Your brother. There was never any stopping him. He was smart. And funny. And so athletic. It was such a disappointment when he dropped out of school. I guess I always thought this was a phase.”

Now I am really scared. “What are you saying? Sam can do anything! Don't talk about him like he's not coming home. I bet he wasn't even scared. I bet he is already at the base, getting ready to call. I bet when Mom starts yelling at him about being an adrenaline junkie, he's going to say it was no big deal.”

Dad smiles, but it's one of those sad smiles, the kind that makes people cry. “I hope you are right.”

He sits on the bed. He holds the picture of me and Sam, the one from my room. “I'm just not ready for this. I am not ready for the call. I am not ready for a flag or an honor or a story about my great kid. I don't want to check the mail next week and find a letter from some guy who read my kid's obituary.”

It's hard to watch your father cry.

 

There is no bad way to hear good news.

It is never too late at night to hear your brother's voice.

Mom picks up the phone on the first ring and puts it on speaker. “Hey everyone. It's me. I just wanted to tell you that I'm okay. I don't know if you saw this on the news, but we had a little bit of excitement.”

It is Sam.

Mom pops open an old bottle of champagne, and she gives everyone—even me—a glass.

“To Sam!”

“To the Redding Region Five Smokejumpers!”

“To water!”

Dad calls the restaurant, and they bring over a cake. Five layers. All chocolate. We each take a huge slice.

On TV, the same news lady finally has an update. Now she reports from the studio.

The camera relives the nightmare. The sky, the fire, the houses. Then it shifts and we see piles of burnt rubble. Piles of charred wood. People sift through rubble to find anything they can salvage. Photographs. Toys.

There's nothing there.

Suzanne says, “What you see here is what is left of this once thriving, beautiful neighborhood. But today, no one is complaining. And that is because although seventy-five houses burned, everyone lived. All these families are safe. And I'm happy to tell you that the fourteen incredibly brave firefighters all survived. These men—these heroes—hung on until the planes arrived. Then—you're not going to believe this—they didn't go anywhere. They picked up their gear and fought the blaze until it was completely extinguished.”

The anchor actually claps his hands. “Did they suffer injuries?”

“You are not going to believe this either, but they had to be forced to go to the hospital for checkups. But it sounds like, besides some smoke inhalation, everyone is going to be fine, back on the job. They are America's bravest, and I am so glad they are all okay.”

Dad turns the channel, and we listen to another station review the same story. They interview the base manager, who says, “My guys knew what to do. We train for exactly this type of situation. They are a team, and I'm proud of all of them.”

After a while, the last slice of cake disappears. My parents' friends go home. Mac follows me to Sam's room. I sit on his bed and stare at Sam's trophies and slogans. I am so relieved. There are so many things Sam and I need to talk about. Luck. The team. Responsibility. I wonder what he was thinking about when the flames surrounded him. If he wished he could come home. And go back to school.

I wonder if he still thinks being a smokejumper is worth fighting for.

Mac wrings his hands, then wipes them on his jeans. “What's the matter?” I ask.

“Before anything else happens, I need to tell you something important.” Mac says nothing for a long time. “Parker was right. I stole your card. I framed her. I did everything she said I did.”

 

Jerry Mac MacDonald, the best player on our team, my friend, the luckiest guy I know, is a thief and a liar.

He apologizes profusely, over and over again. “All I can say is I'm sorry. I am really sorry. I was wrong. I was stupid. Will you ever be able to forget what I've done? Can you forgive me?”

 

On the one hand, an apology is a huge thing.

Just look at the presidents. Or even professional athletes.

Does anyone ever confess voluntarily?

No. They do not.

Until their guilt is firmly established, they lie. Until the proof is public.

Until they do not have a choice.

 

On the other hand, he stole my Wayne Timcoe card. He lied about Parker. He treated me like dirt. Retaliation would feel extremely satisfying.

I could hit him in the jaw. I could make him confess to his mom.

I could call Coach, who would definitely throw him off the team.

Then again, Dad is right. I am not always perfect. I need to shake hands with Mac. Say, “I accept your apology.” Even if, in reality, I am still very mad, he is finally being honest. There is no reason to drag this out any more.

That's what the old Ari would do.

But that is the point. The old Ari did not do the right thing. The old Ari did not accept his responsibility when it was given to him.

I don't want to be that person anymore.

I ask him, “Why?”

It is a simple question, but those are always the hardest to ask and answer.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “Honestly? When you found that card, your luck may have improved, but it messed me up. Suddenly, I couldn't do anything right. I couldn't play for beans. I felt tight. And nervous. And then the whole thing with Parker. When she started playing well and hanging out with you . . . I was jealous. I'm sorry, but I just wanted everything to be the way it used to be.”