I wheeled into Walgreens, braked, exited the car and dashed into the store. When I walked in I noticed a cluster of sales clerks grouped around an overhead television. A news bulletin blared. I caught sight of a billow of smoke, eerily reminiscent of a similar image from years earlier.
I shuddered, recalling that day with a sense of horror. April 19, 1995, at about 9:03 a.m. on a clear spring morning, a bomb inside a moving truck exploded outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Parents had dropped their children at the building’s day-care center and employees had just sat down at their desks to begin the workday when the blast obliterated half of the nine-story building, killing 168 people, many of them children. It was the most deadly terrorist attack to take place on American soil. Until September 11, 2001.
Neil would have been involved in that tragedy, but we were on holiday. I had thanked God my husband had been spared that awful experience. Any time fire broke out, I panicked, even though right now I could see the fire wouldn’t involve Neil’s station. The pictures were of downtown Oklahoma City, yet a chill slid up my spine. Some other woman’s husband—some child’s father—was in turnout gear, dragging heavy hoses and racing up crowded stairwells.
I walked to the back of the store and handed the pharmacist Kelli’s spare inhaler. “I need a refill, Mac.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Madison. I’ll only be a minute.”
I turned, perusing the fall decorations. One counter over, Christmas trees blinked, and a revolving Santa was playing a guitar and singing Elvis’s “Blue Christmas.” I wondered when Fourth of July would collide with the harvest season. I hardly had time to take down decorations for one holiday and put up the next set, which made me think of chocolate chips. Kris needed three dozen chocolate chip cookies for a class party tomorrow, which meant that I had to light the temperamental oven, and the thought sent another chill up my spine.
I left the counter, picked up the chips in the grocery section and returned to see a man kicking up a fuss about his medication.
“I’m telling you,” he bellowed. “I’m running out of room to take my medication!”
“Out of room? Mr. Withers, the dosage says to apply a new patch every morning.” The white-coated clerk held the carton at arm’s length, rereading the instructions out loud. “Says here, one new patch a day.”
“I do that!”
“Is the medication too strong?”
“How should I know? I just do what I’m told, but I’m telling you I’m running out of room.”
I smiled at the pharmacist, who seemed totally perplexed.
“Look here.” The old man suddenly peeled out of his jacket, threw it on the counter, then unbuttoned his shirt and stripped out of it.
A chuckle escaped me, and I covered my hand with my mouth when I saw the problem. The man had at least fifty patches stuck on him in various spots and positions.
Indeed, he was running out of room.
The pharmacist stared at the interstate of patches, and then calmly explained that the man was to remove the old patch and apply a new one.
“Well, why didn’t they say so?” The man slipped the shirt back on and buttoned it. “Doctors won’t tell you a thing.”
A few minutes later I’d paid for the medication and was on my way out of the store when I glanced at the overhead TV. A young store clerk was glued to the set.
“That’s downtown, isn’t it?” I asked.
The young man nodded. “A high-rise office complex is on fire.”
I breathed easier. Station 16 was too far away to respond—unless the situation needed more men. I left the store, my mind back on cookies.
I picked Kelli up at Mrs. Murphy’s, the woman we called Saint Helen. Retired, husband deceased fifteen years earlier, Helen was a godsend to us. She kept Kelli after kindergarten, and stayed with both girls the days I traveled. I never worried a minute when I was gone; my girls loved Mrs. Murphy as much as Paws and Maws, and Papa and Grandma, and looked forward to the brief visits.
I picked up Kelli, then swung by the school. When Kris got in, her face was somber. “Mommy, my teacher says there’s a really bad fire downtown.”
“I heard, sweetie. But Daddy’s station wouldn’t be involved.”
“Are you sure?”
I twisted in my seat and gave her leg a reassuring pat. She worried as much as I did about Neil’s safety. “Positive. He’ll call us at the usual time tonight.”
When I pulled into the drive I punched the garage door button. Minutes later I carried the chocolate chips and Kelli’s medicine into the kitchen and deposited the bag on the small desk. No light blinked on the message machine.
Stripping out of my coat, I called for the girls to straighten their room before we ate, and then returned to the car for the cleaning. Fish sticks. Fish sticks, macaroni and cheese—that’s what I’d fix for dinner. Since I’d forgotten to stop by for the chicken nuggets, I’d fix Kelli’s second-favorite meal. I grinned, thinking about Neil and how he was frying hamburger and onions right about now. Tonight was his night to cook, and he’d be making Spaghetti Red, a concoction of onion, hamburger, chili powder and hot pepper.
How the guys’ stomachs survived the monthly gastric work-out amazed me, but they seemed to thrive on the challenge. Pete Wilson held the station record for most consumed—four bowls and two spoonfuls. Neil had said they’d had a trophy made, which Pete proudly displayed on top of his locker.
I sprayed a cookie sheet with Pam and lined a half dozen fish sticks on the cookware. Then came the challenge. I bent over the old oven and tried to light the gas flame, scared to death. As usual, it wouldn’t catch until I’d lit three matches. Then, in a loud whossssh! flame exploded. Usually it knocked me backward several feet and tonight was no different. I jumped back and slammed the door, allowing time for the old relic to heat.
Six o’clock. I grinned, taking a box of macaroni and cheese out of the cabinet.
Neil would be calling any minute.
Chapter 2
I glanced at the clock on my way through the kitchen to the utility room. Laundry. Boy, did I have laundry. How could four people get this many clothes dirty?
Seven-thirty. Neil still hadn’t called. He seldom went past his self-imposed seven-o’clock deadline, but for once in my life I was too busy to worry. The washer swished away, working on a load of clothes, and I headed for the bedroom to hang up perma press, shake out wrinkles and choose what to take with me. Black pants go with everything. A black, tan and white top and my brand-new cobalt-blue blouse with a vest of flowered tapestry material. Yeah, looking good, Katie, girl.
I dug through my closet hunting for my black flats. They were well broken in and comfortable and I had to stand on my feet all day. A couple of paperbacks to read on the plane. Now, what else?
Kris stuck her head through the doorway. “Mom, are you busy?”
“Oh, well, no. What would give you that idea?”
She glanced at the half-packed bag. “I have to have cookies for the party tomorrow.”
“Isn’t your class celebrating fall early? October is still a few days away.”
“We’re having lots of autumn celebrations this year.”
“Well, then, lucky I remembered. I bought chocolate chips today. I’ll bake them after supper. Maybe you can help.”
Sunshine