Fireproof (5 page)

She heard Caleb's truck pull into the driveway. She held on to a slim hope that he would have something nice to say about the scent she had picked out, maybe show some interest in her day.

Something other than:
“How much money did you give Robin
for those things? What? You bought some for your mother, too? Like
that's gonna do any good, when what she needs is a good wheelchair.
I mean, a candle? C'mon.”

That would be so predictable. So Caleb.

She slipped back to the bathroom and ran a brush through her hair, touched up her mascara. She waited as the door opened and closed, as his feet scuffed through the kitchen—no doubt streaking the floor she had polished this morning. Not that he would notice.

She heard the refrigerator open. Telling herself to give him the benefit of the doubt, she flicked her hair back, squared her shoulders, and walked into the kitchen.

Her first observation:He had snuffed out the candle, and only a thin wisp remained in the air above the counter.

One more of her hopes . . . up in smoke.

“What're you doing?” she said, despising the sound of her own voice, but unable to halt the flow of disappointment.

“I see you left me no pizza,” Caleb shot back. He was in his workout clothes, a ring of sweat around the collar of his T-shirt. He closed the refrigerator, then moved toward the cupboard.

“Caleb, I just lit that candle. I like the way it smells.”

“Well, I don't. Did you leave me any dinner at all?”

She brushed her hair over her ear and looked down. “I assumed you were eating with Michael.”

“Does it not occur to you that there are two people living in this house and both of them need to eat?”

“You know what, Caleb—if you would communicate with me, maybe I could have something for you.”

He slammed the cupboard door, still empty-handed. He approached the bar, setting both hands on the marble and facing her. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

Catherine braced herself across from him. Well, at least they were looking each other in the eyes. That was a first this week.

“Oh,” she said, “
I'm
making everything difficult? It seems to me like I'm the one carrying the weight around here, while you're off doing your own thing.”

“Excuse me? I'm the one out there working to pay this mortgage, and I pay for both of the cars.”

“Yeah, and that's all you do. I pay all of our bills with
my
salary—”

“Which you agreed to do.” He jabbed a finger at her. “That's fair. Do you not like this house? Do you not like your car?”

“Ohhh.” She felt things coming apart inside but couldn't hold herself back—not now that he had dragged this into the open. “Caleb, who takes care of this house?
Me.
Who washes all the clothes?
Me.
”He turned away—typical—and fumbled with a basket of packaged goodies for something to munch on. She continued, refusing to be muffled by his lack of attention. “Who gets all the groceries?
Me.
Not to mention I'm helping my parents every weekend. You know, I've got all this pressure on me, and the only thing you ever do for anybody is for yourself.”

IT WAS BAD enough to have his wife throwing out accusations and waving her hand at him, as though he were a defendant on the stand, but what really got under Caleb's skin, what really stuck in his craw, what turned up the heat so fast he thought he would explode, was her blatant disrespect for him as a husband and as a man.

She was staring at him now, her voice raised.

Would she be the one to deride his every maneuver while he crawled through a building in search of victims? Or as he applied pressure to a severed artery and watched the life go out of a college kid's eyes? He had a crew of men that backed him up without question, and here in his own home he couldn't butter bread without her questioning his technique.

Eye to eye. Nose to nose.

Okay, was that how she wanted to do this? Oh yeah—he knew how to fight on these terms.

“Let me tell
you
something,” he said. “You don't know the first thing about pressure.” He whipped around the counter, getting right up in her face, punctuating his words with his hand in the air. “You think I . . . I put out house fires for myself? Or rush to car wrecks at two a.m. for myself? Or pull a child's body out of a lake for myself? You have no idea what I go through!”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Well, what do you do around here other than watch TV and waste time on the Internet? You know what, if looking at that trash is how you get fulfilled, that's fine, but I will not compete with it.” She turned to leave.

“Well, I sure don't get it from you.”

“And you
won't
.” She snapped around, speaking to his back now as he looked in yet another cupboard for food.

All Caleb had wanted was a bite to eat, a shower, and some peace of mind. Now he tried to avoid meeting her eyes for fear of letting the animal within roar to life for the kill.

Her words were right there, though, buzzing through his head.

“You know why?” she ranted on. “Because you care more about saving for your stupid boat, and pleasing yourself, than you ever did for me!”

Caleb slammed the doors shut so hard he could feel the floor shake.

“Stop! I'm
sick
of you!” He turned and came at her, veins bulging in his neck and in the hand that jutted toward her. He edged her back, cornering her against the wall. Something in his male psyche had snapped, further provoked by the terror in her eyes. “You
dis
respectful,
un
grateful,
sel
fish woman!”

Catherine teared up and shook her head. “I'm not selfish—”

“How dare you say that to me!” He was out of control, his voice gravelly and cracking in rage. “You constantly nag me, and you drain the life outta me. I'm tired of it!”

Catherine was sobbing now, her chest heaving. She closed her eyes and turned her head down and away, flinching at his every word.

But he wasn't done.

“If you can't give me the respect I deserve—
look at me!
—then what's the point of this marriage?”

She shook her head back and forth, her chin quivering, her lips sealed shut. He paced, turned, looked back at her. He felt like a tiger measuring its prey, and he hated himself for it, hated the fury that seemed so volatile just beneath the surface of everything ordered and tidy about their lives, yet he meant everything he'd said.

He was done. Finished.

Catherine covered her mouth as she bleated: “I want out. I just want out.”

“If you want out . . .” Caleb got back into her face and threw his whole body into his closing statement. “That's
fine
with me!”

Catherine collapsed over the counter, sobbing.

Caleb knew he should feel something for this woman he had sworn to honor and cherish—he'd been convinced he would die for her—but now all he felt was relief to be done with it. The torture could end for both of them.

He stormed out the back door, arms shaking with rage. His hands turned into iron fists, in need of a physical outlet. He stomped to the edge of the driveway, turned, stomped back again, searching for an object on which to take out the brunt of his anger.

The large green trash can caught his attention.

He walked up to the inanimate container and kicked it. Hard. It toppled onto its side, sending garbage bags tumbling onto the dirt. That only spurred him on. He hefted it with both arms and sent it crashing into the wall of the brick house, spilling refuse like entrails from a wounded beast.

He'd drawn first blood, so to speak. He had won.

Easing off now, he turned.

And realized he had an audience.

Mr. Rudolph, the elderly next-door neighbor, was standing ten yards away in a threadbare bathrobe and cinched pajama bottoms. His eyes were hooded and hard to read. Vulturelike, he stood hunched at the shoulders with one hand holding the lid of his own trash receptacle, the other dangling a kitchen garbage bag over the opening.

Oh, great. This was just wonderful.

Caleb dropped his hands to his sides, thought of shoving them into his pockets in a show of nonchalance, then simply offered a half wave. “Uh . . . Mr. Rudolph.”

The man replied in a low monotone. “Caleb.”

Caleb nodded, then went to work setting things back where they belonged and cleaning up his mess. Mr. Rudolph dumped his own trash. Caleb shot him one more look, hoping to have won back approval.

With a blank stare, Mr. Rudolph pulled tight the folds of his robe and trudged back to the safety of his own home.

IN THE MASTER bedroom, Catherine cried until there were no tears left. Her cheeks burned with the salty trails of her grief and anger. She didn't deserve to be treated this way. After an hour curled alone on the bed—
their
bed—she felt herself begin to turn numb.

It started from somewhere deep within, a place that had held out a thin hope until tonight. Well, that hope had been snuffed out, and she closed the door on it now, once and for all.

She stood and shuffled toward the dresser. The numbness spread with icy resolve from her chest, through her arms and legs, and up into her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, noticing that her lips had turned bloodless and pale, pressed into a thin, hard line.

A candle burned on the dresser, beside a framed photo taken four years earlier while Caleb and Catherine spent a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in Charleston.

Had that vacation ever happened?

Were those people in the picture just photo doubles, paid to smile and look good?

No, that was them. It was real.

They'd loved each other in a previous lifetime, but things had changed.

Catherine Holt removed her wedding ring and stuffed it behind the garments in her top dresser drawer. Down the hall, the spare bedroom door closed loudly behind the harried movements of her husband. Smart man. He had no place in
her
bed, not tonight. Not ever again, for all she cared.

She slammed the drawer shut. Turned off the lamp. Blew out the candle.

This flame had gone out for good.

CHAPTER 7

A
t Station One, Caleb watched his guys going through routine daily procedures. He was seated on the front fender of a fire truck, thumbing through a boat catalog while enjoying a splash of sunshine coming through the open bay doors. Nearby, Wayne and Terrell were following Eric, observing the rookie's every move as they went over a checklist for the truck.

“Airpacks?”

“Check.”

“Pikes and axes?”

“Check.”

Caleb loved the history of this place. This was the city's central station, built in 1970 with two levels, and it took a lot of work to keep it in tip-top condition.

“Think I got it all,” Eric said.

“You sure about that?” Terrell said.

Holding the clipboard, Wayne wore a blue ball cap over his cropped blond hair. “Have you tested the torque on the lug nuts?”

“You serious?” Eric said.

“Every little thing, man. Tires, fluid levels, wiper blades, brake lights—every component has to function correctly. The chrome and silver's gotta shine. Just imagine us showin' up at a fire with a coupla hoses left behind, huh?”

The inspection continued. All around, the brass fire poles gleamed and the bay floors were spotless. Caleb knew his guys were whipping the kid into shape.

“That's it,” Eric said finally, closing a compartment door and looking toward Terrell for assurance.

The squat black man gave a thumbs-up.

“We got it,”Wayne said. “We're good to go.”

Eric put his hands on his hips and flashed a smile of confidence. “I think I got the hang of this.”

“You think you know the truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,”Wayne said. “All right, I'll tell you what. Terrell and I are gonna go inside and get something to drink. I want you to bring us a hose stretcher.”

Eric's expression went blank.

Wayne clapped him on the arm and exchanged a subtle look with Terrell.

“Uh . . . all right.” Eric mouthed the words
hose stretcher
and turned to begin his search.

Caleb watched Wayne amble over to Terrell, who was propped against the front fender of the truck. Wayne wore a smirk.

Terrell said to him,“Man, that's mean.”

“Now you're defending the rookie?”

“He's still learning.”

“That's the whole point. It's good for him.”

Caleb smiled. All newbies had to go through some practical joking as part of their six-month probation period, testing if they had what it took for this job.

Years ago, he'd also had to earn the respect of his peers, though rescuing Captain Campbell from the grocery store fire had done that quicker than usual. Some of his original crew had held that against him, angered by the favor he curried.

Nothing came easy to young firefighters in a town that took its pedigree as seriously as Albany, Georgia. You earned each trumpet on your lapel. This city's first heroes had operated in 1836, forming bucket brigades to put out fires. They'd graduated to horse-drawn engines and large cisterns, and only decades later had they enjoyed the luxury of fire hydrants and pressurized hoses.

Chief James, the original, had died serving his fellow citizens.

Chief Billy Brosnan, a legendary innovator, had later served the area for forty years, and his name was still bandied about in larger cites as a standard for excellence. Recognized nationally and internationally, he'd even headed the International Association of Fire Chiefs for a short time.

Caleb was snapped out of his thoughts by conversation from the other side of the truck.

“Uh, really?” Simmons was saying. “You planned her party for Saturday?”