Reception
by
"Baby burners!"
"Make love! Not war!"
"Murderers!"
"Hell no! We won't go! Hell no! We won't go!"
Lights and sirens going, squad 51 wound its way through the throng of protesters gathered in Paradise Park. The protesters, mostly teenagers with long hair and loose, bright-colored clothes, ignored the vehicle and made it necessary for firefighter/paramedic Roy DeSoto, behind the wheel, to ease among them slowly in spite of the urgency of his mission.
"Over there!" Roy's partner, John Gage, pointed towards a group of kids gathered around the base of a tree, whistling and waving frantically at the squad.
Roy eased the squad off the park drive and onto the grass and drove over to the tree. As soon as they stopped rolling the two paramedics jumped out. Roy circled the squad and he and John began pulling equipment from the truck's compartments even as they questioned the teenagers who flocked around them.
"You called for the fire department?" Roy asked, pulling out the medical case and passing it to John, then reaching back for the oxygen tank and stand.
"Yes, um, I did," a redhead answered nervously. She was about eighteen, with long, straight hair falling from under a beaded headband and she was wearing bell-bottomed jeans and what appeared to be a homespun tunic. "It's Angela . . . um, I mean, Willow-Woman's Daughter. Well . . . I mean Angela but she . . . "
"Yeah, we get the picture," John said. A new speaker had just been announced on the platform at the center of the park and the young paramedic had to shout to be heard over the cheers. "Where is she?"
The redhead pointed up. "She's there."
Tipping their heads back, the two men peered in among the branches of the tree. About fifteen feet up, at a point where the main tree trunk diverged into two, a tiny blonde teenager clung awkwardly. Her left foot was jammed into the crevice where the two tree trunks met and her right arm was caught on a smaller, higher branch. From the odd angle, it was obviously broken. Flyaway golden hair surrounded her head, tangled in the vegetation, and she was sobbing piteously and making little gulping sounds.
Apart from body paint she was very nearly nude.
The paramedics exchanged a quick look and John went back to the squad for their climbing gear.
Roy continued to quiz the other kids. "What happened? Did anyone see?"
"Yeah, she climbed up to try to get a better view of the platform, you know?" One of the boys answered him. "She's short and she couldn't see over the crowd. Anyway, we told her not to go so high, but she just stuck her tongue out at us and kept climbing. She was really pretty high up. But then a branch broke under her and she just fell like a rock."
"How far did she fall, would you say?"
"I don't know. Ten? Twelve feet? You can see the broken branch. See it? Right there?"
Roy looked where the boy was pointing and made it out. John came back and Roy pointed it out to him as they donned cleats and buckled on safety belts. "See it? I make that as about, what? An eight foot fall?"
"About that."
The two paramedics were experienced climbers. Roy, the med kit swinging from a catch on his harness, went first. John, a coil of rope over his shoulder, followed as soon as his partner was clear of the ground. In a matter of seconds they drew level with the girl, one on either side.
In addition to being hurt, she was clearly terrified. Roy spoke to her gently, as he would a small child.
"Hi, sweetheart. How are you doing?"
"Not . . . not so good," she choked out between sobs.
"Well, you just relax and don't worry, okay? We've got you now and everything's going to be fine. I'm Roy DeSoto and this is my partner John Gage and we'll have you down in no time, okay sweetheart?"
The girl nodded and her crying abated some. "I . . . I'm Angela."
"Not Willow-Woman's Daughter?" John teased gently.
She smiled weakly in return. "I don't think I like trees anymore."
Angela was wearing a skimpy bikini and her arms, legs and torso were decorated with daisies, smiley faces, paisley designs and a broad assortment of anti-war slogans. The grease paint was smeared now, though. On her stomach an ugly scratch dug across a sign that read, "men of conscience burn their draft cards".
Roy used an antiseptic wipe to clean the scratch first and taped a piece of gauze over it to protect it. Then he took a safety belt that was hanging on his own belt.
"Okay, now, Angela. The first thing I'm gonna do is put this belt on you to keep you from falling any further. Then we'll get you loose and you'll be safe on the ground before you know it. All right?"
As he was talking he eased the belt around her waist and fastened it. John, meanwhile, had climbed past her to loop a line over a higher branch. He dropped the line down and Roy hooked it to the belt around Angela's waist. Now that she was secured the two men took a minute to evaluate the situation.
"I think we need to get her foot loose first," John said. "Then we can just raise her up enough to free her arm and lower her straight to the ground."
Roy slid down to examine the girl's foot where it was jammed into the crotch of the tree. "She's stuck in here pretty good." Bracing himself, he dug in the med kit and came up with petroleum jelly, which he smeared liberally around her foot. He used a tongue depressor to gently push the jelly down into the cracks, then worked her foot loose. Her toes were red and sore looking, her painted toenails torn and her pinkie toe visibly swollen.
With her foot no longer caught in the tree Angela panicked. "It's okay. It's okay! We've got you," John soothed her. "We're not going to let you fall."
Roy climbed back up level with her. "Here, dear. Put your arm around my neck, okay? Okay? We've got you. It's going to be all right. See? John's got your line and he won't let you fall. I trust him with my life all the time. Okay?"
Climbing one-handed now, one arm around Angela, Roy went up enough to free her injured arm. John maneuvered the arm over the branch it was caught on and Angela gasped and yelped in pain.
"Okay," Roy said, "I'm going to take her down now." He started down the tree, but almost immediately the girl began screaming hysterically.
"My hair! My hair!"
Roy stopped and raised her back up. "John?"
"I got it."
"You're going to cut my hair off," Angela sobbed, as upset as she had been at any time during the rescue. "You're going to cut all my hair off and I'm going to be bald and look stupid!"
The two men exchanged a look.
"It's okay," John said. "All right? Are you listening? I'm not going to cut your hair off, okay? Okay? What I'm going to do is, I'm going to cut the twigs and things that your hair is caught on. I'm not cutting your hair. I'm only cutting the tree. Okay?"
Suiting actions to words, he used his pocketknife to sever more than a dozen twigs and small branches that held her trapped. In a matter of seconds she was free. Roy climbed down with her while John manned the safety line. As soon as the Roy was on the ground John followed.
John spread out a blanket on the grass and Roy lowered the sobbing girl onto it, covered her with another blanket, splinted her arm and took her vitals while John set up the biophone and contacted base.
"Rampart, this is squad 51. How do you read me?"
Dr. Kelly Brackett, the head of emergency medicine at Rampart General Hospital, answered immediately. "Go ahead, 51. I read you loud and clear."
"Rampart, we have a female, eighteen, one hundred and five pounds. She's fallen about eight feet. Her right arm is fractured above the elbow, she also has a possible broken little toe on her left foot, a number of lacerations and a moderate contusion on her left leg." He took the notes Roy handed him and read off Angela's vitals.
Angela, meanwhile, had gone pale and gulped in horror. "A con-- contusion? I have a contusion?"
Bending over her, Roy smiled reassuringly, a twinkle in his kind blue eyes. "It's all right. A contusion is just another name for a bruise."
"It is?"
"Yeah. You see, the guy on the other end of that phone, he's a doctor. Doctors don't speak English like the rest of us. If we told him you had a bruise, he wouldn't know what we were talking about. We have to translate for him."
Angela giggled. "You're nice."
"Yeah, his wife thinks so too," John teased, tossing his partner an IV bag. "Ringers. Five milligram MSIV push. Transport."
"Don't mind John," Roy told the girl. "He's just jealous 'cause you said that I was nice instead of that he was."
Angela reached out to touch John's arm and Roy had to capture her hand so he could start the IV. "You're nice too," she said.
John gave her a broad, crooked grin. "You're right. I am."
By the time they got her on the gurney and loaded into the waiting ambulance Angela was giggling. Roy climbed in with her and John slammed the door shut and slapped it twice to signal the driver that it was ready to go.
The ambulance eased away through the crowd and John quickly gathered up the equipment they'd used, turned and groaned at the sight of the squad buried under a pile of teenagers who'd seemingly decided that the rescue vehicle was a mobile grandstand. In the summer of 1973 the war in Vietnam was finally winding down, but protests continued against American military involvement in Cambodia and Laos. As a paramedic -- a "rescue man" who dedicated (and often risked) his life to save others -- John Gage found the concept of deliberate killing bewildering. Thus, he was not unsympathetic to the peace demonstrators. Still, the squad was a rescue vehicle, not a seating platform, and he was needed at the hospital.
He packed the gear away into the compartments and started shooing teenagers down. A few jumped clear but more sat stubbornly where they were.
"Guys! Come on! Get down already!"
"Hey, man!" one kid complained. "Keep it down, would ya? We've been waiting all day to hear this guy!"
"Oh," John said. "You wanna hear this guy?"
"Yeah!"
"Well you're not going to as long as there's anyone sitting on my squad." Jumping behind the wheel, John started the engine and hit the siren. In a matter of seconds the little truck was free of passengers and he was able to turn off the siren and wind his way slowly through the crowd and back to the streets.
At Rampart General John backed the squad in by the emergency entrance and went looking for his partner. He found Roy standing by the nurse's station, holding a cup of coffee. Roy's face was red, his lips pressed tight. He spotted John with obvious relief.
"What took you so long? Thanks for the coffee, Dix." Setting his cup down he headed for the door, passing John, who stood still in the hallway, trying to figure out what was going on.
Dixie McCall, the tall, blonde head nurse who was, by turn, angel of mercy, surrogate mother and drill sergeant to the young paramedics, caught John's eye. "Would you like some coffee, Johnny?"
"No," Roy answered for him. "Johnny doesn't want any coffee. Let's go, John."
"Yeah," John said, going on to the desk. "I'd love some coffee."
"We have coffee at the station," his partner said.
"Yeah, but I like Dixie's coffee. What's going on?"
"Nothing. Nothing's going on."
"Now, Roy," Dixie's face and voice were so innocent that she had to be up to mischief. "I think Johnny would want to know."
"Know what?"
"Please, Dix!" Roy begged.
Johnny sipped his coffee and waited, already grinning. Whatever this was it promised to be good.
"Why, Johnny. Your partner is a hero!"
"Well, yeah," John said modestly. "We both are."
"Ah," Dixie shook her head. "But you just save lives. Roy saves hairstyles."
Roy, still standing in the middle of the hall, groaned and dropped his head. "It was nothing. Okay? Really. It was nothing."
"Well," Dixie said. "Angela certainly doesn't think so." She turned again to John. "On the way in in the ambulance, Johnny, Roy got all the twigs and branches out of her hair. She was ecstatic!"
"She was doped up on painkillers," Roy countered.
"She thinks he walks on water now."
John was grinning broadly. It was rare that he had something this good to rib his quiet, stalwart friend with. "Aww," he said. "Isn't he just a big, nice guy?"
"He certainly is!"
Sally, one of the nurses, stopped by the blushing blond paramedic on her way through the hall. "Oh, Roy! Can you help me? I think I have some split ends."
Roy pressed his lips together and turned pink. Always a good sport, he was suppressing laughter as much as embarrassment.
Carol, a young black nurse, approached him from the other direction. "Roy! Do you think you can fit me in for a perm?"
"See, John?" Dixie said. "You could take lessons from him. Women love a man who'll fiddle with their hair!"
Roy, head down, face bright red, returned to the nurses' station. "Guys, c'mon. It wasn't a big deal. All I did was get some twigs out of her hair. I've done it for Joanne lots of times after we've been out --" He broke off suddenly, realizing too late that he was headed somewhere he didn't really want to go.
He looked up to find Dixie and his partner staring at him expectantly. "After you've been out . . . " Dixie prompted.
". . . walking," Roy said finally. "In the woods. Walking."
John looked at Dixie. "Walking," he said.
"In the woods," she agreed.
John turned his attention back to his partner. "Just . . . walking?"
"Yes! Just walking!"
John and Dixie waited silently while Roy's bashful nature battled his innate honesty.
"Mostly walking," he admitted finally.
"Ah," Dixie said.
"Mostly walking," John nodded to her.
Roy snorted, took John's coffee cup out of his hand and set it down on the counter firmly. "Can we go now?" Not waiting for an answer he headed for the door.
"Sorry, Dix," Johnny said. "You're going to have to excuse us. Roy needs to get back to the station. Chet has a one o'clock appointment for a color rinse."
#-#-#-#-
Back at station 51, Roy backed the squad in next to the engine, switched off the key and turned to his partner. "Look," he pleaded, "I know you're having fun, but there's really no need to mention any of this to Chet, is there?"
Right on cue the curly head and bristly mustache of firefighter Chester B. Kelly appeared outside the driver's window. "Mention any of what to Chet?"
John gave Roy an evil grin.
"Well, Chet, it seems my old pal Roy here has got himself a brand new occupation on the side."
"Oh really?"
"Scout's honor. Roy DeSoto: hair stylist extraordinaire!"
Roy groaned and thunked his head against the steering wheel. As the two paramedics climbed out of the squad Johnny was still talking animatedly. "I'm telling you, Chet, you should have seen it! The nurses at Rampart were all over him! Wanting a perm and a trim and whatnot!"
"Wow. So what, he's going to go into business for himself? Maybe just a sideline, for in between runs?"
"Now that's a good idea! I can see it now!" Johnny held up his hands as if he were framing a sign. "L.A. 51, Fire station and Hair Salon!"
"So does this mean we're going to have to start calling him 'Mr. Roy'? That's what all the fancy Hollywood hair guys do, isn't it?"
John laughed, delighted, and poked Chet in the shoulder with one finger. "You know, you're right! I hadn't thought about that! Mr. Roy! Ha!"
Roy sighed heavily and went past them into the kitchen. Mike Stoker was finishing the lunch dishes and Cap and Marco Lopez sat at the table.
"Roy," Cap said. "What is that all over your uniform?"
Roy looked down at his shirt and pants, smeared with bright colors from Angela's body art.
"It's makeup," Johnny grinned, coming in behind him.
Roy glared at him. "It's grease paint. It's a long story."
"Oh. Well --" Whatever Cap was going to say was lost when the tones sounded.
"Engine 51. Trash fire. 1324 Blythe Road. Cross street is Hermitage. Time out is 13:10."
Roy ran to answer the radio as the engine crew jumped into their turnout gear and took their places. "Station 51. KMG 365."
When the engine was away the two paramedics returned to the kitchen. John got a glass of milk and sat at the table with a magazine. Hoping to start a new conversation unrelated to hair, Roy glanced at the cover.
"Mod World Exposed? Improving your mind?"
"Hey, now! There's a lot of good stuff in here! World issues. Politics."
"Hot Chickies on Parade." Roy had seen the cover story.
"You know, you oughta be nice. I'm doing this for you."
Roy's mouth tightened. "I'm not gonna ask."
"Well, how else are you going to keep up on all the latest hair styles? Mr. Roy?" John grinned.
Roy shook his head and turned away. "I'm going to go get into a clean uniform. If I don't pre-treat this grease paint these stains are gonna set."
John sighed and shook his head in mock admiration. "You fix hair, you do laundry. You know, you must make Joanne a wonderful wife!"
Roy left the room without deigning to answer and John settled down with his magazine.
The hot chickies on parade were hot indeed. Costumes ranged from the psychedelic to the earthy, but in each case mini-skirts were minimal and necklines plunged. John was delighted to find a leggy redhead wearing a parody of a firefighter's uniform and posing suggestively with a fire hose. He was reading why "Va-va-voom Veronica" loved the fire department when he got to the bottom of the page and found, in the middle of a sentence, "story continued on p. 74."
"Aw, man!" he griped aloud, never minding that he was alone in the room. "I hate when they do that. You're reading something and it just gets interesting and then, bam! Continued somewhere in the back of the magazine. So you have to go searching through the whole magazine to find it, and half the time they don't have numbers on all the pages, and some of the pages are ads so they don't count those as pages at all, and by the time you do find the story again you forgot what you were looking for in the first place. What they oughta do is . . . ."
John's voice trailed off and he paused, puzzled. He suddenly had a feeling that he was missing something. That he had overlooked something important. He turned back a few pages, slowly, scanning the text and pictures, and found himself in the middle of an article called, "The Peace Movement: A Retrospective". In the upper right-hand corner of the right page a picture caught his eye. He leaned close to study it and read the caption. Then he sat up slowly. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach and he was finding it hard to breathe.
Roy's returning footsteps rang on the hard floor and he came into the kitchen buttoning a fresh blue uniform shirt over his white undershirt. "Man, I hope those stains come out." He paused to tuck in his shirttails, then headed for the coffee pot. "I'd hate to have to explain to Jo how they got there. Not that she'd be jealous, or anything, of course, but . . . " His voice trailed off as he realized that the atmosphere in the room had changed dramatically in the few minutes he'd been gone. Turning slowly, coffee cup in hand, he found his partner staring at him with an expression of shock and pity.
"John? Are you okay?"
John shook himself, as if coming out of a trance. "Oh. Yeah." He gave a small, nervous parody of a laugh. "Yeah, I'm fine . . . um . . . are you okay?"
Roy tucked his tongue into his cheek and his eyes slid to the side as he searched his mind for some reason why he might not be okay. Coming up blank, he simply said, "I'm fine, thanks."
"Oh. Good."
"Are you sure you're okay? You're not sick or anything?"
"No. No, I'm fine."
"What are you reading?"
John slapped the magazine closed and rolled it up while still keeping his finger in it to mark his place. "Oh, nothing. It's just . . . nothing."
"Oh. All right then." Roy started to turn away, then turned back. "Look, John, are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes. Yes, honest. I'm fine."
"Well, good then."
"Yeah . . . Roy?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
Roy pressed his lips together and stared at his partner for several seconds before he answered. "Is there some reason I might not be okay?"
John answered quickly. "Oh, no. Not that I know of, no."
"Well, good then."
"So, um, you are okay, right?"
"Just peachy."
"Good."
Roy took a sip of coffee and pushed himself away from the counter. "Well, then, since we're both fine, I’m gonna be out back if you need anything, okay?"
"Okay. And I'll be in here if you need anything, okay?"
"Okay, then." Sipping his coffee and shaking his head in bemusement, Roy left the room. John waited until his footsteps had died away before he unrolled the magazine and opened it. He bent once more to study the picture and re-read the caption.
'In this June, 1970, file photo a young vet, returning from duty in Viet Nam, is spat upon and greeted with shouts of "Murderer" and "Baby Burner".'
The soldier in the picture looked younger than John had ever imagined the man, for all that the photo was only three years old. The camera had caught him flinching from the hate-filled faces of the anti-war protestors who surrounded him. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his left arm was cast and in a sling and fatigue and pain were written in every line of his body. The Asian sun had bleached his hair almost white. Still, for all the differences, there was no mistaking his identification.
Staring at the page in the magazine, John Gage was looking into the hurt blue gaze of his partner, Roy DeSoto.
John sat back and took a deep breath. Though they had only worked together about a year, he and Roy had established a strong rapport. At least he thought they had. He wondered now why his partner had never mentioned this incident. Did he always hide the bad things? They said that still waters ran deep. What other pain lay buried beneath his friend's calm, cheerful surface?
He wanted to ask Roy a million questions, but he didn't know how to frame even one and he wasn't entirely certain that he had the right to try. Before he could even begin to get a handle on this chance glimpse into his best friend's past he was interrupted by the tones.
"Squad 51. Child trapped. Corner of Willamette and Purdue. Time out 13:37."
John tore the page with the picture from the magazine, not wanting anyone else to stumble on it, folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket before running for the squad.
#-#-#-#-
"There it is! Up there on the right." John pointed, but Roy had seen it himself and was already pulling the squad to the curb. A group of people, mostly older women, were gathered in a knot in the gutter while a teenage boy slouched sullenly on the sidewalk.
Getting out of the squad, the two paramedics could hear a child sobbing hysterically. While John popped open the squad's compartments and began setting out equipment, Roy pushed through the crowd to assess the situation. A tiny girl of no more than four was crouched beside the curb. She was barefoot and her left foot was caught firmly in a storm drain.
"What's her name? Is her mother here?" Roy asked.
"Her name's Mary. I think her mother just went to the store," one of the women answered. "Her brother was supposed to be watching her." She turned to shoot the teenager a glare.
"Oh, sure," he griped. "Just blame me. Hey! I didn't tell her to go stick her foot in that hole!"
Roy crouched beside the girl. "Mary? Hey, honey. It's okay. Just calm down, all right sweetheart? My name's Roy and this is my partner John and we're going to get you out of there. All right?" He looked up and found a young cop had joined the circle of women. "We're going to need her mother for permission to treat her. See if you can find her, would you?"
Mary threw her arms around Roy's neck and clung to him, still sobbing convulsively. "The monsters are gonna get me! The monsters are gonna get me!"
"Hey, Mary!" John stopped to pat her back reassuringly before he stooped to examine her foot. "It's okay. There aren't any monsters here!" He felt the child's leg where it was trapped and gave his partner a grave look. "Her ankle's pretty swollen, Roy. I think it's broken."
At John's gentle touch Mary's hysteria intensified. "Monsters! Monsters! They're biting me!"
"Hey, now," Roy said, rubbing her back. "It's just Johnny. He's not a monster. There aren't any monsters down there."
"Uh huh!" she sobbed. "Bobby said. And they're gonna come up out of the dark and bite my toes off!"
John glanced up and caught one of the women's eye. "Bobby?"
Lips pressed tight together, she indicated the teenage boy with a pointed glare. John turned and gave the boy a disgusted look.
"Man, what's wrong with you?"
"Ah, come off it," Bobby groused. "I was only joking. Doesn't anyone have a sense of humor anymore? Anyway, I thought maybe it'd teach the little brat not to go sticking her foot down in holes in the street."
Shaking his head, John turned his attention back to Mary. "Well, Mary, you don't have to worry about monsters any more. Do you know why?"
She shook her head, face still buried against Roy's chest.
"Because I have a can of Anti-Monster spray!"
Mary peeked up at him shyly. "You do?"
"I sure do!" John took a can of antiseptic spray from the med kit and made an elaborate production of spraying it past her foot and down into the storm drain. "There! No more monsters down there, for sure!"
"Really?" Her sobbing abated, she looked up to Roy for confirmation.
"Really," Roy agreed. "Monsters HATE Anti-Monster spray. Why, they'll probably never come back to this whole street, ever again!"
Reassured, Mary leaned limply against Roy, instinctively trusting him as children always seemed to do. She was still crying, but quietly now, her cheeks flushed and her hair damp and matted.
A car screeched to a halt and a woman jumped out.
"Mary! Mary! Oh, my God! Mary! Bobby, what happened? You were supposed to be watching her!"
The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. We already did that part."
"Ma'am, are you her mother?" Roy asked.
"Yes. Yes, I am. Oh, Mary!"
"Okay, listen. We're going to get her loose in just a minute, but it looks like her ankle is broken, so we're going to need authorization to treat her, okay?"
"Yes, of course. Anything at all! Poor baby!"
"Okay, then." Roy looked around again and singled out the young cop, who had driven up just behind the terrified mother. "Can you get her the permission forms and show her where to sign?" When they had moved away he turned his attention to his partner, who was still examining the girl's trapped leg and ankle. "John?"
"Well, it's not all that tight, so I think with some lubricant it ought to be fairly easy to work her loose. I don't want to move her ankle any more than I have to, though. And the sides of the drain are pretty rough. She got scratched up bad enough sliding in. I'm afraid it's going to be worse coming out."
"Can we maybe push her foot in just a bit more and make some room to work? Then maybe we can line the hole with something to protect her foot."
"Maybe. You got anything in mind?"
"How about wax paper?"
John considered. "You know now, that just might work!" He looked up at the women who still stood around watching. "Do any of you have some wax paper we could have? Heavy paper, if possible?"
Two or three of the women ran off and in just a moment one had returned with a roll of heavy-duty wax paper. John tore off a long strip, then with Roy supporting Mary while he guided her, they lowered her a couple inches into the drain.
The girl started to panic but Roy quickly reassured her. "Hey, hey! It's all right! Johnny got rid of the monsters, remember?"
Mary relaxed. John, holding the strip by both ends, slid it under her foot, making a sling around her leg. He smeared her foot liberally with petroleum jelly, then had his partner raise her slowly. The trick worked like a charm and in a matter of seconds the child was free.
While they were getting her loose the ambulance had arrived. Roy lay the exhausted child on the waiting gurney while John set up the biophone and contacted Rampart. Dr. Joe Early answered, listened to the patient's vitals and ordered an IV and a shot for the pain.
As soon as her ankle was splinted and the IV was in they loaded her into the back of the ambulance and John climbed in beside her. Then he stopped and turned.
"Roy, I'm sorry! Did you want to go in with her? She seemed pretty attached to you."
Roy smiled his warm, kind smile. "I think you can handle it, Junior. She seems pretty out of it. But don't forget your monster spray, just in case." Grinning he passed his partner the can of antiseptic spray. "That was good work back there, John."
He stepped back, slammed the doors closed and slapped them twice, then stood and watched as the ambulance drove away. The girl's mother and brother were already in their car, pulling out to follow the ambulance. Roy returned the wax paper to its owner and gathered up their scattered gear. He turned to stow it away and groaned.
The squad sat in the street on four flat tires.
#-#-#-#-
The ambulance carrying Mary arrived at Rampart and they wheeled the little girl inside. She was groggy from the effects of the painkiller, but still John, walking beside the gurney, kept up a bright stream of cheerful nonsense.
". . . and they never have monsters anywhere near Rampart! And you know why? 'Cause Miss McCall here won't stand for it, that's why!"
"She certainly won't!" Dixie agreed seriously. "Joe's waiting for her in three. John, your partner's on the phone."
"Roy?"
"You have another partner?"
John glanced down and saw that Mary was sleeping. He handed off her IV to the nearest orderly and followed Dixie back to the desk.
"Pally? Aw, no way!" He snorted, disgusted. "Well, I guess we know what Bobby was doing while we were getting his sister taken care of . . . yeah . . . well, just don't let Charlie give you any grief! . . . I know . . . sure . . . uh, Roy? Um, are you okay? . . . Yeah, I'm fine . . . Just a second, I'll ask her." He lowered the phone for a second. "Uh, Dix? Roy wants to know if you're okay?"
Dixie gave him a puzzled look. "Yes," she said finally, "I'm fine, thanks."
John put the phone back to his ear. "Roy? She's fine . . . okay then . . . where would I go? . . . See you when you get here." He hung up and gave the head nurse a nervous smile. "It seems everyone is fine except for the squad."
Dixie was still staring at him. "What's going on, John?"
"Aw, man! You're not gonna believe it! While we were getting Mary out of the storm drain somebody -- and it was probably that rotten teenage brother of hers -- pulled all the valve stems out of the tires in the squad. Roy got ready to follow us in and he's got four flat tires. He has to wait for Charlie to come fix them and air them up!"
Dixie shook her head. "That's awful. Someone should explain to that young man that a prank like that could cost someone their life."
"Yeah. Roy said Vince is going to look into it." Vince Howard was a Sheriff's deputy who often assisted at their calls. "If they can prove it was Bobby there's a good chance he's looking at vandalism charges."
"Well, good. Now tell me what else is going on."
"What else?"
"Yes, John. What else? Why did you ask if Roy was okay? And why did he want to know if I was?"
"Oh, that." John made a face and drummed his fingers indecisively on the desk, then looked up and down the hallway, gauging the level of activity and finding things relatively calm. "You got time to come sit down for a few minutes?"
"I think I can make time."
Dixie came out from behind the desk and accompanied the young paramedic down the hall to the lounge. He poured them each a cup of coffee and came to sit across the small table from her. "Dix, if I show you something will you promise not to mention it to anyone?"
Her forehead creased in concern, but she nodded without reservation. "All right."
John took the folded magazine page from his shirt pocket and tapped it on the table a couple of times. "I feel like I'm betraying a confidence," he said, "although that isn't really accurate because Roy never took me into his confidence about this. He doesn't know I've seen it. I just happened to stumble across it while I was reading a magazine this afternoon." He handed over the page and waited while she studied the picture.
Her eyes softened in sympathy. "I knew a lot of vets faced this sort of thing, but I never knew Roy was one of them. And he's never mentioned it to you?"
"Nary a word. I guess that's part of what's bugging me. I mean, I thought we knew each other pretty well by now, but he's never brought it up. It makes me wonder if he doesn't trust me, or if he doesn't think I care. Or . . . I know sometimes I talk a lot. Do I not listen?"
Dixie smiled gently at John. "I don't think you need to worry about any of those things. This picture really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Well, yeah! I mean, look at him. He looks so young and . . . and vulnerable. And hurt. And it's so unfair! They had no right to call him those things and to treat him like that! Roy, of all people! I wish --" he broke off.
"Wish what?" Dixie prompted.
"Nah. It's stupid."
"Try me."
He sighed. "I just wish I could step into the picture and protect him. I wish I could take all those people who are yelling at him and spitting on him and make them stop and see him the way I see him. I wish I could sit him down on the bumper of the squad and take a look at that arm, and find out why he's limping. I wish . . . ." He shook his head. "Sounds dumb, doesn't it?"
"No, John. I think it sounds like a very good friend talking. I wish you could, too, and I'd be climbing into the picture with you. But you know there's no way to change the past."
"I know it."
"I think you need to talk to Roy about this."
"You do? But, Dix, what do I say? And what if he says it's none of my business? He'd be right, I suppose. And I don't want to dredge up bad memories for him. I just don't know."
"Well, it's something you're going to have to decide for yourself. But I think it might mean a lot to him to know you care."
"You think? Maybe. At least he'd know why I keep asking him if he's okay." John caught Dixie's raised eyebrows and laughed softly. "I can't seem to help myself. I'm making him nuts, I know."
"Oh, well, I think he'd be used to that by now, don't you?" Dixie's smile took any sting out of her words. She drained her cup and carried it to the sink, then squeezed John's shoulder gently and returned to work.
Alone, John sat in the lounge drinking coffee and studying the picture thoughtfully.
#-#-#-#-
It was after four before Roy showed up to pick John up. They called in available and headed back to the station. On the way, John opened his mouth several times, intending to broach the subject of the picture, but somehow he couldn't find the words.
"Cat got your tongue?"
"Huh? Oh, no, I was just . . ." John pulled a face and switched tactics. "We were being awfully hard on you about that whole hair thing earlier. I hope you know we didn't mean anything by it."
"No, of course not. I knew you were just kidding." Roy glanced over at his friend, keeping one eye on the road. "I didn't mind, John. Actually, it was kind of funny. Besides, if you never gave me a rough time I'd think you didn't like me anymore."
"Never think that." John looked out the window. "Anyway, kidding aside, it really was pretty nice of you to fix her hair for her." Especially since she had 'down with baby burners!' painted on her arm.
"It wasn't a big deal."
They rode in silence for several blocks. Roy looked over suddenly. "Was there a phone call while I was changing clothes this afternoon?"
"No. Were you expecting one?"
"No, I just thought . . . ." Roy backed the squad around and pulled it in beside the engine. "That magazine!"
John jumped. "What about it?"
"Did that magazine you were reading have horoscopes in it?"
"I don't know. I can look and see though."
Roy's shoulders slumped. "No, that's okay. It was just an idea."
The two men got out and went into the day room. Chet greeted them from where he sprawled in front of the television.
"Man, what took you guys so long? Roy stop off to give someone a facial?"
John scowled, but Roy just looked at Chet thoughtfully. "You know, Chet, I've been thinking. You might be right."
"Really?" Kelly was suspicious. "How so?"
Roy took a pair of bandage scissors from the case at his belt. "I think there just might be some hair cutting in my future."
Chet stared hard at him for a long minute. "You don't scare me, DeSoto."
"I'm picturing you with a whole new style. And possibly," Roy smiled slowly and brushed one forefinger over his own upper lip, "possibly only half a mustache."
"You'd never do it. You're too nice. And anyway, you wouldn't catch me if you tried."
"You think? Sleep well tonight, Chet." Roy's soft smile had become slightly demented.
"You're bluffing," Chet said. "Gage, tell your partner I know he's bluffing."
John looked back and forth between them. "I don't think he's bluffing, Chet."
"Oh. And now you're bluffing. You're both bluffing. I don’t believe either one of you."
"Suit yourself." John shrugged. "I know I'm not going to give him any more grief."
Chet was still watching them both warily when the tones sounded.
Engine 19, engine 26, station 51, station 110. Structure fire at the day care center, 4621 Lowe. Cross street Wexell. Time out 16:23.
#-#-#-#-
Faces grim, Roy and John led the way through the streets of L.A., their engine following as close as safety permitted.
"It's pretty late in the afternoon," John said. "The kids might all be gone by now."
"They might."
Ahead, the burning building came into view. Black smoke rose up to stain the sky. Spectators gathered on the lawn. One woman was screaming and weeping hysterically.
The building was a large two-story house built against a hillside in an upscale residential neighborhood. Flames roared from the first floor windows, licking the siding as they climbed towards the second story. The fire had spread to the fenced-in yard and the grass in the playground, blackening swing sets and a teeter-totter. A small wooden playhouse burned, a miniature of the larger inferno a few yards away.
Roy pulled the squad up in front of the house next door, keeping it close but leaving room for the engine to get next to the fire. The two paramedics jumped out and ran back to the group on the lawn. Cap was already there and he caught their eyes, faces grim.
"Gage. DeSoto. We've got five kids and two adults still inside."
John ran back to the squad and grabbed both his and Roy's SCBAs while Roy quizzed the weeping woman.
"Ma'am? Do you have any idea where they are in the building?"
"Second . . . second floor. About halfway back on the left. There's a nap room and a playroom. Oh God!"
"Okay, you just sit tight. We're going to do everything we can to get them out." Roy took his tank and air mask from his partner and shrugged into it. Chet and Marco had a ladder set up to the nearest second floor window and were playing a hose over the flames that shot out of the window underneath it. Suited up, the two paramedics ran for the ladder. Roy reached it first and started up. John followed. At the top they found the window raised. Together they climbed into the flames.
The window opened into a hallway running the length of the building. To their right, just as they climbed through the window, a stairwell wound down to the first floor. With the open window at the top, the stairs acted as a chimney, drawing smoke and flames up to the second floor. The heat was intense and the two men rushed past the stairs, clearing the landing just as it burst into flame. Beyond the burning staircase the second floor was eerily calm. Cartoon animals danced along the walls and a shelf of bright-colored toys ran down the right-hand wall, broken by three doors. On the left there were four doors, red and yellow and blue and green. Swirling smoke gathered along the ceiling, playing hide-and-seek with the alphabet block design on the wallpaper border.
Heat soaked through the soles of the paramedics' boots and they knew it was only a matter of time before the floor collapsed.
John had the HT out. "Cap, we're not gonna get out the same way we came in. Better look for a window on the back or on the left side of the house. Over."
"HT-51, we copy. Over."
"She said about half-way back." Roy had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the fire. He pulled off a glove and felt the second door on the left. "Still cool." Together the two men put their shoulders to the door. It opened slowly, hampered by something dragging at the carpet. Looking down they found blankets wedged along the opening.
The room was relatively clear of smoke, but the small group huddled near the window was obviously terrified nonetheless. Roy slammed the door again at their backs and he and John lowered their masks.
"Okay, everything's gonna be fine. You just hang on for a few more minutes and we're gonna get you all out, I promise." As Roy was speaking John was looking around. His eyes fell on a child-sized chair. He picked it up and used it to smash the room's single large window. Kelly and Lopez were below on the lawn, waiting for a sign, and they had the ladder set up within seconds.
Roy picked up two little boys, neither more than three, and handed them out the window one at a time to Chet, who was waiting at the top of the ladder. Chet passed the first down to Marco, then took the second himself and climbed down and away. Johnny gathered up a little girl and a third boy as Roy helped the two young women teachers climb out onto the ladder. The first was down, the second still outside the window when Roy looked around.
"There's only four kids here. Where's the other one?"
The girl outside the window turned pale. "He didn't go outside? We thought -- when he didn't come back -- we thought he must have gone outside. Dominic! Oh, Dominic!" Crying she tried to climb back in the window.
"Stop it!" John told her sternly. "Now just stop it. You're not helping."
"Where did he go?" Roy asked. "Tell me where you think he might be."
"The bathroom," she sobbed. "He was going to the bathroom. It's the first -- the first door on the right. At the top of the s-stairs."
Roy nodded once, simply nodded, and settled his mask back on his face. "I'll get him."
With an hysterical woman and two small children to think of and no one he could hand them off to, John Gage had no option but to urge the woman down the ladder and follow after as his partner and best friend turned and walked back into the inferno alone.
They called him a baby burner, John thought bitterly.
More engines had arrived and the yard was a hive of activity. Wheeler and Kirk from 110s ran up to meet him and John practically threw the kids to them. "Roy's still inside. There's another kid somewhere. I've got to go back." Spinning, he had taken only two or three steps towards the house when a muffled explosion sounded from somewhere within. The few second-floor windows that were still intact blew out, flames chasing the fragments of glass, as the front part of the roof collapsed.
The roof collapse, coupled with the knowledge that there were still two people inside, spurred the firefighters to new levels of activity. Pulling his mask back on, John ran for the front door. Chet and Marco followed close on his heels, pulling an inch and a half. Two other crews converged on them and John went in the front door behind three streams of water. The entryway was a nightmare of burned beams, sagging walls and dangling ceiling joists. Flames licked at the rubble, seeking something that hadn't already been burnt. John fought his way through the hall, pulling at the ruins, desperately searching for some sign of his partner. He pulled his mask away from his face long enough to shout.
"Roy?!"
Just for a minute he thought he heard coughing.
"ROY!?!" he called again.
A movement from the back of the hallway caught his eye.
"Fellas! Over here!" The hose jockeys redirected their spray where he was pointing, beating down a wall of flame.
A figure staggered blindly towards them through the thick smoke. John jumped forward to steady and guide him.
Roy's mask was tucked inside the front of his coat and he stumbled forward with both arms locked tight around a bulge at his chest. Under the brim of his helmet his face was red with heat and black from soot, his eyes squinted almost closed against the flames and the filthy air. John grabbed his left arm. Someone else took his right elbow and together they rushed him out of the house. They made it halfway to the squad before he collapsed slowly to his knees, coughing spasmodically. As he settled on the ground and got control of his breathing for a few seconds he opened his coat.
A small boy slid out and stared at them, goggle-eyed behind Roy's too-big mask. Willing hands reached for him, taking the mask, unbuckling the tank from Roy's back and relieving him of the weight. Freed the child turned and threw his arms around Roy's neck. Roy hugged him back, fiercely, then allowed Wheeler to pry him away. John put his partner's arm around his shoulders, pulled him to his feet and half carried him to the squad, where someone had a blanket already spread in the shade of a red oak tree.
John started Roy on O2 and used normal saline solution to wash out his eyes. He helped him out of his turnout coat, but the exertion was too much and started the blond paramedic on another bout of harsh coughing. He rolled to the side, dropping the oxygen mask so he could support himself on all fours. Chet chose that moment to wander over.
"Kid's just fine. Not even scared really. Jeez, Roy. Is that your new hairdo? What do you call that? The singed look?"
"Dammit, Chet! Can't you leave him alone for once?"
"Well, hell, Gage. Excuse me for breathing. Hey, he's okay isn't he? I mean, he's going to be all right and everything, right?"
John ignored him, concentrating on his partner. He pushed him back to a sitting position and held the mask for him. "Come on, Pally. You know the routine. You just breathe and leave everything else to me."
#-#-#-#-
Chased out of the treatment room, John called the station. "Hello, Cap? . . . Yeah, he's fine . . . no, they're just giving him a couple more breathing treatments to be on the safe side. He'd oughta be able to finish out his shift, yeah . . . another half hour or so? . . . Okay, I'll tell him. See you in a little while." He hung up the phone and headed for the lounge, then changed his mind and went back to the desk.
"Hey, Dix. Is Mary still here?"
"No, John. She's already gone. They cast her ankle and sent her home. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just waiting around for Roy and I thought I might go see her. Morton wouldn't let me hang around while he works on my partner. Said that I was in the way! Can you believe that?"
Dixie's eyes widened in feigned shock. "You? In the way? Never! You, um, didn't try to push him aside and administer treatment yourself, did you?"
"Who, me? Of course not! Not really. Er, not much . . . ."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Hey, Dix! Did I tell you how Roy went back after that little boy?"
"Gee, I don't know. Maybe. No more than ten or twelve times, though. Probably." Dixie softened her reply with a smile. John and Roy were her favorite paramedics. Their sparring and teasing amused her, and the underlying affection between them was genuinely touching. Neither would seriously boast of his own accomplishments, she knew, but either would brag endlessly about the other. "You know, Angela's still here if you'd like to go up and see her. We're keeping her overnight for observation. Room 223."
"Angela." John's mouth twisted. "You know she had 'down with baby burners' painted on her arm, Dix?"
"Your partner doesn't seem to hold that against her."
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said sarcastically. "Saint Roy." He sighed. "I suppose I could go up and see her. Two-twenty-three?"
"Two-twenty-three. You can tell her what a hero your partner is."
"Yeah," John said thoughtfully, his gaze distant. "Yeah, I suppose I could at that."
A few minutes later he stood in the hall outside 223 and tapped on the door. Sticking his head in, he found Angela alone, sitting up in bed with a magazine on her knees. John glanced at the magazine, half expecting it to be Mod World Exposed, but it was Seventeen.
Angela's eyes lit up when she saw him. He came in and she glanced towards the door, obviously expecting Roy to be with him. Realizing that John was alone, she gave him her full attention. "You came to see me! I'm so glad! I was hoping for a chance to say thank you."
"Well, you know, we have to check up on our customers. Roy and I do good work. We gotta make sure the docs here at the hospital don't screw it up after we leave." John gave her a crooked smile and hoped that this particular boast never got back to Brackett. "So, how are you feeling?"
"I'm good. I'm doing so good, thanks to you and your partner. Look!" She held up a lock of curly gold hair, "Roy even got all the twigs out of my hair for me!"
"Yeah, I heard about that."
Angela sighed. "I wish there were something I could do for you!"
Ah, an opening. John tipped his head to the side and gave her a serious, thoughtful look. "Really? You mean that?"
She looked up, eyes wide, and nodded seriously. John grabbed a visitor's chair, spun it around so the back was near the bed and straddled it. "Okay, then. I'm going to ask you for a personal favor.
"I noticed this morning that, in among the body art you were wearing, you had a sign that said 'down with baby burners'. Now, I'm not going to ask you to change your politics, or to stop with the peace protests or anything. Heck, no one in their right minds supports a war. But could you maybe, from now on, lay off hassling the vets? Please? For me?"
Angela blinked, confused. "But why?"
"Well, you know, these men that served in Viet Nam, they're people just like you and me. They have feelings too, and they've been through a lot. You just might be hurting a really nice guy, saying things like that."
"You really think a really nice guy would've gone over and served over there?" Her voice was doubtful.
"Well," John said, "you apparently thought so, when he got all the twigs and branches out of your hair this morning."
He could see shock and disbelief on her face. "Roy? Your partner? He served in Viet Nam? He seems so . . . ."
"Nice?" John nodded, watching her reaction. "He is, without doubt, the kindest and most compassionate person I've ever met. He was a medic, in the Army."
"Oh, well . . ." Angela's fingers toyed with the top sheet. "A medic. That's different. We wouldn't shout at a medic anyway. I mean, it's not like he went over there to kill people."
John curled his tongue against his cheek and thought for a second, then pulled the magazine page from his pocket and handed it over. Angela studied it and sudden tears glinted on her lashes.
"Hey, now!" John admonished. "I didn't show you this to make you cry!" Well, actually he had, but now that she was he regretted it. "I only wanted to let you see that, well, that maybe you're shouting at the wrong people. Don't cry. Just maybe lay off the vets from now on. Okay?"
Angela sniffled and nodded. "I promise. I will. Can I keep this?" she asked, holding up the picture.
"Um, yeah. Sure. Will you do me another favor, though, and not mention anything about this to Roy. It's not something he talks about and . . . well . . . ."
Still studying the picture, Angela made a cross-my-heart sign. "That's why Roy didn't come up with you, isn't it? I guess he can't stand the sight of me."
"Oh, no! Roy's not like that at all. Actually, he couldn't come up. He's down in the ER right now being treated for smoke inhalation."
"He's hurt?"
"He'll be okay. Today was really his day to play hero. You should have seen it! We were at a fire at a day care center. He went back after a little boy who was missing and while he was in there the roof collapsed. Man, Angela, I tell you my heart about stopped right then and there. And then here he comes, walking out of the flames with the kid all wrapped up in his coat!"
Angela was still sniffling, but she was smiling again. John was glad of that as another tap at the door heralded the arrival of his partner.
"Hey, Angela! How ya' doing?" Roy's voice was still a bit raspy and he smelled of smoke, but he smiled easily.
The teenager beamed at him. "Roy! Hi! John was just telling me about the little boy you saved."
Roy grinned and blushed. "He was a great kid, you know that? Barely three and he was smart enough to stay down close to the floor where the air was clear."
John gave his partner an exasperated look. "Roy, he was two feet tall."
"That helped," Roy nodded agreeably. He turned his attention back to the patient. "Did John tell you that they've been giving me grief about fixing your hair?"
"Yeah, until he started threatening to fix our hair!"
Roy locked an arm around his partner's neck and pulled a pair of scissors from the pack at his belt. John twisted free.
"Oh, no you don't!"
"You know though," Roy said, "I've been thinking. We should stop by a barbershop on the way back to the station and see if we can get some hair clippings. Then tonight, while Chet's sleeping, I can sprinkle them on his pillow and . . . ."
". . . and he'll think you cut his hair! Say, that's good! Devious! I didn't know you had it in you, Pally!"
"I try. So, are you ready to go then?"
"Yeah. Angela, you hurry up and get well, okay?"
"Take care," Roy chimed in. "Goodbye now."
With a final wave they left her room and walked down the hall side by side. John raised the HT he was carrying.
"Squad 51, available."
#-#-#-#-
Halfway back to the station Roy pulled the squad off into a parking garage and drove up the winding ramp to the top. It was late enough that the surrounding businesses were closed and the parking garage was dark and empty. Johnny looked over at his partner, puzzled.
"Where we going, Roy?"
"Up."
On the top level he parked the squad, got out and went to lean on the chest-high ramparts of the structure. Johnny followed, curious and concerned.
Below, the lights of L.A. sparkled in the gathering dusk. To their left the last embers of sunset glowed among curdled clouds above the Pacific. Roy folded his arms on the wall and gazed out over the city that was in their care. John turned and leaned against the wall, tipping his head back to look up at the aquamarine sky that was lighter, still, than the ground below. The silence between them was the comfortable silence of friendship. It was Roy who finally broke it.
"I wanted to talk to you, John."
"Okay."
Roy glanced over, studied his partner. "It was a long time ago," he said.
Johnny blinked, lost. "What was?"
"That picture in the magazine. The one that's bothering you. It was a long time ago."
"How did you know about that?" Dixie wouldn't have told him.
One corner of Roy's mouth twisted up in a tiny, suppressed grin. "It didn't exactly take Sherlock Holmes. I left you reading that magazine and you were fine. I came back and you were upset. So I looked through the magazine to see what might have upset you."
"But . . . I tore the picture out!"
Roy's grin blossomed into a fleeting smile. "I hate to break this to you, Junior, but whenever they put out a magazine they always print at least two copies. Sometimes as many as four or five." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a copy of Mod World Exposed, opened to the article on the peace movement. "I had one of the nurses get one for me from the gift shop while I was waiting between breathing treatments. Anyway, like I said, it was a long time ago."
John took the magazine and studied the picture again. "It was only three years ago."
"Was it?" Roy was surprised. He thought about it. "I guess you're right. Funny. It seems like longer than that. Anyway, it isn't important now."
"Don't give me that!" His partner spun to face him, angry. "This hurt you, Roy! You can try to tell me it didn't if you want to, but I know better. I know you. And this hurt you." He stopped for a ragged breath and looked back down at the picture. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. "I can see it in your eyes."
For a second time silence stretched between them and, for a second time, it was Roy who finally broke it.
"Okay, it hurt." Uncomfortable he looked away, gazing off into the distance -- into the past. "You know, my dad served in Europe in World War Two. He was there when they landed at Normandy and fought his way to Berlin. Brutal stuff. He always used to tell me, though, about how great it felt to come back home. There was a parade, with signs up to welcome the 'hometown heroes', and flags waving and banners and people making speeches about how great they were. The high school band was there, and the fife and drum corps, and they played God Bless America and the Star Spangled Banner and --" Roy broke off long enough to give his partner a tiny smile "When Johnny Comes Marching Home. And years later -- ten, fifteen years later -- complete strangers would come up to him. 'Welcome home, son! We sure do appreciate what you did for this country. Thank God you made it back alive! Captain DeSoto, I'd consider it an honor to shake your hand!'"
Roy shifted, locked his fingers together and sighed. "And, you know, I never expected anything like that. Viet Nam wasn't a popular war. I knew that when I went over there. I'm not stupid, John, and I'm not naïve. I never expected a heroes' welcome. But, I have to admit, I didn't expect that," he nodded at the magazine in John's hands, "either. So, yeah. You're right. It hurt. But if there's one thing I've learned in my life it's that you keep what you hold onto. That just wasn't worth holding onto."
"What did you do?" John asked, his voice deep and hushed. Roy shrugged.
"I went home and washed my face and hugged my wife. And then I got a job with the fire department and got into search and rescue. Only it was frustrating, having training as a medic and watching people die that I knew I could help, so I got involved in this crazy scheme to train and certify firefighters to administer real first aid. One thing led to another and before you know it three -- short -- years have passed. And here I am with a wonderful wife, a couple of great kids, a job that I can take pride in, a station house full of really good friends and a partner," Roy turned and gave John one of his shy, warm smiles that lit his whole face, "a partner that I wouldn't trade for anything. Even when he's making me nuts. Which is, well, basically, all the time.
"And somewhere, in the middle of all that, I found enough things worth hanging onto to let that," he reached out and flicked a finger against the magazine John was holding, "to let it go."
"You let it go," John breathed.
"I let it go."
John thought about it a minute and barked a laugh. "You know something, Pally? You're a hell of a man!"
Roy blushed, ducked his head and looked away. He could shake off unjust insults, but an honest compliment threw him. "So," he said finally, "is that everything that needs to be said about that now?"
"Yeah, I guess." They turned back towards the squad. John threw one arm around his partner's shoulders. "But, Pally, if there ever is anything you need or want to talk about . . . anything at all, I mean . . . ."
Roy smiled at him. "I know. And thanks."
John slapped him on the back and climbed into the squad. Roy went around and got in behind the wheel. He reached for the key, but John stopped him.
"Wait a second, Roy. Wait just a second. I was wrong. There is still one more thing I need to say."
"All right then. What?"
John tipped his head back and studied the headliner while he sorted the words out in his mind. When he had it all figured out he gave a small, satisfied nod and turned to look his partner in the eye.
"Welcome home, soldier," he said. "Thank you for everything you did for this country. Thank God -- and I mean it Roy! -- thank God you made it home alive. I'd consider it an honor to shake your hand."
Roy blushed and looked away, then glanced back with an uncertain smile, expecting his partner to laugh with him. John's face was serious, though. He raised one eyebrow questioningly and proffered his hand.
Roy cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. Finally, trying to pretend that there weren't tears standing in his eyes, Corporal DeSoto reached out and shook the man's hand.
The End.
*Click above to send E!lf feedback
