Rescue 7

Rescue 7

By FireWire

Story No. 3

Damn! Damn Damn DAMN! A flat tire. In the middle of nowhere. Should have known better than to try a shortcut. It’s freezing. It’s dark. Ten feet of snow all over everything. Cell phone won’t work because of all these damn mountains. Now what do I do? Walk back to the house I just passed and pray a pervert or serial killer isn’t waiting there. It’s the only house I’ve seen since I turned off the interstate. Who in their right mind would want to live in the middle of nowhere? I’ll say my husband will be by shortly. He’s following me, but was delayed leaving our house. He had to stop for gas.

The woman leaves her car and walks back to the house she had passed. She pauses at the front door, takes a deep breath, and knocks. A man opens the door.

“Hi, I’m sorry to trouble you,” the woman says. “My car had a flat tire a short way from here, and I wondered if I could borrow your phone to call AAA road service.”

“You can certainly use my phone,” the man says, “but there’s no AAA around here. “No garage or gas station either.” He pauses for a moment. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll change your tire for you; it will only take a few minutes, and you’ll be on your way. Do you have a spare in your car?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never looked.”

“Wait here a minute while I get my truck from around back, and we’ll drive to your car. You can sit in my truck and keep warm while I change the tire.”

“I hope I’m not inconveniencing you,” she says, “but I don’t know what else to do.”

The man shakes his head and smiles. “No inconvenience whatsoever. You were fortunate to be within walking distance. The weather service just said the low tonight could break the record. And to make things worse, a major storm is due in tonight, so we need to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

After searching the woman’s car trunk with his flashlight, the man says, “We’re out of luck. No spare tire. We could drive to Grovesdale, which is about 30 minutes away, and pick up a tire at Wal-Mart.”

“Do you mind?’

“Not at all. We should be able to beat the storm. It hasn’t gotten to Binghamton yet.”

“I want to tell you how much I appreciate this,” she says. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t. In fact, I was between books and in the process of deciding on a new title.”

“Oh. Are you a writer?”

“I wish I was. I’m just a reader.”

As the truck speeds through the night, the woman stares at the road ahead, glancing frequently at the man. He’s not a talker either. We’ve been riding for at least twenty minutes, and he hasn’t said word one. He should have at least been looking at me. But it makes sense I guess. He wouldn’t live out here if he was a regular guy. I’ll have to ask him.

“Pardon me. I hope I’m not intruding, but I was curious about the logo on your hat. What does FDNY mean?”

“Fire Department of New York.”

“How interesting. I didn’t realize New York had a fire department.”

“It’s the Fire Department of New York City.”

They drive the rest of the way to Grovesdale in silence.

They buy the tire and are on their way back to the woman’s car.

“That was so nice of you to help that little boy pick out the right type of cleats to buy. His mother was clueless, and I could tell she really appreciated it,” she says to the man when they are back in the truck. “They called you ‘coach.” Do you coach the local Pee Wee football team?”

“Those were soccer cleats, and I coach his oldest brother on the Grovesdale high school soccer team. The boy’s name is James and his mother’s name is Ann. Like most of the families of the players, they attend every game, so you get to know them over time. Grovesdale has a lot of talent for a class‑four school and has gone to the state soccer finals the last two years. They won it my first year and came in second last year.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment. Since you’re the coach, you must teach also. Are you a phys ed teacher?”

He shakes his head. “Not me. I gave up the daily commute when I left New York two years ago. I coach on a volunteer basis when I’m off duty. I’m a fire fighter in New York . . . City.”

“That shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been off the mark all night, but now I’m thoroughly confused.”

“I know.” He pauses. “It’s time I told you my story.”

His eyes stay focused on the road ahead. In the headlights, the snow is beginning to thicken.

“My name is Jan Stewart. I work a two-week, 24-hour shift as a fire fighter with the Fire Department of New York’s Rescue Company 7. On my week off, I volunteer for community service in Grovesdale.

Two years ago, I was driving down Third Avenue in New York; my cell phone started ringing; I took my eyes off the road to see who the call was from; my wife screamed my name. During that split second, a drug-driven delivery truck gunned out of an alley and into the passenger side of my Hummer. I woke up in a hospital—my wife of two years and my daughter of three months—dead.

My Hummer was the biggest made, military grade, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t have a chance—DOA. Even now, I can’t hear a cell phone ring without remembering that last fraction of a second.”

She doesn’t reply. The snow is falling fast now.

After a while, he says, “That’s my story. What’s your story?” Then he quickly says, “I didn’t mean to say that. Your story is none of my business. I apologize.”

She notices her hands are clenched tight together in her lap. She relaxes them and says, “No, it’s all right . . . . I’m trying to compose myself . . . . I don’t know yet how to say what I want to say.”

When they arrive at the woman’s car, they find the blowing snow has banked up against the car and covered the wheels.

“I was afraid of that,” he says. “Fortunately we fire fighters always carry a shovel in the back of our pickups. I’ll dig your car out and change the tire. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

He opens the door, but she puts her hand on his arm. “Wait,” she says. “I’m coming with you. I want to help.”

He turns back towards her. “There’s nothing for you to do,” he says. “It’s a one‑man job. You stay here where it’s warm.”

“I can hold the flashlight.”

“I have a miner’s headlamp. It fits over my hat.”

“I’ll hold that.”

He looks at her face and then her feet.

“If you insist.” He reaches into the space behind his seat and pulls out a pair of high boots and a blanket. “These are fire boots. They won't fit, but they’ll keep your feet dry. You can cover your head with the blanket.”

“That was a tough animal, but it’s done.” He stands up and brushes the snow from behind his neck. “I’ll get your purse and make sure your car starts. Those snow plows which passed us won’t be back for a couple of hours, so you need to get on the road now. I don’t know where all this snow is coming from. It wasn’t predicted to arrive this soon.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” she says.

She opens her door, gets in, and closes it. She motions for him to get in.

He opens his door. “Anything wrong?”

“No. Everything is fine. You know, there is no way I can thank you enough for changing my tire and digging my car out in a blinding blizzard. Taking care of me. And you don’t know me from Eve.”

“It was my pleasure.” He smiles. “After you rescue someone from a burning building, changing a tire in the snow is like being on vacation. I’m glad I could be of service to someone in need.”

“I want to talk to you,” she says. “I want to tell you my story before I go.”

He looks at the road and the snow which is starting to cover it. He turns back and looks at her for a moment. “OK,” he says, and gets in the truck.

“My name is Denise Simmons. My mother died of cancer when I was a senior in college and my father of carbon monoxide poisoning not long afterwards. I took what little savings they had, transferred to a local college and took on the job of raising my younger brother who was fifteen—a big fifteen.

It didn’t take me long to find out he was half way into the hell of drug addiction, and with my parents gone, there was no stopping him. I can’t begin to tell you the nightmare my life became. Up until then I didn’t believe there was a Satan. But now I know there is one – I saw him take my brother’s soul.

Finally—when I thought there was no way out, no way to stop him, the Lord stepped in. One night, my brother physically assaulted me when I try to keep him from driving our car while he was high. I called the police and, because he had a police record, forced him into a situation, at sixteen years old, to either go into a boarding school with a treatment program until he graduated or go to jail.

That was two years ago too, but my story doesn’t have a tragic ending like yours. I’m on my way to his graduation. I think God has given him his soul back, but I’m scared. I visited him many times while he was in school. He seems OK, but I can’t get the fear out of my thoughts of how he used to be.”

“I understand how that is. Is your brother graduating from The Community School?”

“Yes,” she says. “Do you know the school?”

“I volunteered to coach there, but they said only their staff members could coach their teams. And believe me their staff needed help. None of them knew what a soccer ball was until they became soccer coaches.

But you know what? They were the only team in our league to beat us last year and that was in the state finals. We were undefeated going into the finals, and The Community School had one loss—to us. I’ll bet your brother played on that team; I’ll bet he played left forward.”

Denise is surprised. “He did. How did you know?”

“The loudspeaker announced his name after he scored the only goal in the game. No need to worry. I remember watching him play. He played smart and he played clean. He has his soul back.”

Denise and Mike are standing in the school auditorium after The Community School graduation ceremony.

“Oh Mike, you made it. You graduated from the hardest school I know of. I’m so happy for you.”

“You aren’t the only one. I’m just happy I made it. Do you mind if I say good bye to a few friends and my sponsor before we leave?”

“Of course not. Can you introduce me to your soccer coach before we go? “

“Bill? I said good bye to him yesterday after I helped him shovel the snow from the path to the barn. There was so much snow we had to shovel it twice so I said good bye twice.”

“Please. I really do want to meet him. Soccer meant so much to you while you were here, and you’ve talked about him so much. My memory of The Community School won’t be complete without meeting him . . . Please. Just to shake hands.”

Mike takes Denise to Bill's office.

“Bill, this is my sister, Denise. She wanted to shake hands with you before we left.”

Bill stands up extends his hand. “Hi Denise. I remember you from the Riverside game—the first one —at the beginning of the season.”

“Did we meet then? I do apologize. I met so many people during that game that I was in daze.”

“We didn’t meet. I remember seeing you in the parking lot before the game and then again in the stands. I would have been a lot easier on Mike if I had known you were his sister.”

“He doesn’t seem any the worse for wear,” she says. “In fact, he tells me, you run a great soccer program. He learned a lot from you, and I wanted to thank you while I had the opportunity.”

“He was a pleasure to coach and a team player all the way. “

“Bill, on my way up here, I had a flat tire, and a man named Jan Stewart was kind enough to change it for me. He said he was a soccer coach at Grovesdale High School, and Mike scored a goal against them. Do you know him?”

“A strong, good-looking guy right?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t personally know him other than the pre‑game and after‑game handshakes. I heard he was a professional soccer player in Europe before marrying a French woman and going to Wall Street. When his wife was killed in a traffic accident, he quit Wall Street and became a fireman in New York. Other than he lives in Grovesdale now and commutes to work in New York that’s about all I know.”

“He was impressed with The Community School and remembered Mike.”

“He should. This season Grovesdale won the state Class‑4 championship. We were the only team to beat them, and Mike scored the only goal in that game.

It was 0‑0 with less than a minute left in the game. Pete Spalding, our right forward, got the ball to within 10 yards of Grovesdale’s goal when their defenders caught up with him and were scrimmaging for the ball. Mike here was standing around just outside the scrimmage—looked like he was in la‑la land. “Mike,” I hollered, “get in there and help Pete. You are a forward. Get in there and get the ball.” Mike just stood there. The fans and the bench were hollering, “Get in there Mike. Give him a hand. Don’t just stand there.” Still, he didn’t move.

The Grovesdale defenders were manhandling Pete pretty bad, had him penned in, but he managed to kick the ball out of the scrimmage. It was rolling about a foot an hour with one of the Grovesdale players right behind it. Mike, who everybody had forgotten by now, moved for the ball the instant it rolled out of the scrimmage. When the Grovesdale player’s foot was an inch away from the ball, Mike’s foot appears and powers the ball straight into the corner of the Grovesdale goal.

The whole play itself was so quick it took a couple of seconds for it to register. Then all pandemonium broke loose. Our players and students were screaming, jumping up and down, hugging each other; the Grovesdale side were holding their heads, groaning; their players were falling on the ground, beating the ground, their goalie was crying. There was one guy on their side, though, who was the picture of calm. He had his arms crossed and a tight smile on his face, slowly nodding his head up and down—and that was your Mr. Stewart.”

Eight months have passed since Mike’s January graduation from The Community School. He is now home, packing for college.

“Denise,” Mike calls from his bedroom. “Do we have an extra extension cord?”

“I don’t think so,” Denise calls back. “Why don’t you make a list of things you need. If we don’t have them, we’ll go to the store and get them all in one trip.”

“Good idea.”

“Mike. Mike come quick,” Denise shouts.

When Mike enters the den, Denise is standing in front of the television.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Look at the screen.”

“What’s happening? Where is that?”

“I think it’s the World Trade Center in New York City,” she says. “They keep showing that awful film over and over—a plane crashing into one of the towers.”

“Turn up the volume!”

A television news reporter is standing on a sidewalk with a man beside him. A burning skyscraper is behind them, and a crowd of people is in motion around them.

“We are on Vesey Street in front of the North Tower, tower number one, of the World Trade Center,” the reporter says. “For you who have just tuned in, a short while ago, at 8: 13 a.m., a 767 commercial jet crashed into the North tower’s upper level. Standing beside me is Bert Bergen who witnessed the crash. Bert, what happened?”

“Well, I heard an explosion which was so loud it about tore my ears off, and then people on the street started screaming. Pretty soon people came running out of the tower screaming and the firemen over there came. It was like a scene from one those earthquake movies—one I’ll never forget. Stuff from the top of the building falling on the ground; people pouring out of the building; people screaming; the firemen loaded down with rescue gear moving towards the building; and all the while it kept getting hotter and hotter and more and more stuff was falling. It took real bleep to go in there.”

“You mean the fire fighters?”

“Yea. It took real bleep to go in there. This ain’t no bleep bleeping movie.”

“Can we get a shot of the fire rescue vehicle?” the reporter says.

“Oh no. No. It can’t be.”

“What’s wrong Denise?”

“That’s Rescue Company 7.”

“So?”

“That’s Jan’s company.”

“Whose company?”

“Jan Stewart’s rescue company.”

“Who’s Jan Stewart? Is he the Grovesdale soccer coach?”

“What happened to the picture?” she screams. “Where’s the damn picture?”

“Are you OK Denise?”

“Something terrible has just happened to Jan. I have to go to New York to help him. He needs my help.”

“He doesn’t even know you.”

“Oh yes he does.”

“You only met him once.”

“Once was enough. It’s clear to me now.”

“What’s clear?”

“That I have to go to him right now. Mike, I would like to see you off, but I’m sure you and Freddie will manage just fine without me waving good bye.”

Denise arrives at the hospital and goes to the information desk.

“Pardon me. What room is Jan Stewart in? He’s one of the fire fighters injured at the World Trade Center this morning. FDNY headquarters said the Rescue 7 fire fighters were sent here.”

“Let me check the list for you,” the man at the information desk says . . . . I don’t see a Jan Stewart listed, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here. We’re being overwhelmed with so many seriously injured people requiring immediately treatment that don’t have any ID on them that we’re treating first and identifying later. We can’t put them on the patient list until we know who they are. If you’ll leave your name and phone number, someone will call you when he comes up on the patient list.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.”

The man nods.

Denise looks around the lobby. All the seats are filled. She walks to a vacant spot along the wall and sits down.

When Denise wakes, she sees the backs of legs. “Would you please give me a hand up,” she says to the legs in front of her.

She pushes through the crowd until she gets to the information desk where a bulletin board, with sheets of notebook paper pinned to it, is propped on two chairs. “UPDATED ON THE HOUR” is written in large green magic marker letters on the left top sheet.

She scans the list. “J. Stewart 3B – Restricted”

“What does ‘restricted’ mean?” she asks the woman next to her.

“It varies,” the woman says. “Most of the time it applies to people who have just come out of surgery.”

“How about ‘3B’?”

“Third floor, Ward B.”

“Do you think I will have a problem getting in?”

“It depends on the doctor on duty. Tell him you’re the patient’s sister.”

Denise is standing in Ward B’s small, crowded reception area. She sees the floor nurse glance in her direction as she talks to a doctor. The doctor looks at Denise for several seconds before saying something to the nurse. When the nurse leaves, the doctor removes his stethoscope from around his neck, puts it in his coat pocket, and comes over to Denise.

“Why don’t we walk over to the nurse’s station,” the doctor says to Denise. “It’s a little quieter there.”

When they get to the nurse’s station, the doctor says, “The floor nurse told me you are the fiancée of one of the fire fighters in this wing.”

“Yes, that’s correct. We were going to be married today. His name his Jan Stewart; how is he?”

The doctor turns and takes a clipboard from the wall. He leafs through the pages until he comes to one near the end. He reads it aloud:

“Patient responded well to surgery and should make a complete physical recovery.”

The doctor lifts the page and reads several more paragraphs on the next page before looking up and saying, “Your fiancée has been unconscious since being pulled from the Trade Center, so we don’t know if he escaped internal brain damage. There is no physical trauma to the head or drainage of cerebrospinal fluid, and the MRI and EEG were normal, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes.”

“Doctor, Jan has no living relatives. Could I wait by his bed until he recovers . . . please?”

“Certainly. We encourage family members to be present when the patient regains consciousness. I’ll take you to the recovery room.”

They walk into a large room lined with beds.

“This is the post-operative recovery room,” the doctor says. “Jan’s chart shows him being in the last bed.”

When they reach the bed, the doctor pulls the curtain around the bed. “He’s been here for a while, so he should awake before too long. If he seems confused or has a bad headache, get the nurse immediately. She is at the nurse’s station in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Denise says. “I was so worried.”

The doctor says, “Your fiancé is a lucky man.” He pauses and looks at Denise. “A very lucky man indeed.”

A cast on his arm and shoulder. A cast on his leg. A cast on his upper body. Bandages on his hands. But he still looks good. Real good. I wonder what’s in this big envelope. The envelope is labeled “Jan Stewart. Papers found on patient.9/11/01.” It’s sealed. I should have brought a book.

When Jan opens his eyes, he looks at Denise, and closes his eyes. A moment later, he opens them again.

“How do you feel?” Denise asks. “Are you confused? Do you have a headache?”

“No. I feel great. In fact, I feel wonderful.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a headache?”

“Positive.”

After a few moments, Denise says, “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“Nope.”

A pause.

“You’re not confused, are you?”

“Not at all.”

Jan glances at the envelope on the table. “You know, I got your address from The Community School and wrote you several letters.”

“You did? I never received any of them.”

“I’ll bet they’re all in that envelope. You told me the night we met you didn’t know how to say what you wanted to say. Well, I didn’t know how to write what I wanted to write. All of those letters say the same thing, ‘I want to be with you.’ And this time around, God gave me a second chance.”

Her hand touches his cheek.

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