The Rescue

  He paused, his fist finally closing for good. Denise felt the muscles in her neck tighten as he continued.

  "I just didn't smell it. To this day, I don't know why--it seems impossible to me that I could have missed it--but I did. I didn't realize anything was happening at all until I heard my parents come scrambling out of their bedroom, making a huge ruckus. They were yelling and screaming for me, and I remember thinking that they'd found out that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I kept hearing them call my name over and over, but I was too afraid to answer."

  His eyes pleaded for understanding.

  "I didn't want them to find me up there--they'd already told me a hundred times that once I was in bed, I was supposed to stay there all night. If they found me, I figured I'd get in big trouble. I had a baseball game that weekend, and I knew they'd ground me for sure, so instead of coming out when they called, I came up with a plan to wait until they were downstairs. Then I was going to sneak into the bathroom and pretend that I'd been in there the whole time. It sounds dumb, I know, but at the time, it made sense to me. I turned out the light and hid behind some boxes to wait it out. I heard my father open the attic door, shouting for me, but I kept quiet until he finally left. Eventually, the sounds of them tearing through the house died down, and that was when I went for the door. I still had no idea of what was going on, and when I opened it, I was stunned by a blast of heat and smoke. The walls and ceiling were on fire, but it seemed so completely unreal; at first I didn't really understand how serious it was. Had I rushed through it then, I probably could have made it out, but I didn't. I just stared at the fire, thinking how strange it was. I wasn't even afraid."

  Taylor tensed, hunching over the table in an almost protective position, his voice rasping on.

  "But that changed almost immediately. Before I knew it, everything seemed to catch on fire at once and the way out was blocked. That was when I first realized that something awful was happening. It had been so dry that the house was burning like kindling. I remember thinking that the fire seemed so . . . alive. The flames seemed to know exactly where I was, and a burst of fire shot toward me, knocking me down. I began to scream for my father. But he was already gone, and I knew it. In a panic, I scrambled to the window. When I opened it, I saw my parents on the front lawn. My mom was wearing a long shirt and my dad was in his boxers, and they were running around in a panic, looking and calling for me. For a moment I couldn't say a thing, but my mom seemed to sense where I was, and she looked up at me. I can still see her eyes when she realized I was still in the house. They got real wide, and she brought her hand to her mouth and then she just started screaming. My dad stopped what he was doing--he was over by the fence--and he saw me, too. That was when I started to cry."

  On the couch, a tear spilled out of the corner of his unblinking eye, though he didn't seem to realize it. Denise felt sick to her stomach.

  "My dad . . . my big strong dad came rushing across the lawn in a flash. By then, most of the house was on fire, and I could hear things crashing and exploding downstairs. It was coming up through the attic, and the smoke started getting really thick. My mom was screaming for my dad to do something, and he ran to the spot right beneath the window. I remember him screaming, 'Jump, Taylor! I'll catch you! I'll catch you, I promise!' But instead of jumping, I just started to cry all the harder. The window was at least twenty feet up, and it just seemed so high that I was sure I'd die if I tried. 'Jump, Taylor! I'll catch you!' He just kept shouting it over and over: 'Jump! Come on!' My mom was screaming even louder, and I was crying until I finally shouted out that I was afraid."

  Taylor swallowed hard.

  "The more my dad called for me to jump, the more paralyzed I became. I could hear the terror in his voice and my mom was losing it and I just kept screaming back that I couldn't, that I was afraid. And I was, even though I'm sure now he would have caught me."

  A muscle in his jaw twitched rhythmically, his eyes were hooded, opaque. He slammed his fist into his leg.

  "I can still see my father's face when he realized I wasn't going to jump--we both came to the realization at exactly the same time. There was fear there, but not for himself. He just stopped shouting and he lowered his arms, and I remember that his eyes never left mine. It was like time stopped right then--it was just the two of us. I couldn't hear my mom anymore, I couldn't feel the heat, I couldn't smell the smoke. All I could think about was my father. Then, he nodded ever so slightly and we both knew what he was going to do. He finally turned away and started running for the front door.

  "He moved so fast that my mom didn't have time to stop him. By then, the house was completely in flames. The fire was closing in around me, and I just stood in the window, too shocked to scream anymore."

  Taylor pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, applying pressure. When he dropped his hands into his lap, he leaned back into the far corner of the couch, as if unwilling to finish the story. With great effort he went on.

  "It must have been less than a minute before he got to me, but it seemed like forever. Even with my head out the window, I could barely breathe. Smoke was everywhere. The fire was deafening. People think they're quiet, but they're not. It sounds like devils screaming in agony when things are consumed by flames. Despite that, I could hear my father's voice in the house, calling that he was coming."

  Here Taylor's voice broke, and he turned away to hide the tears that began to spill down his face.

  "I remember turning around and seeing him rushing toward me. He was on fire. His skin, his arms, his face, his hair--everything. Just this human fireball rushing at me, being eaten away, bursting through the flames. But he wasn't screaming. He just barreled into me, pushing me toward the window, saying, 'Go, son.' He forced me out the window, holding on to my wrist. When the entire weight of my body was dangling, he finally let go. I landed hard enough to crack a bone in my ankle--I heard the snap as I fell onto my back, looking upward. It was like God wanted me to see what I'd done. I watched my father pull his flaming arm back inside. . . ."

  Taylor stopped there, unable to go on. Denise sat frozen in her chair, tears in her own eyes, a lump in her throat. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible and he was shivering as if the effort of choking back sobs were tearing his body apart.

  "He never came back out. I remember my mom pulling me away from the house, still screaming, and by then I was screaming, too."

  His eyes closed tightly, he lifted his chin to the ceiling.

  "Daddy . . . no--" he called out hoarsely.

  The sound of his voice echoed like a shot in the room.

  "Get out, Daddy!"

  As Taylor seemed to crumple into himself, Denise moved instinctively to his side, wrapping her arms around him as he rocked back and forth, his broken cries almost incoherent.

  "Please, God . . . let me do it over . . . please . . . I'll jump . . . please, God . . . I'll do it this time . . . please let him come out . . ."

  Denise hugged him with all her strength, her own tears falling unheeded onto his neck and back as she pressed her face into him. After a while she heard nothing but the beating of his heart, the creak of the sofa as he rocked himself into a rhythmic trance, and the words he kept whispering over and over--

  "I didn't mean to kill him. . . ."

  Chapter 28

  Denise held Taylor until he finally fell silent, spent and exhausted. Then she released him and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a can of beer, something she'd splurged on when she'd bought her car.

  She didn't know what else to do, nor did she have any idea what to say. She'd heard terrible things in her life, but nothing like this. Taylor looked up from the couch as she handed him the beer; with an almost deadened expression, he opened the beer and took a drink, then lowered it to his lap, both hands wrapped around the can.

  She reached over, resting her hand on his leg, and he took hold of it.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

 
"No," he answered earnestly, "but then maybe I never was."

  She squeezed his hand.

  "Probably not," she agreed. He smiled wanly. They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.

  "Why tonight, Taylor?" Though she could have tried to talk him out of the guilt he still felt, she knew intuitively that now wasn't the time. Neither of them was ready to face those demons.

  He absently rotated the can in his hands. "I've been thinking about Mitch ever since he died, and with Melissa moving away . . . I don't know . . . I felt like it was starting to eat me alive."

  It always was, Taylor.

  "Why me, then? Why not someone else?"

  He didn't answer right away, but when he glanced up at her, his blue eyes registered nothing but regret.

  "Because," he said with unmistakable sincerity, "I care about you more than I ever cared about anyone."

  At his words, her breath caught in her throat. When she didn't speak, Taylor reluctantly withdrew his hand the same way he once had at the carnival.

  "You have every right not to believe me," he admitted. "I probably wouldn't, given the way I acted. I'm sorry for that--for everything. I was wrong." He paused. With his thumbnail, he flicked the tab on the can in his hands. "I wish I could explain why I did the things I did, but I honestly don't know. I've been lying to myself for so long that I'm not even sure I'd know the truth if I saw it. All I know for sure is that I screwed up the best thing I've ever had in my life."

  "Yeah, you did," she agreed, prompting a nervous laugh from Taylor.

  "I guess a second chance is out of the question, huh?"

  Denise was silent, suddenly aware that at some point this evening, her anger toward Taylor had dissipated. The pain was still there, though, and so was the fear of what might come. In some ways she felt the same anxiety she'd felt when she was getting to know him for the first time. And in a way, she knew she was.

  "You used that one a month ago," she said calmly. "You're probably somewhere in the twenties by now."

  He heard an unexpected glimmer of encouragement in her tone and looked up at her, his hope barely disguised.

  "That bad?"

  "Worse," she said, smiling. "If I were the queen, I probably would have had you beheaded."

  "No hope, huh?"

  Was there? That was what it all came down to, wasn't it?

  Denise hesitated. She could feel her stubborn resolve crumbling as his eyes held her gaze, speaking more eloquently than any words he might say. All at once she was flooded with memories of all the kind things he'd done for her and Kyle, reviving the feelings she had worked so hard to repress these past few weeks.

  "I didn't exactly say that," she finally answered. "But we can't just pick up where we left off. There's a lot we have to figure out first, and it isn't going to be easy."

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when he realized that the possibility was still there--faint though it was--Taylor felt a wave of sudden relief wash over him. He smiled briefly before setting the can on the table.

  "I'm sorry, Denise," he repeated earnestly. "I'm sorry for what I did to Kyle, too."

  She simply nodded and took his hand.

  For the next few hours they talked with a new openness. Taylor filled her in on the last few weeks: his conversations with Melissa and what his mother had said; the argument he'd had with Mitch the night he'd died. He spoke about how Mitch's death had resurrected the memories of his father's death and--despite everything--his lingering guilt about both deaths.

  He talked steadily as Denise listened, offering support as he needed it, occasionally asking questions. It was nearly four in the morning when he rose to leave; Denise walked him to the door and watched him drive away.

  While putting on her pajamas, she reflected that she still didn't know where their relationship would go from here--talking about things didn't always translate into actions, she cautioned herself. It might mean nothing, it might mean everything. But she knew it wasn't simply up to her to give him another chance. As it had been from the beginning, it was--she thought as her eyelids drooped shut--still up to Taylor.

  The following afternoon he called to ask if it would be all right for him to stop by.

  "I'd like to apologize to Kyle, too," he said. "And besides, I have something to show him."

  Still exhausted from the night before, she wanted time to mull things over. She needed that. So did he. But in the end she reluctantly consented, more for Kyle's sake than her own. She knew that Kyle would be overjoyed to see him.

  As she hung up the phone, however, she wondered if she'd done the right thing. Outside, the day was blustery; cool autumn weather had arrived in full force. The leaves were dazzling in their color: reds, oranges, and yellows exploding on the branches, preparing for their final descent to the dew-covered grass. Soon the yard would be covered with faded remnants of the summer.

  An hour later Taylor arrived. Though Kyle was in the yard out front, she could hear his excited screams over the sound of the faucet.

  "Money! Tayer's here!"

  Setting her dishrag aside--she'd just finished washing the morning dishes--she went to the front door, still feeling a little uneasy. Opening it, she saw Kyle charging Taylor's truck; as soon as Taylor stepped out, Kyle jumped into his arms as if Taylor had never stayed away, his face beaming. Taylor hugged him for a long time, putting him down just as Denise walked up.

  "Hey there," he said quietly.

  She crossed her arms. "Hi, Taylor."

  "Tayer's here!" Kyle said jubilantly, latching on to Taylor's leg. "Tayer's here!"

  Denise smiled thinly. "He sure is, sweetie."

  Taylor cleared his throat, sensing her unease, and motioned over his shoulder.

  "I grabbed a few things from the store on my way over here. If it's okay to stay awhile."

  Kyle laughed aloud, completely enamored by Taylor's presence. "Tayer's here," he said again.

  "I don't think I have much of a choice," she answered honestly.

  Taylor grabbed a grocery bag from the cab of the truck and carried it inside. The bag contained the makings for stew: beef, potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. They spoke for a couple of minutes, but he seemed to sense her ambivalence about his presence and finally went outside with Kyle, who refused to leave his side. Denise started preparing the meal, thankful to be left alone. She browned the meat and peeled the potatoes, cut the carrots, celery, and onions, throwing everything into a big pot with water and spices. The monotony of the work was soothing, calming her roiling emotions.

  As she stood over the sink, however, she glanced outside occasionally, watching Taylor and Kyle play in the dirt pile, where they each pushed Tonka trucks back and forth, building imaginary roads. Yet despite how well they seemed to be getting along, she was struck once more with a paralyzing sense of uncertainty about Taylor; the memories of the pain he had caused her and Kyle surfaced with new clarity. Could she trust him? Would he change? Could he change?

  As she watched, Kyle climbed on to Taylor's squatting figure, covering him with dirt. She could hear Kyle laughing; she could hear Taylor laughing as well.

  It's good to hear that sound again. . . .

  But . . .

  Denise shook her head. Even if Kyle has forgiven him, I won't forget. He hurt us once, he could hurt us again. She wouldn't allow herself to fall for him so deeply this time. She wouldn't let herself go.

  But they look so cute together....

  Don't let yourself go, she warned herself.

  She sighed, refusing to allow the internal conversation to dominate her thoughts. With the stew cooking over low heat, she set the table, then straightened up the living room before running out of things to do.

  Deciding to sit outside, she walked out into the crisp, fresh air and sat on the porch steps. She could see Taylor and Kyle, still immersed in their playing.

  Despite her thick turtleneck sweater, the nip in the air made her cross her arms. Overhead, a flock
of geese in triangular formation flew overhead, heading south for the winter. They were followed by a second group that seemed to be struggling to catch up. As she watched them, she realized her breaths were coming out in little puffs. The temperature had dropped since the morning; a cold front blowing in from the midwest had descended through the low country of North Carolina.

  After a while, Taylor glanced toward the house and saw her, letting her know with a smile. With a quick flick of her hand, she waved before burying her hand back in the warmth of her sleeves. Taylor leaned close to Kyle and motioned with his chin, prompting Kyle to turn in her direction. Kyle waved happily, and both of them stood. Taylor brushed off his jeans as they started toward the house.

  "You two look like you were having fun," she said.

  Taylor grinned, stopping a few feet from her. "I think I'll give up contracting and just build dirt cities. It's a lot more fun, and the people are easier to deal with."

  She leaned toward Kyle. "Did you have fun, sweetie?"

  "Yes," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "It was fun." (Ess fun)

  Denise looked up at Taylor again. "The stew won't be ready for a while. I just got it all going, so you've got plenty of time if you want to stay outside."

  "I figured as much, but I need a glass of water to wash down some of the dirt."

  Denise smiled. "Do you want something to drink, too, Kyle?"

  Instead of answering, however, Kyle moved closer, his arms outstretched. Almost molding into her, he wrapped his arms around Denise's neck.

  "What's wrong, honey?" Denise asked, suddenly concerned. With his eyes closed, Kyle squeezed more tightly, and she instinctively put her arms around him.