Rescue Me (Butler Island) (2 page)

Silence.

Chapter 2

For as long as Randall lived, he would never be able to
erase the image of Lana Phillips collapsing in his arms on her front porch as
Chief Handler informed her that Jimmy had been injured—fatally injured. In an
instant the color had drained from her pretty face as her body went limp with
grief.

He held her while she wailed, gripping his shirt as
though it were her only lifeline. And then as if a surge of strength erupted
from her core, she straightened and uttered in a small voice, “How?”

Chief Handler cleared his throat. “The top portion of a
pine tree snapped as the guys were hiking out of the brush. It fell
approximately seventy-five feet—would’ve hit Randall—but Jimmy pushed him out
of the way just in time...”

Lana stiffened in Randall’s arms when she’d learned the
specifics about how her husband’s passing came to be.

“…The force of the impact caused internal injuries and…
possibly severed his spinal cord… He, uh, complained he couldn’t feel his
legs…”

Lana gasped, covering her mouth as another sob fought for
escape. And then she turned her mournful gaze toward Randall, searching for
truth?—regret? And something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“…Jimmy saved Randall’s life, Lana”, Chief Handler
declared soothingly, earnestly. “He’s the epitome of a true hero…”

Confusion settled upon her face for a moment, her forehead
trenched, her lips parted. And as if suddenly realizing the man supporting her
grieving body was the same man rescued by the throes of death by her late
husband, her somber expression turned angry. Lana’s midnight-blue eyes swirled
with fury, narrowing, focusing on Randall like two dangerously intense laser
beams.

She raised her palm, striking his left cheek with such
force his head snapped right, the crack of the blow echoing off the front porch
with near-deafening precision.

Taking a step back, Lana turned her attention back to
Chief Handler. “I want to see him.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a—”

“I want to see my hu-husband!” she sobbed.

Randall stared at his pale reflection in the small mirror
adorned to the sun visor of his truck, straightening his black tie. He hated
this shirt—his light blue, long-sleeved B.I.F.D uniform shirt. He was a casual
kind of guy, more than happy to wear his navy department tee to work. His dress
uniform had always been reserved for special events like the Winterfest Parade or
promotion ceremonies. But today he was wearing it for a different purpose.
Because today Jimmy would be laid to rest.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, he flipped the visor into
position and slowly emerged from his truck. The parking lot of Apalachicola Christian
Church was filled to capacity, forcing cars to line the narrow street in two
parallel rows along the road’s edges.

The entire town of Butler Island was here to say goodbye
and Randall had already spotted six fire engines from neighboring departments
parked amongst a sea of cars and over-sized trucks. He’d bet his next paycheck
that most of the firemen here had never clapped eyes on Jimmy Phillips when he
was alive, but then again that’s how the brotherhood worked. Firefighters
shared a unique bond and when one of their “brothers” passed, unexpectedly or
otherwise, the posse came together to pay their respects to one of their own.

Forging through the crowded parking lot, Randall pointed
his work boots toward the heavy wood doors at the front of the church, anxious
and hesitant over his final goodbye.

Jimmy’s parents greeted arriving guests as they entered
the historic brick building, exchanging polite, yet trivial, pleasantries.
After all, what does one say to a grieving loved one?

How’ve you been
?—or—
Did you catch the game last night
?—somehow
seemed inappropriate.

Today would prove to be a day chocked full of hurdles,
and as Randall stepped under the threshold he conceded that this moment was
only the first of many.

“Randall”, Mrs. Phillips acknowledged as he stepped
forward. She placed the palms of her hands on either side of his face and
focused her watery orbs on his. “It’s good to see you”, she uttered earnestly.

Randall opened his mouth, only to shut it moments later.
Mrs. Phillips had lost her son—she was but an hour away from witnessing his
casket being lowered into the ground—
and she was happy to see him
?

By all accounts it should’ve been him—today the crowd
should’ve been gathered for Randall’s funeral. Not Jimmy’s.

His eyes skimmed over her features searching for contempt,
anger, disgust. But ironically there was no trace of blame on her distraught
face.

Only appreciation and… love.

“You, too”, he managed feebly. Suddenly uncomfortable
with her praise, he stepped back out of her reach, offering Mr. Phillips his
hand. Jimmy, Sr. firmly shook, placing his free hand on Randall’s shoulder.
Unable to find his voice Randall tilted his head once in a hard nod and then
set his sights on his fellow brothers already seated in the packed church.

On wobbly legs, he drifted down the single aisle toward
the front of the crowded room, his eyes briefly landing on Lana’s ghostly-pale
face. Her eyes were tired and sunken and red, and she appeared to be several
pounds thinner than she had been days earlier, her black dress hanging loosely
on her small frame. The moment her gaze landed on Randall her eyes quickly
averted to the young man standing beside her: her five-year-old son, Conner.

He was dressed in his Sunday best: A pair of navy
trousers and a matching navy vest, his sandy-blond hair gelled and spiked in
the front just like Jimmy’s.

“There you are—I saved you a seat”, Kendall uttered
softly as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Randall swaddled her body with his arms, feeling her
heave beneath his hands. And when he started to pull away she held him tighter.

“I can’t stop thinking about how this could’ve been you”,
she mumbled as her voice cracked. “When you left for the fire you were so upset
and—”

“Shhh.”

“The last few days have been a nightmare”, she whispered.

“I know.” That was putting it lightly.

The music faded as the preacher took to the podium,
signaling the beginning of the ceremony. Taking his hand, Kendall led Randall
to their seat along the second row, next to Ty and the rest of the department.

The preacher began by thanking the crowd on behalf of the
family—for the meals, beautiful flowers, heartfelt cards, and condolences.
Randall’s eyes traversed the front of the church, skimming over droves of
floral arrangements and wreaths in scores of color combinations flanking both
sides of the white casket. To the right, a wooden tripod showcased a large
picture of Jimmy, flashing his signature ear-to-ear grin, reminiscent of
happier times. And to the left lay Jimmy’s bunker gear, positioned as it would
be at the fire station, ready at a moment’s notice for him to put on.

Movement at the podium snagged his attention as the
preacher stepped aside, allowing Chief Handler to proceed with his prepared
eulogy. The man looked every bit the fifty-eight years he was as he nervously
shuffled his index cards. In fact, Randall inwardly acknowledged Chief had
probably aged another ten years in the last four days alone.

“How many ways can one praise a hero?” Chief Handler
began. “How many ways can one say ‘thank you’ for saving another’s life? The
truth is: there is no number. There aren’t enough sunrises and sunsets in this
lifetime.

“Jimmy Phillips loved being a firefighter. He joined our
department ten years ago at the age of nineteen, fresh from the academy and wet
behind the ears. The first year of any probie firefighter’s career is a rite of
passage: learning the procedures, training… and in Jimmy’s case: fine-tuning
his prank abilities.”

The guys from the department chuckled softly, recognizing
the playful side their fallen brother possessed.

“No doubt about it, he was a hardworking, levelheaded,
skilled firefighter with a particular fondness for practical jokes. In fact,
that’s how he earned the nickname
The
Joker
…”

Randall’s eye’s shifted toward the row in front of him
where Lana and Conner sat, bravely listening as Chief Handler praised Jimmy for
his service. Conner sat surprisingly still for a five-year-old, and he couldn’t
help but wonder if the boy fully grasped the concept that his daddy wasn’t
coming back. The thought sent a piercing jolt through his chest. Conner was
going to grow up without a father…

Damn it, Jimmy
.
Why couldn’t you be more selfish
?

Why did you have to push me out of the way
…?

“…There’s only one thing Jimmy loved more than his life
at the firehouse… and that was the two of you”, Chief uttered softly as he
turned his gaze toward Lana and Conner. “Let me assure you,
you
were the
loves of his life. His eyes shined bright when he spoke of the two of you…”

Randall allowed his gaze to settle on Lana as Chief
continued his heartfelt eulogy. From where he sat, he could see a portion of
her profile. Her stone-like, vacant expression gave nothing away. It was as if
her body was here, but her liveliness and vitality were gone—like her spirit
had died along with Jimmy.

Lana’s weary eyes bored into the glistening white casket
as if she could will Jimmy’s lifeless body to resurrect. Her long, light brown
hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and she wore a simple strand of
white pearls and matching stud earrings. She looked every bit of the grieving
widow she was.

A twenty-seven-year old widow…

Damn it!

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when his
eyes returned to the podium, Chief Handler was gone, replaced by the preacher
as he said a few words in closing.

Guess Lana wasn’t the only one that’d slipped into a daze
during the ceremony.

The preacher slowly abandoned the podium and descended
down three steps, wandering toward the side of the church embellished with
brilliant stained glass. There were a few moments of silence while he made the
transition and then the familiar sound of three musical tones, like the ones
heard at the fire station when dispatch alerted the department with an
emergency, came over the loud speaker.

“Last call…” The dispatcher began. “Last call for firefighter
James Phillips, Jr.”

Chief Handler’s voice came over the loud speaker.
“Firefighter Jimmy Phillips, Jr. has answered his last call and has entered
into eternal rest… He will be missed—”

“No!” Lana wailed as she covered her mouth, rocking back
and forth on the pew. “No! Please… d-don’t leave us!
No
!”

Hearing her desperate plea, her heartbreaking sobs, was
more than Randall could bear. This was his fault—he was the reason this woman
was experiencing unspeakable agony.

Randall was to blame.

Standing, he quickly stepped into the aisle, wiping his
palm down his face as he scurried toward the exit. There wasn’t a dry eye in
the room as Lana’s breakdown continued.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

Bursting through the heavy wood doors, his strong façade
cracked as the emotions from the previous four days rushed over him—through
him.

Damn it
,
Jimmy
…
It should have been me
…

A single hot, wet tear slid down his cheek as he climbed
into his truck and started the ignition. He needed to get away, needed to be
far from prying eyes.

Needed to grieve for his best friend on his own terms.
Alone.

Squealing out of the packed parking lot he glanced at the
gauges along the dash. He had a full tank of gas. Good. He’d head East on I-10.

His destination was unknown.

His return date: yet to be determined.

Chapter 3

Lana Phillips quietly closed Connor’s bedroom door, torn
between falling to bed in a heap of exhaustion, or enjoying the silent solitude
that followed tucking her five-year-old in bed.

Well, maybe “
enjoy
” was a bit of a stretch, and
the “
silent
solitude
” was anything but peaceful.

It’d been roughly five months since she’d buried her
husband. Five months since the weight of the world fell solely upon her
shoulders. There were bills to pay, groceries to purchase, school functions to
attend, and a myriad of other duties to perform. She was now a single parent—a
twenty-seven-year-old woman attempting to raise a boy into a man.

All by her lonesome.

Conner hadn’t quite adjusted to life without Jimmy. Guess
it was safe to say neither of them had.

She worried about her little boy. She tried to make extra
time for Connor, but that was problematic considering she was now assuming the
roles of both mommy
and
daddy.

Trudging into the kitchen, Lana snatched the bottle of
white zinfandel she’d opened last night from the fridge and filled her wine
glass half-full—or rather, half-empty. Yeah, that sounded better—sort of summed
up her life the last five months.

Half-empty.

Taking a sip of crisp wine, she drifted into the living
room. Jimmy was her high school sweetheart: her first boyfriend, her first real
kiss, her first…
everything
. He’d been a senior when they began dating,
Lana a freshman.

She still remembered every detail of the day they’d met.
She’d been walking down the crowded halls of Butler Island High when someone
had bumped into her from behind, causing Lana’s books and papers to scatter
recklessly along the speckled linoleum floor. Dodging droves of feet scurrying
by, she began gathering her belongings, aware that the delay would likely make
her late for her third period algebra class.

Unexpectedly, a good-looking blond with broad shoulders
and delicious milk chocolate eyes swooped down to her rescue.

“You all right?”

“Um, yeah… Just a little embarrassed, I guess.”

His laughter was warm, soothing—no hint of ridicule
what-so-ever. “Well, good to know even pretty girls like you get embarrassed
from time to time. Here you go”, he remarked as he handed her a stack of books.

“Thanks”, she uttered, rising to her feet. Mirroring her
movement he stood as well, his six-foot frame towering over her. It was then
she noticed his jersey. “You’re a football player”, she stated flatly.
Weren’t
jocks supposed to be mindless, arrogant assholes
?

“Did the jersey give me away?”

His tone was playful, unmocking. She regarded him warily,
silently for a stretch. They stood in the middle of the hallway, the crowd
bisecting around them as though Jimmy was Moses parting the Red Sea. His body
shielding her from another collision. Nervously she tucked her light brown hair
behind her ear and smiled. “I suppose. What position?”

“Receiver.”

“And that means…?”

He smiled. “I catch the ball; make touchdowns.”

“So you’re one of those guys that do those silly dances
in the end zone?”

“Why don’t you come to the game tonight and find out?” he
proposed.

And that’s precisely what she’d done. She’d sat in the
bleachers, chanting the Marlins to victory along with her peers. And when her
football hero caught the winning touchdown, he dropped the ball, celebrating
the team’s six-point gain with a spur-of-the-moment back flip.

The home crowd went wild as the band played a victorious
tune. And as he returned to the sideline, Jimmy’s milk chocolate gaze sought
and found hers. She couldn’t deny the shiver of excitement that’d surged down
her spine; his performance had been choreographed with her in mind.

Lana gained a boyfriend and encountered her first
real
kiss that evening. The rest was history.

Collapsing onto the weathered tan recliner Jimmy had
spent countless hours lounging in when he was alive, she took a gulp of white
zinfandel and sighed. She desperately needed a change. Everywhere she looked
she was accosted with memories of Jimmy and the promise of what might have
been.

In the beginning the familiarity of his belongings
brought an odd sense of comfort. Like he was away on shift at the fire station
(a very long shift) and was expected to return home at any moment. Sometimes,
after she’d put Connor to bed at night, she’d sit in this chair, listening for
the sound of Jimmy’s keys rattling… Of course, that’d never happened. Her
husband was buried in a white casket six-feet below ground.

He wasn’t coming back.

More than anything she wanted to wallow in her despair.
Wanted to curl up in a ball and cry until her body shriveled from dehydration.
But she couldn’t. She refused to surrender to the insanity nipping at her
heels. Connor had already lost his daddy; he didn’t deserve to lose his mommy,
too.

Glancing around the room, she conceded that the “change”
she so desperately needed had to begin with her environment. Maybe she needed
to purchase new furniture or redecorate. Yeah, that was a good place to start.

It was time to forge ahead with life on her own two feet.
Time to take charge as the head of the household. Time to cease her
procrastination.

Time to begin healing.

“Okay, let’s put your Spiderman mask on and then we’ll be
ready to go”, said Lana as she reached for the thin spandex material lying on
the coffee table. She carefully placed it over Connor’s head and fastened the
Velcro along the back. “There. Can you see?”

“I don’t gotta see good, Mommy; I can use my spider
sense”, he assured her.

Lana smiled at her little superhero. “You’re right—I keep
forgetting. Grab your trick-or-treat bag and let’s go.”

If it were up to her, she’d forego the whole
trick-or-treating thing altogether this year. She was more than happy to stay
in, stuff her face with buttered popcorn, and watch reruns of old scary movies.
Every time Lana left the house—for groceries, PTA meetings, for work—she was
bombarded with inquiries from nosy residents.

“
How’re you holdin’ up
?”, or “
How’ve you been
?”
or “
Can we do anything to help
?” became tiresome rather quickly.

She fully understood the repetitious questions, and the
concerned residents that fielded them, meant no malice. People were just
curious and were only trying to be nice. But just once she’d like to answer
truthfully, explain how she struggled to get out of bed every morning and
typically cried herself to sleep most nights.

That was one surefire way to end the curious
inquisitions.

As tempting as it was, she was raised to be polite. And
so she’d paste a grin on her face tonight as she accompanied Connor—ahem,
Spiderman
—through
the neighborhood, even if it killed her. Connor had lost so much this year
already; faced an unspeakable tragedy no child should have to endure. It was
past time for his childlike innocence to return.

Gripping her flashlight, Lana locked the front door,
making sure her fake smile exuded cheerfulness, strength, and confidence.
“C’mon, Spiderman, let’s save the city’s supply of candy from the evil Green
Goblin.”

“Yeah!”

The radiant sun burned a path in the sky, leaving vibrant
hues of violet, coral, and magenta in its wake, another twenty minutes and the
colorful heavens would be replaced by inky darkness.

They’d been at it for well over an hour, Spiderman’s bag
practically bursting at the seams with enough candy and chocolate to last until
next Halloween. They really needed to head back home; Connor still needed a
bath and Lana desperately needed to lose her shoes.

“Mommy, look!” Connor shouted excitedly as he pointed
toward the black Ford F-150 up ahead.

So the rumors were true
…
Randall was back
.

“Can we go say hi?”

“I don’t know, Connor. We really need to head ba—”

“Please? I’ll be real quick! Pretty please?”

“All right, fine”, she conceded softly.

Lana’s heart hammered against her chest, the swooshing
sound of her rapid pulse blaring in her ears. With knees aquiver, she climbed
the front porch steps as Connor eagerly pounded on the front door. Swallowing
hard, Lana braced herself. She hadn’t seen Randall since the funeral—hadn’t
spoken to him since the night she’d learned of Jimmy’s accident.

Refusing to return to that dark memory, she pushed it
aside. “Connor, honey, I don’t think he’s home.”

“But his truck’s in the driveway”, he whined.

Lana sighed. “Well, maybe he rode into town with someone,
or maybe he’s inside sleeping.”

“Grown-ups don’t go to bed this early, Mommy. And I
really,
really
wanna show him my costume! Can I knock again?—just one
more time—please?” he begged.

She hadn’t seen her son this excited since he found the
golden egg during Butler Island’s annual Easter egg hunt. Every year one golden
egg was strategically hidden along the boardwalk and the person lucky enough to
find it was first in line to meet the Easter Bunny.

Truthfully she wanted to run as far away from this house
as possible—not because she was angry with Randall. She knew it wasn’t his
fault Jimmy had died. No, her reasons for running had to do with her
embarrassing reaction to his death: specifically the part where her right palm
had struck Randall’s dirt-smudged cheek.

“One more time and then we have to go.”

Connor pounded on the door with both fists and then took
a step back, fidgeting while he waited for the door to swing open. But that
never happened.

“See?—he’s not home. C’mon, we have to go now.”

“Okaaay”, he acquiesced, hanging his head as he descended
down the porch steps. “I just really wanted to show-off my costume.”

“I know, honey. Maybe we can get the pictures developed
this weekend and you can show it to him. What do you think about that?”

Connor nodded listlessly as they traveled down the
sidewalk toward their home four streets over. She hated seeing him like
this—especially when he’d been in such great spirits earlier in the evening.

Her son adored Randall. And now that he was obviously
back in town, it was past time to apologize for her erratic behavior. Connor
had lost his father; she didn’t want him to lose Randall, too.

Randall removed his fingers from the wooden blind slats
and drew in a deep breath. He’d lost track of how many times he’d heard a knock
on his door tonight. So what possessed him to peek through his blinds this
time?—he hadn’t a clue. But when he’d separated the wood slats with his
fingertips, the image of Lana, and who he presumed was Connor dressed as
Spiderman, accosted the segment of his heart ravaged with grief. His heart was
damaged, forever tarnished with sadness and guilt. But one look at Lana and
Connor standing on his front porch had him feeling emotions he hadn’t felt in
months. A twinge of hope blossomed in his tainted chest as he peered through
the window pane, his body frozen as the unfamiliar sensation flickered light
into his dark existence.

He’d stood speechless, motionless—his legs heavy as
though his shoes were constructed of concrete. Randall hadn’t seen Lana and
Connor since the funeral, since the day he’d hurriedly fled the congregation of
grieving beings in route to his truck. That day seemed like a lifetime ago.

He’d pointed his Ford F-150 East along I-10, spending his
five-month leave-of-absence near Steinhatchee, a small Gulf coast community
located along Florida’s big bend. He’d rented a rundown motel room along the
river—the kind of place that offered rooms by the week, by the month, or in
some cases, by the hour. There wasn’t a lick of luxury in sight, but that
didn’t matter; its sole purpose was to provide a roof over his head, a bed to
lie on, and a bathroom to shower in every night.

Upon his arrival he’d visited the local marina and leased
a boat, haggling the owner down in price considerably. Randall’s routine didn’t
change much from day to day. He’d wake up before sunrise and grab what remained
of the Jack Daniels bottle from the night before, slowly winding down the river
until he reached Deadman Bay. Cautiously he’d maneuver his small vessel around
oyster beds until he was further into the Gulf, throwing his anchor overboard
to watch the sun peek over the horizon. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow
watching the sun rise, feeling the warmth of the rays as they touched his tan
skin felt… therapeutic. Like the streams of light flickered vivid color into
his somber soul.

Like Jimmy’s memory was shining down on him.

It sounded silly, really, now that he thought about it.
But that hadn’t stopped him from rising before the sun every morning to witness
the birth of a new day. It’d become as necessary and routine as brushing his
teeth—and he didn’t see that changing any time in the near future.