A Question of Will Read online

  "Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen... twenty..."

  Paul grimaced, his body in agony. It wasn’t vanity that drove him. What Paul sought was deeper, more amorphous. Pulling himself up each time, mental knives driving through his torso, Paul felt a pain infinitely preferable to the devastation that awaited each waking moment. When the endorphins kicked in, nerve-endings numbed into obedience by repetition, he simply pushed harder, upped the number, drove himself to the brink of exhaustion.

  Control.

  The numbers blurred, ran together, became meaningless markers extending into oblivion. A dark cloud rippled in his mind’s eye, threatening to overtake him. A crazed heartbeat before blackout Paul fell back, let the waves of release wash over him. He was spent.

  Only then might he hope to sleep.

  Paul sat up, looked at his surroundings. The basement had always been his sanctum, the one part of the house he had always set off for himself. When they’d first bought the place, Julie had been more than happy to make the concession: it was frankly, and almost literally, a pit. A poured concrete floor, raw cinder block walls, exposed ceiling staring up at the kitchen subfloor, pipes, boiler, furnace, and dirt. Not exactly a going concern.

  But that was before Paul got a hold of it. Over the years he had painstakingly tweaked and fiddled with it, transforming raw space into a finished and funky place to hang, guy-style. A false wall had been constructed, separating the boiler and furnace from the room proper. The floors and walls were covered and paneled via a connection he had with Big Bobby’s Karpet Kingdom after they’d saved it from becoming Bobby’s big burnt livelihood; Big B had sworn eternal gratitude, plus ten percent above cost. The resulting paneling was real wood, not fake cheesoid Home Depot crap; the subfloor state of the art, the floor tile some new polymer hybrid that could take a licking and keep on ticking, and all on a fireman’s budget.

  Shelves on the back wall rimmed a prodigious workbench, where Paul worked downtime magic on electrical appliances and assorted other pet projects. A huge black metal rack housed his old stereo components and the manly speakers with fifteen inch subwoofers that Julie had steadfastly refused to allow in the living room, instead favoring a compromise of small, tasteful Polk Audios that sounded just as good but without trashing the décor. A set of cabled Sony headphones hung over the top of his big black velour recliner, which was hugely comfortable but similarly consigned to the testosterone-ridden hinterlands, along with his black hi-tech halogen reading light.

  And then, there were the books: virtually every volume he had ever laid hands on since birth, a lifetime of accrued knowledge: neatly packed and stacked into handbuilt floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, completely lining three of the four walls. There were hundreds, even thousands of titles, ranging from history to how-to books to philosophy, from science fact to science fiction, plus an assortment of thrillers, horror and mysteries.

  Paul was not an educated man by any traditional definition; indeed, it was all he could do to graduate from the lemming-like assembly line of high school, where success was measured less by intelligence than by the ability to follow orders. And college, once a distant dream for a working class lad without benefit of scholarship or trust fund, had quickly become a forgotten one as the grim Darwinism of life in the real world kicked in. But none of that precluded him educating himself, and that he had done with determination: reading voraciously, constantly trying to open his own mind to new ways of thinking. He read for passion and pleasure as well as edification, often five or six at one time, tagging and forth, channel-surfing the printed page.

  It was more than habit, more like way of life, and it filtered into every aspect of his world. Where some guys got ties on Christmases and birthdays, Paul got bookmarks. And whenever he was on a call, he would instinctively note the presence -- or more often the absence -- of books, in the homes of those he served. It was usually the latter, and though lacking in the extra flammable material, the bookless homes seemed incrementally more emotionally scorched: more domestic calls, more pointless tragedy. He didn’t know why.

  All he knew was that his basement contained worlds within worlds, and he had always relished the time he spent there. It was a passion he had shared with Kyra, who had in turn become an avid reader herself, actually teaching herself to read, a year before she had entered preschool. Paul remembered her sitting in his lap, her curly hair tickling his nose as she sounded out the caption to a Time-Life Science series photo caption with four year-old determination that both amazed and astounded him. That had happened in this very room.

  And now, it meant nothing.

  ~ * ~

  Paul dragged himself up the stairs, padded through the darkened house. It was cold upstairs, a vague draft from the dormer window at the end of the hall making his flesh prickle and crawl. As he creaked up to the second floor landing he purposely avoided looking at the door to Kyra’s room, sealed sarcophagus tight. He shuddered as he passed it, as yet unable to face the emptiness there.

  Julie lay sleeping in the master bedroom; buried under the covers, she seemed very small. Paul’s regimen was just one more irony in the grand scheme of things; in the wake of things, her own had evaporated to nothingness. She drifted from day to night to day again, the emotional cauterization of grief flattened by the psychiatric cocktail of Valium and Prozac which she took at alternating intervals -- mood levelers and antidepressants. Pharmaceutical communion. Better living through chemistry.

  Paul sat on his side of the bed, which was uncharacteristically expansive. In happier times, he would have retired only to find Julie sprawled well across the imaginary dividing line that demarcated his from hers, tumbleweeds blowing across the vacant plain of her side, with only a jumper’s-ledge worth of sleeping space on his. He would curl into her huddled warmth and gently push her into an equitable middle ground, until their bodies melded together in intimate familiarity. He bitched about it every other day, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was weirdly endearing.

  But this, too, had deserted them, along with every other semblance of normalcy. As he slid between the sheets she stirred and moved away.

  He wondered if she would ever come back again.

  ~ * ~

  Six o’clock, Tuesday morning. All quiet at Rescue One. The night shift snoozed upstairs, a nasal concerto. Downstairs in the kitchen, a timer clicked; hot water burbled through the battered Mr. Coffee maker, making a horrible sucking noise. One of the night shift crew, Andy Vasquez, was sitting in a chair by the big work table: feet up, head tilted back, a rumbling snore emanating from his powerfully compact form. A baseball cap perched on his buzzed black hair, the brim pulled low to touch the tip of his nose. A copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine splayed across his chest, open to an article on Navy Seals. Andy was a jovial, good natured Puerto Rican in his forties, an ex-military man from Sunset Park who did two tours in Nam as a Ranger; if you added up all his mission stories it seemed he was there for one hundred and twenty years.

  The front door clicked and opened; Andy stirred, sat up. Magazine and cap slid off and hit the floor. He bent to retrieve them, then looked up, surprised.

  "Paulie," he said, accent thick Brooklynese. "What are you doing here?"

  "Working," Paul said. "What does it look like I’m doing here?" Paul peeled off his bomber and slung it on the rack, revealing his work blues. He went to the duty desk, scanned the teletype. "Slow night?"

  "Dead," Andy replied, instantly regretted it.

  Paul said nothing, just moved toward the coffee maker and poured himself a steaming cup. The coffee maker hitched and sucked like a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup. Paul paused in mid-pour. His hand trembled.

  Andy sat up, shaking off sleep. "So you back on rotation?"

  "Half shifts," Paul said. His hand stopped shaking. "Problem?"

  "No," Andy said. "I’m just -- we just didn’t figure to see you so soon. Thought maybe, you know," he fumbled, "thought maybe you’d wanna take some time."
/>   Paul finished pouring, turned to the firefighter.

  "Thanks," he said. "But what I really need is to get back to work, ya know?" Paul gave him a tired smile. "Don’t worry, I’m good. Department shrink even said so."

  Andy looked at him and nodded. He’d seen enough death in his day, even before the job, to know that everybody took it a little differently. Some guys ran from it. Some faced it down and fought. And some needed to just ruck up and carry on.

  Paul moved between Andy and the wall, carrying his mug, heading for the truck bay. Andy called out softly as Paul reached the door.

  "Hey, Paulie? We’re all real sorry for your loss," Andy said

  Paul nodded. "Me, too."

  ~ * ~

  Paul stood in the bay, clipboard in hand, meticulously checking his gear. Oncoming shift duties: place coat, boots, helmet, mask in assigned positions; check air tank, flashlight, charge radio battery; check assigned and sundry tools -- mini-Haliburton, axe, pike pole, bolt cutters, tin snips, clamps, d-rings and ropes.

  Check.

  Paul opened the metal side compartments on the rig, pulled out the saws and power tools, the big nutcracker vise-like Jaws of Life, made sure everything was gassed up and good to go. He fired up each piece and revved the throttles. Motors blatted harsh in the cavernous space, like angry animals fighting in a cave. Paul shut them down and stowed them back.

  Check.

  He climbed into the back of the truck, grabbed his medbox and the portable defibrillator unit from their resting places in the stainless steel confines. Paul hauled them down, made his way to the back of the bay, where a narrow steel cage stood, secured by a padlock. Inside stood an old wooden table and a locked steel supply cabinet. The table had just enough room for the two defibs -- one onboard, one spare, hooked to its charger. Paul unlocked the gate and entered, racking the one he was carrying and plugging it in, then pulling the second one free. He flipped it on, saw the power meters surge. Full charge.

  Check.

  The routine was long practiced, oddly comforting. Its ordered familiarity put him on autopilot, helped take his mind off the fact that every breath he took felt like inhaling ground glass. Paul shut the fresh defib unit down, then turned to the locked metal cabinet.

  Inside resided the house’s secret stash -- ampules and pills, assorted painkillers, pharmaceutical samples tendered to docs at the hospitals they serviced. Paramedics and emergency medical technicians were legally not allowed to administer drugs, but everyone in the frontline trenches of human suffering knew from experience that pain sometimes needed to be suppressed, and well before the patient arrived at the ER gates. So with a wink and a nod, various sympathetic physicians looked the other way or surreptitiously provided that which bureaucracy could not.

  There was an inventory sheet in the cabinet. Paul grabbed a few ampules and vials, noted the withdrawal, then packed them in the bottom of the medbox. As he closed the lid, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a vial of little blue and white pills. The label read, SECONAL SODIUM 50 MG. PULVUL., and beneath in tiny computer printout, TO COMBAT TENSION, NERVOUSNESS, SLEEPLESSNESS AND ANXIETY. Paul sighed. A bit more heavy duty than Valium, to be sure. But this was a heavier than normal situation.

  Grief counseling with the Department shrink was standard procedure after a really bad death on the job, and though this was a bit of a gray zone, Battalion Chief Davie had thought it best Paul go and get checked out. This he had done, pro forma, dutifully logging his emotional wreckage for the Powers That Be. The shrink was a fiftyish pinhead named Weinstein, who had probed his defenses with clinical aplomb -- are you eating? Sleeping? Having nightmares? -- then went on to explain, with some vaguely new agey verbiage, how it was okay to feel bad when bad things happened to good people.

  Paul nodded obediently, innately sensing the session was less for his benefit than theirs -- the city feared public servants going postal -- and more like probing his defenses for hidden tripwires than actually seeking to ease his suffering. He’d said all the right things at all the right places, walked out with a clean bill of health and a scrip for sedatives, to ease him through sleepless nights. Additional psychological counseling was both offered and recommended; he’d said he’d think about it.

  Paul now looked at the vial in his hand. Sleep had mutated in the days since Kyra’s funeral: a cold descent into nothingness when wakefulness became too black to bear, then popping out like a pilot hitting the ejector seat when the dreams became too brutal to endure. And the dreams -- the ones he hadn’t shared with the estimable Dr. Weinstein -- were always the same...

  A burning building. Poisonous smoke. The sound of his own heartbeat. Regulator hiss. The fire was in there somewhere, lurking in the blackness, feeding, growing stronger. He came to a doorway, locked, stuck shut. The fire crackled in the background. He could feel its presence. He forced the door open...

  On the floor, the woman, huddled, fetal. He reached down, rolled her over, saw the small form hidden beneath her. But as he scooped up the tiny bundle, he heard her voice.

  "Daddy...?"

  Heart pounding, Paul looked at the woman on the floor -- it was Kyra: face smudged black with soot, eyes open, milky. Her face tilted toward him, a thin trickle of blood oozing from her lips...

  "Daddy...?"

  Paul snapped back: to reality, the cage, the bay, the firehouse now stirring to life. From the ready room he heard men’s voices, muted strains of conversation, laughter. It was six forty five, and the relief shift was starting to arrive. A new day dawning.

  Paul shuddered. He had to get a grip, somehow. He looked at the pills, thought, not like this.

  Control.

  Paul placed them on the shelf, and closed the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  The house was dark as Paul arrived home, cold November sun sinking in the sky. Julie’s car was gone, the garage yawning like an empty mouth. Paul felt a stab of irrational anxiety twist in his belly -- she should be home. Where was she? Was she safe? He moved up the walk, went to unlock the back door... then noticed it was already unlocked.

  Paul’s hackles instantly rose. He opened the door, stepped inside. The house was still, lifeless.

  "Julie? I’m home."

  No answer. He called again, louder.

  "Jule?"

  Spock poked his head around the corner, loped up to him. "Spock, where’s Julie?" he said, felt instantly stupid. The dog just stood, head down, stumpy tail wagging. Paul petted him perfunctorily and let him out into the yard, then moved into the kitchen.

  He surveyed the room; sans Julie’s mom, it had descended into post-traumatic disarray. Pots and pans covered the stovetop; dirty dishes clogged the sink, the faucet leaking a steady drip drip drip. Paul tightened down the knob, saw a juice glass broken amidst forgotten crumb-strewn plates. He picked up the shards, turned toward the trash can by the fridge. As he bent to raise the lid he came eye-to-eye with Kyra’s smiling yearbook picture. Paul glanced away.

  He made his way through the hall, headed up the creaky wooden stairs. The top floor, too, was eerily quiet. Paul passed by guest room, bathroom, down the hall to their bedroom, saw the big brass bed rumpled and unmade, empty... then turned back. Only then did he dare pause and look at the door to Kyra’s room.

  The door was closed, had been so since the night she left. Privacy was a big thing in the Kelly house, particularly for Paul in a house full of women -- he’d learned early on to knock before entering, and wait for permission before venturing further. Kyra always closed the door to her sanctum sanctorum, and responded with nothing short of full blown theatrics should that sanctity be breached. But adolescent boundaries notwithstanding, Paul had re-learned the hard way, some months back, when he’d unceremoniously popped his head through the door ...

  It was dinnertime, and she was up in her room, Alanis Morissette blasting on her boombox. The food was getting cold, and he’d called three times -- twice from the kitchen, once from the foot of the stairs. Finally, annoyed, he�
�d bounded up, knocked once, then thrown open the door...

  ...only to find his daughter clad in panties and a baby tee, standing sideways before the mirror, looking at herself: hands tracing the contours of her belly, her willowy form surprisingly verdant, graceful legs and breasts and hips having somehow and dramatically crossed that imperceptible line between girl and woman...

  ...and Paul gulped as Kyra screamed that piercing cry unique to teenaged girls that arcs into registers only dogs can hear, and Paul beat as hasty a retreat as he could possibly muster...

  ...and she sulked all through dinner, wounded and affronted. Julie was sympathetic, assuring Kyra that Paul didn’t mean to embarrass her while shooting him a bemused look that said, that’ll learn ya. Paul murmured mortified apologies and generally felt like hell. But it wasn’t until they talked later that night that she really nailed him. Again he fumbled apologies -- but this time Kyra met his gaze, and said, very simply: Dad, a closed door is closed for a reason...

  Paul stood before her door now. A closed door is closed for a reason. This one had reasons in abundance -- her room had become part crypt, part shrine: untouched, unexamined. His hand hovered at the knob. Suddenly Julie’s voice sounded beside him.

  "What’re you doing?"

  Paul’s heart skipped a beat; he turned to see his wife, standing at the head of the stairs. She was still in her coat and scarf, looking as surprised to see him as he was to see her. "Nothing," he said, hand recoiling, then added, "You weren’t here..."

  "I was out," Julie replied, then turned and headed down the stairs. Paul followed her into the foyer. "The back door was unlocked," he said.

  "Mmmm," Julie monotoned tiredly, slipping out of her coat and hanging it on the rack. No explanation was forthcoming. Paul caught a glimpse of a piece of paper protruding from the pocket of her coat, then watched as Julie moved away from him, into the kitchen. He followed; saw her pour a glass of wine from a half-opened bottle on the counter. Her movements were vacant, distracted. "How was work?" she asked absently, gazing at the middle distance, at nothing.