Uh-uh, no.
If Jimmy tries, Jack's not going to listen.
If Jimmy tries, it'll go like this: First, Jack'll laugh. Jimmy, man, you're a worrier, you always were. I got it covered. Have a brew, man.
And if Jimmy keeps on? If he says, No, Jack, it's true, I heard it?
Then Jack will mutter, Jimmy, what the fuck? This something Tom told you? I don't need this, I don't need my little brother looking out for me, you can tell Tom that, you're such good buddies. I'm cool, Jimmy, and my guys are cool, no way I'm crapping out on them. Tom and you, get off my back.
Because this is something Jimmy hasn't told Mike the Bear, but he knows: He's been getting on the wrong side of Jack lately.
Last week: Jesus, Jimmy, when'd you get to be such a straight arrow, you got that arrow stuck right up your ass. This when Jimmy orders a Coke at the Bird, because he's on duty in a couple hours. Jack says, One beer's gonna matter? Jimmy shrugs, nothing to say. Ah, Christ, Jack says, his face hard, as if Jimmy did say something and what he said pissed Jack off.
Or back in July, Jimmy on duty on the Fourth, he and the guys bring the rig to the pig roast so the kids can climb on it, play with the wheel, and make the siren scream; but they'll be leaving early, before the fireworks. Like the cops who close the street, have a quick sausage and pepper sandwich with Mike the Bear, and then have to go someplace important, the firemen will be out of here before the first fuse is lit.
What the fuck, Jimmy, says Jack, you used to like fireworks, all that shit exploding in the sky. He shoots Tom a glance. Tom shakes his head; he doesn't care, the firemen can go or they can stay, same thing to him. Used to be, when they were kids, Tom didn't care about something, Jack would say
So Jimmy knows when Mike the Bear says it's got to be
So he tells Big Mike he gets it, he tells Big Mike he'll think. And Big Mike, Mike the Bear, he says, Thanks, Jimmy. Mike the Bear says, That's great, I knew I could count on you.
So Jimmy thinks. He thinks how to do it: like this, like that. And now there's a way he can see.
He doesn't really like it. It's not his way, more like Tom's kind of way, something smart, almost sneaky.
But, Jimmy thinks: there's a good part of it, too, this way he sees. It solves another problem, at least it could help out.
Jimmy's spending more time at the firehouse these days, less hanging with the guys. This is one of the things that burns Jack up, though Jimmy's not sure why. But it's not Jack who's been on Jimmy's mind lately, weighing him down: it's Markie.
Mike the Bear, Tom, Jack, what they do, it's what they were born for. Like Jimmy was born for the truck, the ax, the flames. But not Markie. Those cars: engines and axles, filters and fuel gauges, grease and the smell of gasoline, Markie was born for those. You tell Markie your engine coughs, your steering pulls, maybe you even took the car three other places already but you leave it with Markie, you come back tomorrow and it's fixed. That's what Markie does, that's what's his.
That, and be a father to his son. You'd think Kevin was the first kid ever born, you saw Markie's eyes glow watching him, heard the excitement in his voice when he tells you Kevin said Mama, Kevin went backwards down the stairs, figured that out by himself! Yeah, that's the other thing Markie can do, be Kevin's dad.
But not be what Tom and Jack and Mr. Molloy are.
Jimmy and Tom, they talk about it sometimes, Jimmy worried about Markie, Jimmy knowing Tom and Big Mike won't let Markie in but Jack, he always got a kick out of Markie, always liked him hanging around. Tom knows, too, he tries to get Jack to cool it, but Jack's always saying Hey, Markie can think for himself.
Jimmy's seen the look on Markie, from the time they were kids he's seen Markie watching Jack, watching Tom.
Now, Jimmy knows it's not just Markie. In his earliest memories most of the kids want to be like Tom, want to know what to do, what to say, want to not feel stupid—or instantly, indisputably guilty—when a grown-up asks a question. It's not just that Tom can con the grown-ups when that's called for. It's more than that: it's that Tom feels entitled to try.
Another thing about Tom, he looks out for his friends and always did.
Not the way Jimmy looks out for Markie. That's a different thing. Jimmy doesn't remember how that started, just from the beginning Markie's always there, and somebody has to keep him from running into the street, has to help him climb down out of trees he's stuck in. Always, Markie's up for anything but he doesn't think ahead.
Ten years old, a Saturday at Jones Beach: some of the kids splashing on the shore, some swimming. Jack runs down the sand, dives into the waves. Jimmy's right behind. Markie laughs and runs after, though he can't swim. An extra big wave crashes over them. Jimmy's had swimming lessons at the Y; he tumbles, rolls, feels great, like when he's flying in his dreams. Bursts up through the water, shakes his head, and looks around. What he sees: Markie slipping under, Markie's arms waving, then gone.
Jimmy stares where Markie was, but it's just water, Markie doesn't come up. Jimmy dives. He doesn't have time to think any thoughts, but one comes anyway: Oh,
Jimmy gropes for Markie in the gray-green murk. He can't find him. But he's not scared. Every beam of sunlight that pushes through the water, every tug of the waves, they're all there to help him, he knows how to read them and use them. Left, turn left, turn left. He does, moves his arms through the water, Markie's there.
Then the waves, they're not helping anymore, like they're teasing, like it was a joke. But it's not funny, because Jimmy can't breathe. Straining, heart slamming, he swims with the arm that's not holding Markie, kicks his legs. He breaks the surface, gulps air. He swims more, more, then here's the beach. He half hauls, half throws Markie onto the sand, stumbles and falls down next to him. Both of them panting, they can't move. The ocean curls up around their ankles. There's sand in Jimmy's mouth, he coughs and chokes.
