Shakespeare’s Trollop

As my whole body would if the damn window… there! The lock gave, I reached down to grip the handles, and I heaved up with all my strength. The window, which I had expected to resist, flew up, and I almost lost my footing. I stuck my hand outward to feel, and encountered a screen. Crap.

I took a step back, lifted my leg, and let it fly. The screen popped out of the window like a cork from a bottle, and I said, between bouts of a hacking cough, “I’m going out first, and then I’m getting you over the sill, Joe C.”

He clung to me, still no more than part of the choking darkness, and I had to disengage his hands to swing my leg over the sill. Of course the bushes were thick underneath the window, and since the house was raised, the drop-off was at least a foot higher than I’d anticipated. I didn’t land square on my feet, but careened sideways, grabbing at branches so I wouldn’t end up on the ground. When my footing was stabilized, I turned and felt through the window until I had run my hands under both Joe C’s armpits.

“Hold on to my shoulders!” I urged him, and his bony claws dug into my skin. I put my left foot somewhat back to keep me steady, and I heaved. Because of the high window, the angle was bad; I was too short to get a good purchase. I gradually worked Joe C about halfway out the window. He began hollering. I took two steps back and heaved again, my shoulders in agony from the strain. More of the old man appeared on my side of the window. I repeated the whole process. But now Joe C began yelling in earnest. I craned over his back to see that his left foot remained hooked to the sill in some mysterious way.

I had a moment of sheer panic. I could not think for the life of me-for his life-how I was going to extricate him. Luckily, I didn’t have to solve the problem. There was commotion all around me now. I was never happier to see anyone in my life than the firefighter who pushed past me to unhook Joe C’s left foot and bring it out to join the rest of him. I staggered back under Joe C’s full weight, and instantly men were helping me to stand, whisking the old man over to ambulance.

They tried to load me in, too, but I resisted. I’m no martyr, but I can only afford minimal insurance, and I could manage to stand and walk.

I sat on the tailgate of the fire chief’s pickup while a couple of firefighters gave me oxygen, which felt sweet to my lungs. They checked me over; not a single burn. I reeked of smoke and didn’t think I would ever breathe easily again, but those were minor considerations right now. At least six firefighters told me how lucky I was. They also mentioned that I should have waited for their help in extricating Joe C. I just nodded; I think we all knew that if I’d waited, Joe C wouldn’t have had much of a chance.

When they were sure I was going to be all right, the two men who’d been tending to me went to help with the more exciting activity across the street. I didn’t know if they’d be able to put out the fire before the first floor collapsed, but it was clear Joe C was not going to get his often-stated wish of dying in his own home.

Gradually, though the hubbub around me continued, I was able to think about something other than how afraid I’d been. I was able to think about what I’d seen.

“You feeling better?” demanded a nasal voice.

I nodded without looking up.

“Then you want to tell me how you came to be here?”

My questioner was Norman Farraclough, Claude’s second in command. He was called “Jump” Farraclough, the result of a story I’d never completely understood. I’d encountered Jump several times. He always seemed to be holding any judgment about me in reserve until he’d observed me a little longer. Actually, that was pretty much the same way I felt about him.

Jump was a late-night weightlifter, when his shift permitted. He often arrived at Body Time just when I was leaving karate class. The assistant police chief had a sharp hooked nose, a tiny mustache, and a pumped body that looked awkward in his blue uniform.

The fire chief, Frank Parrish, holding his helmet by one strap, came to stand by Jump, and they both looked down at me with expectant faces.

I explained very slowly how I’d come to be passing Joe C’s house. Slowly, because not only was breathing still an act I wasn’t taking for granted, but also I wanted to be sure I didn’t make any error, any ambiguous statement, in what I was telling them. I told Jump and Frank about seeing someone in the yard, smelling the smoke, and finding the back door unlocked.

Jump’s face remained expressionless, but Frank was openly troubled by my story.

“Was it a man or a woman?” he asked when I’d come to the end.

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Which direction did he go in?”

“Towards the back of the yard, but there’s no fence back there. He could’ve gone anywhere after that.”

“And that back door was unlocked?”

I sighed, tried to keep it inaudible. “Yes.” It was the third time Frank had asked me.

“You work for Joe C, right?” Jump squatted down to my level to look me directly in the eyes. If this was supposed to be intimidating, it didn’t work.

“Yes.”

“You and him get along?”

“He’s a dirty old bastard,” I said.

And that shocked them, me saying out loud what everyone on God’s green earth already knew.

“But you went in to the house to get him?”

“Obviously I did.” Though I was beginning to regret it.

“That lot is worth a right smart piece of change,” Frank observed to the night air.

I had no response to that. I wanted to shower, to get the stink of smoke off me. I never wanted to smell it again.

“I’m going home.” I stood and began walking.

“Whoa, just a minute!” Jump got into step beside me. “Listen, lady, you ain’t got no privileges now, with your buddy gone.”

“You’re talking about your boss? The boss whose wedding I just attended? As his bride’s best friend?” This behavior wasn’t typical of me, but I was going to pull every string I could to get away from this fire, away from the old house and the smoke.

“Doesn’t cut any ice with me,” Jump stated, but I didn’t believe him.

“Your testosterone’s showing,” I told him. He glanced down before he could stop himself. “I saw a fire, I reported it like a good citizen, and I helped an old man escape death. You can make something suspicious out of that if you want, but I don’t think it’s gonna fly.” And I lengthened my stride, leaving him standing and staring after me with baffled irritation on his shadowed face.

Chapter Eight

I slept late the next day. I must have punched down my alarm button without even knowing it, because when I finally checked the clock, I saw that I was supposed to be at my first Saturday morning cleaning job. I left my bed unmade, my breakfast uneaten, and arrived at Carrie’s office barefaced and groggy. There was no one there to see me in any condition at all, so I accelerated my pace and got her office finished, then scooted over to the travel agent’s.

I’d gotten my adrenaline pumping so effectively that I actually finished early. When I got home I collapsed at my kitchen table, trying to figure out what the rest of the day held. My Saturdays were usually spent grocery shopping and cleaning my own place. I tried to recall what else I had going.

Well, there was Deedra’s funeral. Janet was coming by within the hour to accompany me to that. Then Bobo was coming over for some unstated purpose. And I still had to shop and clean since Jack was driving in tomorrow.

All I wanted to do was sleep, or rent a movie and sit in a silent lump on my double recliner to watch it. But I hoisted myself to my feet and went to the bathroom for a hot shower.

When Janet thumped on my front door forty-five minutes later, I was in my black suit, made up, with hose and pumps making me feel like a stranger to myself. I had just completed my makeup, and as I opened the door to her,