THERE WAS THE SMELL of smoke and Mrs. Garcia sitting on the sidewalk across the street and ambulances and fire trucks parked everywhere with their lights still flashing and rescue workers milling about, some of them looking like they were still trying to rescue people, others standing around, talking into walkie-talkies, pointing fingers. I don’t know if you can say Mrs. Garcia was in shock or not. She was pulling on the sleeves of her pink sweatshirt and twisting her feet into the pavement. My wife said she saw her spitting, like she had accidentally swallowed something she wasn’t supposed to, like maybe she was trying to spit out the fire somehow. I didn’t see the spitting, but maybe that’s what it means to be in shock. Maybe that’s part of it.
None of the neighbors congregating together on both sides of the street or the rescue workers milling about said that it was twisted and fucked-up and ironic that a fireman’s house caught fire, that a fireman’s son winds up dying in that fire and that same fireman was off somewhere else trying to save someone else when it all went up. At least I didn’t hear anyone say that. I doubt anyone was thinking it, either.
Frank Garcia, the fireman, isn’t my friend. He belongs to a long list of neighbors here who aren’t friends. I can’t say I like him or that I don’t like him and I can’t say that it bothers me. I don’t think I belong here, in this community, but I’m doing what I can, what’s expected. Everyone here wears golf shirts tucked into Bermuda shorts, and boat shoes. Everyone here drinks domestic beer from cans and has procreated at least once. They drive tanks, shuttling children to school to camp to hockey to soccer to arts and crafts to the mall.
So I know who Frank Garcia is, have seen him do all of this, but I haven’t told him anything about myself, haven’t asked him a real question. I don’t care and I can’t bring myself to care, even though maybe I’m supposed to care, seeing that now that I am an adult and part of a community. I haven’t told him I’m not sure about this parenting business, that maybe there are enough people in the world already. I haven’t even told my wife this yet. Instead, I keep saying I’m not sure, keep saying maybe one day soon.
But Garcia and I, we’ve never had a conversation beyond the weather or sports. I watched his son, Carlos, grow up from the kitchen window, saw him play stick-ball in the street, trick-or-treating on Halloweens, walking home from school. He seemed like a good kid, if you can tell that sort of thing from the kitchen window.
We’ve never had any problems with the Garcias. Occasionally they’d have his firehouse buddies over and they’d carry on for longer than necessary. We can hear them late into the night two or three times a year, but always on a weekend, so it never seems too obnoxious, never a real problem. I’ve never had to go over there and talk to him about his parties, about his tank, about anything.
My wife says she’s never talked much with Mrs. Garcia, either. She says she seems like a good person. I want to ask her what that means, but I don’t. I want to say that anyone can seem like a good person, that everyone in this neighborhood seems like a good person, but that certainly can’t be the case. I’m sure if one were to overhear what these good people talk about, one would draw other conclusions. My wife is good with people, is better at thinking the best of them, better at talking than I am. My wife says Mrs. Garcia is a schoolteacher, third grade, and she’s involved in local politics. She’s knocked on the door, looking for contributions.
I’ve never told my wife, but one time I saw Mrs. Garcia naked. This was before they replaced that short rail fence with the stockade one. I was mowing the lawn and she came out of their pool without a bathing suit. She must’ve been in her own world because I was right there across from her, plain as milk, next to the lawn mower. I hate mowing the lawn, but this is what I mean about doing what’s expected, my part. There’s certain shit you have to do if you’re stupid enough to buy a house out here. You have to cut grass. You have to shovel snow. You have to answer the door when it rings, though I don’t always do that. You have to rake leaves, but this is where I draw the line. There’s nothing so fucking pointless as raking leaves. At some point I might try to hire someone to take care of the yard year-round, when we’re a little better off, when it comes time to have our own children.
