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Before going in, Bobby stood at the door, took in big cleansing breaths, and then lowered his nose to sample the air. Even though he couldn’t smell anything, he knew the odor was there, hanging around him like shreds of an old garment. After standing still and savoring another moment of peace, he opened the door and went inside.

Marcy sat leafing through a catalog. She’d already cleared the table except for a plate and silverware in front of his chair.

“Stuff’s in the fridge,” she said.

“Yep.”

“You’ll have to reheat it.” She continued flipping pages as he unlaced his boots.

“You stink,” she said and covered her face with her hand.

Without answering, he walked into the bedroom to change his clothes. He hadn’t even pulled his shirt over his head before she appeared in the doorway.

“I thought you were getting out at five,” she said, cradling her swollen stomach.

“Got called to a fire.” He threw his shirt into the hamper.

“I know. I can smell you. What do you do, stand right in the smoke?”

He took off his pants then sat on the bed and reached for his socks.

She asked, “So what are you going to do?”

He dropped his hands in his lap, slouched, and looked at her, waiting for her to continue. But she didn’t. Finally he asked, “About what?”

“You know what. About that wood burner. Did you call Mark and tell him you don’t want it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think it’s a good idea. You’re the one who doesn’t want it.”

“No, I don’t. Those things are dangerous. What if Jeffrey gets hurt? If it doesn’t work right, it could burn the house down.”

“No one’s going to get hurt. It’s a wood burner. I have a guy to install the ductwork. He’s a professional. Plus we’ll save a ton of money.”

“I don’t care. It’s not coming into this house. Period.” She lingered in the doorframe, looking at him, and then carried herself away down the hall.

After throwing his socks at the hamper he whipped his wallet against the dresser and watched it fall to the floor like a wounded bird.

When he came out, she had already reheated the food, set it on the table and was pouring a glass of milk. Bobby washed his hands at the kitchen sink and sat down to eat. A steady cry grew louder in his son’s bedroom. She sighed. He started to get up.

“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “Go ahead and eat.”

He hesitated.

“Go on and eat.” She set a glass of milk in front of him then waddled down the hallway and opened a door. Her talking and Jeffrey’s crying merged behind the wall.

Sometimes he wondered how much of her day she spent resenting him because he didn’t have to carry a baby inside him for nine months and then allow himself to be split open in order to give birth to it. It wasn’t fair, even though that’s the way it was and he couldn’t do anything about it. He started eating before his food got cold again, chewing slowly and listening.

The door shut and she came out of the hallway. He stopped chewing and watched her.

She leaned on the back of a dining room chair to rest. She looked at him. “What?”

He shook his head and returned to his plate. She pulled the chair back and sat down, fitting the belly between herself and the table, and sampled from each dish with a fork.

“He sick again?” Bobby asked, keeping his eyes on his plate.

“He’s running a temp.”

He cut a piece of ham. They ate in silence for awhile.

“How you feeling?” he asked through clenched teeth, feeling as though speaking each syllable required the entire contents of his lungs.

“How do you think I’m feeling?”

He stabbed another piece of meat, dripping some juice on the table. They negotiated another long silence of clinking and chewing and breathing. Voices cut in and out of the static on the radio clipped to his belt. Her fork clattered on the table.

“Will you please turn that thing off? For once, I’d like to eat in peace. Is that too much to ask?” She was quiet for a moment and then continued, “I wish you’d get rid of it altogether.”

He looked at her and said, “If you want any damn dinner at all, I’m going to have to keep this thing whether you like it or not.”

“You already have a job–one that pays.”

“It ain’t enough and you know it. Pretty soon, we’re gonna have another mouth to feed and that sorry-ass job ain’t gonna fill it. How many times do we have to go over this?”

“Did you leave work early again to go put out your fire?”

His jaws tightened, nostrils flared.

“Scott’s going to fire you if you keep doing this.”

“No he’s not. I’m the best worker he’s got.” Before she could ask how he knew, he continued, “I’m pretty much the assistant manager.”

“Yeah, except for the title and the raise that comes with it.”

He forked more macaroni into his mouth.

“I’m just saying he’s going to get fed up with you cutting out early all the time to put out ditches and dumpsters.”

His elbows hit the table and he leaned forward. “I know it doesn’t make a shit-bit of difference to you, but he understands how important firefighting is to me. He knows I don’t plan on working at Grandma’s Chicken for the rest of my life. What about you? Do you know that?”

“You know firefighting is dangerous, but you still have to go out and be a superhero with the guys when you have a family right here to worry about saving.”

“Well, it’ll pay a hell of a lot better than what I got now.”

“And when will that be? The bank isn’t going to wait until all your little dreams come true before they take the house away.”

“Tryouts are coming up. If I don’t volunteer, I don’t have a chance.”

Her face soured. He pushed his tongue between his teeth and bit. They sat in silence.

“You do whatever you want.” Tears rose in her eyes as she struggled away from the table and went into the bedroom.

After eating, he pulled on his boots and laced them up. He stood to find her pouting at the end of the hallway, holding her belly with one hand and wiping tears with the other. He stuffed a pair of work gloves into his back pocket.

“So you’re going to get that burner anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am.” He reached for the door.

“Why?”

“Do we have to do this right now?”

“Then when are we going to do this? Just give me one good reason you need that thing.”

“Better yet,” he said. “I’ll give you the same two I gave you before: It’s free, and it’s a lot cheaper to heat the house this way. I thought you were so worried about the mountain of bills my puny checks can’t pay.”

She stood holding herself, and tears poured from her lids as she looked at the floor and whispered, “Fine.”

Bobby walked out the door, got into his truck, and sped away.

When Bobby drove up, Mark was standing in the garage, as usual, thumb tucked in his belt and a can of beer pouring into his mouth. He overshot the driveway by a few feet and then backed up to the garage, stopping the bumper inches from Mark’s belt buckle. He got out and caught the can of beer Mark tossed at him.

“What’s happening, Bobby boy?” Mark was a hulking man, bald–first by nature, then by choice–who also volunteered. Eight years older, he was like Bobby’s older brother.

“Nothing.” Bobby popped the can and pulled a long first drink. “So where is this hog?”

Mark showed him the massive black iron heart of a wood burner with exhaust pipes reaching out like silver arteries. Bobby whistled and asked how heavy.

“You don’t even want to know.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Wear your jockstrap?” Mark said, and sipped his beer.

“Don’t need one.” Bobby put a hand on his hip. “Already got my balls in a sling.”

“Uh oh, old lady mad at you again?”

He explained how she didn’t want the wood burner because she was afraid that Jeffrey might get hurt.

Mark screwed up his face. “It ain’t a hobby horse, man. The kid ain’t gonna be climbing all over it like a jungle gym, is he?”

“Well, hell no. He ain’t gonna get near it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You know how it is, man. Once she gets an idea in her head, there’s no reasoning with her. She’s right, and that’s that.”

“Oh, I know, buddy. Believe me, I know. Put up with that shit for six years. Just couldn’t take it anymore.”

They inspected the burner. Bobby opened the hatch, looked inside and sniffed. The blackness was palpable, thick with the smell of stale smoke.

“So you still want it?” Mark asked, knocking on the thick iron gut.

Bobby stood, finished his beer, then hefted his belt and said, “Sure do.”

“Good deal. I don’t care what you do with it–just don’t bring it back here.”

With purple faces and shivering muscles they loaded the wood burner onto Bobby’s truck. While they were still panting, both their pagers went off. They looked at each other and then checked their orders.

“Game time, Bobby boy.”

“Let’s do this.”

They each climbed into their truck and called for a location as they raced away.

A neighbor had reported seeing smoke coming from the house across the street. Possible victims inside. Two older people. Bobby saw black smoke towering in the sky a couple miles away. It was no grass fire, no little shed burning. This would be bigger than anything he’d ever seen. He pressed down on the gas pedal, the three hundred pound wood burner dragging on the truck.

Bobby and Mark were the first to arrive. Neighbors–the entire town, it seemed–had gathered all around: across the street, in back yards, on porches, rooftops.

Suited up, Bobby grabbed his axe and ran over to Mark.

Slipping suspenders onto his shoulders, Mark said, “Truck should be here any minute.”

“We gotta go in. Dispatch said there’s people inside.” Bobby’s wild eyes latched onto Mark’s.

“You know that ain’t the drill, Bobby. Not until the truck shows up.”

“Come on, man, we can’t just stand here and let those people burn up. What’s more important?”

They looked at the house.

Mark checked down the street to see if the truck was in sight. Not even a siren. Bobby stared at him with feverish, adrenaline-drunk eyes. Mark nodded. “Okay, let’s go.” He took up his axe. “The front’s too hot, let’s go around back.”

They kicked in the back door and entered the kitchen.

“This way.” Bobby led. They called out to anyone inside. No one replied, but they kept calling. Fire had engulfed the living room. Burning debris crashed down in front of them. Bobby turned around, shaking his head, and yelled, “Can’t go any further.” They stood for a moment, deciding what to do. More debris fell and they hurried out the way they entered.

Around front the fire engine had arrived. Mark hustled over to help a crew hook up the hose. Bobby tried to step in, too, but they told him to stand aside, they could handle it. So he backed off and watched, working his grip on the neck of the axe.

Mark came over and stood with him after getting the hose hooked up. They looked at each other, but remained silent as they watched fire consume the house. The single stream of water seemed impotent to quench the flames, as though only fueling them, making them hungrier, angrier. Finally, Mark spoke.
“If there’s anyone in there, they didn’t make it, Bobby. Not even close.”

Bobby was one of the first to go in. Smoldering ashes hissed when water found them. Everything was a shade of black. A few stubborn flames burned atop puddles of linoleum and melted plastic. Wet smoke curled through his flashlight beam. The skeletons of furniture littered what used to be a living room, some only spring and wire. Fire’s appetite mystified Bobby, hardly touching one thing and completely consuming something beside it.

“Watch out for falling debris, boys,” Mark called from another room. Bobby moved toward a cluster of doorways. He broke apart a piece of caved-in roof and kicked in a door, finding a bathroom layered with soot, though relatively untouched. The tub and toilet stood intact. The mirror had shattered into the sink, and strings of melted plastic hung toward their puddles on the counter. Bobby checked in the tub just to be sure. Though everything reasonable in him knew no one had survived, part of him still wanted to believe he might be wrong.

He left the bathroom and found another doorway already open. He walked in and swept his flashlight over the room, which looked almost as bad as the living room. A dresser-turned-charcoal stood along one wall, its mirror exploded as well. In the middle of the room was a bed, burnt to springs.

About to turn and leave the room, he understood the shapes on the bed. He swung the light back. At first he wasn’t sure, but as he studied from just inside the doorway he saw two burnt, shriveled human bodies lying on the springs. A glimpse of chickens on the grill at Grandma’s Chicken flashed in his mind. He blurred the thought away, feeling disrespectful. One body laid there, arms crossed over the chest, and another was cuddled up beside it.

He knew he should call to the others, tell them what he’d found, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes went over the bodies, reconstructing ears and noses and faces and limbs in his mind. Stepping slowly, he moved closer until he stood beside the bed. The flashlight focused on the charred remains of what used to be two living people. He imagined a healthy young couple on a porch swing, watching the sunset, talking about their future together and smiling at each other. Then his eyes refocused on them now, the stretched grimaces and melted features. His throat tightened. His mouth watered.

Bobby ran around the back of the fire engine, stripped his jacket, pulled off his mask and vomited in the street. Unable to catch his breath or erase the images seared into his mind, he fell to his knees, gagged and threw up again. He spit and sat back on his heels, steadying himself with the bumper. A hand gripped his shoulder. He knew Mark’s silence.

“You did good in there, Bobby boy. Chief’s proud of you. We all are. Going into that fire. Takes guts.”

Bobby nodded and wiped his mouth. Mark squeezed his shoulder again and walked away.

After climbing out of the heavy pants and kicking off the boots, Bobby got into his truck and drove. He got on Hemlock Road, stomped the gas pedal, and raced into the country. He rolled down the window and hung his head out. The cool wind was hard to breathe, but he forced himself to take huge gulps of air.

Soon the road was dark and surrounded by fields, lit only by moonlight. It was time to stop. He stood on the brakes, rattling over potholes, sliding in the gravel on the side of the road until the enormous weight of the truck and its contents came to rest. Gripping the steering wheel, he sat and looked out across the fields, at the distant lights on the horizon. He leaned his head on the wheel and breathed a few good, deep breathes. He straightened up and rubbed his hands over his face. Finally, he got out of the truck.

He stepped on the tire, climbed up into the bed, and gave the black iron wood burner a shove, but it didn’t move. Stepping back and eyeing the beast, he took a better angle, his feet propped against the wall of the truck bed and his shoulder into the belly of the stove. On three he heaved, every muscle in his body seizing and straining, his face and head filling with blood, sweat gathering. The stove lurched forward, moving only inches.

After resetting himself, he pushed but couldn’t get good leverage and his footing slipped. Then he stepped back and rammed his shoulder into it, knocking the wind out of himself. Again, he leaned into the stove and lifted, his body shaking and furious when a grunt grew into a yell soon becoming a howl, until two legs of the mammoth iron burner lifted. Bobby felt the movement and pushed. The burner finally tipped over the side of the truck, leaving long, deep gouges, and thundering into the ground.

Gasping, he sat on the wheel well and looked down at the mass lying on its side, pipes crushed and broken. He listened to the heavy heartbeat on his breath. After awhile he got into his truck and headed home to wash his clothes for work in the morning.

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Josh Maday lives in Saginaw, Michigan. His work has been published in Opium, Rivet Magazine, Defenestration, Thieves Jargon, Right Hand Pointing, Johnny America, and the Ultra-Short Edition of The Binnacle, where he was a finalist in the 2005, 2006, and 2007 Ultra-Short Story Competitions. He also reviews magazines for NewPages.com.