Brownie Go-See-It

You wake up with a stiff neck and temples banging toward flu, but drag yourself from bed because your mother has finally agreed to chaperone a Go-See-It with your brownie troop. You button the mocha-colored vest over your crisp blouse, clip the green tie at your neck, and slip a sash studded with citizenship stars over your shoulder. Downstairs, your mother roots through her purse for the car keys, then shrugs on her old coat. At the door, she sees the weight behind your eyes and suggests staying home. No way. You slide your mittened hand into hers and pull her to the car.

At the fire station you show her off like a prize to the troop. Here she is! Too bad your moms couldn’t make it! You show her off to Fire Chief Seth who shakes her hand, then begins the station house tour. First, he leads the troop through the kitchen and the bunk room. Sandra B. asks who cooks and makes the beds without a woman around.

‘Somehow we manage it,’ the Fire Chief says. Next, he circles through a small gym down the hall and explains how the fire fighters stay in shape. Half the troop yawns. Your mother picks at a loose thread on her coat.

Then Fire Chief Seth swings open a door to a garage the size of a stadium. A fleet of eight red fire engines fill the space, ready to burst toward smoke-filled buildings at the sound of the alarm. Your heart gallops beneath the sash. You can almost hear the urgent sirens (times eight) screaming through intersections. Even your mother stares wide-eyed at the machines.

Fire Chief Seth leads the troop between two pumper trucks, and unlocks one of the compartments. He unwinds the hose, and hands it to two girls. They stagger and giggle beneath its weight. ‘It’s twice as heavy when water flows through it,’ he says. He reels in the hose and pulls on his uniform — a dark-yellow canvas jacket and pants, topped off by a yellow helmet. He is instantly transformed into the hero who drives the truck behind him, who wields the hose and chops through burning doors with his axe. You’re probably not alone in your fantasy of waking to flames, holding tight to Fire Chief Seth’s soot-stained neck as he pulls you from your second-story window, then marrying him the next day.

The Fire Chief hangs the uniform on a peg and lets the troop take a closer look at it. The girls shake hands with the empty sleeves. When it’s your turn, you run your fingers over the white reflector tape at the cuff and press your cheek against its coolness. You then raise it to your mother. She takes the sturdy fabric into her hand, smooths out the seam, and lets it drop.

Fire Chief Seth explains that the ladders on the hook-and-ladder trucks can reach four stories. ‘Of course we can’t raise them here,’ he says. ‘But you can climb onto the truck. Who wants to go first?’

You try to step forward, but a million hot needles suddenly prickle your skin and your vision turns to static. You lean toward your mother to tell her you feel dizzy. But before you can peel apart your parched lips, she’s at the side of the truck, getting a leg-up from the Fire Chief. She climbs the side rail and smiles down from the top. Through a darkening tunnel, you see her wave.

As you crumple toward the floor, you worry that the girls and Fire Chief Seth will see the sweat soaking through the armpits of your brownie vest. But no one points it out. The Fire Chief catches you and holds you steady. His voice echoes from what seems miles away as he addresses your mother. ‘Take her to the break room down the hall. I’ll show the kids out; the tour’s about over anyway.’

The girls’ chatter trickles out to the foyer as your mother leads you down the hall. She lays you onto a small, plaid-print sofa in the break room. Then she finds a clean dishcloth, wets it with cold water and folds it over your forehead. ‘My God, we should have stayed home,’ she says. But she isn’t addressing you. Her attention is fixed on a group photo of the station’s firemen hanging above the sofa. Her voice is hoarse and mechanical, not hers at all.

You watch with rising dread as she stuffs her old coat into the trash bin by the door. When Fire Chief Seth appears and asks how you’re feeling, your mother sits next to you, her fluttery grip on your hand more feverish than your own as she finds a new, clear voice for conversation.

You’re the one who begged her to come here, fanning the flames of this particular fire by being laid up in the small, tidy break room. It’s your fault she falls for Fire Chief Seth. It’s your fault she eventually leaves your family for him. It’s your fault she never volunteers for another Go-See-It.

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Jenny Weisberg lives in Reno, NV, with her husband and two sons. Her publications include stories in the Berkeley Fiction Review, Owen Wister Review, Chiron Review, and others.