I hear the sizzle of water against the flames. One of the construction workers managed to find a hose. The two of them shout in Spanish, and water is everywhere. I’m soaked and trapped beneath a very large, very ill man, but all I feel is relief at seeing that fire die. In the distance, I hear sirens, already growing close, the benefit of living in a small town.
“Mr. Hockley?” I say. “Mr. Buddy?” He struggles to roll off me, hacking and wheezing.
“Sorry,” he says. The one word seems to take a lot of effort.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Is your mother all right?” I wonder if I should go into the house to find her.
Buddy rolls onto his back on the wet lawn. “I turned … it off,” he says. The four words seem to exhaust him. Another coughing attack. “It won’t explode.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting up. “What won’t explode?”
“The oxygen concentrator,” he says. I try to see inside the porch from where I’m sitting, my eyes burning from the smoke and my wet hair stuck to my cheeks. One of the construction workers has gone inside and is spraying the interior of the porch down with the hose. I can’t see more than vague shapes.
Mr. Hockley is trying to sit up and I help him. Then I notice that the long sleeve of his plaid shirt is blackened as well as wet, and that beneath it, the skin of his arm is red and swollen. I also see a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
“Were you smoking while you were using oxygen?” I ask, incredulous.
“The tube was … I tossed it away from me. It wasn’t near me, but I guess…”
“Oh my God,” I say, my hand on his shoulder. “You’re so lucky you weren’t killed.”
One of the construction workers squats down next to us. “He okay?” He nods toward Buddy.
“He has a burn on his arm.” I point to Buddy’s arm. I don’t want to touch the blackened fabric. I don’t want to make his injury worse.
“Help come.” The young man points toward the street and I nod.
“Thank you so much for your quick thinking. You and your friend.” I nod to the other man, who now stands near us, the hose still in his hand, his fingers off the nozzle. “Thank you for finding the hose.”
I don’t think they understand all of what I’ve said, but they understand “thank you,” and they nod.
The man with the hose takes a few steps toward us, reaches into Buddy’s pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes, and slips them in the pocket of his T-shirt. He grins down at Buddy. “No good for you,” he says. “I save you from them.”
I can’t help but laugh.
In a moment, the yard is filled with firemen and medics, with Ellie literally at their heels, her arm around her mother, who is walking with a cane. “What happened?” Ellie yells. “Oh my God, Buddy! Are you all right?” She lets go of her mother and is quickly on her knees next to her brother, along with the medic who is examining the flesh of Buddy’s forearm. The burn is second-degree, the medic says. I think I smell the burned skin, but it’s probably only the wooden frame of the porch. I feel a little dizzy.
“She saved my life.” Buddy nods toward me between coughing attacks.
“I had help from those two—” I look around, but the construction workers have disappeared, gone back to their jobs. Just another day’s work. Mrs. Hockley leans against the side of the house, watching us with a frown. I tell Ellie and the firefighters what happened, how I saw the fire, how the construction workers saved the Hockley house. Ellie hugs Buddy the same time she’s chewing him out. “This is not the way I plan to lose you, you fool!” she says, with such affection that I’m touched. She hugs him again, then leans over to hug the medic treating him. She stands to hug the two firefighters, a man and a woman, who are closest. By then, I’m standing up myself, and I’m not surprised when she hugs me, too.
“You tell me when you want to practice yoga,” she says. “Any time you want.”
Chapter 20
ELLIE
1965
In the morning, I helped dress the four youngest Dawes children. I was determined to help out, however I could. GiGi and Sally, the two youngest, were still in diapers, but Gail and May—six and four—were proud to show me that they could dress themselves and use the outhouse on their own. They were better at using it than I was. I kept thinking, I can’t believe people have to live this way in the United States of America, but I knew that sort of thinking wasn’t helpful. Getting people engaged in politics to make their lives better; that’s what would help.