Chapter Six

Talking about Kevin always makes me think about how life is too short to waste it on mistakes, you know?

There are a lot of mistakes a person can make over the course of a lifetime that don't really seem to make too much of a difference when you look at them individually. But when you get to be in your forties, you start looking back at the little chunks of time, parts and pieces of your life, and you realize that it all adds up.

That's not particularly profound, but I'm telling you, when you're in your twenties and even thirties and still immortal, none of this really falls into place.

It's when you're around 45 and realize that you are at the halfway mark (and that's only if you're lucky; how many people live to be 90 or over) that you start looking back and saying, "Wow. That person, that experience, that period of time represents a substantial chunk of my life."

For instance, you may have known a person since you were in your mid-twenties. That's not too remarkable, right? Lots of us have old college pals or first-job cronies with whom we still stay in touch.

But think about it. Say you've known someone twenty years. That's almost half your life, and it's at least twenty percent of your overall span. And as I was saying, that's if you're phenomenally lucky and live to be a hundred.

So I was thinking about some of the people I've known, things I've done, and about percentages. I've been on this job for twenty years. There's nearly fifty percent of the ticket. Forty-five percent, something like that. I was always shit at math. Anyway.

I've known Derrico for 18 years. That's about forty percent of my life and an overall percent of about fifteen- eighteen, provided I live damn near forever like my Ma's side does.

Is this a guy I want to say is involved in fifteen percent of my life span?

Well, to look at him he's just your average shithead fireman, just like me, just like Costello, just like Cullen-the-Cadet will grow up to be if he doesn't get his dumb ass killed. Derrico is a loudmouth and a little of a braggart and he's really got the macho Italian guy thing going on, but he is also a man who would die for his kids, would risk his life for a friend (and, maybe more tellingly, for a guy he doesn't even like -- more about that later) and who would rather keep his mouth shut and be thought a fool than look smart at someone else's expense. He also knows more about ice hockey than anyone I know (he has a brother and two cousins who play in the AHL, his brother for Rochester and the cousins right here in Cleveland), can remember people's names for years after meeting them once, and owns everything Neil Young ever recorded. His wife is godmother to one of my sister's kids and I am godfather to his oldest son.

Derrico is a lifetime investment, well worth my time, and I don't begrudge a minute of it. We have history together, you know? I feel better just knowing there IS a Sam Derrico. Because he knows where my bodies are buried and I know which of his skeletons hang in what particular closets and we both know too much, and it's a safe arrangement. You can be at ease with a friend like Derrico. He's the type who is not just good at comforting you when you are down, but is excellent at helping you plot revenge. When the revolution comes, as Kevin often half-jokingly said it would, I want Sam Derrico on my side.

Other relationships may not represent such a great investment of your time. I spent an estimated three percent of my time so far on this planet involved with the lovely, talented and enigmatic Margaret Brentham.

I say lovely because she was. Margaret -- I liked to call her Maggie, which she hated, because her artsy friends knew her as Margo -- was (and still is, for all I know) second cello with the Cleveland Orchestra. She drove a little red convertible Miata, lived in a beautiful old house in Cleveland Heights, and had the longest legs of any woman I have ever dated. (Grace would be indignant at this -- Grace of the "yard of leg" -- but Margaret must have been close to six feet tall, and I swear three-fourths of it was leg. I'm a leg man. Probably because my Ma was a dancer and dance instructor before she met Dad and had to settle down. Her stories of her youth stay with me still.)

Mags -- she hated that moniker even worse -- was indeed musically talented. I don't know if she was gifted or not -- I heard her play a few times, but quite frankly I wouldn't know good cello from bad unless it was off-key or something, and that's one thing you could say for Margaret -- she never missed a note. She attended the New England Conservatory of Music as a very young woman and showed exceptional promise, and received an offer from the Cleveland Orchestra alnost immediately after graduation. I had no idea where or what the hell the New England Conservatory was before I met her, but I learned that it is a very prestigious school indeed. As a musician, Margaret couldn't expect to make much money, but she was very well taken care of. Her parents were old Connecticut money, her father was an investment banker who had done pretty well for himself in addition to having been born into a fair chunk of money, and Margaret, an only child, lived on a trust fund that pretty much allowed her to do nothing but play cello and travel with the Orchestra. She lived where she wanted and how she wanted and really didn't need anything. Particularly, it would seem, she didn't need a scrubby, dirt-poor fireman hanging around, however much fun it might be while it lasted.. She always made it pretty clear that she had chosen me, and if or when it was Game Over time, that would be her call. Still, she was so cheerful and charming about it that you never really held it against her. She wasn't mean or spiteful about it, just...reserved. And since I didn't exactly have anything better to do than sleep with a gorgeous heiress who claimed to find me adorable....well, you know how it is. Maybe. I actually didn't know how it was myself even as it was going on. It was actually a pretty strange relationship. And about half of one per cent of my life.

You don't meet women like that hanging around the firehouse, obviously, and I met Maggie at a benefit the Department was giving. We had a $500 a plate dinner the spring after September 11, to benefit the families of firefighters who were killed. It was held at the Four Seasons downtown, and there were a few speakers, New York City firemen who had survived the 9/11 aftermath, and there was a string quartet playing during dinner. The quartet was pretty much unnoticed; all focus was on the New York firemen. Most of the people at the dinner were the sort you could expect to be at a $500 a throw dinner, but there were a few of us there to present the check to the speaker and say a few words on behalf of the Department. I had kept my nose clean so far that year, and I was one of the guys chosen. I really had no goddamn use for either a bunch of swells at a dinner or the creamed chicken and green beans that they always serve at these things, but I was glad to be able to hear the brothers from New York. It was very hard to keep from crying listening to these guys talk, and I am glad I was there. As for the bullshit speeches by the Mayor, though, and all the goddamn fancy h'ors d'eouvres and the chamber music -- well, the Indians were playing an exhibition game against Boston plus it was getting toward hockey playoff time and...well, anyway, I wasn't in much of a mood to be standing there making speeches and peeing out my eyes, not with three games and an exhibition ballgame on TV at home. But it was for a good cause, so I said what the hell and ate my Chicken A L'Orange.

To pass the time, I watched people. The string quartet was interesting to me because the only live music I usually hear is either rock and roll or Irish traditional. I like music of any sort, though, and was fascinated by how easy the musicians made it look.

Particularly interesting, of course, was Margaret. As I said, I don't know much about music, but I'd venture to say that one subject in which I have a lively, sustained and empirical interest is women. Margaret was beautiful, and under the bright light, with her hair falling like golden cornsilk over her black velvet blouse and her lovely tapered fingers coaxing rich, sweet sounds from the cello, and ...well, the words of an old Irish folk song came back to me:

"Her eyes shone like the diamonds
You'd think she was queen of the land
And her hair hung over her shoulder
Tied up with a black velvet band..."

I was very taken with her. And of course, I worked that shy, diamond-in-the-rough firefighting lad mystique for all it was worth, and wangled an introduction after the dinner.

I'm gonna spare you the details; suffice it to say it was a wild, sweetly romantic and tempestuous affair. I alternated between the heights of elation, unable to believe that such a beautiful and ethereal creaturee loved me, and the absolute depths of gloom -- I had no idea where the hell the Slough of Despond is, but by God, Mags old girl dragged me through it. She was an absolute dream in bed. I don't know what it is with those rich Protestant girls, and I beg the pardon of any reading this, particularly if you are interested in dating a fireman named John Sullivan, but she could perform the most incredibly debauched, obscene, deliciously shocking acts and act as if she were just baking cookies or doing a watercolor painting or.... Many times I would say, at Mags' mouth or fingers or incredibly ready sex in positions or places I had never thought to expect them: "Oh my GOD, you're not gonna...." I don't think in the months we were together that I ever actually finished that sentence. I didn't, but she did, and those actions spoke far louder than words, and maybe how well I will tell you later.

Anyway. She was a dream in bed but a nightmare out of it. She was very turned on by the "rough, tough macho fireman from a poor Irish background" thing, but in a way that hurt me. It was like I was playing a role for her, you know? Part of this was my fault. I never told her about my journalism degree from Northwestern, mainly because I felt that it would somehow shatter her image of me. Isn't that stupid? One of the greatest, in fact, the few, accomplishments I have to my name, and I hid it from her. I still don't understand that entirely. Also, I never told her about the rose garden I designed and maintain over at my brother Pat's rectory. I know she would have liked it, but I was afraid it would clash with her image of me. Maybe she would have found it romantic, you know? But i was stupid and insecure and besides, it never got that far. Things were just not destined to hold together.

The problem was that Mags was, I don't know, detached. She was unfailingly pleasant and cordial and seldom disagreed with me; had a gentle sense of humor and a dazzling smile and was great company, easy on the eyes and the spirit as well. But Mags never....well, she never engaged. She was nice and polite and pleasant, and she could make love like a wild woman, but she was never passionate. It's not that she couldn't be passionate in bed, but she had no native passion. I would get all worked up, in bed or out of it, and try to pull her into the spirit of the moment, and it was like she was a spectator. Amused, appreciative, at times even delighted, but never once involved.

Well, the way we broke up was so stupid that I dont want to tell you, but I've got this far and it's a Sunday afternoon and things are quiet, so I don't even have an excuse to stop.

I am a baseball nut. I was born during an Indians game. Not there at the game, but my dad was watching TV in the hospital lounge and Early Wynn was spitching one of his last games and....well, Ma's still pissed, but never mind. I ate, slept and breathed baseball as a kid. Still do. My favorite teams are the Indians, the Red Sox and, in the National League, the Diamondbacks and the Cardinals. But I do not like any team from New York. I don't even like the Giants, though they've been in San Francisco forever, because I haven't forgiven them for the '54 Series. I love Willie Mays, but...anyway, poor, sad, goddamn Vic Wertz... Okay, okay. Don't get me started on baseball. But if they're from New York, I hate 'em.

So, Mags and I were lying in her huge, antique four-poster early one Saturday morning, and I mentioned that it would be a good day to go down to the Jake and see an Indians game. She looked at me with that pretty smile and said, "Oh, thanks no, Johnny; I never watch any team excepting the Mets," and laid her pretty blonde head back down on the pillow and fell sound asleep.

I don't know why, but this bugged me. A shrink or other witch doctor would probably say that this was a sign of deeper underlying problems and that this was only a precipitating incident. Yeah, yeah. It was bullshit was what it was, and I wasn't having any more of it.

I didn't get many Saturdays off, and of course I had gone to a lot of trouble to trade schedules so I could be with Mags, and one of the things I thought I could treat her to, one of the few affordable things, one of the few things I knew, and could maybe even share with her and make interesting to her, was a day at Jacobs Field, watching the Indians play the White Sox.

The whole thing kept echoing in my mind...."Johnny...she called me Johnny....I hate that...'thanks no'...who the hell talks that way, I ask you...'excepting the Mets'..." A very shrill, snotty, whiny voice was mocking Mags' words in my head. I wasn't sure if it was my own or hers. I was just sure I hated it.

I have left a couple women in my life. Grace...well, Grace and I have left each other but somebody always comes back. There is something about Grace and me that is never quite finished. But other women? Oh, brother. I am not really proud of this, but I'm just not that great at sticking around. It's always something. Either the woman wants to get married and issues an ultimatum, or they are fooling around with someone else, or they want me to be "serious", or....listen, I hate this topic.

Anyway, none of that is any excuse for the various irresponsible ways I have chosen of ending relationships. And most of the women I have left, I have HAD to sneak out. They had tempers. Some had weapons. They had big, mean, loud families. They had ways, means and every method of keeping a guy prisoner.

I knew Mags wasn't like that. She was always so....nice, you know? Too nice.

I have been in a lot of fires where I felt trapped and knew that if I didn't keep my head I was going to die. I have thought my way out of fire situations where following my own gut instinct would have killed me. But I don't have any of this kind of sense at all when it comes to women. I panic.

This morning, I panicked. I took a scrap of paper and a pen from near the telephone, and scrawled a note.

"Mags: [I knew she would hate that]

I have gone to the Indians game and I am not coming back.

I wish you well.

Love always, John Sullivan.

p.s. you could keep the necklace."

I folded the paper, took the orange juice out of the fridge, and stuck the note under the half-gallon carton on the kitchen counter. (I knew not to leave it on the wood table; that would make her even madder.) Then I went out to my truck, jumped in (but shut the door quietly -- I felt like such a snake) and left.

When I got home, there was a message on my machine that they had two guys call off second shift at the house that night and were looking for fill-ins. I called and said I would be down right after the game. I went to the Jake by myself and watched the Tribe lose to Chicago 6-3. I couldn't even have any beer because I was headed to work. Then I drove in to the house.

I had been sitting in the break room dissecting the game with Derrico when Cullen-the-cadet came in and said, "Sully, there's somebody here to see you."

"Who the hell....Guy or woman?"

"A woman."

Suspicion dawned uneasily (and correctly) in my guilty soul.

"What does she look like?"

"Um, she's beautiful, kinda tall, with long blonde hair and green eyes..."

"Listen, I don't need the Forum Mag version. Cullen. Do me a favor. I'm not here. Go tell her...."

Too late. There in the doorway of the break room stood Mags.

"Johnny!" she said, a little too brightly. One look told me she had been crying. A lot. I grabbed her by the elbow, gently, and steered her out to the garage.

We stood by the hook and ladder rig, and I tried to talk to her:

"Ah, now, come on, Maggie....er, Margo...Margaret....we don't want to remember it this way, do we? There's no reason to be bitter, is there? It's me -- John. You know me. I wouldn't ever want to hurt you. It just couldn't go on like....hey, don't cry....oh, come on, Honey...I will always be your friend...."

Well. You never know with women. Apparently, I sure as hell didn't know with this one.

Ms. Glacial Cool, the Ice Queen of Northeastern Ohio, went into full-fledged meltdown mode before my eyes. Those chiseled high cheekbones flushed a lovely dusty rose, her green eyes narrowed like a cat's sighting prey, and she spat at me, "You son of a BITCH!"

Really. Remarkable. I didn't know she had it in her. In that split second of surreal, unreasoning wonder that often precedes the brutal impact of reality, I was perversely proud of her.

"Honey, I...."

"Don't you 'honey' me, you fucking PRICK!"

I had never heard her use such words outside of very pleasurable situations, and never in that order. Certainly not with such passion. I was quite bewildered.

The next thing she did was far more painful to me than anything she said. She reached around her neck and grabbed the little gold and diamond Claddagh necklace I had given her to celebrate our first month together. It was a stupid thing of me, set me back a week's pay, and I always did feel like she wore it just to please me, like it was a case of "Look what Paddy got at the dime store -- how quaint." Anyway, she ripped the necklace from her neck, without even bothering to unfasten the clasp, which must have hurt -- a red mark immediately showed -- and tossed it at me. It skittered across the apparatus floor and dangled from a metal drain grating.

I stood transfixed, unable to speak or move, and could only watch her stomp down the concrete apron and jump into her little red Miata. She screeched away from the house in a cloud of exhaust -- and proceeded the wrong way down the one way street running behind the firehouse. She flew into a U-turn just in time to attract the attention of Hanrahan and Gage, the zone cops who had the patrol in our block, who went flying after her with sirens and lights going. They pulled her over about half a block down the street.

I looked up to see Derrico in the garage doorway.

"Jesus, Sully."

"Yeah."

"Should we go help her out?"

"Ah, the hell with her. Those two numbnuts will get a load of her and let her off with a warning. Besides, she'll say she knows me and they owe me one for the bookie thing."

"Yeah. Well -- oh, shit!"

We both looked down just in time to see the claddagh necklace swing tantalizingly for a moment and drop into the floor drain.

"Shit, John, I'm sorry. Hey, maybe she'll be back. She's gotta come back, right?"

"Christ, I hope not. Hey, have you got any....."

Well, what Derrico may have had will have to remain a mystery for now. For one, the callbox went off just then, and ....well, we were in for a hell of a night, which I'll tell you about next time. It was one of our worst blazes in my twenty years with the Department. Way too much to tell here.

But I have to quit now anyway. Derrico needs another hand for poker. Which might seem like a waste of time to you, but as we've just been over, there are wastes of time and then there are investments. Mags -- well, she was on the debit side of the ledger. Derrico, he's an investment.