Page 61 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

Glen Oak Drive

Janesville, Wisconsin

As I approach Betty’s neighborhood, I have the gun resting on my lap, prepared for any confrontation that might await me.

But when I attempt to turn down Glen Oak Drive, I’m stopped by a man in a uniform, hand up, flares blocking the road.

With shaking hands, I slide the pistol back into the glove box and slam it shut as the officer gets to the driver’s side door.

“This road is closed,” he says when I get the window rolled down.

“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning out to look down the street filled with police cars, ambulance, fire trucks, and groups of neighbors in bathrobes.

Unfortunately, I can’t see beyond them or the line of trees that obstructs my view around the turn.

The scent of fireplaces burning to combat the February chill fills the air.

The officer looks irritated by my question, as though the unfolding events in this neighborhood are the only reason he isn’t back at the warm station, drinking coffee.

“A problem in one of the houses,” he says, looking at me and then the lettering on the side of the truck, one eyebrow raised. “What you doing out this time of the night, anyway?”

Driving around with a gun in my lap fantasizing about killing a man, I think, keeping my hands visible so he has no reason to suspect anything shady.

“I worked for a guy on this street.” I point in the direction of Betty’s house, not mentioning her name just in case the officer got the wrong idea about our relationship and decided whatever Don did was justified.

“On this street? On this street where?” he asks. I tell him the address, and he checks something on a notepad before glaring back at me.

“You worked with Mr. Hollinger? Doing what?” The mention of Don’s name makes me dizzy. Shit. Shit. Shit. What did he do? I readjust in my seat, the springs creaking beneath me.

“I was an assistant producer and cameraman at WQRX. I’ve been overseas for the past two years.” The officer writes something on his pad, and the last shred of my patience slips away. “Listen, are they OK?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he asks a follow-up. “What’s your name again?”

“Greg. Greg Laramie.” He jots it down, clarifying the spelling, then continues his asinine line of questioning.

“Did someone ask you to come here tonight, Mr. Laramie? What you got in the back of that truck?” He tips his hat, narrowing his gaze at me as the flares reflect in his eyes, painting them an unholy crimson.

I think quickly and answer as simply as possible.

Taking a breath, I remind myself that this man isn’t the enemy.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m offering to open the cargo area and let him take a look when a red and white ambulance crawls to a stop a few yards away, waiting for me to move.

I freeze, staring at it. Who is inside? Why is it moving so slowly? Where is Betty?

“I’m gonna need you to go ahead and park around the corner and unlock the back.” He points to a spot past the stop sign at the intersection leading back into the subdivision.

“What’s with the ambulance?” I ask as its lights spin and swirl together into a blur, resembling an impressionist painting.

“I need you to back up, sir,” he repeats, this time with an edge to his voice that means business, but I also mean business. I slap the exterior of the door, and the officer’s attention snaps back to me, away from directing the ambulance through the flares and crowd.

“Is somebody hurt?” I ask, ready to jump out of the truck and rip open the doors of the ambulance to check for myself.

“Somebody is dead,” he responds sharply, as if he’s scolding me.

“Now get the hell out of the way.” He motions me back with his hand near his gun like I’m pushing him past his boiling point.

Dizzy and stunned, with a tinny ringing in my ears, I throw the truck into reverse, working through the fear like I learned to do in the jungles of Vietnam as bullets flew and airplanes and helicopters hovered overhead.

Leaving the truck behind, I stumble past the shouting officer and wade into the crowd.

One woman is holding a tissue up to her reddened nose, and another is turned into her husband’s chest, his glasses flickering orange as he stares into the distance.

As I pierce through the throng of bodies, a burst of intense heat brushes against my exposed skin, bringing with it a sickening familiarity that conjures images of burning villages.

“God no,” I mutter as a mist of water hits my face, followed by embers carried by the wind and smoke that stings my eyes. I rub them, hoping to change the image in front of me, but nothing shifts.

Betty’s house is on fire.

Men in fire-resistant suits and helmets surround the scene, pointing long hoses at the burning structure. Arcs of water pour into the second-floor windows, seeming to do little to stop the hungry flames. I turn to the couple next to me, desperate for answers.

“What . . . what happened?” I think of the ambulance driving away slowly, as if there were no reason for concern, and the officer’s proclamation.

“Don’t rightly know yet,” one of them says, staring at the fire, enthralled. No one seems to share the urgency coursing through me, which is far more painful than the drifting embers that settle in my hair, burning my scalp.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Who does know? Who’s in charge?” I sound frantic, but I can’t restrain myself. I charge toward the fire trucks, the hoses, and the fire, grabbing at the first firefighter I see and begging for answers. “Did anyone get out? Anyone? Anyone?”

My voice strains as I shout above the roar of the fire, the orders from each of the men in the crew, the whoosh of the water from the hydrant. The firefighter breaks away from my desperate grip when I’m yanked backward roughly.

“There you are.” The officer from earlier catches my arm, and another in a similar uniform does the same on my other side.

“Wait. Wait. They’re inside,” I scream, pointing at the crumbling home. “She’s inside.”

“Come on, buddy. This way. Let’s go,” one officer says as they work to drag me away.

One of my loosely tied boots pops off and is abandoned in a puddle of cast-off water, left behind to bear witness.

Still wild with terror, I find myself handcuffed and shoved into the back seat of a cruiser while Betty’s dream house crashes in the flames, a sickening shriek erupting from the onlookers.

I lie on the back seat of the cruiser, shivering uncontrollably.

I sob, muttering as the officer drives. He checks on me every so often through the grated divider.

At one point, he says he’s heard about my time in Vietnam and tries to find out if we ran across any of the same soldiers or officers, but I don’t have the energy to respond.

When we arrive at the station, he leaves me alone.

The cold intensifies until I’m shaking so hard my joints ache.

“All right, bud. Let’s go,” he says. I sit up the best I can through my body’s jerky movements, my tear-drenched face chilled by the sharp breeze.

As I exit the car onto the dark asphalt of the police station parking lot, the officer orders me to turn around.

He unlocks the handcuffs and works them off my wrists before offering me a blanket with a hint of kindness this time.

“I’m having Officer Franklin bring your truck over. Your story checked out, but we still have a couple of questions. We’ve got coffee inside. You seem a little shaken up. Why don’t you come in, warm up, and then you can go.”

I nod and start to follow him until I consider what that last word meant—go. Where would I go? Betty’s house is gone. Is Betty gone? Nothing makes sense. I just need something to make sense.

“But . . . what happened?” I ask for the millionth time, stopping in my tracks.

“Let’s get you into a room,” he urges, trying to move me forward, but I would gladly be handcuffed again if it means getting the one answer I need more than my freedom.

“Are they OK? The family? D-Don’s family?”

“Your buddy, Don?” He puts a friendly hand on my shoulder, just like the officers did when they came to tell me about my mom. “Sorry, man, but he’s dead.”

Dead. Just a few hours ago, I was considering killing the man myself, but his demise feels like being socked in the face.

I cover my mouth, already knowing there must be more to the bad news. Betty’s fate is tied to Don’s. How could she survive if he burned to a crisp?

“Yeah,” the officer added, giving me a meaningful pat, “and the kid.”

My eyes fill with tears again thinking of the tiny figure in Betty’s arms when I delivered the piano to her house—her little baby, the one she held inside her when she came to see me at the shop. Dead. My God. How did this happen? We just talked. She promised to leave the house. She promised.

“And the wife?” I ask, knowing the truth has to come out at some point. “Betty?”

He shrugs. “That lady is a bit touched, if you know what I mean. My wife watched her show. Always thought she was a looker, but damn, I’d take someone who’s a little less good looking and a lot saner any day,” he says with a locker-room-humor tone to his comment.

It’s rude and sexist, especially considering the circumstances.

Then again—he said is, not was. Does that mean . . . ?

“Wait. She’s alive?”

The officer darts his eyes from side to side, nodding. “Yeah, she’s alive. She’s inside.”

“Here?” I ask, wanting to break through the doors and see the miracle for myself, when another realization hits me. “Why is she here?”

“Uh, because the crazy lady killed her husband and baby and set the house on fire.”

“That’s—that’s impossible.”

“No, you know what’s impossible? A house burning up that fast without some help. You know what else is impossible? Getting out of a house on fire without so much as a sunburn. But murder? Now that’s totally possible. You know what I mean?”

I don’t know exactly what he means, but I do know this: Betty is in big trouble, such big trouble that I don’t think she can get out of it without some help—any help, my help.

“But she didn’t start the fire,” I say, my body no longer shaking.

“How would you know that?” he asks, his eyebrow lifted suspiciously again.

“Because Don called me. That’s why I was there.

” I clear my throat and prepare to tell the biggest lie of my life—one that could either save Betty or condemn us both.

“Don told me there was a problem with their furnace. He couldn’t get it to light.

Said the place smelled like gas. I told him to get out and I’d be right over, but I guess . . . I guess he didn’t listen.”

The officer looks at me, a flicker of understanding beginning to show on his face.

I’m uncertain if my lie will hold or if it will turn out that Betty, or Don, or someone else poured gasoline on the house and lit a match.

But this time, I had to actually do something to help Betty.

If it meant lying—lying a million times over—I’d do it.

Today, tomorrow, and for as long as she needs me.