Nineteen Firefighters in the Front Pews

Coffee Hour

Downstairs in the fellowship hall the women had the big percolator going and bars on the long table, lemon and scotcheroos and the date bars Ann’s mother always makes. Nineteen firefighters in turnout gear filled the basement like a flock of geese.

Little kids came up and asked to try on helmets. Josh let one of the Henning girls wear his, and it came down over her nose, and she walked into the coat rack.

Mike stood by the wall with his coffee, talking to Tom Kessler about insurance adjusters and whether they would rebuild with steel or wood.

Harold came over to me by the bars. He had not put his suit coat back on. He looked smaller in his shirtsleeves, older, and somehow easier to talk to.

“Jody,” he said. “I owe your husband an apology. I wanted to say it to you first, because I think you were the one who called Duane.”

“I did,” I said. “I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, Harold.”

“It did,” he said. “I deserved it.” He looked at the cup in his hand. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“My father was the usher at this church before me,” he said. “From 1952 until he couldn’t stand up anymore. When he gave it to me, he took me to that door and he said, ‘Harold, this is the one place in this church that is yours to keep. You keep it holy.'”

I waited.

“I took that very seriously,” he said. “Too seriously, I suppose. Clean shoes. A tie. No hats. I turned away a boy once for wearing a T-shirt with beer on it. Marlene used to tease me about it. She said I was the bouncer at the Pearly Gates.”

He smiled a little, then stopped.

“After she died,” he said, “the door was the only thing I had left that I knew how to do right. Six days a week I’m an old man with nothing to do. On Sunday morning I have a job. I suppose I held onto it too hard.”

“You’ve held it a long time,” I said. “That counts for something.”

“So did Mike,” Harold said. “I knew who blew out my driveway, Jody. Every morning for three winters. I never said thank you. And then I sent him down the steps like a dog.”

He set his coffee down on the table because his hand had started to shake.

“I didn’t know where to start,” he said.

“Start with Mike,” I said. “He’s right over there.”