Dirty Snow

It had been exactly one month since the worst day, and Bobby O’Malley still felt as if it were only a few hours ago that he’d been woken up by his hysterical wife with the news. The dirty, black remnants of a snow storm still blanketed every tiny front lawn on his Bay Ridge street. He always thought that a good snow storm cleaned off the sidewalks and streets, bringing all the shit and sludge down the sewers with it when it melted. Bobby parked the car on the street, and walked the block to his attached Tudor that he and his wife had closed on just before COVID hit. 

“How was it?” asked his wife, Deirdre. The smell of frying bacon and black coffee filled the kitchen, and the kids were still upstairs asleep. “It is what it is,” he replied. “I didn’t wanna make a big thing of it, so I made sure the night crew was still riding and the day crew hadn’t gotten to the firehouse yet.” Deirdre wistfully pursed her lips, and put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder.

 Bobby thought to himself, “she has no fucking clue, but she’s really trying.” 

The fire department was laced into the fiber of the O’Malley DNA for over fifty years. Grandfather Patrick did twenty years in Harlem during the 60’s and 70’s, when whole blocks of tenements and brownstones that would now go for millions were burning down with regularity. Bobby Sr. followed suit, leaving the police force after five years to work in a South Bronx engine company, study, and promote to lieutenant before retiring out of Flatbush after 9/11. His boys Bobby Jr. and James, ever the red-blooded Brooklyn boys, took the civil service exam together and ended up getting hired in the same academy class. 

But the company dinners, the promotion parties, and the parades all seemed part of a very distant past now. An irrevocable darkness now hung over the O’Malleys. They were one of those families whom everyone would know the name of. Street renaming ceremonies, plaque dedications, and local politicians feigning a bereaved familiarity with the departed were all on the docket for the next few years, and Bobby knew at his core that there was nowhere to hide. Time would only be measured by life with Jimmy, and what life was becoming after the night he was killed. 

Jimmy’s firehouse had been great to the O’Malleys after he was lost. His bosses and friends made sure all death benefits were squared away and that they were driven to and from any appointments that could burden a reeling family. “What if we just wanna be left alone?” Bobby thought to himself with guilt, never daring to even suggest it to anyone. He was very grateful, but most days the events of that night and everything that followed seemed inescapable. 

The funeral came and went in a whirlwind, as did all the pomp and circumstance attached to a Brooklyn firefighter’s send off. Bobby felt he finally had a chance to take a breath, spend time with his family, and grieve. The weeks that followed were an experiment in piecing together a new reality. 

It was a Friday night, and the next morning would be the one month anniversary. Bobby sat in his living room, nursing a lukewarm Modelo, and watching the Rangers blowout the Senators. His phone began vibrating, displaying an unfamiliar 347 number. 

He picked up. “Hey Bobby, sorry to bother you. This is Jimmy’s friend Des from the firehouse. How is everyone doing?”, inquired the young firefighter. There was an uneasiness in his voice that indicated their conversation was headed somewhere much more uncomfortable than a simple check-in. “Hanging in there. How’re the fellas doing?”, asked Bobby. “It’s easier to be at work than at home. Trying to keep busy. Listen…”, said Des. Bobby expected at least a little more bullshitting. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, but I guess we avoided it until it became unavoidable. Jimmy’s car is still here in the parking lot. We could get a tow if you guys want, but I wanted to check with you first and see if one of you guys wanted to come get it.” 

“I’ll be there in the morning, early.”, responded Bobby. “Thanks bro. And please don’t make a thing out of this. I’m gonna get there before anyone is coming in or leaving.” Bobby hung up, sighed a sigh of impending finality, and swigged his ever-warming beer. 

The iPhone alarm chimed at 5:30 the following morning. Bobby shuffled to the bathroom, washed his face with ice cold water, brushed his teeth, and threw on a pair of sweats and his thick brown Carhartt hoodie. No one else was awake, and they’d hopefully still be asleep by the time he got back. He stood in front of the house, eating the icy Bay Ridge air and staring at the navy blue dawn sky while he fiddled with the spare set of keys to Jimmy’s car. He waited for the Uber that would drop him at the firehouse. 

The Uber arrived and the short ride seemed to both take forever and pass by in the blink of an eye. It was still dark out, and that made Bobby feel a little more at ease. He exited the slate gray Toyota RAV4 and walked through the dirty slush to the chain link gate of the firehouse parking lot. He when Jimmy’s car caught his eye. It seemed to have been idling in a state of hibernation for exactly a month, waiting to go somewhere else. The remote on the car key still worked, and the 2008 Nissan Altima let out a weak “honk honk” when Bobby hit the unlock button. 

Bobby pulled open the driver’s side door, and ducked into the car. He smirked when he saw the Gatorade bottle in the cup holder, half-filled with dip spit. “You told dad you quit, you asshole.”, he said aloud. Empty coffee cups littered the floor of the passenger’s seat. A small lunchbox cooler, flip flops, a football, and a gray Mets jersey were piled on the rear seats, spilling over. He put the key in the ignition, turned it, and the car screeched and coughed a bit before finally starting up. WFAN kicked on the radio, with commentators once again bitching about the Jets. 

“Where the fuck did you go?”, asked Bobby, aloud once again. The car coming to life brought a bizarre revelatory comfort over him. “I guess you’re just somewhere else now, huh?” he thought to himself, this time silently. How absurd to think there is nothing else after this, that death is nothing but a quick and alarming change. After all, what would give men the courage to do what Jimmy tried to do on that night exactly one month ago? 

Bobby turned up the heat and got out of the car to clean off the blanket of ice on the windshield. He got back in, backed up out of the parking lot, and drove off in Jimmy’s car. The sports talk guys on the radio were still bitching about the Jets.