Beneath the Dross

The lights went out suddenly. Screams filled the gym faster than smoke pouring in from the hallway as the thunderous herd of students clambered down from the bleachers. Instinctively, I reached for Maddie’s hand and gave it a squeeze, pulling her close. I’d dreamed about this moment with her for months—maybe that’s why it happened so naturally. There had been no smoke in my dreams, and the screams sounded completely different.

“Pull your shirt up over your mouth and nose, now! We’ve got to move left, Maddie, toward the locker rooms.”

“No, Conrad!” she cried. “The exit doors are down there!” Panic drove her voice a full octave higher.

“Stay with me, Maddie. We’ll soak our clothes in the locker room showers, then wrap our faces to protect our lungs. Listen to their footsteps—they’re packing in like sardines. We’ll be trampled or suffocate, either way, we’ll die.”

Dad had drilled escape protocols into my brain like a piledriver making way for the foundation of a hundred story building. A battalion chief for the local fire company, he knew how to stay alive and made damn sure I could survive anything. And I hated him for it.

I couldn’t think about Dad right now, though he’d been on my mind since I left for school in the morning, that is, if cursing his existence counts. He’d been riding my ass for months about ‘decisioning my future,’ something I wasn’t ready to deal with. He took another shot on my way out the door, calling Maddie ‘a distraction.’ Now he was the distraction as I fought to stay focused; an errant brain cell wondered if I would still have a future. Acridness crept into my mouth.

Maddie shrieked, “Isn’t there an emergency generator? Why haven’t the lights come back on?”

“Nothing to see but smoke. No power, no ventilation—that's what we’re up against. Keep hold of my hand. Slide down the bleachers to the end, Maddie. The boy’s locker room is right there.” I made her go first using the smooth, wooden benches as both anchor and guide, kicking abandoned books and bags out of our way.

“So this is what surreal means,” I thought to myself, consciously not opening my mouth to share it. Ms. Allegra had done her best to explain its meaning in art class a few hours earlier using the works of famous painters to make her point. The hallucinatory quality of the moment ended abruptly when Maddie stumbled over something. Someone. Her gasp ushered a mouthful of sooty air deep into her lungs. Between gagging coughs, I tried coaching her to regulate her breathing, letting go of her hand to help pull her shirt back over her face while keeping my own covered.

“Pant like a dog, Maddie, really shallow. We have to keep moving,” I shouted to her as loud as I could without sucking in the dense, putrid gas that would soon replace breathable air. Ear-splitting screams were subsiding into eerie wails like spirits haunting a cemetery. We climbed over the fallen classmate, or was it a teacher? The thought that it might be Ms. Allegra sent shockwaves through my core. There was no telling who it was, nor any need to offer assistance.

“Shit just got real,” I mumbled as Maddie went into another coughing fit. Every cell in my body was screaming for oxygen.

“We’re almost there, Maddie!” I told her with as much confidence as I could muster, but even I didn’t believe me. “Maddie?” Her coughing had stopped and for a moment, so did my heart. “MADDIE!”

I felt my way across her torso with one hand, aiming for her face and apologizing repeatedly for my indecent behavior. The breasts I dreamed of caressing aroused only fear when my touch got no response. I wished she would slap me and tell me to mind my manners, or giggle with delight. Something—anything.

Nothing.

Leaving Maddie was untenable, but how could I keep myself alive and carry Maddie too? In the recesses of my mind, I heard dad say, “Put your own mask on first.”  Weighing a few ounces over one hundred forty pounds, I was proud of my BMI for a guy five foot eleven with hardly any fat to be ashamed of. I worked out in the gym after school every day before soccer practice, usually afterwards too. I didn’t know how much Maddie weighed, but whatever it was didn’t matter in the least if lifting her meant uncovering my face.

“I’m not being selfish, Maddie, I just can’t use both hands to pick you up,” I explained into the crook of my elbow. Praying she could hear me as I crept over her motionless form, I told her, “I’ll pull you from the other side, just hold on a seco….”

My face was flush with hardwood. We’d been sitting only a dozen rows up for the pep rally since I would need to join the soccer team in center court. That’s how far I’d fallen. In total darkness, I couldn’t see red dripping from my nose but the warm stickiness in my hand told me, ‘nice faceplant, Conrad.’  I forced myself to my feet and reached up for Maddie.

“Hang on, Princess,” fell from my lips as I held my breath, uncovering my face long enough to ensure her landing would be gentler than mine. The words surprised me since I hadn’t yet called Maddie by a pet name. Dating for just a couple months, I’d discovered she definitely wasn’t the princess type in spite of the way she carried herself. She moved with a confidence that comes from knowing who you are, from having a purpose greater than yourself radiating from deep inside. That was my Maddie. That was the Maddie I wanted Dad to know, too, and I wanted to be her Prince Charming.

“I won’t leave you,” I said into my arm again. Praying there were no obstacles between us and the locker room, I curled my free arm under one of hers and pulled—once, twice, once more until my shoulder collided with a wall. Having to feel my way to the locker room door meant facing the same choice again: let go of Maddie or risk exposure?

My eyes and lungs begged for relief. I knew the oxygen level in my bloodstream was plummeting. In a few moments, there would be an insufficient supply to power muscle or brain tissue; the cruel illusion of time moving at a snail’s pace does nothing to slow hypoxia. I could work faster with two hands, and faster would improve both our chances of survival. “You’re a soccer player, Conrad…use your feet!” flashed through my mind. I kept Maddie on top of my left foot. Feeling my way along the pitted finish of smooth, painted cinder block with my hands,  I took a long sideways step with my right foot, then pulled Maddie as I brought my feet together. It didn’t take long before the texture beneath my fingers changed to cold, smooth steel. If I’d learned anything from growing up around a firehouse, a cool-to-the-touch door meant no fire on the other side. My insides began to celebrate in spite of the pain as if I’d gotten kicked in the shin right after scoring a goal. Elation crashed hard when the door handle didn’t turn.

“The room’s getting quieter,” I informed Maddie, slumping alongside her on the floor, resting her head on my thigh. “Could be I’m blacking out, Princess, or there are fewer voices left….”

When I came to, lights flooding the room revealed a firefighter on their knees next to me holding an oxygen mask on my face. It was Dad being selfless. His tone sounded stern and commanding even as he said, “Take it easy, Son.” The contrast between action and tenor seemed stark, yet altogether normal. My entire seventeen years of life bore witness to this juxtaposition without having realized that love lived in the middle, filling the gap between word and deed. How could I have missed it? Pushing me to make decisions about my future was not the act of some insensitive autocratic monster, it was Dad giving me the benefit of his oxygen mask. I took another deep breath and gave the mask back to him; huge fans cleared the air around us.

“Maddie—where’s Maddie? She was right here next to me, Dad.” I could see the quizzical look on his face behind the mask.

“She was right here next to me,” I insisted. Salty tears compounded my already red, swollen eyes.

He lowered the oxygen mask to make sure I heard, “You saved that girl, Conrad, but it wasn’t Maddie—she was in the stands. The smoke got her.”

I let Dad pull my arm around his shoulders. He lifted my frame off the floor saying softly, “I’m sorry, Son.”

I’d never felt loss like this before, the kind that makes you weak in the knees and sick to your stomach. Nor had I ever felt so much respect for my father. Despite the difficulty of the moment, I realized it was time to get beneath the surface crap I’d let come between us. In the darkness of the gym, my sight had been restored.