Lady Behind The Wall

"Sincerely,

"John Middleton."

She handed the letter back. "What are you going to do, Ma'am?"

"Your Mr. Middleton is right. The patches will be issued at roll call before dinner. Have you a suggestion as to where they should be placed?"

Deirdre held the patch experimentally against her shoulder. "It's much too big to go on the sleeve the way the Army does it. It's even bigger than the 1st Air Cav's 'horseblanket.' And putting it on the back would identify us to others, not to us. I think he must have been thinking about putting it on the left breast of the coat, like varsity letters in high school." Suiting action to words, she held it to her shirt. The Warden nodded.

"That's what I figured. I'll ask one of the officers to take a coat and make some measurements to determine proper placement and we'll tell you how. Please don't mention this to anyone. I'd like it to be a surprise. That's all; you can go." As she was opening the door, the Warden said,

"He seems like a good man, your John. I'll have to write and thank him."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

As they were walking back to the barbershop, Officer Lincoln asked, "Bad news from home?"

"No, ma'am. Good news." She smiled and said nothing more.

At roll call, Sergeant Carter counted heads and handed out the mail, then said, "We have something for you." She walked down the front rank, handing each woman a handful of patches. "Take one and pass them back."

When all the women had one, Carter resumed her place and continued, "These patches are to be placed on the left breast of your firefighting coats, centered on the shoulder seam and with the top three inches down from the shoulder seam. The uniform for morning roll call will be khakis with firefighting coats and I expect to see all of you sporting properly placed Fire Fox patches. That's all. Barracks Chief, take the formation."

At dinner, Ronnie sat down next to Deirdre as usual. Like the other girls, she was curious to know where the patches had come from.

Deirdre said, "John sent them. He thought it would be good for morale."

"Dee, are you kidding? If he made up a patch for every gal in this camp, that's more than 800 patches! That had to cost him a few bucks!"

"He had a thousand made. The Warden told me."

"I'm going to send him a thank-you note. Do you feel the vibe in here?"

She waved a hand. The dining hall was always one of the happier places in the camp, but tonight it was bubbling with cheerful talk. "I haven't seen this place this happy since the softball team beat Sebagoville for the prison league championship. If there is such a thing as good karma, your John laid up a big pile of it today!"

*****

I was not expecting any mail from Camp Jackson apart from Deirdre's letters. I thought that perhaps the Warden might send me a letter acknowledging receipt of the patches, assuming she didn't just mail the whole box back as being unsuitable. Therefore, when there were three letters in handwriting I didn't recognize, I was surprised.

All three said essentially the same thing: Thank you for thinking of us. Thank you for the Fire Fox patches. They made our day here. I smiled, pleased that someone else appreciated Jayne's artwork, and mentioned it to Deirdre in my daily note to her.

The next day, there were eleven letters from the camp. They too thanked me, and I copied a few of the compliments for Deirdre to read.

"If I had you here right now, I'd give you a big kiss."

"I love the fox! It's really us!"

"I don't know how you heard about our firefighters, but I'll tell you something; I'd like to light YOUR fire."

"Here's a picture of me. After I get out of here next year, if you're ever in the Houston area be sure to come and visit. I'll show you how I handle a hose."

It always feels good when someone boosts your ego. It means even more when you know what spending a first class stamp means to women prisoners.

The day after that, I got a call from the postmaster.

"Mr. Middleton, I need you to stop by and pick up your mail."

"I thought you guysdelivered the mail. 'Neither rain, nor snow, nor gloom of night,' and all that."

"Not when there are two mailbags full of letters, we don't! You'll have to come and get them!"

Obediently, I stopped by on my way home. The postmaster pointed to two canvas mailbags crammed full. My eyes widened.

"You get no more mail than the average in this town. Why are you suddenly getting mail like you were Santa Claus?"

I explained about the patches and he nodded, but told me I'd still have to come and pick it up until things got back to normal. I had no problem with that.

The letters were more of the same, with occasional offers of marriage or propositions less formal from the senders. To these women, I sent back a form letter letting them know that while I appreciated their offers I was pretty much dated up; and gave them the address of ladiesbehindthewalls.com, suggesting that they get in touch with them and post a profile. I also enclosed a couple of stamps so they could.

The letters tapered off quickly, but one day while I was getting a replacement tank of acetylene for my torch I found a reporter from the city daily waiting by my truck. He'd heard a garbled version of the story from his letter carrier and had been intrigued enough to track me down. I told the gang I'd be back in a bit and we went for coffee.

Over a fresh cup, I told him of how I'd met Deirdre and gotten to know about the Fire Foxes and that I'd just wanted to do something nice for them. All the letters had been was their thanking me, nothing more. He wanted a picture; I agreed provided he'd take it by my truck. (If it ran, it would be free advertising, so why not?) He snapped a couple, and I thought that was that.

That is, until the Sunday paper arrived. Tasha's call at nine AM woke me.

"John, you're famous!"

In the field, I wake quickly. At home, off duty, I don't. "Whazzat?"

"You're the lead article in the Human Interest section of the paper! They have a picture of you and everything! They called up the warden at Deirdre's camp and interviewed her and she says you're a prince among men, a regular true and gentle knight and all-around nice guy. I mean, I already knew that, but now it's official."

"They didn't print my address, I hope?"

"No, just the address of the website you used to meet Deirdre."

"Thank the Lord for small mercies. I just hope it doesn't get picked up or every nutcase in the world will be after me. Are you at home tonight? I think I need to talk to you about this."

"No, Richard and I are out of town, but I just had to call you."

"Oh, boy. And you probably won't be the only one. And I'm expecting a call from Deirdre this afternoon!"

"I'll say goodbye, then. I just wanted you to know I think you did a really nice thing, John. 'Bye for now."

As predicted, it seemed all my friends and customers who read the Sunday paper wanted to talk to me. By 2:00, I took to explaining that I was expecting an important call and to please call back later. I continued this routine all afternoon, waiting for Deirdre's weekly call.

It never came.

*****

The lights in the barracks switched on and a whistle shrilled, startling everyone awake. Adrenalin thrilled through Deirdre's veins as she sat bolt upright. Sergeant Carter was standing in the doorway, looking grim. She always did when she pulled the graveyard shift on a Saturday night, but her expression was enough to silence the inmates before they could protest being awakened at two o'clock in the morning.

"Outside, in five minutes! Uniform is khakis, work boots and full firefighting gear! Move it, ladies!" The door slammed behind her as she left. Outside, the lights were coming on; not the streetlights at the end of each company row, but the big spotlights that turned night into day and were almost never used. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good.

Formed up in ranks, Carter counted noses and then, unusually for her, called the roll. Satisfied, she spoke into the microphone clipped to her epaulet. The other officers were doing likewise. The loudspeaker clicked on.

"Ladies, this is the Warden. The Camp Jackson Fire Foxes been called up for firefighting duty.

"There is a huge fire on the south rim of the Grand Canyon that is out of control. Hot shots, bulldozers and smoke jumpers from all over the Southwest are being called in to try and contain it. Aerial water bombers are working around the clock but they aren't managing to do more than slow it down.

"You will proceed to the equipment sheds and draw your equipment belts, helmets and pulaskis. Buses are enroute to take you to the Dumas airport, where you will board Texas Air National Guard airplanes that will take you to the fire service base camp for deployment. Any additional equipment that is required will be issued when you arrive.

"Don't do anything that will bring shame to the reputation the Fire Foxes have built for themselves. Take care, and good luck." The speaker clicked off.

"Right, face! Forward, march!" ordered Carter. For the first time, Deirdre noticed she had on a field pack.

"What's with the pack, ma'am?" she asked.

"You didn't think I was going to let you go off and have all the fun, now did you, Little Fox?"

Deirdre grinned at the corrections officer. "Happy to have you with us, ma'am!"

Ninety minutes later, 800 trusties and a cadre of guards were aboard C-130 Hercules transports, winging west.

*****

I stewed all Sunday evening, annoyed that Deirdre had failed to call. A short letter arrived with my Monday mail, but it was dated Friday and told me nothing. Perhaps the lines had been out. It did happen and more often in rural areas with comparatively few subscribers where lines weren't maintained the way they were in urban environments. One drunken driver could knock a whole stretch of farms out if he hit the wrong phone pole.

No letter arrived on Tuesday. Considering that she was a faithful correspondent, now I knew something was wrong. I got on the phone to Camp Jackson. It seemed to take forever for someone to pick up.

"TDCJ Camp Jackson, Officer McDowell."

"Ms. McDowell, I'd like to speak to Sergeant Jo Carter, if she's available." I knew damned well they wouldn't let Deirdre get on the phone but Carter was the guard in charge of her platoon. She would know what was up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Sergeant Carter is out west with the Fire Foxes."

"What? What do you mean, 'out west?' "

"The entire camp was called for duty with the Forest Service, sir. She is one of the guards escorting the team. All the platoon commanders are out there."

"Let me speak to Warden Duffy, please."

A pause. "Just a moment, sir; I'll see if she has left for the day yet."

The line went silent, with that dead air feel that you get when you're put on hold and there is no music or promo blather to occupy your ears. About 30 seconds later, the line was picked up.

"Rosemary Duffy here, Mr. Middleton."

"Your officer stated that all of your inmates were dispatched west to fight a conflagration. Deirdre Little Fox failed to communicate with me this Sunday past and when the mail stopped I became sufficiently concerned to contact her place of incarceration directly. Would you be good enough to inform me as to what is happening?"

"Just what Officer McDowell told you, Mr. Middleton. Forest firefighting units from as far away as Wyoming and Texas have been called in. This is the worst fire in the Grand Canyon region in thirty or forty years. Combat engineers from the National Guard are bulldozing fire breaks; the Air National Guard base out there is said to be outfitting a squadron of C-130s as water bombers; the Air Force has sent every heavy lift chopper they can spare to do pinpoint drops; a call is out for any pilot with an air-attack card to report to the fire base pronto; and every World War II Flying Fortress, Invader, Marauder and Catalina that went on to a second career as aerial firefighters west of the Rockies is flying as many missions as they can cram into a day dropping retardant, just trying to get a handle on this fire. Don't you watch the news?"

"I do, but I never for a moment realized that it was so gigantic that ground fighters from states not even adjacent to the national park would be summoned. To what degree are the Fire Foxes committed and how great is the risk?"

"As of this afternoon, they are fully in the field. They've been assigned to follow-up duty on the windward side of the fire area where it's recently passed, going through on foot, looking for hot spots and dealing with them so the fire can't turn and perhaps crown out. They're going where the brush trucks can't reach. I won't try and persuade you it isn't dangerous, because it is. But my girls are tough and we've trained them well. I know you are worried for your lady, but try not to. You won't help her by fretting yourself into an ulcer."

"Is there any possibility that I might be able to communicate with her?"

"No. There isn't much in the way of telephones at the fire command base where they are quartered. What is there is reserved for official use. Even I only get a report once a day.

"Look," and I could almost hear her lean forward at her desk, "here's what I can do. I'll ask my guard captain to pass a message on to her, telling her you called, that you're thinking of her and praying for her; and I'll ask her to relay any message Little Fox has. Will that do?"

"Under the circumstances it will have to suffice, ma'am. I appreciate the effort you are expending on my behalf, and Deirdre's. Thank you for your assistance."

"Mr. Middleton, it's the least we can do for you. Your gift of those patches has done wonders here. Do you know, I actually had a delegation of inmates present me with a petition to name you an honorary Fire Fox? It means a lot to them that someone outside gives a damn. Now, try not to worry too much. I'll be back in touch as soon as I've news." Click.

I hung the phone up. Oh Lord, I prayed, please give me patience, and give it to me right now!

Worst-case scenarios played across my inner eye. Wildfires aren't the biggest natural disasters that can happen, but they're certainly in the top five. Warden Duffy had said this was one of the worst in almost half a century. I needed to talk to Tasha about the situation.

When I walked into the Galaxy Club, before I could ask where she was one of the bartenders told me Ms. Lacey was in her office. I took a triple Jack Daniels and walked in. She was watching CNN, which was showing footage of a B-17 leading a string of aircraft that were laying a continuous, mile long line of retardant just ahead of the flame front to try and stop the fire from crossing a ridge. She switched off the TV.

"I expected you before this, John. They're saying this fire is a very bad one, with ground fighters coming in from all over. There was a shot of the Fire Foxes boarding Army trucks to take them to the fire line and a little blurb about who they are– and before you ask, no, I didn't see Deirdre. It may be ten days before they have this one under control and weeks before it's officially out. You just need to be patient, my friend."

I knocked back a slug of the bourbon. "That's easy for you to say. Your Richard isn't at risk out there, but Deirdre is!"

"I know, I know. It isn't easy to have a loved one in a dangerous place. It must be ten times harder for you, because all your hairy male instincts are screaming that it's supposed to be you, theman, facing danger and not the woman you're in love with. But there's nothing you can do to help her, John. She's there and you're here. All you can do is wait and hope."

Her statement stopped me in my tracks. '... the woman you're in love with.'

"Is that why I'm so frantic, Tasha? I never really thought about it that way before." I finished the whiskey in one gulp. "Am I in love with her? Really in love? How do you know?"

"I don't. Only you can answer that question. But I'll give you a hint. You wouldn't have come down here to talk to me about this if you were not deeply, deeply concerned about Deirdre; and you couldn't have gunned down the better part of four ounces of bourbon in less than two minutes with no effect if you weren't in fight-or-flight mode. That ought to tell you something!"

My knees suddenly turned to rubber and I lurched toward the couch, tripping over the coffee table and smacking my face into the cushions before ending up sitting on the floor with the room spinning around me. Three Tashas came to see if I was all right.

"Or maybe not." Three bouncers took me by one arm and the three Tashas by the other and got me onto the couch. "Go see if Cleo is here yet," they ordered. The bouncers nodded in unison and left.

"I'm aw ri', I'm aw ri'," I protested, trying to decide which Tasha was the real one.

"Of course you are," they soothed. "I'll just get you some nice black coffee."

By the time Cleo and the bruiser arrived, two of the Tashas had left and the one who remained was pouring a second cup of strong coffee into me. She looked up at her dancer.

"John's had a rough day. Would you please take him home and make sure he's okay? Take all the time you need, Cleo. I'd very much appreciate it."

"No problem, Lacey," Cleo assured her as she accepted my car keys. "Can he walk?"

"Of course I can walk!" I said indignantly, surging to my feet. "See?" I took two steps and almost fell over a wrinkle in the rug before Tasha grabbed one arm and Cleo slipped under the other, bracing me up.

"We'll just help you," Tasha said.

Cleo had a little trouble getting me out of the car and into the house at the far end, but eventually she got me seated on the living room couch with my shoes off. She sat next to me.

"Do you want to talk about it, Johnny?"

I felt a bit disoriented from the booze. Things seemed simultaneously sharper and blurrier than normal, thoughts as well as sights, sounds and sensations. Part of me didn't want to speak, but the pressure within sought a safety valve.

"It's just so infuriating, Cleo! She's out there on the fire line somewhere, putting herself at risk and for what? Two lousy days cut off her sentence for every day she's in the field where she can get hurt– or killed! I can't even talk to her, and I may never even see her again!" My voice choked up and tears spilled out of my eyes. Blindly, I groped for Cleo. She took me into her arms, holding me to her breast as I cried, offering the comfort of human contact as my fears came pouring out. I clutched her like a drowning man and we overbalanced, falling to the floor. We ended up with me on top of her, fully clothed in the missionary position. The alcohol dissolved my inhibitions as it heightened desire fanned into flame by the survival instinct.

My mouth locked on hers and my hands went to her boobs, unfettered by any brassiere. Cleo's nickname around the Galaxy Club is 'Miss Ever-Ready,' and it describes her personality as well as her sexuality. She responded with ardor to my desperate need for comfort, unfastening my belt and jeans, pushing them down and liberating my cock. Even as my hands tore her tank top to get at her tits she was guiding my prick past her pussy lips and into her cunt, groaning at the friction between us that foreplay would have eased by lubricating her hot box, but not stopping. Soon enough her oils of arousal soaked my rod and the first dry thrusts gave way to a smooth pistoning as she fucked me back.

"That's it, baby! Let it go! Fuck me hard! Fuck me like you'd fuck her! Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, yes! Yes! Fuck her like an animal, Johnny! Fuck her cunt! Fuck me!"

Somehow I got onto hands and knees, my hips driving unsubtly into her cooze, blindly seeking affirmation of life and living in intercourse. I bit her nipples and felt her nails rake my back, only my shirt saving me from a clawing as she cried out from the mixture of pain and pleasure my teeth induced in her as I pulled on their silky hardness.