Haskins was about to reply and rebut when he was cut off by the sound of a baby crying at the next table. “Can you believe that lawyer brought his wife and their newborn? To a professional banquet? What kind of lawyer would bring a wife who just gave birth and the child? You never would’ve seen that in our day.”
Margaret patted his hand gently. “Darling…the wife is the lawyer. And I don’t think she has a husband.”
“But—that’s not right.”
His wife shrugged. “Times have changed.”
“She should’ve hired a babysitter.”
“Babysitters are expensive. And we don’t say ‘babysitters’ anymore. We say ‘caregivers.’ ”
“Right. Very important that we don’t demean the teen work-force.” He leaned closer. “I’m going to have to give some damn speech in a minute. I’m sorry. But tomorrow night, Angel—I’m taking you out to dinner. To compensate for this scheduling snag.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s our twenty-seventh anniversary!”
“Yes, it is. We’ve been together twenty-seven years. So you can skip the dinner, and the champagne, and whatever bauble it is making a bulge in your jacket.” She leaned in closer. “All I want is you.”
He came close enough that they brushed noses. “Do you know why I call you ‘Angel’?”
“I’ve assumed it’s because you’re beginning to have difficulty recalling my name.”
“It’s because someone like you could only have come from heaven. Beautiful, pure, and untouched by the wicked world. I’d be nothing without you.”
She laughed again and her face flushed slightly. “You are in a sentimental mood tonight, aren’t you? Rupert, you would’ve been a success no matter who you—”
“No. Not without you. And what’s more—I wouldn’t want it, without you.” He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose.
She pushed him away. “Oh, honestly. I think you get more foolish every day,” she protested, but without much vigor. “Now start putting your thoughts together for your speech. And please don’t tell that musty old story about when you were in the freshman moot court competition and the judge criticized your argyle socks. They’ve heard it more times than they’ve heard the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Judge Haskins had almost reached the point in the story where he notices the judge is staring at his ankles when he was rocked by an explosion from behind the podium. The first wave knocked him and the podium to the floor. He fell on top of it and immediately felt blood coursing from his nose. The second wave was even stronger—and hotter. He tumbled off the edge of the dais, falling sideways onto his left leg. It felt as if it might be fractured. But neither that nor the dozen other injuries he had suffered registered for more than a moment. His primary concern was the heat that continued to emanate from the kitchen behind him.
The ballroom was on fire.
Haskins slowly pushed himself to his feet, but he was sent reeling by someone rushing in the opposite direction. The sudden burst of flames had thrown everyone in the room into a panic. Husbands and wives were rushing across the ballroom toward the main entrance. The screams and shouts were deafening; some were calling the names of loved ones, others just screaming in abject panic. The heat was already unbearable. Haskins felt as if he’d been dropped into a deep-fat fryer. The lights exploded, plunging the room into darkness. Everyone was coughing, struggling to breathe. People were rubbing their eyes, or extending their arms to feel their way through the dense smoky gloom. There seemed to be a problem getting the doors open. The smoke was billowing up in the enclosed ballroom, making it almost impossible to get air.
“Margaret!” Haskins cried, as he pushed himself to his feet once more, ignoring the blood streaming down his face, the aching in his left leg. “Margaret!”
He felt her more than heard her, given the enormous confusion and tumult in the room. That was the advantage of being married to someone for twenty-seven years—he could literally sense her presence. Haskins fought his way across the crowded room, brushing shoulders and kneecaps with the hundreds of people rushing in every direction. His leg hurt so much that his knee buckled with his first step. A woman in a flaming ball gown flew past, knocking him back onto the floor.
This will never work, he told himself. I need to stay on my feet. My Angel is depending on me.
He pushed himself up again. The pain in his leg was excruciating, but he kept his knee rigid and continued walking. There would be time enough for pain later.
He found Margaret lying on the floor, half-hidden under one of the banquet tables. She was unconscious, maybe from the explosion, maybe from all the people who had kicked and trampled her after she tumbled to the floor.
There was only one thing to do; whether he felt able to do it or not. He bent over, his back screaming—it had never been the same since the disk replacement two years before—and cradled her in his arms. She felt three times heavier than she really was, but he put that out of his mind and headed toward the door. A crowd was gathering. A few of the men were making panicked, disorganized efforts to get the doors open, but nothing worked. Haskins guessed that the explosion had created a vacuum. Even though people on the other side must be trying to open the doors, they weren’t budging.
“Just a moment, Angel,” Haskins murmured, as he placed his wife gently into a nearby chair. He stood on a table and bellowed, hoping he might be heard over the tumult.
“Listen to me!” he shouted, not attracting much attention. It was hard to stand on such a rickety table, especially with a rickety leg. He drew in his breath, inhaled smoke, and went into a coughing spasm. Water streamed from his eyes, but he forced himself to try again.
“Listen! Can you feel that fire? Do you know how quickly fire spreads? We’ve got to get organized—or we’re all dead.”
“What can we do?” one of the young men shouted back.
Damn good question. What could they do? Waiting for help was not an option—the fire would consume them in minutes, maybe sooner.
“Let’s grab the podium,” he said. “You and you and you.”
Haskins and the three men he had chosen at random ran back to where the podium lay on the floor. It was mostly intact, although its proximity to the fire had made it extremely hot. Haskins touched one end, then jerked his hand back.
“We have to do this,” he muttered. “Use your clothes to protect your hands!”
Together the men tore off their jackets and shirts and used them to insulate their hands. It was not a complete fix—Haskins still could feel his flesh searing—but it at least made it bearable in the short term. On his cue, they lifted the podium and carried it toward the nearest door.
“We have to work together,” he shouted, coughing and choking with every word. “On three!”
Haskins delivered the countdown, and together they used the podium as a battering ram against the door. It buckled but did not break.
“Again!”
They rammed the door one more time. The plastic molding splintered, creating a narrow opening. People streamed forward, desperately trying to escape the unbearably intense heat. Haskins hoisted his wife back into his arms and carried her through the threshold, barely a few steps ahead of the flickering flames.