Chapter 2 - The Second Supper
Saturday afternoon smelled of simmering onions, roasted ancho chilis, and cumin. The fire hall doors were rolled wide open to let the late afternoon breeze sweep through the bays, clearing out the faint, ever-present odor of diesel fuel and wet hoses. Women from the Methodist congregation arrived carrying foil-wrapped trays of freshly baked cinnamon rolls, sweet cornbread squares, and mason jars of sweet tea. By five o'clock, the wooden tables were completely packed with neighbors who had heard the whispers traveling through the county.
Bryce stood right beside me behind the long serving line, determined to be useful. His pediatric burn team had finally given him permission to join public gatherings, provided his double-layered white tubular bandages remained completely clean and dry under his flannel cuffs. He held the wooden tongs, offering pieces of warm cornbread to every neighbor who walked down the line, smiling with a shy bravery that made more than one hardened rancher wipe away a tear with a sawdust-crusted sleeve.
Then the side door creaked, and Rodney walked inside. The murmur of conversation across the room noticeably dropped several octaves. He wasn't in uniform, and his posture was stiff, shoulders tense as if he expected someone to throw a punch. He didn't grab a paper plate or search for a seat near the back. Instead, Rodney walked directly behind the steam pans, rolled up his flannel sleeves, picked up an unused ladle, and began dishing chili into white foam bowls.
He didn't say a single word to me, nor did I utter a syllable to him. We stood side by side, ladling meal after meal for nearly three straight hours. People filed past, accepting bowls in uneasy silence. Some nodded politely out of ingrained habit; others stared straight past him, looking only at Bryce or at me. The silence between us felt heavier than a lead blanket, yet Rodney never abandoned his post, refusing breaks even when his hands began to tremble from the repetitive strain.
Across the room, Earl Vance stood by the open bay door, wearing his pristine navy dress jacket. Under his arm was an oversized stainless-steel canister with a custom metal slot welded into the lid. He personally intercepted every attendee at the threshold, holding the canister firmly and ensuring everyone placed their contributions inside before finding a seat. By eight o'clock, the large pots were scraped clean to the metal, and Earl walked into the center of the bay, closing the large overhead garage doors behind him.
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The heavy roll-up doors rattled shut with a thunderous clatter, cutting off the prairie wind and sealing sixty townspeople inside the cavernous concrete room. Earl didn't sit down. He marched directly toward the serving counter, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete. The entire room went dead silent. Plastic spoons stopped mid-air. Rodney lowered his ladle, wiping his hands on a damp towel, his breathing noticeably shallow.
Earl walked past the polished chrome bumper of the department's reserve engine and stopped right in front of us. He placed the heavy steel canister on the table between Rodney and me, his hand resting on top of it like an anchor. He looked at my brother-in-law with an expression carved out of granite, cleared his throat, and spoke with a voice that bounced off the steel girders above.
