what do you think?”
Weld stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Then he grinned. “I like you,” he told Joe. “You get the bill on my desk and I'll sign it.”
Wayne wrote it up, convinced the city council to pass it, sent it along to the statehouse. The house passed it and, in November 1995, Weld signed it. There it was, in black and white, Chapter 197 of the Acts and Resolutions of 1995. “An Act Relative to Civil Service Preference of Certain Members of the Family of William T. McGuirk for Appointment to the Fire Department of the City of Worcester.” His very own law. He had to wait almost two more years before the city hired him, at the beginning of September 1997, but at least he was on. Some of the other guys didn't like it, thought he'd pulled one string too many, got an unfair edge. “Don't worry,” he'd tell Wayne. “I'm winning them over. One by one, I'm winning them over.”
He'd been riding Engine 3 out of the Grove Street station for two years. He liked the job, probably more than he thought he would. Hadn't seen much fire, though. A couple of house fires his rookie year, one big enough to draw a television cameraman who framed Joe in one of his shots. The guys called him “Hollywood Joe” for a while. Hardly anything burned after that, though, at least not on his shift. But at least he was a fireman now. Contracting was what he did in his spare time, same as plowing the streets after a snowstorm.
He packed up his tools at eleven-thirty and steered his truck out of Charlton. Linda had gone to work that morning, called to the gym to teach an aerobics class for someone else who got sick, but she'd be home by the time Joe got there. Everett and Emily wouldn't be out of school until after two o'clock, which would give them a couple of hours alone. It was a standing date if Joe wasn't working the day shift, just the two of them, rolling around like teenagers.
Linda felt a tingle when she heard Joe's truck in the driveway, then his work boots pounding up the steps. Joe was a big man, six feet tall and 220 pounds. He'd put on weight, forty pounds and almost all of it in his gut since the night she'd met him almost twenty years earlier. If he'd had the belly in 1980, when she was nineteen and he was eighteen, it would have taken him longer to squirrel through the crowd at Tammany Hall, a bar downtown. Linda had gone there with a friend. Joe saw her come through the door, smiled, worked his way over. He called her later that night, two-thirty in the morning, woke up her father. “Please let this be Linda Howe's number,” he said. Linda hung up on him, wondering what kind of nut calls a girl at that hour of the morning. She left the phone off the hook so it couldn't ring again until after breakfast, which is when Joe called again. He convinced Linda to go see
The Rose
with him. They saw each other every day after that until they were married in 1986.
After all those years and all those pounds, Linda still thought he was sexy. He had that big Irish mug, bright eyes, and a wide smile. He'd flash it at her across a crowded room and Linda would feel a schoolgirl flush. Then there were the legs. Joe had marvelous legs, lean and strong like a dancer's. If anything, Linda was jealous of them, Joe's skinny thighs.
Joe led her upstairs and into the bedroom. It was Linda's favorite time of the day, the two of them alone in the big pink house Joe had built for her. Minutes melted into hours, the afternoon slipping away, no one minding the time until they heard soft footsteps in the hallway, followed by a light knock on the door.
“Mom? Are you in there?”
Linda and Joe froze. She jerked her head toward the clock. It was after two. Everett was home from school a few minutes early.
“Just a minute,” she said. She and Joe got out from under the sheets, fumbled for their clothes, Linda blushing and Joe laughing. “I'll be right out.” She stifled a giggle.
“What are you doing in
Weld stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Then he grinned. “I like you,” he told Joe. “You get the bill on my desk and I'll sign it.”
Wayne wrote it up, convinced the city council to pass it, sent it along to the statehouse. The house passed it and, in November 1995, Weld signed it. There it was, in black and white, Chapter 197 of the Acts and Resolutions of 1995. “An Act Relative to Civil Service Preference of Certain Members of the Family of William T. McGuirk for Appointment to the Fire Department of the City of Worcester.” His very own law. He had to wait almost two more years before the city hired him, at the beginning of September 1997, but at least he was on. Some of the other guys didn't like it, thought he'd pulled one string too many, got an unfair edge. “Don't worry,” he'd tell Wayne. “I'm winning them over. One by one, I'm winning them over.”
He'd been riding Engine 3 out of the Grove Street station for two years. He liked the job, probably more than he thought he would. Hadn't seen much fire, though. A couple of house fires his rookie year, one big enough to draw a television cameraman who framed Joe in one of his shots. The guys called him “Hollywood Joe” for a while. Hardly anything burned after that, though, at least not on his shift. But at least he was a fireman now. Contracting was what he did in his spare time, same as plowing the streets after a snowstorm.
He packed up his tools at eleven-thirty and steered his truck out of Charlton. Linda had gone to work that morning, called to the gym to teach an aerobics class for someone else who got sick, but she'd be home by the time Joe got there. Everett and Emily wouldn't be out of school until after two o'clock, which would give them a couple of hours alone. It was a standing date if Joe wasn't working the day shift, just the two of them, rolling around like teenagers.
Linda felt a tingle when she heard Joe's truck in the driveway, then his work boots pounding up the steps. Joe was a big man, six feet tall and 220 pounds. He'd put on weight, forty pounds and almost all of it in his gut since the night she'd met him almost twenty years earlier. If he'd had the belly in 1980, when she was nineteen and he was eighteen, it would have taken him longer to squirrel through the crowd at Tammany Hall, a bar downtown. Linda had gone there with a friend. Joe saw her come through the door, smiled, worked his way over. He called her later that night, two-thirty in the morning, woke up her father. “Please let this be Linda Howe's number,” he said. Linda hung up on him, wondering what kind of nut calls a girl at that hour of the morning. She left the phone off the hook so it couldn't ring again until after breakfast, which is when Joe called again. He convinced Linda to go see
The Rose
with him. They saw each other every day after that until they were married in 1986.
After all those years and all those pounds, Linda still thought he was sexy. He had that big Irish mug, bright eyes, and a wide smile. He'd flash it at her across a crowded room and Linda would feel a schoolgirl flush. Then there were the legs. Joe had marvelous legs, lean and strong like a dancer's. If anything, Linda was jealous of them, Joe's skinny thighs.
Joe led her upstairs and into the bedroom. It was Linda's favorite time of the day, the two of them alone in the big pink house Joe had built for her. Minutes melted into hours, the afternoon slipping away, no one minding the time until they heard soft footsteps in the hallway, followed by a light knock on the door.
“Mom? Are you in there?”
Linda and Joe froze. She jerked her head toward the clock. It was after two. Everett was home from school a few minutes early.
“Just a minute,” she said. She and Joe got out from under the sheets, fumbled for their clothes, Linda blushing and Joe laughing. “I'll be right out.” She stifled a giggle.
“What are you doing in
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