Long Bright River(116)

—It’s Mickey, I said.

—I know who it is, he said.

—I just wanted to tell you I quit, I said. I quit the force.

Truman paused for a while. Congratulations, he said finally.

—And I’m sorry, I said, closing my eyes. I’m so sorry for the way I treated you this year. You deserve better.

I could hear him breathing. I appreciate that, he said. But then he told me he had to go tend to his mother, and in his voice I heard that he was through, that I had lost him forever.

This happens, I tell myself. Sometimes, this happens.



* * *



—

The PPD, nationally embarrassed, is denying that they have a widespread problem. But I know differently, and Kacey knows differently, and the women of Kensington know differently. So I called Lauren Spright, and told her that I wanted to give her some information on condition of anonymity. The story was on public radio the next day. Police sexual assault is not uncommon in Kensington, the reporter began, and I turned the radio off. I didn’t want to hear.

Some days, I still wake up with the sick feeling that I’ve done something terribly wrong. I worry I’ve sold out the people who’ve protected me all these years, who’ve always had my back—sometimes literally.

I think of the many honorable people who work for the organization. Truman was in the PPD. Mike DiPaolo still is. Davis Nguyen. Gloria Peters. Even Denise Chambers, who recently phoned me personally to apologize.

Then there are the Laffertys, the evil ones. They’re few and far between, but everybody’s met one.

The hardest cases, I think—perhaps the most dangerous ones—are the friends of the Laffertys’. People like Sergeant Ahearn, who has possibly known for years about what goes on in Kensington. Maybe he even participates himself—who knows. And he’ll never be fired, never be questioned, never even be disciplined. He’ll go on with his daily routine, showing up for work, casually abusing his power in ways that will have lasting effects on individuals and communities, on the whole city of Philadelphia, for years.

It’s the Ahearns of the world who scare me.



* * *



—

I still don’t have a job. I probably could have gotten a lawyer and sued the PPD, given all that happened, but I don’t have the inclination.

Instead, I live on unemployment. I work at my uncle Rich’s car dealership in Frankford, doing paperwork and answering phones, being paid under the table, all cash. With a more regular schedule, I have found a regular babysitter, someone I trust, to watch Thomas two days a week now. Mondays and Wednesdays, I bring Thomas with me to Rich’s. And Fridays, Mrs. Mahon watches him.

The system isn’t perfect, but it’s working for now. Next year, Thomas will go to kindergarten, and everything will change again. Maybe I’ll sign up for classes at the community college. Maybe, eventually, I’ll get a degree. Be a history teacher, like Ms. Powell. Maybe.

When I get it, I tell myself, I’ll frame it, and then send a copy to Gee.





On a Tuesday morning in the middle of April, I open all the windows in my apartment. A rainstorm has just come through, and the air outside has that plump spring smell, wet grass and new earth. A pot of coffee is on in the kitchen. Thomas’s new babysitter is due to arrive soon. He’s in his room now, playing with his Legos. I’ve taken the day off work at the car dealership.



* * *



—

The babysitter arrives, and I say goodbye to Thomas, and then I go downstairs and ring Mrs. Mahon’s doorbell.

—Ready? I say, when she opens the door.

The two of us get into my car. We drive toward Wilmington.



* * *



—

The outing has been long anticipated.

The seeds of it were planted one day back in January, when I had both Kacey and Mrs. Mahon over for dinner. That first dinner turned into a weekly one. Now, every Sunday, we put Thomas to bed and then we watch TV, the three of us, something silly, whatever new comedy is on demand. Kacey likes comedies. Other times we watch a murder show—the term Kacey still uses, despite recent events—a show that is almost always about a missing woman, who was almost always murdered by her abusive husband or boyfriend. The host narrates the whole thing with alarming calm. That would be the last time the Millers would see their daughter.

—He did it, Kacey usually says, about the husband. He definitely did it, my God, look at him.

Sometimes, the victims are poor. Other times they are rich women, blond and impeccable, with husbands who are doctors or lawyers.

The rich women look, to me, like grown-up versions of the girls at The Nutcracker, the one time Kacey and I ever went, decades ago. All those blond girls with their hair in buns. All of them wearing different-colored dresses, like rare birds, like the dancers themselves. All of them loved.



* * *



—

Each Sunday dinner, Kacey has made the two of us swear that we’ll visit her in the hospital when her daughter is born.

—I want visitors, she says. I’m afraid no one will come. Will you visit me, both of you?

We will, we tell her.



* * *



—

Today, Mrs. Mahon and I turn into the parking lot of the hospital.