Long Bright River(52)

—Are you busy? I ask him.

—No, I’m good, he says. What’s up?

—Have you ever heard anything about an officer who wears a sweatshirt that says Wildwood on it?

He pauses. I don’t think so, he says. That doesn’t ring a bell. Why?

In the background, I hear someone speaking: a woman. Truman? she’s saying. Truman, who is that?

—If you’re busy, I say again.

—No, says Truman.

—What about this, I say. Have you ever heard of a cop who—I pause, trying to formulate the words—who demands favors from women in our sector? In exchange for letting them go?

Truman pauses for a long time.

—I mean, he says, yes. I think everyone’s heard stories about that.

I haven’t, I think. Until today. I don’t say this.

Again, the voice in the background, serious now: Truman.

Does Truman have a girlfriend?

—Hang on, says Truman, and I hear muffled speaking, as if he is cradling the phone in his hands, and then he says, into the phone again, I’ll call you back, okay?

—Okay, I say, but he’s already hung up.





I can’t find Sergeant Ahearn in his office when I get back to the station.

In fact, I can’t find any sergeant. And yet this is information that I need to convey, as quickly as I can.

I stand in the doorway of the ops room for a moment, until Corporal Shah notices me.

—Have you seen Sergeant Ahearn? I ask.

—He’s on scene, says Corporal Shah, who, as usual, is chewing gum. He’s been trying to quit smoking for what seems like the eleventh time, and therefore he’s had an edge to him for a week. You want me to tell him you were looking for him? he says.

—I’ll just give him a call, I say. Can you take this? I say, holding out my activity log.



* * *



—

I change out of my uniform and then sit in my personal vehicle in the parking lot. I bring up Sergeant Ahearn’s number. I dial and reach his voicemail.

—Sergeant Ahearn, I say. It’s Michaela Fitzpatrick. I have to talk to you about something that happened on my shift today. It’s urgent.

I leave my number for him, though I know he has it.

I drive out of the lot, heading for home.





When I pull into the driveway, the landlady is standing in the yard, hands on hips, looking up into the sky. My car is full of junk and debris, and I wave a quick hello to Mrs. Mahon as I get out, and then I open the back door and bend in to retrieve some of it. I wish Mrs. Mahon would go inside. She is wearing another of her funny seasonal sweatshirts—this one is a wreath with three-dimensional decorations—which I imagine are meant to be conversation-opening in some way.

I gather an armful of bags and wrappers and shoes from the floor of the car. Then I stand and walk toward the backyard.

As I do, Mrs. Mahon calls after me.

—Did you hear about the snow? she says.

I stop and turn, briefly.

—What snow, I say.

—They’re saying a foot overnight, says Mrs. Mahon. It’s a bombogenesis.

This she says with quiet urgency, peering over her glasses, as if she is announcing a tsunami headed in our direction. Probably she doesn’t expect me to know the word. I do.

—I’d better turn on the news, I say, with as much seriousness as I can muster.

I’m humoring her. Since we moved into the apartment above her, Mrs. Mahon has made apocalyptic weather announcements approximately a dozen times, including one occasion when she made us tape our windows due to what was predicted to be golf ball–sized hail. (It wasn’t.) People like Mrs. Mahon clog up the grocery stores the night before storms, buying milk and bread that they won’t ever consume, filling bathtubs with water that, forty-eight hours later, they will watch sadly as it disappears down a slow drain.

—Good night, Mrs. Mahon, I say.



* * *



—

The house seems empty when I open the door. The living room, at least, is dark, and the television is off.

—Hello? I call. No one replies.

I walk quickly toward the back of the apartment. Suddenly, my son steps into the hallway from the bathroom. He’s wearing his favorite accessory: a Phillies cap that his father bought for him a year ago. He’s holding one finger to his lips.

—Shhhhhh, he says.

—What? I say.

—Bethany’s taking a nap, he says.

Thomas points toward the door of his bedroom. Sure enough, there on his bed is Bethany, stretched out on Thomas’s race car comforter, one hand curled under a cheek, her hair and her makeup impeccable.

I slam the door closed loudly. Open it again. On the other side of it, Bethany is rising slowly, angelically, stretching, in no particular hurry. One perfect red line bisects her right cheek: a wrinkle in the pillowcase has left its mark.

—Hey, says Bethany, nonchalantly. She glances at her phone.

—Sorry, she says, perhaps noticing at last my expression, which hovers someplace around incredulity. She adds, I stayed up late last night. Just needed a power nap.



* * *



—

Only later—after a short conversation with Bethany about how, even though Thomas seems mature, he’s really only four, and can’t be left alone; after Bethany has left, her hurt feelings conveyed by her silence and a series of baleful looks; after I have prepared dinner, and put it down on the table—do I realize I never turned on the news.