To Love a Cop

“Are there things you’d say to him that you don’t want to say to me?” She was proud of how calm she sounded.

“Maybe,” he muttered. He stole a peek at her. “’Cuz he’s a guy.”

“So is Uncle Brian. And you like some of your friend’s dads.”

“Yeah, but they’re not—you know.”

Cops. They weren’t cops. They didn’t carry guns. Not a one of them even owned a gun. She hoped. She knew her sister’s husband didn’t.

“You know we can talk about your dad whenever you want.”

He sneered. There was no other word for it. “You hate it when I ask about his job!”

“It’s not that.” Yes, it was. No, it wasn’t, not entirely anyway. “Your father didn’t like to talk about what he did,” she said, although that wasn’t quite right, either. He did like to brag, but he’d never talk about things going wrong, and she always knew when he was especially closed off that he’d seen something awful. He’d go out to a bar instead, to hang with his cop friends. Sometimes every night for days on end, stumbling home drunk, until she’d been forced to confront how peripheral her role in his life was.

Some of that, he couldn’t help, she knew, given his upbringing. He’d been...old-fashioned, believing women were to be protected. He hadn’t been crazy about her continuing to work, although thank God she had an employment history, given that suicide invalidated his life insurance policy. Had he given that a moment’s thought before checking out on his responsibilities? she asked herself for the thousandth time, and knew the answer: no. Or if he had, worry about his wife and child’s future hadn’t weighed heavily enough against the shame he was facing. Guilt, too; she knew he’d felt it, but was petty enough to believe in the end what he couldn’t face was the loss of everything that in his eyes made him a man.

Jake jumped up, his chair scraping back. “See? You won’t talk about it! You never do.”

He raced out of the kitchen. The slam of his bedroom door was becoming all-too familiar.

Appetite gone, she stared down at her half-eaten pancakes.

Dear God, she thought, he’s right. There was so much she didn’t want to say about Matt, it stifled her every time Jake asked questions. She’d told herself she was protecting him—but maybe it was herself she needed to protect.

Weary and discouraged, she stood and began to clear the table, scraping sticky lumps of pancake into the trash under the sink. Jake, she couldn’t help noticing, had cleared his plate before he stormed out.

The dishwasher loaded, she leaned against the edge of the counter. She had to try to talk to him...but how was she supposed to know what to say, and what she shouldn’t say? Sometimes she thought having a daughter would have been way easier—but maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t as though she understood herself very well lately, either.

Her gaze strayed to the wooden organizer at one end of the counter that held things like phone books, notepads, pens, paper clips and stamps. She’d dropped the card Ethan Winter had given her in one of the small drawers, telling herself she’d never want it but not quite willing to throw it away. She hated the pull it exerted on her.

He’d have that cop mentality, too. Just because he’d been concerned about Jake and nice to her didn’t mean he was anyone she would ever turn to.

Maybe it was time for her to think about putting Jake in counseling again.

Filing the idea for the moment, she closed her eyes, girded herself and went down the hall to knock on Jake’s door.

* * *

SHE’D FORBIDDEN JAKE to leave the house while she was at work, and was confident he hadn’t. She’d called twice, and he answered the phone both times, but predictably was furious that she was “checking up on him.”

Well, yes.

The week deteriorated from there. Sunday he helped her start scraping the deck, but complained so much she’d have rather done it alone.

He was mad that she insisted he go home after school with his cousins and wait there until she picked him up after she got off work. Why couldn’t he just go home?

“Because it’s going to take time before I believe you’re trustworthy enough again,” she said.

“Everybody cuts school!”

She gritted her teeth. “I don’t care what ‘everybody’ does. You won’t.”

His bedroom door slammed at least once every day. Laura began to wonder if he was reaching early puberty, although she hadn’t seen any other signs.

Her sister just grinned when she complained and said, “He’s spoiled you because he’s been such an easy kid.”

“Tell me at least he’s being polite at your house,” she’d begged.

Jenn had given her a quick hug. “He is. He spent ages pitching to Benji.”

Who was now in fourth grade, and any day now was going to demand his mother call him Ben before she humiliated him in front of his classmates.

Laura at least could be reassured that Jake was being nice to his younger cousins. Wrinkling her nose, she thought, Oh, good. It’s just me he’s mad at.

Saturday morning, a week after the gun show episode, Jake had gone back to his room after breakfast. Laura, grateful to be off for the day, was loading the dishwasher when her phone rang.

The number was her sister’s, which was a surprise since they hadn’t made plans for the weekend. She dried her hands and answered. “Hey. I don’t suppose you’ve decided you’re dying to scrape paint off my deck.”

“Not a chance.” Her sister hesitated. “Laura, Benji just told me something kind of worrisome I thought you should know. Um, are you alone?”

As far as she knew, Jake was still in his room. Nonetheless, she stepped outside, sliding the door closed behind her. It wasn’t raining, but the day was cooler than it had been all week and hinted that drizzle, at least, was on its way.

“Now I am,” she said. “What did Benji say?”

“Did you know Tino and his wife moved last year? Laura, their kids go to Faubion, too.”

Goose bumps of alarm rose on Laura’s arms. Faubion, kindergarten through eighth grade, was Jake’s school. And...Tino’s son was a year older than Jake, which would make him seventh grade, and his next oldest, a daughter...fifth, she thought. Then Tino’s kids stair-stepped down from there. They were a good Catholic family, and had already had three kids with Renata pregnant again the last time Laura saw them. They’d likely added a couple more since then.

“Why didn’t Jake say anything?”

“It gets worse,” her sister warned. “According to Benji, Tino’s kids have been bad-mouthing Jake. Everyone knows about the shooting now.”

“Oh, God.”

“He said kids are whispering about him. He’s seen Jake alone at recess shooting baskets instead of hanging out with friends.”

“And he didn’t say a word to me,” she said, stunned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for telling me.” So much rage bubbled in her chest, she couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. “I...needed to know.”

“I thought so. Are you going to talk to him?”

“Yes. And then I’m going to talk to Tino.”

“Laura? That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”