Copyright © 2007 by Gerald C. Matics
Carl is like a father to Officer Mike Dullea, and Ellen is nearly a mother to him — when she's not in the grip of dementia, that is. But perhaps she still has more of her marbles than Mike knows.
Carl opens the door, sees the young cop on the stoop, and immediately knows why he is there.
"Evening, Mike," he says, running a hand through white hair that seems to evaporate by the day.
"Carl." The cop touches his hat, looks away. "Nice night."
Carl gazes over Mike's shoulder at the westering summer sun, whose golden tones even now yield reluctantly to reds and purples reminiscent of a bruise. Mike's cruiser is nestled in the driveway, close to the house, where it is less likely to be gawked at by prying neighborly eyes, and of course Mike didn't leave his flashers on.
"Sorry, Carl, but I need to see her," Mike says, embarrassment showing like a slip. He should be embarrassed, Carl thinks, sticking his nose into such painful, private affairs. He checks himself immediately; it isn't Mike's fault. The law requires follow-up on every
"Of course," he says, biting back his bitterness. He steps back and gestures Mike inside, and Mike removes his hat and crosses the threshold into the living room. Carl tries to see what Mike must: retirement-home-chic furniture, bland prints gapping the bare spots on the walls, carpet worn gaunt from years of use. Probably Mike doesn't know he could afford much, much better if those were the things he cared about. Probably not — but the cop might have checked them out after the first or second quixotic call, might have learned that Carl's thrift had paid dividends over the decades, had allowed him the luxury of playing the stock market, where he'd bought QVC at six-and-a-half, Coke at eight-and-a-quarter, and Microsoft at twelve even. Mike might know Carl could buy and sell most of the block on which he and Ellen live, but if he does, he's never let on — something for which Carl is grateful.
Carl follows Mike into the bowels of the house at his tepid pace. Damned arthritis, he thinks, antagonist of old men. He only recently admitted to himself that he is getting on a bit, though the world counts any man who served under Eisenhower and MacArthur a fossil. His goodly pile of money can't insulate him from the greater pains of age.
"Get you some coffee?" Carl asks. "A doughnut?"
Mike bristles theatrically. "Was that some kind of crack? The whole cops-and-doughnuts thing? I'm a person, you know. I have feelings."
"So sorry, didn't mean to offend you." Pause. "How about a beer and a greasy slice of leftover pizza?"
"Now you're talking," Mike says with a wry grin and a slap of his belly. "Except I can't have the beer on duty, and I still have heartburn from the last pizza you fed me."
"So what is it this time? Burglars again?"
Mike shakes his head. "Fire in the kitchen."
"Well," Carl says, "at least that's different." . . .
