by Lisa Genova
Global warming, my ass. Those polar bears should relocate to Boston Harbor.
The kids waiting on the sidewalk are dressed in a colorful assortment of hats, mittens, coats, and boots, strapped to backpacks printed with superheroes, princesses, or Boston sports teams, holding the gloved hands of parents. Joe stops morning-commute traffic, waving the shivering kids and parents across the street as quickly as possible. He’d normally offer a friendly “Good mornin’ ” here and there, a smile for the kids, and many “Have a nice day”s. The parents often go first, saying, “Thank you.” But it’s just too damn cold for conversation today, and no one says anything.
After escorting their children to the front door of the school, a cluster of mothers have accumulated at the sidewalk. Joe waves them across, but four of them remain at the curb. Joe urges them forward with one hand, holding off an impatient school bus driver with the other. Come ON, ladies. This isn’t the kind of day to be chitchatting or dillydallying outside. They stare at him. He sees them seeing him, but they don’t budge. A couple of them are on their phones. Friggin’ people can’t walk and talk at the same time. Joe gives up and waves the bus on.
A cruiser pulls up, lights flashing, and parks opposite the school. Tommy and Artie DeSario get out and approach Joe. Artie’s wearing white mittens and a fluorescent lime-green vest.
“Hey, Joe,” says Tommy. “Artie’s gonna take over your duty here. Give him your cruiser keys and come with me.”
Artie avoids Joe’s eyes. Artie’s jaw is set and his feet spread wide. He’s all business. Parents and kids still on their way to school pause in their mad dash to get inside. Joe feels the eyes of the moms at the curb on him, wondering what’s going on. Joe wonders, too. He does as requested, but he doesn’t like the sound of this one bit.
Joe gets in the cruiser with Tommy. Tommy starts the engine but doesn’t go anywhere. Joe assumes they’re headed to the station, only two blocks away, but he has no idea why. He waits for Tommy to say something while his skin thaws in the blessedly warm car. Tommy stares through the windshield, watching the kids and parents crossing the street, now under Artie’s supervision. Or maybe his vision is focused on the snowflakes hitting the windshield, the wipers clearing them aside every few seconds.
“So we got several 911s for an officer drunk-directing traffic.”
Tommy looks over at Joe now, sorry to be the messenger.
“Shit,” says Joe. His chorea and anosognosia. Involuntarily moving and unaware of it.
“Yeah.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad. It’s friggin’ cold out there, man. I’m just moving around to get the blood circulating so I don’t freeze to death.”
Tommy pinches his lips together and again stares at the windshield.
“It’s not just these 911 calls. A lot of rumors are flyin’ around the station.”
“Like what?”
“Drugs. Drinking. Some kind of nervous breakdown.”
Joe shakes his head, grinding his teeth, seething. He had no idea people were talking, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Police officers gossip more than a bunch of friggin’ old ladies. Still, he can’t believe that no one had the guts or decency to say something to his face.
“You know I love you like a brother, man.” Tommy pauses and taps the steering wheel. “I think you’ve gone as far as you can go here.”
No. No way. Over a little chorea, bullshit rumors, and some bogus 911 calls? It’s Mount Friggin’ Everest cold out there. Give Artie ten minutes, and he’ll be dancing around, doing whatever he can to keep warm. See if Artie doesn’t look hammered in ten minutes.
A rage sparks deep inside Joe, in the marrow of his bones, catching fire easily, blazing throughout his body, consuming him in betrayal. Fuck Tommy. Yeah, they agreed that Tommy would be his mirror and let him know when it was time to tell everyone at the station about his HD, but Joe didn’t think Tommy would give him up so quickly. Over a friggin’ school crossing. Not in a million years would Joe do that to him. Tommy’s been like a brother to him, and now he’s fuckin’ Cain, and Joe’s Abel. Fuck it. He doesn’t need Tommy’s support. Screw his fellow officers, too. He doesn’t care what they think. He doesn’t need any of them. Joe clenches his teeth and his fists.
He’s still got Donny. He and Donny go back to when they were kids, since the beginning. They’re Townies. Donny’ll have Joe’s back to the end.
“This is fuckin’ bullshit,” says Joe, staring at Artie through the windshield, trying to Jedi-mind him off balance, hoping to witness a full-body shiver, something.
Tommy nods. “I’m sorry, man. Sergeant McDonough’s over from A1. He’s waiting for you.”
Tommy slips the cruiser into drive, and Artie waves them on, his feet solidly planted on the road, his steady white mitten holding the kids and parents on the sidewalk, utterly unaffected by the cold. And he doesn’t look at Joe as the cruiser passes.
A15 IS A substation with a small, skeleton staff and normally no supervisors. When Joe walks in, he’s face-to-face with Sergeant Rick McDonough, who looks unmistakably pissed to be there. Rick has been Joe’s supervisor for more than ten years. They have a decent working relationship, but it doesn’t extend beyond that. Joe knows he’s married with two kids, but Joe’s never met them. No one knows much about Rick’s personal life. He keeps to himself, never joins the guys for beers after a shift. Rick can be an anal son of a bitch when it comes to procedure, and he’s overly concerned with what the media has to say about them.
Joe says nothing, follows Rick’s lead into an office, where Joe shuts the door, and they both take a seat.
“You want to tell me why we just had to pull you off a school crossing?” asks Rick.
Rick watches Joe with his thin, gray eyes, both patience and authority held firmly in his posture. His style has always been no-nonsense but fair. Joe looks into the face of his boss and the anger that was coursing through Joe in the cruiser drains, leaving him wrung out, utterly exposed, pinned, and too exhausted to fight his way out of this corner. He thinks, wishing he could have a conversation with Donny first, racing through his options before he opens his mouth.
If he doesn’t confess his HD, if he shrugs and gives Rick nothing, as Joe’s supervisor, he’ll be left with no choice. Rick won’t sweep this under the rug. He’ll go by the book. He’ll send Joe to Boston Medical Center for a urinalysis, and the incident will go on Joe’s record. Of course, the urinalysis will come back negative for drugs and alcohol, so if Joe keeps his mouth shut, he won’t lose his job. But everyone’s going to know he was pulled off a school crossing. If rumors were flying before this, they’ll be on a rocket to the moon now.
Joe fidgets in his chair. He glances around the small, windowless room, aware of the closed door inches behind him, Rick’s eyes studying him. I think you’ve gone as far as you can go here. Fuck Tommy for being right. Rick still waits, going nowhere, his hands clasped on the desk. Maybe it’ll be better if everyone knows. Maybe they’ll make accommodations for him. This situation is still workable. Maybe he won’t lose his job. His life. Joe blows an exhale through his mouth, summoning courage and any luck God’s willing to throw his way.
“I have Huntington’s disease.”
A moment passes between them. Rick’s thin eyes go blank. Joe stiffens.
“What does that mean?”
They’re both about to find out.
CHAPTER 25
It’s just after noon the next day, and Joe’s indulging in a fourth Guinness at Sullivan’s. Two men and Kerry Perry are drinking bottles of Bud at the bar by the front window, arguing about the Bruins. The guys are Townies for sure, regulars, Joe surmises by the familiar ease they have with Jack, the owner, but Joe doesn’t know them. They’re younger, probably started high school well after Joe graduated. Kerry is Joe’s age. She was one of the “hot” girls, a cheerleader whom every guy had a thing for at so
me point. Joe had an unrequited crush on her just before he started seeing Rosie. She’s twice divorced, had kids with both dads. She still looks all right, but there’s a coarse edge to her once sweet, soft, girly features and a belligerence in her stance, as if she’s been cheated out of something life once promised her. Kerry catches Joe’s gaze, and her severely made-up eyes flirt with him, inviting him over. Joe tosses her a brief smile and, uninterested in Kerry or the Bruins, quickly makes his way to the empty back of the pub.
He tucks himself inside a dimly lit booth against the brick wall below the 2004 World Champions Red Sox poster. He’d hoped Varitek and Foulke would improve his foul mood, and they might’ve lifted his spirit for that hair-thin moment when he first sat down three beers ago, but the boost didn’t stick. He can’t relate to feeling like a champion or to the unparalleled joy in that beloved memory today. He sucks the dense, foamy head off the top of his Guinness, a sublime moment he typically savors, but, as with the three beers before, it gives him no pleasure.
The dispute about the Bruins is getting boisterous, more passionate than violent. Kerry chimes in, her voice a screeching, whiny alto. Joe sips his Guinness and wishes they’d all shut the fuck up.
Only Donny knows he’s here. Rosie thinks he went to work. He hasn’t told her what’s going on. Tommy knows and Donny knows. Hell, all of A1 and A15 probably know. Bunch of friggin’ drama queens. But Rosie doesn’t know a thing. He can’t bring himself to tell her.
Rick gave him time off until the department physician reviews Joe’s medical records, released yesterday from Dr. Hagler. Joe’s got an unshakable, bad feeling about what is to come. Joe tips back several gulps of Guinness, aiming for numbness.
First off, there’s the Seroquel and Tetrabenezine. According to department policies and procedures, Joe’s supposed to report in writing any and all prescription medications he’s taking. So he’s in violation there, but punishment, if any, would be a slap on the wrist at most. It’s the thought of this doc reading the dirty laundry list of HD symptoms, symptoms he’ll easily match up with Joe’s behavior, that feels like raw meat rotting in Joe’s stomach.
Loss of balance, reduced dexterity, chorea. What if Joe needs to use his gun and his hand involuntarily contracts, squeezing the trigger, killing a civilian or fellow officer? What if he loses control of his cruiser by suddenly giving it gas or turning without intention and runs down a pedestrian? Impulsivity, dysexecutive syndrome, which means he gets stymied by complex problem solving and reasoning, and extreme mood swings, what Rosie still refers to as his “weird temper.” Can they trust Joe to stay in complete control, to remain levelheaded, to follow precise procedure, to protect the people of this city and have the backs of his fellow officers?
No, no they can’t. Joe’s queasy stomach tightens. He takes another swig of Guinness. It doesn’t help.
So what will this mean? Best-case scenario, the doc will probably recommend to the commissioner that they take away Joe’s department-issued gun. He’ll be relegated to desk duty. He won’t be allowed to deal with prisoners or the public. He’ll be banned from overtime and detail work. He’ll be answering phones and shuffling paperwork. He’ll be a friggin’ secretary. Desk jobs are typically reserved for officers coming back from an injury. It’s a temporary post, a transition back to real duty. For Joe, it’ll be a transition out of duty.
And desk duty is his best-case scenario, what will happen if he’s lucky. Worst case, they’ll ask him to turn in his badge immediately. That possibility churns the contents of Joe’s stomach, and he swallows several times, fighting the sudden, embarrassing urge to vomit. Losing his service weapon and badge now. That’ll kill him faster than HD will.
Joe downs the rest of his Guinness, despite roiling protests from his stomach. He walks back to the bar, ignores the stares of Kerry Perry and her goony friends, and orders a Glenfiddich, no ice. Back in his seat, Joe brings the glass to his nose, then his lips. The buttery smell. The clean, peaty taste. Still, no joy.
Donny shows up and slides into the booth facing Joe. An EMT, his brother in brown, Donny’s dressed for duty.
“You comin’ or goin’?” asks Joe.
Donny checks his watch.
“I’m on for shift three, but I gotta check on my mum before. I got some time. You see Kerry Perry out front?”
“Yeah.”
“She still looks good.”
“Eh.”
“So what’s happenin’ here?”
“Just havin’ a coupla drinks.”
“You’re a friggin’ lightweight. You’ve had more than a couple.”
“So what?”
Joe’s tired of trying to control everything, of staying in the fight. Fuck it. He tips his head back, drains the Glenfiddich, and slams the empty glass down on the table as if he’s John Wayne. It takes about a second for him to register the singeing pain tearing down the length of his throat. He grinds his teeth, biting the burn, determined not to sputter or gasp.
“Okay, tough guy. You don’t think Rosie has it hard enough dealing with your anger and your breakin’ shit and worryin’ about her future and your kids without you comin’ home shitfaced in the middle of the day on top of it all?”
Joe hears him, but he doesn’t want to. Donny’s words float in and out of Joe’s head, which is now hovering above him, a balloon on a string.
“I get it, OB,” says Donny. “I’d do the same thing. And you’d be here talkin’ sense into me. Arm-curl therapy can’t be your plan. Whatever decision comes down at the station, you’re not drinkin’ your face off in Sully’s every day.”
“This is just one day, for cripes sake.”
“Good. Go nuts today. But that’s it. I’m just callin’ it now. This isn’t your plan. I’m not carryin’ your sorry drunk ass outta here every day.”
Joe laughs, but then he can’t remember what was so funny, and he feels like crying. He rubs his face with his hands and exhales, trying to regroup. Donny waits.
Joe looks across the booth, intent on being pissed at Donny for bossing him, but he can’t do it. The bald guy across from him with the busted-up nose and the BEMS uniform is also the kid from kindergarten with the wiffle haircut and the Incredible Hulk T-shirt. He’s the loyal pal who played shortstop in Little League, point guard in basketball, and left wing in hockey, who hopped the church fence with Joe and skipped out on confession on Saturdays, who also liked Rosie in high school but stepped aside so Joe could have a shot. Joe looks at Donny, a serious, respectable grown man sitting across from him in Sully’s, and he remembers spaghetti and meatballs at Donny’s house on Wednesday nights for years, too many blind-drunk Bunker Hill Day parades, standing beside him on his wedding day and through his divorce, watching their kids grow up together.
“What do you think I’m lookin’ at?” asks Joe.
“Aside from my handsome face? Desk job for now, probably. I don’t think they’ll terminate you right off.”
Joe nods, appreciating his friend for not pulling any punches, still wishing for some other possibility.
“How much sick time you got?” asks Donny.
“About ten months.”
“How many years of service you at now?” Donny counts on his fingers. “Twenty-four?”
“Almost twenty-five.”
“How much pension would you be entitled to?”
“I dunno.”
“If they put you on desk, can you go out on disability?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay, man. You need to look into this shit. Now. It’s time for a plan. You gotta make one before they make it for you.”
Joe nods.
“And this definitely ain’t the plan,” says Donny, pointing to Joe’s empty glass.
“All right, all right. The friggin’ horse is dead.”
“You wanna talk to my boy, Chris?”
�
��The lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
Joe nods. “Yeah. Text me his number.”
Donny checks his watch. “I gotta go.” He sighs. “This time of year is brutal. Yesterday we had three suicides. You wanna ride home?”
“Nah, I’m gonna hang out for a few, then I’ll go.”
“Lemme take you home.”
“Go. I’m fine.”
“If I come back and you’re still here, I’m gonna kick your skinny ass.”
Joe laughs. “I can still take you.”
Donny stands and slaps Joe’s shoulder. “Go home to Rosie. I’ll come by in the mornin’.”
“I will. See ya, man.”
Donny leaves and Joe is alone again. Although Donny’s company was comforting, he also confirmed Joe’s worst fears. They’re going to take away Joe’s gun. Eventually, if not straightaway, they’re going to take away his badge. Joe touches the glock on his hip with the heel of his right hand and then places the same hand over his chest against his civilian shirt, where his badge would be if he were in uniform. The thought of losing either is like facing the surgical removal of a vital organ. Taking his gun is cutting off his balls. Losing his badge is excising his heart.
He thinks about what he’s missing on patrol duty today, what he’ll be missing tomorrow, next week, next year. Standing on his feet for eight hours outside in freezing or sweltering temperatures, getting shot at, missing the final championship games of his beloved sports teams, missing holidays with his family, dealing with lying druggies and murderers and all kinds of crazy shit, being despised by the very people he’s risking his own well-being to protect. Who wouldn’t want to be done with that? Joe. Joe wouldn’t. If he wanted a safe, temperature-regulated desk job, he would’ve been an accountant.
He’s a police officer. Never give up. Stay in the fight. The Boston Police Academy beat those tenets into every fiber of his being. Turning in his gun and badge is giving up, turning his back on who he is. Joe closes his eyes, and every thought in his head finds a seat next to the word failure. He’s failing his fellow officers, his city, his wife, his kids, himself. Without his gun and badge, he’ll just be taking up space, a sack of stumbling skin and bones causing everyone a whole lot of heartache until he’s rotting in a box.
