by Frank Zafiro
“No. Not here, anyway. I don’t know about over there with the rest of them.”
The dispatcher came back with Paula’s name. She was clear of any wants.
I copied the transmission. Then I asked Paula, “Do you suppose she might be concerned about just the day-to-day situation with Zoey here?”
Paula scowled. “That could be. My sister gets high and mighty sometimes. Ever since she married a plumber, she thinks she’s something special.”
“I see.”
Zoey pried herself away from my leg. “Your pants smell good.”
“Fresh today,” I told her.
“My daddy’s not a plumber,” she said.
“No? What does he do?”
“He’s my daddy,” Zoey told me with a grin.
“We’re on public assistance,” Paula said.
I glanced around the small apartment. I could see into the kitchen, where a small pile of dishes sat in the sink. Beyond the kitchen, I saw another room, which was dark.
Paula followed my eyes. “That’s the bedroom.”
“Yours or Zoey’s?”
“We have to share,” she said. “She has her own cushion.”
I looked at the wall near the door and felt a moment of disorientation when it appeared to be moving. I leaned closer and saw that it was thick with cockroaches climbing up and down the wall. There were large ones as big as a cigarette butt walking over the top of smaller ones the size of a small fly. I felt my skin crawl.
“S’posed to fumigate tomorrow,” Paula said, her voice tinged with irritation. “Has to get done every month or two.”
The other walls had sporadic pockets of the insects, but the majority seemed to be near the front door.
“They don’t bite,” Zoey said. “They tickle.”
I forced myself to smile at her. “Do they ever get on you?”
“Only a little.”
I looked at Paula. “I just need to check around, ma’am.”
“Check for what?”
“Just to make sure things are safe for Zoey here.”
“Because Peggy called?”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“So she can just call anytime and have the cops come and—“
“No, ma’am,” I said. “If I check things out today and everything’s fine, she’s going to have to have a specific reason for us to check in the future.”
Paula paused, considering. Then she sighed. “All right.”
“Do you want to show me around, please?” I asked, trying to preserve her dignity as much as I could.
“You’re looking at the whole place,” she said.
I wandered around the small living room for a moment, then motioned for her to lead the way. Paula turned and walked into the tiny kitchen. I followed, the sound of creaking leather coming with me. The compact stove had some grease and a few pieces of macaroni on it next to a burner. The yellow cheese-paste was congealed.
“I haven’t really cleaned up yet,” Paula said, reaching for a sponge.
I watched as she put the dry sponge under the faucet and turned on the water. It took three tries before the water pressure seemed to catch and then flow out of the faucet.
“You don’t have to do that on my account,” I told her.
“It has to be done.”
I watched her silently until she’d wiped off the stove and small counter space next to the sink.
“Ma’am?”
She looked over at me.
“I have to take a look in the cupboards and the refrigerator.”
The hurt on her face was apparent, but she stepped aside without a word.
I opened the cupboard. Inside were several boxes of macaroni and cheese, two cans of chili and a box of Hamburger Helper.
“I have to go shopping tomorrow,” Paula said in a soft voice.
I nodded quietly and closed the cupboard. I caught Zoey’s eye.
“Do you like mac ‘n cheese?” she asked.
“It’s my favorite,” I said, the words sticking in my throat.
“Me, too!”
Paula opened the refrigerator for me. A single can of beer stood next to a half-empty jug of milk. A Styrofoam tray containing a dark brown wedge of hamburger was directly beneath the milk.
“Tomorrow’s dinner,” she explained.
“What’s tomorrow’s dinner, Mommy?”
“Hamburger Helper.”
“That’s my favorite, too!” Zoey said.
I pointed to the dark room beyond. “Bedroom and bathroom?”
Paula looked at me strangely. “It’s the bedroom. You wanna see?”
I shook his head. “If your husband’s sleeping—“
“It’s okay. He’ll sleep through anything.”
She reached through the open doorway and flicked on the light. Then she stepped aside for me to enter.
Inside, I saw a mattress wedged into the corner on the floor. Portions of a short, hairy, chubby body poked out from various places in the twisted set of blankets.
“That’s my daddy,” Zoey whispered. “He snores.”
I spotted a smaller cushion near the foot of the mattress. The light blue blanket was folded up as neatly as I figured a five year old could manage and sat on top of the cushion.
Something nagged at me, but it took a few moments to realize what it was. Then it became painfully obvious. There were no toys in the entire apartment. Not in the living room and not in the bedroom. Not a single toy that I could see.
I turned off the light and walked back into the living room. Paula and Zoey followed.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked her.
“Down the hall,” Paula answered.
I understood. A community bathroom. I’d forgotten that was the case at the Denton Apartments.
I knew I should leave now. There wasn’t enough cause to place Zoey with CPS. Not even close. I should just clear the call and take the next one that the dispatcher was waiting to lay on me.
But I couldn’t. I avoided Paula’s shame-filled eyes and looked instead at Zoey’s. They were full of innocence and love and hope.
How long it would be before she realized how poor she was? Before the edge was taken off of her natural beauty by the dirt and grime? Who would be the first person to drive home her shame and make her choke on it? And when she grew into a teenager, who would be the first boy to use her body and break her heart? How long until she became her mother?
I cleared my throat and reached for my radio. “Baker-124?”
“Baker-124, go ahead.”
“Can you send a sergeant to my location?”
“Copy. L-123, are you available?”
Sergeant Drawdy’s voice came on the radio immediately. “That’s affirm. I’m from Indiana and Monroe.”
Paula watched him curiously.
“Standard procedure,” I lied. “I have to clear it with my sergeant that everything’s okay here. That way, we won’t bother you again.”
She nodded slowly. I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not.
“I want to show you something!” Zoey said in an excited, hushed voice. She ran into the dark bedroom.
Paula watched her go. “She likes cops.”
“Yeah?”
Paula turned back to him. “They’ve always been nice to her. I told her that if she was ever in any trouble, all she had to do was find an officer and he would help her.”
A stab of guilt cut through my gut. At the same time, a lump rose in my throat, even though I knew what I was trying to do was the best thing for little Zoey.
The room was silent except for the creak of my leather gear when I moved and the hiss of static from the TV. Occasionally, a burst of intelligible dialogue came through the speakers. The effect was disorienting, but I heard enough to guess that it was one of the second-tier late shows playing.
The swift patter of feet came from the bedroom. Zoey re-appeared with a small, purple teddy bear. She held it up proudly for me to examine.
&
nbsp; “His name’s Roscoe!” she said.
I took the bear from her and forced another smile. The bear was cheaply made, stuffed with light material. Stitching was coming loose at the foot.
“Very nice,” I told her, handing it back. “Is that your favorite toy?”
The look of genuine confusion on the little girl’s face made my chest ache.
Paula cleared her throat. “She…uh, she’s got a lot of imagination. Sometimes, she’ll pull out my soup pan and a spoon and she’ll pretend she’s in a band. Lots of imagination.”
“L-123, on scene,” crackled my radio.
“I’ve got to go let my sergeant in the building,” I told Paula.
“Doesn’t know the code, huh?”
“No.”
“Everyone else does,” she muttered.
So does he. I just need to talk to him in private.
“I’ll be right back,” I told her and turned to go. The generations of cockroaches near the door frame made my skin crawl anew.
The walk toward the building entrance was quick. I ran into Drawdy on the stairs coming up to the second floor.
“Hey, Zack,” the sergeant said. “What do you have here?”
I sighed. “I…I’d like to place this girl with CPS.”
“You’d like to?”
“Yeah. But it’s a little tricky.”
“How so?”
“Well, I just don’t know if there’s enough. I mean, she’s living in a dive. There’s a colony of cockroaches sharing the place. Her face is dirty, she’s wearing nothing but her dad’s T-shirt—“
“Is there food in the place?”
I nodded grudgingly.
“Any signs of abuse?”
“No. She’s a happy kid.”
“Neglect?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say that anyone who didn’t tuck their child into bed before falling asleep on the couch was guilty of neglect. Anyone who didn’t wash her face first, anyone who didn’t have clothes for her, anyone who didn’t have any goddamn toys but let her play with pots and pans was guilty of neglect. But I knew the law.
“No,” I said.
Sergeant Drawdy eyed me carefully. “Is there any reason to place her?”
“There’s a thousand reasons, Sarge. The problem is just that the same reasons apply to every kid in this shithole apartment building.”
Drawdy nodded, still watching me. “Why’d you call for me, then?”
I shrugged. “I was hoping you’d see a way I was missing. I just…I just want this little girl to have half a chance. She sure as hell isn’t going to get it here.”
“You’re probably right,” Drawdy said. He watched me for a moment longer, then clapped me on the shoulder. “Let me take a look. I’ll see what I can do.”
I nodded, but without any hope. The two of us walked back up to the second floor. I knocked and Paula let us in. She gave Drawdy the same tour she had given me. Meanwhile, I knelt down to talk with Zoey.
“Who’s that?” she asked in a whisper.
“My boss,” I whispered back.
“Do you like him?”
“Yeah. He’s nice.”
She accepted that, then added, “He’s kinda fat.”
I smiled. Zoey and I watched Drawdy. The sergeant’s lips pressed together when he saw the cockroaches, but otherwise he remained stoic. When he returned to the living room with Paula, he gave me a short shake of his head. My heart sank, even though I knew that would be the outcome. Just like I knew what Zoey’s outcome would be.
I cleared my throat. “Paula, thanks for cooperating tonight. I…I don’t think we’ll be bothering you again.”
“If my sister has anything to do with it, I’m sure you’ll be back.”
Zoey held up her bear to Sergeant Drawdy. “He’s Roscoe,” she explained.
Drawdy gave the bear a pat. “Very nice bear. Did Santa Claus bring him to you?”
“No,” Zoey said, “one of you did.”
Drawdy’s eyebrows raised and he looked over at Paula.
“An officer gave her the bear last year,” she explained.
The ache in my chest became almost a scream.
We thanked her again and turned to leave. Zoey wrapped herself around my leg and squeezed tightly. Then she ran to Drawdy and did the same. “You’re my two bestest friends!”
We smiled at her and left.
Sergeant Drawdy remained silent as we walked slowly down the stairs and out the front entrance to the building. I welcomed the fresh air, even if it was a little cool.
“Sorry, Zack,” Drawdy said.
“Thanks for coming, anyway,” I said. “Thanks for trying.”
“Okay.” Drawdy turned away and walked to his car.
I started the patrol car and pulled onto Monroe. I drove less than two blocks before pulling into a parking lot behind a used book store. The ache in my chest wouldn’t subside and a strangled sob forced its way out of my throat. Hot tears spilled out and dripped onto my uniform. The same thoughts bounced around in my head, demanding an answer.
What was the point of going half way around the world if you face the same thing in your own hometown?
And what the hell good was it being a cop if you couldn’t help a little girl like her?
I didn’t have an answer.
I could only weep.
A few minutes passed. My tears showed no sign of giving up, nor did the pain in my chest die down. A flash of headlights flared across my car and I saw a patrol vehicle approaching.
Embarrassed, I reached into the glove compartment for some tissue. All I could find was a napkin from Zip’s Burgers. I used it to quickly wipe away my tears.
Sergeant Drawdy rolled up, his driver’s side window coming to a halt right next to mine. He rolled his window down, so I did the same.
“Rough call,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Been to a few like that.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I’m sorry I acted like a rookie, Sarge. I shouldn’t have bothered to call when I knew—“
“Don’t worry about it. It was worth a try.”
I was silent for a few seconds. Then tears welled up in my eyes again, threatening to fall. “I just wish I could have done something for her.”
“I know,” Drawdy said quietly. “But like you said, if we were to pull her out of there, then by that standard, every kid in that entire apartment complex would have to get placed. CPS would have a fit.”
“And they’d just give the kids back the next day, anyway,” I said mournfully.
“Probably.”
“It sucks. The system completely sucks.”
Drawdy agreed. “It does. All you can do is the best you can do, Zack. That’s all any of us can do.”
“It doesn’t feel like enough.”
Drawdy smiled darkly. “It probably isn’t.” He paused a moment, then added, “You’re a good cop, Zack. But you can’t save everyone. You can’t even save most of them. You just have to make the ones you can save count.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“I know you do,” Drawdy said. He dropped his car into gear.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“You need me, you call,” Drawdy told him. “For anything.”
“Thanks.”
Drawdy nodded and drove away.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest. I tried to force the images of Zoey from my mind. I tried to forget her delicate features and her teddy bear. But I knew that would be impossible. She would be with me forever, just like a hundred others. Small white, black and brown faces haunting me.
I opened my eyes and reached for his mike. I made sure to clear his throat before I pressed the transmit button.
“Baker-124, I’m clear.”
Burning My Masterpiece
It was a Thursday when I finally decided my life was one big joke.
I don’t mean a funny one, either. Just a stupid, lame joke without a p
unch line.
The part that really sucked was that I realized about a minute later that I wasn’t the first person to figure out what a joke my life had been. Two things struck me about those more perceptive individuals who came to this conclusion before me. One was that they were probably laughing at me. Scratch that—they were definitely laughing at me. And two, how about the courtesy of a heads up, assholes?
I don’t know…maybe my life wasn’t exactly a joke. Maybe it was more like busting your ass painting a beautiful painting, something to be proud of, whipping and stroking color onto a blank canvas, fucking creating, all the while standing in the middle of a burning house. In a few minutes, all that paint and canvas and genius and beauty (enough to bring a person to tears even) was just going to be ashes on the floor. And no one will have noticed.
Burn, baby, burn.
These are the kinds of thoughts I neglected to share with Kat (even though she began demanding that I return to calling her Katherine or at least Kathy, she will forever be Kat to me). In fact, I neglected to share a whole lot with her. Some of it was my male ignorance, which simply assumed that she would know that if I wasn’t complaining, things were all right. Obviously, they weren’t all right, I wasn’t all right, but who was I to bitch?
Some of the problem was also that I never did understand the female need to talk about it or to have a nice cry about things, so I imagine that I seemed a little cold to her at times. Or just a guy.
I didn’t share with her.
I didn’t ask her what she needed.
I didn’t understand.
Now, the divorce papers her fat fuck of a lawyer had served on me at work? Those, I understood. Those told me what she needed. How nice of her to share them with me.
Of course when I wanted to talk about it, she said it was too late. “Too little, too late,” she said over the phone. The hitch in her voice before she hung up told me she would probably have a nice cry about it afterward, but she wasn’t going to discuss matters with me.
Since I can’t cry about it, since I haven’t cried in twenty-five years, that doesn’t leave a lot of options, does it?
During the months after our breakup (I should be calling it her breakup, since it was her brilliant idea), I began to piece things together. I started remembering phone calls when her voice didn’t sound quite right on the other end of the line. Calls to our house while I was there and how her responses seemed a little stilted, as if they weren’t matching up to the actual conversation and she was struggling to conceal it. Nights out with the girls. Lunch charges on the credit card that might have been one entrée, or might have been two salads. I never saw any motels in my memory when I was piecing these things together, but we all know that there are other places to go. His apartment. The office. Our bed.
