Home Town

by Tracy Kidder

  Tommy went back to the patrol sergeant’s office, the tiny chamber off Records, opened up his filing cabinet, and got out Frankie’s file. He opened the folder and picked out the Samson Rodriguez license and studied the photograph. “He’s someone whose funeral I’d go to.” Then Tommy put the license back, closed the folder, and put it on Peter’s desk. He turned out the lights and locked the door to the Detective Bureau. Then he went outside.

  The van was departing again, to pick up more underage drinkers. Tommy stood by the side door, watching it go. “Well, that’s it. I’m defunct. Ain’t got a badge. No gun. Who the fuck am I?”

  It was snowing lightly, like moths in the lights over Center Street. He looked all around him. He felt sick to his stomach. “Well. It’s just goodbye. Just walk out, I guess.”

  Tommy said he was glad there wouldn’t be a big farewell party. He really didn’t seem to know Northampton wouldn’t let him go so easily. Jean told him they were going out for supper. As they drove up to the Elks Club, Tommy said, “What the hell is going on in town tonight? Oh, you bastards.”

  The Elks basement, a huge, low-ceilinged, smoky bingo parlor, was entirely filled. The emcee, Brian Rust, a police lieutenant, declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, Tom O’Connor.” Hundreds of people, a fair cross-section of respectable Northampton, stood and cheered—most of the city cops, most of the D.A.’s office and the D.A. herself, all of Tommy’s state police detective friends, much of his family, virtually all the probation and court officers, nurses from the ER, dozens of ordinary citizens, some scanner buffs among them, city councillors, childhood friends.

  Naturally, there were speeches, from the mayor and the chief. And Judge Ryan bravely took the microphone. It wasn’t the judge’s kind of crowd: too many police officers. He and Tommy exchanged a few quips, Ryan saying that Tommy had an uncanny knack for catching criminals, Tommy calling from the head table, “And then you let them go!” The room erupted.

  Ryan smiled, waiting for the laughter to die down. Then he went on, “When I encounter Tom in the court, it’s not a trial. It’s a motion to suppress. He made a stop. He ended up with half the drugs in New England. He has a radar sense. Unfortunately, the Constitution doesn’t recognize this radar sense.” That quieted the crowd. Then the judge said Tommy had a reputation for being funny. “But compared to his father he’s only a half-wit.” Which brought down the house. Ryan finished up with the night’s benediction. “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t send you off with an Irish blessing. I think I may have stolen it from your dad. Blessings on your friends and blessings on your enemies. Turn their hearts. If the Lord won’t turn their hearts, we’ll ask the Lord to turn their ankles, so you’ll know them by their limp.”

  And Bill O’Connor got up, and received a standing ovation. “I’m delighted to be here tonight. I’m delighted to be anywhere. But, really, how many fathers live long enough to attend their sons’ retirement parties? After listening around the table the past few evenings, I said, ‘Tom, you deserve everything you get at Quantico. You earned it.’ And his wife—they’re a great couple—they’re goin’ on to a new adventure. I hope I hear from them now and then.”

  Finally, Tommy took the mike. “When you get on the job, they start telling you about, ‘Oh, you remember when this guy, remember when that guy,’ and the new guy wonders who the hell they’re talkin’ about? I really hope that someday somebody’s gonna say, ‘Remember that O’Connor guy?’ ” His face drained of color. He held the microphone away from him. “All right. It’s not a wake. But, Christ! It’s not a bad wake if it was one! I just wanta … Thanks a lot.”

  In January, near the end of his nights of duty, Tommy had gone to the house of a suicide, along with other detectives. They went to make sure it wasn’t a murder, but there wasn’t much question of that. A note lay on the coffee table beside the corpse: “See you later. Please forgive me.” The undertaker’s assistant was unceremonious as he stuffed the corpse into the black body bag. Tommy carried the feet.

  “Harry? If I’m gone from this area and something happens to my dad? Be gentle.”

  “It’s different with people I know,” said the undertaker.

  “Somebody knew him,” Tommy said, as they carried the corpse out the door.

  He had two weeks in Northampton as a civilian. He was driving his own car toward his father’s house for supper when he saw a man, a familiar face, on Main Street. There was a warrant out for him. Tommy reached for a microphone that wasn’t there. Many times he drove past people he felt he should question. Finally, he got over this. He was driving up King Street toward the gym. Up ahead he saw the aftermath of an accident, two cars by the side of the street, the drivers outside arguing. He slowed down, then accelerated. “Call the police!” Tommy cried.

  “I don’t feel responsible for taking care of everybody anymore. It’s like I’m a resident,” he said.

  There was a background to this place. He wondered where it had been all these years. Forever, it seemed, he’d scanned the human landscape, picking out from it certain faces and certain kinds of movements, often ignoring the rest. He’d come to suspect mayhem, arguments, squalor, inside every apartment and house in town. The place looked different to him now. “It’s kind of weird. It doesn’t seem as full of criminals anymore.”

  Late in January, a couple of weeks before he planned to leave, Tommy heard that Rick had gotten out of jail. A few days later, it snowed. He drove to Northampton to clear his father’s driveway. Tommy got the snowblower out of the garage. He was walking along behind the roaring machine, heading down the driveway toward Forbes Avenue, when he saw a red Saab turn off Elm Street, coming his way. He couldn’t make out if Rick was at the wheel. Tommy turned and started snowblowing back up the driveway. If Rick wanted to see him, Rick would come over. He made as if he didn’t notice the car. He watched it from the corners of his eyes.

  The car slowed. Tommy thought, “I should wave.” He was about to raise a hand. Then he thought, “If he waves, I will.” The car turned in at Rick’s family’s house. He was going home. Tommy got a glimpse of him at the wheel, just a brief snapshot of his face inside the car. Then it vanished behind the houses.

  Rick must have seen him, and Rick hadn’t waved. The moment was gone, probably for good. Tommy carried it around with him as he finished clearing the driveway. It was better this way, he told himself. “Two ships in the night,” he thought, as he stamped the snow off his boots at the kitchen door.

  Jean was going to drive down south with Tommy, then return to Northampton while he was in training. They’d spend a few days in Washington and Richmond on the way to Quantico. They were packed. They’d left their dog, Murphy, with a friend. All was ready, but then Tommy was seized by anxiety that they’d get lost on the way to Washington and wouldn’t be able to find the hotel where he and Jean planned to stop for the night. Bill belonged to Triple A. He went to the office to ask them to make a detailed map of the route, a TripTik. But the officious clerk said they couldn’t make one up that fast. Bill said, “Oh, that’s too bad, because this is for the FBI,” and the clerk said he’d make the TripTik right away. “I laughed,” said Bill, retelling the story the next morning. “See? I’m usin’ it already.”

  A map of the United States was spread on the kitchen table in the house on Forbes Avenue. Bill and Jean’s mother and Tommy and Jean stood over it, discussing which duty stations Tom should apply for after the academy.

  Bill said, “Los Angeles.”

  Tommy looked at him, wetting his lips. Bill was looking down at the map and couldn’t have noticed.

  Tommy held two small boxes, gift-wrapped and beribboned. Now he handed one to Bill and one to Jean’s mother. “Here’s a gift for the two a ya.”

  “Oh, jeez, can we open it now?” said Bill. He started opening the box.

  “There’s an explanation that goes along with it,” said Tommy.

  “I’m trying so hard not to break down,” said Bill.

  Tommy stare
d at him again.

  “They’re dog tags!” said Bill. “I could get my dog tags.”

  Jean laughed. Tommy said, “I don’t expect you to wear these.”

  “We’ll just keep ’em,” said Bill.

  “It’s the St. Michael’s medal, it’s the protector of the police,” said Tommy.

  “Oh,” said Jean’s mother.

  “I haven’t worn anything around my neck since I stopped wearing my scapular medal,” said Bill.

  “Engraved with the date my academy starts.”

  “Very good,” said Jean’s mother.

  “The date your academy starts,” said Bill.

  “Protestants don’t believe in saints?” said Tommy to Jean’s mother.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Well, there’s one that’ll keep me safe.”

  “So now, you’re lucky you’re going today,” said Bill.

  “You are,” said Jean’s mother. “Tomorrow’s supposed to be a bad day. It is. That’s what it said last night.”

  They all looked down at the map on the table again.

  “All right,” said Tommy. “Well, we won’t extend this any longer.” He held out his hand toward his father. They shook.

  “No,” said Bill. “Okay, well, good luck. And you got a new challenge, and you’ll do good. Keep your head up no matter how hard they tackle you.”

  Tommy kept staring at him. “I’ll be back in about six weeks.” He meant for a visit. The course was four months long.

  “What you’re thinkin’ is, you’re saying, ‘I hope he’s here in six weeks,’ ” said Bill, and he winked at Jean’s mother.

  She laughed. Jean laughed nervously.

  Tommy was still staring at his father, and the color was gone from his face.

  “Let’s look at the brighter side,” said Bill. It was as if he were ascending an imaginary podium. “The whole thing is going his way. I wish I was going down there. At thirty-three. I wouldn’t even turn back. Bet your life. I’d say good-bye to my father and mother and then I wouldn’t even think about it.”

  Tommy said, in a very soft voice, “Am I doing the right thing?”

  But Bill’s hearing had weakened, the last few years. He couldn’t have heard. He was saying, “I’d take an allotment out, send them a memento every month …” Then he paused. Tommy had turned and hurried out of the room.

  “So,” said Bill.

  Everyone was silent, eyes looking for somewhere to go. From the kitchen you could hear water running in the bathroom. Bill looked down at the road map again, and said to Jean’s mother, “Well, let’s see. I’ll be chartin’ it here. I figure they’ll be in New York by two. See, that keeps me goin’.” He chuckled. “Then they’re headed for Washington. Philadelphia’ll be another two hours or so. If they’re driving like Jack. They’ll be in Philadelphia, see, and then go around there and then first thing you know he’ll be in Arlington. With all the good people that live there and work in Washington. Huh?”

  “Yes, well, they live outside,” said Jean’s mother.

  “Yeah, in Arlington. It’s a nice spot. The hotel, I understand, is in a good spot.” He turned to Jean. “Shall we start wearing our medals now?” Bill held up his. “The new look. I’ll put this on a chain.”

  Tommy still hadn’t reappeared. In a little while, Bill went looking for him. He found him standing in the adjacent room, in front of the staircase. “Okay,” Bill said. Tommy bowed his head and extended his hand to shake again, and Bill extended his, and Tommy began to sob, noiselessly. Bill’s mouth gaped open, as if about to exhale one of his laughs. His shoulders shook. They stood there, mouths open, hands still clasped. “You guys go out!” Tommy yelled toward the kitchen.

  He had his dark glasses on when he got into the driver’s seat beside Jean. He rolled down the window and called to Bill and Jean’s mother, who were standing on the stoop, “Pray for a warm spot.”

  It was a cold sunny morning, the sunlight blinding against the snow. He backed out, beeped his horn, paused, beeped again, cleared his throat, made a choking cough, and then drove slowly down Forbes Avenue toward Elm. Jean looked pensively out the windshield.

  “Got the TripTik. But we can still get lost,” said Tommy. He coughed. “Better off to be miserable in the sun, I guess, huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to her and she didn’t answer.

  “Well, will your mother wear her medal?”

  Jean laughed.

  “I heard my father. ‘Shall we start wearing our medals now?’ ”

  “I bet he’ll be wearing it.”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Tommy.

  “He’s sending you off to a good place. Not to a war.”

  Tommy put on a stentorian voice. “It’s a war out there anyway, Jean. A war against crime.”

  He stopped at the police station, to drop off a few more pieces of equipment. “There’s one that never said boo to me,” he murmured, spotting one of the veteran cops of the day shift heading for a cruiser. On his way out of the station, he paused in the Ready Room to look at the inscription he’d engraved in the wall by the key rack: “83—1997 FBI.” Someone had painted it over. It must have been someone on the day shift. He made a sour face, then left the station whistling.

  He stopped again at the intersection of King and Main, waiting for the light to change. Up ahead lay Pleasant Street, the southern route out of town, a piece of the Holyoke Range in the distance. He sat at the wheel, looking straight ahead. “Well, I could have joined a rock-and-roll band when I was eighteen and left. Done a lot of drugs. I guess the FBI’s better than that. What else could I have done?”

  “Could have gotten divorced,” said Jean.

  “Could have gotten divorced? Nope.”

  “Could have lived with somebody before you got married.”

  “Yup, could’ve.”

  The light changed. They passed Alan Scheinman’s building. “He was out here in shorts yesterday on the street corner talking to somebody. In the snow,” said Jean.

  Tommy drove down Pleasant Street in silence, until he passed the bowling alley at the edge of downtown. Then his newly lean jaw stiffened. “It doesn’t bother me one iota leaving this place,” he declared, as he glanced in his rearview mirror at the modest skyline of Northampton, shrinking behind him. “It tears me apart leavin’ the old guy, but it’s come down to the point where I owe this town nothing.” Just as he was saying this, as he drove through the gap in the dike where Pleasant Street becomes Mount Tom Road, a car turned left in front of him. It was heading for the dirt back road into the Meadows, now covered in snow and nearly impassable. Tommy’s head snapped around to follow that car. His face had the familiar, on-duty look of sudden attentiveness, like the face of a cat that has heard something you can’t.

  “What are you doin’, goin’ down there?” Tommy said, peering after the car.

  Then he caught himself. His face changed, to a look of great craftiness, a comic-book detective’s visage. He said, “Throw on his diaper. Crank his meat in the Meadows.”

  The entrance to the Interstate loomed up ahead. The back road to the Meadows lay behind. In his normal voice, Tommy asked, “What is he going down there for? It obviously isn’t a shortcut anymore.”

  “There was a big white sheet in the backseat,” said Jean.

  “Goin’ to dump a body,” he said. “Well. Peter’ll figure it out.”

  He turned onto the Interstate, heading south. He looked at the speedometer. “Better not get caught speeding now.” For now he had nothing to prove he belonged to the society of cops. He lifted his voice. “I don’t got no stinking badges in this car! All I have is my mouth. Or as Ryan says, my half-wit.”

  The landscape, the watery southern part of Northampton, began to pour by. The river’s oxbow, covered in ice, flashed by on the right. Up ahead loomed the twin hills, Mounts Tom and Holyoke, colored like pinto ponies, brown and freckled white with snow on this frozen, crystalline day.

  The sign that marked th
e city limits flickered by. “Get out the TripTik, bud!” Tommy exclaimed to Jean. “There it is! The Easthampton line! The birds are flying!”

  “I have directions for the hotel,” said Jean in her normal, soft voice.

  “Doo doo de doo doo,” Tommy sang. He shouted, “Free at last!” He had never seemed younger, or more mixed up. His tear-reddened eyes were still hidden behind sunglasses, his voice still had the crackle left over from weeping, and he was shouting, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty I’m …” He lost his voice to the kind of laughter that lies in one of nature’s boundary conditions, like the one between rain and snow. “Free at last!”

  The car entered the water gap between Northampton’s mountains, the visual limits of his former jurisdiction, the barrier against what Frankie had called “the malice power,” the vanishing background for a life still to come. Tommy lowered his voice, and as if to himself, he said, “Now I got a whole bunch of places to go. Better have a TripTik, though.” The car was silent for a moment. Jean reached out and put a hand on his knee.

  “At least Murphy didn’t throw up,” she said. “The way he usually does when he sees suitcases.”

  To the left the great river gleamed. Behind, there were only the mounts—no steeples, no town anymore. Tommy glanced over at Jean. “Wow, that was tough,” he said.

  In Judge W. Michael Ryan’s bedroom, the clock radio comes alive, a glissando ripples up to three long chords, and a voice appears at the judge’s ear, saying, “Goo-od morning. It’s sixty-six degrees. Russ Murley calls for. Hazy sun. I’m. Ron Hall. A Northampton man is resting at home comfortably …” Judge Ryan remembers a four-foot-high wooden radio with doilies on top, downstairs in the living room of this very house. He remembers other voices that came from that audible piece of furniture, including the voice of his own father, the mayor then, who was celebrating the birth of the radio station.