Cicada Song

by Bradford Combs

  Chapter 28

  “Stanley Jr. is the spitting image of his father but with his mother’s heart,” Arthur said, motioning toward Stan.

  Melba had pulled him onto the school’s stage when they first arrived, despite Stan’s protests. It was a last minute addition to the program, but Arthur Harris wanted all living descendants of deceased officers to be represented. Sara sat in the crowd and watched as Arthur ran through each officer’s name and detailed their accomplishments, but he lingered when he came to Stanley Cromwell Sr.

  “I remember when I first joined the force,” he was saying. “I’d just arrived in Anderson and Stanley was Chief. He introduced me to Melba, who had given birth to Stanley Jr. only days before, and they took me under their wing. Stanley taught me everything I needed to know about law enforcement.” Arthur began listing laws and how to enforce them, but he didn’t linger on the topic. “And during this time,” he continued, “I began to see how widely respected Stanley was.”

  Sara looked around and noted the nodding heads. It was true that by the time she had gotten to know him Stan’s father was something of a local hero. She always felt it was well deserved.

  “It was the way you people, the people of Anderson, revered Stanley Cromwell that made me want to follow in his shoes. I don’t require your adulation. I know I’ll never be the man he was, but to do something with my life even remotely comparable to his—well, that was an inspiration brought on by Stanley himself. There was just something about the man that brought out the best in people.”

  “His nightstick!” someone shouted from the crowd to much applause.

  Melba nodded and held up a hand as if in church. Sara wondered if the woman caught the inappropriate innuendo. She doubted it.

  “Hey now,” Arthur chastised. “But as I was saying, Stanley was a superb officer through the good times and bad. There was a particularly awful time period seven years ago when a criminal passed through here named Office Clem.”

  Sara looked at her feet. She really wished Arthur would stop talking about this.

  “He was a bad man and did a lot of bad things, much of it prior to hitting Anderson, but the worst thing he’d ever done was shoot poor Jacob Ramsey in the prime of his life. Stanley put a stop to the criminal; furthermore, it was Stanley and our dear sweet Melba who took it upon themselves to support Rachel Ramsey in the financial care of her son until the state and others could help. They didn’t have to do that, but that was just the kind of people they were—and are. That’s who Stanley was and I think it shows in his lineage.”

  He turned toward Stan now with a smile. “Stanley Jr. may be wearing stripes today, but he’s a testament to his father. He’s a boy of politeness and a man of the people. He does what he loves every day with that piano of his, and the people love him for it. He’s got his rough edges, but he’s still every bit the man his father was. Melba, you should be proud. I know Stanley is, and having watched Stanley Jr. grow into the man he is today, I am too.”

  Sara couldn’t help but smile as Stan’s face reddened. He hadn’t expected to be on stage, let alone be addressed and compared to his father.

  “I was rooting through an old filing cabinet a few weeks ago and came across something that I felt was appropriate for today. It’s a letter written by Stanley Jr. here. I don’t know when it was written, but I think the red crayon speaks for itself.” The audience chuckled and so Arthur smiled and tipped his hat to them. “Along with being an officer of the law, Stanley was the best husband and father I’d ever known. I went on to find seven of these letters hidden in filing cabinets throughout the office, cabinets I’ve not opened in years. He had apparently hidden them away as friendly reminders. With the family’s permission, I’d like to read one of these letters now.”

  “‘Hi Daddy,’” he read after receiving a nod of approval from both Melba and Stan. “‘I missed you today. School is fun. I drew a picture of you. I hope you like it. My teacher asked what I want to be when I grow up. I told her I want to be like you. She said who doesn’t?’” Arthur folded the paper and handed it to Stan, who was openly crying now. “Do you remember this letter, son?”

  Stan nodded and leaned toward the microphone. “I was in Mr. Campbell’s second grade class.”

  “And let me tell you something, young man. If your father is listening right now, he’d be proud of the way you’ve turned out. You didn’t join the force due to your disdain of firearms, and with what happened to Jacob Ramsey no one can fault you for that, but you’re still every bit the man your father was. And just as Jerry Campbell said, who wouldn’t want to be like your father?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Stanley Cromwell Sr. was the icon of Anderson for multiple decades. His passing was a great loss to us all, but we were privileged to have known him, loved him, and to have had the honor of calling him our Chief.”

  Arthur concluded his speech by offering Melba a hug and extending Stan a hand. Maxwell Cord handed a memorial plaque to all the families on stage, and the ceremony was officially brought to an end.

  After some hand shaking, Stan found his way off stage and hugged Sara.

  “Who’d have thought Arthur could be so affectionate?” he said in a broken voice while holding out the plaque for Sara to see.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Stan simply nodded. His smile vanished as he studied the plaque, and Sara saw the concern in his eyes.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she demanded.

  They climbed a nearby stairwell and entered the fifth and sixth grade hallway, surrounded by lockers and posters promoting good character.

  “You’ve not let your father down, you know?” Sara said after they paced half the distance of the hall.

  “I beat my wife.”

  “You hit your wife while drunk, and it was you who made the decision to never let it happen again.”

  “But it did happen. My father never once laid a finger on my mother. And do you know how long Mom and Dad were married before he died? Thirty-two years. Our marriage is just starting out and we’re already falling apart. Leslie and I fight every day, loudly, yet I can count on one hand the amount of real arguments my parents had gotten into.”

  “Stan,” Sara said softly. “You’re not your father, but that doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

  Stan just shook his head. “My father was a hero, Sara. I’m just a college dropout who plays piano in a pub.”

  He turned and stared through a window, watching as people exited the school building, uninterested in hearing The Laws of the Land, apparently. Then Stan suddenly shouted and sprinted for the stairs.

  “Stan?” Sara said in a surprised tone and chased after him.

  He maneuvered through the crowd and pushed through a side door that led outside. Sara followed him as he turned down the nearest road and then another that dead-ended into the trees surrounding Anderson.

  “Phil!” Stan shouted.

  It was then that Sara saw him lying on the sidewalk, facedown in his own vomit. He was very still and slightly off colored. Her heart sank. She’d never seen him like this, never imagined he could get this bad.

  “Oh, please don’t let him be dead,” she prayed.

  Stan nearly collapsed on top of their long lost friend and felt for a pulse. Then he shook Phil hard, who moaned and pulled away weakly.

  “Phil?” Sara said softly.

  Phil opened his eyes a crack and stared at her.

  “Sara?”

  He struggled to sit up on his elbows and looked from Stan to Sara, his eyes lingering on her, but when he attempted to stand, he stumbled and nearly fell over.

  “Careful,” Stan said. “Come on. Let’s get you to my house...” he hesitated and looked back at Sara, “or maybe Sara’s.”

  She nodded as Phil tried to pull away.

  “No,” he said. He tried to say something else but vomited again.

  “You don’t have a choice, man.”

  Stan threw Phil’s arm around his shoulde
r while Sara left to retrieve her car. They managed to lay him in the backseat of the tiny vehicle, and the smell of vomit, beer, and body odor compelled them to roll down the windows. Stan offered her a tired look as she pulled away.

  Once home, Stan stripped him of his clothing and dragged him into the shower. Phil screamed at first due to the chilled water, but it warmed up quickly enough.

  “Use soap,” Stan demanded sternly before joining Sara, who was currently rummaging through Phil’s pants pockets. She found his flask and poured its contents down the drain before tossing it in the garbage can.

  It wasn’t long before Phil stumbled out of the bathroom, soaking wet and naked, grumbling something unpleasant and not appearing to understand what was happening. Stan wrapped a blanket around him and led him to the couch where he fell asleep in seconds.

  With a sigh of relief, Sara and Stan retreated to the porch and sat on the swing.

  “He doesn’t look so good,” Sara said.

  “I swear I hate alcohol as much as I hate guns."

  “How long will he be out?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll be here.”

  “No,” Sara said. “You need to deal with Leslie.”

  Stan tried to argue but quickly relented. Something bad happened in that house last night. He needed to know what it was.

  “Will you be okay?” Stan asked.

  “Phil won’t hurt me.”

  “I know.”

  Stan sat with Sara for another half-hour before heading home, but Sara remained seated in the swing, unsure of how to handle the fact that Phil was naked and asleep on her couch. She didn’t mind when it was Stan, but Phil was a different situation altogether. He made her nervous. Not because he’d ever harm her, but because of past misdeeds. She snuck in, prepared another pot of coffee, and poured herself a mug. Then she returned to the porch and took in a long, deep breath, letting go of her nerves and taking in the soothing song of the cicadas.

  Perhaps it was time she and Phil had a talk.