by Ammar Habib
Those words are followed by a long silence. I don’t think he meant to say those words; he just meant to think them. But the statement just rolled off of his heart before he could think twice. We keep to ourselves, not knowing what to say and reflecting on just how true Bryan’s words are. It really would take an insane person to do what we do day in and day out.
After what feels like a long time, Bryan again breaks the peace. “Did she pass away when you were young?”
“She did.”
“How old were you?”
“Old enough to remember every detail of the night.”
“That’s why you do this, isn’t it?”
I simply nod.
“How did she die?”
“Wrong place, wrong time. She was gunned down in a drive-by shooting not meant for her. It was at a soup-kitchen she volunteered at every week.” I don’t know why I’m so open, but it all just feels right. Maybe now I’ve finally found someone I trust, or maybe I realize how much Bryan and I have in common when it comes to loss. “These punks came looking for a dealer who did their boss wrong and shot up the place. The man they came for doesn’t get a scratch. A few others get hurt.” I pause for a long moment, reliving the night when the officer came to our home and I listened from the top of the steps. Every word I utter is filled with hate and disgust. “But Angela is shot close to her heart. She lies there, wounded for God knows how long… and chokes on her own blood.”
Bryan remains silent.
“The same heart that she gave to so many people—the same heart that made her be at the soup kitchen in the first place—is the heart that killed her… ironic, isn’t it?” I take a deep breath. “What’s more ironic is knowing that her killers are not locked up in prison or sitting on death row like they should be. Instead, they get off easy while I’m left to pick up the pieces of the mess they made.”
“…I’m sorry.”
I act as if I don’t hear his words. “They were… juveniles. So they were treated as such. But I don’t doubt that their boss played a part in them getting free. The murderous scum lost a few days of their lives in prison while I lost my best friend.”
There is no reply.
“I’ve spent every day since that night looking for an answer and looking for any sliver of solace. I’ve looked everywhere: family, church, and anywhere else I could outside of drugs and alcohol.” With every word, more memories from that dreadful night flood my mind. I see the officer standing there, unable to offer any comfort to the pain his news brought down on my parents. I feel my heart bursting in tears again… and again… and again. For the first time, I learn what loneliness really is. And I feel helpless all over again. “But it seemed that even as everyone else moved on with their lives, I couldn’t… and I still can’t. Doing this—doing what we do—is the one way I can fill any of the hole in my heart.”
There’s a long minute of peace between Bryan and me. All that can be heard is the car’s wheels as they beat against the cemented road. This is not how I thought this morning would go.
Finally, my words again break the stillness. “I can’t move on, Bryan. I can’t forget her. How could I? I want to break out of this prison… but I can’t. All I can do is relive that night every day for the rest of my life.”
Bryan’s gaze leaves the road and falls upon me. He speaks so softly that I barely hear his words. “We can’t bring back the dead, Ana. Not Jack or Angela. No matter how hard we pray or cry, the dead are just memories. And one day, those memories will fade. We won’t remember how their voice sounded, and we won’t remember what their companionship felt like. But what we can do is honor them. We can move forward and make their sacrifice worth something.”
“I do honor her, Bryan. And you honor Jack too. We do it through our duty.” I look straight ahead. “And I will keep doing it for as long as it takes.”
***
This evening, like most evenings, I’m alone in my apartment, my thoughts acting as my only companion. There is a warm TV dinner in front of me and my eyes are glued to a re-run of X-Files. But I’m not really paying it any heed. The things that the show claims to be ‘strange’ pale in comparison to some of the things I’ve seen. Or, more accurately, the people I’ve seen.
The whole day, I can’t stop thinking about Bryan. The poor man is so hurt. He’s dying a little bit every day. He loves his son, but can never see him. The closest he’s come in these past few months is in photos and memories. Is that what I’m destined for as well? Maybe it is a part of this path and something that I will face sooner or later.
Is it too late for Bryan? I don’t know if he is still holding onto any hope, but is the door to his family still even open to him? Could anything be done to undo the damage?
I wonder if…
Without thinking, I abruptly reach over for my phone and phonebook, nearly knocking over my cup of water as I do. I hold the phone in one hand while hastily searching through the directory. I quickly find the contact I’m looking for and swiftly punch in the number. I don’t let my second thoughts get a chance to surface.
Putting the phone to my ear, I hear it ring a couple of times. I anxiously tap my fingers against the table. When the third ring sounds off, I start to think that maybe nobody’s going to answer the—
“Katy City Hall.”
“Yes, hi.” I quickly gain my composure. “I was wondering if you could tell me where the Katy Sharks will be playing their next game.”
***
I really don’t know what brings me here. Maybe the realization of my closet helped me comprehend exactly what Bryan was talking about. Or maybe it was hearing the sadness in my partner’s voice when he talked about his son. But whatever the reason, it’s brought me here on a bright and scorching Saturday morning. Instead of sleeping in like normal, I find myself pulling into a parking lot right outside a Little League baseball game.
Half of the crowd cheers as a kid races across home plate. The announcer’s voice echoes through the stadium and parking lot. “A great run by Number 34, Kevin Fulton!”
Hearing those words tells me that I’m at the right place. Stepping out of my car, I head through the rusty gate and towards the stands. It’s hot. Really hot. Even dressed in a pair of decent shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and a baseball cap, I’m sweltering as if I’m entering Hell itself. But when you live in Texas, you just accept the heat as a fact of life. The game is in full swing now. Right after the last score, the next batter strikes out, putting the game in the bottom of the third inning. I see Bryan’s son—Kevin—now in the outfield. Even from this distance, I notice the resemblance.
Both teams’ parents share the same set of stands, which likely made watching this game much more entertaining. But I’m not here to enjoy baseball. Looking into the crowd, I see the person I’ve come to meet. She is sitting in the middle of the stands and is surrounded by other moms and dads. Even with her sunglasses and baseball cap on, I recognize the blonde-haired woman as Bryan’s wife: Mary.
I casually make my way through the stands without being a distraction and take a seat next to her. But as I do, my heart starts to beat faster and faster. My palms begin sweating, and it’s not from just the heat. I take a deep breath. This is my last chance to turn around and leave without making this whole thing awkward. But that option disappears when Mary looks at me and shoots a polite smile. I return the gesture before we both look out at the game. She watches it for enjoyment, but I do it because I can’t think of a way to break the silence. I’ve gotten so good at breaking the ice and starting conversations with drug dealers that I’ve forgotten how to talk to normal people.
But she saves me the trouble when she speaks a couple of minutes later. “…so which one is your kid?”
Here’s my chance. Let’s do this, Ana. “I’m actually watching a friend’s son.”
“How nice. Who’s their son?”
I look back in the outfield and point to Kevin. “Over there. Number 34.”
I don’t look
back at her, but sense her smile disappear as she realizes who I am. It’s apparent in her voice. “…oh.”
Should have used a different approach, Ana. But her reaction is not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe it’s just the calm before the storm. The entire inning passes in silence. Very awkward silence at that. I had rehearsed myself up to this point in the conversation, but never really thought I’d make it this far. Now, I’m not sure what to say.
The team’s switch and Kevin now sits in the dugout, waiting for his turn at bat. I start thinking that it was a mistake to have come here. The longer the silence runs, the worse I feel about all this. Maybe I didn’t think this whole thing through. The last thing I want to do is ruin this mother’s moment in seeing her son play baseball.
But then she again speaks. Mary’s voice is harsher than it was before, which only makes the knot in my stomach tighten. “…did Bryan send you here?”
“No. But he’s my friend and he talks about you all the time. He—” I pause for a second, knowing that I need to make my point quickly. “I don’t think you know what’s happening to Bryan right—”
“Bryan and I understand each other perfectly. He knows why I left. And he knows it’s all for the best. It’s better to get this all over with now rather than later.” Her gaze leaves me and aims straight ahead. There is another awkward silence, but it quickly ends. And when she speaks, she keeps her focus on the field. “Are you happily married yourself?”
I don’t reply.
“Then you can’t understand the situation and you have no authority to make it your business.” Mary pauses. “Please leave.”
I blankly stare at her for a little while longer, but I know the truth. There’s nothing I can do here. This was a mistake. She won’t even hear a thing I say no matter how loud I shout it. And so without another word, I respect her wishes.
***
Sunday morning, I wake up from a nightmare. My sweat leaves the sheets a little damp. However, after all these nightmares, I hardly notice it anymore. I don’t even take a moment to try and calm down my bewildered state. It’s an hour before dawn, but I get out of bed. I know there’s no sleeping now.
I go into the empty room—the one I’ve dedicated to Angela. Like I’ve done nearly every day, I sit against the wall that faces the web of facts. I keep my gaze on the grid, as if trying to find my solace in it. I know nothing good can come out of this staring, and I know that staring at it and reliving my sister’s death over and over again only torments my soul.
But I can’t stop myself.
I’m sitting there when the sun breaks the night’s darkness. I’m still there when the phone starts ringing. Its echo reverberates through my apartment. But I don’t flinch. And I don’t make a move to answer it. I already know who it is.
For the past month and a half, I had been showing up to church late. Late enough that the only seats available were in the back row. Then, two Sundays ago, I left the church service early with an ‘upset stomach’. And last Sunday, it was a ‘serious headache’ that forced me to leave prematurely. But both times, I just went and stayed in a bathroom stall until I heard the footsteps of the congregation out in the hallways.
It’s already made my family suspicious, and I’m running out of excuses. But I can’t stand the service. Every time the pastor speaks, it feels as if he’s looking right at me. Especially when he is warning about the sins of lying. And for some reason, the topic seems to come up in every sermon. It’s as if the Bible and my soul are telling me two different things. This duty is feeding my soul—it’s filling the hole that Angela left. But my religion tells me that I am living in a lie. Maybe it is God. Maybe He really is angry at me and is trying to pull me away from all of this. Or maybe it’s just my own guilt.
So today, I did something that I haven’t done in over a decade—something I never dreamed of doing as a child: I skipped church. And no doubt, on the other end of that line is a concerned mother. But she’ll have to wait. As much as it pains me, I can’t pick up the phone. I’ve ignored God and my mother in one day.
Both firsts for me.
***
Three days later, I’m sitting in my undercover car outside of a project. I would have fried to a crisp while waiting for this dealer to show up if it wasn’t for my A/C. In Texas, we appreciate just how God-sent air conditioning really is.
It’s already 20 minutes passed the meeting time and this punk hasn’t shown up. But that’s not really a surprise. A week ago, two Indian looking medical students with funny sounding names—I think they were Mirza and Avinash—visiting Houston for the summer spotted a known dealer, Marco Flores, working the streets. After they called and told us where they’d spotted him, it was not hard for me to ‘run into’ him and set up a deal.
This morning, I again woke up with another nightmare. I don’t know what’s going on. For the past months since I became a cop, almost half my nights end with me waking up drenched in a pool of my own sweat. That, combined with everything else, has turned sleep into a luxury. In its place is this constant burden, which is continuously weighing down on me.
When I had started this job, I would have given anything to get rid of the nightmares that made me relive Angela’s death over and over again. Maybe God really does have a sense of humor. Because if the nightmares of Angela were Hell, then these new ones are Hell’s lowest level. But now, I’ve just about accepted them as a reality—just another part of the duty that must be carried out.
Hearing my lumpy phone start to go off, I quickly answer it and speak in my undercover character. “Sup?”
“Hey girl, it’s Doc.”
Yes, Doc is Marco’s street name. “‘Ey, man. Where you at?”
“I can’t make it out to tha’ spot. Can you meet me in my neighborhood?”
This is textbook. One of the cardinal rules of undercover work is that no matter what, you never change the spot of the meet after it’s been set. “Change? What’s wrong with ‘dis place?”
“Can’t make it.”
“Why not?”
“I got places to be.”
“So do I.”
“I’m only five miles away, girl. Just come on over.”
“I ain’t goin. You comin’ here or I’m taking my biz-niz elsewhere.”
“Why you bein’ like this? You a cop or somethin?”
Think fast, Ana. My tone suddenly changes. It becomes dark enough to scare any man or woman, even this punk. “Call me a cop and I’ll reach through this phone and rip your throat out. Mah’ brother’s locked up.”
“A’ight, a’ight! Sorry. Didn’t mean to stir nothin’.”
“So you comin’ or what?”
“Yeah… I’m a comin’.”
***
The deal with the so-called ‘Doc’ goes as planned and he will be busted in ten days. But for some reason, I don’t feel accomplished. The thrill of every mission and case never dies. However, the fulfillment does. I guess that is what happens with anything. I think I learned something about that in an economics class my dad forced me to take. If memory serves me right, it is called the Law of Diminishing Returns.
As I arrive back at the station, the dispatcher—April—stops me in the hallway. Everyone here loves April. She is the stereotypical white, suburban, middle-aged lady, right down to her love for baking, and she is the mother we all wished we had. “Ana, your mom called… again.”
Crap.
“I told her you were in a meeting,” April continues.
“Oh, sorry about that. But thanks.”
“She seemed a little concerned on the phone.”
“I probably gave her reason to worry.”
“Meaning?”
“I didn’t go to church last week.”
April’s eyes slightly widen. “…why’s that, hon?”
“…I feel off when I go there.” I pause for a brief moment. “But thanks for letting me know. I’ll call her back from my office.”
“Good.” Sh
e slightly smiles. “Because I’m running out of excuses as to why you’re not available.”
As I continue down the corridor, I cannot help but think of Mary. As close of partners as Bryan and I may be, it’s not my business to meddle in his private affairs. I’m still not sure why I even went to the ball game in the first place. I felt nervous before and horrible after. And since then, I can’t stop thinking about it.
But there was something… something in Mary’s voice. She tried to sound harsh, but now that I think about it, it came out as more awkward than harsh. She’s too nice to be rude. But in her voice, I sensed another element: loss.
Without even thinking, I turn around and start making my way towards the exit. Bryan would probably hate this. And yes, it really is none of my business. But in some twisted way, it is. If not for Bryan or Mary’s sake, then for their son’s.
***
Standing at the entrance of Mary's suburban home, I know this is my last chance to turn around. It’s almost sunset. Even through the closed blinds, I notice that a few of the lamps inside are on. Someone is definitely home. But they haven’t seen me yet. My heart is racing fast. I don’t know if this is the fastest it’s ever beaten, but it’s defiantly going faster than any of the times when I was meeting drug dealers these past couple of weeks. I’d honestly rather be meeting ten of them right now than standing here. Oh, the irony.
Taking a deep breath, I muster my courage and ring the doorbell. I hear it echo inside the house. I take a small step back but keep my gaze focused on the heavy door. Sweat forms on my brow as Mary’s harsh voice echoes through my head.
Please leave.
With those words fresh on my mind, I am disobeying them to the fullest. A few moments go by. I catch my foot quickly tapping against the pavement and stop it. The door stays closed. Maybe nobody’s home?
My mind says that I’ve done my duty and should leave, but my heart says something else. Stepping up, I lightly press the doorbell once more. Again, I hear the sound echo through the residence. For a moment, I catch faint footsteps. They seem to be growing louder. I feel a gaze coming from the upstairs window, but when I look up, the closed blinds block my view. I focus back on the unmoved door. The situation has quickly gone from nervous to awkward.
