The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  To keep himself mollified, he scanned the crowds, checking body language, glancing at bags, purses, and pockets, guessing heights and weights, and memorizing distinguishing features. When some glared back, he switched to covert mode, looking quickly, then recalling as many details as possible before confirming accuracy. His success rate was high, though occasionally he was surprised to discover that a shirt was blue, not green, and hair was curly, not straight.

  He had lost Caleb. His son was twenty feet behind them, shoving the sticky remains of his cone into a garbage bin.

  “Get over here!”

  Caleb ran to them, wiping his hands on his T-shirt.

  “You don’t go off on your own. You know better than that. Hold on to the stroller.”

  He pushed open the glass doors and the smell of asphalt, exhaust, and heat assaulted them. Connor kicked off a shoe. When Lori bent down to put it back on, he kicked off the other. Mike scanned the lot in the general direction of the minivan. He hated the minivan. Lori said it was practical and economical. She had tied a pink scrunchie to the antenna to set it apart from the wash of other grey vans. She had a habit of not taking a visual reference when she parked and later wandering aimlessly searching for it. She said she had other things on her mind when she had the kids and that she always had the kids.

  His attention lingered on a man leaving the mall. Caucasian, six two, 260, Montreal Canadiens T-shirt, jeans. Cropped red hair. He used his body to open the door and leaned against it to light a smoke. It took him three attempts to spark the lighter. He was coming out of the Black Raven Tavern—Beat the Heat $2.99 Draft. Rows of taxis lined the curb, but the man headed to the parking lot.

  “Ready.” Lori had the children in tow again and stepped into the crosswalk. Caleb raised his hand and looked both ways. The stroller bumpity-bumped along with the back wheel’s wobble. “Don’t you touch those shoes again, Connor! Do you hear Mommy?” Connor responded with a shriek, and a glob of snot blew from his nose.

  The man was definitely staggering.

  “What?” Lori said. She followed his stare. “You’re not on duty.”

  Kicking and arching, Connor was priming for a tantrum. Caleb tried to distract him with Snappy, but that made him scream louder.

  “I’ll just get the plate number.” He stuffed the bags into the back of the stroller. “Call it in for me. Suspected DUI. South parking lot.” He ignored the tightening of her lips and furrowed brow. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Me come!” Caleb moved to follow his father. Lori grabbed his arm.

  “Put your hand back on that stroller and do not take it off!” She watched Mike’s retreating back and sniped, “You’re just getting the licence plate.”

  Mike slowed when the man dropped his smoke and bent to retrieve it. Perhaps he could help him make the right choice and everyone could go on with their day. People make mistakes. Terrible mistakes.

  He approached, using his friendliest smile. “Christ, I can never remember where I parked.” The man stared back. “Didn’t I see you in the tavern?” Mike shielded his eyes from the sun and casually scouted the lot. “Nothing like a beer in this kind of heat, huh? Specially at those prices.”

  “You got that right.” The man slurred his words and resumed course.

  “Ah, there’s mine. Goddamn minivans, can’t tell them apart.”

  He followed the man to his truck. Red. Licence plate CMJ 2X2. Retrieving the keys from his front jeans pocket, the guy dropped his smoke again but this time didn’t bother to pick it up. Backup wasn’t going to get there in time.

  “Damn, that’s not my van.” Mike removed his ball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I only had one beer, but shit, this heat, huh, it might as well of been three. Maybe I should grab a cab?”

  “What are you doing, bud?” The man had the key in the lock.

  He went for the non-threatening casual-buddies script. “Just looking for my van.”

  “Well, it ain’t here.” The so fuck off was implied. He unlocked the door.

  “I think you’ve had too much to drink to be driving. Don’t you? There’s a cab right over there. You can get your truck tomorrow.”

  Mike sized up the bulge of his arms, working hands, and extra sixty pounds. He reviewed the strike points—knees, solar plexus, throat—he had a thick neck. Two elderly women strolled past the pickup. A few vehicles down, a woman and teenage girl were loading shopping bags into a hatchback. No sirens were in earshot. The man opened the door and got in.

  Mike put his hand on the door and quietly said, “I can’t let you drive.” He glanced at the seat and floor for a crowbar or empty bottle that could be used as a weapon. The man had one hand on the steering wheel and the key in the ignition. His knuckles were bent and flattened. A fighter’s hand.

  “And who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I’m a cop. I need you to step out of the vehicle.”

  It was the narrowing of the man’s eyes that gave him away. Mike sidestepped a hard right, grabbed the perp by his shoulders, and yanked him forward and out of the truck. But rather than being thrown off balance, the man tackled him. Two hundred and sixty pounds drove into his chest, and vise-like arms constricted his ribs. Mike’s sneakers scrabbled for the pavement as he was lifted off the ground. He couldn’t breathe. Pain seared down his leg.

  For the first time as an officer, Mike was not in control. He slammed the man’s ears with palms wide open, to no effect. Fisting two hands together, he came down hard against the clavicle and bulging neck. The man swung around and rammed him into the side of the pickup box. Metal buckled against his back.

  That’s when it happened. He could taste it on his tongue. It clawed through his skin. He wanted to kill this man. He wanted blood.

  He drove his fist upward under the man’s rib cage, boring for his heart. Lungs expelled stale cigarettes and sour beer and the man’s arms dropped. Mike dug into his collarbone, wrenching him down and forward. Flesh tore under his fingernails. Grabbing his wrist, he rotated the perp’s arm behind his back. Hurling his full weight on the fat bastard, he slammed him face first into the pavement. They hit the ground hard.

  Jabbing his knee in the man’s back, he leaned into the contorted arm to amplify the pain, pinning the man’s head with his other elbow. The perp was swearing a fucking blue streak. His lip was split, he was spitting foam and blood. Mike ground his cheek into the asphalt.

  “Shut up! You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer and intent to drive under the influence—”

  With each indictment he jarred the perp’s arm farther up. His muscles quivered with adrenaline overload. His grip would leave marks and if he applied any more pressure he would snap the wrist or arm. He wanted the perp to resist and give him a reason. A siren pierced his eardrums, and tires lurched to a stop a few feet away.

  He looked up and saw a woman and a teenage girl with their mouths open as though they were screaming bloody murder. Across the way another woman on her phone with a crying baby in a stroller was trying to shield a small boy’s eyes. The boy was standing stock still with a green crocodile limp in his hand, and the front of his shorts was stained wet.

  “I’m a cop! I’m a cop!” Mike raged as officers converged with weapons drawn.

  14

  Beddie-bye. Night, night. Caleb kissed Snappy three times on the snout.

  The bedroom blind was down. The door closed tight. If he opened the door he would find Daddy and Mommy and baby Connor there on the other side. He knew this was true because he’d done it before. He ran his new toy car over his birthday comforter, tracing circles around the big police cars. He didn’t push the button to make the siren wail. He was supposed to be asleep. The stars were glowing on the ceiling and it was night outside.

  He whispered, WhooWhooWhoo. The bad guys were on the rooftops. The bad guy was in the parking lot. Daddy stopped the bad guy. Caleb spun the toy car to a stop, blocking the robbers about to jump onto the next roof. Freeze! They f
roze with their loot bags on their backs.

  The bad guy hit Daddy. Daddy hit the bad guy. Caleb’s not supposed to hit baby Connor, not even a little. Not even when he takes his cars and sticks them in his mouth. But Mommy didn’t yell at Daddy, or the bad guy, when they were hitting.

  The toy car slowly patrolled the edges of the bed. All was quiet in the town. Some windows on the buildings were yellow, but most were black. Everyone thought they were safe in bed. They didn’t know there were bad guys on the roof.

  There was a big bang when Daddy felled against the truck. There were bad words not allowed. Daddy hit the bad guy and the bad guy hit Daddy and they felled down—all fall down. The sirens went whoowhoowhoo. Mommy tried to make him not see, but he saw. He saw Daddy and a bad guy and they felled down, then he couldn’t see, then he could, and then there wasn’t a good guy and a bad guy. There were just two bad guys. The one with the meanest eyes looked right at him.

  Hot wet welled and spread under his bum. He squirmed in the bed. He had on big-boy underwear because he was four and didn’t need a diaper anymore like his baby brother. When he had to pee he told Mommy and she took him to the toilet because he was too big for the potty. But he didn’t tell Mommy in the parking lot, because the hot peed down his bare leg and into his sock before his brain knew he had to go. He touched the fresh wet spot on the sheet.

  Daddy was there and then he was gone. Daddy runned away and the bad man made him pee.

  He should call Mommy. She would make the bed good again and tell him it’s okay he was still little. But through the walls and under the door he could hear Mommy and Daddy growling.

  He opened his mouth wide, baring all his teeth, and Snappy chomped down on the bad guys.

  15

  Across the lower screen of the muted television, the banner read: Friday 5:10 a.m., 22°C, expected high 39°C. Mike looked at the black socks on his feet and sighed. He checked his watch—5:14—and rolled back the time. Fridays were always a crappy workday.

  He looked at Lori fast asleep. All of yesterday, she had given him the silent treatment. She took the boys out and wasn’t back for supper, and when they finally did return, she ignored him and didn’t bother to say goodnight. Three days off and one was spent being punished by his wife.

  What was he supposed to have done? Let the asshole drive away? His family was driving on the same roads. He winced as he applied antiseptic to the road rash on his elbow. Clocking sideways to the mirror, he assessed the deep purple bruise branding his lower back. As he rotated his waist gingerly, a twinge stung his side. He looked at the sag of his belly and sucked it in. He flexed his arm and was somewhat comforted by the hard bicep. He’d done the right thing; even the boys on scene said so. They took the collar and kept him out of it. His word was good enough and less paperwork for them.

  He pulled on his regulation black T-shirt, followed by his freshly dry-cleaned black shirt. At least it was short-sleeved. He stepped into his pants. The sky-blue stripes running up the legs and the blue and white badge on his right shoulder popped bold against the dark fabric. He looked assertive and official. It wasn’t all his fault. An asshole had been drinking and about to drive. Lori was supposed to call it in, take the boys to the van, and wait for him. She wasn’t supposed to be there. With the boys, no less.

  He buttoned the collar. It was tight. He undid one button. It wasn’t fair to punish him for doing what was right. He couldn’t turn it off and on. She liked being a cop’s wife when she was attending community picnics and charity events. Everything was fine as long as she didn’t have to see the shit he really did to make a living.

  He immediately regretted blaming her and swallowed the bitter taste of 5:00 a.m. and his own bullshit. She was right. He should have just taken the plate number. He was off duty. Lori groaned and rolled over in bed, twisting the sheet. He followed the long line of her tanned legs to her bare thighs to the peep of polka-dot underwear. When they first were married she didn’t wear underwear to bed. He felt a tug at his crotch and looked away.

  A serious news anchor was mouthing the day’s top stories. A photo of a smiling boy appeared on the screen. He skimmed the unfamiliar face. A headline flashed beneath: Devon Johnson, 12, Murdered. He looked at the child’s face again, unable to reconcile it with the boy he had seen. The news cut to a crying woman speaking into a microphone. Mother Appeals for Witnesses to Come Forward. Someone’s hands held her trembling shoulders. He shut off the TV.

  As he tightened his belt, his back recoiled from the leather snaking across the bruise. He sagged forward and donned his utility belt. Bracing against the pain, he straightened, and loosened the belt another notch. He loaded the belt clips in reverse order: pepper spray, flashlight, radio, baton, Taser holster, CPR mask, gloves—He had forgotten to use his gloves that night in the park. He looked down at his work belt. The black leather hid most stains. He ran his nail along the ridge of his holster, and a dark brown crust shaved under his nail. He wiped his nail on his pants and finished dressing: cuffs, key, weapon holster. Check.

  He retrieved the ammo safe from the top shelf of the closet and extracted the magazines. Lori continued to snore soft, even breaths. He pulled open the upper sock drawer and pushed aside the tightly balled socks, all black. He unlatched the lock box and removed his gun. The cold metal in his hand pulled his shoulders back and made him stand taller. He set the gun on top of the dresser. He checked mag No. 1, counted fifteen bullets, and slipped it into the pouch on his belt. He checked mag No. 2, counted fifteen, and looked in the ammo box for the chamber single. But it wasn’t there.

  He tried to process how that was possible. He checked the sock drawer to confirm he hadn’t dropped it. His mind calculated the height of the dresser plus a chair plus the height of Caleb and remembered that the ammo box had been locked. He looked down at the hardwood floor, but he would have heard it drop. He slowly pulled back the gun’s slide. Inside was the bullet. Live in the chamber.

  His eye twitched. He slipped in the mag and holstered his weapon. He told himself the gun had been secured in the lock box. It had been a brutal seventeen-hour shift and he had been exhausted. He knew that wasn’t an excuse. Just now, he had taken the gun out of the lock box with his finger on the cocked trigger.

  He told himself, You won’t do that again. You won’t do that again. You won’t do that again. He didn’t want to think Nobody knows, but he did.

  He went to the bed. Lori looked happy. The tightness around her mouth and eyes was relaxed. Watching her sleep felt intimate, even illicit. He was seeing her free of her life, of him, the children, and worry. He was seeing who she could have been. He had given her a heavy burden as a cop’s wife. She had married him and the job and all the risks it entailed, both on and off duty. How many of their “blue family” had divorced or been ravaged by booze or worse? How many funerals had he attended for self-inflicted wounds? Too many. He knew how rarely she truly laughed, and then only with the children.

  He had promised himself that he would never bring the ugliness of out there into their home. But he had, he had brought it home, cut it open, and let it bleed all over his family. He would do better. He kissed his fingers and softly touched her cheek. Lori groaned and rolled away.

  He tiptoed out of the bedroom and went to the baby’s room. Connor was on his back in the crib. His cheeks were flushed and his hair damp. By the smell, his diaper was full. Rumpled at the foot of the crib was his blanket. Mike debated covering him, but decided the risk of waking him was too great. He brushed his fingertips ever so gently over the wisps of the baby’s flyaway hair. You won’t remember that day. But it stank of absolution. He would do better.

  Gently, he pushed open Caleb’s door. He was on his side on top of the covers. His pants were off and his bare bum was exposed. Snappy was in one hand and the toy car in the other. Mouth agape, he was breathing deeply. There was no fear of waking him. Mike kissed him three times on the top of his head. Three times, the way Caleb liked it.

  T
hey had said their proper goodbyes at bedtime, knowing Caleb wouldn’t be awake when his daddy left. Three kisses, responded to with three “I love yous.” There had to be three. Before night shifts, Mike would get down on one knee so his son could throw his arms around his neck, stretch on his tiptoes, and recite the words fast in his ear. Then Mike would wait while the boy ran to his room, calling, “Is you still here?” He was expected to reply “Yes, yes, yes” to the patter of bare feet retreating down the hallway and wasn’t allowed to leave until he heard his son’s bedroom door shut and his muffled, “All clear!”

  Any deviation from this protocol resulted in a titanic tantrum that turned Caleb’s face apoplectic. Lori said it was a phase and Mike should humour him. But lately, Caleb had been applying the same system to his mother and baby brother. It was no longer cute when it added twenty minutes to every departure. It would need to be addressed. As would the “gifts” he kept finding in his pockets at work: a rock, an uncooked macaroni noodle, a dead housefly. He reached into his left trouser pocket and extracted a bent beer cap.

  As he pried himself up from the bed, his hand slid across a cold, wet spot. He pulled back the comforter. Caleb’s pyjama bottoms were crumpled in a sodden ball. He let the comforter fall back in place. He had to get to work.

  Using the long shoehorn to wedge on his black regulation boots, he planted his foot on the hallway bench to tie the laces. He finalized his checklist:

  ✓ important papers—top drawer file cabinet

  ✓ medical, house, personal insurance—paid in full

  ✓ family services contacts—side of fridge

  ✓ emergency funds—top of fridge

  ✓ wills—up to date

  ✓ three “I love yous”

  ✓ five goodbye kisses

  ✓ Eyes he had looked into—

  ✓ one mother

  ✓ one father