by Liz Moore
Today, when I straighten up from the backseat, holding my groceries, Mrs. Mahon says, Someone stopped by for you.
I frown.
—Who? I say.
Mrs. Mahon looks very gratified to be asked this question.
He didn’t leave his name, she says. Only told me he’d come by another time.
—What did he look like? I say.
—Tall, says Mrs. Mahon. Dark hair. Very handsome, she says, conspiratorially.
Simon. A little pang in my abdomen. I say nothing.
—What did you tell him? I say.
—Said you weren’t home.
—Did he say anything else? I say. Did Thomas see him?
—No, says Mrs. Mahon. He just rang my bell. He was confused. I think he thought you lived in my house.
—And did you correct him? I say. Did you tell him we lived in the apartment upstairs?
—No, says Mrs. Mahon. She frowns. I didn’t know him. I didn’t tell him anything.
I hesitate. It goes against every one of my instincts to let Mrs. Mahon in on any part of my life, but in this case, I believe I have no choice.
—Why, says Mrs. Mahon.
—If he stops by again, I say, just tell him we moved out. Tell him we don’t live here anymore. Whatever you want to say.
Mrs. Mahon stands a bit taller. Proud to be given an assignment, perhaps.
—Just so long as you’re not bringing any trouble around here, she says. I don’t want any trouble in my life.
—He’s not dangerous, I say. I’m just not talking to him. We moved here for a reason.
Mrs. Mahon nods. I am surprised to see something like approval in her eyes.
—All right, she says. I’ll do that, then.
—Thank you, Mrs. Mahon, I say.
Mrs. Mahon waves me off.
Then, unable to restrain herself a moment longer, she tells me, That bag is going to break.
—I’m sorry? I say.
—That bag, says Mrs. Mahon, pointing at my groceries. It’s too heavy, and it’s going to break. That’s why I always ask the girl to double them.
—I’ll make sure to do that in the future, I say.
* * *
—
When I first went back to work after Thomas was born, I used to physically yearn for him toward the end of each day. It was something akin to hunger. Racing to pick him up from daycare, I would picture a string connecting the two of us that retracted, like a yo-yo, as I approached. The feeling has softened as Thomas has grown, morphed into a milder version of itself, but today I still take the back stairs two at a time, picturing his face, his wide grin, his arms outstretched to me.
I open the door. There he is, my son, bounding toward me, shadowed by the babysitter, Bethany.
—I missed you, he tells me, his face an inch from mine, his hands on my cheeks.
—Were you good for Bethany? I say.
—Yes, he says.
I look to Bethany to confirm, but she’s looking down at her phone already, eager to leave. For months, it has been clear to me that I need to find a different, and better, arrangement. Thomas doesn’t like her. He talks every day about his old school in Fishtown, his old friends there, his old teachers. But it’s nearly impossible to find someone who can switch back and forth from days to nights with me every two weeks, and Bethany—twenty-one, a part-time makeup artist—is both cheap and available at almost any hour. What she offers in flexibility, however, she lacks in dependability, and lately she’s been calling out sick so often that I’ve spent every personal day that I have. On the days that she does show up, she’s regularly late, which makes me regularly late, which makes Sergeant Ahearn more and more unfriendly each time we cross paths at the station.
Now, I thank Bethany and pay her. Silently, she leaves. And instantly the house feels lighter.
Thomas looks at me.
—When can I go back to my school, he says.
—Thomas, I say. You know your old school is too far away. And you start kindergarten next September, remember?
He sighs.
—Just a little longer, I say. Less than a year.
Another sigh.
—Is it so bad, I say to him.
But of course I feel guilty. Every evening after A-shift, and often in the mornings, too, I try to make it up to him: I settle right down on the floor next to him and play with him until he’s tired of playing, trying to teach him everything he needs to know about the world, trying to stuff him so full of knowledge and fortitude and curiosity that these qualities will sustain him even during my long stretches away from him, the endless B-shift weeks, during which I’m not even able to put him to bed.
Now, he shows me excitedly what he’s constructed in my absence: a whole city of train tracks, wooden ones I bought secondhand, with construction-paper balls meant to represent boulders and mountains and houses, and cans and bottles that he’s fished out of the recycling bin to stand in for trees.
—Did Bethany help you with this? I ask him, hopefully.
—No, he says. I did it all by myself.
There is pride in his voice. He doesn’t realize—how could he—that I wish the answer had been yes.
Thomas, at almost five, is tall and strong and barreling, and already too smart for his own good. He’s handsome, too. As smart and as handsome as Simon. But unlike his father, so far, he is kind.
Homicide doesn’t contact us the next day, or the next day, or the next.
Two weeks go by. Ahearn keeps partnering me with Eddie Lafferty. I miss Truman. I even miss the solo duty that succeeded his leave. It’s unusual, these days, to be partnered long-term—the budget is tight, and one-man cars are becoming increasingly common—but Truman and I made a compelling case as a pair. We worked so well together that our responses were practically choreographed, and our productivity was unmatched in the district. I doubt very much that Eddie Lafferty and I will be able to duplicate that rapport. Every day, now, I listen to him tell me about his food preferences, his music preferences, his political affiliations. I listen to him rant about ex-wife number three, and then about millennials, and then about the elderly. I am, if it is possible, even quieter than I was to begin with.
We switch over to B-shift, working four p.m. to midnight, tired all the time.
I miss my son.
Several times—possibly too many—I ask Sergeant Ahearn about the woman we found on the Tracks. Has she been IDed, I want to know. Has a cause of death been declared? Does Homicide want to speak to us further?
Again and again, he shakes me off.
* * *
—
One Monday, mid-November—it’s been nearly a month since we discovered the body—I walk up to Ahearn at the start of my shift. He’s inserting paper into the copy machine. Before I can say anything, he whirls on me and says, No.
—I’m sorry? I say.
—No news.
I pause. No autopsy results? I say. Nothing?
—Why are you so interested? he says.
He is looking at me with an odd expression, almost a smile. As if he’s teasing me, as if he has something on me. It’s very unsettling. Except with Truman, I never talk about Kacey at work, and I have no intention of starting today.
—I just think it’s strange, I say. It’s been so long since we found the body. Just very strange that there’s nothing on her, don’t you think?
Ahearn lets out a long breath. He places his hand on the copy machine.
—Look, Mickey, he says. This is Homicide’s territory, not mine. But I did hear that the autopsy results came back inconclusive. And since the vic is still unidentified, I imagine it’s probably not top of their list.
—You’re joking, I say, before I can stop myself.
—Serious as a heart attack, says Ahearn. A saying he
likes and uses often.
He turns back to the copy machine.
—She was strangled, I say. I saw it with my own eyes.
Ahearn goes quiet. I know I’m pushing him. He doesn’t like to be pushed. He stands there for a while with his back to me, hands on hips, waiting for his copies to finish. He says nothing.
* * *
—
Truman would tell me, in this moment, to walk away. Politics, he used to tell me. It’s all politics, Mick. Find the right person and buddy up to them. Buddy up to Ahearn if you have to. Just protect yourself.
But I have never been able to do this, though several times I have tried, in my way: I know that Ahearn very much likes coffee, and so once or twice I’ve brought coffee for him, for example, and once, for Christmas, even a bag of beans from a local shop next door to Thomas’s old nursery school.
—What is this, Ahearn said.
—Coffee beans, I said.
—They make you grind them yourself these days? Ahearn said.
—Yes, I said.
—I don’t have one of those, said Ahearn.
—Ah, I said. Well, maybe for next Christmas.
He had smiled, stiffly, and said not to worry about it, and thanked me politely.
Unfortunately, those efforts did not seem to thaw relations between us. And Ahearn is the leader of my platoon, and as such he rotates with me from A-shift to B-shift and back again, and is generally the sergeant I report to nine times out of ten. The officers he favors are people who buddy up to him, mostly men, people who ask for his opinion or advice and then listen carefully, nodding while he dispenses it. I have seen Eddie Lafferty doing this very thing, actually. I can picture them both on their high school baseball team: Ahearn the leader, Lafferty the follower. At work, this is a dynamic that seems to suit them both. So maybe Lafferty, actually, is smarter than he seems.
* * *
—
When the copies are done, Ahearn takes them out and drops the edge of the stack against the copier a few times, evening the pile.
I’m still standing there, silent, waiting for a response. Walk away, Mick, I hear Truman saying in my ear.
Ahearn turns, abruptly, toward me. His face is not happy.
—Talk to Homicide if you have any more questions, he says, and strides past me.
But I know what will happen if I do. No concerned telefriendly parents means no media coverage. No media coverage means no case. Just another dead junkie hooker on Kensington Ave. Nothing to worry about too much for the folks on Rittenhouse Square.
All shift, I’m upset, and quieter than ever.
Even Lafferty notices something is off. He’s drinking a coffee in the passenger’s seat. He keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
—You okay? he says to me, eventually.
I look straight ahead. I don’t want to speak badly about Sergeant Ahearn to him. I’m still not certain how close they are, but their history together makes me tight-lipped when it comes to my feelings. I decide, instead, to frame things more generally.
—Just frustrated, I say.
—What’s up? says Lafferty.
—That woman we found on the Tracks last month, I say.
—Yeah?
—The autopsy results came back for her.
Lafferty sips from his coffee. His lip curls at the heat.
—I heard that, he says.
—Inconclusive, I say.
He says nothing.
—Can you believe that? I say.
Lafferty shrugs.
—That’s above my pay grade, I guess, he says.
I look at him.
—You saw her too, I say. You saw what I saw.
Lafferty goes quiet for once, looking out the window. Two minutes go by in silence.
Then he says, Maybe it’s not a bad thing.
I pause. I want to make sure I understand him correctly.
—Don’t get me wrong, he says. It’s a shame when anyone dies. But what kind of life.
I freeze. I don’t trust myself to respond yet. I focus on the road ahead of me for a while.
I consider, briefly, telling him about Kacey. Embarrassing him, perhaps. Making him feel bad. But before I can, he begins shaking his head slowly from side to side.
—These girls, he says. He looks at me and puts one finger to his right temple, taps it twice. Stupid, is what he means. No sense.
I set my jaw.
—What do you mean by that, I say quietly.
Lafferty looks at me, eyebrows raised. I look back at him. I can feel my face getting hot. It’s been a problem of mine my whole life. My face turns bright red when I’m angry or embarrassed or sometimes even pleased. It’s an unhappy trait in a police officer.
—What do you mean by that? I say again. You said, These girls. What does that mean?
—I don’t know, says Lafferty. Just.
He gestures around with his hands, surveying the landscape. I just feel bad for them, that’s all.
—I don’t think that’s what you meant, I say. But all right.
—Hey, says Lafferty. Hey. I didn’t mean to offend anybody.
THEN
When we were small, there was a field trip for certain fourth- and fifth-graders to see The Nutcracker in Center City. I was eleven then, old for my grade, and Kacey was nine.
In those years, I was almost silent in school. When I did speak, it was at a very low volume, such that Gee used to tell me, with frequency, to talk louder, as did most of my teachers. I had few friends. At recess, I read. I rejoiced when inclement weather forced us to stay indoors.
Kacey, conversely, made friends every place she went. She was little and fierce then, light-haired, with strong limbs and a brow she mainly kept lowered. She had buckteeth that she often strained to cover with an upper lip. Around friends, she was affable and funny. Generally, our peers were drawn to her. But she also made enemies: mainly those who targeted the weak, who swapped cruelty to others for social cachet, a bargain that, from a young age, Kacey disdained. She had a habit, therefore, of pointing out these injustices where they occurred, and then rising ardently and often violently to the defense of those in her class who were lowest in the pecking order—even, her teachers argued, when it wasn’t warranted, or when those classmates didn’t want or need Kacey’s protection. It was for this reason that Kacey had recently gotten kicked out of Holy Redeemer (the irony of the name was not, even then, lost on me), which meant that both of us were kicked out, because Gee didn’t want us in two separate schools.
This was, for me, a misfortune. I had liked Holy Redeemer. I had advocates there: two teachers, one a layperson and one a nun, who had taken a particular interest in me and my abilities, who had cut through my shyness and seen something in me that they had painstakingly drawn out over the course of several years. And who had, separately, of their own volition, told Gee that they thought I was gifted. Though I was gratified by this—though it justified for me the mild vanity I have always possessed about my own intelligence—there was also a part of me, at that time, that wished they hadn’t. Because to Gee, gifted meant uppity, and if I wasn’t punished for it, well, I was certainly looked at askance for a while.
When Kacey got into her final fight, the one that got us expelled, Gee had stood in front of us, glowering, as we sat on the couch.
—You, she said, nodding toward me, need to keep an eye on her, she said, nodding toward Kacey. So we both went to the local public school on Frankford instead, with all the children whose parents were too poor or dysfunctional to keep them in parish schools. Maybe, I supposed, this meant that Gee was, too.
In our new grade school, Hanover, Kacey was immediately and unsurprisingly adopted by a group of other outgoing students, and I was immediately forgotten about. There, shy children went through their days unexamined.
Any student who didn’t make the life of her teacher more complicated was generally praised once or twice for good behavior and then allowed to fade quietly to the back of the classroom. It was, no doubt, not entirely our teachers’ fault. Our classrooms were full to capacity, thirty generally rowdy students in a small space. It was all they could do to survive.
* * *
—
Still: being at Hanover was the only reason we were going to see The Nutcracker. Sometimes Philadelphia’s public school students had things given to them in a way that parish school children did not. The city bestowed upon its public schools charity of various kinds: coats, meant to keep us warm in winter; school supplies, meant to keep us engaged in our classwork; cultural outings, meant to allow us a few hours to ponder the large questions of life that are usually reserved for the idle rich. In this case, the outing was a prize awarded to students who sold the most wrapping paper in an annual fund-raiser—a challenge Kacey and I had taken very seriously, going door to door every weekend all fall. In fact, we had come in first and second place.
I, for one, was delighted.
I had worn a dress that day, my only dress, which Gee had brought home from Village Thrift in a rare moment of frivolity. The dress was beautiful, I thought: a blue cotton summer dress with white flowers on the bodice. But it was two years old by then and far too small, and over it, Gee had forced me to wear a boy’s blue parka that had belonged to Bobby, a cousin of ours on our mother’s side. It hadn’t ever been washed, this jacket. It was salt-stained and slightly acrid-smelling, like Bobby himself. Beneath it, the dress looked stupid: I knew this even then. But I had never been to a ballet before, and I don’t know why, but I wanted to demonstrate my respect, to acknowledge in some way the gravity of the occasion. So I wore it, and I wore the blue parka on top of it, and after lunch I waited in a long school hallway for the buses to arrive, standing in line with everyone else, reading my book.
