by SE Reynolds
Now JJ is in high school and on Concerta to keep him calm and focused, but the medication has side effects: loss of appetite and inability to fall asleep. I have him on another prescription, Trazadone, to help him sleep. It's as if I am co-parenting with the meds instead of Melissa.
Before Melissa's death, I was respected and adored by the citizens of Fairview, and the feelings were mutual. I'd ensure my neighbors' values and way of life were unaffected. Everything from vetoing state funding for abortion or upholding a law that prohibits the opening of a car door in a traffic lane, I would fight for it if my citizens believed in it. They showed their appreciation by going out of their way to acknowledge my existence. Whether it was at the grocery store or the local brewery, people went out of their way to approach me, reaching for my hand, thanking me for my service, and making sure I'm caring for their belief system. I had a purpose in life, something that was only the beginning of what I hoped would lead me into the national political scene. I know Fairview is a blip on the map; lord knows the pay is horrendous. Unlike the mayor of DC or Los Angeles, my income is considered just above the poverty line. But it isn't the money; it's the position and the dignity that comes with the job. I love this job, and most of all, I can stomach it.
I got my degree from Dominion University: a party school just west of Virginia Beach. I was a political science major and the perfect ROTC cadet. ROTC was a means to an end for me. It was free education and a way to escape the violence and poverty that made up my childhood. I could no longer be a witness to my dad pounding on my mother's head until she passed out. I could no longer come to her rescue and then wake up starry-eyed on the kitchen floor. Chester, Virginia, was a hole town filled with front-porch dwellers, laundry waving on a string, empty cans of lard on the porch, and impregnated teenagers shopping at the only Walmart in town.
I'm surprised I survived Chester, and I probably wouldn't if it weren't for Jessie, my best friend who happened to be a girl. Of course, this was before I knew girls could cause the lower half of my body to do uncontrollable things, but she was not like your typical girl. She was short and pudgy with scabs on her knees. She wore her hair in a messy ponytail, half in the ponytail and the other half hanging underneath. Sometimes I would stare at it, wishing she'd make up her mind. When Jessie and I were kids, we were inseparable. We used to wander around the apple orchards in Chester, picking apples, eating them, and throwing the rotten ones at each other's heads. To me, she wasn't a girl or a boy, but a friend that I got dirty with.
Jessie was the best and the only girl I thought I’d ever need until I noticed Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen was the opposite of Jessie; she was a real girl, a very pretty girl. She had blonde hair that drifted to her shoulders like bird feathers resting on each side of her head. Stiff bird feathers that stayed in place even when the wind blew, and her lips were like nothing I had ever seen, all shiny and glossy. I saw her at the swings one day when I was with Jessie. I couldn't stop staring at her. She wasn’t swinging; she was just sitting there drawing lines in the dirt with her white sneakers. She waved to me, and I waved back. The next day I went to the swings by myself, hoping Mary Ellen would be there drawing with her feet again, and she was. It was like she was waiting for me.
"You go to Riley Middle School?" she asked.
That's all it took. I sat down in the swing next to Mary Ellen. She offered me a piece of Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum. We had a bubble gum blowing contest, and I lost, and she laughed at me while she picked bubble gum off my face.
"Who's that?" Mary Ellen asked as she stopped picking at my face.
I looked up from my Mary Ellen daydream and saw Jessie standing in front of us. I couldn't tell if she was mad or confused or lost. She just stood there staring at us.
"What are you looking at, dog face?" I yelled to Jessie.
I wanted Mary Ellen to know I didn't like Jessie, not in that way. I could see the shock on Jessie's face. She'd never heard me say anything mean to her until then.
"I hate you, Joshy! I hate you!" she yelled as her voice cracked.
I let Jessie run away. I never went after her; I let her go. She served her purpose. I made sure my future best friends were boys only. Girls were no longer friends but wet dream images, enigmas we desired and hated at the same time.
After graduation, I had to pay back my free education with a military career. I chose the Army Reserve. If I had to pay it back, I would do it with the lowest interest rate possible. The commitment of a career soldier fighting in the likes of Desert Storm or defending someone else's country while bombs dropped on my head was not my idea of serving my country. No way. I couldn't stomach that.
Every Sunday, leading up to graduation, I scoured the Norfolk Times Jobs page, searching for something I could digest, something that would keep me away from poverty, something that brought respect like an Army officer without the feeling of being owned like an Army Officer. There, in bold dark print, was an advertisement for the Fairview County Police Academy. Fairview County had one of the lowest crime rates in any suburban area in Northern Virginia, and I soon became one of Fairview County's finest.
Like being an elected official or an officer in the Army, I was respected and loved by my community. I could play hero every day just by putting on my uniform and walking from my front door to the police cruiser parked outside of my house. The neighbors loved that I lived on their court. I gave them a sense of security, and, in turn, they showed me admiration and respect. Unlike the country slum of Chester, my neighborhood smelled like freshly cut grass and burgers cooking on the grill on Saturdays in the spring and summer. In the fall and winter, it smelled like burnt leaves and fire pits. It was a perfect pleasant valley Sunday neighborhood.
In my ten years as a cop, violent crimes were next to nothing. They usually turned out to be stupid misunderstandings, like when sixteen-year-old Megan Bailey claimed eighteen-year-old Mason Lewis raped her after the senior prom. The couple was seen leaving the prom at nine p.m. in the limo that Mason's parents rented for them. Megan looked older than her sixteen years. Her long dark hair, her doe brown eyes, her pale skin, and her puffy red lips innocently seduced Mason that night. Even in his wet dreams, I'll bet Mason could never imagine a beauty like little Megan Bailey rubbing up against him during one of the slow dances at the prom.
At eleven p.m. that night, I saw Megan running down Cedar Lane in her yellow lace prom dress with bloodstains on the back of her dress. She was hysterical. I persuaded her to get in my car. She smelled of fruity bubblegum and beer and was shaking and sobbing. Her red bubbly lips were glazed with snot, so I gave her a tissue from my pocket.
"Are you in pain, Rose?" I asked.
She suddenly stopped crying.
"Who's Rose?"
I took Megan to the hospital and waited outside the examination room as the nurse performed a rape kit. Mason's parents just set him up for a terrible future he will never overcome. How could they allow eighteen-year-old Mason to be near a sixteen-year-old piece of bubble gum sex? A year in prison and the label of a sex offender was Mason's present and future. The age of consent is eighteen in Virginia. There is no wiggle room or leniency shown. Megan was labeled a whore and a drama queen for the remainder of her high school years. Mason continues as a sex offender.
That was the extent of the so-called violent crimes I witnessed in Fairview until my last day as a cop. My day started at five a.m. I woke up beside the girl next door, my wife of seven years, sweet Melissa. I quietly got out of bed, grabbed my workout gear I laid out the night before, and went to the bathroom to change. I took every precaution not to wake Melissa. She needed to sleep, so she had all the energy required to care for JJ. My uniform, badge, gun, and toiletries were waiting for me in the coat closet by the front door. I collected them and headed to the gym at the police station. I ran five miles on the treadmill and worked on the body parts of the day: shoulders and arms. I ran into Pete Waters in the locker room after my workout. Pete graduated to plain-clothes detective the y
ear before. I still scratch my head as to why the captain chose Pete. He was a man of little words, little charisma, and a tiny dick. Yea, I snuck a peek, and it confirmed my assumption. I can't imagine how he'd ever get a suspect to confess unless he bored the fucker to death. He was bald, pale face, light eyebrows, a slight build, not tall, not short. He was ordinarily bland. If I didn't see him every day, I'd forget his name, his face, and, frankly, his sheer existence.
"How are you today, Pete?"
"Can't complain, Josh?"
"Awe, come on, Pete, you must have something to bitch about. Wife not giving you blow jobs anymore; kid get an F in Math?"
Pete grinned and responded plainly, "No-spit blow job last night, Josh. Got no kids, Josh."
I shook my head and patted Pete on the shoulder.
"Good man, Pete, or I should say, good wife."
I walked towards the exit and straight to my patrol car. I wasn't jealous of Pete for getting the no-spit blow job or the plain-clothes detective job. I liked my uniform, and I like what it represented. And as far as the blow job is concerned, I've had my share, but there was never any spitting or swallowing. I guess it isn't my thing.
I got in my patrol car and went straight to the Coffee Bean. Billy was behind the register, as always.
"Hey, Billy Boy, what do you got that's dark and rich?" I asked as I entered the store.
Billy put his hands to his mouth and giggled.
"Hi, Officer Steadman, I know you like it dark?"
"Dark with no sugar, Billy," I said with a smile and a wink.
Billy is such a happy kid. I don't think I've ever seen Billy's hair, maybe a few dark curls that peeked out of his rainbow-colored ski cap. He always had a smile, a giggle, and a free cup of coffee served up just for me. Before I could take my first sip, a call came over the radio. Gunshots were heard at the Homeward Hotel. I wasn't concerned because inevitably, it would be another false alarm, another misunderstanding. When I arrived, it was clear something terrible had gone down as first responders flooded the parking lot. By the time I arrived, the premises were clear of a live shooter. Captain Jacobs seemed visibly shaken and agitated.
"Steadman, start taping up the entrance to the hotel but let the bodies pass first."
"Bodies? What happened?" I asked.
"Son of a bitch shot his five-year-old son and then himself."
I allowed the two body bags to pass through the exit of the hotel. I couldn't tell which body bag was the boy and which carried the son of a bitch. But what shocked me was the medics put both bags into the same ambulance. I dropped the yellow tape and ran towards the ambulance.
"Stop it, stop! He shouldn't be with the boy! He shouldn't be with the boy!"
I froze, realizing I had caused a scene at the scene. That was my last day as a cop. The captain requested I decompress and talk to the crisis counselor the next day. Instead of agreeing to the debrief, I turned in my badge and my gun. I never saw the actual bodies. I never did see the angelic gaze of a resting child with blood oozing out of the back of his head or the disfigurement of a man who shot himself in the mouth with his nose blown off and brain matter splattered on his fucking face. I only saw gray bags filled with stuff. It was only a matter of time word would get around the department that I choked. I lost it in front of the captain, the first responders, and the crime scene onlookers. Later that night, with Woodford Reserve in hand, which I only drank on special occasions, I watched the local news. The headline story was that a divorced father, Jeremy Finnigan, took his son Conor for a weekend getaway. They checked into the Homeward Hotel on Saturday afternoon. They were seen swimming at the pool, eating burgers at Chewie's, and buying a John Cena Wrestling action figure at Toys R Us. The boy's mother called the police on Monday morning early when the father failed to bring the child back Sunday night.
"She should have called earlier!" I shouted.
Melissa put JJ to bed that night, not me. I just couldn't do it that night. Of all nights that I should have, I just couldn't that night.
Thank God for Sweet Melissa, my American pie beauty, my girl next door. I truly believed she was an angel sent from heaven, or at least that's what she wanted me to think. We were from two different worlds. She was my trust fund baby, and I was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
"Hey, Melissa, you have those wholesome good looks a country boy can't resist. If you were my girl next door, I would've knocked you up at sixteen."
"Oh, stop. Act like you have some home training, Joshua Steadman," she'd say and slap me in the arm, and then I'd sing Sweet Melissa to her. She'd interrupt me.
"I'm not so sweet, my dear husband; I've sinned once or twice."
"If sinning means you ate the last piece of apple pie, then you should be punished."
Instead of continuing the joke with a sexy comment like "yes, I'm a naughty girl," which could lead us to the bedroom, Melissa would quickly change the subject to the weather or some other sterile topic, making it known it was time to be decent again.
If it weren't for Melissa's trust fund, I could've never changed career paths and become an impoverished mayor of a small city. I met her while attending Dominion University. I couldn't tell you the exact day I met her or what she was wearing, or how beautiful I thought Melissa was. Because I don't remember her, and then suddenly, I do. She was just a shadow in the room where Rose Umbra resided.
Chapter 4 – Stacie
This one came early. I usually don't get a text like this until the next day or maybe two days later, or they just go silent, but this one came thirty minutes after meeting George.
First, I want to say you're awesome. You definitely are super funny, smart, and kinda cute. But I have to be honest, I felt like I was hanging out with one of my buds. I'd still like us to be friends but not really feeling the chemistry. I'm sorry, just keeping it real. Have a good night, Stacie. Great meeting you.
This one blindsides me I think as I walk up my staircase with twenty-eight steps, not fourteen like your average middle-class home. With each step, I become a little more deflated. I descend to my bedroom, which is at the end of a long hallway adorned with pictures of my parents, sister, and nephew. The only picture that frames something belonging to me is Porky's picture, my little furball that lost his battle with stomach cancer last year. He was half poodle, half Yorkshire terrier. The breed is called porkie. He is cross-bred to be smart and hypoallergenic. I thought the name of his breed was so cute I named him Porky. This is Porky, the porkie, I'd say to anyone that met him.
I slowly recline on my big canopy bed adorned in yellow lace. I lie very still, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how quickly I earned a spot in George's friend zone. George is just cute enough, curly brown hair, a little turned-up nose, innocent brown eyes, and just tall enough. I'm only five-foot, four inches, so I don't require a tall man. George is at least three inches taller and two years older than me. We are a ninety-five percent match, according to Match.com. We both are professionals. He's an orthodontist, and I'm a lawyer. How complementary we would’ve been to each other. We both love live music and believe family comes first. He's not into hookups; he appreciates a smart, independent woman, and, surprisingly, looks aren't everything to him.
Before meeting George at BJ's brewpub, I went the extra mile to get myself ready. I made sure I looked like a "feminine professional." That's a new term I gave myself after reading What a Man Really Wants. Apparently, he wants a strong, independent woman in touch with her feminine side. A woman that can be a lady on his arm and a whore behind the door. I want to be someone's lady-whore, and I had briefly hoped I could be for George. I tried to be feminine and even curled my straight brown hair. I usually wear it in a bob and keep it shoulder length when I'm at work, but I thought I would soften my look this time with some loose curls. I applied a neutral eye shadow, so it wouldn't distract from my dark brown eyes, my biggest physical asset. I wore red lipstick to give my face a pop. I always thought those YouTube videos on how to ap
ply makeup are so funny. The Barbie doll in the video would say something like if you want to give your face a pop, a bright red lipstick will always do the trick. I topped off my feminine professional look with a pink satin shimmery blouse to make me look sexy, a pair of conservative black slacks to make me look professional, and black three-inch pumps to give my butt a lift. But something still didn't feel right. I felt too comfortable. My Spanx! Thank God I remembered those before leaving the house. I ran back upstairs, took off the pumps and the slacks, and squeezed into my tummy-tucking Spanx.
Spanx became a must in my dating wardrobe. I can thank Andrew for that. Andrew was another disappointment I met on my dating app. He had many of the characteristics of George. He was cute enough and tall enough, and was a professional. And, like George, we had a one-and-done date. But I don't think a thirty-second encounter constitutes a date. I saw Andrew as soon as I walked into the restaurant. He was standing at the bar, looking around the room until our eyes met. After a few moments of acknowledging each other, he briskly walked over to me, but before I had a chance to speak, he asked, "Are you Stacie?"
I nodded and extended my hand, but he immediately backed away from me. His voice was shaking with anger and was loud enough for others at the bar to hear.
"You do not look like your pictures! You misrepresented yourself! You have a gut! Why do women like you insist on humiliating themselves? Just stop it, Jesus!"
