by Blake Pierce
There were also several punching bags in the back, along with some second-rate strength-building equipment. Two men were sparring in one of the rings with a coach looking on. The man running speed drills on one of the bags in the back was being overseen by her father, watching with his arms crossed and a steely look on his face.
She saw that the man at the speed bag was a little off on his timing. His wrists were locking a bit on each punch as he waited for the little bag to come back to him. She approached timidly, watching with the same intense gaze as her father. When Roosevelt Burr saw his daughter, he smiled warmly and patted the trainee on the shoulder.
“Take a second, would ya?” Roosevelt told the man. He was a younger guy, likely in his early twenties. He nodded, sweat dropping from his messy hair.
Roosevelt looked from Ava to the speed bag and said, “Wanna show him how it’s done?”
She did…quite badly, in fact. But she also just wanted to pick up Jeffrey and get home. She could come down sometime over the weekend and work the bags—maybe even get in a bit of sparring. There were a few regulars to her father’s club who would still work with Ava in the ring, though there was a larger number that wouldn’t. She’d been throwing gloves in those things for the better part of ten years now and had taken at least a dozen men to their limit, cake-eaters and brunos alike. The men at the 37th Precinct might not know how tough she was—how excellent of a fighter she was—but just about every man who had ever stepped foot into Roosevelt’s Boxing sure as hell knew.
“No thanks,” she said. “It was a hell of a day and I’d really like to just get home. There is, of course, the matter of my son.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “He’s in the back, lacing up some of the older gloves.”
“I’m glad you put him to work.”
“You know, he’s like lightning on the bags, too. Not nearly as good as you but…with time who knows?”
Ava started for the back but her ears were still tuned in to the sparring match taking place in the ring behind her. She could hear the patter of footwork, the slapping of glove against glove, glove against body. In an odd way, it was just like the jazz music she’d grown to love and become slightly obsessed with. There was intricacy to it, a beat to follow, but also a lot of improvisation. Maybe that’s why the two things—boxing and jazz—had always appealed to her.
She found Jeffrey in the small equipment room. He was busy lacing up a pair of well-worn gloves. There were a few other pairs already laced to his right.
“So Grandpa put you to work, I see,” Ava said.
“Yeah, a little. But he let me play in the rings. And he let me hit the bags!”
“So I heard. You about ready to get home?”
Jeffrey nodded as he finished lacing up the gloves. He set them aside and came directly to Ava for a hug. It was tight and he buried his head in her shoulder. This was something new—something he’d only started doing since the funeral. She did not mind it at all, though she did wish he would openly talk about how he felt. His insistence on keeping all emotion shoved down deep was something he’d gotten from her so she understood it.
They walked back out into the workout room where the men in the ring had stopped sparring. Back at the bags, the sweaty young man had gone back to hitting the speedbags. Roosevelt was walking across the room to meet them, leaning down to give Jeffrey a hug goodbye.
“You guys okay?” he asked, looking up from his hugging stance at Ava.
“Yes, Dad. We’re good. I just…I need to be home. It’s…”
What she almost said was “it’s the only place I really feel him anymore” but decided not to. She knew her father had instantly stepped up, wanting to fill the role of a strong father figure in Jeffrey’s life. She didn’t want him thinking she was on the verge of becoming a huge, sobbing mess.
“You need me to watch him tomorrow?” Roosevelt asked. “He fits in well around here, you know.”
“Tomorrow and Friday if that’s okay. I’ll figure out some other solution soon, but right now—”
“Don’t be silly,” Roosevelt said. “I love having him here. He’s welcome to stay here anytime you need.”
“I don’t know about Jeffrey being around all of this,” she said.
“And why not?” Roosevelt asked with mock hurt in his voice. “You were around it quite a bit from what I remember. And you turned out pretty damned good.” He then looked down to his grandson and said, “Did you know your mom used to spar with me and some of the chaps around here?”
“What?” Jeffrey asked, his eyes wide. He looked to Ava as if he were meeting her for the first time.
“Thanks for that, Dad,” she said with a smile. “Now get back there to your student. And for the love of God, tell him to loosen up his wrists.”
Roosevelt gave her a quick hug and then did just that. Ava then led Jeffrey out of the boxing club and out onto the streets that she was now being paid to help protect.
They walked home in mostly silence as Jeffrey made little boxing motions, his fists balled up and his eyes narrowed. It was only a three-block walk, but Ava’s feet were good and tired by the time they made it home.
Home was a small apartment that she’d always been afraid she and Clarence could not afford. But they’d made it by just fine because of Clarence’s thrifty habits. Now, with him gone, the apartment seemed too big and reminded her of just how important it was that she keep this job. If she kept chasing down hoods and ignoring rules and protocols, they could lose their home.
They were both tired—Ava from her first day on the beat and Jeffrey from his manual labor at the boxing club with his grandfather—so bedtime came quickly. Ava was still not used to getting Jeffrey into bed by herself. Clarence had usually played at least some part in it, even if it had been simply making jokes or playfully wrestling the boy into bed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a boxer?” Jeffrey asked as she settled him down into bed. The question came at Ava like a bullet from a gun; it was a topic that seemed almost dangerous now. She was now the only parent and the way her son saw her seemed more important than ever.
“I wasn’t a boxer,” she said. “I just spent a lot of time at the boxing club right after your grandfather stopped boxing. I even went with him when he trained when he was still fighting from time to time. I practiced with him and after a while, I got pretty good.”
“Are ladies even allowed in the boxing clubs?” Jeffrey asked.
“Not most of them. But your grandpa doesn’t mind.”
“And you fought men?”
“I sparred with men. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, but did you beat them?”
Ava smiled. “Yes, I did. Now…no more about that. You need to get to sleep if you’re going to help Grandpa again tomorrow.”
Jeffrey accepted defeat and laid his head down on his pillow. His room was small but tidy, like most of the other rooms in their rather drab apartment. They had never wanted for anything, but neither she nor Clarence were the sort to spend money just for the sake of spending it.
“Can you tell me a story?” Jeffrey asked.
It was another question that stung. Clarence had always been in charge of bedtime stories. His stories had been filled with daring adventures of heroic detectives, often taking place on the streets Jeffrey saw every day. As a mother, she wanted to be able to tell such stories to her boy, but her heart tightened like a safe in her chest when she thought of even trying.
Rather than answer outright, Ava sat in bed beside where Jeffrey lay and tousled his hair. “You know how you told me a few days ago that you aren’t ready to talk about how you feel now that your father is gone? That you weren’t even sure what you’d say.”
Jeffrey nodded. He wouldn’t look at her for a while, though he did reach out and take her hand.
“Just like you, there are some things I need to think about…some things I need to get used to. Do you understand?”
Again, all she got was a nod.<
br />
“Well, as much as I hate to say no to you over something like this, I can’t stand to even try to tell a bedtime story. I think I can sometime…and probably pretty soon. But right now, so soon after he’s been taken from us, I think it would hurt too much. Do you understand that?”
This time when he nodded, a tear slipped out of Jeffrey’s left eye and trailed down his cheek. “Do you miss him?” Jeffrey asked.
“I do,” Ava said. “Every single second of the day.”
“Was it neat to be where he used to work today?” Jeffrey asked.
“You know, that’s not an easy question to answer.” She sighed and leaned over to Jeffrey, kissing him on the forehead. “I love you, Jeffrey.”
“Love you, too.” He shifted under the covers to get comfortable but Ava didn’t get up.
Instead, she sat there for a while, listening to her son’s breathing as he fell asleep. What she’d almost told her father was the truth: their apartment was the only place she truly felt Clarence anymore. But it was also sort of like walking through a tomb. Because it was more than just bedtime stories. It was the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom and their marriage bed. Everything in her life felt so much emptier without Clarence.
And for now, there was only her and Jeffrey to fill these spaces. She had some Clarence-sized spaces to fill in the coming weeks, months, and years—bedtime stories being only one of those things. She thought deep down, that might be why she’d asked for the job at the precinct. It was another way to keep Clarence close and to bring something into her life that had been a huge part of his life.
She wept quietly for him as Jeffrey fell asleep beside her. And later, when she also fell asleep in Jeffrey’s bed, one of the final things that went through her head was the sight of the young thief from today…of how she’d had to restrain herself, blowing into that stupid whistle for some man to come and save the day.
And what the hell sort of bedtime story would that make, anyway?
Still, the apartment was quiet and the longing she felt for Clarence was like drowning. But this apartment was hers now. She and Clarence had lived and loved here, had raised their son here. And if bowing to protocol and sexist rules was what it was going to take to ensure that they kept it, she’d do her best. Tomorrow was a new day, and she promised herself (and, to some degree, Jeffrey) that she’d do whatever she could to make sure she played by the rules from here on out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ava had not been at her desk for five minutes before Frances was there, looking down at her with pity.
“I see you wore some sensible shoes today,” Frances said.
Ava looked down at her walkers and nodded. “Just in case.”
“Well, it was a smart decision. You and I just pulled patrol duty for the entire day.”
“All day?” she asked.
“Yes, the entire shift. We’ll of course get a lunch break, but other than that, you and I are on the streets.”
Ava looked to her desk and processed it all. She supposed it made sense to push her right away—for Minard to make good on the little veiled threat he’d made at Clarence’s wake. Not only had she asked for this, but she’d asked for it knowing she’d be standing in the rather defined shadow her husband had left on the 37th Precinct. That, plus the fact that she was a woman, made it appear as if the entire situation had been engineered to fail.
“Get yourself set up here and meet me out in the front lobby in fifteen minutes. Maybe grab a coffee, too. It’s going to be a long day.”
Ava nodded as Frances went back to her own desk to prepare for the day. She then slowly pushed away the Proper Arrest Protocol document she’d been reading and sat in silence for a moment, trying to center herself before getting upset with Minard and those above her who seemed to want her running away in fear.
The moment didn’t last long, though. Lottie walked over with a knowing smile on her face. Ava was starting to understand that Lottie was something of a pot-stirrer—the sort of jane who always had something to say about any authority passed down that she did not like. Ava wondered if she’d been one of those very vocal ladies who had raised enough hell to finally get the Nineteenth Amendment passed a decade ago.
“Hey, it could be worse,” Lottie said. “You could be paired up with me. I tend to draw attention to myself when I’m on the beat.”
“Oh, you can’t be that bad,” Ava said. “Not any worse than what I did yesterday, anyway.”
“Oh yeah, about that,” Lottie said. “What the blazes were you even thinking?”
“I suppose I wasn’t.”
“That’s for sure,” said another of the women. She was a tall, waifish-looking doll named Myra. She was pretty, but knew it a little too well, which made her a little less pretty. “You got guts on you, that’s for sure. But the coppers…they don’t like women with guts.”
“Even if we’re on the same team?” Ava asked.
“But we aren’t on the same team,” Frances said. “We might be in the same building, but you see where they put us, right? Bottom floor. Away from the actual police work.”
“Don’t get us wrong,” Lottie said. “You’re a firecracker, that’s for sure. And we like you. So please…keep yourself in check. Another outburst like yesterday and you’re outta here.”
“Sad but true,” Frances said.
“We’re all rooting for you,” Myra said, batting her overdone eyelashes.
“She’s right,” Lottie said. “The entire precinct lost a good man when Clarence died. I figure he rubbed off on you, and maybe you on him too. Either way, it’s good to know he’s sort of still around.”
Lottie gave a quick wink and then went back to her desk. Ava then saw Frances grab her whistle from her desk drawer, placing it around her neck. Not seeing the point in delaying the inevitable, Ava also grabbed her whistle. She understood that being on the street all day was going to be rigorous and tiring, but she did prefer that thought over sitting behind a desk all day and sifting through paperwork.
“Ready?” Frances asked as she caught Ava walking toward the door.
“I really think I am,” Ava said, trying on a smile that almost felt genuine.
***
They headed out and this time Frances headed to the west, toward a stretch of the city they’d barely even touched on the day before. Ava knew it well; it was just on the cusp of Harlem, where she had sung with a few different jazz ensembles. It had caused quite a stir, a white woman singing with a jazz outfit of mostly black musicians. But racism, as far as Ava was concerned, was just as stupid as sexism. Singing in some of those clubs was among the best experiences she’d had. And the few times she’d visited the Cotton Club as a spectator had been instrumental in her love for jazz and the passion that would keep her singing for several years.
Within three blocks, she could hear the thumping of a bass and the wailing of a saxophone. She knew it was just musicians warming up, as it was far too early for any actual shows. Still, it made her feel comfortable, more at home.
“I heard you used to be a singer, right?” Frances asked.
“I still am,” Ava said. “Whenever I get the chance. Some musicians used to call me—pianists, usually. But the calls stopped coming. Some folks didn’t take kindly to me singing with a black band.”
Frances shrugged. “I get sort of spaced out on the music, you know? I come here sometimes just to unwind. And because it’s on my patrol beat, I’m not breaking any rules. Sometimes I’ll find one of these little jazz holes and perch myself right outside, having a listen. White…black…I don’t care if you’re green. If you can play music like this, who gives a damn what color you are?”
They walked slowly through the area, coming into Harlem and passing another little club where someone was rolling through soundcheck. Someone was playing a few notes from the chorus section of “Downhearted Blues” by Bessie Smith. Ava found herself humming along, nearly forgetting that she was working at all—until they came across a shoutin
g match on the corner.
Ava did her best to quickly dissect the situation. A shoeshine boy that was calling the customer every name in the book. They had not yet gotten too loud, but it was going to cause quite the spectacle within a few moments.
“What’s the matter here?” Frances asked.
“Shithead owes me a nickel, is what!”
“Not for this wretched job!” the customer moaned.
Ava wasn’t sure how to break such an argument up. Would the customer—a handsome banker-looking type—even take the authority of a female police officer seriously? She watched Frances, eager to learn the ropes.
Frances took a look at the shoes and then looked up at the man. “Not like mirrors by any means, but they look clean enough. You really going to make yourself look like a fool over a nickel?”
“This boy needs to learn the honor of hard work! A lazy job won’t get him anywhere.”
“Nor will arguing with a child right here in public will get you anywhere. That suit jacket you’re wearing…how much you pay for that?”
“Well, that’s none of your business.”
“Give the boy his nickel. Don’t be an ass.”
The man looked to the whistle on her neck and Ava saw when he rolled his eyes. He recognized her as a cop, sure, but the roll of the eyes indicated that to him, they were no more than silly dames playing dress-up.
The man pulled a nickel from his pocket and flicked it at the boy. The boy, agile and quick, snatched it right out of the air and gave the banker-type a big grin. “Thanks, mister.”
The man eyed the female detectives one last time and then stormed off.
“Gee, thanks, Officers,” the boy said.
Frances beamed at him and then hunkered down to look into his eyes. “No problem. By the way, those shoes looked like holy hell. Start doing a better job if you expect people to pay you.”
And with that, they were off. Frances said nothing about the moment while Ava played it back in her head, noting how Frances had dealt with the boy and the man in different ways—in ways they’d understand and almost appreciate.
