Tuesday, July 25, 9:30 a.m.
After morning Mass, I tracked down the oncologist at the Cleveland Clinic who would be performing Justine’s transplant and spent fifteen minutes on the telephone with him discussing her condition and treatment. Then I shuffled some parish paperwork in the study, booted up my computer, and read more medical literature about sudden infant deaths.
As I finished, RJ entered the room and gave me his artistic rendition of me flying a spaceship, soaring over a forest of happy green trees. I thanked him and gave him a hug, and he skipped from my study intent on filling the world with more crayon masterworks.
I tried to name the feeling RJ’s visit had aroused in me, but couldn’t. It was an uncanny combination of joy, sadness, love, and dread. I spent the next twenty minutes researching how to counsel young children with sick or dying parents. By the time Tree Macon wheeled his police cruiser into the rectory driveway at precisely eleven in the morning, I was emotionally drained.
Tree was wearing his uniform and a scowl. As we drove to Tina and Miguel’s apartment, his head swiveled back and forth like a searchlight, radar-scanning his town for signs of trouble. He was all business as he sipped black coffee two shades darker than his skin color, and nearly as dark as his mood.
Ever since we first met years ago, Tree usually wore a grin, and I wanted to readjust his current attitude. Although it is unwise to poke a bear, I said, “Is it okay with you if I run the lights and siren?”
“No. And don’t run your mouth either.”
The big guy had been a lot more fun back in high school. “You okay, Tree?”
“Peachy.”
“Well you look more like a prune. What’s up?”
He glanced at me. “Some damn tagger spray-painted the F-word on the station house last night. First thing I saw this morning. If I get my hands on this clown, the First Amendment won’t save his behind. I swear, this generation is going to hell in a handbasket.”
“That’s what happens when the Ten Commandments are downgraded to recommendations.”
“My religion’s based on justice, not faith.” He gulped some coffee and sighed. “Guess it’s nothing a coat of paint won’t fix, so—”
The furrow between Tree’s dark eyes suddenly deepened, and he swerved into the berm, crunching gravel and spewing dust as the cruiser came to a stop.
“Stay put, Jake.”
Tree was a giant oak of a man. Six feet, six inches of muscle, and two hundred and fifty pounds of determination. He had been a first-team defensive lineman in college and an NFL prospect, but when he stepped from the car his stature dwarfed even his size. He was a man with a gun, a badge, and a mission. His shaved scalp glistened in the morning light as he sauntered toward a young couple.
A skinny black man with a cornrow hairstyle had a teenaged girl pinned against a telephone pole. She squirmed nervously. He was working his way through a long list of profanities. The girl saw Tree coming; the man did not.
Tree stopped short of the pair, placed a hand on his nightstick, and said something in a low voice. The man spun around and took a step toward Tree, his face full of rage, a grill of gold teeth gleaming in the sun. The girl slid to her left and disappeared through the door of a nearby bungalow.
Tree slipped the nightstick out of his belt and tapped it against the palm of his hand. The young man examined his sneakers briefly, then slinked away around the corner of a building.
When he returned to the cruiser, Tree was humming the old hit single “Every Breath You Take” by The Police. He opened the car door, saw the young man peek around the building, and shouted, “I’ll be watching your every move, asshole. Don’t even think about it!”
“Friend of yours?” I asked.
“We’re acquainted. His name’s Willy Warner. Nickname’s Willy Wonka, The Candy Man. He’s a low-level punk.” Tree fired up the black and white and eased back on the road. “I busted him as a juvie for possession with intent to sell. His record was sealed and he was back on the corner peddling weed before I got home for dinner. Rumor has it he’s graduated from grass to more mind-bending products. I reminded him that he’s old enough now to do serious time.”
“You just, what, stop out of the blue and … hassle the guy? Is that legal? Was he selling?”
Tree put on his turn signal and waited for traffic to pass.
“You remember my sister, Jake, right? That girl Willy was hassling had the same expression that my baby sis would get when she was cornered at a party by some jackass. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.” He tapped his nightstick and chuckled. “And I never laid a glove on him. Old Willy eyeballed my Silly Stick, decided he didn’t want to get slapped silly, and moved on. Warning delivered, problem solved. No blood, no foul.”
We pulled into Miguel and Tina’s small complex at the west end of town. Weather-beaten, beige cedar siding formed cubes of single floor apartments. Winter had pitted the asphalt parking lot like the skin of an adolescent ravaged by acne, and we bounced our way to a parking space near their door. A rusted air conditioner painted in pigeon poop sagged from a window in a neighbor’s apartment, groaning and grinding vainly against the merciless summer heat.
We walked to the door, knocked at unit number six, and Miguel answered. He wore the same sweat-stained T-shirt I’d seen the day before. A cigarette hung from his lips, and the neck of a brown bottle poked out above his meaty right hand.
I was met with a nod. “Thanks for coming, Padre.”
Tree and his uniform drew a look of disgust.
“What the hell do ya want now, man? We already told the other cops everything we know. Can’t you leave us alone?”
Tree had no search warrant, so he offered an apology and a slow, easy smile.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I just have a couple questions. Can we come in?”
Miguel’s nostrils flared, and he bared his teeth like a pit bull. “This is mierda!” He tried to stare Tree down, failed, and swung the door open into a small, dingy living room. “Fine. You got five minutes.”
“Would you ask Tina to join us, please?”
“She’s back at the hospital, and I’ll be damned if I let you put her through anymore of this crap. Our boy’s in a coma, and she’s been through enough!”
As Tree asked his questions, I scrutinized the apartment.
On an end table, a newspaper partially covered a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers. The distant memory of a joint lingered in the air, but I was certain that Tree was not interested in a misdemeanor possession bust. Three empty beer cans formed a pyramid on the coffee table, and a crushed can rested on the couch. Binge drinking? Numbing the pain? Not an unreasonable response to the near death of your child—or was this a lifestyle? Either Miguel had gotten so wasted that he’d forgotten to clean up before the police arrived, or he didn’t give a damn.
A fine layer of dust coated yard-sale furniture. A few framed photos of Miguel and Tina in happier times decorated the walls. I saw none of their child. A fan whirred in the corner, but without air conditioning the room was a sauna.
Tree dropped his keys, bent over, and touched a small, red-brown stain shaped like Africa on the green shag carpet. He picked up his keychain and stood. “Can I see the baby’s room?”
“Pablo. My son’s name is Pablo.” Miguel snuffed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and started walking. “This way.”
We passed a small kitchen strewn with unwashed pots and dishes. The yellowed linoleum hadn’t seen a mop in months. An empty pizza box lay open on the kitchen table, next to a bottle of two-buck-Chuck chardonnay.
An early-American rocking chair, small dresser, and an old-fashioned hand-me-down crib filled most of Pablo’s tiny room. A frayed baby blanket draped wooden slats that were too far apart to meet current safety codes. Bumper pads with pictures of sheep leaping fences rimmed the periphery of the crib. A large, fluffy teddy bear napped at one end, a pillow with Big Bird’s likeness at the other.
While Tree confronted Miguel with more questions, I reached down and touched the mattress. Soft, stained, and well-worn where the gray fitted sheet had slipped free at one corner, it had definitely cradled numerous babies before Pablo.
A single photograph on the chest of drawers showed Tina holding her baby. There were no nursery rhyme characters, mobiles, or other decorations present to amuse Pablo or celebrate his existence. The air was hot, sticky, and still, and its odor consisted of a strange blend of tobacco, baby powder, and mildew.
The entire apartment was a how-not-to guide for parents. Despite the swelter in the room, what I had seen so far chilled me.
Tree walked over, surveyed the room, and asked if Pablo’s grandparents ever babysat.
Miguel glanced at me, probably hoping that I’d run interference for him. I said nothing. He advanced toward us, his body odor mingled with the pungent aroma of garlic and alcohol on his breath.
“Tina’s folks are dead, and mine live in Mexico—and they sure-as-hell wouldn’t hurt their little nieto.” He shoved a finger in Tree’s face. “That’s enough questions. We’re done here. Tina’ll be home soon, and I want you gone.”
Miguel led us to the front door, and Tree thanked him for his cooperation. We left the apartment and walked silently back to the cruiser, both lost in our thoughts. As we climbed in, Tree said, “Let’s talk over lunch. I owe you.”
We entered Presti’s Restaurant across the street. Our visit with Miguel had left me weary and depressed. We passed two old men at the bar who were working diligently on their next hangovers, and I desperately wanted to join them. The neon Saint Pauli Girl on the wall tempted me with a wry smile and a frosted mug of beer. I resisted, barely.