“Can I get arrested for this?” the cabdriver asks me as he sizes me up through the rearview mirror.
I poke my head through the hole in the plate glass divider.
“No. Hurry up, he’s turning left,” I say.
“Fucking cop. Police doesn’t obey law and I’m the one with a ticket,” the cabbie says.
“He’s my boyfriend.” I cut him off to stop him from going on a cop-hating rant, though I could be in the mood to agree. I sit back and put my shoes on.
I wonder why Mason’s driving a squad. He always refuses to take an unmarked car because he says it’s as obvious as a regular squad, and he doesn’t want anyone to get the idea he’s hiding (go figure). But he usually drives his own car. We’re headed north on Clark and I hope Mason isn’t going to the station, because I won’t be able to talk to him there.
Then we pass Addison and head west on Irving Park and I know this route, too. I get this increasingly sick and unfortunately familiar feeling in my gut. The heater blows stale air at my face, and I start to sweat. I really hope we’re not going to turn onto Fred’s street.
We do.
“Fucking cop,” I say.
The cabbie nods like he could have set me straight a long time ago.
“Stop here and cut your lights,” I say, a block from Fred’s. The cabbie pulls over, shuts off his headlights, and hits the fare total. I don’t make a move. Mason parks the squad on the street and runs up to Fred’s house.
“You getting out?” the cabbie asks. Fred’s porch light comes on. I wait.
Deborah answers the door in a bathrobe. And not a depressed widow kind of bathrobe.
She throws her arms around Mason. From the backseat of the cab it’s hard to tell if it’s a passionate hug, but the cabbie must have a clear view, because he resets the fare to zero.
“I am sorry,” he says with a question mark after he says it. “You want I wait?”
Deborah leads Mason inside the house and shuts the door. I feel stupid and I’m about to tell the cabbie to keep driving, but then Deborah pulls those dark red drapes shut and I think about telling him to drive across the sidewalk and through the damn window. I take a twenty out of my pocket and keep control of my smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Thank you,” he says to the money. I’m glad he doesn’t ask any questions, but I still feel like I’m walking a plank between here and Fred’s front door. As I get out and make my way slowly up the sidewalk, the cabbie takes his time counting my twenty-dollar bill. I know he wants to see what’s gonna happen.
Having an audience in the street is embarrassing. I can’t just go up and knock. I figure my best bet is to make like I know what I’m doing, so I head around back through the gangway, because I haven’t got a clue.
The grill in the postage-stamp-size yard brings back this vague memory of a summertime barbecue—one of those events I would have skipped had I known any better. We were all having a great time until Deborah had a fit. Fred said it was something about the way he cooked the steaks, but I got the feeling it was because she wasn’t the center of attention. We were sitting around telling war stories, and I could tell she was getting jealous. I told Fred that anyone who gets jealous about working a beat patrol has issues. He stuck to his story about the steaks.
I found out later that the real reason Deb was pissed was because Fred had been showing off an old Walther he bought at a gun show. It wasn’t that she cared about having firearms in the house; she was mad because he’d spent the money. She was always concerned about money.
The money issue wasn’t the only thing that didn’t mesh in their relationship. Everyone could see they were polar opposites. She’s frilly, concerned with where to get the best pedicure and what kind of cheese to serve. Fred was a real guy. He felt a sense of accomplishment when he mowed the lawn. He considered Cheez Doodles an acceptable hors d’oeuvre.
Fred always stood by his word, though, and he promised Deb he’d do whatever it took to make their marriage work. He sold the Walther to a buddy in the Eighteenth District. He switched to overnight shifts. And he stopped hanging around with me. I guess he was in love. I was not part of whatever it took.
The tiki lights Deb put up on the back porch are gone now, and the grill doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned since that barbecue. The moonlight isn’t bright enough to bounce off what’s left of the snow, so the yard is completely dark. From out here, looking up into the house through the sliding glass door is like watching a big-screen television. What I see inside is like a soap opera, and I wish I could turn it off.
Deb and Mason are sitting on the couch. She’s pawing at him with her pretty hands. He’s got her laughing through her tears. She opens her robe. Mason covers her up. Consoles her. She kisses him. He stops her.
I’m weighing the consequences of running up the porch steps and banging on the window when something rustles in the alley behind the garage. I instinctively reach for one of my guns, then realize I don’t have either one of them, which is probably a good thing since I’m an intruder and I’m pretty sure I want to kill one of those people in there. When a light flashes from the alley, I look for a place to hide. And damn quick.
I crouch behind some bushes that run along the fence to the alley and I swear I hear footsteps, so I listen forever. When it’s quiet for a while, I get on my feet. Then, as I sneak between the garage and the fence, I hear the rumble of an engine. I peek around the corner into the alley and see a yellow Chevy truck just as someone puts it in gear and speeds away.
I catch my breath and tell myself it was nothing. Where else are people supposed to park, if not in the alley? The muscles in my legs are stringy—I haven’t moved this fast since the night Fred died, and the rush I feel makes me want to puke. I walk slowly back along the fence, into the yard.
Of course when I get there, the goddamned sliding door’s curtains are closed, so I’m left with only a part of the story. As usual.
I make my way back around the house and I can’t find any other windows to look in, so I force myself to sit in the gangway and wait for Mason to come out. I don’t want to talk myself into anything that may or may not be going on in there.
I don’t have a watch. It seems like I’ve been sitting here an hour. Since my brain is working overtime, I’d like to underestimate, but I’ve had enough time for my fingers and toes to consider frostbite. I remember one winter when Fred and I picked up a drunk who’d passed out in someone’s yard. His clothes were wet from urine and he was stuck to the grass, literally. He was homeless, he was disgusting, and he was too wasted to notice he was seriously frostbitten. We’d seen a hundred like this guy, but for some reason I wanted to help him. Fred knew it; I knew we were ten minutes from the end of a long tour, and Fred was ready to go home. The next shift would have to handle the drunk. “It’s just so cold out here, Fred,” I said. Fred answered me by checking his watch. I took off my gloves and pulled them on the drunk’s hands. Fred answered me with a weary sigh. Then he gave me his gloves, pulled the drunk out of the grass, and arrested him. Fred handled the whole thing, all the way through booking, charging the guy with enough to make sure he’d be locked up for the night. Without a complaint, and without another word about it, Fred stayed on an extra two hours. He helped a stranger that night because he always helped me.
I wish I had his help now.
I’m out of sight next to the steps when the front porch light finally comes on. I argue with myself about what to do. I wonder what Deb and Mason would say if they opened the door to me. Maybe I’ll stand up and say something accusatory. Or I’ll jump up and startle them with a simple “Aha!” Or maybe I’ll just come out and ask Mason for a ride.
When the front door opens, I don’t do anything at all. For some reason I’m scared shitless, like I’m the one being found out. I’m frozen, and all I can do is listen.
“Mason?” Deborah says.
I hold my breath when Mason stops on the steps. I can see his feet; I don’t know if he can see mine.
“Yeah, Debbie?”
A low sound starts in her throat and works its way into a . . . a moan? Is she crying? Laughing? Mason’s feet disappear back up the steps, and I strain to see. They’re hugging, but I don’t know what kind of hug.
I’m still squatting there like an idiot when Mason lets her go and skips down the steps. He doesn’t see me. When the front door closes and the porch light goes out, I watch Mason get into the squad.
I have no clue what the hell just happened but I don’t think it had anything to do with policework.
I think about running up and tapping on the squad window before Mason takes off, but I know if I confront him now he’ll have a perfectly reasonable explanation. And he’ll really think I’ve flipped my lid if he knows I followed him.
I’ll have to wait and bring it up next time we talk. Ask him how Deborah’s doing. Be polite, ask, how’s she holding up? If he says he doesn’t know, I’ll know better.
If I don’t say anything, if I wait it out, Mason could wind up sucked into Deb’s feminine vortex, just like Fred. I start to shiver. I don’t think it’s because I’m cold.
What was Mason doing here tonight? Consoling Deb? She must be really fucking forlorn if she’s going after my boyfriend.
I think back to the last time I was here, at Fred’s reception. The way Mason steered Susan and me in whatever direction he wanted, and the way he followed Deb. I think about that look in his eye tonight, like he knew something I didn’t.
Have I been conveniently oblivious? Do I know him at all?
The only thing I do know right now is that I gave the cabbie my last twenty. I have a long walk home.