At last, Jonesie steps out of formation, into the street. It’s finally time to nudge things along. The night will now end one of three ways—full cooperation, the paddy wagon, or an ambulance.
Jonesie is a six-foot-four grizzly bear of a guy who grew up in a tough section of Roxbury. He saunters into the middle of the street and approaches the biggest of the six boys, probably only five feet ten. He’s wearing a preppie striped golf shirt, jeans, and boat shoes.
“Game’s over, boys,” says Jonesie. “Time to call it a night.”
“We have a right to stay here if we want to,” says one of the other, shorter kids.
“Come on now,” says Jonesie. “Everyone went home. Time to wrap it up here.”
“It’s a free country,” says the redhead, the most visibly drunk of the crew.
The kid standing nose-to-nose with Jonesie stiffens his posture and stares straight into Jonesie’s eyes. He ain’t budging. Jonesie adjusts his stance a bit wider and leans in real close to the kid’s face.
“Listen, Chester,” says Jonesie. “You and your pals need to go on home. Now.”
Maybe it’s because Jonesie invaded the kid’s personal space, maybe it’s a matter of alpha male pride, maybe it’s because Jones-ie spit out his t’s and p’s, maybe it’s because he called the kid Chester. Joe never knows for sure what exactly trips the trigger, but he and every other cop watching this scene knew Chester would bite the bait. Chester takes a swing at Jonesie, and Jonesie easily dodges the blow. He then grabs Chester by the arm, turns and pins him stomach down to the ground, and cuffs him.
Joe and ten other officers march into the street in a wedge formation, heading directly toward the remaining kids with an intimidating suggestion of force.
“This ain’t campus security, boys,” says Tommy. “This is Boston PD. Unless the rest of you want to join Chester down at the station, I suggest you go home right now.”
The boys hesitate for half a second and then, like a flock of birds who decide to take flight in unison, they wordlessly abandon Chester and scurry down Lansdowne, out of town. Good boys. Joe smiles and checks his watch. Time to go home.
IT’S JUST AFTER midnight when Joe parallel parks his car on Cook Street. His good mood dials up a notch as he appreciates this small but significant victory. Parking in Charlestown can be a nightmare. It’s practically routine to “get home” only to spend the next half hour hunting for a spot that will invariably be six blocks away and at the bottom of the hill. And then it starts raining. But not tonight. Tonight Joe found a space first try in full view of his house.
He steps out of the car, and every muscle in his body screams in protest. No more standing! He pushes the heels of his hands against his lower back, forcing his torso vertical. It takes considerable effort. He feels as if he’s aged thirty years in one night, as if he’s the Tin Man and every joint in his body could use an injection of WD-40. And nothing can save his poor feet.
As he approaches his front door, he’s surprised to notice the windows glowing amber yellow behind the drawn shades. The living room light is on. He checks his watch again, even though he knows the time. Patrick is still bartending at Ironsides. Rosie’s a morning person and usually can’t last past ten, but sometimes she has insomnia. Sometimes Joe will come home at midnight to find her ironing. Rosie irons everything—-clothes, underwear, sheets, towels, doilies, and every so often the lace curtains. The ironing board is a permanent fixture in the living room, as much a part of the decor as Joe’s chair and Yaz’s dog bed. If she’s not ironing, she’s lying on the couch, snuggled under a blanket, watching QVC or Oprah. Rosie has at least ten years of The Oprah Winfrey Show recorded on VHS tapes. Sometimes she’s asleep in that same scenario, the TV light flickering on her angelic face. But the light in the living room windows isn’t flickering. The overhead light is on.
Joe turns the cold brass knob of the front door and pushes it open. The foyer light illuminates the bottom steps of the stairwell leading to the second-and third-floor units, but aside from that, the front of the house is dark and quiet. Joe closes the door, turns the deadbolt, and tosses his keys onto the small wooden table to the left of the door. They land at the feet of the Virgin Mary.
Above Mary, a white marble font is fixed to the wall, filled with holy water. Rosie blesses herself and anyone in arm’s length every time she leaves or enters the house. She refreshes the water every Sunday. Joe berates himself for forgetting to anoint his Pedroia shirt this morning before he left for roll call. Maybe that’s why the Sox lost. He’ll be sure to bless his Ortiz shirt for Game 3.
He steps onto the threshold of the living room and then stops in his tracks. Rosie is up, but she’s not ironing or lying down on the couch, watching QVC or Oprah. The TV is off. She’s sitting cross-legged, like a small child, her knitted ivory afghan draped over her shoulders and around her lap, holding an empty wineglass with both hands. An empty bottle of Chardonnay sits on the coffee table next to a full bottle of tomato-red nail polish. He notices her shiny red toenails peeking out from under the afghan.
She’s still wearing eye makeup and her gold cross necklace. She’s not in pajamas. She smiles when she sees him, but he can tell it’s a lie, and the heavy expression in her eyes turns the bones in Joe’s legs to Jell-O.
“Who?” he asks.
Rosie takes a deep breath.
“Amy called.”
“Where are the kids?”
“The kids are fine.”
The kids are fine. Rosie’s face is still unfamiliar, wrong. Amy called. Tommy’s wife.
Oh God.
“What is it? Where’s Tommy?”
“Tommy’s home. Nothing happened to Tommy. She called about you.”
“What about me?”
Joe’s heart is racing but it doesn’t know where to, as if he’s searching the rooms of a house he’s never been in, frantic, not knowing what he’s looking for.
“She said Tommy’s worried about you. He’s worried something’s wrong.”
“With me? What’s he worried about?”
Rosie pauses and lifts her empty wineglass. She stops before it reaches her lips, realizing she already drained it, and lowers it back to her lap.
“He’s worried you might have a drinking problem.”
“That’s crazy.”
She stares at him.
“Jesus, Rosie, I don’t. You know I don’t. I’m not a drinker. I’m not my mother.”
He can’t help but see the irony in the empty bottle of wine in front of her, but he resists the urge to make a crack, to deflect this unjust accusation by attacking her. Meanwhile, he’s dying for that Corona.
“Then is it drugs?” she asks.
“What?” he asks, his voice too high and too loud, making him sound guilty when what he really feels is outrage. “What would make him even think such a ridiculous thing?”
He waits. Whatever it is, she’s thinking it, too. What the fuck is going on?
“Don’t get mad.”
Instead of dissipating, the flood of sick apprehension for his kids and then Tommy is still coursing through him, hunting for something to do. Anger begins swelling in his chest, one storm colliding with another.
“I come home after a sixteen-hour day and get accused of being a druggie. I’m fuckin’ mad, Rosie.”
“He cares about you. He says you’ve been acting weird, not like you.”
“Like how?”
“Like you’ve been sloppy with procedure. He said you staggered getting out of your cruiser the other day and fell down.”
“My damn knee.”
“Your reports all come back rejected, and it’s taking you hours to turn them in.”
That’s true.
“He’s worried about you, Joe. I am, too.”
“Because of what Amy told you?”
“Yeah,” says Rosie, but she’s not finished. She searches Joe’s face, testing the waters. There is more here. He opens his palms, trying to soften his demeanor, giving her space to speak her mind. He moves over to the couch and sits down next to her so he’s not standing over her. Maybe she needs another glass of wine. He could sure use that Corona.
“I’ve been seeing things, too,” she says. “I’m worried, too.”
So now she’s his wife and a detective.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know; it’s like you’re not you. You’re always so fidgety, and you’re late all the time and you never used to be. And your temper, your temper—”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired and cranky, and I’ve been puttin’ in too many overtime hours. We need a vacation, hun. What about a trip to the Caribbean, wouldn’t that be nice?”
Rosie nods and stares at the coffee table.
“I’m not drinkin’, Rosie. I promise. And I’m definitely not on drugs. You have to trust that about me.”
“I know. I believe you.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Rosie holds the gold cross on her chest between her thumb and finger and rubs it over and over, a stereotypy Joe recognizes as prayer.
“I think you should go see a doctor.”
Rosie’s tough. She’s the wife of a cop. She knows full well that every time Joe leaves for work, he might not come home. She knows that Joe keeps a copy of his will and a handwritten good-bye letter to Rosie taped to the inside door of his police locker, just in case. She knows how to cope with a mountain of worry strapped to her back and still stand up straight. But here she is, looking small and vulnerable, like a little girl up too late and afraid to go back to sleep because of monsters under the bed. He has to show her they’re not real.
“I’m fine, but okay, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll go to the doctor and get checked out. I’ll even take a drug test if you want.”
He holds her in his arms and rocks her, protecting her from this invented, fictional threat, whatever she’s imagining is wrong. It’s okay, baby. There aren’t any monsters here. She cries in his arms.
“What time did Amy call you?”
“Around eight.”
Good God. Rosie’s been whipping herself up for hours. He shakes his head, pissed at Tommy for putting her through this.
“It’s okay. Let it out. I’m okay, but I’ll go to the doctor if that’ll make you feel better. Maybe he can fix my bum knee.”
Joe cradles her face in his hands, wipes the tears and black mascara streaks on her cheeks with his thumbs, and offers her his love in a tender smile. She smiles back, but hers still isn’t speaking the truth. She knows how much he hates doctors. He hasn’t seen one in twenty years. She doesn’t believe him.
“I will, Rosie. I don’t want you to worry like this. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow. I promise, I’ll go to the doctor.”
She nods and exhales, but she still feels stiff in his arms. Scared and unconvinced. She doesn’t believe he’ll actually go to the doctor. But he will. He’d do anything to make Rosie feel safe. He’ll take care of this.
“I’m okay, darlin’. I promise.”
She nods and doesn’t believe him.