CHAPTER 24
It’s only ten degrees outside. Ten. That’s a shoe size, for cripes sake, not a temperature. And the wind feels like an angry woman who won’t shut up—relentless, caustic, making an already uncomfortable situation kiss the feet of unbearable. It’s got to be minus ten with the windchill.
And the snow has just started. Boston is supposed to get two to three inches, not enough to cancel school or release the kids early, but enough to cause plenty of auto accidents, as if the people of this city have never dealt with this shit. Bostonians are no strangers to winter nor’easters and blizzards. It’s the second week in January, and they’ve already endured three major winter storms, each dumping more than six inches of snow on the city. Drive slower, or better yet, stay off the friggin’ roads. No one learns. Vehicles will be skidding into one another, careening down the steep, narrow roads of Town, ricocheting off parked cars like pinballs. Joe’s favorites are the tinker toy cars, the Fiats and Smart cars, and the old rear-wheel-drive tankers, both kinds spinning in place, stranded in the street, blocking traffic.
Joe’s standing in the middle of the road, at the busy intersection of Bunker Hill and Tufts Street, assigned to crossing-guard duty for the elementary school, filling in for the civilian crossing guard who called in sick this morning. This person could actually have the flu. A nasty stomach bug has been sweeping through the station, knocking anyone who flirts with it down for a week. But Joe suspects this crossing guard, feeling perfectly chipper, checked the weather forecast for this morning and said, Fuck it. I don’t get paid nearly enough to stand outside in that. Joe’s not sure he does either.
He’s wearing his heaviest police jacket under a fluorescent lime-green vest, a hat, white mittens, and long johns underneath everything, but it’s all useless against this kind of cold. The air is a thousand sharp blades slicing his exposed face. His eyes won’t stop watering, and his nose is running its own marathon. Tears have frozen solid between his eyelashes, icicles are accumulating on his cheeks, and snot is crusted on his upper lip. Jesus, even breathing hurts. Every inhale flash freezes the lining of his lungs, refrigerating him from the inside out. His fingers and toes have gone numb. He’s a frozen slab of meat directing traffic.
Global warming, my ass. Those polar bears should relocate to Boston Harbor.
The kids waiting on the sidewalk are dressed in a colorful assortment of hats, mittens, coats, and boots, strapped to backpacks printed with superheroes, princesses, or Boston sports teams, holding the gloved hands of parents. Joe stops morning-commute traffic, waving the shivering kids and parents across the street as quickly as possible. He’d normally offer a friendly “Good mornin’ ” here and there, a smile for the kids, and many “Have a nice day”s. The parents often go first, saying, “Thank you.” But it’s just too damn cold for conversation today, and no one says anything.
After escorting their children to the front door of the school, a cluster of mothers have accumulated at the sidewalk. Joe waves them across, but four of them remain at the curb. Joe urges them forward with one hand, holding off an impatient school bus driver with the other. Come ON, ladies. This isn’t the kind of day to be chitchatting or dillydallying outside. They stare at him. He sees them seeing him, but they don’t budge. A couple of them are on their phones. Friggin’ people can’t walk and talk at the same time. Joe gives up and waves the bus on.
A cruiser pulls up, lights flashing, and parks opposite the school. Tommy and Artie DeSario get out and approach Joe. Artie’s wearing white mittens and a fluorescent lime-green vest.
“Hey, Joe,” says Tommy. “Artie’s gonna take over your duty here. Give him your cruiser keys and come with me.”
Artie avoids Joe’s eyes. Artie’s jaw is set and his feet spread wide. He’s all business. Parents and kids still on their way to school pause in their mad dash to get inside. Joe feels the eyes of the moms at the curb on him, wondering what’s going on. Joe wonders, too. He does as requested, but he doesn’t like the sound of this one bit.
Joe gets in the cruiser with Tommy. Tommy starts the engine but doesn’t go anywhere. Joe assumes they’re headed to the station, only two blocks away, but he has no idea why. He waits for Tommy to say something while his skin thaws in the blessedly warm car. Tommy stares through the windshield, watching the kids and parents crossing the street, now under Artie’s supervision. Or maybe his vision is focused on the snowflakes hitting the windshield, the wipers clearing them aside every few seconds.
“So we got several 911s for an officer drunk-directing traffic.”
Tommy looks over at Joe now, sorry to be the messenger.
“Shit,” says Joe. His chorea and anosognosia. Involuntarily moving and unaware of it.
“Yeah.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad. It’s friggin’ cold out there, man. I’m just moving around to get the blood circulating so I don’t freeze to death.”
Tommy pinches his lips together and again stares at the windshield.
“It’s not just these 911 calls. A lot of rumors are flyin’ around the station.”
“Like what?”
“Drugs. Drinking. Some kind of nervous breakdown.”
Joe shakes his head, grinding his teeth, seething. He had no idea people were talking, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Police officers gossip more than a bunch of friggin’ old ladies. Still, he can’t believe that no one had the guts or decency to say something to his face.
“You know I love you like a brother, man.” Tommy pauses and taps the steering wheel. “I think you’ve gone as far as you can go here.”
No. No way. Over a little chorea, bullshit rumors, and some bogus 911 calls? It’s Mount Friggin’ Everest cold out there. Give Artie ten minutes, and he’ll be dancing around, doing whatever he can to keep warm. See if Artie doesn’t look hammered in ten minutes.
A rage sparks deep inside Joe, in the marrow of his bones, catching fire easily, blazing throughout his body, consuming him in betrayal. Fuck Tommy. Yeah, they agreed that Tommy would be his mirror and let him know when it was time to tell everyone at the station about his HD, but Joe didn’t think Tommy would give him up so quickly. Over a friggin’ school crossing. Not in a million years would Joe do that to him. Tommy’s been like a brother to him, and now he’s fuckin’ Cain, and Joe’s Abel. Fuck it. He doesn’t need Tommy’s support. Screw his fellow officers, too. He doesn’t care what they think. He doesn’t need any of them. Joe clenches his teeth and his fists.
He’s still got Donny. He and Donny go back to when they were kids, since the beginning. They’re Townies. Donny’ll have Joe’s back to the end.
“This is fuckin’ bullshit,” says Joe, staring at Artie through the windshield, trying to Jedi-mind him off balance, hoping to witness a full-body shiver, something.
Tommy nods. “I’m sorry, man. Sergeant McDonough’s over from A1. He’s waiting for you.”
Tommy slips the cruiser into drive, and Artie waves them on, his feet solidly planted on the road, his steady white mitten holding the kids and parents on the sidewalk, utterly unaffected by the cold. And he doesn’t look at Joe as the cruiser passes.
A15 IS A substation with a small, skeleton staff and normally no supervisors. When Joe walks in, he’s face-to-face with Sergeant Rick McDonough, who looks unmistakably pissed to be there. Rick has been Joe’s supervisor for more than ten years. They have a decent working relationship, but it doesn’t extend beyond that. Joe knows he’s married with two kids, but Joe’s never met them. No one knows much about Rick’s personal life. He keeps to himself, never joins the guys for beers after a shift. Rick can be an anal son of a bitch when it comes to procedure, and he’s overly concerned with what the media has to say about them.
Joe says nothing, follows Rick’s lead into an office, where Joe shuts the door, and they both take a seat.
“You want to tell me why we just had to pull you off a school crossing?” asks Rick.
Rick watches Joe with his thin, gray eyes, both patience and authority held firmly in his posture. His style has always been no-nonsense but fair. Joe looks into the face of his boss and the anger that was coursing through Joe in the cruiser drains, leaving him wrung out, utterly exposed, pinned, and too exhausted to fight his way out of this corner. He thinks, wishing he could have a conversation with Donny first, racing through his options before he opens his mouth.
If he doesn’t confess his HD, if he shrugs and gives Rick nothing, as Joe’s supervisor, he’ll be left with no choice. Rick won’t sweep this under the rug. He’ll go by the book. He’ll send Joe to Boston Medical Center for a urinalysis, and the incident will go on Joe’s record. Of course, the urinalysis will come back negative for drugs and alcohol, so if Joe keeps his mouth shut, he won’t lose his job. But everyone’s going to know he was pulled off a school crossing. If rumors were flying before this, they’ll be on a rocket to the moon now.
Joe fidgets in his chair. He glances around the small, windowless room, aware of the closed door inches behind him, Rick’s eyes studying him. I think you’ve gone as far as you can go here. Fuck Tommy for being right. Rick still waits, going nowhere, his hands clasped on the desk. Maybe it’ll be better if everyone knows. Maybe they’ll make accommodations for him. This situation is still workable. Maybe he won’t lose his job. His life. Joe blows an exhale through his mouth, summoning courage and any luck God’s willing to throw his way.
“I have Huntington’s disease.”
A moment passes between them. Rick’s thin eyes go blank. Joe stiffens.
“What does that mean?”
They’re both about to find out.