High Desert High

by Steven Schindler

  She wouldn’t take his calls. Wouldn’t return his letters. But she did cash all the checks. Paul knew a lot of the money he sent was going up her nose, but he didn’t want his child to be destitute. He was relieved when he worked out a system to send money directly to Marcy’s mom, Grandma Greta, for Tracy’s care and Catholic school tuition, from pre-school through high school.

  Paul knew this drive to upstate New York pretty well. He used to drive up for weekends, hoping he could see Tracy, which was a real balancing act because Marcy’s drug and alcohol abuse never subsided and only got worse. But he did manage to see Tracy a few times a year, even if sometimes it was just from the bleachers at one of her softball games or in the background at a large gathering. Thank God for Marcy’s mom, Greta. She saved Tracy’s life. And his.

  If Marcy’s mom wasn’t there to take in Tracy when times were bad, Paul might have done something drastic. He always thought about going after custody of Tracy through the courts, but knew what that would involve. And with the courts biased towards the mother, and him being a single cop, he knew his prospects weren’t good. He didn’t even want to think about what he might have done if Marcy’s mom, Greta, hadn’t come to the rescue.

  Greta grew up in the old Bronx neighborhood, when it was almost like a resort area. She was born on Corlear Avenue in 1931, just a few blocks from where Paul now lived. There were a couple of kiddie amusement parks nearby, a skating rink, and pony rides. Not to mention the wonders of Van Cortlandt Park, one of New York City’s largest parks, more than double the size of Manhattan’s Central Park. And being from the neighborhood, naturally, she was a tough cookie.

  It was Greta who initially reached out to Paul. She knew that Marcy was having problems with drugs and alcohol, and she was more than happy to take Tracy in, to raise her as her own for weeks, and months at a time and – eventually – for good. Not that it was easy, but she had some insurance money after her husband died, and the house in Herkimer, about 20 miles from Utica, was paid for. Plus it had a separate basement apartment. That’s where Marcy and Tracy lived, rent-free. And of course Tracy was up and down the stairs from one household to the other seamlessly from the time she could walk. Greta was sympathetic to Paul’s concern for Tracy’s welfare, so without telling Marcy she handled the extra money he sent for tuition, clothing, food, and whatever else Tracy needed. Greta made it look like it came from her. Both Paul and Greta knew that if the money went straight to Marcy, it would be spent on Marcy’s destructive lifestyle, which is where most of the alimony checks went.

  It was almost magical when you were about 90 minutes out of the city. The suburbs and exurbs were behind you, and rural America began to unfold in a tapestry of rolling hills, farms, and small towns in the distance. Yes, even in New York State. Paul thought many times about quitting the NYPD and moving near Tracy, but there were no guarantees he could make the kind of money he did in the city. He also feared what he might do if he was witness to Marcy’s shenanigans on a daily basis.

  The thought of Marcy taking her own life haunted him. Maybe he should have ditched everything to live nearer to her and Tracy? Maybe it was his fault for being too demanding of her? Maybe everything was his fault? But deep down, he knew otherwise. He saw too many friends crying over their kids and spouses and parents with drug and alcohol problems. All of them from good, hard-working families where people tried to do the right thing. Yeah, nobody’s perfect, but these were people who cared deeply and were desperately trying to save a loved one. They loved unconditionally.

  Sometimes when people hit rock bottom, they can turn it around pretty late in the game. But too often, rock bottom for them is when they’re zipping up the body bag. He loved Marcy. Unconditionally. He always would.

  The miles were flying by and radio stations came and went as he sped along the highway. He was well on his way, traveling west towards Utica, when his car suddenly sputtered, shuttered, and made a terrible noise like a subway car that just had its emergency brake pulled in a tunnel. He put on the flashers and coasted onto the wide right shoulder and onto some grass.

  “Shit,” Paul said scanning his dashboard. All the warning lights were on, including the idiot-light temperature gauge. He knew he was screwed.

  “Come on, T-Mobile, don’t fail me now,” Paul said as he opened his flip phone and punched in some numbers.

  “Yes, thank goodness, Triple A, saves the day! I’m stuck here on Interstate 90 at, ah, let me see, Can-a-joe-hairy? What the hell kind of name is that? Canajoharie, yes. My car is DOA. 45 minutes? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Paul took a catnap in the expansive back seat of his 1985 Lincoln Town Car and dreaded the thought that it might well be a goner. He bought it new after getting on the force, and had many a good time in that very same back seat, from Myrtle Beach to Cape Cod and all dark beach roads in-between. It was only about 20 minutes and the tow truck was there.

  They decided to take the car to a nearby Ford dealership where they service Lincolns, and after about an hour of waiting in an oversized closet with a coffee maker, sitting on a folding chair, the verdict was in: Seized engine. Dead.

  The bearer of the bad news was the service manager, a polite thirtysomething with a pressed shirt and a slightly askew clip-on tie. “What would you like us to do?” He asked, clipboard and pen at the ready.

  “I think I better talk to a salesman. You have used cars on the lot, too?”

  “Yup. I’ll walk you over to the sales department.”

  The dealership had obviously just gone through major renovations to make it look like every other Ford dealership in the country. Nevertheless, the cars on display and salesmen greatly outnumbered the customers, which was exactly one: Paul.

  “This is Mr. Santo,” the service manager said to an eager fiftysomething bald-headed man. “Randy here will help you out.”

  “How can I help you, Mr. Santo?”

  “Call me Paul. I have an ‘85 Town Car I brought in DOA. Seized engine. I need two things: First, how much will you give me for the Town Car? And, second, can I drive out of here in less than two hours with a car?”

  “How about we look for a car first? New or Used?”

  “Used. Two or three years old. Under 30,000 miles.”

  “I like a man who knows what he wants!”

  “I hope you feel that way a half hour from now. Waddyuh got?”

  “Let’s go out to the lot.”

  Paul had no time to hunt for the best deal on the perfect car, which is the reason he kept the Lincoln for all those years. Every time he thought of buying a new one, he’d tire himself out researching and shopping for perfection. But today, he pointed at a small SUV that had a placard stating 30K MILES and $13,999. He asked what it was.

  “It’s an Escape.”

  “I’ll take it. What’ll you give me for my trade-in?”

  “It says here, zero,” the salesman said, finger firmly on a Kelly Blue Book printout.

  After signing enough forms to give him writer’s cramp, the salesman asked how he’d be paying.

  “Credit card,” Paul said, looking through his wallet.

  The salesman’s eager demeanor scrunched into worry. “Oooh. I’m sorry, the most you can put on a card is $5,000. You know, like a deposit.”

  “Are you kidding me? Come on, cut me some slack here.”

  “I’m sorry but those are the rules. I don’t make them up.”

  Paul sighed and collapsed back in his chair. “Look. I need this car. I’m on the way to a funeral from New York City, heading to Herkimer.”

  “I don’t know,” the salesman said, now terrified he might lose this sale.

  Paul didn’t like to pull the cop card on people, especially these days with all the heat all over the country against cops. He figured it was his last resort. “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I’m a retired cop.”

  “Let me get the finance manager,” the salesman said abruptly, leaving the small glass enclosed cubicle. Paul watched
as a broad-shouldered, fit, middle-aged African-American man with a lot of gray in his hair approached. He felt like he was about to get caught in the middle of a classic good cop/bad cop sales smackdown.

  “Mr. Santo,” the finance manager said officiously, “I’m Glenn Williams,” and took a seat. “You’re a retired police officer?”

  “Yes, sir, in fact just yesterday I signed my papers.”

  “NYPD?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My father was a New York cop. Transit police.”

  “Really! That must have been back in the day when they were two separate departments.”

  “Exactly! He was a detective sergeant, District 1. He passed a while ago.”

  “I’m sorry. How did you wind up here? I mean, so far upstate?”

  “We lived in the Bronx, by Arthur Avenue, Little Italy….”

  “I eat there once a week, at least. Safest neighborhood in New York. The mob protects its own.”

  “No question! But as soon as he retired, he said we’re getting out of Dodge, and somehow we wound up here. It’s really beautiful. You know, I feel for you. When I was growing up, my mom and dad always said if you have trouble in the street, go find a cop. And if you have trouble in your soul, go find a priest. And today? Neither of those professions are at the top of the list anymore. Anyway, you’d like to pay by credit card for the total amount?”

  “If possible. My ex-wife passed away, and I’m on the way to the funeral.”

  “Man, you are going through some changes. I am sorry. But no worries. Your credit card is fine. And let’s up your trade in value from zero, to $500. Randy will take care of you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Williams.”

  “Glenn.”

  “Glenn, can I ask you something personal?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How long after your father retired did he pass away?”

  Glenn hesitated. “Eighteen months. We had just settled in up here, and he had a massive heart attack.”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  Paul was back on the road in an hour with his Ford Escape, and headed back to the Thruway for Herkimer. He thought about the stories of guys who dropped dead soon after retiring. And not just cops. He read somewhere that most men get their identity in life from their work. Everything is tied up their job: self-esteem, pride, usefulness. And when that goes, what’s left? He couldn’t remember who said it, but he remembered the quote, If you kill a man’s dreams, you kill the man. He wondered if he had any dreams left. Any goals. Organizing bus trips to Mets away games were a great distraction from the stresses of being a cop, but not a way of life. And as a famous cartoonist, and an ex-Beatle, both said, Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. This was his exit, Herkimer.

  Paul had a theory about downtowns; if there were thrift stores like Salvation Army and Goodwill right in the middle of downtown, it was a depressed town. But if it had antique boutiques, it was a successful town. Same used junk, different pricing and packaging. Herkimer had a Goodwill.

  He had discovered Crazy Otto’s Empire Diner a few years ago, and that was always his first stop. A classic railroad car diner filled with locals, license plates on the walls, and posters of Elvis and old movies. Pork chop on an English muffin was his favorite dish. Herkimer is about 20 miles from an old rust-belt city, Utica. Just another town that once had vibrant industry and manufacturing jobs, and now gets by due to some crazy scheme where people who work in one store buy stuff from other stores and somehow that’s an economy. Herkimer’s a small town, only about 7,000 people and is dependent on Utica for jobs, so as anyone can see, things aren’t going so great.

  After lunch, Paul used landmarks to navigate to Greta and Tracy’s. He smiled when he passed the Mudville Softball Complex, where they held national softball tournaments. Some of his favorite memories of watching Tracy from afar were when he sat in the stands during her softball tournaments, from grade school through high school. He was so proud of her athletic ability. Maybe some of his genes actually came in handy.

  He pulled in front of the house on Jefferson Avenue. It was an old wooden two-story clapboard building separated from the homes on either side by narrow driveways built for Model-Ts. He didn’t know what to expect from Greta or Tracy at this horrible time. Everyone feels guilt when a loved one commits suicide. What he did know was that it wasn’t going to be easy. Five times he had told families that their cop husband or son was dead. But even the closest blood brother of a friend isn’t the same as this. He rang the bell and waited.

  The door opened and there she was. For a nanosecond he thought it could be his wife, Marcy, she looked so much like her. But Tracy was even prettier. She still had some baby fat around her cheeks and eyes. And she had gained a few pounds since he last spied on her.

  “Hi, Tracy. I’m so sorry.”

  Tracy just stared at him. Paul could see the wheels spinning. Her right hand had a tight grip on the front door and he thought he saw her flinch as if she was going to slam it shut on him.

  “Come in,” Tracy said flatly.

  They were in Greta’s living room. It had a slight scent of Pine Sol in the air.

  “Where’s your grandma?” Paul asked, scanning the room and hall for any sign of her.

  Tracy turned slowly, her head slumped, a little girl again who began to weep as she trudged toward Paul.

  “Grandma’s in the hospital. It was so awful. I was with her when she collapsed and I called 911. It was too much for her. But she’s going to be okay.”

  She melted into Paul’s arms and he hugged her for the first time since she was still in big-girl Pampers. Paul felt the years of neglect and distance dissipate as her tears flowed down his neck while she lost it.

  “Greta is the best,” was all Paul could think to say.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Paul sat her down on the dark-green velvet sectional and sat next to her. “Don’t worry. Things are gonna be fine. We’ll get through this.”

  “We? We? Since when is it fucking ‘we?’ ” She screamed hysterically and ran up the stairs.

  Paul made some tea and found some graham crackers in the pantry. The kitchen was chock-a-block with magnets, photos, and even yellowed pieces of papers with drawings by maybe a first- or-second grader. It was all Tracy and Marcy mementos. Not one clue that Paul even existed. He walked over to the door that led to the basement apartment where Marcy lived and flipped on the light. He took three steps down and stopped. It looked like an episode of Hoarders. Clothes, boxes, and empty cans and bottles everywhere. At least it didn’t smell. Greta probably cleaned it up. He went back to the kitchen table and sipped his tea.

  Tracy appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Want some tea and crackers?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Paul got up and was somewhat relieved. She apologized and said “Yes, please.” That was a good sign. He felt there was hope.

  He poured her a cup of tea, put a cracker on a small plate, and stirred his own absentmindedly. “First things first. Where’s grandma?”

  “Saint Elizabeth’s.”

  “Is anybody checking in on her? What’s the prognosis?”

  “Her sister. Aunt Peggy. At first, they thought it was a heart attack, but now they say it was just stress.”

  “What are the arrangements with your …” Paul stopped cold. Their eyes met. He braced himself, like those five times he told families about their dead loved ones. “… Your mom.”

  “She’s being cremated. Tomorrow.”

  Paul wept, but not much. He fought back the tears.

  “Honey, you’ll understand some day. Your mom and I … we….”

  Tracy reached across the table and touched his hand. “It’s okay. I know. I’m all cried out I think. For now, anyway. Let’s go to the hospital and see grandma.”

  St. Elizabeth’s was a lot different from t
he many hospitals in New York City that Paul had frequented as a cop. Unlike the mayhem at just about every hospital in the New York City, here at St. Elizabeth’s there was a clean, quiet professionalism in the air.

  Paul hadn’t seen Greta in a few years, but the last time he saw her she was a robust late-seventies babe who wore make-up, always had her hair done, and wasn’t above making a flirty remark to a handsome young waiter. Of course now, here, under these awful circumstances she looked every bit of an old woman. Tracy and Paul stood in the doorway a few seconds taking it all in.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Tracy said, her voice trembling as she stared at her grandmother.

  “Come on,” Paul said, softly leading the way.

  They stood next to the bed, and Tracy leaned in. “Hi grandma. It’s me, Tracy.”

  Tracy and Paul were awestruck when Greta’s eyelids popped open and a large smile beamed across her face.

  “Tracy! I was wondering where the heck you were! Let’s get out of here!” Greta said, happily.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay!” Tracy said leaning in to kiss her. “Look, Daddy’s here.”

  “I knew you’d be here, Paul.”

  “Of course. You look great, Greta!” Paul said, all smiles.

  “Fiddlesticks! I need some makeup and my hair done before I go anywhere!”

  In the doorway, Aunt Peggy, Greta’s sister appeared. A handsome woman in her seventies who dressed as if she still might shop at Forever 21.

  “Sweetheart! Oh, Tracy, I’m so glad you came by. Paul? Oh my God, you are a sight for sore eyes! We knew you’d come. Greta and me, I mean.”

  Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around.

  Peggy leaned in, “Honey, you look good right now! Your baby is here, and her daddy and everything is going to be all right, so don’t worry yourself. I just checked at the nurse’s station and you’re being released in a little while, so let’s start getting you presentable. You need to be back out to Country Joe’s for Wednesday night line dancing!” She turned to Tracy. “This is the best she’s looked since you know when.”