Living in Quiet Rage

by Michael English Bierwiler

  “Ruth called her sister this evening on someone’s home phone, so I have the caller ID number written down for you.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll have the number criss-crossed for an address if it was a land line. As you know, a cell phone or unlisted number doesn’t generally do much good. I hope you haven’t called it yet so we’ll have the element of surprise.” Doc called the number in and came up with an address.

  “Does 3202 Idyllwind sound familiar, sir?”

  Mr. Hays didn’t recognize the address, so Doc relocated to the Idyllwind address. The house was similar to the Hays’ residence in that it seemed to be a well-kept home in a family-friendly neighborhood. Doc expected Ruth to be long gone since her sister most likely found an avenue to tip her off that the police were enroute.

  The sharp raps brought Mrs. Madson to the solid front door. She was a peer to Mrs. Hays in that they were both the average mothers of fifteen year old daughters. Mrs. Madson was astonished to find a police officer at her door. Police intervention was not an expected occurrence in her world of good citizenship.

  “I’m looking for Ruth Hays. Is she here?” Doc went straight to the issue without the usual pleasantries.

  “No, she and my daughter are staying overnight at a friend’s house. Is there something wrong? Did something happen?” she said with growing alarm.

  “Yes. Ruth is a runaway. We’re trying to find her and return her to her parents. Where would they be, please?”

  Mrs. Madson offered to telephone, but Doc did not want Ruth to have a headstart, so he sent an assisting officer to the location. “I’m surprised that her mother wants her back after throwing her out on the street in the middle of the night. If we hadn’t taken her in a couple weeks ago, she might still be in danger out on the streets. The poor girl didn’t have a cent to her name and only the clothes on her back when our daughter brought her home. Honestly, some people should never be parents. Is there a possibility of Ruth remaining in our home while you investigate the horrible living conditions at her mother’s home? I mean, a fifteen year old girl should not be subjected to the alcohol and drugs, not to mention the parade of strange men her mother brings home every night. At least she’s in a safe environment with us and we can be sure she stays in school. The only way out of that terrible life is education, you know.”

  “Actually, ma’am, she hasn’t been to school in a couple weeks.”

  “That’s not true. I send them off to school every day before I go to work and they’re here when I come home at six.”

  “Well, ma’am, you might want to call your daughter’s school to see if your child is attending, because I know for a fact that Ruth is not.”

  “There must be some mistake, officer. Ruth has told us all about her dreadful family life. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, and Child Services won’t lift a finger to help poor, sweet Ruth. She’s got the biggest heart of any child I know.”

  Doc debated on the best way to implode Mrs. Madson’s perceptions when he revealed how Ruth was accustomed to working her acquaintances’ parents. The direct route was quick and easy. It worked for removing bandage tape, so it was probably best for treating social wounds.

  “Have you met or spoken with Mr. and Mrs. Hays?”

  “No, Ruth doesn’t want any contact with her mother, and her mother doesn’t have the time of day for her. Ruth’s father is in prison at Huntsville for family violence.”

  “May I give them your number? I just came from their home less than five minutes from here. They seem like very nice people whenever I’ve talked with them. Ruth has run away several times and they both worry themselves sick until we find her. They were smart enough to find your phone number on their caller ID tonight.”

  “Her father is not in prison for beating her mother?”

  “Didn’t happen.”

  “But Ruthie told us about the drugs and alcohol.”

  “Talk’s cheap. The only drugs and alcohol I’m aware of is the stuff Ruth gets into when she’s on the loose.” Doc was interrupted by a radio message from the officer who was checking on the girls’ sleepover.

  “Bad news, Mrs. Madson. The girls aren’t there. The mother there says they are staying overnight at Ruth’s house.” Mrs. Madson’s face turned ashen, and fainting was an imminent danger. “You should probably sit down, ma’am, while we start the runaway report on your daughter.”

  “How could that happen? I believed her. Children don’t lie about something so serious. I let her live in my house, sleep in my daughter’s bedroom. I treated her like another child.”

  “Like President Reagan was fond of saying, ma’am: trust, but verify.”

  Mrs. Madson meant no harm. Runaways like Ruth were very convincing liars from months and even years of practice. The poor woman was only trying to save an innocent girl from her battered world. Instead, she brought the heartache into her own home. Once a child tasted freedom and power, it was next to impossible to force him or her back to the straight and narrow road.

  The Madson’s daughter probably discovered the secret that parents hide as long as they can: parents are not as all powerful and omniscient as they pretend to be. Their trust can become their Achilles’ heel at the hands of a teenager who has learned that there are no boundaries cast in cement. If she was mature enough, she would realize that a successful life of give and take was built on cooperative bargaining to redefine her role in the family. If she was still childish, she became the family autocrat by monopolizing the efforts and emotions of her parents while simultaneously building a wall of disappointment and rejection between them.

  The attraction to that life was the absence of realistic dreams and expectations fraught with the risk of failure. Failure was an easy goal, whereas blaming others assuaged personal embarrassment and responsibility.

  Doc could not patch the gaping hole of trepidation tearing at Mrs. Madson’s heart, so he turned and walked away. He filed the new runaway report and grabbed a hot coffee at the stop and rob to take with him on his break out on the levee.

  Settling fog formed a low ceiling above the city decapitating the tall buildings, slowly descending until the reflections of street and building lights created fuzzy illuminations in the vaporous gray cotton blanket encompassing them. Gutters and pools of standing rain water gave off smoky twisting columns as the warm ground fluids were lifted above the cool air at surface level. The humidity hung lifelessly in the air without a trace of a breeze. The asphalt of the streets bore a crystal glisten while the big tires crunched their way through the otherwise silent night.

  On the levee the distinction between the settling fog and the crystal clarity of each blade of green and yellow matted grass was augmented by the glow of the fog a dozen feet above the landscape in the diffused moonlight. The hush of the levee and the privacy of the foggy walls and ceiling were perfect for soul searching in the dead of the night.

  At the core of the matter was how Mrs. Madson’s helplessness in spite of good intentions was a trap set for any parent. Doc’s own son and daughters might someday be an audience for predatory peers like Ruth. As much as Doc and Amelia hoped and prayed for their children, the wolf would always be at the door. In spite of their best efforts, the siren call of risk and adventure was a sentinel just outside their parental grasp, willing to possess the young minds who craved meaning to their identities and craved a taste of danger. What was a parent to do once a child tasted the world outside the sheltered nest?

  CHAPTER NINE

  A dozen years into his career, Doc was chosen to fill a four-year assignment at the police academy. The work suited him well as he loved to talk, and having field experience over the recruits made him feel superior. His son and daughters were involved with school and friends. They reached an age when parents were ancillary to real life as long as there was food in the refrigerator and an open wallet upon request. Doc had time for his family, but they had trouble working him into their busy schedules.

  Gar and Millie lost their wa
y and separated. Amelia didn’t care for Millie anyway. Millie always seemed to fit in when the four of them were together. Whether it was a game of cards or a movie, Millie had something to bring to the conversation as if she were a charter member of their little club. Amelia considered her a placeholder between Gar’s first wife and the next woman on the list.

  Doc tried to empathize with the pain of the collapse of Gar’s second marriage. Gar, however, was philosophical. “My Mom used to tell me that when you fail at something, you need to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back on the horse that threw you.”

  Doc agreed, “That’s the best way to handle adversity.”

  “But my Dad used to say that if you screwed it up twice, give up and try something else so it doesn’t look like your mother and I raised an idiot who makes the same mistake over and over. I always listened to my Dad.”

  “No more women in your life then?”

  “Actually, I’m just going to lease instead of buy next time. Millie was terrific, but I don’t really have a knack for being married. We’re still friends, but she can do so much better than me. Women like me better before they get to know me. I guess I have a short shelf life.”

  “Third time’s a charm, Gar.”

  “Are you saying that my parents raised an idiot?”

  “Short answer is ‘yes’, my friend.”

  Amelia always considered Gar to be the harbinger of doom. Gar’s low aspirations exasperated Amelia, especially when Doc made such an effort to be supportive of him. Doc found it easier to be realistic about someone else’s dream coming to pass, while he jealously guarded the doors to his own hidden aspirations rather than fling them open. A lack of ambition seemed comfortingly familiar. Amelia felt that separating the two men might cause Doc’s motivation to be rekindled.

  For the first time in their marriage, their waking hours should have meshed. Mornings were a muddle of breakfast, prodding the children into punctuality, and solving the clothes and homework dilemmas that should have surfaced the previous night. Like many families, life was superficial in many ways: attacking minor transient goals while leaving the quests for greatness for another day when they weren’t so rushed.

  They defined their lives by whom they interacted with between eight and five. The identities forged by their interactions with peers were then forced to fit into the family hierarchy on evenings and weekends. They were boats sharing a common harbor: boats of various sizes, uses, cargoes, and destinations, all sharing what seemed to be a temporary port as they lived together. Once in a great while a family occasion would raise them into a rare, united armada, but the prevailing winds were not capable of keeping them on the same course.

  Doc adopted his recruits as surrogate children. He demonstrated patience and attention that had been foreign to his son, Ben, and his daughters. In his four years at the academy he learned the parenting skills he needed when his own children were small, but the trusting years were already expiring at home.

  On the first morning of class Doc would come in early to run the levee before the Texas sun became too hot for exercise. He would sit down unobtrusively on one of the benches by the side doors of the classroom wing and observe the preliminary construction of webs and alliances that came naturally to most recruits in their twenties and thirties. The recruits were chosen for their curiosity and gregarious inclinations. However, none of them paid much attention to the sweaty morning athletes cutting through their midst enroute to the locker room other than by throwing out the occasional morning salutation.

  The recruits ran the gamut of dress from jeans to dress shirts and ties. The youngest were the most informal as a rule, shirts and ties were the norm of those who had held management jobs for a few years, and informality phased in with golf shirts as the ages lined up on the forty mark. The first cut was between those with military experience and those with none. The second cut was into small groupings based on college affiliation or municipal pride. Eventually, the groups formed in twos and threes as though they were organs of one human body. It did not take long to discover that success was going to be a team achievement with no room for loners.

  Instead of the standard what’s-your-name-where-are-you-from introduction, Doc always asked the recruits why they wanted the job. He usually received the same answers about wanting a career, having a friend or relative in the business, and there was always one joker who said ‘to pay the bills’. The class always laughed nervously, unaware that there was at least one person who confessed to a monetary motivation in each class. Doc always thanked the person for his or her honesty and the ice was broken in the tense few minutes.

  Down the line a young recruit would inevitably stand up, introduce himself and fervently recite a Kennedy-esque quote about not being able to save the whole world, but wanting to save a piece of it. Doc would praise his idealism, agree with his motives, and assure the young man that he was in for a world of heartache over the next couple decades.

  James Buchanan was the young Kennedy in Doc’s final class. Such untested, single-minded, inexperienced faith in good works was becoming a rare commodity. These were the traits that Doc envied in the young inductees who had not already been body-slammed by life experiences. Between the movies and the media, many of the recruits were already indoctrinated with jaded optimism.

  James was half of a set of bookends with his friend, Jim, since they were boys in Wheat Plains, Texas. Although they were the same age, James Buchanan retained his youthful optimism. Before long Doc tagged them James the Younger and James the Elder, although James the Younger preferred his nickname, Buck, from childhood. In return for accepting Doc’s penchant for assigning nicknames, the class was allowed to call him ‘Doc’ rather than by his formal rank. It was a breach of protocol, but Doc had never been a fan of formalities.

  James the Younger and James the Elder were polar opposites in many ways. James the Elder was moody and distrustful, qualities Doc recognized in himself at that age. James the Elder had almost four years of college and seemed intelligent, but early on in the academy, Doc recognized a self-destructive streak in his character. James the Elder functioned best when he got his own way. James the Elder practiced being a stranger.

  James the Younger followed high school with an enlistment in the military. He and his young wife had only returned home to Texas a few months before the academy started. James the Younger had a personality like a cup of water. He could be poured from a glass to a bowl to an infinite variety of containers without losing his predictable, stable qualities. Although James the Younger was a mediocre student, he had common sense and a good feel for reading people. James the Elder was able to tag along on James the Younger’s ability to fit in easily with the rest of the class.

  Doc’s favorite time of day was the class run at daybreak. The day was new and unsullied by the people who would live in it. Behind the curtains of each new day was a chance at renewal, redemption and validation - a reason to take the next breath, the next heartbeat and to spend the currency that was a new day.

  “Hey, Doc. How often will we really chase a bad guy on foot for two miles? Instead of a morning run, shouldn’t we do a one hundred yard dash and just shoot something that moves? It works on TV. Maybe some of us should take a marked car and head him off at the pass.”

  Doc picked up the pace. “The point of the morning run is get your heart rate up so you can stay awake in class until lunchtime.” The hum of forty pairs of feet on the asphalt bike path along the river picked up another notch in tempo. The dark green levee walls rose thirty feet on each side of the river creating a long winding valley spidering along the main waterway and its tributaries. Periodically bridges spanned overhead with early commuters hustling to work. The bike path was shielded from most of the road noise giving the illusion of running through a clearing in the woods.

  Every once in a while someone would yell ‘snake’ and the recruits would accordion into themselves as the stopped in their tracks or veered to the grass on the
right or left. Most of the time it was a practical joker, but a couple times a season, a lazy serpent could be found enjoying the warmth retained by the asphalt and cement path. No one had ever been bitten on a run to Doc’s best recollection, yet the innate apprehension always resulted in a human pileup. The feral cats, which reproduced with abandon in spite of the city’s best efforts, made sightings of snakes and mice rare with their aggressive hunting.

  “Hey, Doc. Have you ever shot anybody? Maybe shot the gun out of their hand like in the movies?” asked James the Younger with a chuckle.

  “Sure, lots of times. First we kick in the door without a warrant, the bad guy goes out the fire escape, and we jump from rooftop to rooftop. Then he jumps off into a dumpster and hijacks a passing car from a woman and her baby. We jump off the building onto the roof of a panel truck scrunching the thin metal, and commandeer an SUV from an unlikable, overweight businessman, and chase the bad guy around town to the waterfront.”

  “We don’t have a waterfront in Fort Worth, Doc.”

  “I meant down to the river. Suddenly he jumps out with an automatic weapon and opens fire. My first shot knocks the rifle out of his hand. Then he runs, I tackle him like Monday Night Football, and he’s cuffed and stuffed. Happens at least twice a week.”

  “Is that a ‘no’ then?” the voice puffed.

  “This is a kinder, gentler America. We don’t go around shooting people unless they really, really need it,” Doc replied. “Chances are you will never fire your weapon at anyone during your career. If you do, it means that they are shooting back at you, so it’s probably best to hope that you’re never in that situation.”

  Serious conversation was reserved for after class when only a couple die-hard philosophers failed to make a break for the parking lot. James the Younger was a frequent philosopher-in-training while James the Elder hung around because they carpooled.