Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  Chapter 20

  Christina jerked the steering wheel to the right and swung the Humvee into the small parking lot of the Rockfield Village Store, almost tipping it over in the process.

  “What’s this place?” she asked after we skidded to a stop.

  “Rumor has it that an old friend of mine works here.”

  I felt a sharp pain down my leg as I struggled to get out of the vehicle. I stubbornly tried to walk without the cane, but it was a failed experiment. I slowly made it to the front of the store and entered through the same creaky door I remembered from my youth. In fact, the whole place looked exactly as it did when I was growing up. Rockfield was one big time-capsule.

  I immediately spotted the person I’d come to see. But as usual, he beat me to the draw. “Well, looky here,” Murray greeted me from behind the counter. Always an impeccable dresser, he wore red suspenders over his button-downed Oxford.

  He was in the neighborhood of eighty, although nobody was really sure-the old journalist never revealed his sources on that one. His hair and mustache had turned much grayer since the last time I’d seen him, but he still had the same youthful twinkle in his eye.

  I limped behind the counter to give him a hug. He was always rail-thin, and I could feel the bones in his spine as we embraced.

  After releasing, Murray looked me up and down, focusing on my cane. “Looks like I’m still getting around better than you these days, John Pierpont.”

  A horrified look came over Christina’s face, and she mouthed in my direction, “Pierpont?”

  Murray’s focus switched to her. “John Pierpont keeps getting older, but his girlfriends keep staying the same age.”

  Christina begged to differ. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but…”

  “Young lady, are you questioning my sources?”

  “I think it’s time for some new sources, grandpa, because if you think JP and I…”

  “I wouldn’t doubt his sources,” I cut in with a chuckle. “I heard Deep Throat is his bridge partner at the senior center.”

  Christina, now understanding she was being hustled, flashed the look of a teenager who was embarrassed of her parents.

  It seemed like a good time to make the introductions. “Murray, this is my chauffeur and future world renowned journalist, Christina Wilkins. Christina, this is my mentor, and the most over-qualified cashier in history, Murray Brown.”

  “If I’m his mentor, I didn’t do a very good job,” Murray remarked.

  “So you taught this guy to go off to places that make Hades look like the Club Med?” Christina asked.

  “Oh no, young lady. I taught him the art of journalism. I thought he should have stuck with it, but instead he decided to join the circus.”

  I pointed to the newspaper with the large headline: Fair Opens Tonight! “Murray covered the Nixon White House for the New York Globe, but always believed that local news most affected people’s lives. So he came back here and started the Gazette.”

  Murray smiled at his premature eulogy. “All important politics are local. Your father and I didn’t agree on a lot, JP, but that we agreed on. How is his health doing?”

  “I believe he is much more likely to die from boredom than the cancer. You seem to have taken much better to retirement than him.”

  “I learned that the best way to enjoy retirement is to never retire. My retirement is based more in myth than reality. I still stay involved with the paper’s management, and write a Sunday editorial, but I did acquiesce to my wife’s demands and hire someone to run the day to day. Which left me with too much idle time on my hands, so I took the job here. If you’re going to write about a community, you better know that community, and what better place to learn about the people of Rockfield than the Village Store,” he said with a smile, while simultaneously waiting on a customer.

  “Once a journalist, always a journalist,” I added.

  “I agree with that sentiment. But the question is-will you prove your theory correct, and return to your journalistic roots?”

  “I’m currently unemployed, so I guess I’m open to anything.”

  Murray smiled like he was up to something. He usually was. “It’s never too late to do what you were born to do. Perhaps you should think about the Gazette. We couldn’t pay your superstar wages, but we have a great new editor who I think you would work well with. She came from New York, perhaps you may have heard of her.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Gwen,” Murray replied, unable to hold back a grin.

  If his goal was to get my attention, he certainly succeeded. But before I could ask any of the endless questions that were about to cliff dive off my tongue, the doors creaked open and sunlight shot into the dimly lit store. When my eyes adjusted, I recognized Rich Tolland, who acknowledged me with a nod, along with his partner from the day before. And just like our first meeting, I immediately got an uncomfortable feeling as I looked into his eyes. I’d seen that look before.

  The officers purchased bottles of water and candy bars. They made brief chitchat with Murray about the upcoming fair, before leaving. My eyes followed Officer Kyle Jones out the door.

  Christina brought two peach flavored drinks to the counter, and a newspaper. Feeling nostalgic, I requested a vanilla swirl ice cream cone.

  After Murray rang up the damage on an outdated cash register, and we bid each other a cheery goodbye, Christina and I exited into the sun-filled afternoon. I licked my ice cream cone and mentally rang up my own damage. It appeared she too had returned home.

  Chapter 21

  Rockfield Fair

  Labor Day Weekend

  The Rockfield Fair festivities didn’t start as I’d hoped.

  I attended the traditional football game with my parents on Friday night. My father was full of his usual energy and wore the green and gold sweatshirt with large ‘R’ on the front, as he did to every game during my youth. My mother was bundled up in a heavy sweater and turtleneck, but she remained anything but warm toward me.

  Things with my brother Ethan actually became a little frostier. He’s been the head football coach at Rockfield High for ten years, and had numerous league titles to show for it. But when longtime Rockfield principal Wayne Mulville spotted me, he dragged me into the locker-room prior and interrupted Ethan’s pre-game speech. Mulville declared that “American hero JP Warner” wanted to say a few words to the team. When I waited for Ethan after the game to explain, I learned that he’d ducked out another entrance like a senior skipping out of study hall.

  But I was still looking forward to the official opening on Saturday morning, marked by a parade down Main Street. My father was ready to go with blanket-in-hand at six in the morning. I struggled with the early departure, but after gulping down three cups of coffee like they were shots of bourbon, I was ready to go. I wanted to avoid being recognized, so I dressed incognito, wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses.

  I’d never been a fan of parades, but after the events of the past few months I was just glad to be back home, and actually enjoyed sitting on the dew filled grass while watching fire-trucks and marching bands mosey by at a snail’s pace. When it concluded, we headed toward the town hall with the rest of the crowd.

  First Selectman Maloney stood on a makeshift stage that was covered in patriotic red, white and blue bunting, and delivered the opening speech into a crackling microphone. It was the usual fluffy promotional speech, stolen from my father’s playbook. But before he finished, Maloney announced an award to be handed out for the first time this year, in honor of Lisa Spargo. It would be presented to the member of the community who performed the most exemplary work in eradicating drunk driving. He read a laundry list of statistics about alcohol related accidents in the United States, along with a brief history on Lisa. The name Noah Warner was never mentioned.

  My father pulled my mother close. I could tell it caught them off guard. A pristine Saturday morning suddenly began raining bad memories.

 
A tear rolled down my mother’s cheek. My father had told me that she still felt guilty that when she’d heard the news of Lisa’s death, she’d initially felt relieved that it wasn’t Noah who was the one killed. Sounded to me like a normal response of a parent. I was just glad Noah was nowhere to be found. He never rose before noon by choice, so there wasn’t much chance of him being here.

  Maloney stood in his dark suit, looking like a taller version of the kid I grew up with. The outfit reminded me that he used to wear a suit and tie to school to try to kiss up to our teachers. He called for a moment of silence and bowed his head of slick-backed hair. When the silence ended, he brought Lisa Spargo’s mother onto the stage.

  She was a dark-haired Italian woman who wore a floral colored sundress and sandals. She looked very much like her attractive daughter had. But even from a distance, I noticed the deep scar of sadness embedded on her face.

  After gut-wrenching words about the dreams Lisa would never get to fulfill, and more statistics on drinking and driving fatalities, she presented the award to a local policeman named Kyle Jones.

  Officer Jones walked over to Mrs. Spargo and they hugged dramatically for what seemed like minutes. When they released their embrace, the crowd clapped.

  I continued to have a bad feeling about Jones. But why? There was nothing unusual about his physical appearance-a slender man of average height. He seemed to care about the community, hence the award. I again blamed it on the conspiratorial J-News lingering within me. The transition from reporter to farmer was going to be more difficult than I thought.

  Chapter 22

  After Maloney declared the Rockfield Fair open for business, I followed my mother to the historical society exhibit. I could tell she was shaken up and I wanted to comfort her. I also needed to put an end to this gap between us.

  I trailed her into the small exhibit tent and began to help her move artifacts. “What are you doing, JP?”

  “I thought you could use some help.”

  “I’ve been doing this for twenty years, I think I have it down pretty well. Go find your father-he is very proud of your triumphant return and wants to show you off to his constituents.”

  “Like a prized pony?”

  She turned her back on me without a word.

  “Are you happy I’m back?”

  Silence.

  “I’m a reporter, Mom, I can tell something is wrong.”

  She suddenly turned in my direction. “No JP, you gave up being a reporter a long time ago. Now you’re just a stranger with a death wish. I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t!”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I can’t attach myself emotionally. I can no longer be your mother.”

  “You’re going to quit being my mom? I think that’s against the rules.”

  “You were a hostage for six weeks, but I’ve been one for twenty years! You got lucky this time, but eventually I will have to bury you. I can’t do it anymore, I have other children and grandchildren who need me, not to mention your father.”

  The dam broke and she began sobbing uncontrollably. I limped to her and encased her in a hug.

  “I’m done with that life, Mom. I promise”

  “It’s who you are, JP. Between you and Noah, I get scared every time I hear the phone ring.”

  I wrapped the hug tighter. “I promise you I’m done.”

  This time she hugged me back, but I felt the doubt in her squeeze.

  “Is everything alright here?” my father’s voice broke the moment.

  My mother wiped the tears from her eyes. “We’re fine, Peter. I’m just glad our son is home safe and sound.”

  “I don’t know about sound, but it is good to be home,” I said.

  “We’re glad to have you back, son. You can stay as long as you need,” my father added somberly, before turning excited once again. “Come with me, JP, I want to re-introduce you to an old friend of yours.”

  For an instant I thought he meant Gwen, and I broke out in a cold sweat. But it turned out to be anything but a friend-it was my old spineless classmate, and my father’s successor, Bobby Maloney. Having grown up with Bobby, it was no surprise to me that he didn’t have the guts to warn my parents that he was going to drop the Lisa Spargo bomb on them this morning. But before I could even protest, my father was tugging me in Maloney’s direction.

  The crux of our problem had always been his jealousy of my relationship with Gwen, and while I can’t fault anyone for falling for her, I didn’t appreciate his constant attempts to undermine me behind my back. And it didn’t stop once we graduated. While I was off covering the Gulf War, he would travel every weekend to New York from North Carolina, where he attended college, to “comfort her.” Hitting on a guy’s girl while he’s avoiding missiles in a war zone has to be against some sort of etiquette. And while I’m no psychologist, it seemed to me that his sudden return to Rockfield, in which he sought out my father’s former position, reeked of someone not having gotten over the past.

  My father gave his successor heartfelt congratulations on the speech. Maloney seemed to be eating up the approval. They discussed a couple of local issues for a few minutes until my father spotted a group of his longtime supporters. He excused himself, leaving Maloney and me awkwardly together. There was silence, followed by more silence.

  Finally he spoke, “So what do you think your doing, Warner?”

  I was surprised by the aggressive tone. “What do you mean, Bobby?”

  “It’s Robert.”

  “Who is Robert?”

  “I am, dammit. What are you doing in my town?”

  “Your town?”

  “Stop answering a question with a question. What are you doing here?”

  “I guess you guys don’t have cable in Rockfield yet. I was captured by…”

  Maloney looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “I know your story, Warner-the whole goddam world knows your sob story. They can try to make you out to be some sort of hero, but everyone here knows you’re nothing but an opportunist. And if you think you’re going to waltz in here and take my job, I can assure you that you’ll have the fight of your life on your hands.”

  I began to laugh, but caught myself when I realized he was actually serious. “I was just thinking about starting a little farm. I hear they demonstrate a lot of farm equipment at the fair.”

  “Nobody in this town wants you here. They don’t respect a fraud, so go back to whatever exotic locale you came from.”

  I flashed him my smuggest smile. The one that had irritated people on all seven continents at one time or another. “I’m just here to enjoy the fair, Mr. First Selectman.”

  He glared at me, but wouldn’t look me directly in the eye-now that’s the Bobby Maloney I remember-before storming off.

  A certain peace came over me as I limped around the fairgrounds-just me and my cane. Some people stopped me, while others gawked. The Maloney Doctrine, stating that nobody wanted me here, sure didn’t seem to be adding up.

  I purchased some chicken, along with an expensive cup of suds they tried to pass off as beer. I checked out the lumberjack competition, and then a few art exhibits. The afternoon sun heated up, but a soft wind breezed through, and the smell of pine briefly replaced the aroma of cow shit. I was about to head to the Ferris wheel, my favorite amusement ride, when I heard it.

  “John Peter! John Peter!”

  It couldn’t be.

  I turned.

  It was.

  Moving toward me, awkwardly, sashaying over the mucky grass in her two-inch heels, was Lauren Bowden. Her blonde hair was both magnetic and blinding.

  To toss more salt in my wounds, she was escorted by Cliff Sutcliffe, wearing an expensive black suit. He looked like he’d come to pay his last respects to my happiness.

  My instinct was to flee the scene, but the cane was now officially a handicap.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I muttered.

  Chapter 23

  Lauren pulled her hee
l out of the muck and looked with disgust at the ruination of her designer shoe. We hadn’t spoken since our lunch at Norvell’s. Her first words weren’t about missing me.

  “This place is dreadful, John Peter,” she said with a look of nausea.

  I pondered escape possibilities. I was captured again. “I think you two are lost-the royal wedding you came dressed for is not here.”

  The gruesome twosome inched closer. When Sutcliffe got close enough to sting my senses with his heavy cologne, he reached out with his clammy hand and attempted to shake, but I pulled away. I could tell that Lauren was repelled by the sloppy chicken I held, which saved me from a fake hug-the best investment I’d made in a long time.

  “I would go to the ends of the earth for my favorite GNZ employee,” Sutcliffe said with a salesy smile. He theatrically sniffed the air. “And I think I have-is that pleasant odor cow shit I smell?”

  “I don’t know if you forgot to read the fine print on my contract, but as of August I’m no longer a GNZ employee.”

  It felt good to say it out loud.

  “My sources tell me you are thinking of signing on with CNN-please tell me this isn’t true, John Peter?” Lauren belted out. She received a dirty look from Sutcliffe for venturing off the script.

  “I don’t know anything about this CNN stuff, but if your sources said so, then it must be true,” I replied.

  Lauren soaked in the “compliment,” as usual not picking up on the sarcasm.

  Sutcliffe got their orchestration back on track. He winked at Lauren, before asking if he could talk to me alone. Lauren flashed her blinding, toothy grin, as if she was trying to lock up this year’s Razzie award for bad acting.

  I tried to walk away, but Sutcliffe was easily able to keep up with me. He attempted to put his arm around me, but I managed to pull away.

  We eventually sat down at an empty picnic table. He looked at me as if his job were on the line-it probably was. He reached into a stylish leather briefcase and pulled out a thick bound document, which he laid on the table. It looked like the tax code.