Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

  Next to him was Kacey.

  The two of them were standing side by side in the center of the bedroom, a very strange place to be standing, but I could tell by the rumpled bed that they had been on it together a moment before.

  They were both fully clothed; I did not believe they’d been doing anything of an intimate nature. I had the impression, in fact, that the man was probably gay. But it was clear, from Kacey’s expression, that she was guilty of something.

  —Mick, she said. Why aren’t you at work?

  Slowly, I lowered my weapon.

  —I should ask you the same thing, I said.

  —I was wrong about my schedule. This is my friend Lou, she said, looking at the man, who raised a hand weakly.

  If this was meant to mollify me, it didn’t.

  For in an instant, I knew: I could easily hear, in her slow voice, and see in her flushed face the old signs that she was using.

  I said nothing to her. I went instead to the dresser and began throwing open drawers. Toward the bottom, there they were: syringes, rubber tubing, lighters. Small glassine baggies with outrageous stamps. Slowly, I closed the drawer.

  When I turned around again, the friend was gone, and Kacey and I were alone.

  NOW

  Paula is still laughing. She is wagging her head now, incredulous, disgusted.

  —Tell me who, I say.

  —Same cop comes around here telling girls to blow him or he’ll bring them in, she says.

  Then she adds, Tell me that’s your suspect. Tell me that’s your fucking suspect. Oh my God, please tell me you guys are looking for a cop. That would be great. That would be perfect.

  I speak more quickly than I can think. A deep and uneasy confusion has settled onto me.

  —No, I say. Just someone we want to talk to.

  Paula’s expression changes.

  —Do you think I’m stupid, she says, quietly. Do you think I’m that fucking dumb.

  She turns and walks away, hobbling.

  —What does he look like? I call after her.

  Paula’s back is turned now, but I can still hear what she’s saying.

  —Don’t bring me into this, she says again. She whips around, briefly, a dangerous look in her eyes.

  She continues on her way.

  —Paula, I call. Paula, will you make a report?

  She laughs. No fucking way, she says, her back to me, getting smaller as she walks. Yeah, that’s all I need. Make a report. Get on every cop’s shit list in this godforsaken city.

  She disappears around a corner. And for the first time in my career as a police officer—a profession of which I have always been proud—a sickening feeling descends upon me: that I’m on the wrong side of something important.

  I call Truman on my way back to the station. I want his advice. I want to know, too, if he knows anything about what Paula said.

  —You okay? he says, before anything else.

  —Are you busy? I ask him.

  —No, I’m good, he says. What’s up?

  —Have you ever heard anything about an officer who wears a sweatshirt that says Wildwood on it?

  He pauses. I don’t think so, he says. That doesn’t ring a bell. Why?

  In the background, I hear someone speaking: a woman. Truman? she’s saying. Truman, who is that?

  —If you’re busy, I say again.

  —No, says Truman.

  —What about this, I say. Have you ever heard of a cop who—I pause, trying to formulate the words—who demands favors from women in our sector? In exchange for letting them go?

  Truman pauses for a long time.

  —I mean, he says, yes. I think everyone’s heard stories about that.

  I haven’t, I think. Until today. I don’t say this.

  Again, the voice in the background, serious now: Truman.

  Does Truman have a girlfriend?

  —Hang on, says Truman, and I hear muffled speaking, as if he is cradling the phone in his hands, and then he says, into the phone again, I’ll call you back, okay?

  —Okay, I say, but he’s already hung up.

  I can’t find Sergeant Ahearn in his office when I get back to the station.

  In fact, I can’t find any sergeant. And yet this is information that I need to convey, as quickly as I can.

  I stand in the doorway of the ops room for a moment, until Corporal Shah notices me.

  —Have you seen Sergeant Ahearn? I ask.

  —He’s on scene, says Corporal Shah, who, as usual, is chewing gum. He’s been trying to quit smoking for what seems like the eleventh time, and therefore he’s had an edge to him for a week. You want me to tell him you were looking for him? he says.

  —I’ll just give him a call, I say. Can you take this? I say, holding out my activity log.

  * * *

  —

  I change out of my uniform and then sit in my personal vehicle in the parking lot. I bring up Sergeant Ahearn’s number. I dial and reach his voicemail.

  —Sergeant Ahearn, I say. It’s Michaela Fitzpatrick. I have to talk to you about something that happened on my shift today. It’s urgent.

  I leave my number for him, though I know he has it.

  I drive out of the lot, heading for home.

  When I pull into the driveway, the landlady is standing in the yard, hands on hips, looking up into the sky. My car is full of junk and debris, and I wave a quick hello to Mrs. Mahon as I get out, and then I open the back door and bend in to retrieve some of it. I wish Mrs. Mahon would go inside. She is wearing another of her funny seasonal sweatshirts—this one is a wreath with three-dimensional decorations—which I imagine are meant to be conversation-opening in some way.

  I gather an armful of bags and wrappers and shoes from the floor of the car. Then I stand and walk toward the backyard.

  As I do, Mrs. Mahon calls after me.

  —Did you hear about the snow? she says.

  I stop and turn, briefly.

  —What snow, I say.

  —They’re saying a foot overnight, says Mrs. Mahon. It’s a bombogenesis.

  This she says with quiet urgency, peering over her glasses, as if she is announcing a tsunami headed in our direction. Probably she doesn’t expect me to know the word. I do.

  —I’d better turn on the news, I say, with as much seriousness as I can muster.

  I’m humoring her. Since we moved into the apartment above her, Mrs. Mahon has made apocalyptic weather announcements approximately a dozen times, including one occasion when she made us tape our windows due to what was predicted to be golf ball–sized hail. (It wasn’t.) People like Mrs. Mahon clog up the grocery stores the night before storms, buying milk and bread that they won’t ever consume, filling bathtubs with water that, forty-eight hours later, they will watch sadly as it disappears down a slow drain.

  —Good night, Mrs. Mahon, I say.

  * * *

  —

  The house seems empty when I open the door. The living room, at least, is dark, and the television is off.

  —Hello? I call. No one replies.

  I walk quickly toward the back of the apartment. Suddenly, my son steps into the hallway from the bathroom. He’s wearing his favorite accessory: a Phillies cap that his father bought for him a year ago. He’s holding one finger to his lips.

  —Shhhhhh, he says.

  —What? I say.

  —Bethany’s taking a nap, he says.

  Thomas points toward the door of his bedroom. Sure enough, there on his bed is Bethany, stretched out on Thomas’s race car comforter, one hand curled under a cheek, her hair and her makeup impeccable.

  I slam the door closed loudly. Open it again. On the other side of it, Bethany is rising slowly, angelically, stretching, in no particular hurry. One perfect red line bisects her right che
ek: a wrinkle in the pillowcase has left its mark.

  —Hey, says Bethany, nonchalantly. She glances at her phone.

  —Sorry, she says, perhaps noticing at last my expression, which hovers someplace around incredulity. She adds, I stayed up late last night. Just needed a power nap.

  * * *

  —

  Only later—after a short conversation with Bethany about how, even though Thomas seems mature, he’s really only four, and can’t be left alone; after Bethany has left, her hurt feelings conveyed by her silence and a series of baleful looks; after I have prepared dinner, and put it down on the table—do I realize I never turned on the news.

  When I do, I find that I’ve underestimated Mrs. Mahon. She was correct: Cecily Tynan is predicting six to twelve inches of snow overnight, and more to the north and west of the city.

  —No, I say softly. There are no snow days when you’re a police officer. And—more thanks to Bethany—I have no more sick or personal days to expend.

  —Mom, says Thomas, and I wait to be interrogated. Thomas is very perceptive, and I have no doubt that he can sense that something is awry.

  But he doesn’t say anything for a while, and instead sits down next to me on the couch. He has his head down.

  —What’s the matter? I say. What’s wrong, Thomas?

  I put an arm around him. His skin is warm. His hair is corn silk. He sinks into my side, and I think for just an instant of lying back with him, pulling him toward me as I did when he was an infant, his cheek to my sternum. Is there any more pleasant feeling than the weight of a baby on one’s chest? But he is adamant, these days, about being big, a big kid, and I have no doubt that he would quickly squirm away.

  —I’m lucky to have you, I say to him quietly. Do you know that?

  Saying it aloud—even acknowledging my gratefulness for Thomas too frequently in my thoughts—seems to me to be a kind of jinx, an invitation, an open window through which some creature might come in the night and spirit him away.

  —Thomas? I say again, and he finally looks at me.

  —When’s my birthday? he says.

  —You know the answer to that, I say. When’s your birthday?

  —December third, he says. But how long is that from now?

  I blink, realizing. One week from now, I say. Why do you ask?

  Thomas looks down again. Bethany was talking about birthdays today, he says, and she asked me when mine was. And I told her. And then she asked me if I was having a party.

  Every year prior, Simon has taken him to do something special on or around his birthday: for his fourth, they went to the movies; for his third, they went to the Franklin Institute; for his second, which he of course doesn’t remember, they went to the Please Touch Museum. This year, I figured I’d take up the mantle. We’d do something similar, just the two of us. But Thomas is looking up at me hopefully. And I suppose it wouldn’t be out of the question to arrange a small party with friends.

  —Guess what, I say finally. If you wanted a birthday party, we could probably put one together. Maybe we could even invite a few friends from your old school.

  He grins.

  —No promises, I say. It depends on who’s available.

  He nods.

  —Who would you like to invite? I say.

  —Carlotta and Lila, he says, without hesitating. He’s bouncing in his seat on the sofa now, his legs straight out before him.

  —Okay, I say. I’ll call their parents, all right? What do you want to do with them?

  —Go to McDonald’s, he says, unswervingly. With the playground.

  I pause for just the smallest beat. Then I say, Sounds great.

  He’s talking about the one in South Philadelphia, the one Simon used to take him to, the one that has an indoor play space. He hasn’t been there in over a year. I’m surprised he still remembers it.

  He clasps his hands together tightly, bringing them up beneath his chin, the way he does whenever he can’t contain his excitement.

  —McDonald’s, he says again. And I can get whatever I want, right?

  —Within reason, I say.

  * * *

  —

  He falls asleep on the sofa not long after that, and I carry him to his bed, laying him down there.

  I’ve always been strict with Thomas about where he sleeps. He had terrible colic when he was a baby, and often cried and cried inconsolably, and hearing those sounds nearly tore me in half. There has always been a part of me—animal, feral, governed by some force that seems to be trying to claw its way out of my abdomen—that hungers for Thomas, that physically longs for him, that threatens, each time he wakes in the night, to undo all the work I did over the course of his infancy. But the sleep-training manuals I read were always very clear on one point: never let your child sleep in a bed with you, they said; not only will this imperil the life of your child, but the habit will be next to impossible to break, and will ultimately result in a child who lacks confidence and independence, a child who is not capable of soothing himself, and who is not well positioned to function in the world.

  Therefore, from the time he was a few months old, Thomas has had his room, and I have had mine. When we lived in Port Richmond, this worked well. His colic subsided, as I knew it would, and soon he became a good, sound sleeper, and both of us woke each day rested and refreshed.

  When we moved into this apartment, though, things changed. Now, with increasing frequency, Thomas has been begging to sleep in my room. Sometimes I even find him curled into a ball at the foot of my bed, having snuck in very quietly while I sleep. When I notice he has done this, or on the occasions when I catch him in the act, I am firm with him, and bring him back to his race car bed, and reassure him that he’ll be fine, and turn on the night-light that I purchased for him for further comfort.

  In general, I feel quite confident that I am correct on this point. Only one recent episode makes me waver in my certainty. It happened several weeks ago: I woke in the early hours of the morning to the sound of a whimpering the likes of which I had never heard. It was coming from the foot of the bed, and it sounded more like a puppy than a boy. And then a small voice began to chant one word aloud, over and over again: Daddy, the voice was saying, Daddy, Daddy.

  Quietly, I roused myself from the bed and tiptoed to the end of it. There, in a nest of blankets and pillows, was my son. He was talking in his sleep. I watched him for a moment, uncertain whether to wake him. He pedaled his limbs wildly, like a dog chasing rabbits in his dreams. In the dim room I could only just make out his expression, which changed rapidly: he smiled, and then frowned, and then his eyebrows pinched together, and then his chin puckered. I leaned down to him, and only then did I notice he had been crying in his sleep; the pillowcase beside his face, in fact, was soaked with tears. I put one hand on his forehead, and then his shoulder. Thomas, I said, Thomas. You’re all right.

  But he couldn’t be woken, and so, for that one night, I brought him into my bed with me, and I put my hand very lightly on his smooth forehead, the way my mother used to do for me, and stroked his eyebrows gently until he settled.

  When he at last looked comfortable, I returned him to bed. And in the morning, when he recounted a memory of having seen me in the night, I told him that it had only been a dream.

  Overnight, I open my eyes to find that we are in the thick of it.

  Out my bedroom window, snow is falling heavily in the shaft of light sent out by the streetlamp at the foot of Mrs. Mahon’s driveway.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, I wake to my phone alarm, snatch it off my bedside table, and press Cancel. There on the screen, unsurprisingly, is a text from Bethany, sent at six in the morning:

  Roads r crazy! Can’t make it : (

  —No, I say aloud. I stand up and walk to the window. A thick coat of white over everything. No,
I say again.

  I hear Thomas’s footsteps as he walks down the hall toward my room. He knocks, and then opens the door.

  —What’s wrong? he asks.

  —Bethany can’t come today, I say. She’s snowed in.

  Or, just as likely, she’s pouting because of the exchange we had yesterday.

  —Yes! says Thomas, and it occurs to me too late that he thinks this means I will stay home with him.

  —No, I say. I’m sorry, Thomas. No more time off. I have to go to work.

  His small face crumples, and I take it in my hands.

  —I’m sorry, I say again. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thinking.

  Thomas puts his small chin on my shoulder, light as a bird.

  —Where will I go? he says.

  —I’m not sure yet, I say.

  —I can come to work with you, he says. I can ride in the backseat.

  I smile. I’m afraid that’s not allowed, I say.

  I pull him onto my lap. Together, we wonder what we’ll do.

  * * *

  —

  Reluctantly, I try Gee first. In the past, she’s watched Thomas on a handful of occasions, true emergencies. But I’m not optimistic. Sure enough: she doesn’t answer her phone.

  I try Carla, Thomas’s former part-time babysitter, next.

  But Carla works at an insurance company in Center City these days, and she tells me regretfully that her office is open.

  Ashley, I think. A last resort. I call her cell phone. No answer. I send her a text.

  * * *

  —

  While waiting for Ashley to reply, I feed Thomas breakfast and gaze out the window. It’s still snowing. There’s the driveway to shovel, before I do anything else.

  —Put on your boots, I say to my son.

  * * *