“I’m telling you that you have a choice.”Kayla gets to her feet.“You can either do what’s good for WISP, or you can do what’s good for your ego.”She clutches her purse in both hands.Tonight, a distant part of my brain notes, will probably be a two-packer for Kayla.“I’m sorry.”
3
Sam
Chief Somerset and Mr.Hazard live in a nice neighborhood of older homes near the high school.It’s the kind of place anybody would like to grow up in.The houses look like real, old houses.I know that sounds dumb, but that’s the only way I can say it.Not cookie-cutter stuff, I mean.The sidewalks are cracked and uneven, and the streets have big tar patches.Everybody keeps their lawns clean, and it’s a good mix of young families and older couples.A real community, which you don’t see all that much anymore.
That’s where I go Friday after my shift ends.
Chief Somerset—Mr.Somerset—is my mentor.We usually meet twice a month, but this is an emergency.He’ll understand.
Mr.Hazard, I’m not so sure.
I park on the street.Colt’s truck is in the driveway—he’s their son.Evie, their daughter, left her bike by the curb, so I wheel it up to the porch.The sound of a lawnmower floats over everything, the day sweet with spring.They’ve got tulips all along the porch’s skirting, and even though they haven’t done much work on the flower beds yet, it all looks real nice.Like a family lives here, I guess.
When I knock on the door, Colt answers.He’s about to turn eighteen, and he finally gave up on having long hair, thank God.He’s a nice-looking kid.He looks a lot like Mr.Hazard, actually, even though they’re not biologically related.But when he had his hair long, he looked like one of those sheep that somebody forgot to shear.
“Hi, Sam,” Colt says.“Come on in; I’ll get J-H.”
He jogs toward the back of the house without waiting for an answer, so I step inside and shut the door.From the back of the house comes the sound of another door opening, and then Colt screaming, “J-H!J-H!”And then, like a kid who thinks he’s an adult, “John-Henry Somerset!”
The lawnmower cuts off, and Mr.Somerset calls something back, but I can’t make out the words.
“You can come back here,” Colt shouts, and then he thumps down the steps toward the basement.
I make my way to the kitchen as Mr.Somerset comes inside.He’s wearing an old Wahredua Wildcats T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, mesh shorts, and an old pair of sneakers stained from cutting the grass.His hair is blond and always a little messy.I guess it’s not really a secret that I think it looks good; that’s why I changed how I wear my hair.One time, a lady who was visiting saw him in St.Taffy’s and sat in his lap and said she wanted to feed him grapes, and the guys at the station still talk about that.The way I think about it is that he’s all the guys you wanted to be in high school.Right now, he’s kicking one foot, trying to shake off little shreds of grass that are clinging to his leg.He smells like hot skin and gasoline and fresh-cut grass, and when he looks up, he smiles.
“Hey, Sam.How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
He takes another look at me, and his eyes crinkle.I think that’s when he’s trying not to smile.“You sure about that?”
I shrug.“I guess not so good.”
“Have a seat.You want something to drink?”
“No, sir.Thanks, though.”
He gets himself a Diet Pepsi from the fridge and leans against the counter.“How was work today?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“Where were you patrolling?”
“Market Street most of the day.They’ve got the riverfront market opening tomorrow.”
He winces.“God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, sir.It was pretty smooth.”
“What’s going on?”
So, I tell him about my conversation with Chief Peterson.
When I finish, Mr.Somerset says, “Well, I guess it’s good to know I left my mark on the department.”
“Oh!Oh no, sir.God, no, that’s not what he meant—”
