I tripped on the last step out of the police station. Oh yes. The mighty Detective McBrennain had decided there was nothing to charge me with after all and released me. Bully, that’s what he was: accusing me of things I knew nothing of, twisting my words, and stealing my sleep. I felt like I’d lost half my weight and part of my mind in sweat and anxiety. And now, here I was, picking myself off the ground, wondering if anyone would see me on my middle of the night hike back home, and hoping my wild floral combination of red, orange, and spring green wasn’t sticking out from under my sweats. I was absolutely too tired to do anything about it.
“Miss?”
I looked up and a policeman motioned me to his car. I had the crazy urge to make a run for it, and I’d like to say common sense prevailed, but who are we kidding? It was fatigue.
“You look tired. Can I give you a ride home?”
Seriously? I began to regret ever going for a mani-pedi and Sunday School cursed everyone involved, including the lovely Lolita, my manicurist. Despite my newly-found mistrust of detectives in general, I got in his car.
“My name is Sergeant John Don. And you are . . .?”
I gave him my name and address, leaned my head back, and, I’m embarrassed to say, immediately fell asleep. I must’ve been roused by the engine turning off. And there in front of me was my boring apartment building. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Good grief. I was so very tired, but not so tired that I didn’t care if people saw me sitting in a police car at 3:00 in the morning. I invited him in.
I flipped the switch to heat the coffee I’d made for McBrennain. Sergeant Don would not get a fresh cup.
Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.
And he had told me something that not only washed away the shame I’d felt as I was questioned by McBrennain, but gave me hope and energy. It turns out, my interview with McBrennain was the final nail in his coffin. Oh yes! Apparently, he’d been so cock-sure of my pitiful vulnerability, he’d revealed more than he realized. According to Sergeant John D., McBrennanin was a bad cop they had been investigating a long while on the suspicion he covered for the car trafficking ring, one of whom was Mr. Glorious. Huh. Well he certainly was in a good position to do so.
Voltaire said, “Fear follows crime and is its punishment”. I believe that it does, but not for everyone. As I warmed my hands on my third cup of coffee (don’t judge unless you’ve had a Why Wine incident of your own), I thought to myself that, as glorious as the stranger had seemed, he didn’t seem the kind who would ever know regret. Or maybe even fear. And McBrennanin? I couldn’t say. Some people love criminality, either outright or cloaked in authority.
I signed something that said I’d testify to everything I told Sergeant John Don, who by now was beginning to develop his own sort of gloriousness. I swallowed my thoughts, gave him a little smile, and closed the door behind him with my beautifully and dreadfully manicured hand.
I left our coffee on the table, grabbed a blanket to cover myself, and fell asleep on the couch. I’d need my beauty sleep if I was going to have another mani-pedi: and I mean the minute Salon de Beauté opened. Why Wine was my new least favorite color. Maybe I’d replace it with Siren Red.
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Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.
Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.
hungry. So we sauntered over (I know, what a word; but I believe it matched the extravagance of walking over the threshold of a place using French in its name, don’t you?) to Sissy’s Diner and ordered soup. Again, I know. But we’d just had manicures. What did you expect us to do? Break a nail carving steak? We considered sandwiches, of course; but by the time we would’ve handled the greasy fries that came with them, again, why take chances? And it wasn’t like we ordered chicken broth. We had the clam chowder Sissy’s was famous for. Plus handling a spoon gave each of us an excuse to glance at our newly polished fingertips: Pink Delish for my friend and Why Wine for me.
As we chatted on our way out the door of Sissy’s, I noticed a car just a few parking spaces down that exactly matched my mani-pedi color. What are the odds? We decided to walk (done with the sauntering now that we’d had clam chowder) over and take a hand selfie by the car. I mean, the color match was so unlikely – in our minds, at least – that it deserved a photo.
only read about. We might consider a newspaper article or item on the nightly news about a soldier who died, though we can’t recall where or when in the next minute. Some citizens have a personal connection to a father or mother, 
grandfather, uncle or great someone or other whose medal is in someone’s attic.
As time passes,you admire crafts made by hands of someone who is urging their soldier home stitch by stitch, project by project. Maybe you let someone know love is sent their way when they are lonely or worried. You commend every promotion. You read questions about locations of military bases. What are they like? How dangerous is it? You are privy to close calls and near misses. You hear about news of deployment and visceral sickness and worry so heavy it makes it hard to do ordinary things that need doing. Pride and fear become inextricably linked, and heaven is inundated with desperate prayers from all corners of the country at all hours.
vehicle accident. They were killed in Afghanistan or Iraq or someplace whose name we know, with a few facts we can repeat, but not much else. You recognize a name. A face. And there it is.
whose mother you talked with and whose visits home you celebrated. This soldier is a member of those admired by good people, but personally known by few. And this soldier deserves not just a minute on a day of remembering. He or she merits some time of reflection on his life and dreams, quirky sense of humor, tender letters home, anxious waiting, and desire to do a good thing. This soldier deserves a country’s honor.
I carried out a few suitcases and whatever other few things I had to bring, and stashed them all in a friend’s car. I was leaving for college during a time when my residence had one phone that hung on a hallway wall. There were no emails nor texts, and long distance costs were by the call and by the minute. Kids who went to college didn’t have much contact with their parents other than letters and holidays. As we pulled away, I could see my mom in the rearview mirror. She stood in the driveway and watched us until we were out of sight.
A candle is burning somewhere tonight. It burns to signify a prayer. Or penance. Or the presence of Christ.
our home needs since my husband’s idea of excitement is watching T.V. with a cold Dr. Pepper in his hand and my preference is a cozy mystery. Our action-packed evenings amaze even us.
bump (being without a working fist), can shake hands, and remembers what he first learned: sitting and lying down. He even stays if you don’t expect it to last beyond 30 seconds. He sits by my chair while I’m at the computer (as long as I have some snacks to bribe him with from time to time). He understands quite a few words and expressions, including “something to eat” and “drop it”, although he responds much better to one phrase than the other. He (mostly) comes when he’s called. We did have one little episode in Minneapolis, but it’s better left undiscussed, and my stress at a tolerable level.
His love of tennis balls is without compare. And the chase! If he was an orator I imagine he would expound on the thrill, ending with the words, “It makes my life complete”.
staff experiencing his love on a regular basis. And I’ll add here, that never was there, in my experience, a dog more social than this guy. All I have to say is, “Rocky’s outside,” and he bounds for the back door to visit the dog across the fence. I’m not altogether sure the feeling is mutual (Rocky is up in years and might think to himself the yard was more peaceful before an energetic puppy arrived), but some friendships take time, and our dog is in it for the long haul. He’s making in-roads with the tiny little dog kitty-corner to us, two dogs another yard over, and the rest of the walking public (including the high school track team). The expression “never met a stranger” is true of him. And while these days we are becoming doubtful of others’ good intentions, he is not.
And I have some news! We’re not the only ones who care about prayer! (Okay and yes, I rhymed on purpose.)