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It’s My Job by Vaughn C. Hardacker
She met me at the gate. The bruises she thought were hidden had almost healed. However, one ugly, yellowish patch was still visible through her makeup. She saw me and crossed the terminal. I could see she was making a valiant effort not to cry. I dropped my bags and gathered her in my arms.
"Thanks for coming, Dad." Her voice sounded muffled as she pressed the side of her face against my chest.
I gently stroked the back of her head and softly said, "I had no other choice, baby—it’s my job."
She smiled and wiped at the tear that ran down her left cheek. "Let’s get out of here. Do you have a bag?"
I picked up the carry-on and my laptop case and said, "Just these––I travel light."
Her face flushed and my heart broke. This was my baby, my youngest child, and I hated seeing her like this. But I was there and determined to make everything all right.
Sally seemed to get her emotions under control and she made a courageous attempt to look happy. Nevertheless, I knew she was anything but. Twelve years of trying to make a go of it with the loser I called "Zero" had taken its toll.
"You’re an expert at traveling light." She tried to make small talk as we walked out of the terminal and into the driving rain. "So have you been anyplace exciting lately?"
"I wouldn’t call my business trips exciting," I said. "I just got back from Buenos Aires three days ago."
She paused briefly. "That was when Steve disappeared."
Sally noticed the distaste in my look. "Dad, I know you’ve never cared for Steve.…"
"What gave me away? The fact I call him ‘Zero’?"
"He has his good points, Dad."
"Let’s see, he’s egotistical, an alcoholic and drug addict, and he misses more work than anyone I know. Yeah he’s a real gem, Babe. Just the man I always dreamed you’d bring home."
"Dad.…"
"Sally, be realistic about this—Steve thinks he can beat the system and the truth is he has for years. He’s had more DUIs than any three people have a right to and, although he lost his license ten years ago, still drives all the time—usually when he’s either drunk or high. He thinks he’s a smooth operator and that’s why the judges keep slapping him on the wrist and letting him off. The truth of the matter is he’s benefited from an overtaxed system. The courts are overwhelmed with murderers, gang-bangers and felons; a petty creep like Steve is too small to be bothered with. So, they keep letting him walk and he continues playing his silly games.
"I know his modus operandi better than the plot of a bad made-for-TV movie. If nothing else, Steve is consistent. The minute he knows he’s in trouble with the law he admits himself to an addiction treatment center. He does his twenty-eight days and the counselors forward documentation to the courts saying he was taking care of his problem—freeing him to keep on keeping on.
"Even when I learned he’d been drinking and drugging again and wanted to pay him a visit, you warded me off, saying everything was working itself out." I recalled the incident. How I wanted to hold his head in a toilet until he drowned, but acquiesced to her wishes and stayed away.
Sally walked beside me saying nothing. I saw the same stubborn set to her jaw that was in photos of me as a young Marine, and knew the situation was worse than she’d reported to me when she called asking if I would come to Chicago.
We left O’Hare and drove toward her home in the western suburbs. Sally is a good driver and she handles traffic with ease. I’m more than willing to let her drive. Chicagoland and its suburbs are not my favorite place. I lived here for twelve years; there are only two seasons here—winter and road construction. I don’t need that hassle.
I waited for Sally to break the silence. We stopped at the intersection of Irving Park and York Roads, waiting for the longest and slowest freight train in the Midwest to pass when she finally spoke. "Dad, why did Mom and you break up?"
"Which job? I don’t even know what it is that you do, other than you travel all the time."
"I’m a…well, let’s say I’m a freelance troubleshooter. People hire me to fly all over the world and fix problems for them. But that isn’t why your mother took you and left. She couldn’t handle being married to a career Marine. There were too many unaccompanied overseas tours and she hated being alone, and when I wasn’t gone, she disliked being told where to live."
"You wouldn’t get out?"
"And do what? I have no formal education. The life was hard, but the job security was great. What’s with the interrogation?"
"All those years, when I was small and needed a father…I thought you left because of me."
I turned to her, hoping she didn’t see the hurt I felt. "That was never it, Sally. Not in a million years would I have left you. But, like I said, I’d be gone for a year at a time and I couldn’t raise you. You were better off with your mother. Hon, why haven’t you brought this up before now?"
I saw her jaw clench again, "I don’t know," she said, "for a long time it didn’t matter. Now it does—maybe it’s what I’m going through right now."
I stared at the train and turned the subject back to Steve. "He’s probably holed up somewhere on a binge."
"In all fairness, Dad, that’s never been his style. He would drink and party, but he never stayed away, not even overnight. There were times, for the boys’ sake, I wished he would, but he didn’t. I don’t know what the boys and I will do if something’s happened to him."
I felt my face flush as spontaneous rage exploded within me. "What? You should be asking yourself what you and the boys are going to do if he does come home!"
I reached over and turned her face toward me. I looked into her soft brown eyes and felt my rage cool and my heart shatter. This man had been battering her, probably for years, yet she still believed she couldn’t make it without him. I decided it was time for me to tell her what I knew. "Sally, the makeup isn’t hiding the bruises any more. I’ve known he’s been beating you for over a year. Your brother told me that Steve and his father got drunk and knocked you around—at least once, probably more than once."
She began to cry and I took her in my arms. I held her tightly as she sobbed. I stroked her head and stared out through the windshield, watching the wipers toss away the rain. The freight passed and she was still shaking as she bawled out her heart. A man in the car behind us honked his horn and whipped around us, spinning his tires on the wet road. I gave him the finger as he glared at us.
My grandsons and I sat in the living room, reacquainting ourselves. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. If I traveled through Chicago on business, I’d take an early flight to spend the day with Sally and the boys. Zero would be there occasionally, but the atmosphere was always tense. Steve knew I didn't like him and I knew he was afraid of me—he had reason to be. If I’d known what he was doing I’d have put a stop to it a long time ago.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car pull into the drive and I parted the curtain. A couple of uniformed cops got out of a cruiser and walked to the front door. They rang the bell and Sally let them in. Her face was ashen.
"Mrs. Clarren?"
"Yes."
"I’m afraid we have some bad news for you."
I walked behind Sally and supported her. I gently pulled her out of the doorway and said, "Will you guys come in?" I guided Sally to the couch and settled her on it.
The older cop took his hat off and said, "Ma’am—"
"It’s my husband, isn’t it?"
"I’m afraid so. They found his SUV parked in the woods over by the Park District land."
"Who’s ‘they’?" I asked.
"I’m sorry," the officer said. "He was found by the Park District Police. Anyhow, your husband was found dead inside his vehicle."
"Dead?" Sally was as pale as a field of newly fallen snow. "How?"
I snorted with contempt. "Probably died from an overdose."
The older cop looked antsy. "That’s for the Medical Examiner to determine."
Sally bolted for the bathroom and we stood awkwardly listening to her retching. I motioned for the cops to follow me into the kitchen, where we could talk openly.
The officers looked uncomfortable, as if they weren’t sure how much they should tell me. I tried to put them at ease: "It’s all right, I’m her father. How did my son-in-law die?"
"He was shot," the younger officer blurted out. He reddened when the older cop gave him a scathing look.
"Shot?"
The older cop must have decided that since he’d prematurely introduced the subject he may as well tell me. "In the head. We found a witness who saw him and his father drive into the park. A local kid, he used to live across the street from them and knew them both."
"But you only found my son-in-law?"
"Yes, we’re trying to locate the father, but he’s missing."
"Jerry’s gone too?"
We turned to see Sally standing in the door. She was holding a wash cloth against her mouth.
"Yes, ma’am, the last time anyone saw either of them they were together."
She dropped her arms and sighed. "They probably were drinking out there. They always drink together and then they get nasty and fight."
"Well," the junior cop said, "this time they must have done it up good."
"We’re still looking for his father," the older cop said.
Sally sat—actually, seemed to fall—into a chair. "Oh, my God," she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "How can I tell the boys that their father is dead and their grandfather did it?"
My head inadvertently spun in her direction before I realized she was talking about Steve’s father.
"We didn’t say that." The younger cop seemed more than a little defensive. "All we know is his father is missing too."
Sally ignored him. "It was inevitable. When they drink together they always argue. For the last year those arguments have become more and more violent."
The older cop became interested. "What did they argue about?"
"Anything—and everything, they didn’t need a reason to fight. They’ve been doing it for years," Sally said.
I looked over her shoulder and noticed a couple of poorly patched holes in the kitchen wall. For the millionth time, I wondered what Sally had ever seen in Steve; even at his best, he was a loser.
The senior cop was the first to walk to the door. "Do you want us to call someone to be with you, ma’am?"
Sally looked up. Her eyes were red and I knew she was about to fall apart. "No, officer," I said. "I’ll be staying here for a few days until everything is settled."
"Fair enough," he answered, and he motioned for his partner to follow him out. He paused at the door. "Since it appears this was a murder, the state police will have jurisdiction. I’m sure their detectives will be contacting you in the next 24 hours."
As soon as they were gone Sally broke down; I gave her something to help her sleep and put her to bed. I fed the boys and we watched a cartoon movie on the DVD player until a little after eight.
I sat alone while the boys took their bath, lost in thoughts of all the things I had missed while Sally was growing up. The most important role we ever have is that of parent and it’s probably the one job we’re least prepared for—I’m proof of that.
I felt guilty. I’d chosen a profession that took me away from Sally. Now my grandkids would grow up without their father. I never really knew my own father——he’d died when I was six. I wondered if growing up fatherless was our family curse. I anesthetized my guilt by rationalizing that grandchildren are God’s way of giving us a second chance and became determined to be in their lives more than I had.
Once the boys were tucked into their beds, I returned to the kitchen and booted my laptop. I hooked my modem into the phone line and connected to my e-mail provider. I quickly scanned my public mailbox and then checked my private one. There was a short message: "Paladin, you have a contract." I launched the browser and loaded my web page. As the symbol of a black chess knight appeared, I let my thoughts drift. I was a kid again, sitting on the floor in front of my mother’s black-and-white television, mesmerized as I watched my hero. Richard Boone played Paladin, a paid troubleshooter; the program was "Have Gun, Will Travel." I logged in and saw the contract: a drug lord in Colombia, another wife-beater—they’re my specialty.
I heard Sally stir and waited a few seconds for her to settle down. I wondered how she would feel if she knew I had stopped in Chicago on my return from Buenos Aires. Steve had been pro bono, free of charge.
As for his father—I made sure they will never find his body; it’s submerged at the bottom of a 75-foot-deep quarry. He’s the deliberate loose end, my red herring. His disappearance will keep them busy for a while.
At the end, Steve and his father were not so tough. They stared into the barrel of the .22 automatic, begged, and cried. They asked why I was doing this.
I smiled and told the truth. "It’s my job."
THE END Vaughn C. Hardacker © 2007 |
