the protector

  Work, work, work . . . It seems to be all I ever do. I suppose I shouldn't complain because it pays the bills, but there are the days when I would do anything to be as carefree as the blurred children playing at Washington Street playground. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see them smiling and laughing, but their gleeful sounds are drowned out by my screaming sirens.
    I'm always moving so fast to get here or there. Make a bust. Haul them into the holding cell. Wait to bring 'em up for a hearing. Back to the holding cell. Off to the big house. Another big bust, or a stake-out, or a week-long investigation, where I don't see the wife and kids at all.
    Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth it. Marjorie always asks me to just give it up and take a job at her father's hardware store, and I know maybe I should. I never do, but maybe I should.
    Last night for instance, I got home around 11 PM, and as I'm driving up to my house, my teenage daughter, Gloria, is making out with some bastard in the backseat of his Camaro. She hit the curb faster than a cat pouncing on a mouse, and the lucky little shit drove away before I had a chance to teach him a lesson. Stuff like that makes me see how she needs her dad around, someone to look out for her, to teach her the guys to watch out for. She was in her room with the lights off before I had a chance to say a thing.

    Although it would be nice to be home more, today is work as usual. I walk into the yellow and baby blue kitchen to my favorite kind-of morning. Bacon sizzling on the grill and filling the air with that mouth-watering scent.  Marjorie is cooking eggs, while Gloria and Stephen are getting the table set for a family breakfast. Since I don't get home for dinner that often, breakfast is the special meal we get to have together, as often as we can.
    "Oh, Margie, no one makes breakfast like you babe!" I say as I spin her away from the stove and into my arms for a kiss.
    "Hal, I'm cooking," she says as she laughs and swats my hand away from her hip.
    "Good morning, kids," I say as I grab the paper from the table.
    "Good morning, Dad," I hear them say almost in perfect unison, as I start scanning the paper to see if there have been any busts on the night shift.
    Stephen keeps talking about school and showing me the art project he made, but I don't have a chance to look up. "Great son, I want to hear about it in just a second . . . let me just check for one thing in the paper."
    "Hey Dad, I just wanted to say . . . about last night. Ah, Jim is not a bad guy you know. You always seem to think the guys I like are such scum, but really he isn't." The pleading tone of Gloria's voice grabbed my attention from the paper.
    "Well, if he is such an upstanding citizen, then why was he making out with my daughter at 11 PM on a school night," I say with my best interrogation eyes drilling through her.
    "Dad! Last night was my play. Don't you pay attention to anything going on around here!" she says with a flaming tongue. "I guess not. The play went until 10 and then we had a cast meeting. We didn't even leave school until 10:30!"
    "Well, he shouldn't have been parked in front of my house that late.”  I turned to Marge, “Marjorie, why didn't you bring her home? Why did you let that jerk drive her home so late?"
    "Hal, stop it. I was home with Stephen, and Jim is not a jerk. You don't even know the kid, so just stop it."
    "Look, I've had just about enough of everyone jumping down my throat," I say as I stand up from the table. "I was really looking forward to a pleasant breakfast with my family, but I suppose that's out. Hope you all have a nice day."
    I make my way out the front door, and I can hear them telling me to come back, saying things like I'm over-reacting, and that I need to have my breakfast, but what do they know. I'm just trying to watch out for my daughter, be a good father, and I'm always the one who is wrong. Marjorie and Gloria are always ganging up and telling me I have no idea what is going on, but it is really them who have no idea about the real world. If they had seen half the shit I see on a daily basis, they would know that I'm right to watch out for my girl's safety.
    I open the door and am off like a flash to my breakfast plan B. Driving through at McDonald's doesn't bring on quite the warm feeling of sizzling bacon in my own kitchen, but it has a familiarity that feels good nonetheless.

* * *

    After a busy day, I'm pulling up Hillside Drive again just around 11, and that same damn Camaro is in front of the house.  As I get closer and ready to raise hell, I see no one is in it. I grab the license plate number and run in to see if the weasel worked his way into the house.
    Everything is dark, so I flip on the lights. I start wandering around, peeking from room to room to see where everyone is. After seeing that both Stephen and Gloria's rooms are empty, I start shouting to see who is there.
    I panic and run to the kitchen to see if there is a note, and of course, there is:

        Hal, we're at Gloria's play. It's the last night, so we'll probably be home late. Sorry you had to miss it. Jim's with us, and he'll pick up his car when we get home.
        Love, Marjorie  

    Just as I read the end of it, I hear the car pull up. I hear some laughing in the garage, and then Gloria opens the door into the kitchen. As we make eye contact, I'm overwhelmed by how grown-up and beautiful she looks.
    "How was the play honey? I'm so sorry I missed it."
    The smile on her face falls, and she responds, "it was ok. I did pretty well, I guess. They videotaped it, so you can see it if you want." At the end, she gave me one of those shy smiles that melts a dad's heart.
    "Oh, I do want to see it. Definitely, let's get the video."
    Now, everyone is in the house, including Jim.
    "Hi Mr. Silver, it's good to finally meet you," he says while extending his hand.
    "Hi. . . You know, you better watch where you park that nice car of yours so late at night."
    "Oh, I will, don't you worry," he said holding a cocky gaze right into my eyes.
    Ooo, I knew this guy was no good. Who responds to their girlfriend's father so smug and full of himself?
    "Well, it's pretty late there Jim," I say while slapping him on the back and escorting him to the door.
    "Bye Gloria, Marjorie, Stephen. See you later," he says as I slam the door behind him.
    "Dad you are so RUDE! I HATE YOU!" Gloria screams as she runs up the stairs. Stephen follows close behind her, and Marjorie whacks me with her purse.
    "What!? That kid is no good, I'm telling you. Calling you Marjorie, and talking to me with that tone. I know he is no good, and I'll prove it to you Marge."
    "Save it ok, I am so sick of this shit. You are never around to actually be a parent, and then you jump on this high horse like you know exactly what is going on for the five minutes that you are here. You don't have a clue about Jim, ABOUT YOUR OWN KIDS, about ANYTHING that happens in this house!"
    I just stare at her, completely dumbfounded. She never talks to me like this. Sometimes she gives me a hard time, but this was more than a little jab.  What has gotten into her? Did this disrespectful little bastard turn my whole family against me?

    I can't sleep at all through the night and am so relieved to see the sunrise. Finally, I can just get the hell out of bed and get to the station. I'm going to find out the truth about this kid and show them all that I'm right.
    After another pull through breakfast, I get to the station and plug in the little dirtbag's plate number. After so many years with the force, it is second nature to memorize the plates of suspicious people. This was the key to beginning my investigation, and my gut told me it wouldn't be hard to get the word on this kid.
    Finally, the computer flashes a report. As I scan the contents, I see that a Jim is not the registered owner of the vehicle. A man by the name of Carl Blakely is the actual owner; Carl must be his father.  I quickly change programs to check on rap sheets for the Blakely family.
    Carl's record is clean, but once I put James Blakely in my system, I find what I'm looking for. There is a James Blakely with the right age, and surprise, surprise, he has tons of juvenile charges, one after another, after another. Looks like he isn't even supposed to be out of juvey right now.  He must have been one of that wave that just got let out because of overcrowding. His last charge was a simple assault, a fight at school.
    Hmmm, they must have let him out just based on the severity of that one charge.
    As I scroll through, all of a sudden I see it. The anger rises from my belly and fills my head with steam as I read that two years ago he was charged with sexual assault.  The charges were dropped, but I'm sure that isn't all there is to it. Oh, I knew this guy was trouble.
    "Captain, get out here, your late for the meeting. We have to get done early today."
    "Alright, alright. I'll be right there, I'm just finishing up some important research," I shout back as I close down the program and rush to join the meeting.

* * *

    All day I can't stop thinking about this bastard and his plans for my daughter. I want so badly to get more info, pull some records, make some calls, but there just isn't time in my day. As the sun goes down on this Friday evening, I just can't sit at my desk and fester about what might be happening. It is time to do something about it.
    For the first time in ages, I actually pack up my stuff and leave the office at 5:00 when all the new recruits on the day shift head for home. I speed the whole way determined to catch Gloria at dinner and forbid her to see Jim again. I will not take no for an answer.
    Still on my way through the door, I say, "Marjorie, where's Gloria?"
    "She went home from school with Jim, and they are going to Susie's house, and then to the movies with some friends later tonight. What are you doing here so early? I didn't even make enough dinner for you."
    "What do you mean she's out with him. Marge! Why don't you listen to me? I told you the kid was no good, and you keep defending him and keep letting her be alone with him. I am right you know! I checked up on him at the station, and I found out he has quite a few charges, even one for sexual assault! And here you are sending your daughter off with the damn predator."
    Stephen walks in. "Hi dad! What are you doing home?"
    "Not now Stephen. Your mother and I are talking about something very important."
    "Hal, are you sure about all this? I just can't believe that could possibly be true. He is really a nice kid. I met his mother at the play, and I can just tell.  She is a good woman."
    "Marge, trust me. I know what I'm talking about, and I'm getting to my daughter before it is too late." Before Marjorie has a chance to say another word, I am out the door.
    Luckily Susie only lives a few blocks away, so I can speed down to her house before there is too much time for that creep to hurt Gloria. I swear I'll ring his little neck when I get a hold of it.
    As I am pulling up to the front of Susie's house, I immediately notice that none of the front windows are lit. It looks as though no one is home, but Jim's swanky ride is outside. He better not be alone in there with her. I better get the hell in there.
    I'm not going to ring the bell and give him a chance to make it look like everything is fine and dandy.  No, I need to catch the little shit red-handed. Pull him in by the back of his neck, and let both Gloria and Marjorie apologize and thank me for knowing about Jim the whole time. Yeah, that is the way this one is supposed to play out.
    I pull the car up in front of the neighbor's house and dart down the driveway into the backyard. The pool out back is still closed for the season, and there is no sign of the kids out there, but there is a glass sliding door into the house.  It is dark in the room adjoining the door, but I can tell there is a light on down the hallway. I slowly sneak over and check to see if the slider is open.
    It is.
    As I slowly creep in the door, I can hear some voices in the other room. I stand in the darkness listening for a second, but I can't completely recognize the voices. Maybe one is Gloria, but I can't be sure. I start down the hallway towards the light.
    A girl screams, "Watch out! Someone broke in!!!!"
    Then, SMASH! Glittering shards of glass fly through my field of vision, and for a moment I feel like a figure in one of those shaken globes with fake snow whirling around. Then, I literally begin to feel myself whirling around, but I straighten up and remember my mission to save Gloria. I continue down the hallway towards the lit room, ready to figure out what the hell is going on here.
    Then, I feel this intense pain at the back of my neck. This sharp and acute sensation, digging into the back of my neck . . . then the pain subsides.  It is as though the pain surpasses my threshold of tolerance, and it sneaks beyond my ability to sense it.  First, I feel my knees hit the ground, and then the rest of me falls in a heap.
    The lights flash on, and I hear the shrieks of a bunch of teenage girls surrounding me.
    "Gloria, it's your dad! Oh my God!! It's your Dad."
    "What are you talking about? Oh, my God. Oh Daddy, I am so sorry. Oh my God. Call an ambulance! Somebody call an ambulance!" I hear Gloria shout through her tears.
    As she begins to sob on my chest, her tears soaking through the front of my shirt begin to moisten my skin. I want so badly to hold her, but I can hardly move my body. Let me try my lips.
    "Gloria sweetheart. What happened? What happened to me?"
    "Oh Daddy, I am so sorry. I thought you were a burglar. As you were headed down the hallway, you looked so vicious and were moving like you were ready to hurt someone. I was trying to protect everyone. I had no idea it was you. I am so sorry. I can't believe this happened. Why are you here Daddy?  Why?"
    I can't respond for a few minutes as the realization that it was Gloria that had done this to me soaked in. Just listening to her cry on my chest and knowing her pain.  Why the hell am I here?
    "Oh Gloria baby, it's ok. It's ok. This is my fault. All my fault. I'm always trying to be such a hero. It's my fault."  Now I'm sobbing, not from the physical pain, only the pain I can see in her. As I feel the wet pool of blood stretch across the back region of my body, I know I'm losing a lot of blood. I know these kinds of injuries. I know the outcome of extensive bleeding like this. I know that I'm not in the kind-of good health you need to be in to bounce back from something like this.
    "Daddy, what are you doing here?" Gloria gasps as she is trying to pull in some air between her heaving sobs.
    "Oh. . . I was trying to come here and rescue you from Jim. . . I found out some information about him, and I wanted to come and get you away from him. . . Baby, he isn't safe."
    "What?! He isn't safe. Dad, you don't know what you're talking about. He is perfectly safe. You didn't have to do this."
    "No, Glory, just promise me that you'll never see him . . . Uhgh . . . I ran his plates . . . and I learned a lot about his rap sheet, his priors . . . He is not a good kid Glory. . . Stay away from him, please . . . promise me," I plead.
    "Daddy, oh my God, this huge mistake and now look at where we are. Oh my God, why the hell did this happen. Oh my God. Daddy, it isn't even HIS CAR!! He borrowed the car from his friend, Carl.  He is just driving it around while Carl is out of town!"
    Gloria stops crying and just starts starring.
    In this emotionless tone, Gloria says, "what have I done." She just continues staring past me, holding this blank look.
    "Gloria, I'm sorry!  This is all my fault. . ."
    There is no response from her.
    I muster as much strength as I possibly can, and I scream as loudly as I can, "I'M SORRY! . . . I don't want you to suffer. . . I don't want you to suffer . . ." My voice begins to trail off.
    I feel myself getting weaker, but I just want her to know she doesn't need to feel all this pain. It is my fault, not hers . . . all my fault.