Snow Angels (30 page)

“Pumpkin, you’ve been flicking those lights on for an hour now.” Sheila leans into the open patrol car parked in a garage bay, out of the cold, and reaches for her toddler son, who scoots away. The precinct cops brought the cruiser in for the family holiday party, along with a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and a horse named Nella. Although most people have gravitated to the room across the hall with refreshments and a tree, a dozen or so diehards like PJ remain here. Other kids seem enchanted by rides on the horse or a climb onto the seat of the motorcycle, but not PJ. That kid is a police car lover, through and through.

“Patrick Joseph, why don’t you clear out and give someone else a chance to drive. We can go across the way for some juice. And maybe Daddy’s over there. He should be here by now.”

PJ doesn’t notice her; he’s too engrossed in the cruiser’s lights and buttons, a lit computer screen and a steering wheel he’s actually allowed to touch.

“Where in the world is your daddy?” she asks again.

This time her son looks up from the steering wheel, smiling that gummy smile. “Daddy drive peeze car,” he answers.

Well, what kind of answer did she expect from a two-year-old? But really, where the hell is Joe? He should have been here an hour ago.

Moving to the hood of the car, she watches PJ through the glass as she takes out her cell phone and calls Joe for the millionth time. Once again, the call goes right to voicemail, which means he probably has his phone off. “Damn.”

“Little ears here, Mom.” A cop claps a hand on her shoulder and grins.

“Rick!” She turns and gives him a big hug. Rick DeFonso has been tight with Joe since they went through the police academy together. Rick and Angela have two and one on the way. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain. My shift is over, but I thought that was your Katie playing in the other room. Getting big.”

Sheila feels a pinch of pride. “First grade now.”

“And this is the baby?”

“Not a baby anymore. PJ’s two next month.”

He leans into the car. “Pardon me, sir, but you should be wearing your seat belt if you’re going to drive like that.”

For a moment PJ ducks his head shyly, then reaches over to flick on the rack lights.

“How’s Angela doing? And where are your kids?”

“They were here earlier with my sister. Angela’s on bed rest.”

“Oh, no! Not again.”

They discuss Angela’s pregnancy, their Christmas plans, the kids. Rick mentions that Joe and his partner got hung up on a job. “I heard the call come over the radio. Sounded like a fatality.”

“On Christmas Eve? That’s sad.” And it sounds like a job that’s going to detain her husband for a while. She tries to tamp down her disappointment, knowing that when other people need Joe’s help, they
really
need him. Sheila checks her watch, glances toward the other room. “I guess he won’t be making the party, and we have to get out of here soon. Katie’s in the church Christmas pageant at six.”

“Is that right?” Rick slides into the car beside PJ. “You want to go round her up?” I’ll keep an eye on Speed Racer.”

Sheila thanks him and heads out. Just as she reaches the door, a siren peals. She turns back to the cruiser to see Rick roaring with laughter.

“Don’t show him how to use that, Rick. He’ll never stop.”

Rick waves her off. “The siren is half the fun.”

In the next room children scramble through a mound of boxes and wrapping paper under the tree. Apparently Santa has distributed gifts. Sheila locates Katie at a table for six with two other girls and three stuffed animals. At first she’s glad to see that her daughter found some friends, but that relief gives way to agitation as Katie hoists a two-liter bottle of soda, aiming to pour.

“Katherine Bernadette Cody, what do you think you’re doing?” Sheila rushes over and wrests the bottle from her.

“I got a tea set, Mom. See?” Katie lifts a tiny china saucer and cup. “We’re having a tea party, except the tea is really root beer.”

“Oh, no, no. You’re not pouring today, my dear. You’ve got to wear that dress in the pageant.” Sheila tips the bottle and carefully pours cups of soda for the girls. “It is a lovely tea set. So nice of Santa. I hope you thanked him, Katie. Drink up, ladies. Katie has to go. Can’t be late for church.”

As she caps the bottle she mentally calculates the time it will take to pack up this tea set, sticky now, and get the kids out the door. She hoped to talk her daughter out of opening the gift today so there’d be more under the tree tomorrow, but what can you do? Kids are kids. At least she can tuck PJ’s gift away for tomorrow. He’s been so enthralled with the real police car, he won’t even notice.

An EMS worker who’s been watching joins them. Dolly is one of Joe’s favorite paramedics, a real pro. “I wouldn’t serve those stuffed bears any more,” she jokes. “They’re looking a little tipsy.”

“Merry Christmas, Dolly.” Sheila hugs her. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Just thinking that it’s been a long time since any of my kids had a tea party. They’re all out of the house now. One in Boston. My son Tommy is getting married.”

“Congratulations, Dolly.” Sheila smiles as she begins to stack small pink china cups. “But your tea party days aren’t necessarily over.”

Dolly laughs. “Oh, I’m done with that.”

“What about the grandkids?” Sheila suggests.

“You know, you’re right. Tommy and Laura are talking about kids already. Won’t be long.” Dolly squeezes Katie’s shoulder. “I can only hope to have one as sweet as this kid. God bless ’em. They grow up so fast.”

Dread is a bitter taste in his mouth as Joe leads Mr. Boghosian into the apartment building just off Main Street. “It’s a third floor walk-up, but we can take our time on the stairs.”

“I am strong.” Garo Boghosian taps two fists against his chest. “Every day I exercise. Stairs are no problem.”

With a nod, Joe gestures toward the stairwell, letting the older man go first. On the third floor Joe leads the way, then asks Mr. B. to wait outside the door one moment.

Inside, Mack is sitting in the computer chair far from the kid, his body angled so that he can keep one eye on the television, the other on the door. “Hey, man.” Mack stands, rubs his hands together. “You got the father?”

Joe nods toward the door. “He’s waiting out in the hall. Did you reach the coroner?”

Mack’s dark eyebrows arch. “They’re sending a wagon. And Minovich left singing your praises. He actually liked what you did. Thought it was a good idea to go and get the kid’s father.”

“Wonders never cease.” It’s not as though Joe lives for the sergeant’s approval, but it’s always a relief to know that he won’t be getting any flack for the way he handled a job. Joe rubs his jaw; he hates this, absolutely hates it. “Might as well get this over with.”

“Okay, Mr. B.” Joe opens the door wide, holds his hands up as the man steps in. “Mind if I give you a hand?” He’s had people go down, big, burly guys pass out cold at the sight of a body, and he doesn’t want Garo Boghosian to get hurt.

“Fine,” the man says, somewhat begrudgingly, as Joe puts a hand under his elbow and leads him over to the shadowed form on the sofa.

Boghosian draws in a breath, a stab of pain. “I believe it is him.”

He pushes away from Joe and leans over the still body. His fingertips graze the studs along the rim of the boy’s ear. Then he stoops low to study the face, unhampered by the cold touch of death. His hands trace the boy’s shirt, tugging the collar down slightly, revealing a small tattoo at the back of the neck that Joe didn’t notice before. A crow? No, a dragon. Very goth.

The older man leans closer, nearly collapsing onto the body. “Yes, oh yes.” Boghosian’s voice cracks. “It is him.”

Quickly Mack slides a chair over. The two cops help Garo onto it, making sure he’s stable, though the father leans into his son. He will not break contact with the body, as if his touch alone might bring his son back.

“Oh, Armand,” the man sobs, “my Armand.” He touches the boy’s cheeks, cups his shoulders, shakes him as if to wake him up.

Joe bites back the sting of emotion as the man rubs his boy’s back, so similar to the way Joe checks on PJ when he comes home late at night and his boy is in bed. You check the rise and fall of his chest, sweep the baby hair off his forehead, press your lips close to feel for a temperature. Joe isn’t sure where or when he learned to do this, but it’s part of his routine, an instinct.

Mack turns away from the wailing man and shoots Joe a look that says he’ll be outside. Mack has trouble handling stuff like this. Not that it’s easy for anyone, but tonight Joe cannot look away. Somehow, if he witnesses this man’s grief, it seems he will share in Garo Boghosian’s pain and somehow lessen it.

The door closes behind Mack, and Joe widens his stance, prepared to wait it out.

The sobbing man is sitting on the edge of the sofa now, cradling the boy’s body in his arms and rocking him as if he were a newborn baby. “My son, my little Armand…”

Joe watches, powerless to help. He stands in the shadows and waits, respectful, silent, as the man sobs into the night. Nothing Joe can do for him, nothing anyone can do unless you can roll back time and stop a kid from making a fatal mistake.

Like Superman, when he grinds the planet to a halt then spins it backward once or twice, spinning back to yesterday, two days ago. Going back in time for a do-over. A chance to save Lois Lane or Armand Boghosian or anyone whose death tears an unbearable hole through the heart.

But that’s comic book crap.

Real life is waiting until a father can compose himself enough to release his dead son’s body.

Yeah, real life is a lot of waiting.

By the time Sheila wheels the stroller up to the steps of the church, she is ready to spit nails.

In the five minutes she allowed herself to change clothes and freshen up her lipstick at home, Joe must have called. His brief message said he was stuck on overtime. No kidding!

She’d let Joe take the car to work that morning thinking he’d be home by now, but no. So she’s been stuck lugging the kids out through the cold night with PJ in the stroller. Some of the sidewalks are slick with tramped-down snow, and right now it’s so cold outside it brings tears to her eyes.

Or at least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she swipes a sleeve over her face and wrangles the kids into the church vestibule. The velvet warm air, the scent of burning candles and incense and Murphy’s Oil Soap calms her with its deep-seated tradition. The smell brings her back to a calmer place. Midnight mass with Joe. Attending mass with the student body of St. Alban’s. Waiting in the pews for the class to finish confession. Spring days of Lent spent staring into the panels of colored light from the stained glass windows.

Well. No time to stare these days. She’s got to get Katie down to her Sunday school class, and PJ needs his nose wiped. Actually, the kid probably needs a clean diaper, too, but she’s not going to chance taking him into the bathroom if the pageant is about to start. Somebody’s got to be there for Katie.

Sheila folds up the stroller, yanks out the diaper bag, and stashes the stroller behind the coatrack.

“Mommy, are we late?” Katie stretches to the tip of her toes to hang her coat on a hook.

“I think we’re right on time, but we have to get downstairs and find your class.” Still breathless from the cold, Sheila smoothes Katie’s hair down and points her to the stairs.

Their little girl in her first role, and her own father is missing it. Such a pity. That damned job! She knows it pays the bills, and God knows the world needs cops out there, but sometimes she just hates being married to a cop.

Down in the church hall Katie finds her class, and Sheila joins her sister and brother-in-law, who have saved her two seats. PJ cries out for his cousin Ian, and the two of them swing their legs and share Cheerios.

“Where’s Joe?” Jen’s husband Paul turns and looks over his shoulder.

“Stuck at work again, can you believe it? He promised he’d be here for this. I swear, it’s going to break Katie’s little heart.”

“That’s too bad,” Jen says sincerely.

Sheila notices that Jen and Paul are holding hands, inconspicuously. So sweet. Jen has the perfect husband. Paul is a quiet guy with a high-paying job as an actuary—not to mention regular hours.

What Sheila wouldn’t give for some regular hours.

Just then her gaze goes to Ian’s coat on the floor. It’s casually dropped there, along with a hat—a knit stocking cap. The expensive cap Jen just bought this morning.

Sheila bites her lower lip, stung by jealousy. Not even a gift? The kid just gets a new cap for nothing? It is so not fair, but she bites her bottom lip and grabs Patrick Joseph, who squirms in her arms as the pageant begins.

The lights dim and the children’s choir starts to sing, a gangly clump of innocent voices. “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed…”

At least the music settles PJ a bit. He pushes to the corner of Sheila’s lap, to a spot where he can see, and settles in to watch.

Cold fingers of regret tug at Sheila as she watches the three wise men journey through the audience, heading toward the “star” onstage. This is not the way Christmas is supposed to be—a mad rush, a voicemail, an empty seat beside her. Her Joe really should be here to see this.

Her throat is thick with emotion as Katie walks onstage with the boy playing Joseph, a real “knucklehead,” according to Katie, but then she has a low tolerance for boys. Her freckled, heart-shaped face is radiant as they approach the manger. Joseph lowers the infant doll to the manger, losing his grip so that it tumbles awkwardly. A laugh ripples through the audience, but Katie is unfazed; she reaches down and rewraps the doll, setting it down properly.

Good girl.

Jen reaches across and gives her arm a squeeze as Sheila feels warmed by pride. Joe would get a kick out of that. She turns and, to her surprise, sees him standing in uniform at the back of the church hall. Even from a distance she can see that he’s a bit misty-eyed.

He made it. Big sigh. Thank you, Lord.