In the Bleak Midwinter

“Christ on a crutch. Yes, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been dry for five years now. What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just wondering, if you can’t talk about it with your wife, and you can’t pour it into a bottle, who do you talk with? Where do you go?”

He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back in his chair, looking up toward the ceiling. “I don’t, I guess,” he said, finally. He looked at her. “But let’s face it, it’s not like I’m a homicide detective in the city. I’m not looking at dead bodies week after week, or having guns pointed at me on a regular basis. I’m just the chief of an eight-man police force in little ol’ Millers Kill. Hell, the entire three town area we’re responsible for doesn’t have more than twelve thousand people, tops.”

“Twelve thousand people for whom you feel personally responsible.” She pointed one blunt-nailed finger at him. “Tell me, what feels the worst about what happened today? Being scared you might die?”

“No.” He braced his elbows on the table. “Only an idiot isn’t scared when somebody pulls a gun on him. I’m not ashamed of it. Not inclined to think about it too much afterwards.”

“The rush you get when you walk away and you haven’t died? Do you like that?”

“No! I mean, yes, I like walking away, but no, I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I’d be perfectly happy if the most action I ever saw was being dunked at the police booth during the county fair, believe me.”

“Is it the fact that you should have known that Ethan was on edge and ready to blow? That if you had handled the situation differently, he never would have picked up that shotgun?”

He dropped back into his chair, his face paling. “Holy shit! Do you believe that?”

“Do you?” She leaned farther across the table, crowding him against the truth.

“When you put it that way . . . shit.” He swallowed. “Yeah, I do feel responsible. It was a stupid situation to get into. I kept thinking, what a piss-awful waste it would be if Ethan didn’t make it, because I hadn’t taken the time to find out the kids in his school already had him tried and convicted and on death row. Instead, I waltzed in there with my patrol car and my service piece and my warrant. Not even a phone call ahead of time so his parents could set him straight about what would happen. That’s just plain careless. Careless and lazy and stupid.” He clenched the edge of the table tightly.

“I knew about what the kids were saying at the high school. Heard about it on Monday night. I didn’t do anything about it.”

He scowled at her. “That’s different.”

She scowled back. “Why? Because it’s not my job to know everything about everybody? Because I’m not personally responsible every time one of the citizens of Millers Kill falls off the straight and narrow? Because I shouldn’t do all I can to . . . to . . . to protect and to serve?”

He laughed quietly. “That’s the LAPD, not Millers Kill.”

“No, that’s you.” She took a drink of her beer. “The angel at the gate with the flaming sword, that’s you. Guarding your own little paradise from the evil of a fallen world.”

He closed his hand around air as if he were holding something in front of him. “A flaming sword, huh?”

“Yep.”

“So you think I should—what? Stop caring so much?”

She slid her elbow next to her glass and leaned her cheek on her hand. “No. Not at all. I think it’s a fine thing that you bring such dedication and passion to your work. But I think you should stop beating yourself up when you fall short of some imagined standard of perfection.” She smiled lopsided at him. “Come talk to me next time, instead. I’d be happy to point out the flaws in your image of yourself.”

“As opposed to pointing out my actual flaws.”

“I think I need to know you better before I start in on those.”

He smiled at her. “Seems like you already know me a little too well for comfort.”

She shook her head, smiling, dropping her gaze to the table. She traced meaningless designs on the tabletop with the water condensation that had dripped from her glass. There was a muffled mechanical roar as the furnace kicked in. The thermostat must have been set high, because the kitchen was plenty warm already. A clock ticked in the next room.

“Would you—” he began.

“Now we’ve—” she said at the same time. They both laughed.

“You first,” he said.

“I was going to say, now we’ve solved all your problems, how about that burger I was promised?”

“And I was going to ask you if you’d like dinner. Another example of great minds thinking alike.”

“More like hungry stomachs rumbling in unison, but, yeah.”