“To listen to your saved messages, press nine.
“First saved message.”
“Oh, hey Dad, it's me, Adam. [Laughter in the background and another boy's voice saying, ‘He knows it's you, bonehead.'] Dad, Terry and his mom were just telling me about that new shopping mall that just opened. They've got rides inside of it. Terry went on a roller coaster, well, a small roller coaster. [More laughter and the other boy's voice:‘It was called the Cobra, you spaz.'] Yeah and they've got bumper cars there, too. It's all inside the mall, is that cool or what? So I wanted to call in case I forgot to tell you. Maybe we can go there sometime, like on the next rainy day or something. Okay, Dad, see you later. Terry's mom's making us pancakes in the morning. Bye!”
“To erase this message, press three. To save it, press four.
“Message resaved.”
Adam had left it what seemed like years ago while sleeping over at his friend Terry's house. Terry's place was only around the block, but Adam had seemed apprehensive about going. Both Grant and Rachel had said he should go, stay up late, watch TV, eat popcorn, sleep in sleeping bags in Terry's bedroom, have fun. Adam had called them that night on the main line to say good-night at around ten. And then he had called on Grant's line just prior to midnight. Grant knew it was his son's way of saying a couple of things. Perhaps that he was a little nervous about being over there, laying his head down to sleep at someone else's house. And also that he missed his folks and wanted to call just once more. When Grant had walked over to meet Adam the next morning his son was brave and nonchalant as he finished up a stack of pancakes. He told Terry and his mother he couldn't wait to sleep over again. As they walked home, Adam made no mention of the extra message he'd left, so Grant didn't pursue it.
Grant sat down on the floor cross-legged with the phone still in his grip. He rocked slightly, a movement that somehow helped him when he felt incomplete. He snorted and gulped. He could feel tears on his face, tasted them at the corner of his mouth. He knew that he had to keep it together. He was walking into a whole different world tomorrow. There would be no room for emotional speed bumps like this, no time to be tangled up in strands of alternating sadness and rage. He grabbed a tissue from the box on the shelf and wiped his eyes. Maybe a beer and a talk with old Danny was just what the doctor ordered. Danny had been retired for over a year and had made a point of keeping in touch even when Grant had drifted and pushed people away. Grant would be in his study with the stereo on, alone, in darkness except for the green glow from the tuner and CD player. He'd hear the phone ringing faintly over the music pressing in his ears. The phone would ring eight times and then fall silent as the voice mail picked up. And then it would ring again and again until Grant bolted up and shut the music off and answered. Danny Cook would be on the other end. They'd talk, sometimes Grant would break down and spill his guts. Danny would listen and never try to tell Grant how he should feel or what he should do. He listened and then tossed out a word or phrase of encouragement. Grant would grab that and focus on it, take it to bed with him and sleep on it. Danny Cook was a retired policeman with few friends, a beer belly, and an obsession with retirement. He saw the world in black and white and cared little for anything apart from his immediate family, fishing, and cold beer. But Grant received comfort and a sense of connection when he listened to Danny. When they talked there was at least a distant nexus with the regular world. The regular world where people had healthy children, went to work, and returned home to eat dinner and help with homework. A world where the largest worries weren't really worries at all. Can we afford Disneyland this year; will I get that promotion; will interest rates really go up that high? That world was gone. It had disappeared not too long ago under a frigid November sky.
Grant stuck to the side roads as he drove to Danny's place. He was in no particular hurry, and he rolled all the windows down, turned up the radio, and stole a glance at a couple of women walking in short shorts, pushing strollers under the hot sun. “Yummy mummies” Danny Cook would call them back when they were working a community patrol car together. Grant thought about that as he drove, working a patrol area without Danny's wisdom and company. Radio chattering, coffee balanced on the dash, notebook entries, incident reports, traffic points, all of that. He grasped it and enjoyed the familiarity of those small things, the nuances specific to any job. As he got closer to Danny Cook's home the sadness faded, and he felt the sun coming off the dash and heard the music with greater clarity.
Grant pulled into Danny's driveway and tucked his Jeep in behind Danny's Caddy. Danny had obviously waxed the thing again; it damn near blinded you to look at it. Grant smiled, felt pleased for Danny Cook. He'd taken his daughter Gwen up on her long-standing offer to move in with her and her two daughters. Danny loved those grandchildren with all his might, with every inch of his great big Irish heart. And the arrangement had been working well, Danny and his daughter getting along famously, helping each other out and raising the twins. It seemed like a rewarding way to spend retirement.
Danny answered the door with a big grin on his face. The man could simply smile and you felt that all was right with the world. Grant followed him down the hallway into the kitchen and out a set of French doors to the deck. Danny excused himself to fetch a couple of beers, and Grant sat in a Muskoka chair and inhaled the sweet scent of the Cooks' huge flower garden below.
“That ought to hit the spot,” chuckled Danny, handing Grant an ice-cold bottle. Grant took a sip, wondered how Danny always kept the beer so damn cold, an ice particle or two in every sip. Danny positioned himself across from Grant.
“Hide your eyes, McRae, it's too hot out here for this thing,” said Danny. He yanked off his T-shirt to expose a typical retired cop's upper body: strong and burly, with the gut extending much further out than the chest. The cab forward design, as Danny called it. Danny took a healthy chug of beer and wiped his mouth with his forearm.
“Well, one last brew before you get back to it, huh?”
“Yeah, by this time tomorrow I'll be riding shotgun with the one and only Owen Crews,” said Grant.
“That's confirmed? You're going over to 14 Division, for sure?”
“Yeah, I talked to Inspector Laird yesterday. He's ready for me, said I'd be partnered with Crews for the time being.”
Danny Cook shrugged, said, “You're okay with that, aren't you?”
Grant hadn't done much thinking about it. That fact that he was actually going back to work had been a big enough bite to chew on. He was more concerned with how he'd handle it, how he'd perform.
“Well, I would have preferred to go back to 24 Division. I mean, it's where I started, our old stomping grounds, but let's face it, it's not a huge department, so it's not likely to be all that different, right?”
Danny leaned back and wiped the sweat from his beer. “Hey, 14 is growing, getting as busy as 24. And you knew that Laird would want you there, which might not be a bad thing, considering,” he said.
“I just hope that he doesn't want to talk about it all the time, you know? I hope he doesn't expect us to bond: brothers in turmoil and grief. That's all I need.”
“Well, Grant, he's a front-runner for Chief of Police once Glendon steps down. Deputy Van Heusen is too old, doesn't want the job anyway. So, my money's on Inspector Laird. Being tight with the future chief? Not exactly a career-limiting move in my opinion.”
Danny laughed when he'd said this and held up his beer.
“Cheers, by the way,” he added.
They clinked