him greatly, and it was more than the normal reason. There was something not right about it, something that tingled the police instincts heâd inherited from his father.
âIâve been thinking about Ma lately,â said Danny.
Robert didnât respond. He looked over his plate at Danny with an annoyed expression.
âIâve been having this dream about how she died.â Danny knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but heâd never gotten anywhere with Robert by pussyfooting around.
âYou know how she died. We all know, Danny,â said Robert pointedly. âSo whatâs your problem?â
âI donât know if what the medical examiner said was right, you knowââ
Robertâs face contorted into mild anger. âItâs too early for that shit,â snapped Robert. âFor Godâs sake canât you ever leave it alone! Fuck, just fuck it!â Robert grabbed his juice and stomped off, mumbling.
Danny listened as his father stomped-cursed his way into the other room. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and said nothing more. Hejust sat for a while, waiting. Then when he felt Robert had calmed down enough, he went into the living room. He took a moment, watching his father, his mind flooding with memory. Danny kissed his father on the top of the head and headed out, leaving the pain and memory of his mother behind.
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âHow are you feeling today, Danny?â asked the therapist.
âIâm cool,â said Danny. He settled into the big leather chair and let it envelop him.
The therapist was Dr. Donald Gordon. He was the department psychologist and a former detective. A white man of about forty or so, he had a medium build and was beginning to lose his salt-and-pepper hair.
On Gordonâs desk was a picture of him and his wife of fifteen years, Patty, and their daughters. When he got his degree, heâd left the department after ten years to be a shrink, but heâd been drawn right back into the game a few years later.
âSo whatâs on your mind?â asked Gordon.
âI visited my father again today,â said Danny. âHe still wonât talk about it.â
âHow does that make you feel?â asked Gordon.
âItâs fucked up.â
âYou said that you had questions about your motherâs death, that everything didnât fit. You still feel that way?â
âIâm a cop. Nothing ever fits for us.â Danny was trying to get away from the discussion, but Gordon was right. The death of his mother wassomething he thought about each day. Lucy had descended those stairs thousands of times and never had she slipped. Sure she was old, but she was in good shape. He didnât like to think about it because if she didnât slip and fall, then the alternative was too terrible to imagine.
âI only bring it up,â said Gordon, âbecause you always do at some point. Letâs see if we can get to the bottom of it this time.â
Danny had successfully completed an anger management course, but it was strongly suggested that he see the department shrink in order to solidify his hold on a gold shield. Dannyâs history of overzealous law enforcement was not a help to his career. These days, a violent white cop in a black city like Detroit was a lightning rod for trouble of all kinds.
Danny didnât like the idea of seeing a shrink. Crazy. It was an old notion, but one that hung on in the blue-collar world he lived in. A man took care of his own problems, and he certainly didnât go to a doctor and whine about them. And yet Danny was finding comfort in his weekly visits. Gordon was laid-back and knew the police game well enough never to need explanation. It was like having another partner, or at least thatâs what he kept telling himself.
âOkay, Doc,â said Danny. âIf my mother didnât fall down those stairs then my fatherâ¦he was the only
William K. Klingaman, Nicholas P. Klingaman
John McEnroe;James Kaplan