Ride in a Cop Car

San Francisco, December, 1950

WHAM! Door slams. Loud, angry voices. Mom and Dad are fighting. The big war ended five years ago but still goes on here. The war changed Dad. He was the only survivor in his unit. Germans killed the rest. Scars all over his back and neck. A drawer full of medals he never looks at. Pale blue eyes that are always staring at something far away. Goes to 6:30 Mass every morning. Drinks himself to sleep every night.

I creep out of bed, crawl to the door, open it a crack, peek out. Mom stands inches from Dad, yelling. Short, athletic, strong-willed. She grew up on a ranch and is fearless. Her words fly out like bullets. I only catch some of them. “Racetrack with your Dago pals.” “Chasing bar whores.” I start to laugh. Then he knocks her out cold.

I feel like throwing up. I should sleep. Tomorrow’s a busy day. Deliver newspapers at 05:30. Serve Mass at St. Cecilia’s 6:30. Choir practice for Christmas Eve Mass at 7:00 pm. Nah, I can’t sleep.

I dress, quietly open the door to the downstairs garage. Maggie’s been following me, tries to squeeze through. “Bad kitty! You stay!” She runs off down the hall. I tip-toe to down the stairs, stand in the darkness for a long time, still uncertain. I open the small side door, walk out, close it behind me, forget to grab the key. Maybe my brother will let me in. Tommy and his biker pals live in the downstairs bedroom. They stay out all night, get back by dawn, sleep all day. They’ll show up eventually.

Low, thick fog. Street lights make falling water droplets sparkle like little jewels. Moisture on the telephone lines. Drips hitting the pavement sound like marching mice. I forgot my sweater. Just a t-shirt. I’m cold.

I wander over to the football field. Stand there for a long time. I’ll be 11 in January. Just in time for try-outs. Finally old enough to play. I’m the fastest kid in the neighborhood. What if I don’t make it? Then the neighbors will know for sure I’m a loser from a loser family.

Not sure where to go. What would Hiram Bingham do? He’s my hero. He discovered Machu Picchu. Mom buys me piles of archeology books. Sister Rachel told me to be a priest. I rather be Hiram Bingham.

I keep walking. Christmas lights on all the houses. Through the windows I can see brightly lit trees, piles of presents. Couple of places parents are stacking packages around the tree. They look happy.

I Suddenly feel like crying. Slap myself in the face to stop. I’m shivering, decide to head home. Getting in the house will be tricky. I run to warm up, go to the far end of my own block, start hopping fences. Biter dogs are a danger, so I zigzag from one safe backyard to another. I hop into Kelly’s yard, the one right behind us. He’s a sergeant on SFPD. His wife is the prettiest lady in the neighborhood. I serve her Holy Communion almost every day. She gets black eyes a lot.

I silently cross Kelly’s yard and start climbing the last fence. I’ve got my foot on the top rail when I hear “STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!” I drop back to the ground. A big hand grabs my neck, tosses me face-down in the dirt. A foot stabs the middle of my back. Kelly leans over, shoves a gun against my temple. “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

“It’s me, Mr. Kelly.” He pushes the gun harder against my temple. I hear a click as he takes it off safety. “Say another word, I’ll blow the brains out of your fucking head!” His words are slurred. His thick whiskey breath is suffocating. I realize that Kelly not only could kill me. He wants to. I’m not scared. I’m focused on the circle of cold steel against my temple.

Kelly twists my arms behind me, handcuffs my wrists, yanks me up by the neck, shoves the gun into my back. “MOVE!” We pause at a little stairway which drops down a few steps before connecting to stairs up to the house. Kelly kicks me hard. I go flying down the stairs. I twist sideways in the air, land on my shoulder instead of my face.

Inside the house, Kelly shoves me into a chair, picks up the phone, dials the police, tells them he caught a burglar. He sways back and forth, still holding the gun. His wife Maureen appears in a fuzzy pink bathrobe. Tall, blue-eyed, dark-haired Irish beauty. Then out comes his son, home for Christmas from the seminary. Then his daughter, who’s training to be a nun. Mrs. Kelly stands in disbelief, her hand over her mouth. “BILL!” she shouts, “Bill, for the love of God, what are you doing?” Tears stream down her face. Her fingers twist and turn as if praying the Rosary. Kelly’s kids shout “Dad! Dad! STOP!” Kelly waves the gun in the air. “Go back to your goddamn rooms ‘fore I beat the beJesus out of the lotta ya’!” They retreat to their bedrooms. Mrs. Kelly looks sad enough to die.

Black-and-White cop car shows up. Two cops drag me to the car, push me into the back seat, slam the door. Then they aimlessly drive around the City for three hours, asking the same questions over and over. “What’s your real name?” “How many houses did you break into?” “Where’d you hide the stuff?” I only half listen. I’m paying more attention to my hands and arms, numb from handcuffs. So I only tell them my name and address. My uncle is a Marine. He says if I get captured, only give name, rank, and serial number. The cops keep it up. I finally say “I already fucking told you!” I never used that word before.

Finally one cop says, “Hey, Pete, I think the kid’s telling the truth. Let’s take him home.” They park in front of my house. We sit in silence for a long time. Seems like the cops are trying make up their minds about something. Finally the cop on the passenger side turns around, stares at me, says, “We’ll let youse go if youse promises never to say nothin’ about none of this to nobody. You keep your goddamn mouth shut, or we’ll come back and throw your ass in jail where it belongs.” The other cop adds “we’ll throw yer fucking parents in there, too. Got it?” The cops let me out and unlock the cuffs. “Remember: keep your trap shut.” They drive off.

I stand there, rubbing my wrists. How am I going to get in? I pull out my Boy Scout knife, fiddle with the lock on the door. First lock I ever crack. I creep back up the stairs, climb into bed. I lie there staring at the ceiling. “Oof!” Maggie just jumped on my stomach. She walks up my chest, sticks her nose against mine, licks it, lies next to my neck, start purring.

Sounds of waves pummeling the beach drift through the open window. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll stay quiet. I don’t want my parents to go to jail. I make the Sign of the Cross, pause, listen to the Ocean, then pray. “Dear God, please send those fucking cops straight to Hell.”