Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

“Because I don’t want Julie to start caring for you as much as I have,” I said. “It’s why we can’t see each other anymore.”

I took my hand away. He looked as if I’d slapped him with it.

“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “I thought things were going so well.”

“They were,” I said. “You’re wonderful, and I really enjoy being with you. I can see us becoming very close.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Then what’s the problem?”

“That is the problem. Who you are. And all of this.” I waved my hand to encompass the firehouse around us. “You’re a firefighter.”

“So?”

“You risk your life for a living, and that’s noble, and great, and heroic,” I said. “But it’s wrong for me, wrong for Julie. We both lost a man we loved who did the noble, great, heroic thing. You’re so much like him. We’d both fall in love with you, and I can’t go through it again.”

He forced a smile. “What if I promise I won’t get hurt?”

“You can’t make that promise.”

“Nobody can,” Joe said. “You could get run over tomorrow by a truck while crossing the street.”

“I know, but I don’t make a living of leaping in front of speeding trucks every day,” I said. “I can’t get involved ever again with anyone who has a dangerous job. I can’t take the worry and the risk, and I can’t do it to my daughter. She needs—we both need—a man in our lives who has the safest job on earth.”

“I’m not that guy,” Joe said.

“I wish you were.”

“I wish I were, too.” He took me in his arms and gave me a soft, sweet, sad kiss. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He smiled, turned his back on me, and walked outside. I watched him go, trying hard not to cry, then saw Captain Mantooth and Monk watching, too. Monk tossed his towel into the basket and came over to me.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“Eventually,” I said.

He saw the tears in my eyes and my trembling lip.

“Would you like to borrow my Marmaduke book?”

I smiled and nodded, a tear rolling down my cheek. “That would be great.”

When we told Julie that Sparky’s killer had been caught, she threw her arms around Monk and startled him with a big hug.

“Thank you, Mr. Monk.”

“It’s nice to have a satisfied client,” Monk said.

“I did something for you,” she said. “Can I show you?”

“Sure,” Monk said.

Julie motioned for us to follow her, and she hurried ahead of us down the hall to her room. As soon as her back was turned, Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I gave him one.

“Children are so special,” he said, wiping his hands thoroughly, “but they’re walking cesspools of disease.”

I gave him a look. “Did you just call my daughter a walking cesspool?”

“She’s also bright and adorable and lovable,” Monk said. “From a safe distance.”

She stood in front of the door to her room, her hand on the doorknob.

“Okay, prepare yourselves,” she said.

Monk glanced at me. “Am I going to need shots for this?”

Before I could reply, she opened her door and waved us inside with a big, proud smile on her face. I peeked in first.

She’d cleaned her room. But saying that doesn’t do it justice. It was immaculate, with everything organized.

“You should see this, Mr. Monk,” I said.

He hesitantly stuck his head in and then looked at Julie. “What have you done?”

“I’ve Monked it.”

“Monked it?” he said.

“My books are arranged by author, genre, and copyright date, and my CDs are organized in even-numbered stacks by artist.” She strolled into her room and opened her closet. Her clothes were arranged by color and type. So were her shoes. “I organized my closet and all of my drawers.”

Monk went over and looked at her shelf of stuffed animals with obvious admiration. “You’ve arranged your animals by species.”

“And size,” she said. “And whether they are amphibians, reptiles, birds, or mammals.”

“That must have been fun,” he said, and he meant it. In fact, from the expression on his face, I think he envied her the experience.

“Oh, yes,” Julie said. “I had a great time.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was a major change for a kid whose idea of making her bed was picking her pillow up off the floor.

“It must have taken you hours to do this,” I said.

“Actually, it’s taken me a few days, but I wanted to show Mr. Monk . . .” Julie stopped and shrugged, at a loss for words to explain herself. “I don’t know. I just wanted to say thank-you.”

I gave her a kiss. “I love you.”

“I didn’t do this for you, Mom.”

“Can’t I be proud of you anyway?” I said.

Julie turned to Monk. “What do you think?”

I was curious to know that myself. Monk touched a whisker on one of her stuffed lions and smiled.

“I think I’m sorry that I have to go home tomorrow,” he said.

24

Mr. Monk and the Wrong Teeth

I woke up in the morning to find Monk all packed, dressed, and ready to go. He insisted on making breakfast for Julie and me. I figured it would be bowls of Chex all around, but he surprised me by saying he’d be making eggs.

“I’d like mine scrambled, please,” Julie said.

“Perhaps you’d like some LSD and some weed with that too.” Monk gave her a chastising look, then glanced at me as if to say I’d failed as a parent in some fundamental way.

Julie’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What’s LSD? And why would I want to eat weeds?”

“Never mind,” I said, giving Monk a chastising look of my own. “So how are you preparing them?”

“There’s only one way,” Monk said.

He expertly cracked the eggs on the rim of the pan and the yolks spilled out, the egg whites forming perfect circles. I’m not exaggerating—perfect circles.

“How did you learn to do that?”

“Lots of practice,” Monk said. “It’s all in the wrist.”

“Could you teach me?” Julie asked.

“I don’t think we have enough eggs,” Monk said.