proportion, don’t you, Johnny? Fine. I’ll see you in court, son.” He does a finger salute off his greasy forehead to Rita, tries to put a little of the ol’ Joe Sixpack twinkle back in his foggy eyes. “Nice meeting you, ma’am. Who knew Johnny would grow up to marry a Polack beauty queen. I’m serious. I always thought he was a fucking faggot like his little brother.”
And with that fatherly pearl of wisdom, Mr. Ceepak leaves the building.
“Sorry for the unanticipated intrusion,” Ceepak says to Skip.
“That’s okay. I love watching you work, sir. I’m hoping to re-enter the police academy in the fall.”
Ceepak just nods. Because if he said something encouraging like, “good for you,” he’d be lying. Plus, no way are they letting Skippy O’Malley back in. They caught him cheating. That’s a “one strike and you’re out” deal.
Mr. O’Malley, wearing a black suit, bursts into the office.
“Skippy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why the hell are there children crying in my parking lot?”
“We, uh, we …”
“I’m afraid that’s our fault, Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak.
O’Malley is a big, blustery man. He looks Ceepak up and down. Checks me out, too.
“You’re the cops. The ones who …”
“Yes, sir,” says Ceepak.
Mr. O’Malley nods. Puckers up his lips to fight down his feelings.
“Thank you. For all you did. For all you tried to do.”
Behind the counter, I see Skippy hanging his head. Maybe he’s sobbing again.
“I only wish we could have reached your wife sooner,” says Ceepak.
“Don’t beat yourself up, son. Dr. Kurth, the medical examiner, was kind enough to call me. Said Jackie suffered a massive coronary. Most likely died instantaneously. Didn’t feel any pain.”
Ceepak nods. He’s heard the same thing.
“Skippy?”
“Sir?”
“Where’s my other cell phone?”
Skippy turns and fumbles around on the top of a credenza, where there are buckets of colored balls and about a dozen cell phones sitting in charger bases.
He grabs one.
“Here you go, dad. Fully charged.”
Mr. O’Malley takes it, hands Skippy another phone, which looks just like the one he just took. “Charge it. Died on me during mass.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why weren’t you there?”
“Church?”
“Yeah.”
“I had to open at ten.”
“Right. Good. I’ll be upstairs in the office.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“And Skippy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I thought I told you to take that damn cat to the shelter.”
Skippy picks the cat up out of its bed. “I don’t mind looking after him.”
“Your brother Kevin is allergic. Mary, too.”
“But Mom loved Gizmo.”
“South Shore will find it a new home.”
“I could keep him in my room.”
“Skippy?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take him in first thing tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you working here tomorrow morning?”
“South Shore Animal Shelter opens at nine. I used to go out there sometimes with Mom, when she volunteered.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just take care of it. I need you to start pulling your weight around here, son. When I tell you to do something, do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. O’Malley sighs and shakes his big Irish head.
Meanwhile, Skippy’s freckled face goes red with embarrassment. He keeps hugging the cat. Stroking it.
Mr. O’Malley turns to face Ceepak and me.
“Officers. Thank you again. Skippy? I’ll be upstairs. Order me a sandwich.”
“The usual?”
“I don’t care. Hell, surprise me.”
Mr. O’Malley shakes his head again, mutters something about Jesus, Mary, and Joseph giving him strength, and heads up a spiral staircase to his office.
“I’ll let the people in the parking lot know it’s okay to come back in,” I tell Skip, who looks totally bummed out.
“It’s a kill shelter,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“South Shore. If they can’t find Gizmo a new home, they’ll euthanize him. Put him to sleep. I’ve seen it happen. When I went out there with Mom-”
“He’s a very attractive cat,” says Ceepak, attempting to comfort Skip. “I feel confident he will find a new home. South Shore is where we found Barkley, our dog.”
“My mom loved Gizmo.”
Ceepak and I just nod because, well, we’re guys and guys don’t get all weepy about our pets in public because it’s against the official (if unwritten) guy code.
All of a sudden, Rita pipes up: “We could take him.”
“Come again?” says Ceepak.
“We could take the cat. We have the room.”
“We do?”
“Sure. T.J.’s heading off to Annapolis in July. His room will be empty. Of course, a cat doesn’t really need his own room … just a nice bed and some sunshine.”
She reaches out her arms.
“Really?” says Skippy, his face brightening. “Are you sure, Mrs. Ceepak?”
“We’ve always wanted a cat, right, John?”
Ceepak clears his throat. “Well, dear, to tell the truth-”
“You can tell me later, honey.”
“What about Barkley?”
“He’s old. He’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”
Skippy hands Rita the cat. “He likes when you scratch under her chin.”
So Rita strokes the cat’s chin. “Of course he does. Aren’t you beautiful boy? Yes you are.”
Rita Lapczynski once rescued a seagull with a broken wing from the middle of the road. She nursed it back to health and then set it free. Next, she and Ceepak rescued an old dog named Barkley who had been abandoned on the beach by a family that didn’t like the stink of his farts anymore. Today, the Ceepak menagerie adds its first feline. I, of course, was the first stray human they took in. Rita’s forever inviting me over for Sunday dinner or a cookout because my parents moved to Arizona (“it’s a dry heat”) as soon as my dad retired from the post office.
“Can I come visit him?” asks Skippy.
“Sure,” says Rita who is holding the cat very close to Ceepak so he can pet it.
