“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just . . .”
I struggled for the words, something I’d never said to her before in all the years I’d known her.
“. . . Just hold me, okay? Just hold me and don’t let go.”
She did, and she loved me enough not to ask me why.
* * *
We went to the park, and I pushed T. J. on the swings and seesawed with him and played horseshoes and told Michelle to quit worrying about him falling off the monkey bars. We bought ice cream (thank God Michelle had cash and we didn’t have to use the ATM) and sodas, and we brought along a loaf of bread to feed the ducks. We tore the slices into little pieces and the ducks converged on us as we tossed the bread into the pond. T. J. and Michelle both laughed when a swan got brave enough to take the pieces right out of their fingers. Then T. J. played with some friends from day care while Michelle and I curled up on the blanket together. We didn’t talk— we didn’t need to. We had that comfortable vibe where both partners are happy just to be together. The sunlight felt warm on my face, and it caught the highlights in Michelle’s hair, making the strands shine like spun gold.
After his friends had scattered and gone off with their parents, T. J. ran up to us.
“Daddy, do you feel better now?”
“Yeah, I feel a lot better.”
“Will you play with me then?”
“Sure, little man. What do you want to play?”
“Cops and robbers! Cops and robbers!” He jumped up and down.
“Okay,” I stood up, joints popping, trying to hide the pain in them. “Who do I get to be?”
“You’re the robber and I’m the policeman. You have to rob a bank, and I get to put you in the jail.” He pointed to the monkey bars, indicating that they were the playground’s version of prison.
“Rob a bank?” I paused as something twisted and uncoiled deep down inside of me. “How about I just kidnap Mommy and give her a spanking instead?”
“Noooo,” he stomped. “If you’re gonna be a robber, then you have to rob a bank. That’s the way you play it.”
I looked at Michelle for help but she lay there on the blanket, smiling at me.
“He’s got a point, Tommy. Bad guys don’t help old ladies across the street. They rob banks.”
The unease grew.
“Maybe Mommy can be the bad guy,” I suggested.
“Girls aren’t bad guys,” T. J. fumed. “Only boys. That’s why they call them bad guys, Daddy.”
“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll be the bank robber.”
The words seemed to hang in the air after they left my mouth, but T. J. was cheering and started giving me instructions. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.
“This tree is the bank. Mommy can be the person who works at the bank. When you rob it, you have to say ‘Stick them up’ because that’s what they do on the police shows.”
“I told you he’s watching too much TV,” Michelle whispered, getting to her feet.
“Okay,” T. J. shouted impatiently, “let’s go!”
Michelle leaned against the tree, and said, “Welcome to O’Brien Savings and Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?”
“Ummm, stick ’em up,” I mumbled. “Give me all your money.”
“No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like this.” He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.
“How can I help you, sir?” Michelle asked again, giggling.
“Stick ’em up,” I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my head began to hurt again.
“Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!”
“Come on, Tommy,” Michelle hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being a spoilsport?
Make him happy and play the game the right way.”
My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.
“STICK THEM UP!” I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle’s nose. “Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!”
“That’s more like it,” she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled, “Oh no! We’re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!”
This was T. J.’s cue and he didn’t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass, shouting “WHOO
WHOO WHOO” in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.
“All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!”
“Don’t shoot,” I hollered, warming to the part. “I’m dropping my gun. Don’t shoot.”
But he did anyway. He made the little “KA-POW” noises, then stopped, staring at me in frustration.
“What?” I asked, perplexed.
“You’re supposed to fall down, Daddy. That’s what you do when I shoot you.”
“Oh.” I clutched my stomach and groaned. “Looks like you got me, copper. I’m a dead man.”
“You’re going to jail,” T. J. informed me. “Get up, you robber!”
“Don’t I get to go to the hospital first?”
“No.” He started to giggle.
“My hero,” Michelle cried and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Officer. Would you like to stay for some cookies and punch?”
“No thank you, ma’am,” T. J. drawled. “I’ve got to take this bad guy to jail.”
He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed myself to my feet, letting him lead me to the monkey bars prison. I ducked down and slipped between the bars, crouching in the sand.
“When can I get out, Mr. Policeman?”
“Never. Bank robbers have to stay in jail forever.”
“But I have a family, sir. A wife and three kids and a dog.”
T. J. paused, and his face grew serious.
“Daddy?”
“What, buddy?”
“Do bank robbers really have families like that?”
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again. I struggled for the words, any words, anything.
“Sometimes they do, I guess. Not all bank robbers probably start out as bad guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe they are just poor and don’t have any other way to get money. Or maybe they’ve got a sick little boy at home who needs medicine or a mommy that needs to see a special doctor who’s really expensive.”
“So is robbing banks wrong?”
“Yeah, little man,” I fumbled, “it’s wrong. It’s definitely a bad thing.”
His brow creased in confusion. “Then how can all bank robbers not be bad guys?”
“I’m sure that most of them are, T. J. But some are just regular guys— guys like Uncle John or Uncle Sherm. Guys like me. They just get caught up in something that they can’t get out of, no matter how badly they’d like to.”
He thought about this, then asked the question I’d been dreading.
“Daddy— would you ever rob a bank?”
“No, T. J., of course not. I’d never do that.”
“Never ever?”
“Never.”
I’d been lying to Michelle and now I’d just lied to my son. At that moment, I welcomed death from cancer because it was no less than what I deserved.
“Not even if we were sick? Not even if we really needed the money?”
“Nope. Not even then. And you know why?”
