CHRISTMAS WITH JELLYBEAN

by Mary V. Kolar

 

"Yea, I'm fine." I said as I handed the gun over.  There was a solemn stillness despite the flashing lights and the dying sirens.

"Come on, I'll take you back to the office." The Lieutenant said, escorting me to his unit.  My partner would be taking care of my own car.

"I think I may be sick." I said, hoping it wasn't the case, but there was an ill ease deep in my gut and it was looking for a way out.

"It was a good shoot.  You don't have to worry."

I sat in the car and buckled, knowing that it had been.  He'd turned on me; my focus had narrowed to tunnel vision on his hand holding the gun, and everything was slow motion.

"Put it down-now." I had yelled.  I hadn't fired because his finger was not on the trigger.  I couldn't see anything but his hand and the gun.  The world had gone black and nothing existed but that hand and the gun.  I saw the finger move, aligning itself on the trigger and I felt my own gun rock in propulsion.  I didn't hear the shots.  I saw his own gun rock into the air and then his body convulse back until he was down.

It had started as a regular call.  It was another bar fight disturbance.  We rolled on the call arriving at the scene to find two men fighting over a girl wearing a sprayed on skirt.  The two men were screaming at each other just like two raging bulls. 

"Let's do it." I said to my young partner who was still fresh enough to have adrenalin coursing over the conflict.  I had seen so many incidences of the two men and girl scenario that it was old hat to me.  The younger of the two men took off running as we approached.  My partner took off after him.  I decided to let him run some of that energy off.  We didn't need to apprehend the young guy as he hadn't done anything other than disturbing the peace at that point, but if he was running, he probably had priors.  I approached the scene in the parking lot.

"What's the problem here?" I asked, desperately trying not to sound as bored as I was.  It would be a two-minute calm-down and at least fifteen minutes worth of paperwork.  The last thing I had expected was the lean young man with the shaved head and muscle shirt to reach behind him and pull a gun that had been tucked into the back of his pants.  My gun was out just as fast.  The girl was in the line of fire.

"Get behind the car-now!" I yelled.  She stood screaming. 

"Get behind the car-now," I commanded again, and she stumbled out of range ducking behind the car that was next to her, which left the kid and I in a Mexican standoff, guns drawn, staring down at each other. 

"Put the gun down." I ordered.  I had not fired, although I was in my rights to do so as soon as he aimed the weapon in my direction.  I was out in front of my own car with no cover.  I thought I might still be able to talk him down.  I hoped I would. 

After I fired on him, I'd gone to the body and kicked his gun away from him.  He looked up at me with a perplexed look on his face.  He looked right at me, locking eyes, and in that moment I saw a confused child seeking comfort and hope.  Then the eyes blanked and I heard the rattle.  If you stepped on a leaking playground ball, it's the type of sound that might escape.  I knew he was gone and I was mad-mad that he made me do that to him.  I was mad at the girl, who was just another to stupid for words twink that played her body like a fine violin.  I was mad at my partner, although he was a rookie, for leaving me alone.  I was mad at myself for almost getting myself killed and leaving my wife and two-year old.

"So what happens now?" I asked the Lieutenant as he took my gun from me.

"We'll take your statement.  You might want to call your wife, you won't get out of here for several hours yet."

"Yea," I said, thinking of Carol and wanting to hold her and little Jessica close.  "Yea, I'll do that."

When I did emerge from the station, having been on shift for over sixteen hours, I was bleary eyed, emotionally exhausted, and fatigued beyond my years.  I went out the back entrance and into a mob of photographers and reporters; vultures descending upon the carrion. 

"Why did you shoot four times?" one of the louder voices squawked.  I put my head down and strode resolutely to my car.  I couldn't answer that; I don't remember pulling the trigger at all.  I remember hearing the clicks but it was an automatic response.  How could I answer? 

"Do you feel you used excessive force?" another of the voices boomed at me.  He was about to make my wife a widow and leave my sweet baby without a father.  Training had  drilled into us that real life isn't like the movies--the bad guys don't fall down and play dead after one shot.  When his finger moved onto the trigger, I moved from enforcer to survivor and did what I needed to do.

The next few days I stayed in bed.  I slept for hours awaking only occasionally for food and drink and falling into the protective grace of sleep.  Carol told me the phone rang nonstop.  Eventually I did get up and the crying started.  I had never cried in my life before-not like that.  I'd be shoveling snow and the tears would just fall.  The kid was only seventeen.  He had his entire life ahead of him.  It wasn't so much crying as leaking.  Carol was great.  She just was there.  She didn't speak those meaningless words, "It will be all right."  We both knew it would never be the same. 

I went to see the police shrink who asked me if I felt guilty.  I felt guilty about not feeling guilty but bottom line was that I did what I had to do in order to live and raise my child.  I felt sorrow for his family, but there was nothing else I could have done.  He released me for work.  The next few weeks I fought my own battles.  I put on a good face and I think I pulled it off, but the calls were no longer routine.  Each one grabbed my insides and twisted.  I was having nightmares of being drawn on and my gun turning into a giant jellybean that dripped in my hand.  That was probably due to my daughter's newest discovery that jellybeans were good.  We had started calling her Jellybean.

I grew short of patience and would storm out of the house.  Carol and I had more arguments than we ever had before.  I was even short with Jellybean.  There was the all-consuming anger that the kid had made me kill him.  I couldn't find a way to release it.  I sure couldn't talk to the shrink about it, I needed my job and didn't feel comfortable disclosing I was having issues.  Finally, after one of our most intense arguments, Carol insisted I talk to the Pastor about it.  I stormed out and went to the bar, but eventually calmed down and realized I was alone at a bar drinking when I had a won derful woman at home and a beautiful little girl.  I needed help.

I went to see Pastor Mark the following day.

"I understand you are having some anger problems," Pastor said as I settled into a worn chair in his office.

"Yea, I guess I do." I responded, slightly embarrassed, "I am so angry that this kid made me kill him.  I feel victimized.  I know that sounds weird, me being a cop, but I just can't get out of my head, Thou shall not kill." 

"That isn't really what the translation says.  It says Thou shall not murder.  Did you kill because you had to or did you pre-meditate, plan and without shame or conscience set about to murder this young man?"

"No.  I didn't murder him."

"Than let it go."

I looked at him like he was mad.  Let it go?  We chatted a bit more, and I left again, but I didn't go to the bar.  I went to my daughter's playground and brushing a clear spot on the   bench near the swings sat down. I pulled up the hood of my parka against the chill of the night.  Let it go.  I got up and drove to the cemetery.  I stood at the young man's headstone looking down on it, and when I left there, I left the anger as well. 

Carol and I are doing fine now.  We've patched up most of the cracks in our relationship.  Jellybean is still growing and a happy little girl.  The nightmares are almost gone, and although I find myself being more attentive on my job, the sharp barbs of fear have faded and I can do a good job again.  The press apparently got bored with tooting police brutality, or the public got tired of reading about it, so they moved on to some political scandal.

Christmas morning Jessica proudly jumped on my lap and handed me a small box, which she had obviously wrapped herself.  It was a box of caramel-flavored jellybeans, which happened to be her favorite.  I put them in my pocket and said thank you, watching her face fall.  When I pulled them out again saying maybe we should have some, since it was Christmas, I saw an angel smile as her pudgy fingers grasped half the box shoving them into her pink cherub cheeks.  I laughed and it was good.  It was good that I was here to laugh with my little Jellybean, while Carol took pictures.  It was a good day to be alive.

Mary began writing seriously since she hit the hallmark age of fifty.  She is meeting with good success as many of her stories have been published. Visit her at www.MaryVKolar.com to learn more about her writing endeavors. Contact Mary.