—Robert Frost
Black Cell arrived home in Virginia Beach ten days before Christmas. It felt strange to Crocker, being back. Maybe it was the abrupt transition from death and destruction to lights and holiday music. Friends and family tried to sweep him up in the celebration and excitement, but something in him resisted.
He stood outside Banana Republic at the local mall looking at the faces of children lined up to see Santa Claus. The Santa the mall had hired this year had the same beak-shaped nose, oval face, and bushy eyebrows as ST-6 psychologist Dr. Neal Petrovian. Except Dr. Petrovian was a hundred pounds leaner and his eyebrows, beard, and hair were more salt-and-pepper than white. Holly and Jenny were inside shopping. He was thinking about Cal and how he was doing when his cell phone lit up.
His sister Karen on the other end of the line said, “Tom, did you hear? Dad’s been arrested.”
What Crocker had just heard sounded surreal, like maybe he wasn’t hearing right. Or it was some kind of sick joke.
“Are you kidding me? Dad’s been arrested?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“Our father? Are you sure?” he asked into the cell phone.
“Yes I am, Tom.”
“Where is he now? What did he do?”
“He’s being held in Alexandria County Jail on two counts of assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Dad assaulted someone?” Those were words he had never expected to say.
“Yes, Tom. Our beloved father is in the slammer.”
Message received, he knew immediately what he had to do, and said, “I’ll drive there now.”
It seemed incredible. His father was the kindest, most outgoing, empathetic man he knew. He liked people and loved entertaining them with stories. Except during his service in the navy, he’d never been in a fight, as far as Crocker knew. Only once or twice had his son even seen him lose his temper.
Threaten someone with a weapon? It seemed wildly out of character.
Holly seemed equally confounded when he told her. She looked at him with suspicion, as though he might be making up some crazy story so he could slip away from all the people and festivities.
Nothing could have been further from his mind. All he wanted was peace and quiet, and some time with his family, because his heart was still heavy from the ordeal in Nuristan Province. The four days and nights he’d been home had been good. Holly had started seeing a female psychotherapist and seemed better.
“Some people have to do what they’ve got to do,” she had said to him last night as they sat in front of the fireplace. “You’re like that, Tom. You almost can’t help yourself. It’s not a criticism. I admire your courage, and maybe I’m a little jealous of your sense of purpose.” They held hands while watching the third season of Deadwood, then went to bed.
He’d awakened this morning feeling stronger mentally and physically than he had in months. Now this.
The desk sergeant was a Hispanic guy who burped into his hand as he checked the ledger, then escorted Crocker to a windowless room that needed repainting. Two black officers brought in his dad, looking small and embarrassed, and wearing handcuffs. Strands of limp white hair hung over his eyes.
It pissed Crocker off to see them treating his father like a criminal. “Dad, you okay?” he asked.
The old man avoided his son’s eyes and shook his head. “I’ve been better. My back feels like I was hit by a car after last night.”
“Jesus, Dad. They made you spend the night in jail?”
His father nodded, scratching his neck.
“Dad, what the hell happened?” Crocker asked.
The old man grimaced and ran his tongue over his teeth. “What’d your sister tell you?”
“Just that you were arrested and charged with assault.”
His father nodded. “That much is true.”
Crocker did a double take. “Dad, I can’t imagine you assaulting anyone,” he exclaimed. “What took place? I mean…how? why?”
“It’s not your concern, son. I got in this mess, I’ll get out of it myself.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounded incredulous. “You’re my father. I’m gonna help you and bail you out.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yes it is!”
Their eyes met. Crocker saw the shame and anger in his father’s as he slammed the little metal table with his fist. “It’s an injustice! That’s what it is, Tom. Carla—that poor girl served our country. And her German landlord had the gall to try to throw her out of her apartment. He’s not even a citizen.”
Crocker remembered his father mentioning her before but couldn’t recall the details. “What about her?” he asked.