Prom Night

by W.E. Turner

The roiling clouds of mist were cold; cold steam, unreal in its clamminess. It let Jeff know the whole thing was just a dream, like something he might see on MTV, except there was no music. He pulled the towel from its hanger on the side of the washstand and reached up to wipe off the mirror so he could see his face. One swipe of the towel erased the layer of mist on the glass, but Jeff only caught one brief glimpse of his appearance before the mist recondensed on the mirror and rendered his image a mere outline shape. He wiped the glass again. Again his visage appeared, then quickly faded to soft gray lines and shadows as the fog came back. Again and again Jeff wiped the glass. Each time, he glimpsed his own strong, lantern-jawed countenance for a time, but it was ephemeral and elusive as the fog returned. With each swipe of the towel over the glass, the cloth grew heavier as it picked up more moisture and each pass of the towel over the mirror was less efficient in removing the condensation.

When Jeff saw his face, wet streaks cut across it, slicing it from the lower right jaw up to the left ear. Or was it the lower left jaw up to the right ear? After all, everything was mirror-image and backward. His arm grew tired and the towel was heavy. Wiping the mirror did no good. Time would not stand still and the fog always came back. He couldn't read the words written on the wall behind him in a childish scrawl, some letters were reversed dyslexically and the mirror reversed them again into double negatives that made no sense.


"It's the morning show, with Ralph Begliter and Jerry Nash, bringing you all today's top hits. No moldy oldies here...."

Jeff reached over, quickly, and jabbed at the snooze button on the clock radio. Then, thinking better of it, he turned the alarm off. No time to waste this morning, he thought. This is The Big Day.


As Jeff shaved after his shower, he heard his father's knock on the bathroom door. He could always tell his father's knock; it was massive and powerful.

"Hurry it up, Jeff," his father's voice came through the wood. "Other folks gotta use this thing, too, ya know."

Irritated at the Old Man's insistence, Jeff opened the door. His father pushed past him, making his way hurriedly to the stool.

Another stroke up the neck, carefully avoiding the protruding Adam's Apple. Wash off the razor under the running water.

"'Stead of goin' to all that trouble, Jeff," his father said over the sound of his urine splashing into the water of the toilet bowl, "why you don't just spread some cream on your face and let the cat lick that peach fuzz off".

Jeff shot an annoyed glance over at his father, then quickly looked away, embarrassed at the sight of the man's thick, veined member and the stream of yellow liquid flowing from it. At the same time the boy was jealous, wondering if his own equipment would ever attain that size.

The Old Man laughed at his outdated joke. "Today's the big day, huh?" he said, a smile still on his face.

Jeff ignored his dolt of a father and concentrated on the next stroke of the razor down the jawline. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could see his father shake his penis, then stuff it back through the fly of his boxer shorts. Jeff was glad that thing was out of sight.

Jeff's father let out a loud, loutish belch, then farted even louder. "Goddam beans," he said. He belched again. "Goddam beer."

Jeff cringed, sickened at his father's behavior.

"What time do you gotta pick ol' Stephanie up tonight?" the Old Man asked.

"I'm not taking Stephanie to the Prom," Jeff said, irritated that his father couldn't remember who his current girlfriend was. "That was last year. I'm taking Adrian Pollock."

"Polack?" Jeff's father asked. "You datin' a Polack? Why, I thought you had better taste."

"Please, Dad," Jeff said, disgustedly. "Don't call her that."

"Oh, I'm just kiddin', son. You know that."

No, I don't, Jeff thought as he washed off his razor. It'd be just like you to call her a Polack right to her face.

Jeff bent over to wash the remainder of the shaving cream from his cheeks. He stood up and examined the results of his shave in the mirror.

"You missed a spot," his father said.

Jeff darted a hate-filled glance at the Old Man's image in the glass, offended by the family resemblance he saw in the reflection. He had seen the blondish hairs he missed with the razor at the corner of his mouth; he didn't need the Old Man's prompting to tell him he missed them. Jeff picked up the razor and scraped it over the spot, slicing the hairs off but also cutting away a portion of the skin underneath.

"Shit!" Jeff said. "Now look at what you made me do."

"Hell," his father said. "I didn't do nothin'. Ain't my fault you're a clumsy shit."

Jeff's father kept looking in the mirror, examining his own face just the way Jeff inspected his. "Tell me," The Old Man said as he watched Jeff reach over to the toilet paper roll, tear off a small portion of tissue and paste it on the cut, "are you fuckin' this Polack girl?"

"Oh, please, Dad!"

"Well, hell," the father said. "That sorta thing does happen, ya know. I remember. I was young once, too."

No you weren't, Jeff shouted in his mind. You weren't ever my age. You were always an old fart. You always had those gray hairs on your chest. You always had that beer gut. All those pictures Grandma has of you as a boy are just forgeries.

"Well," Jeff's dad said, "I just wanna be sure that if you are, you're usin' some kinda protection. I don't 'specially need any more grandkids right now."

"Shouldn't you be more concerned about me catching AIDS?"

"Well, yeah. I guess so. But I know you ain't no Fag, so I'm not too worried about that."

Jeff shook his head at the Old Man's ignorance.

"I'm more worried 'bout a bunch o' Polack grandkids," his father went on. "Them nigger kids your sister's got are bad enough."

"They're not black," Jeff said, coming to Barbara's defense in spite of himself. It didn't matter whether he liked his sister and her husband or not, he couldn't allow his father's prejudices to go unchecked. "Hasif's an Iranian. That's a Persian. Hell, the Persians were civilized when the early Europeans were still running around in bearskins.

"Besides," Jeff went on, "Adrian's folks are of British descent, I think, just like us. Their name's Pollock. Like the fish. They're not Polish."

"Hell, we ain't Brits," Jeff's father said. "We're part Irish and part French and part Scotch with a little bit o' Cherokee Indian thrown in on the side. Then, your mom's got some German in 'er. Not all o' her red hair comes out of a bottle, ya know. We're Americans, through an' through an' proud of it. Got a little bit o' everything in our blood. 'Cept maybe nigger an' spic. And gook."

The Old Man opened the bathroom door and went out, leaving Jeff sickened and disgusted at his father's intolerance. He shook his head in resignation and then checked under the tissue to see if he'd stopped bleeding yet. He hadn't and put the toilet paper back in place, telling himself to be sure to remember to remove it before he left for school.


At the breakfast table, Jeff spooned vitamin-enriched cereal into his mouth as he reread the chapter in his Government textbook that today's test would cover. The smell of the bacon and eggs his mother was frying for his father's breakfast nearly nauseated him.

My God, he thought, doesn't The Old Man know the kind of crap he's putting into his body? All that cholesterol. He's going to have a heart attack and die one of these days if he keeps on eating that shit. Hope so.

The Old Man was whistling tunelessly thorough his teeth as he entered the kitchen. He carried his helmet under one arm and the newspaper was in his hand. His motorcycle patrolman's uniform pants and shirt were creased to razor sharpness, the shirtsleeve crease running directly through the peak of the sergeant's chevrons. Sunglasses hung from the shirt's top buttonhole.

"Hey, Babe," the Old Man said, slapping his wife's ample posterior with the folded newspaper. "Did you know ol' Jeff busted up with Stephanie Tilford?" he asked. He sat down at the kitchen table and opened the paper.

"Oh, yes," Jeff's Mother said without turning around from the stove. "Months ago. How long's it been, now, Jeffy?"

"Since February," Jeff said around a spoonful of cereal. He swallowed and continued. "Valentine's Day. She didn't like the card and flowers I gave her. Said it should have been jewelry, since we'd been dating for so long. I think she was hoping for a Promise Ring. That started a fight and we ended up breaking up."

"Yeah, that's the way with them bitches," Jeff's father said as he sipped his coffee and started reading the Sports Page. "They always want to tie a guy down. Get 'im so far in debt he can't afford to do anything but spend time with them. Hell, look at your mom, Jeff. I woulda shitcanned her a long time ago, but after I get done payin' for the house and cars and all the other crap we got, I ain't got nothin' left to pay a lawyer. Only reason I ain't divorced her."

"The only reason you haven't divorced me," Jeff's mom said as she walked over to the table and set her husband's breakfast in front of him, "is you know damned good and well you couldn't find anybody else who'd put up with you."

"Now, that ain't so," Jeff's father said as he reached for his wife and pulled her down into his lap. "I got women just standin' in line waitin' for me."

"Yeah, to be booked for soliciting," Jeff's mom said. She worked her way out of the man's grasp and got up. She went over to the toaster just as the English Muffins popped up, then began buttering them.

"Wish I hadda known about you and Stephanie last week, Jeff," his father told him. "Stopped her for speeding down on River Boulevard. Let her go with just a warning 'cause I thought she was still your girl friend."

"What was she doing?" Jeff asked.

"Fifty-five in a forty. Drivin' her Dad's Masseratti. Then, when I came up to the side of that convertible, she just flashed those baby blue eyes at me and said 'Oh. Hi, Mr. Danielson.' Then she propped those big ol' tits o' hers right up there on the side of the car door..."

"Jerry!" Jeff's mom said, reproachfully.

"...so's I'd be sure to see plenty o' cleavage." Jeff's father concluded, ignoring his wife's pleading.

"I think that's enough with the graphic description," Mrs. Danielson said, munching her buttered muffin. "Not in front of Jeff. He still has to go to school with that girl."

"Hell, Beth. Ol' Jeff's probably had his hand right in there between them boobs. More'n once, too, I betcha. It looked mighty inviting, let me tell you."

Jeff looked down at his cereal bowl. He could feel his face turning red but didn't know how to stop it, just like he didn't know how to tell his father he'd never gotten that far with Steph. He'd been able to feel them from outside the girl's blouse or sweater, but each time he'd been able to get his hand inside her clothes, trying to touch the skin of those magnificent breasts of hers, she'd always pulled his hand back out, making him feel like a naughty little boy filching cookies.

The Old Man ate hurriedly, silently reading. After only a few minutes, he'd gulped down the last of his bacon and eggs, then stood up, bending out over the table to drink the last of the coffee in his cup, careful not to spill anything on his nice, crisp uniform. "I gotta go," he said. "Got a court date this morning."

Gulping your food isn't good for your digestion, either, Dad, Jeff thought as he watched his father walk over to his mother. Why the hell don't you take better care of yourself?

Officer Jerry Danielson quickly kissed his wife, then hurried out the door to his car. He'd drive down to the courthouse, then pick up his motorcycle at the Police Garage, later.

Jeff looked up in time to see his mother gazing longingly at the door from which his father exited. A small smile plied across her lips before she lowered her gaze to her coffee and the other toasted English Muffin.

"Why do you put up with his shit, Mom?" Jeff asked.

"Watch your mouth, Jeff," his mother said displaying all the serenity of Michaelangelo's Pieta Madonna. "Just because I let your father get away with saying things like that, doesn't mean you can. That's a double standard, I know, but that's how life is, sometimes. You just have to accept it. You don't have to like it; just accept it."

Like hell I will, Jeff thought, but he didn't dare voice his opinion.


"Hey, Jeff," Jeremy Weigands said, "did you hear about what ol' Stephanie Tilford's been sayin' about your Dad?"

"You mean about him stopping her for speeding?" Jeff replied as he and Jeremy walked down the hall toward Mr. Hodge's class. "Dad said he let her go with just a warning because he thought we were still going together."

"No. That ain't what Steph's been sayin'. She says your dad asked her for a blow job. She says he did stop her for speeding, but said he'd let her off if she'd suck his dick."

Jeff stopped dead in the hallway. "That bitch," he said. He started walking again. The smile that had been starting to creep across his face faded into a hard frown. "Well," he asked, "did she give him one?"

"All depends on who you talk to," Jeremy said. "According to one person, she did. 'Cording to another, she didn't. Linda Guerrero says Steph kicked him in the balls, but you can't believe anything that dyke tells you, anyway."

"That ain't no shit," Jeff muttered, looking down at the floor of the hallway. He wondered if it was true, though. After hearing his father that morning, Jeff wasn't so sure. He could just imagine the encounter, with Stephanie leaning over the car door to let his father get an eyefull and his dad looking hard at her tits, just the way Jeff had always done until he found out those mountains were unassailable.

"Is Steph gonna do anything about it?" Jeff asked. "She can get my dad into a whole lot of trouble if she makes a complaint about that."

"I don't know," Jeremy replied. "I only heard about it from Linda and Jennifer Holland. Don't know who they heard it from. Do you think it's true?"

"No," Jeff said as if the whole concept was ridiculous. "My dad might be an asshole, but he isn't stupid."

A man would have to awfully damned stupid to do anything like that, Jeff thought. But still, he wondered.

"Can you imagine that bastard Hodge scheduling a test for the day of the Prom?" Jeremy asked, pulling Jeff rudely back into the real world. "You study for it?" Jeremy asked, then shrugged his shoulders and answered his own question. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Dumb question. You study for all of 'em. You fucking honor students give me a pain."

"But, hell," Jeremy went on, "I know half a dozen girls who aren't even in school today. They stayed home to get ready for tonight. You picked up your Tux yet?"

The High School world of Proms and tests and who was dating who went on as Jeff and Jeremy continued down the hall.


After the lunch hour, several kids came back to school with the information a motorcycle policeman was shot that morning during a bank robbery attempt at a branch bank beside one of the local malls. Jeff heard the news as he, Jeremy, Dan Hutchinson and several other boys were sharing a half-pint bottle of whiskey out behind the Gymnasium. Following a time-honored tradition, the boys were priming themselves for tonight's festivities.

"Think that might be your old man?" Jeremy asked.

Jeff was aware of a slight twinge of anxiety, but he shook his head. "Naw," he said, fighting hard to swallow the whiskey in his mouth. He wasn't sure he liked the taste of the stuff. "Dad's too smart to let himself get caught in the middle of something like that." Beside's, Jeff remembered, his father had court this morning. That was why the Old Man was in uniform at breakfast, instead of the civilian clothes he usually wore to work. Jeff knew court dates worked into all-day sessions, sometimes. Then, too, Jeff figured his father probably spent an hour or two at lunch, flirting with some waitress, somewhere. I doubt if Dad's even out on patrol yet, Jeff thought.

During his fifth-hour Calculus class, though, a call came through to Jeff's classroom that he was wanted in the office. As Jeff started toward the school offices. He knew... somehow just knew... the whole thing had something to do with his father.

The bank robbery, Jeff thought, Dad was involved in that bank robbery thing. Oh, no. Oh, please, God, don't let it be Dad. That'd just kill my mom.

Jeff tried to keep his face impassive and his pace steady as he walked down the hallway, but several times he found himself nearly breaking into a trot. When he reached the school office at last, he opened the door almost trepidatiously, halfway expecting to see the Police Chaplain and Captain Roundtree, his father's patrol supervisor, in the office. Jeff's father explained, once, that the Police Chaplain and the man's supervisor always broke the news to the next of kin when an officer was killed in the line of duty.

But only the normal office traffic of late returnees from lunch, discipline cases, school secretaries and student assistants were in the office when Jeff arrived. As usual, everyone seemed to be involved in a telephone or intercom conversation when he entered and Jeff had a problem getting anyone's attention. When he finally got one of the secretaries to notice him, she merely motioned him to a telephone on the counter. Jeff picked it up and pressed the flashing line selection button at the bottom.

"Hello?" he said into the mouthpiece.

"Jeff?" the anxious voice of his mother sounded through the telephone. "Finally. I just wanted to tell you, Jeff. Your father's fine. He wasn't hurt or anything, but he was involved in a shooting this morning. I just wanted...."

"What? At that bank?" Jeff asked. His voice sounded unusually loud and strident to himself and he consciously lowered it. "Was he at that bank that was robbed this morning?"

"Why,... Yes. Have you heard?"

"Some kids heard about it on the news at lunchtime. They said a policeman got shot. Is that true?" Jeff's mother seemed to take a long time to answer. "Is that true?" Jeff asked again.

"Yes, it is," his mother's voice came back, speaking slowly. "Kenny Lawler. Your dad's partner. Remember him?"

Jeff had a mental image of a round-faced, grinning black man who seemed too young to be a policeman. "Yeah," Jeff said. "I remember him. Was he the one shot?"

"Ye.... Yes, he was, Jeff." A long pause ensued, then his mother's voice said softly, "He was killed. Then your dad shot the man who shot Kenny. They don't know about him, yet. The robber, I mean. He's still in surgery, they say."

"But you're sure Dad's OK?"

"Yes, he is." Jeff could hear his mother suck in a breath and let it out in a sigh. "Chaplin Parretta called me to let me know Dad was all right."

Jeff could hear the strain in his mother's voice and could almost feel the tension she was under. Her feelings came through the telephone lines loud and clear.

"Mom?" he said. "Do you want me to come home?"

"Oh, no. Oh, no," his mother said. "You stay there at school. Your dad's not home yet. They're still talking to him about the shooting, I guess. Internal Affairs or whatever that department is. He probably won't be home for hours, yet."

"OK," Jeff said. "I'll see you when I get home." He started to hang up the phone, then thought of something else. "Mom?" he said.

"Yes?"

"Better call Barbara."

"I will."

The phone clicked to silence, followed by a dial tone. Jeff hung up the telephone, then looked up to see several people staring in his direction.

So, you all know about it, huh, he thought. Vultures. That's what Dad always calls you people. Always show up and stare when an accident or something like that happens. Vultures. Good name for you.

"Is your father OK, Jeff?" Patty Franklin, one of the office student assistants asked.

"Yeah," Jeff said. "He's OK."

"He was at that bank robbery this morning, wasn't he? I heard a couple of policemen got shot."

Jeff shook his head. "Just one. And the robber. My dad,..." he stopped and considered the implications of what happened. "My dad shot the guy."

"Who was it that got shot?" Patty asked. "The policeman, I mean. Did you know him? Is he all right?"

Jeff shook his head again. He cleared his throat, surprised at the constriction he felt there. He wondered why he felt so emotional. After all, he asked himself, I really don't give a shit if the Old Man lives or dies, do I?

"I can't tell you," Jeff told Patty. "I can't... uh... divulge the name. Uh.... Understand?"

Patty nodded and Jeff turned, walking out the office door. He knew the news would be all over the school almost immediately. Patty Franklin was a notorious gossip.

When Jeff got back to his class he just couldn't concentrate. After the bell rang, Jeff decided to leave.


Jeff's father still hadn't arrived home by the time Jeff got there.

"Have you heard anything else?" Jeff asked his mother as he placed Adrian's corsage in the refrigerator.

"The bank robber died," she said, staring off toward the far kitchen wall. She was sitting on the stool beside the counter in the kitchen, the same place she'd been when Jeff left for school that morning. "I heard that on the radio. Also, they must have gotten hold of Kenny's wife and parents because they released his name to the media. I heard them mention his name last time I listened to the news. Have you been listening?"

"No. Mind if I turn on the TV? The Headline News Channel has a local spot at a quarter till the hour. They might show Dad." Jeff much preferred visual information to radio news.

"I'd rather not see it," Jeff's mother said. "It's bad enough hearing about it on the radio. I don't know if I could stand it if they showed Kenny's body on TV. You know his wife's pregnant? Their first child."

The sound of the telephone ringing made both Jeff and his mother jump.

"Don't answer it," Jeff's mother said. "It's probably the newspaper or one of the TV stations. They've already called twice, trying to get an interview with your dad. They must have found out he was Kenny's partner, somehow. Heaven knows how they got hold of our phone number."

But it could be dad, mom," Jeff protested, picking up the telephone handset. "Hello."

"Oh. Hi, Jeffy, it's Barbi," his sister's voice said from the other end of the line, using the diminutives for both their names in the manner that always irritated Jeff. "Can I talk to Momma? She left a message on my answering machine and said it was urgent."

"Barbara," Jeff said, handing the receiver to his mother.

As his mother began talking to his sister, Jeff took his tuxedo and formal patent-leather shoes into his bedroom. From there, Jeff went into the family room and turned on the television. He searched through the ever-present commercials until he found the talking head of the Headline News Reader, then went back to the kitchen for a Coke.

The local news segment was just starting when Jeff returned to the family room. The bank robbery was the second story, just after the city commission budget report. The story on the robbery was a voice-over of videotape that showed an ambulance pulling away from the branch bank building, then a long shot of spectators standing around the bank, a couple of police squad cars and one police motorcycle, then cut to a head shot of the bank manager, then to the Police Watch Captain for the day. The Watch Captain was an officer Jeff didn't recognize who said, "...then the second police officer drew his service revolver and fired two times, striking the uh,... alleged perpetrator in the neck and chest." The scene then cut to what Jeff assumed was the most attractive female bank teller the TV reporter could find, who gave the television audience the profound insight, "Oh, yeah. I was really scared, ya know."

Finally, a shot of bloodstains on the sidewalk was shown with the reporter's voice overlay reading the information that Officer Ken Lawler was 24, was a veteran of two years on the police force, was married and that he and his wife were expecting their first child in August. The screen cut back to the newsroom where the studio reporter said the yet-to-be-identified alledged bank robber died during surgery at Memorial Hospital without regaining consciousness.

"Good," Jeff said, taking a swig from his Coke as the newcast went on to the local weather.


Jeff's father still had not returned home by the time Jeff left to pick up Adrian. Jeff had showered for the second time that day and checked to see if he needed to shave again, then put on his rented Tuxedo, expecting all the while to hear his father's car in the driveway. When Jeff reached Adrian's house, corsage in hand, her parents' conversation about how great Jeff looked in his Pearl Gray Tuxedo Jacket, black pants and lavender cumberbund and how beautiful Adrian looked in her lavender formal gown quickly switched to talk of the robbery and shooting. They congratulated Jeff for his father's part in it.

Jeff tried his best to shrug off their comments saying, truthfully, that he didn't know much about it. "But it's just part of a Policeman's job, you know," he told them. "Goes with the territory." He also tried his best to smile and look pleasant as Mr. and Mrs. Pollock took pictures and shot videotape of the couple, but it was difficult.

The last stop before the country club, where Jeff had wangled dinner reservations, was back at the Danielson house. Jeff's mother also took pictures and gushed appropriately over how great Adrian and Jeff looked together. Adrian was a sloe-eyed brunette with a pale, creamy-smooth complexion that complemented Jeff's blond, All-American-Boy appeal very well. With her creamy white skin, black hair and nearly-lavender eyes, many people told Adrian she looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor but Jeff didn't really see any resemblance. Only their coloration was identical, in his mind. After all, Elizabeth Taylor was a fat old woman, wasn't she? Adrian was only 18 and a size six.

"Where's Dad?" Jeff asked. "I see his car's in the driveway."

"I think he's in the family room," Mrs. Danielson said. "He said he wanted to see you two when you came back." She turned her attention to Adrian. "Oh, Adrian," she said, deftly changing the subject, "I think I see a loose thread on your dress, there. Let me get it for you."

She left the girl standing beside the kitchen table and managed to pull Jeff aside without seeming to do it deliberately. "Go talk to him, Jeff," she whispered to her son as she pushed past him on the pretext of going to get her scissors. "He's really upset about this thing. I'll keep Adrian out here."

Jeff started toward the family room but his mother stopped him with one last whispered comment.

"And Jeff,..." she said, "...he's been drinking."

Feeling very much like a Daniel entering a Lion's Den, Jeff opened the door to the family room. His father was sitting in his usual chair, directly in front of the TV, watching the Braves game on WTBS.

"Why, Jeff. Jeff," his father said, standing up and placing the beer can in his hand on the end table beside the chair. "You certainly do look handsome, there, boy. Turn around, turn around, let me look at ya."

Jeff obliged; a shy, embarrassed grin on his face as he self-consciously and awkwardly pirouetted in the middle of the floor.

"Gettin' all grown up, these days, ain't ya." Mr. Danielson ran his eyes up and down Jeff's tall frame, grinning foolishly.

With a start, Jeff realized his father had to elevate his gaze slightly to look his son in the eyes. Jeff was taller than his father, something he had never noticed before.

"Well, where's your date? Wanna meet her. I haven't met her before, have I?"

"She's been over here," Jeff told him. "But I think it was when you were still on night shift." He paused awkwardly, wondering how to bring up the subject of the shooting.

"You two goin' to dinner before the Prom?"

"Yeah," Jeff said. "Jeremy got us reservations at his dad's country club. We gotta go meet him and his date there."

"You got enough money for all this?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well," his father said, "better take some extra." He reached down to his pants pocket, then paused, rather embarrassed. He was wearing black denim pants and a white T-Shirt. "Oh," he muttered, "these ain't... uh... my pants. Had to borrow some civilian clothes out of another guy's locker. My uniform pants had... blood on 'em." He stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, as if unsure what to do. "Oh, I know," he said brightly. "Got some money up here. If your Ma hasn't found it and spent it all yet, that is."

Jeff watched as his father walked over to the bookcase built into the wall behind the TV and lifted a wooden tobacco humidifier off the top shelf.

"Use this as my hidey-hole, since I quit smokin' my pipe," his father said as he opened the lid. A thick roll of bills was inside the humidifier. Most of the bills were ones, fives and tens, Jeff noticed, as Mr. Danielson shuffled through them. Finally, at the center of the roll, he found what he was looking for and pulled out two one hundred dollar bills. He held them out to Jeff.

Jeff took the bills reluctantly and stood there, looking down at them as his father replaced the money in the humidifier and put it back on the shelf.

"I'm sure your mom knows about that money, there, Jeff," his father said, "but she pretends she doesn't. So don't mention it to 'er, if you don't mind." Mr. Daniels stood, rubbing his hands together.

His borrowed T-shirt was too small for Jerry's thick, bulging arms and barrel chest and it made him look even more muscular in the upper torso than usual. The shirt barely covered his middle-age spare tire, though.

"Been tryin' to save up enough to buy your mom a new car," Jeff's father said. "Or a newer used car, I guess. Whatever. I know she's always wanted a '65 Mustang. Maybe I can find one of them at a decent price and we could fix 'er up. Together. You and me." He stood there, half grinning, running his eyes over his son's face, like he was trying to memorize each aspect of it; storing it to recall later.

"You... uh... heard about what happened today, didn't ya?" Jeff's father started, awkwardly.

Jeff nodded.

Jeff's father sucked in a long, noisy breath, then let it out slowly in a deep sigh. "Kenny Lawler was killed," he said.

"How,..." Jeff started.

"You know his wife's pregnant?"

"Yeah."

Jerry Danielson gave a short, sardonic laugh. "That sorta thing never happens to a bachelor, seems like. Or to some old, decrepit fart like me. Always happens to somebody like Kenny. Somebody who has little kids or a pregnant wife or something like that. Somebody who has his whole goddam life in front of 'im."

"You aren't old, Dad," Jeff said. "Only Forty-Four."

"Forty-Five," Jerry corrected. He started to say something else but Jeff interrupted.

"How did it happen?" Jeff could tell his father was becoming maudlin, somehow blaming himself for what happened. But Jeff realized his mother was right. His father needed to talk to somebody about it.

"We... uh... we were gonna go and set up a speed trap out on Patterson Drive," he said, beginning rather slowly, then allowing the words to come out more freely after he began. "You know, where the Interstate offramp is. Folks get off that Interstate and think they can still do 65 down Patterson." He gave out a little chuckle. "Prime huntin' ground."

"But we... uh... heard a call 'bout a silent alarm goin' off at the First National branch over in Cherry Hills, so we started over there. We were pretty close."

The man stopped and walked over to the end table where he'd left his beer can. He picked it up and looked at it, feeling by its weight that it was almost empty. "Wanna beer, Jeff?" he asked. "I guess you're old enough to have one, now."

Jeff shook his head.

"I know you take one every once in a while," his father said. "I drink a lot of 'em, I know, but I usually know how many I have left. Your mom doesn't drink 'em. She don't like beer."

"No, thank you, Dad," Jeff said, slightly embarrassed that the man knew. "I think you're changing the subject." It amazed Jeff to realize he had the temerity to say that to his father.

Jeff's dad shot an annoyed glance at his son. "Yeah, I guess I am," he said. He looked down at the rug and shook his head.

"Anyway," he continued, running his hand through his close-cropped, graying, sand-colored hair, then looking back up at his son, "we split up when we got to the bank. Ken took the west entrance and I took the east. My side was all glass and this Mexican kid who was tryin' to rob the place saw me and takes off, goin' out the west side door. I guess Ken was just gettin' up to the entrance when this kid comes out. It was probably just reflex or somethin' on his part, but as soon as he sees Ken, this kid fired. Sawed-off 12 guage. Close range."

"I kept on goin' around the building when I seen the kid run out. Don't think I even heard the shot over the sound of the bike. But then, when I got to the other side, I saw Ken and his bike down on the pavement and his kid standing over him, reachin' down to get Ken's .357 out of his holster.

Well, I.... I guess I dismounted and drew out my piece and everything all at the same time. Don't remember gettin' off the bike, though. I see the kid pump his shotgun and start to point it at me. That's when I fired. I musta shot three times, 'cause that's how many fired shells there was in the cylinder. But I got him once in the chest and once here, in the neck." He indicated a point where his neck muscles joined his shoulder. "I think the uh... carotid artery might have been cut, cause blood was kinda spurtin' out."

"Anyway, this kid went down and I got on the radio and called for backup and told 'em an officer was down. Called EMS, too, but didn't really need to. The folks inside the bank called 911 as soon as the kid ran out."

"But I established there was nobody else in on the robbery from the people in the bank. He was a loner. Then I tried to help out Ken and the kid I shot. That's how I got blood all over my uniform."

While he talked, the man walked up to a spot just in front of Jeff. Jeff could see the tension lines in his father's face, the corded neck muscles, the redness in the man's unfocused eyes. Jeff smelled both whiskey and beer on his father's breath. Jeff wanted to take a step back but could not make himself do it. He stood, rooted to the spot.

"Julio Rodriguez. That's what the kid's ID said his name was. Mexican. Green Card." Jerry raised his hands in front of him, his fists clenched, then dropped them to his sides in frustration. "He was just a fuckin' kid, Jeff," he said suddenly, intensely. His face was twisted in confusion. "A goddam kid. Twenty. Not much older than you. Just like Ken. Just fuckin' kids, both of 'em." Jeff father leaned over and placed his head against his son's shoulder.

The action took Jeff completely by surprise. It seemed so thoroughly out of character for his father, Jeff was stunned into an awkward silence. He was afraid the man was going to start crying. For a fleeting moment, Jeff was concerned about stains on the Pearl Gray jacket. He lifted his hands, not really sure where to place them. He didn't know if he should hug his father or not; he didn't know if he could.

The thought crossed his mind of patting the man on the shoulder, but that didn't seem appropriate, either.

"Dad," he said, finally. "It's OK. It's OK. You... you should't feel so bad about it. You did what you had to do. It's your job. Don't feel bad about it. It's over. Besides, what difference does it make if there's one less Spic in this world."

His father's head jerked up off Jeff's shoulder. The man's upper lip was curled back in distaste and a look of hatred was in his red-rimmed eyes as he took a half step backward.

Before Jeff could move or do anything to block the blow, a resounding, rifle-shot slap stung the left side of the boy's face.

"Don't you ever,..." the man said through clenched teeth, "ever say anything like that again. Don't you dare trivialize a man's life like that." A shaking hand with an extended forefinger, held up in front of the boy's face, slowly unclenched and dropped to the man's side.

Jerry Danielson's torso slowly relaxed and his head bowed as he realized what he'd done. "I'm sorry, Jeff," he said softly, looking down and turning away from his son. "I'm sorry."

Jeff still stood in the same spot, his ear ringing and his face smarting from the effects of the slap. He wanted to turn and run away, but he couldn't make himself go. He wanted to rub his face where his father slapped him, but he wouldn't allow himself to do that, either. He could feel tears stinging his eyes and blinked to keep them from welling over. No matter what the Old Man did to him, Jeff vowed, he would not allow his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Ever again.

For a time, no one moved or said anything. Finally, Jerry hunched his shoulders and placed the fingers of one hand into his back pocket. He slowly walked over to the end table and picked up his beer can again.

"Dad," Jeff said at last. He met his father's eyes as the man looked up. He held the gaze steadily, without flinching. "There's something else. Something I need to know. It's about the time last week when you stopped Stephanie Tilford for speeding."

"What about it?"

"Did you say or do anything to her?"

"Like what?"

"Did you,..." Jeff searched for the proper word, "did you proposition her?"

"Did I...." A smirk crossed Jerry's lips and his eyes were laughing with an ironic light. "My God. What a sense of priority. Two men...." Suddenly the eyes became hard and penetrating as he turned on Jeff. "Two fucking men, Jeff. They're dead. Dead. Do you know what that means? They're dead. And here you are askin' me if I got fresh with some goddam bimbo." He shook his head, hopelessly.

"Well," Jeff said with a shrug. "You tried to change the subject earlier. Now it's my turn."

Jerry chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

"Well," Jeff asked, "did you?"

"Fuck, no."

The denial came too quickly, too easily, too abusively to his father's lips. Jeff was certain he was lying.

"She says you did."

His father closed his eyes and shook his head in resignation. "Oh, shit," he said. "That's all I need." He opened his eyes again and looked at Jeff. "Is she makin' a complaint?"

"I don't think she has," Jeff said. "Yet."

Jerry shook his head again, raised his eyes to the ceiling, then looked back at his son. "Jeff," he said, "I know you don't think that highly of me, sometimes, but...." He stopped and gave a little half laugh, half sigh. "I would never do anything like that to you. To you or... to your mother... or to your girlfriend. Last week, that's what I thought Stephanie was. And I don't care how damned jealous I might be of you, I'd never...."

"Jealous?" Jeff interrupted. "Jealous of me? Why the hell would you be jealous of me?"

His father stood and stared at Jeff a long time, a half smile playing upon his lips. The expression in his eyes was a mixture of amusement, sadness, and longing. "Well," he said, "I guess it's true. Youth is wasted on the young." He shook his head again and reached up to rub the back of his neck.

"Why would I be jealous of you?" Jerry asked rhetorically. "Well, Jeff, I'll tell ya. Because you're 18. I'm 45. I'm gonna retire from the police force in two years after 25 years on the job; still a Sergeant. Been passed over for promotion more times than I can count. You got your whole life to live yet. You can be whatever you want. I ain't ever gonna be anything more than what I am right now. You're gonna take your scholarships and go off to a good college next year. You still can get girls like Stephanie Tilford.... And I bet this Adrian's just as nice, isn't she? I got your mother. Now, I still love 'er and all that.... But she's still.... Well, we've been married for 23 years. That's why when some little prick teaser like Stephanie looks at me, I look back. But I don't do anything about it. Afraid to. Got too much to lose, Jeff. And, besides, I'm too big a coward." He laughed when he saw Jeff's questioning look, which Jerry interpreted as one of disbelief. "Yeah, I'm a coward. Afraid to do anything like that. Too afraid of losin' all them things I got. You don't have to be afraid of anything. That's why I'm jealous sometimes, Jeff, 'cause you got opportunity and I don't. Just regrets. 'S all I got. Regrets. Regrets that I didn't do some things different. Like every man has, I guess. It ain't original with me, but I think there's a saying, somewhere, that says old men have regrets and young men have opportunities. Or the other way around."

Again the two men, one young and one old, but still very much alike, stood and stared at each other.

Finally, Jerry broke the tension. "Now, I know you don't believe a single word of what I just told you," he said. "Kids never believe what their fathers tell 'em, but I said it just the same. I know you gotta go out and fuck up your own life, just like every man does." Jerry walked up and placed a comradly arm across his son's shoulders, turning them both toward the kitchen. "So, I'll tell ya what I'll do, Jeff. I'll give you some advice. Some advice I sometimes wish your Grampa had given me."

"Here it is," he said. Jerry tapped lightly on his son's chest with his forefinger. "As long as you can do it without hurtin' anyone, don't ever turn down pussy if it's offered to you."

Jerry smiled and Jeff found himself smiling despite himself.

"Now, that ain't very sage advice, son, and with AIDS goin' around and all the other crap you can catch--jealous husbands and palimony suits and all that--it probably ain't very safe advice, either. But it's all I got to offer. I guess I outta amend it a little, though, and say: Don't ever turn down pussy if it's offered to you; but always use a rubber."

Jerry smiled with genuine affection toward his son and Jeff returned it in kind.

"Dad," Jeff said, "come on out to the kitchen and meet Adrian."


After goodbyes were finally said, preceded by a bit of good-natured chiding from Beth Danielson for having kept the women waiting for so long while father and son discussed "guy things," Jeff and Adrian finally climbed into Jeff's car to leave. Jeff shook his head and gave a sardonic chuckle as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

"What's so funny?" Adrian asked.

"My old man," Jeff told her. "How can you tell somebody like that they're full of shit and get them to believe it?"

In his rearview mirror, Jeff could still see his mother and father silhouetted in the doorway of their house as he drove away.

"Why, I thought your father was very charming, Jeff," Adrian said. "You always told me he was a real dork. He isn't at all. He's very nice."

"He's drunk," Jeff said. "A 'charming' drunk."

"Well, I suppose he has a good reason to be, tonight, after what happened today. Does he drink a lot?"

"According to my mom, he does."

"Do you really think he did what Stephanie Tilford says he did?"

"No," Jeff said. Not really.

"Do you think he's going to get into trouble about that?"

"I don't know," Jeff said, rather curtly. "Do you mind, Adrian? I really think we can find better things to talk about tonight than my old man."

"Yeah," Adrian said with a genuine, affectionate laugh, reaching over and placing her hand lightly on Jeff's arm. "You're right. We ought to talk about us. Talk about what we're going to do tonight and about what a good time we'll have."

Jeff reached over to Adrian and pull her closer to him on the bench seat of his car. He was suddenly glad he didn't have the bucket seats he often considered installing. Jeff glanced down as Adrian rubbed her hand lightly along the top of his thigh. He smiled.

Well, he thought, maybe the Old Man's advice isn't quite as stupid as it sounded, after all.