to him, quick to defend me. “It’s over sixty miles, and after a boy comes off patrol he’s tired. I should think you’d speak to Fred Walsh and have Ralph transferred. He could go to Framingham, or Andover, or Concord. Then he’d be much nearer home.”
“Now you know that’s foolish, Millie,” my father said. “They have reasons for stationing a trooper away from his home. It’s better he doesn’t know any people in his assigned area.” Then he turned to me. “How’s Fred Walsh?”
“Fine,” I said briefly.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“He’s tough,” I said. “I’ll get used to him.”
“I worked with Fred quite a few years,” my father said. “He’s a good cop and a good troop commander. Hard, but fair. Maybe he’s a little bitter, Ralph.”
“Why should he be bitter? He’s the troop commander. It’s almost like being God.”
“Don’t be blasphemous,” my mother said.
“Fred Walsh has to retire next spring,” my father said. “When a man gives his life to an organization–”
“But the younger ones coming up,” I said, “they have to have a chance, too. If the older officers stay in grade too long, we’ll never make it.”
“The young ones,” my father said. “Always impatient, restless. But what will a man do when he reaches Walsh’s age? He’ll be only fifty. Is his life over?” He shook his head sadly. “When I think of it, there ain’t many left of the old gang now. Outside of the Commissioner, Major Carradine, Fred Walsh and Bob Clyde in Ballistics, I guess there’s nobody left from my time.”
“There’s Ed Newpole,” my mother said.
“Well, I was talking about the uniformed branch. Ed left the troops and went into the detective branch. A detective ain’t the same thing.” He swung his wheel chair around and faced me. “Anything new in the troops? Any new weapons?”
“There’s a new .45 carbine,” I said. “It’s semi-automatic.”
“We never had those kind of weapons,” my father said, shaking his head. “When I look back–”
“I think you’ve bothered the boy enough for now,” my mother interrupted. “You go wash up and let Ralph wash up, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” my father said, saluting her. He winked at me. Then he wheeled happily out of the living room and bumped the chair over the threshold of the bathroom.
“It’s his whole life,” my mother said softly. “He talks to me about the troops all day long. And do you see how his face lights up when you come home? You must be kind and patient with him, Ralph.”
“Sure, Ma,” I said. I patted her cheek and went into the bedroom. I took off my jacket and unstrapped the holstered gun and put it into the bureau drawer. I put the badge in, too. I felt immeasurably lighter now. It wasn’t so much the actual weight of the two objects, but the symbols they represented.
I came into the living room with a bath towel in my hand. I picked up the newspaper. I looked across into the dining room and I noticed the gold-embroidered linen tablecloth on the dining room table. Then I saw the folded linen napkins. Instead of the usual heavy tumblers I saw the crystal goblets. There was a silver-plated relish dish and my mother’s homemade watermelon pickles. Now she was at the table, moving around, laying out her best silverware. She had changed to a white ruffled apron.
I came into the dining room. “You expecting company?” I asked.
“Didn’t your father tell you over the phone?” She brought her hand up and brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. “Ellen Levesque is coming to dinner.”
“He didn’t tell me,” I said, rubbing the stubble on my jaw. “Look, we’ve known Ellen since she was this high. She’s been here to dinner before. You don’t have to put out the family heirlooms to impress a kid like Ellen.”
“She’s not a kid. She’s twenty-one.”
“Twenty,” I corrected. “I’m three years older than she.”
“Your father was five years older than I.”
“Now what is this? Who’s talking marriage, Ma?”
“You have,” she said calmly. “Often. And with Ellen.”
“We never mentioned anything definite. There was no definite time.”
“Aren’t you in love with Ellen?”
“Sure. Ellen and I–” Then I stopped and I could feel the redness creeping over my face. I was thinking of Manette Venus.
“What?” my mother asked.
“I ought to have time,” I said hurriedly. “I’m still in my probationary period and I haven’t had my first pay increase yet. I don’t think this is the time to talk about it.”
“Your father and I have talked about it,” my mother said firmly. “We don’t exactly blame you for not wanting to come home. It must be dull for you to sit here and talk to a crippled old man, a man who does nothing but relive his life as a trooper. If you had a wife, you wouldn’t want to stay in Danford. And your father is afraid you might start hanging around bars and drinking. You know what would happen if you got drunk in a public place. You’d be dismissed from the troops.”
“I’ve never been drunk in my life,” I said. “He needn’t worry.”
“But he does worry. Well, never mind it now. Dinner was ready an hour ago, and Ellen was waiting for you. She went home for a moment. I do want this to be nice. I’ve entertained very little since your fathers accident. When he was well he liked the little extra touches. You know, I think I’m going to use the silver candleholders.”
“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t you, Ma?”
She put a finger thoughtfully to her mouth. “I think I will. Just this once we’ll eat by candlelight. And I don’t care if your father does joke that he can’t see what he’s eating.”
“Sure,” I said. Then I heard my father come out of the bathroom. I went in to take a quick shower and a shave.
I was putting on a fresh shirt in my bedroom when I heard the front door open. Then I heard my father’s dry rasping cough and Ellen’s quick, bubbling laughter.
I came into the living room and Ellen whirled around suddenly. She was a china doll of a girl, slim and as supple as a reed, with black wavy hair, green eyes and a saucy, freckled nose. She was wearing a skirt and blouse and her usual flat sandals. She came up and kissed me on the mouth. Then she reached up and rubbed some of her lipstick from the corner of my lip.
“Hello, Ralph,” she said. “Your nose is peeling again.”
“You know I never could tan.” I grinned.
“We’ve missed you,” she said. “We haven’t
