- Duty, Honor, Country
Three children, buckled into the backseat of a 1967 Plymouth. Paper bags of fast food in the passenger seat spotting with grease. Hartford's streets splashing outside. The man behind the wheel, firing up one cigarette, then another; the dashboard lighter's orange coil illuminating his chin whiskers, the rest of his face darkened. The wipers telling the children, "shush, shush; shush, shush." The man says, "Nobody gets a French fry until we get to Grandma's. Don't ask again."
Glued to the dashboard, a miniature Statue of Liberty shudders with each pothole but stands its ground. A toy Liberty Bell dangles from the rearview mirror. Little organizing boxes and pockets sit here and there within the driver's reach, offering stockpiles of ballpoint pens and scraps of paper, news clippings, matchbooks. In one is a planning calendar, and in another a paperback copy of The Federalist Papers, its cover curled and crumbling at the corners.
At a stoplight, side by side with a squad car, he watches the police officer behind its steering wheel watching him. The officer won't look away, insists on trespassing where the government has no business. So from the Plymouth he glares back and wants the glare to say what he hasn't words for. The light turns green, he pulls forward as driving laws require and allow, but after a few moments the squad car falls behind, red lights flashing.
Then the officer is at the car's open window asking for documents. "You've got a taillight out, Mr. Grimes," the officer says. "I could write you up for that."
Rain falls into the car, dampens his sleeve. He unbuckles his seat belt. "I want to see that taillight," he says, and unlocks his car door.
"You need to stay where you are."
"The taillight isn't out. You've got no reason to stop me and no reason to write me up."
"Stay where you are." [End Page 109]
"Show me the taillight."
"Mr. Grimes," says the officer, looking into the back at the three children. "Your taillight is out. I won't write you up, but get it fixed." He folds his ticket book, slides it back into a space on his belt. "You and your family have a safe and happy night."
The oldest, Sonny, who is crying, wipes his nose with his coat sleeve. It's a coat Grandma gave him, one with stars on the collar like generals wear. It's too big, but Grandma says he will grow into it. He likes the pockets because they hold a lot. Tonight, in the pockets, he carries the medallion that proves he's made his First Holy Communion, a folded-up picture of the King of Greece he cut out of a magazine, a felt tip pen with red ink and another with black, and a cap gun version of a pistol Teddy Roosevelt carried. He knows from Grandma about the Rough Riders. She also tells him about Senator Goldwater and two other heroes he can't remember, but one is a general and both have a "mick" sound in their names, like McDonald's, where Daddy stopped to get the burgers and fries.
When the policeman arrives at the car window, Sonny places his hand in the pocket with the gun and holds it so he can quickly fire. He has carried the gun since Mommy started spending so much time in the backyard talking to the dog through its wire pen. When she stays outside, Sonny watches from his bedroom window. The dog's name is King, but Sonny calls the dog Mary because Mary is a girl at school he doesn't like. It's a German shepherd dog, and it growls at everyone except Mommy, and its gums are scary pink.
Not Mommy. Mom. The kids at school punch him because only bozo kids say Mommy and Daddy. So now he tries to say Mom and Dad.
When the policeman leaves, Sonny waits for his dad to start driving. But they sit for a long time while Dad finishes his cigarette. Then Dad opens the car door...