Happy Family (11 page)

“Enough already!” Michael storms down the stairs from his editing bay, yelling. She motions that she can't hear him over the noise of the lawn mower. “Stop it, you're fucking up the machine. Stop!”

“Then call the guy, because this is ridiculous!” she shouts.

He shuts the lawn mower off. “You're being totally inconsiderate. If I said I'll do it, I'll goddamned do it. Did it occur to you that I'm getting some work done up there?”

Did it occur to you that you will be placed on academic suspension?

Samuelson and Michael are the same age; is this a generational style of condescension? A gender issue? She wonders if Samuelson ever employs this sneering tone with Cheri's male colleagues. She hates dwelling on this line of thought. It taps into her prior experiences of persecution, the constant harassment she survived every day at the Ninth Precinct by pretending it didn't hurt and humiliate her. Michael stalks off, back up the stairs to the editing bay, and she feels twice stung. Hasn't she done enough to prove herself worthy? It's an echo of Sol's
You're not good enough.
Even when her father didn't say it, he said it. She's breathing hard and sweating; she puts her trembling hands on her knees. Her body hasn't felt like her own ever since she started trying to turn herself into a brood hen. Popping hormones instead of lifting weights has made her weak and soft in all the wrong places.

That's something she can change.

F
or the past week, since her meeting with Samuelson, Cheri has favored the proletarian gym close to the house over the university facilities where she could run into someone from her department who might have heard of Richards's complaint. Insular environments breed buzzardlike reactions to the whiff of a comedown and while she hadn't heard back from Samuelson, she also doesn't want to be tempted to solicit information. Today, she's doing intervals of incline push-ups, kettle-bell swing lunges, and two-minute sprints on the rowing machine. Her body is responding, just not as quickly as it used to. Her cardio is lagging, but she's making progress. She pushes through her last round, panting from the effort.

Cheri showers quickly and is getting dressed when she glimpses her naked body in the mirror. She catches herself thinking like a cop, noting her distinguishing marks, the things Michael would use to identify her body at the morgue: the mole above her right breast, her tattoos—cherry bomb on her left shoulder, handgun on her hip, tiger crouching his way up her back toward the ouroboros between her wings. For a long time she was “that girl with the tattoos.” Back up and give her room, people. Now her stomach has a slight middle-aged pooch and recently she'd detected a few threads of gray at her temples. But her legs are still long and straight, her face is what a boyfriend in college described as
jolie laide,
to which she responded, “Fuck you and fuck the French.” But on any given Sunday, depending on the light, the angle, or her mood, her face does veer between ugly and striking. Her features are at odds with one another; near-black hair and white skin, mismatched eyes, small nose that leads to a full, heart-shaped mouth. One benefit of getting older, she thinks, is that she now takes “beautiful-ugly” as a compliment.

Cheri makes her way out of the locker room. As she's crossing the main floor of the gym to the front exit, she hears, “Matzner? Cheri Matzner?” A muscle-head guy standing beside a girl running on a treadmill is waving at her. He combs his hand through his hair and checks himself out in a mirror before trotting over. It's so out of context that it takes a minute for it to click. “It
is
you!” he says with a smile, then points to his chest. “Bobby Godino, you remember?” Godino, who begged to be in a mounted unit because chicks loved guys on horseback. “Pussy” Godino from the NYPD Sixth Precinct was now a personal trainer? “Yeah, can you believe,” he says, reading her mind. Bobby flexes. “Bod's looking sweet, right? No shit, Cheri Matzner. I wondered what happened to you; you just disappeared. And
bam,
all these years later, here you are.”

“Small world,” Cheri says.

“So how you doing? I figured you went back to school and stuff.”

“You called it, Bobby. I'm teaching at the university…and stuff.”

“Cool. You married? You know, if it weren't for Eddie I'd have gone for you myself. You always seemed different, and I like a little flavor.” Cheri holds up her left hand; her ring finger sports a gold band.

“And you?” she asks.

“Divorced. She got custody of the kid, moved out here—I followed so I could see my boy. You know, it's wild running into you like this. It's like people dying in threes, you know, because I heard from Eddie, out of the blue, what, it had to be before Christmas.”

“Really,” Cheri says, eyeing the girl on the treadmill eyeing her. “I think someone needs you.”

“You're doing great, Sharon. Two more minutes,” he says, checking his watch. “Sheila was friends with my ex, Angela, and when we busted up it was a kind of choose-your-side thing. Eddie checked in on me now and then, but, you know, we were never tight. Sheila's cooking on their fourth kid. And she's still on the Job. You knew he married Sheila?” Cheri didn't. “Eddie's Secret Service to some muckety-muck at the Pentagon—he's high up. No shocker there; we all knew Eddie Norris was going places.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear he's doing well, and you too…”

“Yeah, I'm not usually here—it's only because my client is redoing her home gym—so let me give you my card. In case you want to work out or whatever.”

Cheri sips a Jameson and Coke at the neighborhood bar where she often grades papers. She hadn't felt ready to go home to Michael, especially after that random encounter with her past. Cheri hasn't heard anything about Eddie Norris in years. Of course he married Sheila the cop, a good Catholic bunny, and they have a litter of kids now. He was a cop of the Irish lead-with-your-fists breed, the type who believed real men don't cry. They retreat under the hoods of cars, speak softly, carry through on wicked practical jokes, drink only Coors, and kill any son of a bitch who tries to mess with their sisters or mothers. Eddie Norris standing in her apartment on East Ninth and Avenue A, naked, his head covered by a dish towel, leaning over a pot of boiling water and Vicks VapoRub. “Id it working yet?” Eddie Norris presenting her with his grandpa's cocobolo police baton, noting it had met plenty of flesh in its time. She carried it with her every day, out in the war zone and rubble of Alphabet City with its skinheads and squatters, crackheads and dealers with sawed-off shotguns underneath their coats. Venturing into the burned-out labyrinth of booby-trapped tunnels, the shooting galleries with
Clean up your blood
spray-painted on the walls, knowing anything could come at you at any time, Eddie Norris was the eyes in the back of her head. What fueled them wasn't the danger of being shot at; it was the heightened sense of being alive that came with hyperawareness. Their world was ultravivid and the high was better than any drug.

She was deeply in love. That stupid-and-crazy love that songs are written about. She'd wear Eddie's wifebeater under her Kevlar because he was her good luck. Was it because she was young, the cliché that the first cut is the deepest? Was it a cop thing? It was true that cops dated other cops or nurses because nobody else could understand the daily trauma that comes from witnessing the depths of human depravity, suffering, and violence. But it was more than that. Eddie Norris had done something for her no man ever had. He'd stood up for her, and he did it when he had a lot to lose and nothing to gain.

Why,
they all asked.
Why
was the resounding question when Cheri announced she was dumping Yale grad school for the police academy. She knew her choice to join the NYPD would alienate her family and friends. Even though Sol and Cici knew nothing about Near Eastern languages and religion, they had liked being able to say, “My daughter's going to Yale.” While they'd never come to terms with her appearance—she'd been adding piercings and tattoos steadily since high school—and they hated that she lived in the East Village with all the weirdos, druggies, and Mohawked punks who Sol said made “hate-crime” music—their unconventional daughter was still on track to have a respectable white-collar career. “Why would you throw that all away?” they wailed. To become a
cop,
of all things.

Of course, Cici panicked that she'd get killed. Even more typical, she demanded to know why Cheri would agree to wear a uniform and look like a janitor. Sol was convinced it was all for shock value. He said if she followed through he'd never give her another dime. But Cheri had never felt at home in their bubble of privilege and she was certain that wherever her birth parents came from, it was more trailer park than Park Avenue. But there was more to it than that. Festering beneath her bravado was something too painful and complicated for Cheri to acknowledge, even to herself. Cheri's relationship with her father had always been distant, complicated, and, in the storm of her teenage rebellion, volatile. They'd stumbled along the frayed edges of their imposed family bond until, in her junior year of college, Cheri pulled on the one thread that would unravel it permanently. She'd cemented herself into complicity the day she confronted Sol about his secret, and after that, the thought of ever accepting his money made her feel dirty.

“What the fuck, CM? A cop?” brayed Taya when Cheri told her the news. “Are you going to start busting your friends, arrest me for smoking weed? There's a reason they're called pigs—not to mention they're all bridge-and-tunnel.” Cheri didn't expect for it to make sense to anyone except Gusmanov. Her family's Russian handyman had been her secret-sharer growing up; she owed her expert marksmanship to his tutelage. Gusmanov always smelled of talcum and tobacco. Cheri never cared that he was even older than her father. He showed her how to throw a pocketknife into the trunk of a tree and taught her Russian words. Best of all, Gusmanov had a gun. “Only for protection and sport,” he'd told her when she saw it sticking out of his waistband as he crawled under her sink to fix a pipe. When she pinkie-swore that she wouldn't say anything to her parents, he let her examine it and explained the parts and how important it was to always keep it safe. Maybe one day he would let her hold it. When he eventually deemed her ready, he patiently taught her how to use it. She was a quick learner and a naturally great shot—at fourteen, she was an NRA double-distinguished marksman. But while Gusmanov acknowledged she'd be a good cop, even he had reservations. “Why you don't listen to me and go pro sharpshooter? It will make wallet much fatter.”

But becoming a police officer made sense to her, and, for the first time in her life, she felt she could make a difference. Sol didn't buy it. “Now you're going to save the world? The people down there are degenerates and junkies who don't even try to help themselves. Doctors save lives! If you want to ‘make a difference,'” he said, mimicking her earnest tone, “go volunteer in a hospital near Yale while you get your degree.” There was no way Sol could comprehend that Cheri specifically wanted to help the “people down there.” She'd lived on the Lower East Side during her four years at NYU. The neighborhood was like her—gritty, rebellious, dangerous, and teeming with diversity. She not only didn't stick out, she belonged. And was deeply affected by random acts of violence that destroyed the lives of people she cared about, like her friend Yure's grandson who was jumped by a street gang and had to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Yure was one of the Ukrainian immigrants who hustled playing speed chess in the park and he reminded her of Gusmanov. Her parents wouldn't understand that she missed Sweetie, the post-op tranny who worked the door at Eileen's Reno Bar and threw out acerbic comments about everyone who walked by. Sweetie had been killed on her way home from work by neo-Nazi skins. It made sense to Cheri and that's all that mattered. She was making the leap into the thump of a life lived on the outside.

Of course she didn't disclose to anyone in the NYPD that she'd come from ritzy Montclair and had a college degree. It wouldn't have mattered to Eddie Norris. He wouldn't know a doctorate from a doughnut. He only cared that she was the best shot in her academy class, that she was fast, reliable, and a quick study. Then there was the sex.

It started as a smack-down of passion in his Mazda hatchback, replete with adolescent pawing, fogged-up windows, bra-hook complications, and the discomfort of handguns pressing into sensitive places. They didn't break lips even when Cheri performed a near-contortionist move to straddle him. He fumbled to get inside her, one hand on his cock, the other on her hip, pushing a little too hard, a little too fast, but once he'd hit the mark, he cupped her face in his hands. “You okay?” he said, looking her right in the eyes. She nodded and started to move her hips, but he held her chin and said, “I want you to tell me if you're not.” They fucked again in the vestibule of her apartment building, ignoring the persistent stink of urine. Her back was up against the wall next to the mailboxes, her legs were around his waist, his jeans were snaking down around his ankles; a down-and-dirty fuck on all counts. And not. Because while they were fucking they were kissing and while they were kissing their eyes were open. Cheri had never had a man look at her while they made love. Or if he did, she didn't know about it, because her eyes had been tightly closed.

If they'd had sex before she'd become his partner, it would have worked out very differently. Everyone would have thought he chose her only because he was fucking her. She might have thought so too. But she and Eddie hadn't gone “over the side” until well after they'd become partners, and by then they both knew it was going to be more than a onetime thing.

Just as Cheri starts to lose herself in another memory of Eddie coming up behind her in the precinct's file room late at night, whispering exactly what he was going to do to her as his hands clasped hers behind her back, the bartender asks if she wants a refill. “Not yet,” she says. How long has it been since she's had an open-eyed kiss? She remembers the electricity that shot from her groin and lodged itself in her chest whenever she inhaled Eddie Norris's clean, masculine scent—a mixture of soap on a rope and sweat that lingered in her hair. Another filament of memory floats up and, with it, the phantom weight of a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson handgun against her left hip. Back then, and for a long time afterward, she couldn't imagine not carrying a gun. And now she's married to anti-gun Michael, sitting on a bar stool playing what-if. That's an insidious game, inevitably leading to that night with Red Hood, the look in Eddie Norris's eyes that sent her running from the NYPD, barricading herself in Cici's Eighty-first Street apartment in a drug-induced tailspin of heartbreak. You have the right to remain silent. She certainly did that. It's dark and deep down there, a chasm of shadows and regret.