Officer Jones

Chapter 19

I fell asleep the second my head hit the soft pillow. I slept for twenty hours, straight into Tuesday evening. I awoke, ate dinner with my quiet mother and chatty father, before returning to my coma until Wednesday morning. I felt like I hadn’t slept in fifteen years, and in some ways, maybe I hadn’t.

I spent Wednesday and Thursday hobbling around my parents’ property. And following my doctor’s order about trying to limit stress and exertion, I chose not to return Lauren’s endless phone calls.

By Thursday afternoon I was feeling frisky, so I limped to a wooded area on the edge of the property and cautiously climbed down a sharp slope to the brook. It was the spot where I first kissed Gwen. I thought about exploring the dilapidated tree fort where we carved our naive mantra of true love forever into the bark, but the pain in my leg made me realize that forever wasn’t as long as I thought, and decided against it.

I thought about all the days that had passed since Gwen and I were last down here, and how much I’d changed since that time. Byron’s words popped into my head: It’s not what you do, it’s who you are, JP. The reporter in me agreed. But the youthful idealist hidden deep within fought against the notion. I was convinced that the JP Warner who would carve idealistic declarations into tree bark was the real me, and that J-News was just a detour.

I spotted the remnants of a tree-fort that Ethan and I had built when we were kids. I remembered the fight that broke out during its construction, resulting in both of us falling out of the tree. We ran crying to Mom, who would hear none of it, and sent us back outside until we learned how to play nice together. And since Ethan still hadn’t phoned his brother after he escaped near-death at the hands of crazed Islamic militants, it appears as if we’re still working on it.

By Friday morning I was ready to branch out, and decided to venture into town. But with my father having left for his weekly golf game, and my mother at work, I encountered a major stumbling block-I had no vehicle. So I called Christina. She claimed she was late for a class, but I knew school didn’t start until after Labor Day. After a brief battle of wills, she agreed to come to Rockfield to be my chauffeur for the day. Like myself, she was learning that living in that brownstone came with strings attached.

She arrived in style, driving my oversized, sand-colored Humvee that she often enjoyed tearing down Park Avenue in. And not one of those trendy Hummers the yuppies tool around in-this was an authentic military vehicle from Desert Storm that had a few souvenir bullet holes to prove it. It had been my ten-year anniversary gift from GNZ. Between my travel schedule and living part time in Manhattan, I’d never actually purchased a car in my adult life, and had only driven the Humvee on a couple of occasions over the years.

“You’re late,” I greeted her with an annoyed look.

She sent one right back at me. “Sorry, I had to update the fake JP Warner Twitter account I administer. The funny thing is, I try to play the character even more over-the-top than normal when it comes to your egomania, but people still believe it’s the real you. We’re almost up to a million followers.”

I was about to explain to her that twit is the slang British word for idiot, when she surprised me. She bull-rushed me and wrapped me with a hug. “I thought you were going to die, JP,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “And I’m so sorry about Byron.”

I was not in the mood to relive the capture, so I deflected, “Why-were you scared you’d have to go back to the dorms?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” she said with a wise-ass smile. It signaled a return to normalcy between us, now that the mushy stuff was over.

“How’d summer school go?” I asked

“All A’s.”

“How’s your friend-Dimwit or something like that?”

“It’s Daman, and I haven’t heard from him in months. Funny how he became less interested in me after your friend tried to execute him. And once word got around, let’s just say the boys haven’t exactly been knocking down my door.”

“And they say capital punishment isn’t a deterrent.”

“Very funny. Thank goodness those terrorists left your cranky personality intact.”

I let it go as I hobbled to the Humvee, which seemed to surprise her.

My directions took us to Main Street. On one side of the road was the high school I graduated from, and where my brother Ethan was currently a history teacher and football coach. It’s located next to a campus made up of the town hall, volunteer fire department, police station, and library.

Notables on the south side of the road were the bowling alley, Main Street Tavern, and the Rockfield Village Store. I focused on a weathered colonial that housed both a realtor and the local newspaper called the Rockfield Gazette. My teacher and mentor Murray Brown created the newspaper-the one I always dreamed of buying with Gwen if Murray ever decided to hang up the typewriter. But that was before life called, and for better or worse, I answered.

When we passed the high school, Christina noticed the name on the football field. “JP Warner Field? Wow, I’m impressed-did you get to come back like some conquering hero to christen the field?”

“I think they christen ships, not football fields. But no, I’ve never been there. I was supposed to attend the dedication, but got called to Kosovo at the last moment. My brothers Ethan and Noah stepped in for me.”

Christina thought for a moment. “Noah’s the cute one, right?”

“They say he looks like me.”

“In your dreams, old man. Is he single?”

“No,” I replied. He might technically have been, but I knew Noah was still emotionally attached to Lisa. He wasn’t available.

“When was the last time you were here?” she asked.

I thought hard for a moment. “Three years ago on Christmas. Opened my gifts in the morning and was on a plane to Haiti at noon.”

“You haven’t seen your family in three years!?”

“I’ve seen them,” I defended. “My parents come down to the city for dinner all the time. And every year I fly the whole family somewhere for a week’s vacation during the summer. Last year it was France. Unfortunately, this year I was a little tied up.”

“Sounds like an expensive guilt trip.”

I scrunched my face, digesting her words.

“So did they throw their sugar-daddy a big party when he came home after fighting off the bad guys in Serbia?” Christina asked, before honking at a slow driving elderly couple in front of us.

Thoughts of Ethan and my mother entered my mind. “No, actually they didn’t.”

“They probably just want to avoid all the cameras and microphones.”

“Maybe,” I said, but I knew it ran much deeper. It was time to change the subject. “Turn here!”