Month: December 2022 (Page 1 of 2)

Blue Star No. 6 (part 2)

December 27, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By James Gonda.

When I came home the next day from the filling station, tired and thirsty, I went straight to the ice box. Mom was by the stove in front of a steaming pot.

“Don’t touch the root beer,” she said. “It’s for tonight.”

“What’s to drink then?” I asked.

“Did you see the Sergeant-man?” she said.

“He wasn’t there,” I said.

“Where was he?”

“They said he stepped out.”

“Where to?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Did he come back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know about supper?”

“I left a note.”

“A note?” she said with concern. “How did you manage that?”

“They gave me paper and pencil and I left a note.”

“What did it say? Could he read your writing?”

“It said he should come over at eighteen-hundred hours.”

“What?” Mom asked, bewildered.

“Eighteen-hundred hours is military time,” I explained. “It means six o’clock AT NIGHT.” I found some powdered milk and took a gulp. “See, you don’t want it confused with six IN THE MORNING, which is o-six hundred. In war time when you’re moving men and machines, you wanna keep your times straight. It’s IMPORTANT.”

“I know what’s important,” Mom snapped. “You have milk on your face.”

“Is Dad home?”

“Not yet,” Mom said.

“Today’s payday, isn’t it?” I dreaded. “Should I go find him? He’s probably at the Copper Penny.”

“He’ll be home soon.”

“He loses track,” I reminded her.

“Give him a few more minutes, at least until five-thirty,” she said. She glanced at the clock. “It’s too cold to be out.”

“But I got new socks,” I said. I motioned to my feet.

Elaine appeared from upstairs. “Hello, Mungo,” she said. Then she bee lined to Mom. “Should I get dressed up for tonight?”

“Wear what you wore on the first day of school,” Mom said.

“Okey-doke,” she said, happy to comply. Then she came back to me. “Can I ask you a question, Mungo? What did the Sergeant look like? Was he handsome?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, was he tall?”

“He was short and stocky, like a fire hydrant.”

“Oh,” she said. “What color was his hair?”

“Black.”

“And how were his teeth? Were they straight and white?”

“He had a gold tooth, right here,” I said. I pointed to my left front tooth.

“Oh,” she said again. “Do you think he has a girl back home?”

“Elaine, I don’t know anything about him.”

“Was there a picture of a girl on his desk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Elaine, help with supper,” Mom said.

“I’m still doing homework,” she claimed.

“Who does homework on a Friday?” I questioned.

“The table needs to be set,” Mom said.

“I’m almost finished,” she said. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.” She darted away.

“It’s getting late,” I said to Mom. “I’d better fetch Dad.”

I was almost out the door when the telephone rang.

“Oh, dear,” Mom said. “Maybe that’s him. Answer it. My hands are messy.”

I picked up the receiver. It was Sergeant Sotelo and we spoke for a short time. I wrapped up our conversation with, “Roger-out, Sergeant.” Then I turned to Mom. She had been watching and listening with great interest. “That was Sergeant Sotelo,” I told her. “He’s not coming, he had a previous engagement. He said thank you for the invite.”

“He has plans?” she said, incredulously.

“He might have a date,” I said. “Girls like a guy in uniform.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “He would’ve loved my pirogues. Hold on! Call him back! Call him back right now! Tell him to bring his girl here. There’s plenty for everyone!”

“I don’t know anything about a girl,” I admitted. “I was only guessing.”

“Call him back! Where was he?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Oh, I should have answered,” mom said. “If only I had picked up! I would have demanded he come over. You didn’t put up a fight or anything. You just rolled over.” She huffed and puffed and pondered what to do next. Then we heard the door. It was Dad. As soon as he got inside, he bellowed, “The pipes busted at the Penny! Can you believe it? The basement looked like an ocean. We ran around like chickens without heads, looking for the shut-off. Turns out, it was in a closet behind the bar. It took us twenty minutes to find the damned thing! What a commotion! What a mess!”

“Papa, dinner’s ready,” mom informed him. “Go wash up.”

“Don’t tell me to wash up.” he said. “I’m not a child.”

“The Sergeant-man is not coming,” she said.

“Who?”

“Sergeant Sotelo,” I said.

“Oh, right, Sergeant Sotelo,” he muttered.

“Don’t you remember?” mom asked.

“I have a lot to remember!” he yelled. “So, he’s not coming? I can’t believe he doesn’t like Slovak food.”

“It had nothing to do with food,” I said. “He had plans.”

“Then good for him,” Dad said. “It’s a free country. He can do what he wants. Then he turned to Mom. “So, what’s for supper? Lunch was a long time ago.” He rubbed his belly.

“This is not over,” she said.

“Mama, what’s for supper?”

“Tomorrow maybe I’ll talk with that man,” she said. “Before I go to the market.”

“For the last time, what’s for supper!”

“Don’t shout!” Mom demanded. “Can’t you see I’ve made pirogues?”

“How should I know these things?” he said. “What’s in them?”

“Potatoes.”

“No prunes?”

“I said potatoes.”

“Next time use prunes,” he said. “I’m tired of potatoes.”

“You’ll eat what I feed you,” she told him. “Prunes are hard to find these days.”

“Baaaaa!” he said. He waved his hand dismissively. “A man works hard and should eat what he wants.”

“Hi Dad,” Elaine said. She had reemerged in a colorful pink and white dress like a butterfly from a cocoon. Dad only grunted and left. She went to Mom. “Should we use the fancy plate or the everyday plates?”

“The everyday plates,” Mom said. “The Sergeant-man is not coming.”

“He’s not? Why not? What happened?”

“Your brother said he had plans.”

“Oh,” she said. “Plans with a girl?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I finished my work early.”

“So, listen to the radio,” I said.

“There’s NOTHING on Friday nights,” she said. “I might as well—”

A few knocks on the door grabbed our attention. “The Sergeant!” she exclaimed. She lit up like a Christmas tree. She bolted to the door and peered through the little window. “No,” she said, deflated. “It’s Father Gerard.” She opened the door. “Good evening, Father,” she said. She motioned for him to step inside.

Father Gerard was a small man with a big presence. He had been our parish priest for over twenty years. “Thank you, Elaine.” he said.

“Father Gerard!” Mom called, surprised. “Why hello!”

“Hello, Mrs. Banas,” he said with a big smile. “Is your husband home? I need to ask a favor.”

“He’s washing for supper,” she said. “Is everything OK?”

“I need to replace an usher at tomorrow’s funeral mass,” he said. “It’s a double. As you probably know, Vinnie Stefanek passed away, followed by his mother the next day.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said. She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “What a shame. So young.”

“Only nineteen,” he said, “leaving his brother, Tomas. The Church took him in.”

“How sad!” she said. “I remember when the father passed away, a few years ago. And now this. How does a boy of nineteen just drop dead?”

“They said it was a congenital heart condition,” he explained. “The army doctors missed it. The rigors of Basic Training were too much, and his heart gave out, poor boy. Then his mother, I think, died from a broken heart. At any rate, one of my ushers, George Hopko, is sick with the flu. I was hoping Ralph could fill in.”

“I don’t know his plans, but you can ask him yourself,” she said. “He’ll be down soon. Say, Father, why don’t you stay for supper? I’ve made pirogues.”

“They smell delicious.”

“Then stay!” she insisted. “Elaine, set a place for Father.”

“Are you sure?” he said. “I don’t want to impose. I only stopped in to see Ralph.”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

As he peeled off his overcoat, Dad reappeared from upstairs.

“Father Gerard!” Dad said, as surprised as the rest of us.

“Papa, Father is staying for dinner,” Mom said, “Raymond, take Father’s coat.”

Father Gerard turned to Dad. “Ralph, I have a favor to ask. Can you usher tomorrow? It’s the double funeral mass for Mrs. Stefanek and her boy Vinnie. I know you’re not scheduled, but George Hopko has the flu.”

“Georgie has the flu?” Dad said. “That’s too bad. He’ll be all right. His missus will make chicken soup, without the chicken!” He chuckled.

“Can you fill in?”

“What day is tomorrow?”

“Saturday.”

“All day?” he kidded. “Yes, no problem. I can fill in.”

“Oh, bless you, Ralph.”

“OK, boys, dinner’s ready,” Mom announced. “Please sit down.”

Everyone found a place at the big round table. Father Gerard said grace.

“You set a lovely table, Mrs. Banas,” he said. He scanned the bounty before him. “With so little to work with.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

“I see your five blue stars in the window,” he said. “Please forgive me. I didn’t know you had that many sons in the service. I’ve lost track.”

“That’s soon to be six,” I boasted. “I’ve joined the Marines! In two weeks, I ship out to San Diego.”

“You’ve been drafted?” Father said, alarmed.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I joined on my own.” I sat up straight and puffed out my chest.

“You volunteered for the Marines? You are a true patriot. And a brave young man. I’m sure your parents are very proud.”

“Father,” Mom said, “I’ve tried to tell Mungo that joining was foolish, since he’s needed at home and still in school. I wanted to talk with the man, the Army-man who signed him up, but he could not come over. Is there a way—”

“Mama!” Dad interrupted. “Lay off him. Let the man enjoy his supper!”

“I’m talking to my priest, do you mind?”

“Ralph, your missus was gracious enough to invite me, so the least I can do is listen.” He turned back to Mom. “What were you saying, Mrs. Banas?”

“Is there anything you can do for Mungo? she asked. “Can you put in a good word?”

“I have no influence with the armed forces,” he said.

“I meant could you talk with someone, you know . . . .” She motioned upwards.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I will pray for Mungo and all your boys.”

“No, Father,” she said, “I’m asking you to ask the good Lord to stop him from going.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, thoughtfully. He turned to me. “Is that what you want, Mungo?”

I shook my head no.

“Then I’m in an awkward spot,” he said. “How can I pray to keep Mungo out of the service when he wants to be in the service? I can only pray that you accept his decision and give him your blessing. In fact, without your approval, Mrs. Banas, Mungo will be in greater danger. I’ve known him since his baptism and seen him grow up. As an altar boy, we served many a mass together.” He smiled at me. “What I’m saying is, I know he’ll be troubled by your lack of support, for not standing behind him. He might even question his capabilities and the battlefield is no place for self-doubt. I served as Chaplain in the Great War and saw this first-hand. A soldier must be brave, fierce, and above all, self-confident. Anything less will make him an easy target.”

“He was an easy target for the Sergeant-man!” she said.

“Did he grab Mungo’s collar and pull him inside?” he asked, tenderly.

“How can you know my feelings?” Mom said. “You’re not a parent.”

“That’s true,” he said, nodding. Then he looked at Dad. “Ralph, what do you think about Mungo in the service?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he responded with a mouthful of food. “What I think will not change anything. I’ll take him to the train and wish him well. That’s all I can do.”

“Father, more pirogues?” Mom offered.

“Thank you,” he said. “As Ralph would say, they hit the spot.” Mom scooped a few more of the tasty morsels onto his plate.

“And there’s birthday cake for dessert,” Elaine said.

“Birthday cake?” Father said. “Who’s having a birthday?”

“Mungo turned eighteen yesterday,” she said.

Father turned to me. “Happy birthday, Mungo. If I’d known, I would’ve brought a present.”

“That’s OK. I got socks.”

“No, that isn’t right,” he said. He shook his head. “I should give you something. We go back too far. Wait! I know.” He started to unfasten his collar. “Let me get this undone,” he mumbled. “There.” Then he removed a gold medallion from around his neck.

“I want you to have this, Mungo,” he said. He passed the medal my way. “It’s the Saint Christopher I wore in France. It protected me and I’m sure it will protect you. Go ahead, take it. Put it on.”

“I can’t take your Saint Christopher,” I said.

“I insist,” he said, sternly. “Happy birthday, and many, many more.”

I took the medal and put it on.

“That’s very kind of you, Father,” Mom said.

“It looks grand, it really does,” Father beamed. “I’m happy it’s yours.”

“They should give Saint Christophers to all our boys,” Mom said.

“I’m sure many a soldier wears one,” Father reassured.

“I don’t know if our other sons wear one,” Mom said, concerned. “Papa, do you know?”

“I only gave out a few small things when they left,” he said. He thought for a moment. “Matt got . . . a shaving brush; Albert, a wallet; Johnny, a pair of gloves; Bill, shoe polish.”

“What about Andrew?” Elaine asked.

“Andrew got, talcum powder.”

“Talcum powder!” Mom exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for that.”

“Andrew has it,” Dad said.

“He’s in Louisiana,” Elaine said. “Camp Polk.”

“No one can say the Banas family isn’t doing their part,” Father decided.

Silence.

“Should I get the cake?” Elaine asked Mom.

“Switch on the percolator,” she said. “Get the coffee going.”

To be continued . . . .

Silent Night

December 24, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 4 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

“You’re up!” Leslie’s manager Marlene called through the dressing room door.

Leslie smoothed the front of her shimmering white gown, took up the single red rose she always used for a prop, and approached the wings. She had already warmed up her voice, despite being bothered by a strange feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t stage fright; she was a pro and had sung the aria from “La Bohème” countless times. She decided to ignore it.

Applause rolled up from the audience as she swept onstage. She greeted the conductor, who raised his baton to begin the orchestral introduction. Leslie drew a deep breath. She couldn’t produce a sound. Then her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor.

* * *

She awoke in a hospital bed with Marlene sitting beside her. In a panic she plucked at the hospital gown and cried, “My dresh! The conshert!”

Marlene took Leslie’s hand. “It’s Sunday morning,” she said. “The program went on without you. The doctors say you had a small stroke, a blood clot in your brain. They broke it up with drugs, and we’ve all been waiting for you to wake up. Your speech doesn’t sound quite right, but maybe you’re just groggy. I’ll call the nurse.” She pressed the call button.

Horror overcame Leslie. How could she sing if her voice was gone? What if she ended up paralyzed? The neurologist who eventually came in encouraged her to consider therapy and a good voice coach. She might well regain most of her abilities. However, she could expect a long recovery period.

The doctor’s prediction was correct. Despite treatment, her legs remained weak, and she had to leave the hospital with a walker. That alone could end her stage career. Her voice needed more work, a lot of it. Although she tried hard, she couldn’t help thinking that the effort was useless. Whenever she sang, she imagined her blood pressure rising, and worried that the tension might bring on another stroke. What was the point, anyway, if her diction didn’t improve?

Marlene and the voice coach kept insisting that she was making progress. “You really sound better with every session,” Marlene claimed. “We should start thinking about recording. You can do that without being on your feet.”

“I just don’t know,” Leslie objected. “I’m afraid to sing at full volume. I don’t have any stamina, and I hate going out in public with a walker. My confidence is shot.”

“The physical things will get better,” Marlene said. “I think that confidence is the real issue. We’ll have to find a way to overcome that. Get you back in the saddle, like someone who falls off a horse. Let me look around for a gig that you could handle.”

That was in May.

At Thanksgiving Marlene announced that she had arranged a performance. Leslie had doubts; it was too soon, her voice wasn’t up to it, she couldn’t disappoint another audience. Marlene said that wouldn’t happen. Then she told Leslie what the gig was.

* * *

So it happened that on a night in December Leslie and Marlene entered a grand building and rode the elevator to a remote floor. A nurse met them at a locked door and helped them into sterile gowns. With Leslie clinging tightly to her walker, they entered the neonatal intensive care unit.

Leslie got her bearings for what might be her most important performance ever. She adjusted her vocal register to match the hum of machinery and the sighing of ventilators. Drawing a deep breath, she began:

“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . .”

The brightness of this night was from high-powered ceiling fixtures that Leslie suspected were never turned off. The calm might have been only for the moment; the infants were quiet in their incubators, and the nurses moved in unhurried silence. In fact, no one moved, transfixed as they were with the familiar carol. Only a candy striper cuddling a swaddled baby in a rocking chair kept up a slow rhythm.

“Holy infant, so tender and mild . . .”

These babies were no less tender, burdened as they were with tubes and hose connections, vulnerable, their chances of life so uncertain. Some of them must be in distress. With all her heart Leslie wanted to soothe and comfort them.

“Shepherds quake at the sight . . .”

In a far corner, parents sat by an incubator, their hands clasped, their faces rapt with love and terror, as their impossibly tiny newborn struggled for every breath.

“Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!”

Their song was the life-sustaining murmur of equipment, the peeping of monitors, a faint wail, a reassuring voice, the creaking of the rocking chair.

“Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth . . .”

Leslie saw that every infant here was a miracle, a center of the universe to frightened, adoring parents.

“With the dawn of redeeming grace . . .”

Leslie’s hands left the walker and she stood straighter, balancing with care. Her voice gathered strength. I can do this, she marveled. I can sing! She felt as if her life had started over.

“Christ the Savior is born!”

Leslie finished singing and stood shaking in a rush of relief. The nurses, who saw miracles every day, smiled with perfect understanding, expressed their thanks, and went back to their tasks. The parents’ faces were alight with gratitude; they patted their hands together, trying to applaud without startling the newborns. Marlene was there beaming, offering a hug and a red rose.

“Congratulations,” she whispered. “You did beautifully.”

As a nurse came to escort them out. Leslie asked, “Can I come back next year?”

“We wish you would,” she said.

Orders From a Higher Authority

December 23, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 3 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

This memoir is not from my personal experience, but the event described made me think of it as a classic in the annals of child-rearing. So, I dedicate this to all parents who have ever dealt with a strong-willed and rebellious child. Is there any other kind of parent? Is there any other kind of child?

Ron, a friend of mine, told me what happened just before Christmas some years ago. Ron is one of the gentlest and kindest people I know. He always sees the good in a person and makes allowances for someone who might be having a bad day. This episode tested even him.

At the time of this story, Ron and his wife had a four-year old son named Patrick, and they usually did things together as a family. On this day, Ron’s wife was busy with other pre-Christmas activities, and he volunteered to take Patrick to visit Santa Claus at the shopping mall. Patrick became excited to see Santa and tell him all about what he wanted for Christmas. After the elf-assistant took the traditional photo, Patrick climbed down from Santa’s lap and he and Ron, happy son and proud father headed hand-in-hand toward the mall exit.

On an impulse, thinking that he might gain a few last-minute shopping clues, Ron decided to stop in the toy store and let Patrick look around for a few minutes. He recognized his error when Patrick decided this was Santa’s workshop and he could pick out stuff directly, thus eliminating the lengthy wait until Christmas. At least, that was what Ron gathered Patrick was talking about. Ron explained that this was not accurate, that they were just looking, and now they had to go home and have supper with Mommy.

Patrick rejected this notion and continued to wander around the store, aisle by aisle by aisle. Ron, being a modern parent, explained it all over again, gently took Patrick by the hand and started for the store exit. Patrick flopped down and began yelling with great vigor. Ron stood him up on his feet and started off again. Patrick twisted his hand free, threw himself flat onto the floor, and yelled some more. Saying nothing, Ron smiled at the clerks and the other shoppers, picked his son up, cradled him in his arms, and strode out into the hallway, again heading for the exit.

Just inside the doors, he put Patrick down and started helping him put on his coat. Patrick was yelling about going back to the store, but Ron was adamant about going home. Patrick threw himself down on the floor again, lying on his back, twisting, and rolling and making his arms stiff and straight so they couldn’t be shoved into the coat sleeves. Ron, embarrassed, but also growing angry about this behavior, knelt, straddled Patrick’s body, and ordered him to lie still and accept his coat. Ron saw and heard other mall customers walking by. Some were muttering critical comments about such rough handling of that poor little boy. Ron realized that although Patrick’s mouth was still open for screaming, no sound was coming out. His eyes were wide open. He was lying still and staring in horror past Ron’s shoulder. Ron thought, Oh, my God, I’ve hurt him! I’m a terrible parent!

Then a deep, commanding voice from behind Ron ordered: “Patrick! Stop that! Get up! Put on your coat! Go home with your Daddy. Right now!” Patrick squirmed out from under Ron. He stood up and tried to put on his coat. He got it upside down. He got it backward. He got one sleeve pulled inside out. He was frantic to put on his coat.

Ron, standing up and watching the spectacle of his son in a panic trying to comply with these direct orders from a higher authority, murmured under his breath, “Thank you, Santa!”

Santa whispered, “You’re welcome.” He turned and walked all the way back down the long hall to his red velvet throne, chatting with amused parents and patting the heads of startled children all along his path. Ron told me that Patrick was quiet on the way home and reported nothing to Mommy about his visit to Santa.

On Christmas Eve

December 22, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 3 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

Six-year-old Davey woke up at midnight, feeling confused. The bedroom was bright as day with the moonlight reflecting off new snow and flooding into the window. He was in an unfamiliar place, on a cot in his sister’s room. His grandparents had come for a Christmas visit and he had been made to give up his room for them. I wonder if Santa Claus came yet. Davey climbed out of bed to peek into the kitchen. He and his sister had set out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on the kitchen table at bedtime, using the special plate with the Christmas tree painted on it that was reserved for Santa.

The moonlight showed his grandfather standing at the table, just putting down the empty glass! No red suit, no black boots, only the familiar plaid bathrobe and old leather slippers. Feeling brave in his Batman pajamas, Davey marched right up to him and said, “Grandpa, you’re cheating. That stuff was for Santa! You’re eating off his special plate!”

Grandpa sat down so that he could look Davey in the eye, and said with a smile, “Actually, I am Santa. I just didn’t want anyone to be worried about a stranger in the house, so I’m wearing a disguise. Did I get it right?”

For a moment Davey was speechless. He got up onto Grandpa’s lap and took the old man’s face in his hands. All he felt was the usual stubble that was there when Grandpa hadn’t shaved. He looked at the top of Grandpa’s head and saw the usual bald spot with the usual few strands of hair that lay across it.

“You’ve got Grandpa’s bald spot,” Davey said. “I think you’re really Grandpa.”

“Pretty good disguise, isn’t it? Would you like that last cookie?”

“It’s on Santa’s special plate,” Davey objected. “Only Santa gets to use that plate.” He hated to disappoint Santa and not even leave the last cookie for him.

“Well, I’m Santa, and I want you to have the cookie. Go ahead and enjoy it.”

Davey’s confusion was worse. What to do? Permission from Grandpa didn’t seem to make eating from the special plate completely OK. On the other hand, permission from Santa, if the person in the room with him really was Santa . . . and the cookie was calling to him . . .

Davey grabbed the cookie and started munching. Grandpa set him down on the floor and carried the glass and the empty plate to the sink to rinse them and place them on the counter. He turned to Davey. “We’d better get you back to bed,” he said. “I have work to do. It’s magic, so you shouldn’t watch. We don’t want to spoil any surprises.”

He took Davey’s hand and led him back to his sister’s bedroom. He helped Davey get under the blankets, tucked him in, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said, and walked out, quietly closing the door as he left.

I should follow him. If he goes back to my room, I’ll know he’s really Grandpa. He was too sleepy to do it, though. Within seconds he had drifted off.

Grandpa went into the living room. He didn’t turn on any lights, even though that side of the house was in shadow. He opened the big sack that was standing by the fireplace and began pulling out presents to put under the tree. He filled up each stocking with a tangerine, a handful of foil-wrapped Christmas candies, and a few little gifts. He even remembered the squeaky mouse for the dog and the box of catnip for the cat. The animals were sharing a basket by the end of the sofa, sleeping through the whole thing.

His work done Grandpa shrank to a size that would let him rise up the chimney. He had a feeling that eating the last cookie himself would made the task a little too hard, and he still had a lot of houses and a lot of cookies ahead of him. He hoped that a lot of small children would discover him and help him out. He stepped out onto the roof and gave a reassuring pat to his lead reindeer. He settled into the sleigh, gathered up the reins and gave them a shake. The team rose into the air.

“Next stop!” Grandpa shouted.

The Best Gift

December 21, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

Everyone in our village saw the bright light in the night sky, including Caspar and me. We were not surprised. In fact, we were expecting it. We had been watching the planet Jupiter move from near the sun to conjoin with the planet Venus. At the same time, Jupiter aligned with the star Regulus, one of the most radiant stars in the sky. So, this “triple conjunction” produced the most vivid of lights.

This illumination shone over the sands of Judea. Caspar, also a scholar of Hebrew culture, suspected something else was going on. He went straight to his ancient texts. He soon reported that in Hebrew, Jupiter goes by the name Sedeq, meaning righteousness. He explained the Hebrews for centuries have been waiting for their Messiah. Sedeq was a word used in anticipation of his arrival. I rolled my eyes. “We have no time for Jewish fairy tales,” I told him.

Caspar continued, undeterred. He said that Jupiter and the birth of monarchs went hand-in-hand. Regulas was the King star for its brilliance. Venus and women and motherhood have been a trio for eons. I looked at him, dumbfounded. He took pity on me and turned his analysis into a simple equation. Jupiter + Regulas + Venus = the birth of a king. In time, this person will deliver his people from themselves. The long-awaited Messiah. Caspar fell silent as I considered his proof. Finally, I said, “Is any of this necessary?”

Caspar wondered what King Herod knew of these astro-histories. Herod was the current ruler of the Hebrews. My friend refused to take any chances. He insisted we travel to Jerusalem and bring Herod up-to-speed. And we should pay homage to the baby sovereign. “This is monumental!” he exclaimed, waving his arms. “We must follow the star to the new king.” I reminded my cohort that this king was not our king, and we were not his people. From my chair, we should record this megastar in the scroll and call it a night. Besides, we were too old and lived too far for such a long trip. “We must bring gifts,” he added. “Gifts fit for a king, a divine king.” I sighed. “I’m thinking a few sheep and goats?” Casper glared at me. Then he thought for a moment, running his fingers through his beard. “Listen,” he said. “Do you remember King Callinicus? The Syrian? When he paid homage to the god Apollo, he brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The gold for Apollo’s kingship. The frankincense to perfume his deity. The myrrh to anoint his body in death, to show his mortality. We would be wise to do the same.” I snorted and said that was a fine idea, but we were fresh out of those items. “That is true,” he said. “But Herod must have a grand supply. When we meet him, we will explain everything. Prepare the camels for a journey, Balthazar, our mission begins now!” His boisterous laugh rattled the roof. So, Caspar conscripted me, and his presumptuousness rubbed me the wrong way. This was a trip I did not want to make. Herod was a king I did not want to meet. The baby was someone I did not want to see. To his credit, Caspar always did well to get his way.

When we arrived at Herod’s temple, to my astonishment he welcomed us with open arms. He seemed intrigued by a pair of astronomer-priests from Mesopotamia. He asked many questions. Then with passion and authority, Caspar made his case. He explained about the megastar. The divine king. The need to pay homage. The precedent of gold, frankincense, and myrrh as gifts. I figured the great King Herod would laugh until he cried. Why would he entrust two strangers with such valuable things? Again, to my amazement, he gave us everything we asked for. He even replenished our supplies. He had one request in return: please report back to him when we find the infant so he may worship him.

Outside of Herod’s temple, Caspar turned to me and said, “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He insisted that we celebrate our little victory, which we did, well into the night. We swilled wine and consumed exotic foods.

The next morning, Caspar did not awaken and for good reason: my chum and colleague had passed away. The arduous journey. The unusual foods. The excessive drinking. With his advanced age it was all too much. So, I gave him the best burial I could in a foreign land and planned to head for home. But at nightfall, that star beckoned me. No, it nagged at me, until I relented and restarted the venture. This decision was not for Herod. Or the baby messiah. Or even for me. It was to finish what my dear friend had started.

The star led me eastward to a hamlet called Bethlehem. On the outskirts of town, I encountered a few shepherds, breathless and excited. They claimed an angel had spoken to them. This messenger announced the birth of the new king, nearby, in a manger.

We found the infant resting in a feeding trough. I could not believe my eyes. Caspar, oh Caspar, you were right! The baby’s parents were there: a young maiden and her older husband. She looked tired and happy; he stood by as guardian and protector. In the muted starlight, I peered at the tiny bundle and beheld the face of a mighty God. I gasped. I dropped to my knees, afraid, confused, bewildered, unsure of what to do next. Then I remembered the gifts, I must deliver the gifts. I fetched the gold, frankincense, and myrrh and presented them. I returned to my knees and bowed my head. Were these offerings proper and enough? The father put his hand on my shoulder. “You have done well in the sight of our Lord,” he assured me.

I told Herod nothing of this new king. I knew he would kill the baby, his parents, and me. For safety, I traveled home through Egypt, a roundabout way for sure. This all came to me in a dream.

Now when I plot the heavens, I no longer gaze only with logic. I remember the divine baby king in the cowshed, and smile, and cherish His mysterious gift of faith.

Oh, the Joy!

December 20, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Sue asked Sammy, “So, what did you get for Christmas?”
Sammy, beaming, replied, “Well, Santa gave me light-up red socks and my own Easter Bunny!”
Sue exclaimed, “Wow, way cool!”
Sammy said, “That’s not all! The bunny was ridden by the Tooth Fairy, and he was leading a Pilgrim couple waving American flags and wearing Halloween masks. How about that, huh?”
Sue, surprised, said, “That’s, you know, like, amazing! I’m so jealous. Get anything else?”
Sam, suddenly crestfallen, muttered, “Nope. Even worse, Santa left a note. He said I’m all done for the whole year. What about my birthday?”

A Christmas Letter

December 19, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 1 Comment

By Joyce Beland.

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, it’s time for our annual Christmas missive. This year we baked 15 different cookies. Five are gluten free. Three are vegan. We also made three fruitcakes. One soaked in rum. One soaked in bourbon. And another soaked in rye. Not letting a single drop go to waste, we drank anything leftover. We also purchased six live trees. Two Fraser Firs. Two Douglas Firs. And two Scotch Pines. We decorated our “little forest” with new homemade ornaments and family heirlooms. We stationed the trees throughout our home. Once Christmas is over, we’ll plant them on our property. Also, we purchased many meaningful gifts and wrapped them with love. We shipped out some and placed others under one of our trees. Glad we decided to keep things simple this year and skip the usual craziness. Now we have time to write Christmas cards to our 1,000 closest friends. Of course, we could use social media. But an old-fashioned hand-written note is more personal. “Happy holidays” if you want to be politically correct. “Merry Christmas” if you’re right-wing, government-fearing Christians. We’ve been keeping a close eye on this war against Christmas. All the folks on Facebook are posting about it. We hated to do it, but we gave up our Starbuck’s coffee. The nerve of them, using a red “holiday” cup. Where was baby Jesus or Santa Claus? A bunch of left-wing, liberal socialists must run the company. The spouse and I discussed getting a divorce this year. We decided not to go through with it. Too many years invested in each other. We worked things out, pretty much, and don’t talk to each other unless we must. Thing is, we’re both getting deaf and wind up shouting at each other. Still sounds like we’re fussing and fighting. Our oldest boy was back in rehab this year. He’s been in for alcoholism, drug addiction, and sex addiction. This time it was for his gambling problem. Who knew putting scratch-off tickets in his stocking would lead to that? Our daughter blessed us with another grandchild. She isn’t sure who the father is. We suspect she knows but doesn’t want to say. Not that we care. We’re already raising her other three. We don’t know who their daddies are either. We’ve welcomed the new baby girl. We’re thrilled to support her mother. She should have her Ph.D. in Ancient Babylonian Philosophy sometime next year. It’s an honor to be the parents of a child with multiple college degrees. This will be her fourth doctorate. Our youngest son is also doing quite well. He’s been keeping a low profile since that embezzling incident. Thank goodness we found a competent lawyer to represent him. It was well worth taking out another mortgage on our house. Anything for our children. We also decided to sell the vacation home. It was getting too expensive to maintain. And since the kids have grown up, we weren’t using it as much. Our youngest promised that once he comes out of hiding, he’ll buy us a bigger and better place. We’re hoping for some place tropical with servants. We continue to enjoy our retirement and feel blessed to be living in this great country. We’re overjoyed to exercise our second amendment rights. For Christmas we’re giving each other the gift of adding to our private arsenal. You can never bear too many arms. And no one has the right to take those guns from us. The NRA will be getting a little something extra from us this year, for their important work. We’re grateful too for our good health. As we get older some things don’t work like they once did. We may have to replace certain parts. We’re like old cars. We’re grateful for our family. We mentioned our kids and grandkids. We also want to brag about our parents. We’re blessed to still have them with us. My mom and dad live in our attic. They love the beautiful view from up there. My in-laws have the run of our basement. It’s another blessing to have them do our laundry. We enjoy when both sets of parents visit the main part of the house. But we can’t entertain them at the same time. Since that mishap at our wedding reception, they still despise each other. It was a tiny fire and flood. Our guests only spent a few hours at the hospital. Most were in and out of the emergency room. The insurance paid for most of the damage. You would think they would forgive and forget after all these years. The fact they can recall every detail shows they still have their wits about them. There is nothing wrong with their minds. We’re happy they’re mentally fit and enjoy seeing them once a month. We’re honored you’re our true American friends and privileged you’re a part of our family. Each one born on this great USA soil, as far back as we remember. God bless America!

The Christmas Squirrel

December 18, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By Kathy Petersen.

The fatality happened two days before Christmas.

At first I wanted to give the squirrel full credit for creativity as it hung by its teeth and one paw from the main power line, eight feet above the bird feeder. Then I realized that the creature was dead. My admiration turned to annoyance. We were approaching the first Christmas in our new house, and had invited the whole extended family for Christmas dinner. I worried that our young grandchildren would be grossed out and dinner would be ruined by the sight of the carcass swinging in the breeze outside the dining room window. The squirrel had to go. It was only a question of getting someone to tackle the live wire and take the remains away.

I called the power company for help. “Is your power still on?” the service rep asked. It was. They said that in that case there was no emergency and someone would come when it was convenient.

Christmas dinner went just fine. I should have remembered that little children love the grotesque. They thought that the squirrel was wonderful. They were only disappointed that no tall relative would get the toy down for them to play with.

Seventy-two hours later, at about midnight, the night lineman rang our doorbell and asked if we still had the squirrel. Knowing that there was no way to get a bucket truck into our back yard, we walked her around the house and showed her the situation. She took a photo and sent it to headquarters for suggestions. She walked back to the truck and returned with a long, bright yellow, insulated pole.

Adjusting her hard hat and taking her stance, gripping the end of the pole in both hands, she swung mightily and batted the squirrel into the next yard. Like a conscientious retriever she went after the freeze-dried little corpse and brought it back to us.

“What do you want to do with it?” she asked.

We had no idea. We weren’t prepared to dig up the frozen ground and create a grave for the Christmas visitor. We didn’t think that our sons’ families would let the grandchildren have it. The lineman said that the company didn’t usually dispose of the wild things that they extracted from their equipment. Since the wild thing was most often a fricasseed raccoon welded into a transformer, we could understand the policy. However, the lineman reckoned, the squirrel was only a little guy. She could put it on her back bumper and drive away and hit a pothole that would bounce the squirrel onto the pavement, where it would go the way of all roadkill. That sounded good to us.

Before she left, we asked her if the line had been damaged.

“Oh, most likely the squirrel chewed a hole in the insulation,” she answered. “It tastes sweet, you know.” We hadn’t known, but after that we did. She went on, “The lines are in terrible shape, the insulation is full of holes. Mostly it doesn’t make any difference. If the insulation gets much worse, your power may go out. Just call us if that happens.”

Pole in one hand, dead body in the other, she walked out to the road. The truck engine roared. We watched the surrounding streets for a few days, but never saw a decomposing squirrel. The surviving squirrels have found other ways to get to the bird feeder, and the power has never gone off.

Regeneration

December 15, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By Rudy Petersen.

Nothing much mattered to Henry Jensen. Harriet, his wife of many years, had died of cancer the previous fall. His three children and all his grandchildren were scattered to faraway places. Other than an infrequent birthday or Christmas card, he heard nothing from them. He had impulsively retired after three disastrous years of trying to sell real estate in an extreme down market. Cyril, his Labrador, suffered from illnesses that seemed beyond the veterinarian’s capabilities.

Henry’s house, despite many years of careful maintenance, was sliding into decline and disrepair. Due to his advancing age, he was unable to make repairs himself, and couldn’t afford to hire help. The poor market, coupled with the deterioration of his neighborhood, convinced him that selling his place any time soon was unlikely. Without that influx of cash, and with no savings, his dream of moving into a condo somewhere warmer than Downeast Maine was unreachable.

He had lost contact with his church family because of an ugly row with the new young pastor about changes in the service. Although several older parishioners privately agreed with Henry’s objections to the new notions, they had ultimately let things slide rather than join his boycott.

After realizing that the only phone calls he received were from telemarketers, Henry cancelled his service. When he realized that newspaper and television news only made him more depressed, and that daytime television was driving him into madness, he cancelled them as well. Knowing it was impossible to turn off the Postal Service’s flow of junk mail, he made them hold it for thirty days at a time. When it inevitably arrived, bundled with fat rubber bands, he simply tossed the whole mess into the recycling barrel. Unfortunately, this meant that he also discarded utility bills. The power company eventually sent a service truck to turn off his power. That led to another row. The sheriff was less than understanding when the company’s worker retreated into his truck and called 911. Henry was learning to hate them all.

So it was, on this particularly cold and snowy January morning, that Henry was standing in his living room, staring through the smudged windows at the bleak and empty street. He decided that either things were going to have to start improving or he would end it all and be out of his misery.

He noticed a young boy trudging toward his door through the snowdrifts on the sidewalk which he had not shoveled even once this winter. The boy was carrying a large package, struggling to hang onto it despite the wind pounding in off the bay.

For the first time in months, Henry felt a twinge of empathy, a sense that maybe, just maybe, something positive was about to happen. He shuffled to the door, carefully unhooked all three security chains, and opened it just as the boy was reaching up to ring the nonfunctioning bell. Out of a long habit, Henry was unable to greet the boy civilly.

“What do you want? I’m not going to buy any stupid cookies if that’s what you think!”

The boy said, “Oh no sir, I’m not selling anything. The box is full of gifts. My parents told me to bring it to you today because it’s Epiphany.”

Henry snapped, “What’s Epiphany got to do with anything?”

The boy replied, “It’s January 6th, the day when the three kings reached the stable and found the baby Jesus.”

Puzzled, Henry just stood there with the snow and wind pushing into his house around the edges of his bathrobe. He thought, Is this some kind of con game? Who is this boy? I’ve never seen him before. Who are his parents? Hesitantly, he invited the boy inside and told him to put the package on the kitchen table. After doing that, the boy turned to leave, but Henry stopped him, asking “Would you like hot chocolate before you go back into the cold? I have some around here if you can wait a few minutes.” The boy said that he would like that, and asked if he could help, but Henry told him to relax and get warm.

By now, Henry was growing extremely curious about the box. What could possibly be inside? he wondered as he rummaged in the cupboards and finally found the chocolate mix.

After they finished the sweet hot brew, Henry could wait no longer. He asked the boy, quite shyly, if he could open the box. The youngster told him that he could and should.

Feeling almost as young as the boy, Henry removed a layer of brown paper and discovered a layer of brightly colored Christmas wrap. Inside the box, he found six pairs of heavy socks, a new bathrobe, a fistful of cards from his family members, offers from his neighbors for free labor on house repairs, a handwritten note of apology from the pastor, a Bible with multiple bookmarks tucked into it, an envelope stuffed full of cash, and one large and heavy fruitcake, which he knew came from Mrs. Miller two blocks over.

Amazed, Henry sat at the table with these treasures spread around him, just like at Christmases from his youngest years. Looking up, he noticed that the boy was at the door, putting on his coat and hat, ready to leave. Henry struggled to his feet and went to him, mumbling thanks, and asking his name. The boy, smiling, said quietly, “My name is John. Please don’t worry, Mr. Jensen. I know that you know this, but just remember that spring will come again, and much sooner than you think. My parents and our pastor call it the season of regeneration.”

As Henry, now also smiling, watched the boy head down the sidewalk, he decided to get dressed and go shovel the snow. He also decided that, after that job was finished, he would try to locate his long-disused bible and refresh his memory about the topic of regeneration by the Holy Spirit.

Because the Night

December 11, 2022 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By Richard Burt, NYPD (retired) and James Gonda.

2310 hrs. On a hot and humid evening, I turn onto the 2-4 Precinct block and park in my usual space. I make my way into the locker room and change into my uniform. Then from cap to boots, I inspect myself in the mirror. I am good-to-go. I also check in with a few day-shift cops. They had a busy tour day with three robberies and four collars.

2325 hrs. Roll call! Twenty-seven cops cram into the briefing room. Before taking attendance, the short and overweight Lieutenant shares a few comments about the previous tour, blah-blah-blah. Then hespits out our assignments in this manner: name, sector, car, and mealtime. About halfway through, he lands on me: “Burt!” he calls. “Sector George, car 1503, 0430 meal!” He does not look up from his clipboard. “Here!” I say. He makes a check next to my name and continues to the end. Satisfied with the count, he decides to conduct a surprise inspection for flashlights and nameplates. We all pass. He barks, “Keep your numbers up!” We are dismissed and head out.

2340 hrs. We pile into our cars and buckle up. Central has been holding jobs. We share the channel with three other precincts, the 19th, the 2-0, and Central Park. The radio crackles with crime. A “Dispute” at 580 Amsterdam Avenue. A “Possible Crime” (drug sales) at 104th Street and Manhattan Ave. A “Vehicle Accident” at 96th Street and Westside Highway with no Highway [patrol] available. Another “Dispute,” a man with a gun at 107th Street and Amsterdam. I respond, “2-4 George to Central, we’ll take the gun run 1-0-7 and Amsterdam. Is there a description of the perp?” They return, “2-4 George, male, black, blue jeans and white t-shirt, no further description, unit to back up 2-4 George man with a gun 1-0-7 and Amsterdam?” 2-4 David, 2-4 Henry, and 2-4 Sargent offer to help.

We arrive on the scene in a few minutes. Eight young men fit the description of black, blue jeans, and white t-shirt. Which has the gun? We draw our weapons, and they freeze. We toss (search) them. No guns are found. The only item we find that could be a weapon is a Swiss army knife. We quickly ascertain this call is just a bunch of guys hanging on the corner, making too much racket, and ribbing each other about their haircuts and taste in women. The neighbors know a noise complaint will go unheeded but if they report “a man with a gun” we will respond. We mark the job as “Unfounded” and thank the other units for the backup.

0030 hrs. “Foot Pursuit” in need of additional unit(s), 96th Street and Broadway. We race to the location. Some knuckleheads try to flee an arrest. They thought they could outrun the NYPD. They are quickly re-apprehended, huffing, puffing, and muttering profanities. One of the perps, a black male at least half my age, glares at me: I can’t believe YOU caught me.

0045 hrs. “Dispute” at 103rd Street and Manhattan Ave. On our way to the scene, the job escalates to an altercation with a knife. We arrive to find a large Caucasian male, age 25 to 30, bleeding profusely from his forearm. He is angry and wants a fight. It’s unclear what he is mad about; he claims “they” are out to get him, and they are not going to take him alive. I surmise the knife wound is self-inflicted. A woman, presumably his wife, tries to calm him down. She talks to him in just above a whisper. She caresses his shoulders. She professes her love for him. I imagine this type of outburst has happened before. We call a bus (ambulance). The job is marked as “Complaint, No Arrest” and “Patient Removed to Hospital” to St. Luke’s. The woman thanks us for responding and tells us to have a nice night.

0103 hrs. An Emotionally Disturbed Person (EDP), at 2410 Broadway, third floor, apartment 301. A middle-aged Puerto Rican woman explains in broken English that she came home to find her son behaving erratically. Their apartment is ransacked: furniture is overturned, and miscellaneous items litter the floor. The woman also mentions that her son suffers from severe depression and takes meds. Images of the Virgin Mary and other religious pictures are everywhere, unmolested during the rampage. The EDP has barricaded himself inside his bedroom. We ask Central the ETA for the Emergency Service Unit (ESU), and the bus. The ESU is “Arrived at Scene”, and the bus is two minutes out. We hear the EDP throwing things around. We knock on the door and call his name, Julio. We identify ourselves as the police. No response. We knock again and ask him to open up and come out. He shoots back “screw you” and throws something against the door. We back off. We formulate a new plan: break down the door and subdue him. We crash though on our first try. The EDP is uncooperative, and a scuffle ensues. It is four against one and in a few seconds the EDP is on the floor, under control. Meanwhile, his mother wants to jump in and save her baby. We restrain her. Her “baby” is 6′ 4″ and probably 300 lbs. The mother is loud and pushy. She tries to reason with her son in Spanish. She makes the sign of the cross several times. She begins to cry and wraps her arms around her overgrown child. We threaten to arrest her for “Obstructing Governmental Administration” if she continues to interfere. The EDP is ranting and raving about the government. He insists his SSI was again denied. He is “Patient Removed to Hospital” to St. Luke’s. I am half-tempted to send his mother too.

0135 hrs. “Robbery in Progress” at 93rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue. We fly to the scene with lights and siren. A hysterical Indian woman approaches us. We sit her down inside the car and begin to canvass for the perp. We let Central know we have a female complainant inside the car. We ask her for a description. She only remembers he was a black male with a blue or black baseball cap; he held a long knife to her throat and grabbed her purse. He then ran east on 93rd Street toward Columbus Avenue. We broadcast the description to Central; they repeat the description to all other units. The complainant then adds the perp was wearing shorts. Some units check the hole (subway). We come across a black male on 94th Street and Central Park West that fits the description. We jump out, guns drawn. I point my Glock at him. My partner wields a six-shot Smith & Wesson .38. We yell, “FREEZE!” and he stops in his tracks, clearly frightened. We hear his heart, LUB-DUB-LUB-DUB-LUB-DUB. I cover him as my partner tosses him. He is unarmed. We ask the woman if this is the assailant, and she shakes her head no. We find out another unit is holding a suspect that fits the description. We race over. Negative, also not the guy. After further canvassing with no results, we make a report for the detectives and drop the victim off at her residence. She asks if we want to “come up” for a cup of coffee or “something stronger.” We respectfully decline. We make sure she gets in okay. She glances back and gives a feeble wave before closing the door.

o215 hrs. “Dispute” at 1-0-7 and Amsterdam. The same band of nitwits from the beginning of our tour. We order them to get the hell off the corner or get locked up. They disperse. We mark this again as “Unfounded.”

0240 hrs. “Family Dispute” at 33 West 104th Street, Apartment 4E. We back up 2-4 Charlie. We arrive to find a woman’s face bashed in. She is Caucasian, approximately 45 to 50 years old. She is partially conscious. Colorful and intricate tattoos cover her arms. The living room walls are spattered with blood. The patterns look like an abstract painting. In a back room, a child is crying. The place smells like bacon. The husband claims to have “no idea” what happened. He shakes his head and tries to appear befuddled. His clothing is covered with blood; he has no visible injuries. We find a wooden mallet caked with blood on the kitchen floor, tossed into a corner. 2-4 Charlie notifies Central one under [arrest]. We call a bus for the victim.

0445 hrs. We are delayed 15 minutes for “Meal.” We head back to the station house, peel off our vests, grab some coffee, and close our eyes for a short respite. My partner takes off his boots. “I need to air out,” he says.

0600 hrs. The 2-0 is in pursuit of a stolen cab. The chase spreads into 2-4 like a fast-moving fire. Now it’s our job too. The bulky yellow Checker is heading straight for us. I recognize its double headlights. The vehicle is moving at a high rate of speed. I’m behind the wheel. If this idiot wants to play chicken, then he picked the wrong cop on the wrong night. The space between us is shrinking. We get dangerously close, and he swerves, smashing into a parked car, jumping the curb, and landing on the sidewalk. Steam pours out from under the hood. The engine sputters. The whole car convulses. The perp jumps out; he appears to be Hispanic. His head is bleeding. He tries to flee in his white high-top Converses. In less than a block, he is welcomed with a hail of fists and boots. Thankfully, it is the weekend, and the sidewalks are free of pedestrians. My partner peers inside the battered cab and notices the meter is still running. He says, “That jerk owes $163.”

0642 hrs. “Possible Crime.” The radio buzzes shots fired at 108th Street and Central Park West. Not our sector but we let Central know we are heading over as backup, if needed.

0646 hrs. Second call regarding shots, this time CONFIRMING shots were fired inside Central Park. We pick up the pace with lights and siren to 1-0-8 and Central Park West. When we arrive, all is quiet. Park units arrive in Central Park. Sectors Park Adam and Park David find a male victim, Caucasian, age 35 to 40, shot in the head. They put a rush on the bus. The victim is on his side on a bench. His eyes are closed. A revolver is on the ground in front of the bench. Park David searches his pockets for ID and finds an NYPD badge. We find out later this was an off-duty cop’s suicide attempt.

0750 hrs. End of Tour (EOT). I sign out, change into street clothes, and exit the building with my partner. I tell him good night. He says, “Peace out.”

0930 hrs. After watching some ESPN at home, I scramble an egg for breakfast. I am wiped out; I need to hit the sack. I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed. The missus is long-gone to work. I fall asleep almost immediately.

1610 hrs. Seven or eight hours later, I awake and stagger into the living room. I click on Channel 6 for the local news. The top story is a cop shot a man wielding a Bowie knife, inside the 2-4, after he stabbed a policewoman in her chest. Blood covers the sidewalk like spilt paint. The lunacy from the night creeped into the day. The cop that got stabbed, Officer Kelleher, is an acquaintance; the cop that shot the assailant, Officer DePugh, has his locker next to mine. I remind myself either one could have been me.

I peer outside. There is enough daylight before my next tour to take Buster for a walk. On the TV, the weather gal smiles and says, “No chance of rain.” It’s a beautiful day.