Happy Policeman
Happy Policeman
““What’s your name, son?” He was tired. The hard plastic backrest poked at his kidneys. His thighs ached where the Lilliputian seat ended. “Robert.” On the T-shirt was a cherry Kool-Aid stain shaped like the state of Illinois. “Sit down, Robert. I won’t bite.” The boy plopped into the opposite chair and began to swing a leg in feigned boredom. His boot tapped a water-torture rhythm against the table. DeWitt watched the kid watch him. The library was quiet and scented with winter and children: wet woolen mittens, peanut butter, and furniture oil. Then the boy’s eyes fell on DeWitt’s badge with what DeWitt recognized as worry. Most people were uncomfortable around the badge. Priests, DeWitt thought, must get the same reaction. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I coveted my neighbor’s wife twice. I parked illegally five times this month. Planting his elbows on the table, DeWitt leaned forward. The boy immediately leaned back. “You like to fish, Robert?” “Huh?”
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