annoying obstacle, and nothing more. I wasn’t even certain if he had heard me.
But he followed me home.
A few months later we arrived at that same point most illicit lovers reach. When, after making love, the pain of parting started to outweigh the pleasure of being together, I knew that it was time for an ultimatum. I hated feeling like I needed a commitment. I could almost hear Robert thinking, “Right. Typical female.”
But I did it anyway, and was stunned by his response: “Of course I’ll tell her,” he said.
I had steeled myself for rejection. But there he was, telling me that we were going to be together. Or so I thought. I should have listened more carefully. He had said that he’d
tell
Sarah about us, and that was exactly what he meant.
After his announcement, he made no move to leave her—he might still be there if she hadn’t finally thrown him out. She was classy about it; wrote me a polite little note inviting me to come over and help him pack.
Robert didn’t wait for my help. A day later he showed up at my apartment with a carload of survivalist magazines, hunting equipment, clothes, and seven or eight guns. It wasn’t the joyful moment that I had imagined it would be. Then, about six months after his divorce was final, he returned to Sarah. Although their reunion wasn’t permanent, the damage it did to me was. Things were never the same between us again.
For the most part, we ended up like all other cops who are thrown together for eight hours every workday. We got oneach other’s nerves, ran out of things to say, and served as living proof that familiarity really can breed contempt. The only difference between us and them was that we also slept together from time to time. But it got to where it wasn’t happening very often, and when it did, we were barely able to look each other in the eye afterward. So it ended.
What was left was friendship—the indestructible kind that comes from going through a war together. Although the battles we fought were on the streets, not in some slimy jungle, they were just as deadly, and had forged a strong bond between us.
Robert
S arah is dead.
I can barely think those words, let alone say them. But there are three more words that are even worse: Sarah was murdered.
Hours before it happened, I was sitting in my car a block away from her house, watching the front of the building. No one went in; no one came out.
I was on my own time, and in my own car, so I reached into the Styrofoam cooler on the floor in front and grabbed another beer. Of course, it wouldn’t have made any difference if I’d been on duty, in uniform and in a patrol unit. When I want a brew, I have one. They know what to do with their procedure manual.
Sarah always said I had a drinking problem. She was wrong. Only time I ever had problems was when I didn’t drink.
For Sarah, life was always a problem, drunk or sober. Who was the guy who said you should never sleep with a woman whose problems are bigger than your own? I shouldhave listened to him. I knew the minute I met her she was crazy in the head. Depressed. It wasn’t just a mood. It was her whole way of looking at the world. I put enough of her stories together over the years to figure out that she had been abused, and it had left her feeling worthless. But then the clouds would shift and she’d be all smiles and energy, like she’d grown up with the Brady Bunch. I never knew when I walked in the door who I’d find in the house—the happy Sarah, or the suicidal one. After a while I quit wondering or even caring.
It’s a funny thing about marriage. You marry a woman and divorce her, but you never really quit thinking of her as your wife. There’s a tie there, something you can’t quite cut. At least that’s the way it was with Sarah and me. When she told me she was seeing someone, it hit me hard. I didn’t even know at first what that feeling was, but then I realized it was jealousy.
When I questioned Sarah
But he followed me home.
A few months later we arrived at that same point most illicit lovers reach. When, after making love, the pain of parting started to outweigh the pleasure of being together, I knew that it was time for an ultimatum. I hated feeling like I needed a commitment. I could almost hear Robert thinking, “Right. Typical female.”
But I did it anyway, and was stunned by his response: “Of course I’ll tell her,” he said.
I had steeled myself for rejection. But there he was, telling me that we were going to be together. Or so I thought. I should have listened more carefully. He had said that he’d
tell
Sarah about us, and that was exactly what he meant.
After his announcement, he made no move to leave her—he might still be there if she hadn’t finally thrown him out. She was classy about it; wrote me a polite little note inviting me to come over and help him pack.
Robert didn’t wait for my help. A day later he showed up at my apartment with a carload of survivalist magazines, hunting equipment, clothes, and seven or eight guns. It wasn’t the joyful moment that I had imagined it would be. Then, about six months after his divorce was final, he returned to Sarah. Although their reunion wasn’t permanent, the damage it did to me was. Things were never the same between us again.
For the most part, we ended up like all other cops who are thrown together for eight hours every workday. We got oneach other’s nerves, ran out of things to say, and served as living proof that familiarity really can breed contempt. The only difference between us and them was that we also slept together from time to time. But it got to where it wasn’t happening very often, and when it did, we were barely able to look each other in the eye afterward. So it ended.
What was left was friendship—the indestructible kind that comes from going through a war together. Although the battles we fought were on the streets, not in some slimy jungle, they were just as deadly, and had forged a strong bond between us.
Robert
S arah is dead.
I can barely think those words, let alone say them. But there are three more words that are even worse: Sarah was murdered.
Hours before it happened, I was sitting in my car a block away from her house, watching the front of the building. No one went in; no one came out.
I was on my own time, and in my own car, so I reached into the Styrofoam cooler on the floor in front and grabbed another beer. Of course, it wouldn’t have made any difference if I’d been on duty, in uniform and in a patrol unit. When I want a brew, I have one. They know what to do with their procedure manual.
Sarah always said I had a drinking problem. She was wrong. Only time I ever had problems was when I didn’t drink.
For Sarah, life was always a problem, drunk or sober. Who was the guy who said you should never sleep with a woman whose problems are bigger than your own? I shouldhave listened to him. I knew the minute I met her she was crazy in the head. Depressed. It wasn’t just a mood. It was her whole way of looking at the world. I put enough of her stories together over the years to figure out that she had been abused, and it had left her feeling worthless. But then the clouds would shift and she’d be all smiles and energy, like she’d grown up with the Brady Bunch. I never knew when I walked in the door who I’d find in the house—the happy Sarah, or the suicidal one. After a while I quit wondering or even caring.
It’s a funny thing about marriage. You marry a woman and divorce her, but you never really quit thinking of her as your wife. There’s a tie there, something you can’t quite cut. At least that’s the way it was with Sarah and me. When she told me she was seeing someone, it hit me hard. I didn’t even know at first what that feeling was, but then I realized it was jealousy.
When I questioned Sarah
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