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Libby
I Was A Short Little Fat Girl Once
Iwas nine years old when I witnessed my father try to murder a boy. I always knew he was a bad man, a bad cop, but I was never privy to howtrulycrooked he was. I always assumed; it was like an oily sheen coating my life the way oil coated Jude Donohue’s hair. But it wasn’t until that boy ran out of Abel Hayes’ office on that windy day and toppled down the stairs that Iknewit.
Gunner Bishop was tall, so insanely tall, with long arms and legs. He reminded me of a baby chimpanzee. A baby giraffe. A babyanythingin the wild. With too-long limbs and uncoordinated movements. I cried out when he tripped and toppled down the stairs. I was so scared he’d broken a bone and would need to go to the hospital for a cast, but then he jumped up again and kept going.
My true horror didn’t begin until bullets zinged by his head. Until I turned to find that the man holding the gun was my father. Then I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
I screamed so much that my father hit me and I went to sleep. I woke again with a bruised jaw and a plane ticket back to school.
And school is where I remained for the next nine years until I graduated and ran. I ran to the police station, not to report a crime, but to ask about joining. How could I become a cop? How can I undo the things my father did? How can I help the boys of today, when I couldn’t help that boy of yesterday?
Sighing, I let myself into my cramped apartment and toss my keys onto the counter just inside the door. My apartment was advertised asopen-plan living.What it actually is, is a tiny box apartment that lacks enough room not to be open. My kitchen, dining, and living area are one space. Open living, yes, but in reality, it’s literally just one small room.
My kitchen is galley-style and ends with a tiny gas stove. My counter serves as divider and eating space. I have two stools on the other side. Two, because they were sold in a pack. And the backs of those brush the back of my couch. I went out and bought a cute little round table when I was approved for my apartment. It was a café type table, barely enough room for two regular-sized adults to sit around without bumping into each other.
I just wanted a table to celebrate my emancipation, but even a two-foot round table was two feet too big. It lasted one night, one breakfast, and one stubbed toe before I tossed it to the curb and awaited collection. Now I eat at the counter when I want to feel fancy, or on the couch when I don’t care enough to not be a slob.
It’s just me here. I have no one to impress. No one to answer to. When I’m off-shift, I’m a loner, and I like it that way.
My galley kitchen is enough to cook a good meal in. My plates are chipped, but still hold a meal. My silverware isn’t real silver, unlike the kind I ate with as a child, but a fork is a fork, and I will never eat with real silver again if I can help it.
I was raised with money. None of it was ours, and none of it was promised for tomorrow. But money abounded, nonetheless, and my father became a prisoner to the very thing hethoughthe wanted. He thought Colum Bishop – the man I only knew as ‘Uncle’ for the longest time – was his savior. In reality, Colum was his warden. He thought money would solve his problems, but really, it created many more.
Now, Colum is dead, and I sat in the back row of the courtroom the day they sentenced Raymond Tate to life without parole.
I’m thenewOfficer Tate, and every day that I pin my tag onto my chest and read it in the mirror, I force myself to be proud of who I am.
My father and I are not the same person, we’re not the same cop. I shouldn’t let the actions of another man dictate how I feel about myself.
Often, I’m able to do that. I can let it go and know that I’m making a positive difference in my world. But other times, times like today when the memories of a boy haunt me, I can’t seem to separate one Tate from another.
Maybe I should have changed my name. It could have been symbolic, and the beginning of my own new and improved history.
Stopping by my fridge, I take out a bottle of water and a plate of chicken breast that I began defrosting before shift last night. I was supposed to clock off from work twelve hours ago. I ended up staying on three hours longer than I was supposed to because of Jude Donohue and his need for cigarettes, and after that, I drove myself into the city an hour away and paid a visit to my father at the prison.
I don’t visit because I love him. I don’t miss him. I feel no loyalty to him. I visit because I need the visual proof that he’s still locked away. I need to see his pasty skin and unshaved face. I need to see the baggy jumpsuit and ugly shoes. I need to see the way his fingernails carry the white lines from lack of nutrition and sunlight. I need to see his sunken chest.
I need to see proof of his incarceration, and I need to know he’s not enjoying his time locked away.
Almost every single time I visit, he gets worked up and lands himself in trouble. Thirty days in segregation? Yes, please.
Many prisons have moved on from in-person visits, and instead provide the inmates with screen time. Seven dollars for ten minutes of video calling is the best they get these days. But I’m a cop, so when I visit, I get concessions that standard visitors don’t.
Sipping my water, I walk around my counter and snatch up the remote for my TV, flick it on, and toss the remote back to my couch. I live alone, and I’m totally fine with that, but I still like the noise. I like feeling like someone is here, even if they’re not talking to me.
The screen flickers on to the nine o’clock news roundup of the day. Highlights catch me up on anything I’ve missed, which is basically nothing. The local news speaks of an attempted robbery at the gas station. The sports section talks of local fighters and an upcoming bout. And then the national highlights come up, and the lion logo we all know makes me pause.
“Griffin Industries has made shockwaves today as they sell their shares in an international tech company coming out of China, despite predictions stock values are set to rise. When requested, Mr. Griffin declined to speak with us, citing scheduling conflicts and personal travel. Stock market insiders are claiming Mr. Griffin’s constant demand for seclusion might have finally caught up with his mental well-being.”The camera pans away from the anchor in a studio, and instead stops on a younger man standing in front of the high-rise building known as Griffin Plaza.“What do you think, Garry?”
“I say he’s a freak!” The young man being interviewed throws his hands in the air with exasperation. “He sold twelve million in shares today, which is great and all for those of us who gobbled them up, but this time next week, that twelve million will be worth fifty, easily! I’m certain of it. I don’t know what he’s smoking, but it got into his brains and jumbled things up. The dude has more money than sense.”
“And now he has thirty-eight million less than he could have.”
“Right!” Garry rolls his eyes. “If he doesn’t like money, I’ll take it. That’s all I’m saying.”
