Island Shots

By Suzanne Berube Rorhus

Michael dragged his gun belt off the battered pine breakfast table and strapped it on, adjusting his Glock in its holster. “You don't know anything about him, Barbara. You didn't grow up with him; I did.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm not an islander like you. I've lived here for more than twenty years, you know. I'm not fresh off the ferry.” His wife refused to look at him, continuing to stack plates from the dishwasher into the cabinet over the coffeemaker.

He glanced at her stiff back. “That's not what I meant.”

The cozy kitchen, a step-saver in real estate parlance, smelled of last night's pot roast. The counters were stacked with school papers and carpentry projects.

“Bert and I were friends as kids, but he's pounded a lot of whiskey since then. He's not right in the head. We get called out to his place all the time, ‘cause he's always doing some crazy shit like …”

“Would you please watch your language? Daniel's listening.”

He glanced at his son. The boy kept his eyes down, munching steadily on his cornflakes, but Michael knew he was listening. Hell, he'd be an idiot not to. He was the one who wanted to go to the party in the first place.

Michael decided to change tactics. “Listen, Daniel, you know I don't want you hanging out with Kyle. His dad's a drunk and sometimes he knocks his family around. You don't need that. Skip his birthday party and I'll take off work so we can go duck hunting, just the two of us.”

“Come on, Dad. All the other guys will be there. You want me to tell them I can't go because my daddy's afraid of Mr. Arana?”

Michael flushed. “I'm not afraid of him, Daniel,” he said. “I just don't think he's a good influence on you boys.”

“Jesus, Michael, you're too protective,” Barbara said. “He's not going to live there – just eat cake, sing ‘Happy Birthday', and leave. No big deal.” She slammed the dishwasher shut.

“No big deal? Tell that to Nicole. The paramedics hauled her to the hospital again last month. Said she fell down the cellar stairs. Again.”

“Ah, the precious Nicole,” Barbara said. She didn't continue, didn't need to. Michael knew she never forgave him for loving Nicole first. And for probably loving her still. Michael shoved the thought out of his mind.

Daniel stood up, shoving his chair away from the table. “Jeez! It's just a stupid party with a stupid magician that his stupid mom hired. Everybody's going to be there and I'll look stupid if I can't go. Just ‘cause his dad's a drunk doesn't mean Kyle's going to be one. You treat me like a baby.”

Michael wasn't going to win this battle. He sighed. “You know what? Just go. If you want to go so bad, go.” He left for work, pulling the door closed behind him.

He drove slowly through the snowy streets on his patrol, waving to his friends as he passed, keeping an eye on the known troublemakers.

The nuts came out in the winter. People managed to hold themselves together in the summer when the tourists were on the island. Islanders earned eighty percent of their annual income in the summer. Nobody had time for insanity then.

Winter on Martha's Vineyard was a different story. Old animosities, buried during the money months, resurfaced with a vengeance after Christmas.

Before he became a cop, Michael had loved winter on the Vineyard. After the summer visitors left, Oak Bluffs returned to being the small town where he grew up. He knew most of the people he ran into at the post office and on Circuit Avenue . Hell, he was related to half of them. Not like his wife Barbara.

Barbara was an off-islander, a summer “gink” as they used to say. She came to the Vineyard to spend a summer with her college friends, working as a waitress at the Seafood Shanty, down on Edgartown harbor. Michael was the bartender, working to pay for another year of Boston College .

Barbara transferred to Boston College to finish her teaching degree and set up housekeeping with Michael. He'd given up on Nicole by then. She wasn't dead or off-island or anything, just engaged to Bert. Michael tried to let go of his high school crush on her, but he never forgot her. Still, he and Barbara had been pretty happy over the years.

On the other hand, the Bert/Nicole marriage had not been as merry and carefree as the town had hoped. When the basketball MVP married the class beauty, people expected Happily Ever After. Judging by the number of domestic disputes Nicole called in to the cops over the years, the groom had proved to be more dragon than prince.

Nicole always refused to press charges, even the time she got a stab wound in her arm from falling down those cursed cellar stairs.

Michael remembered the conversation he had had with Nicole as she lay in her hospital bed.

“You always say you're going to leave him. How come you never do?”

“I love him, Michael.” She sighed and shifted in bed. One hand picked nervously at a small hole in her blanket. Michael wanted to grab her hand, squeeze it until she cried out, but he held himself back.

“He was so strong in high school, so handsome and athletic. Remember how you guys were going to be professional basketball players?” She smiled at the memory. “Boston Celtics, here you come, remember? Wicked.”

Michael remembered. He remembered the disappointment he felt when he realized that he wasn't good enough to play college ball, much less professional hoops. But he'd known that he was too heavy and slow, and he'd moved on. Not Bert. As captain of the basketball team and therefore the most famous kid on the island, he'd expected the world to open up before him. After their hopes were dashed, Michael turned to police work, while Bert dove into the bottle.

“You gotta take care of Kyle,” Michael tried again. “He shouldn't have to watch his daddy beat his mom, right?”

“He didn't beat me, Michael. I told you I fell down the stairs.”

He was shut out. It never changed – citizens versus cops. Despite the fact that he and Nicole had grown up together, she couldn't see past his uniform. Her motto was clear; never tell the cops the truth.

As he rose to leave, she patted his arm. “You were always one of the good guys, Michael.” She gave him a small, wistful smile.

He wondered if she ever regretted not returning his love in high school.

***

On Wednesday, Michael went to Daniel's school to be a “Visiting Worker.” The teacher wanted all the parents to talk about their careers. Michael suspected she was trying to encourage the kids to stay on-island when they grew up.

So far, nearly half of the parents in Daniel's class had visited Oak Bluffs Elementary. School teachers, court clerks, shop keepers, waitresses, landscapers, and whose who could still earn their living from fishing had spoken to the fifth grade class. Michael wondered if Bert Arana had been in to visit. Perhaps he had given a brilliant lecture on the benefits of a career salvaging crap from the town dump and reselling it from his front yard. Working from home, so to speak.

Michael spoke for thirty minutes. Daniel watched his father with a painful expression of pride and embarrassment.

When Michael pulled his sidearm out of its holster, the class sat up in their chairs.

“How many people have you killed?” a kid asked. He nudged his friend and the two of them watched Michael, wide-eyed.

“None, thank God,” he answered. “I've had to draw my gun a few times, but I've never had to fire it.”

“Wuss!”

Michael looked around. Kyle was snickering with his friends. Michael narrowed his eyes. “You think I want to kill someone?”

“Why else would you wanna be a cop? My dad said only the class snitch would want to grow up to be a cop. Do you like getting people in trouble?”

“My job is to help people out of trouble,” Michael said. “For example, if a man were beating a woman, we'd pull him off her, call the ambulance, and take him in.” He knew he was hitting below the belt, but he wanted to shock the boy into thinking for himself. If he absorbed his dad's attitude about cops, he'd probably also grow up thinking it was okay to knock a woman around.

Kyle grew still. “Fat lot of good that does. You can't stop it from happening again, can you? You just clean up the mess afterwards. Just like a janitor.” His small face was set in unforgiving lines.

***

Saturday, Daniel woke his parents up early. “Mom, did you wrap my gift for Kyle's party?”

Michael raised his head and reached for his alarm clock. Eight o'clock. He still had two hours before his shift.

“Listen, Kyle, the party isn't until one. Why don't you go eat breakfast and watch a little TV? Mom and I need our sleep.”

As soon as his son left, Michael reached for his wife. She was warm and sleepy, just how he liked her best. No complications.

The first hour of his shift passed uneventfully. He was alone today. His partner, a stout woman named Chuck, had called in sick, though Michael knew she was shopping off-island. What the hell. The ferries were running today, but a snowstorm was predicted for later in the week. If Chuck didn't get off-island today, she might not have a chance for days.

Michael cruised along the Edgartown-Vineyard Haven road, listening to the chatter on his police radio and thinking about his vacation next month. He and Barbara planned to take Daniel to Louisiana to visit her parents and enjoy some warm weather.

He drove past his own street, Buddy Drive , and continued past the north edge of the state forest to check out the high school. Despite the near-freezing temperature, the basketball court was packed. He parked his patrol car and sipped his coffee, watching the action for a while. A dispatch call on his radio caught his attention.

“523, report of a domestic disturbance in progress at 5318 West Tisbury Road , repeat 5-3-1-8 West Tisbury . 213, please respond as well.”

Michael sat up straight, spilling a couple of drops of coffee on his pants. West Tisbury Road wasn't his division, but the address sounded familiar.

He keyed his radio. “402 to dispatch, what name do you have for that address?”

“Arana.” One word. One simple name and Michael's stomach lurched.

“I'm going to meet them there. My son's at that house. There's a party in progress.”

The dispatcher's voice responded. “Negative, 402. Stay in your area. We'll handle the situation from here. The officers have already left and should arrive within ten minutes.”

“What's the situation?” His heart pounded against his ribs.

“A call came in at 1400 hours from a minor male. He reported that his father was beating his mother.”

Michael slammed his hands against his steering wheel. He should have held his ground and forbidden Daniel to go to the party. After a moment's hesitation, he put his car in gear and left the school lot.

As he drove, he planned his approach. His patrol area took him within a mile of the Arana house. He'd just drive along West Tisbury Road , listen to the radio chatter, and make his decision when he got to the southeast corner of the State Forest . He swung onto Barnes Road and sped up.

By the time he reached West Tisbury Road , he had an update.

“523 to dispatch, you need to send out a work crew. There's a tree down across West Tisbury , and it's gonna take a chainsaw to budge it. We can't get through to the call address this way.”

“Roger. I need a patrol car to respond from the other direction. 402, you're the closest. Please respond.”

Michael drove faster. The responding officers would have to cut through the State Forest to bypass the blockage. They would literally have to drive past him.

He keyed his radio again. “402 to dispatch, I am en route to the domestic disturbance call. I'm on West Tisbury Road within a mile of the property. Request back-up to meet me there.”

Michael turned off West Tisbury Road and sped toward the Arana house. The driveway was graveled, like most Vineyard drives and back roads. Vineyarders liked their privacy and sought to protect their property from speeders and tourists. When the town paved the smaller roads, residents would occasionally take a pickaxe to the new tarmac.

He roared up to the house without slowing down, pebbles pinging against the sides of his patrol car. He skidded to a stop at the top of the driveway and jumped out. The dilapidated house, surrounded by scrub oak, looked desolate in the winter. A sofa stood sentinel over the snow-covered junkyard treasures in the front yard, while a small copse of pines shielded the back of the property from its neighbors.

As Michael approached the house, the front door opened, smacking into the cedar siding. Bert stood in the doorway. Behind him, several boys crowded around, jostling for a view.

“Tubby, you son of a bitch! Did you come to join the party?” Bert was drunk.

He wore an orange t-shirt, red work pants, and a bright blue shawl. His nose was painted red with lipstick, and his eyes were outlined in white.

“Who the hell dressed you today?” Michael asked, ignoring the hated nickname from his childhood. He wanted to distract Bert, just keep him talking until his backup arrived. “I'm here from the fashion police. I'm gonna run you in for dressing while drunk.” If he could get Bert away from the house and the boys, they could sober him up down at the station. Unless Nicole needed another ambulance, in which case he was going to put Bert in jail, with or without Nicole's help.

“Screw you, asshole. The magician Nicole hired never showed up. Typical. Dumb woman can't do anything right. So guess who had to fill in and save the day? Me! She's got me dressed up as a clown because, ‘we don't want to ruin Kyle's birthday party, do we?'” He leaned against the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his painted lip.

“Look, Bert,” Michael said, approaching the house slowly. “Why don't you come with me? I'll take you somewhere to sober up. You don't want the boys to see you like this.” He placed one foot on the bottom step of the porch.

Bert snapped to attention. “Piss off, Tubby. I ain't leaving. It's my son's birthday, and I'll stay if I want to.” He tossed the cigarette to the ground and pulled a handgun from the back of his pants' waistband and pointed it at Michael. “Get off my property.” His hands betrayed only a slight tremor.

Michael threw his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Calm down, Bert. Don't do anything you'll regret. Put the gun up and let's talk.” He withdrew his foot from the porch step and backed up a pace so Bert wouldn't feel threatened.

At the sight of the gun, the boys behind Bert panicked. Four of them spilled out of the house onto the porch and milled around. Some looked excited, while two cried. Michael couldn't see Daniel in the crowd.

“Screw you. You know what? It's too damn noisy here. I'm gonna start popping some of these kids. Damn brats with their whining.” Bert reached behind his back and grabbed his son.

“Come to Daddy, Kyle. How's your birthday so far? You ashamed of your old man?”

“Dad – don't do this! You're scaring Mom.” Kyle did not resist his father's grasp, but his eyes remained downcast.

Michael drew his gun and leveled it at Bert's head. “Put down your gun, Arana. You're not a killer.” He hoped this was true.

Bert held Kyle with one arm encircling his neck. “These little bastards don't know how screwed up life is. I'll be doing them a favor.” He pointed his gun at Kyle's head.

“Dad!” Kyle's voice was tiny. He glanced at Michael, eyes pleading. His gaze turned to the badge on Michael's chest, and he stared at it fixedly.

“Tubby, get off my property, now. Get back in your car or I'll shoot this whiny brat.”

Michael backed up slowly, never moving the aim of his sidearm from Bert's head. He skirted his car until he stood next to the driver's door. With the patrol car between him and Bert, he felt more secure, even though he was still within range of Bert's pistol. He leaned his arms on the roof of the car and sighted his gun on Bert's right eye. A tear had been painted in its outside corner, but real tears fell from the inside of his eyes.

At least he's not numb, Michael thought. I gotta get him to calm down. Where the hell is Nicole? Maybe she can talk him down, or at least distract him.

“Listen, Bert, it's going to be okay. Where's Nicole?”

“Your darling Nicole is hiding behind the sofa. Guess she's not interested in being a hero, huh, Michael?”

Michael keyed his shoulder radio with his left hand, never taking his eyes off Bert. “402 to dispatch, I am at 5318 West Tisbury Road , responding to the domestic disturbance. I have a hostage situation here and need immediate back up. Over.”

The dispatcher's voice was calm. “Units 306 and 455 are rolling. They should arrive your location momentarily.”

His commander's voice came on the line. “Hold steady, Michael. I know your son's out there. 455 is coming from up island, same way you did, but he's got to travel a ways. Talk him down. You know Bert, don't you?”

“Tubby! Look who I found!” Bert pushed Kyle to the floor and grabbed Daniel, dragging him out of the house by his elbow. “It's your precious baby!”

Michael could see Daniel's terrified expression. Daniel, his son, his pride, his legacy. Bert looped his left arm around the boy's neck, holding him tight against his chest. He rubbed his gun against Daniel's cheek, then raised it and fired at Michael.

The first shot zinged past Michael's left ear and thumped into the oak tree behind him. He crouched below the car's roofline.

Michael had nearly vomited at the sight of Bert's gun rubbing Daniel's face. He forced the bile down, forced his voice to sound calm. “Bert, come on down here. I can help you, but you have to let the boys go. Let's talk, just you and me.”

“Shaddup, idiot. I'll kill this boy if I can't get you first.” Bert's voice sounded flat to Michael, empty of its usual bluster and braggadocio. Another shot landed in the tree behind Michael. “Show yourself, coward. Fight like a man.”

“I'll fight you, if you let the boys go,” Michael said. “Come on. We were friends in school. Hell, we ruled the island our senior year.” He peered down the sight of his Glock. He had a clear shot at Bert's head, but Daniel's head was nestled against Bert's breastbone. If he missed…

He refused to think about it. No way was he going to try a William Tell shot like that.

“Things ain't the same, Tubby. We're not basketball champs now. You're mister big-shot cop. Think you're so hot, don't you? Judging everybody else, writing tickets whenever you're in a bad mood. Too good to hang out with me.”

Michael chose his words carefully. “It doesn't have to be like that. Why don't we go somewhere? Let the boys go, and we'll shoot hoops down at the school. Deal?”

Bert spit on the ground. “The boys? Or just your precious boy here?” He indicated Daniel by rapping him on the head with his pistol. Michael felt red rage flash over him, but did not give in to the sensation. He had to focus.

“What about Nicole's boy?” Bert continued. He gestured at his own frightened son, curled up on the floor of the porch. “Looks just like her, don't he? Wouldn't you love to play the hero and rescue her son from the man she married? Well, screw you. She married me, not you. Said you weren't man enough for her. Now she's mine, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

He turned his head, still keeping Michael in view. “Nicole, honey?” His voice was treacle. “Why don't you come on out? Michael's here to visit. Said he was worried about you. Isn't that sweet?”

There was no answer from the house. “Nicole! Get your ass out here or I'll put a slug in Kyle!”

Nicole burst out of the small clapboard house, brushing past Bert roughly. She grabbed her son and clutched him to her chest. “Bert Arana, I've had enough! I want a divorce.” One eye was swollen shut, but she glared at her husband out of the other.

“Come on, baby,” she said to Kyle. “Let's go to Grandma's.”

“What about my friends?” Kyle gestured to the children still on the porch, and to Daniel locked in Bert's embrace.

“Officer Dayton will handle this. Let's get out of the way.” She didn't meet Michael's eyes as she led Kyle down the stairs, leaving Daniel behind.

“Stop, woman! You're not leaving me.” Bert's voice sounded desperate. He swung his gun towards his wife and son.

“Forget it! I've had enough. I'm going home to my mother, and Kyle's coming with me.” Nicole didn't look back. She didn't see Bert raise his gun, didn't see him fire.

Her body crumpled, and she dragged Kyle down with her. The child fell to the ground, holding on to his mother with all his strength. He looked up at his father in shock, disbelief in his eyes. “Dad!”

Michael froze at the sight of Nicole's unmoving body.

Bert looked stricken. “Nicole! I didn't mean it! Get up, baby! I swear I'll never touch you again.” His grip on Daniel loosened slightly, though he did not release him.

“You always say that, you bastard!” Kyle shoved his mother's body aside and jumped to his feet. He rushed at Bert, fists raised.

Startled, Bert raised his gun again.

Michael fired. The bullet sailed over Daniel's head and struck Bert in the forehead. Michael could see the blood splatter before Bert's body dropped to the ground. Daniel staggered, but did not fall.

Michael bent over at the waist and vomited into the dirt. He'd nearly shot his son. Nicole was dead. He'd killed his former friend. Numb, he keyed his radio and reported in.

Daniel rushed down the porch steps and into his arms, his face white. “Dad!” He lay his head on Michael's shoulder and wept. His whole body shook.

Michael rocked him for a moment, then eased him into the patrol car's back seat. Walking over to the porch, he knelt to check Nicole's pulse, then Bert's. Nothing.

Kyle lay collapsed on the ground, sobbing. He raised his head when Michael crouched beside him and slid an arm around his shoulder. Kyle asked, “Why? Why did this happen?”

Michael searched for the words to make sense of the situation for him. The boy had lost everything; his mom, his dad, his childhood. “Well, you know, alcohol can make even a good man do bad things,” he began. The words sounded lame to his own ears. “Your dad didn't mean to be like he was. It's complicated, but I hope over time you can learn to forgive him.”

“Why'd you shoot my dad? ‘Cause you still loved my mom?”

Michael sat back on his heels, his arm still encircling Kyle. In the distance, he could hear the sirens as his backup arrived. He remained silent as the other patrol cars crunched across the gravel.