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Ruminations
By Nancy Kaminski
(c) June 1999 (print), 2000 (web)
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The horizon was just barely beginning to pale when Myra Schanke was
awakened by the splash of headlights across the bedroom ceiling and
the mutter of a large engine idling in the driveway.

She lay still and listened to the sounds coming from downstairs-the
click and scrape of the front door opening and closing; the quiet
tread of her husband's footsteps through the living room and up the
stairs, pausing a minute partway down the hall as he looked in on
their sleeping daughter; the closet door in the spare room opening and
closing as he undressed; and finally, the hiss and gush of the shower
as he washed away the remnants of the nightshift and made ready for
sleep.

The bedroom door quietly opened and closed as Don Schanke made his way
through the darkness to his side of the bed. The bed sagged as he sat
down, then bounced gently when he slid under the covers and squirmed a
little to get comfortable.

"Hi, hon," Myra said softly, rolling over to put her arm across his
chest. She kissed him briefly, then snuggled against him. "Hmmmm," she
murmured contentedly. "How'd it go tonight?"

Don sighed and eased himself into a more comfortable position. He
kissed Myra's forehead and said, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"S'all right. I heard the car pull up."

He chuckled quietly. "That boat! I guess it could be worse -- he could
have turned it into a street rod or something and really make some
noise." He snorted. "I never thought I'd be on patrol riding around in
an antique Cadillac. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

Myra smiled, shook him gently, and repeated, "So, tell me, how'd it go
tonight?"

He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. It was a quiet night. We mostly talked to
guys in bars about a stabbing that happened a couple of days ago. It
was talk, talk, talk... and then we got to write up the reports." He
yawned. "Just another shift. Nothing exciting."

"I like that kind of shift. Unexciting. Safe."

"Yeah, I suppose I do, too."

She asked pensively, "How're you getting along with your new partner?"

He sighed. "Not bad, I suppose. He's nothing like Jimmy, though," he
said, referring to his old partner. "He's about as communicative as a
clam, Nick is. He doesn't hang out with the guys, he doesn't drink,
smoke, eat -- hell, I haven't seen him go to the can yet." Don
caressed Myra's shoulder reflectively. "I can't figure him out."

Myra's thoughts ran back to her one and only meeting with her
husband's new partner. Nick had come by to pick him up because she had
needed the car that evening. She and Jenny had gone outside with Don,
curious to meet Nick after what Don had told them about him.

Nick had gotten out of the car when she approached, greeted her with a
curiously grave courtesy, and exchanged pleasantries with her and
Jenny. He was charming, but there was a kind of remoteness to him Myra
couldn't quite figure out. He had watched Don kiss her and Jenny
goodbye with the strangest look on his face. She was usually an astute
judge of character, but in Nick's case her talent had been to no
avail, and that unnerved her.

But now wasn't the time to mention her reservations about her
husband's new partner, so instead she merely said, "He's cute."

Don snorted again. "I'll take your word for it."

"Well, he is. And he seems nice, too. You should bring him over again,
and for more than five minutes." And then maybe I might understand the
man protecting my husband a little better, she added silently.

"I dunno. He doesn't act like he wants that sort of stuff. He's pretty
standoffish with just about everyone, except the ME I told you about
-- you know, Natalie."

"Girlfriend?"

He shrugged. "Can't figure that out, either. But he unbends a little
bit for her, that's for sure."

Silence fell for a bit as they lay companionably together, savoring
the quiet intimacy, the ordinary end to an ordinary day. Myra was
beginning to get used to Don's night shifts-she was happy that they
could be together in the afternoons before he went to work, happy that
he could meet Jenny at the school bus and have time with his daughter
before she got engrossed in homework or the TV.

And somehow they had fallen into the habit of having these quiet chats
in the predawn hours, if she awakened-making decisions on what to buy,
how to spend vacations, all the things that made their family work.
Myra remembered hearing her parents' murmuring voices late at night
behind their bedroom door. Maybe, unconsciously, she and Don were just
following their example.

"How was Jenny's piano lesson?" Don asked presently.

Myra smiled into the dark. "She got all the way through 'Claire de
Lune' without a mistake. Mrs. LeTourneau says she's doing well. Maybe
we should think about getting her a real piano in place of that
electronic keyboard. There's room for one of those little uprights in
the spare room."

"I thought you said the washing machine was going?"

"I can manage for a while. Let's think about it."

" 'Kay." He paused for a moment. "You know, Nick's got a huge grand
piano in that big empty warehouse he calls a home."

"Really?" Myra was intrigued. "So he plays?"

"I guess. Why else would he have one?"

"Maybe he inherited it? You never told me what his place looks like,
you know, except that it was a loft in a warehouse. What's it like?"

Don shifted position and yawned again. "Big. Dark. Sort of bare. He's
got metal shutters on the windows to keep out the light -- you know,
that strange allergy that I was telling you about? Um, black leather
furniture. A really big television -- man, I'd love to watch the
Stanley Cup playoffs on that thing! And weird knickknacks, pots and
stuff that look real old. Oh, and a motorcycle."

She said, amused, "A motorcycle! Inside?"

"Yup. Must be another collectible, 'cause he's never ridden it to
work."

"It sounds like he's got some money, doesn't it? I mean, all those old
things, and the rent on that loft must be a lot."

He said smugly, "He doesn't rent, he owns it. The whole building, in
fact, and a couple next door."

"Oh, so he does talk a little bit, huh?" Myra raised an eyebrow.

Don cleared his throat embarassedly. "Well, not exactly. I, uh, did a
little research. See, I had to check on some property ownership on a
case we were working, and I thought, hey, as long as I was in City
Hall, I might as well, um..."

Myra raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. "Donald G.
Schanke, you were spying on your partner!"

"Well, sort of, I guess." He sounded unrepentant. "Actually, the
reason I did was that I handed him his suit coat when we were leaving
the office, and I noticed the label."

"So?"

"It was custom made. In Paris. He doesn't afford that kind of stuff on
a cop's salary, that's for sure, and I got to wondering." He shrugged.
"So I did a little checking."

"That's not very nice, dear -- and isn't it illegal? Misuse of
authority or something?"

"Nope, they're public records. It's not like I found out about his
bank balance or anything." He paused. "Hmmm, wonder how much dough he
has?"

"You're terrible! Leave the poor man alone! Anyway, that's not
important as long as he takes care of you and does his job, right?"

"Yeah, but you can't blame a guy for wondering, now, can you?"

Myra gave him The Look. She knew that Don would feel it even in the
dark. She was not disappointed.

"Okay, okay," he said. "I'll be good." He yawned massively. "Good
night, hon. You can yell at me again this afternoon..." He relaxed and
let sleep begin to steal over him.

Myra lay staring pensively at the ceiling, thinking about Nick. She
pictured him all alone in his loft, trapped there whenever the sun was
out. What a horrible existence that must be, to lose the sun and the
beauties of the day! She wondered if he had always had the allergy, or
if he had enjoyed a normal life at least for a few years. She hoped
so.

She pictured him playing the piano for himself, or watching his big
screen television, safe behind his steel shutters. No family, few
friends, no girl -- just himself.

She thought again of the look on his face as he had watched Don say
goodbye to his family, and she realized it was longing, and regret,
and jealousy, and sadness, all mixed together and held tightly under
control behind that wall he had erected.

For all his good looks and apparent wealth, she realized, Nick was
alone. Talk about a cliche, she thought ruefully, but there you go.
Cliches are often true.

"I bet he's lonely," she murmured to herself.

"Hnnngh?" Don murmured, half-asleep. "You say something, hon?"

"Shh, it's nothing." She smoothed his hair back and kissed him. "Go to
sleep."

" 'Kay."

Myra listened to his even breathing and felt immensely lucky. She had
him, and he had her, and Jenny had them both, and they were complete.

Poor Nick, she thought as she drifted off to sleep again...and lucky,
lucky me.