Deeply involved in a dream, it had taken Pete a while to realize that his phone was ringing. With a groan, the tiger awoke, grabbed the phone and growled into the mouthpiece, "Yeah?".
A moment of silence before his mother's voice sprang from the phone. "Peter Malloy! You finally answer one of my calls and that's how you greet me?" Why haven't you been calling me back?"
"Mom?" Pete shook his head, trying to force his brain to wake up.
"So, you do remember me. I'm so pleased that my son remembers my voice. I had thought you would have forgotten it after so many weeks of not calling me back." That sarcastic tone tinged with plenty of guilt brought several retorts to Pete's mind, but he bit them back. You really can't tell off your mother, can you? Not when it was your fault, afterall.
"Mom, I'm sorry I haven't been able to call you back, but I'm been working a lot this last couple of weeks," Work wasn't the reason, but Pete was grasping at straws. His mother was, by nature, a rather sweet woman except when she is mad. That's when the Scottish half of her came out and God help anyone caught in her sights.
"Now, don't you lie to me, Peter Joseph Malloy." He groaned at the use of his full name. Every child who has ever been called by all their given names knows what's coming next. He was suddenly glad to live so far away from his parents; she couldn't pull him by the ear to reprimand him at this distance.
"I've talked to your Sergeant MacDonald and you have yet to be working any time I called. I'm sure he gave you the messages, he seems like a responsible person". More sarcasm. "Even if he didn't, I know that Judy certainly told you of my calls."
"Please don't call her anymore Mom." He had heard all about the calls she made to Judy. Pete did wonder why Judy hadn't told his mother that he had "deserted" her and David.
"Why? I enjoy our little chats. She is such a lovely woman."
Out of options, Pete came clean. "Judy and I are no longer seeing each other"
"What did you do to her?", his mother demanded.
Pete may be only one quarter Scottish, but he did possess the firebrand temper of a Scot, although he usually kept it in check around his mother. "What makes you think it was my fault?"
"Because I know how much she loves you. A wife and stepson would be perfect for you. It would be nice to see you settled". He knew her well enough to know that "settled" was code for babies.
"Mom, I'm not discussing this with you. Please do not call her again.". He then pulled the phone from close proximity to his ear as his mother yelled and yelled and yelled.
"Peter! Did you hear me? The mortgage is due next week." He had no idea how she got from Judy to their mortgage, but it was a subject he'd rather talk about.
"Yes Mom, I remember that your mortgage payment is due next week. I've, already sent in the check", he lied.
It was either lying or listening to her yell at him again. He resented the monthly reminder to send them money to cover the mortgage on the farm. He has been sending money home since his second year on the force, when his mother's health forced her to stop teaching. It's not like he often forgot, he rarely did. He had always had, according to friends, an "over developed" sense of responsibility. In fact he could recall every one of the times he didn't send a check on time: The four times he was stuck in the hospital for a week or more.
After a short chat about how things were up there, his mother's goodbye included another comment urging him to get back together with Judy. "You know how much your father wants a grandchild."
He had a headache.
A trip to the bathroom for some aspirin and Pete was back in bed, trying to get some more sleep. He tossed and turned, beat his pillow into shape, growled at the sun beam shining in to his room before he gave up his quest for sleep as the building filled with the sounds of tenants starting their day. Most times, he liked living in an apartment as it freed him of the need to maintain a place of his own. Taking out Mrs. O'Brian's garbage was the one thing he consented to do, seeing as the manager often fed him. Some days he wondered if the free meals were worth the noise.
Conceding that he wasn't going to get anymore sleep didn't exactly motivate him to get out of bed. Instead, he reached over to his night stand and grabbed a book from a few he was in the middle of reading. He picked "Ball Four" by Jim Bouton. It was light reading and he half hoped that reading would help him fall asleep. He was wrong. The book, an account of Bouton's life as a pro baseball pitcher was much too funny and interesting to lull him back to sleep. In hind-sight, he should have picked up "Great Expectations". Dickens always put him to sleep..
He lay in bed, happily reading. His own laughter hid the soft tapping on his front door, but the extremely loud pounding caused him to spring out of bed. Pete was half-way to the door, clad only in his boxers, when Mrs. O'Brian added her voice to the pounding.
"Hang on a minute", he yelled as he ran back to his bedroom and threw on a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt. Still, the pounding on the door continued. He opened it in time to catch, in mid swing, the shoe she was using to knock on the door.
"Whoa! Easy with the shoe! I don't need another lump on my head".
As he took the shoe out of her hand, she grabbed his other hand and pulled him out of the apartment. "Peter", you need to come now, someone hit your car!"
A year ago, tired of the lemon matador he had, Pete had purchased a restored, midnight blue mustang. It was identical to the one he used to own. The thought of damage to his beloved mustang did get him moving, ignoring the fact that he was barefoot. His head was filled with a stream of cuss words as he ran toward his car. Pete intented on giving the driver the same kind of dressing down that he usually reserved for rookies. The left front quarter-panel was dented hard enough to push the metal dangerously close to his tire.
All his fury dissipated in a second as the other driver turned to face him:
She was crying...
