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Second Billing to Violet and Jesus by Vulgar Argot (tags at bottom to avoid
spoilerage)

After a few years on the force, you can start to tell how bad an
accident is going to be by the tone of the dispatcher's voice. To the
untrained ear, Kim sounded calm and professional, particularly over the
static and crackles of a police radio. But, there was a slightly different
tone or a momentary tremolo that betrays what she's heard, but chosen not
to relay on an open channel.

It's been a hellacious winter. The first snows came before Halloween
and seemed to never stop. There was a blizzard that started on December
twenty-third and lasted for four days. The inane weatherman on channel
eleven kept going on about a white Christmas. I don't know who the fuck
really wants a white Christmas besides weathermen. Even my son Steven was
sick of the snow. He's five years old and he already has better sense than
the morons on TV who play at being meteorologists.

If there's anybody on the planet who likes snow on Christmas less than a
New York state trooper, I don't know who they are. Even snowplow drivers
may be torn between wanting to be with their families and making a few
extra dollars to pay for the holiday. But, to a highway patrolman like
myself, snow on Christmas means more, messier accidents as people try to
get from place to place filled with holiday cheer.

This Christmas, at least, the snow had been a mixed blessing. By
Christmas day, there was two fee on the ground and more coming down.
Traffic slowed to a crawl. There seemed to be an unlimited number of
accidents, certainly more than there were cops to cover anyway, but they
were mostly at low speed and, for the first time since I'd joined the
force, no immediate fatalities.

The snows had stopped late on the twenty-sixth and not started again
until today, New Year's Eve. Whatever blessing we were given by a slow
Christmas dried up. The combination of cabin fever and a holiday whose
main focus was drinking without even a nod to miracles or family had meant
a day where the accidents started early and didn't let up.

It was ten minutes to seven p.m. when Kim called me on the radio, "Car
seven, there's a fender bender at exit seventeen, route forty-two. Officer
required on the scene. Ambulances have been dispatched."

I sighed before picking up the mike, "Car seven here. God damn it, Kim.
I'm already headed in. Let James handle it."

"Negative, car seven," said Kim, sounding mildly sympathetic. "Car nine
was dispatched to another accident en route. I've got nobody else."

"Shit," I muttered, not keying the mike. Then, to Kim, I said, "Roger
that."

En route, I called Noelle Harris, the neighbor's kid.

"Hello, Mike," she said when I identified myself. "Do you need me to
watch Stevie tonight?"

"If you could please, Noelle," I said wearily. "Mrs. Carter said she
can't stay past eight."

"Of course," Noelle said. "I don't have any plans."

I listened to her voice for some sign of reluctance or self-pity, but
could hear neither. Either they genuinely weren't there or I was losing my
touch. "Thank you, Noelle," I said. "If you get hungry..."

"I know," said Noelle. "I can help myself to whatever is in the
refrigerator. Is there anything in the refrigerator this time?"

"I have no idea," I admitted. "Oh, wait. Mrs. Carter said she was
bringing me a casserole. It should be in there. And Noelle," I added,
remembering why I'd dismissed the regular babysitter, "no boys."

Noelle laughed, "Don't worry, Mike. I don't really know any boys."

I immediately felt stupid for saying it. Noelle is one of the most
responsible people I know of any age. As of this week, she was sixteen
going on thirty-five.

When I got to the accident, I realized that Kim's voice hadn't begun to
express how bad it was. Somehow, the wires had gotten tangled because the
local police were already there. One was standing off the side of the road
throwing up his lunch. When he stood up, he looked young to me, barely
more than a teenager.

I was tempted to let them deal with it, but the highway is our
jurisdiction. If we let the locals do the dirty work, soon enough they
feel like they can do it all without us. Besides, the kid was completely
useless here and his partner had a ring on his finger--a wife and kids to
get home to. I sent them packing and they were grateful to go.

That's why I was standing just behind the treeline, far enough away from
the accident so as not to contaminate the scene, getting rid of my fifth or
sixth cup of coffee when the coroner finally pulled up at a quarter after
ten.

He smiled at me when I emerged from the woods. It was the sad, tired
smile I'd seen so many times before. Automatically, he said, "Happy
holidays, Officer Weirsbach."

I returned the smile. There are certain pleasantries that sound wrong
when said by or to cops. We say them anyway. When people say them to me,
it's too much work and too awkward to point this out, so I just smile.

He lifted the plastic tarp the local cops had put down out of decency.
His face didn't change when he looked at the mess underneath.

"Well," he said, "she's dead--blunt trauma and blood loss. Where's the
rest of her?"

"Still in the car," I answered, "as near as I can tell."

"Do you have a prelimary ID?" he asked.

I got my pad from the cruiser, reading off the details I'd gotten from
the locals, "Beth Cole, age seventeen. She's a local girl. Died at six
thirty p.m., give or take a half hour."

The coroner nodded, "I'll take over from here. Go notify the family,
Mike."

I nodded and got into my cruiser. I knew Beth's parents a little bit,
at least enough to recognize them on sight. There was a New Year's Eve
party going on at their house, more than a dozen cars parked haphazardly
around the snow drifts. I could hear the music from the street.

I didn't recognize the woman who answered the door and, by the startled
frown on her face, she didn't recognize me. Looking down at the beer in
her hand, she tried to hide it behind her back, an interesting response
since she was at least thirty-five years old. I guess that old habits just
don't die sometimes.

"I need to speak to Marilyn," I said quietly, "or...Jeff."

She turned back towards the living room, calling out, "Jeff, Marilyn. I
think we got a noise complaint."

The incorrect assumption didn't help. Once it was cleared up, it went
like any one of the dozen or so times I'd had to do this. I got the
parents out onto the front porch, deciding for them that they would
probably prefer cold and privacy to warmth and eavesdroppers. She shrieked
when I told them. He stared at me in blank denial. The sight of his wife
crying was enough to snap him out of it. He moved to comfort her. I could
see his resolve harden as he decided to be strong for her sake. That was
about as well as you can ever expect this sort of thing to go.

Jeff invited me inside for coffee. I declined. It was already eleven
o'clock and all I wanted to do was go home. I'm not a suspicious man, but
I have always kept the tradition of trying to do something at the beginning
of the year that you would like to be portentious of what you would be
doing for the remaining three hundred plus days. For the last three years,
I spent them looking in on Steven. The year before that, I spent drunk at
home while Steven was at Violet's mother's house. The year before that,
Steven had slept soundly enough that I was able to spend it making love to
Violet, one of the last few times I would do so.

I did not want to start the new year sharing coffee and awkward company
with a newly-dead girl's parents. The truth was that they really didn't
want me there long enough for coffee either. I didn't have enough
information to last a full cup anyway. I answered what questions I could.
Yes, she'd been with her boyfriend. He was still alive. He hadn't been
drinking. The other driver was dead and no toxicity tests had been taken.
I felt like a fraud even telling them that much. All I was doing was
parrotting what the local cops had told me. By all rights, they should be
here instead of me. It hadn't even been a highway accident exactly, but an
offramp one. There would probably be a jurisdictional complaint filed
against me for taking it out of their hands. The captain would commend me
if there was one. That wasn't why I did it, though. I couldn't say why I
did do it, but that wasn't it.

It was a local cop who came to tell me about Violet. He'd known
slightly less about her than I knew about Beth Cole. He hadn't even
realized I was a cop. She'd been sitting at a stoplight. The other car
had hit her from behind at high speed. They hadn't done a toxicity test on
either driver yet, since both were dead when the police arrived, but there
had been no skid marks. Later tests would reveal that the other car was
stolen and the driver loaded to the gills with angel dust.

Despite having done half a dozen of those visits from the other side, I
found myself playing out the script as written. First, I didn't believe
it. Then, I pled with the cop. She can't be dead. We have a baby. I
might have even invited him in for coffee. To this day, I can't remember
which local officer it was. I spent most of the conversation staring at
the patterns his cruiser's red and blue flashers made on the pristine snow
of our front yard. I must have dealt with him at least a hundred times
since then, but whoever he is, he's never mentioned it.

By the time I got home, I was so tired I could have fallen asleep in the
cruiser. Instead, I forced myself to climb out of the warm car, trudge up
the unshoveled walk, and let myself into the house. The year had thirty
minutes left. I was determined to be inside when it ended.

The snow was coming down in earnest now, threatening to turn into
another blizzard. There would be more accidents tonight, more fatalities.
But, I was done for the evening. Let James and car nine deal with it. I
just wanted to sleep.

I came in from the entry hall, my coat and boots left behind in the hall
closet and, for a second, I thought I saw Violet sleeping on the couch. It
wasn't her, of course. It was only Noelle. She was much too young to be
my wife, tan-skinned and blonde while Violet was pale of skin, dark of hair
and eye. Only with the light off and her features washed out by the
baleful cathode-ray glare of Dick Clark's New Year's Rocking Eve could
Noelle be mistaken for my Violet.

I turned on the lamp by the door, avoiding the overhead lights, but it
was enough to make her. When Noelle saw me, she got a striken look like
she'd been caught doing something wrong. It took me a few seconds to see
what she was alarmed about.

If you'd asked me before tonight whether Noelle was pretty, I would have
said after some hesitation that she had the potential to be. I hadn't seen
her since the summer. She'd been skinnier then, still clearly a kid,
dressed very modestly for the heat, her hair tied back so tightly it seemed
like she was punishing it for something.

Tonight, she was pretty and it was clear that she would one day be
beautiful. Her hair was down, framing her sleepy face in a golden halo.
More significantly, she was dressed like she should have been the last time
I'd seen her--in a thin, white halter top and denim skirt. That was a big
part of why I'd momentarily mistaken her for Violet. She was wearing my
dead wife's clothes.

I suppose that I could have been angry. I'd left Violet's clothes where
they were when she died. Eventually, I'd gotten around to washing the
clothes in her hamper, neatly folded them, hung them on hangers, and put
them away as if she'd be looking for them soon. They'd stayed there for
over three years. After a few months, I'd let the cleaning woman start
maintaining the room. But, I hadn't been in there myself for more than a
few seconds at a time since I put away Violet's clothes.

I wasn't angry, though. The room was not a shrine, nor Violet's clothes
the Shroud of Turin. I just didn't want to be in the room and wasn't ready
to give the clothes to Goodwill. They certainly looked better on Noelle
than they did on hangars.

As I stood, considering this, Noelle's eyes flickered to a water glass
on the table, then away again. I leaned down, picked it up, and sniffed.

"Vodka?" I asked.

She nodded, rising, "Mike, I'm so sorry. I..."

I put the glass back on the table and sank into my chair, "I didn't
think you drank."

Noelle sat back down, "I don't. I wanted to try it, but I didn't like
it very much. How do you drink that stuff?"

I chuckled, "With orange juice."

Noelle picked up the glass and smelled it, wrinkling her nose, "It
tastes like medicine."

"Try the Amaretto next time," I said. "It's much sweeter, easier to
handle."

She raised an eyebrow, "Mike, are you all right?"

"I'm just tired," I said. "It was a long night."

She made a pained face, "It must be hard. Were there any accidents?"

I nodded. I didn't want to talk about it, so I said, "How was your
birthday?"

Noelle rolled her eyes, "It was Christmas, like it is every year. I'll
always have second billing to Jesus."

I chuckled, "And how's school this year? I haven't seen you since the
summer."

Noelle curled her legs up underneath her, "It's the same as it was last
year, except that I'm not a freshman anymore. My parents love the school
of course. All they see is nuns and green grass and they think it's the
Sound of Music."

"It's not?" I asked.

She shook her head, "It could be, I guess. If you mind your own
business, it's very quiet, almost like we were nuns ourselves. Two of my
three roommates think they want to be nuns. But, there's another side to
L'Ecole Coppet des Jeunes Filles. I just try to ignore it as best I can."

I got up long enough to retrieve a beer, then returned to my chair, "Is
it something you need to talk about? Have you told your parents?"

Noelle shook her head, "I don't think so. Like I said, it doesn't seem
to effect anyone who doesn't want to take part in it. Besides, my parents
would just tell me I was making things up. They don't listen to me.
That's part of why I like coming over here to watch Stevie."

I took a sip of my beer, "Stevie gives you more credit than they do?"

She laughed, "Stevie thinks I'm a grown-up. Sixteen must seem awfully
old when you're five. Plus, you never talk to me like I'm a kid. I feel
like I could tell you anything."

I laughed, "It's only because I have no idea how to talk to kids without
being a cop. I don't want to be a cop when I come home."

Noelle ran a hand through her hair, "I know what you mean. I don't want
to be a student when I come home, either--or a kid. I don't know how I'm
going to take two and a half more years of Swiss nuns."

I nodded, "Would you rather be in public school?"

She nodded slowly, "I think so." Then, she told me a few third-hand
stories of what the local school was like, things she'd heard from girls
she'd been friends with in the eighth grade and spent some time with
whenever she came home--fights, romantic strife, pregnany, wild parties. I
didn't bother to tell her where the details had been blurred or exaggerated
from what the local cops said actually happened in some of the more
notorious details. She might be right and they wrong, after all.

"Mike, I'm sorry about Violet's clothes. I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," I said. "I keep meaning to give them to Goodwill.
She'd be glad they were getting some use."

"I see pictures of her all over the house," said Noelle. "She was very
beautiful. I just wanted to see what I would look like wearing the same
clothes. I don't have anything like these at home."

"They look good on you," I said. "You're becoming a lovely young
woman."

Noelle blushed. "I should get changed,"

"Definitely before you go," I said. "Your father would have a heart
attack if he saw you dressed like that. But, it's almost the New Year.
Watch the ball drop. I'm going to go look in on Steven."

I walked up the hall and opened to door to my son's room. He was sound
asleep in his bed, fist in his mouth, hair slicked against his forehead.
It was a minute to the new year. I spent the first half of that minute
just staring at him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then,
I became aware of Noelle's presence right behind me. I turned in profile
so that she could pass. She stepped into the room, crossing her arms under
her breasts as she watched him.

I watched her watching him. Violet's clothes fit Noelle like they'd
been bought for her. I didn't remember my wife as being so short or
petite. She'd always managed to carry herself like a taller woman, her
personality filling the room.

The last time I'd seen Violet wear that top and skirt together, we'd
been out on Block Island, spending the day walking from shop to shop, our
only real, grown up vacation, carefully saved for between our two salaries.
It had started raining suddenly, making the top dangerously translucent and
forcing us to sprint back to the cute, little bed and breakfast we'd spent
the week in. I'd peeled the top off of Violet, kissing rivulets of rain
off of her belly and between her breasts.

"Be careful," Violet had whispered. "The bed creaks and the walls are
paper thin."

I nodded, unzipping the skirt and peeling off her panties before I
lowered my mouth to her, teasing her with the tip of my tongue. Her eyes
widened in surprised and maybe alarm. As I remember, I was relentless that
afternoon, teasing her with tongue and fingers as the rain pattered against
the single window behind the curtains. By the time I took her, the rain
had cleared, the sun returning to bathe the bed in its late-afternoon
glory. Violet was laying on her belly, teeth buried in the pillow, fists
clenching the coverlet. Eventually, she forgot the neighbors and the
caretakers and everything but me inside of her. She cried out my name as
she came, gripping me inside of her.

It was that afternoon, as near as we could figure, that Steven had been
conceived. When I remember my wife, it is most often in that white halter
top, running from the rain.

Noelle took two steps back so that she was almost touching me, turning
her head, "He's a really good kid."

I put my hands on her arms. At the time, I thought nothing of the
gesture, but Noelle leaned lightly against me, the flesh of her back
against the front of my uniform.

"He sure is," I said. It was true. He'd been so young when Violet went
away, he hadn't understood at all what forever meant. He made friends
easily, trusting people far more easily than I was comfortable with. When
alone, he was serious and quiet.

Behind us, Dick Clark and a quarter of a million freezing people counted
off the remaining seconds of the year.

"Mike," said Noelle quietly, turning towards me as she spoke, "when the
year ends, you're supposed to kiss."

I smiled gently as the year ended. Leaning down, I made to kiss her on
the forehead, but she tilted her head back, lips parted and eyes closed and
wrapped her arms around the barrel of my chest. As I got closer, she went
up on tiptoe, drawing my mouth down to hers and tangling one hand in my
hair.

I didn't pull away, but let the kiss happen. Her little tongue probed
against my lips, so I let it into my mouth a little ways. One of my hands
rested on her hip, the other spread across her shoulderblades, flesh to
flesh.

When the kiss broke, Noelle said, "Mike, I can stay tonight. My parents
said I shouldn't try to walk home if the snow got too heavy."

I nodded, leaning down to kiss her briefly again, just enough to say
that the first kiss had been something more than tradition. Then, I stood
up straight and said, "You can sleep in Violet's room if you like."

She reached up behind my head, but I didn't yield to the light pressure
she exerted. "That's not what I meant, Mike."

I nodded, "I know, Noelle. I'm flattered, really."

She kissed the front of my uniform, "I'm not drunk."

I kissed the top of her head, "You're sixteen."

She laughed, "That's hardly my fault."

"I know," I said, releasing her.

"I won't always be sixteen," she said.

"I know," I said again. "But, for now, you're sixteen."

Back in the living room, we talked in quiet tones. Noelle told me that
she loved me, that she was in love with me and had been for as long as she
knew what the words meant. I told her that I hadn't thought about her that
way. I didn't bother to tell her that she was too young to love me or to
know what being in love was yet or that I was nearly twice her age. She
could do her own math and as for the rest, she would figure it out in time.
In the middle of trying to form a coherent sentence about her personal
philosophy, she fell asleep.

I stood, deeply weary myself, took the waterglass, still two-thirds full
of vodka, and drank it down before getting a blanket to cover her. After
she was tucked in, I stood looking at her, sleeping the sleep of the
innocent before I went to bed.

This morning, I'm lying in bed, the first sunrise of the new year
slanting into my window. Noelle is still asleep on the couch. I'll get
up, make her breakfast, send her home. She'll probably pine for a while,
go back to school, and eventually find someone more appropriate for
herself, get married, have a few kids of her own, forget about me. That's
fine. For now, I'll let her sleep.
Second Billing to Violet and Jesus by Vulgar Argot (MF, Mf, rom)

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