What Were The Odds?
There are some memories of Christmases past that in vivid detail just seem to come to my mind; at least they come to mind with a little prodding. It was Christmas Eve in the year 1973. I was a rookie uniform police officer for a suburban St. Louis police department and I was working the evening shift.
It was the first Christmas Eve that I had not spent with my wife and two sons but, in the police business, holiday celebration schedules had to remain flexible. My wife Robin and I had explained to the kids that I had to work that night but Santa would surely come before morning arrived and they need not fear because brightly wrapped boxes with presents inside would find their way under the tinsel-adorned tree.
As one might expect, the volume of calls that night had been small. I was on a traffic stop and, as I explained the importance of stop signs to the woman with a backseat full of presents, I received a call from the dispatcher. “262, are you 10-8?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Respond to a report of a domestic disturbance and possible assault in progress.” “10-4.”
I asked the driver to please drive more carefully and told her that my present to her would be the absence of a traffic ticket.
“Have a Merry Christmas and be safe.”
“Thank you, officer and I hope you have a Merry Christmas too.”
I drove away with red lights flashing and siren blaring. I passed through stop signs and red traffic lights and couldn’t help wondering what was taking place inside that mobile home. “Dispatch, I’ll be 10-23.” It was cold that night but, as I exited the patrol car, my thoughts weren’t on the weather or taking even a moment to put my coat on. I walked toward the run-down looking trailer while my eyes moved from the open front door to either end of the mobile home. I was searching for any sign that I may be walking into a situation that might result in injury or death to me personally. Family disturbance calls were notorious for being the most dangerous types of calls for responding officers. Although spouses might be hurling lamps and shoes at one another, they sometimes stopped quarreling and found a common foe in the police officer.
The inside of the trailer was worse than the outside. I noticed that several pieces of furniture were overturned and the fragments of a broken lamp were scattered about. Two small children were seated on the end of a sofa. The young boy and girl looked frightened as they hugged one another.
“Hi kids,” I said, but neither answered.
The young woman said that she and her husband had been arguing when suddenly the screams and threats turned to blows from his fists and kicks from his boots. The woman’s face was bruised and a trickle of blood oozed from her nose. As the battered wife spoke, she made several attempts to rearrange her torn blouse.
I asked if the unseen husband was in the trailer.
“No, when he heard your siren, he took off. But, he always comes back.”
The young woman refused to prosecute the man.
“What good would it do? I would only get a worse beating. I can’t go on like this anymore.”
“Ma’am, do you have a place to go; somewhere that is safe?”
“No,” she answered. There were few options available to me, so I asked the lady if she and her children would go with me to the police station.
“Maybe we can figure something out, a way for you and your children to be safe.”
When the four of us got to the station, I asked the woman if she and her kids would wait in an office while I talked to some people. It was nearing shift change and the squad room was filled with officers getting ready to start their shift. I described the woman’s condition and reminded everyone that it was Christmas Eve. With little coaxing, I was able to accrue $160.
Returning to the woman, I told her that I had an idea, a place where she and her children could spend a night or two and it would be safe.
“That would be great,” she said.
We left the station and drove to a nearby Howard Johnson Motel and Restaurant. The motel was a mere two miles from the station and, as I recall, there were no words spoken during the trip.
As I slowed the car near the motel’s lobby entrance and even before the car was fully stopped, the woman finally broke her silence. “I don’t have any money.” “Don’t worry about that.” The woman began to sob as I exited the patrol car, but still the children did not utter a word.
The young man at the desk asked if something was wrong. I suppose that he associated the presence of a uniformed police officer with some sort of problem. “Well, sort of.”
I explained the situation to him and told him that I had raised $160.
“How long can the woman and her children stay here for that amount?”
“Wait just a minute,” the man replied as he turned and walked through a doorway and into a rear office.
Only a minute or two passed as I waited, occasionally glancing at the parked patrol car. Then the man emerged from the office.
“I talked to my manager and he said that the family can stay at the motel free of charge for a week or so. The manager also said that they can eat in the restaurant free of charge.”
I returned to the car and opened the door nearest to the woman. The reassuring arm of a mother was draped across the shoulders of both children and I recall very clearly a look of desperation in her eyes.
“Ma’am, the motel would like to invite you and the kids to stay here for a week or so. The offer includes meals and there will be no charge for anything.”
“Thank you officer; thank you so much.”
As I helped her from the car, I handed her a white envelope.
“Here, I hope this will help and have a Merry Christmas!”
I never again saw the lady. That night and the call to her home became just one of many such incidents that seemed to fall out of my memory. I left the police department after 15 years of seeing how cruelly people can treat one another. An offer from the telephone company tempted me, as did the much greater salary.
Christmas was once again approaching and it had been five years since my days with the department ended. A new restaurant opened a short distance from my home and after spending the better part of the day baking tree and snowman shaped Christmas cookies, Robin decided that we had to sample the cuisine there.
The restaurant was crowded and we speculated that others were also curious about the menu and food served there. I don’t recall what Robin ordered, but I seem to recall that I had meatloaf, or maybe it was fried chicken. I may be saying that because I often ordered one or the other.
As I recall, the service was fine, as was the food, and
after some time had passed, Robin and I were ready for the check. Our waitress was busy and, several times as she passed again, I asked for the bill. She acknowledged my request but the waiting began to seem too long and hungry patrons stood near the front door waiting to be seated.
A young man then approached our table.
“Hi, I’m the manager. Are you by any chance a police officer?”
That seemed a strange question at the time and I struggled to bring into my mind some recollection of the man but none would come.
“I was but I left the department some five years ago.”
The strangest smile came over the man’s face.
“There’s no way you could remember me but, about 20 years ago you came to my house.”
I’m sure I had a look on my face indicating that I still couldn’t recall the man.
“My father had beaten my mother and you got us a room and food at the Howard Johnson Motel.”
Then I began to recall the Christmas Eve call of a domestic disturbance. “Yeah, I seem to recall it now.”
“Well, I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”
I asked about his father, his mother and his sister.
“My sister, Elizabeth, is a nurse and, as I said, I’m the manager here. My name is John. My father was an alcoholic and he was found dead in a hotel room bed. That was about six months after you came to our home. My mother remarried and
the man was a kind, loving husband and father.” “And your mother?” “Well, she passed away three months ago.”
“My mother often remarked that if we had remained in that trailer that night, she was certain that my father would have returned. She said that she would not have allowed him to again beat her and one of them would have been killed.”
I didn’t speak a word as John told his story.
“Well, once again I want to thank you and your meals are
on me. Have a Merry Christmas.”
“You too, John, you too.” As we walked out of the crowded restaurant, Robin remarked, “That’s a miracle. What are the odds of seeing him again?”
I had to agree, “Yeah, what were the odds?”