elrhiarhodan

The Reunion – The Playground

The still winter-cold ground and the surprising warmth of the early spring morning met in a dense, swirling fog. It was late enough that all the school buses had picked up and delivered their precious cargo, but still too early for the day-to-day residential traffic. Still, Neal drove slowly along the wide, tree-lined streets, nostalgia and a concern for safety keeping him well below the speed limit.

There was his old elementary school, and he pulled over for a minute. The classrooms were lit and he could see small bodies at their desks. Much the same and yet not the same. Even from this distance he could see the computers and the smartboards and all the trappings of modern technology. A security guard – another new thing – approached. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be hanging around a school in a rental car.

“Everything okay, mister?”

He smiled. “Fine – I went to school here, many years ago. Just waxing nostalgic.” No need to lie.

The guard was polite but firm when he asked him to leave.

Neal pulled out and followed the road as it wound through the neighborhood. His old house, the one on Merry Lane was unrecognizable. Aunt Ellen had sold it when she retired for good, this time to Florida. Neal wondered who was living there now – if they were the ones who added a story and redid the landscaping, turning it into just another MacMansion on a street filled with oversized, overly ostentatious homes.

A right turn, a left at the third stop sign, then another left, and he was at his other home, the Burkes’ place. And like the Merry Lane house, new owners had added on, refaced, remodeled to the point of ridiculousness. Peter’s parents were long gone, too.

Neal sighed. Well, it’s not like you really wanted to go back, is it?

He drove aimlessly, melancholy chasing him from street to street and memory to memory, until he found himself at a familiar place. A ballpark and a playground. The fog lingered here, gathering in the hollows and open spaces, wrapping around jungle gyms and slides and swing sets. The park was quiet, eerily so, the fog muffling everything but the screams of drifting seagulls and the creak of chains. Neal brushed a finger against the damp metal. Another memory teased at his brain, swings and a boy…

“I though I’d find you here.” A voice – familiar, beloved, interrupted his recollection. He turned around. A man in a rumpled beige trench coat strode through the mist. Neal smiled.

“How did you?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Didn’t think you were going to make it.” Neal commented.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, you should have known that.”

“What did you do, tell the AUSA it was your thirtieth high school reunion? She get the trial postponed for you?”

“Nah, the Dutchman’s so-called lawyer rolled. He said that Hagen had given him orders to kill the book dealer, even gave him the means to do it. Provided dates and times and locations for the rest of the bond forgery plan. Apparently Hagen decided to cut a deal, too. He’s rolling on some bigger fish – the ones who commissioned the counterfeit Canadian hundreds. Trial’s over.”

“Nice.” Neal gave the swing a little push. “Pity though.”

“Why?”

“Would have liked to have had my testimony on record.”

“They’ll be other cases, there are always other cases.”

“Yeah, I know – but unlike White Collar, Art Crime rarely goes to trial. And the Bureau frowns upon active-duty agents testifying as experts in civilian matters.” He sighed, disappointed.

“You’re forty-six and head of the Art Crimes Division. I don’t think you need to worry about your resume.”

Neal had to grin, Peter was right. But then, he usually was, but he couldn’t resist tweaking Peter. “Better than mortgage fraud and bank scams any day.” They both chuckled. Neal added, “Saw Moz and El last night. Do you believe that their eldest is graduating high school next month??”

It was Peter’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me! And to think, El never wanted kids in the first place."

“Well, you know how persuasive Moz can be.”

“There’s obviously a reason why he calls himself a Machiavellian puppet master.”

“Wonder if they’ll ever get married.” Neal mused.

“If El wanted a ring on her finger, believe me, there’d be one there by now.” Peter spoke with the assurance of a old friend.

They walked around the playground. The slide was new – colorful plastic modules instead of aluminum polished by the passage of small, denim clad bottoms. The whirligig was gone – probably the victim of one too many lawsuits.

“I always liked this playground.” Peter commented. “Had a lot of fun here.”

Neal nodded in agreement. “It seems so much smaller, though. Memory plays tricks like that.”

They circled back to the swings. Neal gave into the urge and sat down. It wasn’t uncomfortably small, but a little too low to the ground. “I think I’m too tall for these. Too old, too.”

Peter, standing behind him, snorted in agreement, and then stopped.

“What’s the matter?”

“Just a memory.”

“A good one?”

“Yeah – I think.”

“You think?”

“I don’t know if it’s real, or something I imagined.” Peter looked off into the distance. “Must have been six years old. Was here – at the swings. Someone from school – I can’t remember his name – had pushed this little kid to the ground.”

Neal felt his heart race – this was the memory he’d been chasing before. “And you told him off – I think you threatened to tell everyone that he still wet the bed.”

“Yeah – that’s it!” Peter shook his head, incredulous. “That was you – that little kid was you?”

“I can’t believe it – that was you. How could I have forgotten that?” Neal tilted his head back, looking up at Peter. “That’s a little – ” Neal couldn’t think of the word.

“Scary?”

Neal tried to swing, but just ended up scuffing his shoe. “Hard to believe, but I guess we were always meant to be friends.”

“Friends, yeah.” Peter agreed, with a wry twist of his lips. He bent over and kissed Neal, kissed the wonder into him, kissed the lingering melancholy away. Thirty years on, Peter still kissed like a conqueror, and yet he kissed with the tenderness of a husband and lover. And friend. “Wanna push?”

“Sure, why not?” Neal stretched out his legs and leaned back. Peter’s hand gripped the chain above his. The last of the mist was burning off, and the early morning sun caught the gold of their matching wedding bands.

The sky was bright blue and the day promised to be spectacular.

FIN

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