The Cop and the Teacher

'What the hell?' was her immediate reply.

Twenty minutes later, I received, 'I can't find my lunch.'

'I'm retired after making 15,000 lunches.'

Two nights later, we were sitting together at our kitchen table eating dinner when Pat started to complain about the biggest behavioral problems in her new classes. I quietly picked up my plate and went outside to our picnic table.

"Where are you going?" Pat asked.

"I refuse to sit here and listen to you bitch and moan about the juvenile delinquents in your class. Find somebody who cares."

Things were certainly frosty at Castle Harrington, and I knew that I bore some of the blame. I think what irked me most is Pat had never offered any type of apology. It was her way, or the highway and I was simply tired of the bullshit.

I went on my October cruise and had a ball. I sent dozens of pictures a day to my family and friends through my rarely used social media accounts. I came back tanned and somewhat refreshed. Pat was continuing to do her thing; I did my thing, and we rarely discussed our lives.

It was the Wednesday after New Year's, when Pat gave me a call. "I was expecting dinner would be in the oven. Where are you?"

"I'm twenty minutes outside of Richmond. I'll be getting to my hotel shortly."

Pat sounded a bit panicked when she asked, "Richmond? Hotel? Where the hell are you?"

Smiling to myself, I answered, "I just told you exactly where I am."

Pat nearly screeched, "You will be home for dinner tomorrow night. End of discussion." She disconnected the call.

I talked to all three of my kids and told them I had driven to Florida and would be staying for several weeks. Emily was mad at me for "abandoning" her mother, but the boys understood.

Pat and I didn't talk for four days. She finally called because of an impending snowstorm. She wanted to know who to call to plow the driveway. Gradually we called more and by the end of January, we were talking daily.

My marriage ended two weeks later, on February 13^th, the day before Valentine's Day.

I woke up in the middle of the night and was concentrating deeply. It wasn't unusual. During my years as a detective, I'd wake up and information about a case had been sorting itself out in my brain as I slept. It didn't happen often. Sometimes it was once or twice a year. Other years it was double that amount.

"Mother fucker," I said out loud. I got out of bed and powered up my laptop. It took a while, but I eventually found the email from two days earlier. It was in my trash folder and had been sent by my insurance company. The email listed two different twelve number reimbursement codes, each identifying something that my insurance covered. I hadn't been to the doctor in the previous few months, so I knew the insurance coverage was for Pat.

I'm not a savant. I don't know the fifty thousand (plus) twelve-digit codes that insurance companies use to identify coverage. However, a decade earlier, my homicide division was investigating a murder. Circumstantial evidence led us to believe a husband had killed his wife, but we didn't have enough evidence for an arrest. A few months into the investigation that was quickly leading to a dead end, one of my top guys handed me a letter from the couple's insurance company. It listed two payments against the policy. When my detective looked a little deeper, he found that the wife had contracted gonorrhea and had been provided medicine to cure the infection. The codes represented the diagnosis and the prescription.

That night I was almost positive that the numbers from my insurance company were the same. It took two calls the next morning to confirm my guess.

'What are my options?' That's the first question I always ask. The list of options was narrowed to those that were best for me. A plan formed and itemized lists were created to make sure the plan was a success. I hired Jerry Woods, a retired cop who ran a successful private detective agency and gave him instructions. I retained a divorce lawyer, and we agreed that filing under irreconcilable differences would speed up my divorce. He was going to wait until Jerry completed his investigation.

It wasn't until the middle of April before I had all the information I needed. I waited a few days: until the next Wednesday morning. Pat and I had gotten into the habit of texting important topics for that night's phone call.

Ten minutes before the start of Pat's class, I texted, 'I need to talk to you about your recent bout of gonorrhea.'

When I turned my phone back on at 11:00AM, I wasn't surprised at the number of voicemails and texts. Pat didn't leave me any information other than to beg me to call at 11:35, her lunch break.

At 11:30, I texted, 'We don't need to talk. Assuming you don't want to be embarrassed by being served divorce papers in public, please call Attorney Anthony Wallen and arrange to pick up the divorce papers at his office.'

Later that day, I received an embarrassing phone call. "Mr. Harrington, I'm Doctor William Butler from the State of Connecticut Department of Health. Your name has come up, as we've traced the sexual partners of a person with gonorrhea. We need you to have a STD panel run and report the results back to us."

"I went to the doctor's yesterday. I asked that the results be sent to the appropriate agencies."

"What are your symptoms?" The doctor wanted to know.

"I don't have symptoms and haven't fucked my slut wife in almost a year. I'm clean and just wanted to be sure."

I called each of my kids that afternoon and told them about the upcoming divorce. I told the complete truth. We cried. We laughed. Most importantly, we loved.

I had made two incredibly difficult, but important decisions over the last several months. I recognized that I had loved Pat and the family we built and would do everything in my power to keep as much peace as possible. Even tougher, was my decision not to cripple Steve Mitchel. As an ex-cop, I had many people who owed me favors. The downside of these types is, they can't be trusted to stay quiet. I decided that living an upper middle-class lifestyle for the rest of my life and being able to look at myself in the mirror each morning, was a life worth living.

During the first week of June, my attorney called. He told me that Pat was fighting the divorce tooth and nail. Although I had predicted and planned for it, I was still disappointed. After being lied to and cheated on for over a year, I couldn't imagine what was in Pat's delusional mind that would think I would pick reconciliation.

"A judge has ordered ten counseling sessions," my lawyer explained.

"What are my options?" I asked.

My guy chuckled before admitting, "If you were a dumb-ass, I'd tell you to keep paying me a ton of money to fight things. Unfortunately, you're not stupid. I'd go with plan B."

"Yeah," I sighed. "That's what I figured. Here's what I want. Send her attorney a list of three qualified counselors. Have them pick one and schedule the ten sessions starting the second week of August."

"You got it," he told me. "They'll be pissed that you are waiting so long, but if they file a complaint with the judge, he won't rule on it until mid-July. We should be good-to-go."

I flew to Connecticut in July and as planned, I picked up my grandson Regan and we headed to Cape Cod for the week. My two sons, daughter and daughter-in-law joined us the following week and we all had a ball. Evenings, after Regan was in bed, we had discussions about the divorce and their mother. Even Emily was siding with me, after the totality of my grievances against Pat were revealed. The kids did warn me that Pat was going to continue fighting the divorce. I simply smiled and told them, "I'm going to be fair...even generous with your mother, but it's not going to go as she thinks."

Dr. Allison Jackson's office was on the second floor of a modern three-story office building. I took the stairs and waited in the stairwell, until two minutes before our 2:00pm session. Juvenile perhaps, but I didn't want to see Pat. I knew the first session would be confrontational. I wasn't looking forward to dredging up emotions that I'd been trying to put behind me.

After checking in with the receptionist and being told, "the doctor will be with you soon," I took a seat in the small waiting room. Pat was sitting across from me.

"The least you could have done was invite me to Cape Cod, so our entire family could be together."

"Actually," I answered, "the least I could do was not invite you, which is exactly what I did. The least."

As I talked, I quickly scanned the waiting room and noticed three cameras along the ceiling. I guessed that Dr. Jackson watched and listened to the interaction between her clients before inviting them into her inner office. I suspected that she could feel the tension already building and would invite us in shortly. I started a silent countdown from ten. Dr. Jackson opened her office door at eight.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, I'm Allison Jackson. Please come in."

I'd estimate the doctor was in her mid-40's. She had a very pretty face and was overweight. Her blouse and skirt were nicely tailored and in the 'business casual' dress range. We were led to a corner of her office with three chairs surrounding a small coffee table. The diplomas on her wall matched the bio I had read. Tufts, Harvard and Stamford. She was a smart chick.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, please call me Allison. May I call you Chris and Pat?"

"Thank you and yes," answered Pat.

"Okay. Great. I want to start ..."

I interrupted Allison, and said, "I'm not going to be ..." I paused and then rephrased what I needed to say, "I'm going to try very hard not to be combative. Pat doesn't speak for me. She doesn't today and as far as I'm concerned, never will again. Please let me answer for myself." I finished with, "You may call me Chris."

Steam was coming from Pat's ears and as she was about to explode, Allison held her hand out to stop her.

"We are off to a bad start and it's entirely my fault. I was presumptuous and I'm sorry."

I nodded, and said, "Apology accepted."

"Thank you. All right. We will be meeting today for a two-hour session and then weekly for one hour, as ordered by the court. My plan is for us to have a deep discussion about your marriage, the reasons for its breakdown and if the marriage can be saved, which is my hope." Allison looked at each of us and asked, "Does that sound reasonable?"

Pat was already nodding her head in agreement. "Chris?" Allison asked.

"While I appreciate your 'hope' that we can continue our marriage, that's not what I hope for or want. I want a divorce. That's why I filed and that's all I will accept."

Allison opened a file that had been resting on her lap, scanned it quickly and asked me, "So after nearly thirty-four years of marriage, you are able to turn-off your love, like flipping a light switch?"

"That's a nice visual, Allison, and I'm sure you have used it with success, but in my case, no ... my love for Pat didn't end in an instant. It's taken over a year filled with lying, cheating, affairs and an infected vagina for me to fall out of love with Pat. Did you know that I haven't seen Pat for over eight months and haven't communicated in any form for over six months?"

I couldn't tell as I glanced at Pat if she was angry, sad or something else.

"Do you have any interest in discovering what went wrong with your relationship and based on that answer, have the option of reconciliation?" Allison queried.

"I've been thinking about what went wrong for almost a year. Although Pat and I won't agree, I'm comfortable with the conclusion I've drawn, and based on that conclusion along with Pat's affair and total lack of respect toward me and our marriage, reconciliation isn't possible."

I knew the next question and growled in frustration, when I heard it. "What do you think went wrong?" Allison wanted to know.

Knowing that words wouldn't adequately get my point across, I asked, "Give me thirty seconds," as I pulled a pad of paper from the knapsack I brought with me and took a moment to scribble some notes. Once I finished, I tore the top sheet from the pad, folded it and handed it to Allison.

"Am I a liar?" I asked Pat.

"You are one of the most honest people I know."

"Thank you." I was pleased with her answer. "I promise the question I'm going to ask isn't a trick." After Pat nodded, I asked, "What am I?"

Pat's eyes squinted and she answered, "You're a policeman."

Nodding, I continued, "And you are?"

"I'm a teacher," she immediately responded.

Allison was staring at the paper and was starting to understand, "The career I choose was law enforcement. Most think I did an exceptional job, but the job has never defined me. I'm not a cop. I'm a husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend." I took a second, before continuing, "You, on the other hand, are a teacher."

Pat didn't get it and her frustration was starting to show. "You're just playing word games."

"Think of the ten non-family members closest to me. How many are cops?" I waited a moment and answered for Pat, "Two. Mike and Joey. Right?"

After Pat nodded her agreement, I asked, "And you? How many are educators?"

Pat's frustration was growing, "We're getting off point. All I wanted was to teach for an extra year and help the students, teachers and administrators in the only school I've known, get back on track."

"I don't mean to be crass, but you also wanted to fuck your boss. Let's not forget that."

Allison jumped into the conversation, as it was going sideways quickly. "Language. Please!" She scolded me.

"If you hadn't left for Florida, I wouldn't have needed Steve's support."

"Please don't start lying now." Over the voices of the two women, I said, "You were diagnosed with gonorrhea two days after I left for Florida." That shut both women up. "That's right. It took nearly five weeks for the insurance 'notice of benefits" to be emailed to me, but you were receiving a shot of penicillin in the ass about the time I crossed the Florida line."

"All I wanted was one more year of teaching!" Pat yelled.

"Then why did you sign a second one-year contract at the end of this school year?" My private detective had done a thorough job.

Pat froze and before she could think of an answer, I asked, "And why are you running for the Board of Education in Stonington in the next election? The answer is easy. It's because you are an educator, and you can't give it up. I want to take my grandson fishing. I want to go on cruises. I want to explore Europe. I want to visit my sisters in Nashville and Charleston. We want different things."

I turned my attention to Allison. "I want you to know, I won't be coming back to any more sessions." My announcement shocked both women. I continued, "If Pat doesn't sign the divorce papers in the next ten days, I will refile for divorce in Florida. I've lived in that state for over six months and changed my residency. Divorce in Florida is my plan B. I won't let Pat, you or the Connecticut court system slow my freedom from this liar and cheat."

'You can't..." Pat was crying, as I stood, shook Alison's hand and left the office.

After agreeing to two thousand dollars a month in alimony for five years and paying for Pat's health insurance until she reached sixty-five and could receive Medicare benefits, Pat signed the divorce papers, and our marriage was officially dissolved six months later.

+++++++

I was sitting outside Mercedes Coffee Shop in Miami, sipping my morning expresso, when 'the colorful lady" walked by. I called her that because each outfit she wore was filled with many bright vibrant colors. She was 5'6", with a slim athletic build. Her skin was mocha, and she had dark hair and eyes. Besides her colorful fashion, this girl had attitude, and showed it with every step.

This morning, I laughed as she passed.

She stopped and slowly turned toward me. With her hands on her hips, she asked, "Are you laughing at me?"

Her question made me laugh a bit more, but I was shaking my head. "I'm laughing at me," I explained. I'd seen the woman several times over the last few weeks, and we had nodded and traded "good mornings" several times.

I explained, "Each time I see you, I wonder what I'd look like in an outfit with the same colors you have in yours."

She looked from my head to toe, before declaring, "You'd look absolutely ridiculous."

I laughed again and told her, "I couldn't agree more."

"I, on the other hand, look simply..."

She looked at me, waiting for me to fill in the blank. "Delicious," was my answer.

"Senor, I would advise you to never let my father or brothers hear you talk that way to me," was her stern warning. Before I could apologize, she giggled and admitted, "I am delicious, but the men in my family don't want to hear such things."

Gathering a bit of courage, I told her, "My name is Christopher Harrington. I'm a retired police officer from the northeast, but am spending my winters in Florida. I'm hoping you'll meet me across the street," I pointed toward Walter's Steakhouse, "and have dinner with me tonight."

"Absolutely not, Senor Harrington. I only go out to dinner with gentlemen willing to pick me up at my home and escort me to the restaurant," she told me with a crooked grin.

"In my defense, Senora, I wasn't sure if you would give your home address to a stranger at a coffee shop."

Her grin turned into a smile, and she held out her hand. "Your phone, please."

After handing over my phone and after telling her my password, she looked at the screen saver of my grandson Regan and I on the beach. "Your grandson looks nothing like you," she observed.

"He's blessed to have my daughters-in-law's good looks."

She laughed, as she punched information into my phone. "My name is Catalina Giselle Fernandez-Garcia, but you may call me Cat. What do I call you?"

The easy answer was to tell her, Chris, but at the last second, I said, "My grandson calls me Pops and it's caught on with my kids. I kind of like it."

Cat took a step closer, held out her hand and caressed my cheek. "Pops. Yes! I like it too." Handing my phone back to me, she asked, "Seven tonight?"

Cat and I had dinner together once or twice a week and slowly got to know each other. She is a retired pediatrician and volunteers three days a week at a clinic for under-privileged children. She discovered that in addition to daily early-morning workouts at a local gym and fishing until noon with a neighbor, I also volunteered and do taxes and answered basic financial questions for retirees at three area senior centers.

I shared with Cat about my family and divorce. She told me that she was unable to have children and that her two husbands had cheated on her.

Cat helped me appreciate Cuban food and music, and after several lessons, I could cook an outstanding native meal and dance like an Irishman trying hard to fit into my new community.

We were first intimate during our third week of dating. It was after dinner, and we had been kissing on her couch. After taking my hand and leading me to the bedroom, I took charge. I was afraid if she was aggressive and touched me, I'd immediately explode and ruin our first time together. I'd never been so horny.

After slowly undressing her, I had her lay on the bed, face down. Starting at her neck, I took my time and kissed and licked my way down her back. Her ass was small, rock hard from a lifetime of exercise and soft, at the same time. After giving her right butt cheek a bite, I said, "I was right. You're delicious."

Ten minutes later, I had turned Cat on her back and was nibbling, kissing and licking her legs and moving toward a bare and very wet pussy. Cat's aroma filled the bedroom.