Free Sins of the Fathers by James Scott Bell Page B

we’re always fighting against the machine. The government has all the resources, and they never get spanked. We have a job to do too.”
    “And so do the cops. And let me tell you, the majority of them are good, honest people. Hard as that may be for you to believe.”
    “They just don’t do enough to get rid of the bad ones, unless, by chance, somebody with a video camera catches one beating the heck out of some poor kid.”
    “Oh yeah, the video that doesn’t show what led up to the whole thing. And then the politicians get involved. Let’s throw this cop to the lions, give ’em some meat. A cop who was out there trying to protect everybody, and now he’s told doing his job means he’s a villain. Cops with wives and kids and families, putting it on the line every day out there. Get wise.”
    “So now I’m not wise?”
    “Very few of us are wise. That’s why I go to church.”
    “There’s stuff that goes on in churches that isn’t always so hot, either,” Lindy said.
    Roxy put her face in her hands.
    “Let’s see,” Kellman said. “Cops. Christians. Is there a group you don’t have problems with?”
    “Aerosmith.”
    4.

    This was not supposed to be the deal.
    God either didn’t care about her anymore, or he’d gone back on his promises for some reason. That reason could be good or bad. Mona knew the Bible said it had to be good no matter what, but how could going back on your word ever be good? Wasn’t that the first thing she’d learned in the schoolyard, to keep her promises? So why shouldn’t God have to keep his too? What was his secret?
    And why did God keep secrets? Especially when she was dying inside?
    As she moved through her childless house, loss continued to burn in Mona’s chest. Unyielding heat, relentless.
    She had tried several things in the last few days to douse the flames of bereavement, to silence the incessant voice that accused God. She had always believed God was love. Her parents had backed up what she’d learned in Sunday school.
    But Matthew’s death blasted that easy faith, leaving only a loveless crater behind.
    Activity had always been her deliverance. No one could ever accuse her of slacking off on anything, once she made up her mind to take action. She could take any activity and make it completely her own. By force of will, she could impose perfection on disorder, pattern on chaos. By making something perfect she could douse the flames, fill the emptiness. She could get back to life without God’s help. She didn’t need it.
    Mona began to cook. She would create a meal for Brad and herself that would make them both weep at the splendor of it.
    For a few short hours, while Brad was out running errands, she managed to keep the flames around her heart on a slow burn, lapping at her but not consuming. She did not listen to music, as she used to when at work in the kitchen. Nor did she turn on the little TV over the sink.
    She worked in silence, devoted to creating, to perfecting.
    Brad’s reaction to the presentation was initially, and predictably, delighted. Mona was a little annoyed at that, the fact that she knew what he’d do. His obviousness was grating. He was trying too hard now to be pleased by anything she did. His kid gloves were beginning to rub her raw.
    Still, she put on the smile she knew he expected. She set the table with the wedding china, which she had not done in years, not since that Christmas when Brad’s brother and his family came down from Redding, all six of them piled in a van. The silver was from the set she had indulged in after Matthew was born and the doctor said she could bear no more children. She could not make that part of her life perfect, so she would have to rely on distractions, like entertaining. But this sterling set in the redwood box had sat unused since, save for one formal dinner six years ago.
    This incongruity sometimes bewildered even Mona. Why didn’t the things she’d paid the most for ever satisfactorily serve