By Nils S
I rode in the back of a cop car, for the first time, the day after my 52nd birthday. It was an old Crown Vic, driven by a calm, soft spoken sergeant. He let me wear the hand cuffs in front of me. There was no A/C, so we made the 45 minute drive to jail with the windows down. I stared out at summertime Wisconsin for most of the trip, until I looked in his rear mirror.
“So,” I began. “You heard my wife’s story, then you heard mine. You saw the marks on my face. Why did you arrest me instead of her?”
The deputy blinked in the mirror. “You want to know the truth?” He looked back at the road. “You’re bigger than her.”
I looked outside again. Slowly, I pulled my gold wedding band off. Later, I would drop it into a nightstand next to my bed. It disappeared after a month.
I burned that nightstand, along with furniture I didn’t have time to give away. I made three pyres behind my house, six hours before the buyers walkthrough. They burned all night. There were three smoking ash piles when she showed up to take the house. I apologized without explanation.
Six months later, I stopped my ex-wife’s lawn mower in front of her porch. She was grilling Johnsonville bratwurst in one of those portable charcoal grills, and she handed me a cold Linenkugel. There were three empties next to her.
She drew on an American Spirit and looked at me with a squint, the way she always did when she was smoking.
“I’m sorry about calling the cops that day. I was scared. I didn’t think they would arrest you.”
“Do you remember punching me in the head?” I asked with a grin.
“No. I don’t.” She replied without grinning back.
I shrugged and looked at the mower. It smelled like fresh cut grass, and the motor ticked as it cooled.
“Did you find someone to take this?” I asked.
She puffed, then breathed, “a work friend will take it.”
An old F-150 chugged to a stop in front of a line of junk she didn’t have time to give away. The driver got out without making eye contact and picked through it.
“Thanks for helping me move,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”
I shrugged again.
We slept that night on an air mattress in her empty house. I woke with the summer sunrise. Her eyes were closed. I kissed her forehead for the last time, and looked about her living room before leaving. Then I looked at her. Her eyes were still closed.
I started my drive to Bellingham, Washington, and didn’t cry until I took the Samish exit five days later.
Years later, she told me she’d been awake when I left that morning.
I rode in the back of a cop car for the first time in 2015, and so far, I haven’t ridden in one since.
Red Badge Project’s Mission Statement
To support Wounded Warriors in the journey to reconstruct their individual sense of purpose, understanding of self-worth, and place in community, as they discover and give voice to their unique stories. Outcomes include:
Improved self-acceptance and personal efficacy
Participants discover greater self-acceptance and efficacy as they find their voice, and produce stories inspired by their life experiences.
Improved communication and writing skills
Participants understand the creative process and utilize a variety of tools to express themselves within and beyond the classroom.
Improved sense of community
Participants feel safe within and beyond the classroom through outreach to participants’ families, peers and the larger community.
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