The Cop and the Teacher

Authors Note:

Thank you Harddaysknight for identifying nonessential fluff that didn't add to the story and some holes in the plot.

Thank you blackrandl1958 for suggestions on a "live a good life" ending. Your editing skills make this a more enjoyable read. And finally, I'm honored to be included alongside many of my favorite LW authors in your

"Lie to Me" story event

.

*

"Honey, we need to talk."

It had been another day in paradise. I had rolled out of bed shortly before sunrise. After dressing, I grabbed my three surf-

casting rods and gear, a large thermos of coffee and walked less than one hundred yards down a rocky path to the seashore.

I returned home three hours later with two flounder for our evening dinner. I had to release four striped bass, as they were smaller than the legal limit. That was a bit disappointing, as a legal-size stripper produced enough meat for three months of fish 'Taco Tuesdays'. Oh well. I'd have another chance tomorrow morning and the day after and the day after. It isn't hard being retired.

The mid-July day had been mostly sunny, and the breeze coming in from the Atlantic Ocean, just northeast of Long Island Sound had kept the temperature in the 80's. I spent my entire day outside, shirtless and wearing shorts, tending my newly cultivated vegetable gardens, flower beds and landscaping.

Three years ago, my wife Pat and I had bought our little piece of heaven for our retirement. The house was barely inhabitable, and the property was a jungle. We had hired trade professionals to do the heavy lifting, but Pat and I weren't rich. I worked inside the house from November to April, doing hundreds of small projects with the help of YouTube. During the spring, summer and early fall, I was outside, bare chested, working in the yard. For someone who spent much of his career behind a desk, I was incredibly proud of the thousands of hours of work I put into the house and yard.

We had grilled stuffed flounder and pared it with cucumber and tomato salad and flash-fried zucchini, all from the garden. I didn't think retirement could get any better, and unfortunately, I was right.

I had started Vince Flynn's newest novel about super patriot and CIA legend Mitch Rapp, a few days earlier. Flynn had tragically died several years earlier, and the book franchise had been taken over by Kyle Mills. Initially, I was going to let Mitch Rapp die along with his creator, but the pull of so many great stories brought me back. I'd become a Kyle Mills fan.

I heard the patio door slide open and knew that Pat would be joining me, but I didn't let her presence interrupt my reading until I felt her hovering over me. Looking up, Pat was holding out a crystal glass filled with two fingers of bourbon. I put the book on the table to my side, took the offered glass and took a sniff. I'm not a big drinker. One local craft beer a night is my usual limit. I save my Knob Creek nine-year-old bourbon for nights I sit on the patio and watch the water and stars. The Knob Creek twelve-year-old single barrel bourbon? Well, that's for special occasions. Like the birth of a healthy grandchild. Pat had poured the good stuff.

When I noticed Pat was also holding a glass of tequila, I knew we were about to have a "Honey, we need to talk," talk. She had something serious on her mind and I smiled to myself, thinking about all the problems we'd solved over bourbon and tequila over the previous three decades.

After Pat took her seat, we silently clinked glasses and took small sips of our drink. Pat looked out over the water, and I knew she was putting her thoughts together. Pat was a math teacher and had retired after thirty-seven and a half years (the minimum for a full pension) just a month earlier and at the end of the most recent school year.

As a young teacher, the only teaching jobs available at the time were inner-city postings. Pat was hired as a high school math teacher in New Haven, CT. Her original goal was to teach for a few years and after getting the needed experience, transfer to a suburban school district. However, she found her calling was teaching under-privileged kids. Nothing made Pat prouder than having a handful of students each year catch the "math bug."

As a great teacher, and I believe Pat was, you must be quick on your feet. Standing in front of your classroom, teachers don't get the chance to properly think through all the problems that are thrown their way. They react and do it fast. Pat had a quick and mostly sarcastic wit, but she excelled when she could think through a problem. She had been an invaluable partner and gave me sage advice during my forty years as a cop. I was happy to watch the few remaining boats head toward their marinas as Pat gathered her thoughts.

What surprised me most as Pat started talking was she didn't look me in the eye. She continued to watch the water. "While I was out shopping yesterday, I stopped by Wilbur Cross and talked with Steve."

Wilbur Cross High School is where Pat taught her entire career. Steve Mitchel was the latest principal.

"I remember telling you a few months ago, because of Covid as well as the teacher shortage in math and science, the Governor signed an emergency law allowing newly retired teachers to collect their pension and teach at full salary for up to two additional school years."

Pat took a quick glance in my direction. She knew what she was going to see and sighed. I was back in cop mode. I was silent. My face lacked emotion. I was barely breathing.

"I've decided that I'm too young to retire. I have too much experience and energy, and I am going to spend another year teaching. I signed a contract yesterday."

Another quick look in my direction and all Pat saw was a statue.

"I know we are planning a cruise this fall and I know we planned to go to Florida and get away from the awful New England winters... and we will. Just not this year. I feel I have an obligation to the younger teachers who need an experienced mentor and the students who've been crippled by the handling of Covid ..."

+++++++++

The Beginning

I'm Chris Harrington and I had an abnormally normal childhood. I grew up in an upper-middle class household and town, between Hartford and New Haven Connecticut. My Dad died in a drunk driving accident when I was eleven and my sisters were nine and eight. Dad was an attorney for one of the giant insurance companies headquartered in Harford. His responsibility included working with the life insurance division, and as a result had several life insurance policies. Between the double indemnity clause for accidental death and the settlement with the drunk's insurance company, Mom was left in control of a nice bundle of cash.

Mom was also a career professional. She was an actuary for a rival insurance company, also headquartered in Hartford. Mom was very good at her job, made a nice salary and by the time I was in high school, was one of the 10,000 or so insurance company vice presidents who lived in the greater Hartford area.

Mom was strict, because as a single parent she had to be. She was loving and kind, as it was her nature.

I did well in school and was a solid A minus student in college prep classes. I excelled in math and was inclined to study accounting in college. I was also a decent athlete and was on the varsity football, basketball and baseball teams in my junior and senior years. I wasn't a star, but started as an outside linebacker in football. A tough fullback from a conference rival described me as a 'tough hittin' cocksucker.' I considered it a compliment. In basketball, I was the first guy off the bench and the team's three-point shooting specialist. On the nights I was hot, I got a ton of playing time. Baseball was my favorite sport. I hit for a high batting average but lacked power and was versatile on defense, playing every position in the field between my two years with the varsity squad.

I also did all right with the girls. I was a virgin when I graduated high school but had enough fun. For instance, I knew a good blow job from an average one. I also knew that eating bald pussy was much better than licking a hairy twat, but any pussy was worth the effort. I didn't keep notches on my bed post. Instead, I kept a secret ledger in a notebook. What else would an accounting wanna-be do? I had had one hundred and fourteen blowjobs from twelve girls, and I ate all their pussies to orgasm almost every time.

I had several flaws, but the one that would have the most impact on my life was I never put up with bullshit. I wasn't stubborn or pig-headed. I simply didn't take crap from anyone. I turned my back on adults and girls and fought guys my age. This trait didn't show itself often, but those closest to me knew it slept just below the surface.

My life changed in an unexpected way, halfway through my senior year of high school. My Mom, sisters and I had just finished up dinner. It was my night to clean the kitchen, but my mom looked at my sisters and said, "I need to talk with Chris. I'd like you to clean up tonight." After the expected and good-natured bitching and moaning, my sisters got to work and I followed Mom into the family room, where we had a little privacy.

Mom didn't beat around the bush and asked, "How serious are you about becoming a police officer?"

Becoming a cop had been a life-long dream. My plan was to attend the University of Connecticut (where I had already been accepted), major in accounting and after, become a cop. I know, accounting and law enforcement is a weird combination, but many federal agencies, including the FBI have a high demand for CPAs.

I answered, "Four years is a long way off, but my plans haven't changed."

Mom just stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. I could tell she was getting emotional, as her eyes were brimming with tears. "But why the police?" she wanted to know.

I thought about her question for a bit, and then told her, "I've had this feeling for most of my life, that I was born to be a cop."

At that point, the tears flowed down Mom's cheek. I'll admit I was confused as hell, until she told me, "I had lunch with Chief Malloy this afternoon and he told me about an opportunity you might be interested in. I think he's right." Mom looked at her watch and then told me, "He's expecting us in five minutes."

Michael Malloy was a neighbor and had been a mentor to me since middle school. He was also a Colonel in the Connecticut State Police. Under the umbrella of the State Police were several smaller police units, including the Capital Police, Airport Police, University Police and Medical Center Police. Colonel/Chief Malloy oversaw the thirty-two officer University of Connecticut Medical Center, UCONN Medical School and John Dempsey Hospital police force. Also on the UCONN hospital campus, was the State Forensic Laboratory, the Medical Examiner's/Coroner's facility, along with several smaller State Labs.

With my mom and me sitting with Chief and Mrs. Malloy around their kitchen table, I was told about a staffing problem that the Medical Center Police were going through that might benefit me. The Chief had full-time weekend openings on his force. The weekend shifts being offered were from 6PM on Fridays until 6AM on Monday.

The Chief explained the upside for me. Each weekend, I'd be on the campus for sixty hours. I would be paid for a full-time thirty-six-hour week, plus twelve hours of overtime. I was allowed three scheduled six-hour sleep periods. Like all State Troopers, I would be assigned a personal patrol vehicle that I could use between shifts if I stayed within the State of Connecticut. Although I would have to put off college for one year in order to get through the Police Academy and a six-month probationary period, I could attend the University of Connecticut as a full-time student the following year. As a State employee, I would be reimbursed ninety percent of tuition costs for every A-range grade and sixty percent for every B grade at any State college or university.

The second half of my high school senior year was tough. Between classes, baseball and time sensitive tasks needed for admission to the Academy, I worked my ass off. I graduated from high school with honors and ten days later was a recruit, standing in formation at the State of Connecticut Police Academy in Meriden, Connecticut.

Chief Malloy's plan couldn't have worked out better for me. Six years later, at age twenty-four, I was a police sergeant with a master's degree in accounting.

I transferred to the Hartford barracks of the State Police and became a patrol sergeant. Two years later, after helping the detective bureau work their way through financial material on several occasions, I was promoted to the Detective Squad. I was awarded my gold shield as Detective First Class, one year later.

I didn't date girls while I was in school. Between school and work, I didn't have time for the commitment. I did go out on Thursday nights. It was my night to unwind. It was amazing the number of college girls that were willing to bend over for a cop. Men's room blowjobs and back seat fucks were common. I wasn't a man slut. Hell, maybe I was.

I met Patricia Jean O'Conner a year after finishing school. We were introduced at a backyard BBQ and hit it off almost immediately. Sex... make that great sex, started after our third date. We were inseparable from the start and exclusive after a month.

Pat was three years younger than I was and was a first-year teacher in New Haven. Like me, she and her brother were raised by a single mom, after her dad died of a heart attack. Her mom was also a teacher and was able to raise her family in a middle-class environment.

My mom and Pat's mom, Susan, met after we'd been dating for a few months and almost instantly bonded and became close friends.

I proposed to Pat after six months of dating. A July 1987 wedding was planned, while Pat would be on summer break. All was going smoothly until I was bushwhacked by my fiancée and two meddling mothers.

I was invited to Susan's home on a Wednesday night, and after a nice seafood dinner Pat said, "Honey, we need to talk." Our mothers nodded in agreement. Over the next forty-five minutes, I was given a lecture about the difficulties of financially splitting a household in the event of death (like our fathers) or divorce. Pat's mom had been to an attorney and had a prenuptial agreement prepared and the three women were adamant that it needed to be signed.

Bottom line, the agreement stipulated that finances were to be kept separate. We would each pay for our own monthly purchases like cars, credit cards and clothes. The cost of dinners out, food, mortgage, utilities and the like, would be split evenly, as would the cost of raising our children.

After reading the two-page document twice, my mom asked, "What do you think?"

"Do you want the truth?" I asked.

"Of course," my mother offered as three heads all nodded at me.

I sighed and told them, "This is about the stupidest thing I've ever read."

Perhaps I could have been a bit more diplomatic, but I was angry that they had made so many plans, without my input at the start.

My mom indignantly asked, "Are you calling me stupid?"

Shaking the pages at her, I said, "I'm calling this agreement stupid and grossly unfair."

All three women were jibber-jabbering over each other, when Pat said loudly, "Do you think I'd be unfair to you?"

Trying to lower the temperature in the room, I said quietly, "I never said it was unfair to me."

"Then who is it unfair to?" Susan asked.

I really wanted to pull my hair out. "It's a two-person agreement. If it's not unfair to me, does anyone want to venture a guess who gets the short end of the stick?" I asked.

Susan reacted as if I had physically slapped her, and my mom called out, "Your sarcasm is inappropriate and uncalled for."

And then I got to listen to three angry women rage at me, all at the same time.

"Would you be kind enough to explain how this agreement is unfair to Patricia?" my mom finally asked.

"It's simple," I told them. "Traditionally, law enforcement has been a male dominated career, while teaching has been a female career. Over the course of the two careers, a cop will make two to three times as much as a teacher."

"That's not true," my mom jumped in. "I've read research that indicates police and teachers essentially make the same over the course of their lifetimes," Mom ended with a triumphant smile.

"Oh God!" I buried my face in my hands and said, "More stupidity," and immediately wondered if I'd said it out loud.

I had. Oh Lord. The yelling. The screeching. The temperature was rising quickly, and I'd given up on being the nice guy.

The tidal wave of "nasty" from the three red faced woman went on and on. It really didn't matter. As a cop, I'd had hours of vile things said to me. It made me sad that I was getting such a dose from people I loved.

Finally, after losing steam, Susan asked, "Would you be kind enough to explain why you believe we are wrong?"

Smiling, and with an answer dripping of sarcasm, I said, "Of course. Thank you for asking so nicely."

I could hear their eyeballs rolling.

"My base salary is currently twenty-three percent higher than Pat's." I held up my hand when they all started to talk. "I know that I've worked six years longer than Pat. The top pay scale for a New Haven teacher is currently eighty-six thousand dollars after thirty-two years. The top union scale for a State Trooper is one hundred and thirteen thousand."

I looked around the table before continuing, "Between class time and work at home, Pat works fifty-five to sixty hours a week. Remind me. How much do they pay you for overtime? That's right. Nada. Nothing. Zip. I work the same number of hours and am paid time-and-a-half after thirty-six hours. I'm paid double-time-and-a-half on holidays. There is overtime available anytime I want it.

"Teachers get a pension equal to sixty percent of their salary after thirty-seven and a half years. A cop's pension equals seventy percent of their salary after twenty years. Cops are eligible for social security payments at age sixty-five. Teachers are not eligible for social security. Teachers have self-funded 402B retirement programs. Cops get a fifty percent match from the union up to six percent of their salary on their 402B accounts.

"I've got a state car. Pat pays for her car. Pat will be paying..." I wracked my brain for a moment. "Pat will be paying $313 a month for her undergraduate student loans for the next sixteen years, and she is required to complete a master's degree, at her own expense within the next six years. The State paid almost all my undergraduate and graduate degrees, and they are currently paying for my CPA licensing tests."

As I continued with a few more examples, all three women crossed their arms over their chests. It was the universal sign—I'm no longer listening. And so, I stopped talking.

I couldn't believe what was said next. I wanted to pound nails into my eyes the words were so stupid. My sweetheart. My love. She got a shit-eating grin on her face. Her eyes lit up in triumph as she told me, "Yeah! But I get my summers off." All three nodded as the sisterhood was once again united.

Oh! Fuck! Me!

As I grabbed the two-page contract, I looked at my mother and asked, "Can you host us for dinner on Friday? I'll bring Chinese and beverages."

"Sure. Is there any reason we can't meet at your house?" Mom asked.

"There is," I told her looking directly into her eyes. "If you piss me off on Friday, like you have tonight, it's easier for me to walk out than to toss you all out my front door."