The Middletown Myth

At Home

I was the child who wrote those words “I Love Daddy” on the car’s rear window. While Tommy was driving my father to the hospital, I was at home watching the Bugs Bunny and Road Runner Comedy Hour and eating a bowl of Cheerios in my Spiderman pajamas. I was eight years old and waiting for my dad to get home, so he could fall asleep in his chair pretending to watch the cartoons with me. My father, like most cops, had to work two jobs to make ends meet. He would sleep in his chair for about two hours until time to go to his other job. Even though he was snoring, I always looked forward to those two hours. Dad drove a beer truck and made deliveries for about seven hours a day.

My name is also Baird Davis. I wondered why dad was late. I knew occasionally he didn’t make it home at the usual time, but he always urged me not to worry. He was probably doing his reports. Yet as time elapsed, my eight-year-old imagination got the best of me.

I peeped through the front door for signs of Dad several times to finally catch sight of a police car arriving.

“Dad got another ride home!” I called to my older brother, Mike. “The car must be broke again.”

An officer emerged from the car alone and approached our home. A mix of fear and confusion settled over me as I opened the door. Looking into his bloodshot eyes, I saw his gloomy expression as he removed his hat.

“Is my daddy dead?”

I don’t know why I asked that question.  I can only assume it was because of the portrayal of such scenes on television. When an officer was at the door and removed his hat, it was because someone was dead.

“No son, but he’s hurt pretty bad.” I began to weep as he was speaking.  As I think of that now, I wonder how a po­lice officer could say something like that to a child.

“Daddy’s Hurt!” I screamed for my mom, who was still sleeping. I darted into my room, slamming my face into the pillow on my bed. I wrapped the pillow around my head so I could only hear the muffled sound of my Mom crying. She ordered my older sister, Leanne, to watch after us boys until she returned. Soon after, Mom had dressed and disap­peared with the officer.

Visions of car chases and shoot-outs with bad guys float-ed through my overwhelmed imagination. How had Dad been hurt? If only I could awake from this nightmare and find my Dad sleeping in his chair. Dad was my hero. He couldn’t be hurt. Yet I wouldn’t awake from this terror any time soon. This was the day bad guys ceased being fictional characters on TV and in comic books. They were real, and they had struck my own family.