Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

“We have no way of knowing at this juncture. We can assume, however, that it is a distinct possibility.”

“I'm not surprised. So many of the children who flock to my table are runaways.” He shakes his head sadly. “Why do they choose to leave their homes? To flee loving parents?”

I figure maybe they just listened to Springsteen's “Born to Run.” You know: “We gotta get out while we're young, ‘cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”

“There are several reasons,” says Ceepak, who knows a thing or two about loving parents. His own father was a drunk who smacked his mother around and picked on his little brother. I'm guessing that, in his teens, young John Ceepak considered running away from home but decided to stick around to do his duty and protect his mom and kid brother. “Often times the teenage runaway….”

Reverend Trumble holds up his hand to silence Ceepak.

“You gentlemen are sworn to uphold the laws of man. I, however, answer to a higher authority. A God who commands that all children honor their fathers and mothers- no matter what. Exodus 20:12.”

Ceepak's back goes ramrod stiff. “‘And, ye fathers,’” he says, “‘provoke not your children to wrath.’ Ephesians 6:1–4.”

I'm impressed. Something that happens on a daily basis when you work with John Ceepak.

Trumble's hands reform the steeple below his nose, only this time the rafters are bent and wobbly because he's squeezing hard. I think he's used to having the last word.

“Is there a number where I might call you gentlemen should a girl answering this description return to our table?”

Ceepak pulls one of our cards out of his shirt pocket.

Reverend Trumble takes it, studies it.

“John Ceepak. Unusual name. Tell me, son-are you a Christian?”

“Call us if anyone matching her description shows up.”

“I certainly will.”

“We'd appreciate it. We suspect she may be stealing money and credit cards from vacationers.”

The Reverend sighs. Shakes his head. “Placing her soul in mortal jeopardy by defying the Eighth Commandment as well: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

Ceepak nods.

That one's part of his Code, too.

The clouds have parted and sunbeams pour down as Ceepak and I march out of the missionary's motel office.

“Now where?” I ask.

“We'll hit the house. Make a report. Advise all units to be on the lookout….”

A beat-up old Toyota crunches into the parking lot. It's Rita. I recognize her clunker.

“Hi, guys,” she says as she climbs out.

Ceepak, always the gentleman, holds the door for her. It's a good thing, too-it looks ready to fall off its hinges.

“What're you boys doing over here?” Rita asks. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the beach all day.”

“Duty called,” says Ceepak. It's good to see him smile again. I think the silver-haired and — tongued preacher man hit too close to home with that pious little lecture about obeying your father and mother. Depends on the father and mother, if you ask me. I can tell Ceepak wants to kiss Rita but he won't-not while he's in uniform, not while he's on the job.

“What happened?” Rita asks. “Nothing serious I hope.”

“Routine run. Possible 10–92.”

“That's a robbery, right?”

“Roger that.”

My god: Ceepak has his girlfriend memorizing police 10-codes. They are definitely getting serious.

“Male or female?” she asks.

“Female,” he answers. “We suspect she had breakfast here.”

“Poor kid,” says Rita.

That's Ceepak's lady in a nutshell. She's more worried about what drove a young girl to steal than what was stolen from somebody's beach bag. Rita hauls a pile of clothes out of the back seat of her car, clutches the bundle against her chest.

Ceepak springs into action. “Need a hand?”

“No, thanks. It's not heavy. I'm just dropping off some of T. J.'s old T-shirts and jeans. Stuff he's grown out of.”

Clever move. Clean out the kid's closet while he's on vacation up in the city. I think that's how I lost my baseball card collection.

“I thought maybe some of the boys here could use them.”

“They have boys?” I wonder aloud. Thus far, all I've seen here are upright and courteous young girls. From the look of things, Reverend Billy could be running a mission for reformed cheerleaders.

“Of course,” Rita laughs. “The food's free.”

“How long have you known Reverend Trumble?” Ceepak now asks.

Rita hesitates. “A long time.”

Ceepak doesn't push it-not in public.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't call me ma'am, John. Makes me sound old.”

“Roger.”

Her face warms. “Do you even know how to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Negative.”

She shakes her head. Laughs again. “I'll see you later.”

We watch her carry her bundle up to the second floor.

“She's a good lady,” says Ceepak as we head off. “An inspiration.”

“Yeah.”

With Ceepak and Rita, it's a case of likes, not opposites, attracting. If he's a goody-goody, she's a better-better. Last spring, she rescued this sea gull she found lying in the middle of Ocean Avenue. First, she had to dodge traffic to reach it. Then, she took it home, mended its broken wing, fed it with an eyedropper, and nursed it back to health. She even gave the gull a name: Jonathan Livingston-I forget why. In June, she set the bird free. She and T. J. and Ceepak went down to the beach and made sure the gimpy gull was able to swoop with its own kind. They took pictures.

“Rita does enough good for both of us,” Ceepak once told me.

The thing is, his own choices haven't always been easy ones. I've never asked him if he's killed anybody, but I've seen how he looks when other idiots do.

“Did you kill anybody over there in Iraq?”

They always whisper when they ask it.

“What's it feel like?”

Ceepak never answers. He usually just walks away.

We're in the car, driving toward headquarters, when the radio squawks.

“Unit Twelve, this is base.”

Ceepak snatches up the microphone.

“This is Twelve.”

“That you, Ceepak?”

“Yes, Sergeant Pender. Over.”

“Chief Baines said to bounce this one out to you, seeing how you're in the neighborhood.”

There's this long pause.

“Go ahead,” says Ceepak.

“Yeah. Sorry. Don't know what to call this one. Tempted to say it's a 10–37.”

That's a mental case.

“What's the situation?”

“You know that tiny museum up on Oyster Street?”

“The Howland House?”

“10-4. Woman just called, said she's the curator, sounded hysterical. Says some children found something ‘horrible’ but she wouldn't tell me what it was.”

“We are 10–17. Out.”

10-17 means we're en route.

Ceepak hangs up and does a three-finger hand chop toward the horizon. “Oyster and Bayside. The Howland House Whaling Museum.”

“Roger. Should I 10–39 it?”

Ceepak looks at me. Hey, I memorized all these 10-codes for the final exam at the academy. I figure I need to use them or I might lose them like I've lost everything I memorized back in high school: atomic weights, the metric system, who did what to whom in 1066. It's all gone.

“No need for lights or siren, Danny. Let's keep it 10–40.”

“10-4.”

He means keep it quiet.

I mean okay.

The Howland House is this two-story brick building that used to belong to a whaling ship captain named Jebediah Howland.

About fifty years ago, a bunch of ladies, the “Daughters of the Sea,” got together and raised enough cash to buy the place before it was torn down to make room for another miniature golf course. Now it's a museum nobody goes to.