“Yep. Sure am.”
“I’m sorry, but what was it you threw over in the trees?”
“A bird. That was a bird. A dead one.”
“Okay,” the officer says, peering over in that direction as if he could see a dead bird, which he can’t. “Where’d it come from?”
“It got caught behind the outside mirror of my car. I didn’t notice it till I opened the door. It was a grackle.”
“I see. What was it?” (Perhaps he thinks my story will change under interrogation.)
“Grackle,” I say, as if the word itself might induce a humorous response, but I’m wrong.
“You know, this is a wildlife sanctuary back here. There isn’t any hunting.”
“I didn’t hunt for it. I was just disposing of it before I drove in with it on my car mirror. I thought that’d be better. It’ll be okay over there.” I look where I’m referring.
“Where you driving from?” His young weak eyes twitch toward my blue-and-cream Jersey plates, then quickly back up at me so that if I claim I’ve just driven in from Oracle, Arizona, or International Falls, he’ll know to call for backup.
“I’m from down in Haddam, New Jersey.” I adopt a voice that says I’d be glad to help you in any way I can and would write a letter of commendation to your superiors complimenting you on your demeanor the moment I’m back at my desk.
“And what’s your name, sir?”
“Bascombe.” And I haven’t done a goddamn thing, I say silently, but toss one dead bird in the bushes to save everybody trouble (though of course I’ve lied about it). “Frank Bascombe.” Cool air surrounds me from my open car door.
“Okay, Mr. Bascombe. If I could just look at your driver’s license, I’ll get out of your way here.” The young rent-a-cop seems pleased, as if these words are the standard words and he positively loves saying them.
“Sure thing,” I say, and in a flash have my wallet out and license forked from its little slot below my realtor certification, my Red Man Club membership, my Maize and Blue Club alumni card.
“If you’d bring it over here and put it on the hood of my car,” he says, giving his shoulder mike an adjustment, “I’ll have a look at it while you stand back, then I’ll put it back and you can pick it up. Is that all right?”
“It’s just great. It seems a little elaborate. I could just hand it to you.”
I start in the direction of his Yugo, which has a springy little two-way antenna stuck onto its dumpy top. But he nervously says, “Don’t approach me, Mr. Bascombe. If you don’t want to show your license”—he’s eyeing his shoulder mike again—“I can get a Connecticut state trooper out here, and you can explain your case to him.” The blond boy’s amiable veneer has, in a heartbeat, disappeared to reveal sinister, police-protocol hardass, bent on construing obvious innocence as obvious guilt. I’m sure his real self is right now trying to figure out how Bascombe is spelled, since it’s obviously a Jewish name, remembering that New Jersey’s chock-full of Jews and spicks and darkies and towelheads and commies, all needing to be rounded up and reminded of a few things. I see his hands drifting somewhere below window level and around toward his backside, where he probably has his heat. (I have not provoked this. I merely am handing over my license.)
“I don’t really have a case,” I say, renewing my smile and stepping over to his Yugo and laying my license above the headlight. “I’m happy just to play by the rules.” I take a few steps back.
The young man waits till I’m ten steps away, then comes round his door and snakes up my license. I can see his idiotic gold name-plate above his blue shirt pocket. Erik. Besides his shirt and blue trousers, he’s wearing thick crepe-soled auxiliary-police footwear and a dopey little red ascot. I can also see that he’s older than he looks, which is twenty-two. Probably he’s thirty-five, has multiple applications in with all the local PDs and been turned down due to “irregularities” in his Rorschachs, even though from a distance he looks like the boy any parent would love and spare no expense in sending off to Dartmouth.
Erik steps around behind his open car door and gives my license thorough study, which includes looking up at me for a mug-shot match. I see now he has an almost colorless Hitler Youth mustache on his pale lip, and something tattooed on the back of his hand — a skull, maybe, or a snake coiled around a skull (no doubt a Body Artistry creation). He is also, I can just make out, wearing a tiny gold earring bead in his right lobe. An amusing little combo for Deep River.
He turns my license over, apparently to see if I’m an organ donor (I’m not), then he walks it back around, lays it on the Yugo’s hood and returns to his protective door. I still can’t tell if he’s packin’.
“There you go,” he says, with a remnant of his former warmth. I don’t know what he’s learned, since it wouldn’t say on my license if I was a serial killer. “We just have a lot of strangers drive in here, Mr. Bascombe. People who live in here really don’t like being harassed. Which is why we have a job, I guess.” He grins amiably. We’re friends now.
“I hate it myself,” I say, coming over and snugging my license back in my billfold. I wonder if Erik got a whiff of the dead-bird stink.
“You’d probably be surprised the number of wackos come off that I-Ninety-five and end up back in here, roaming around.”
“I believe it,” I say. “A hundred percent.” And then for some reason I am enervated, as if I’d been to jail for days and had just this very moment stepped out into harsh daylight.
“Particularly on your holidays,” says Erik the sociologist. “And especially this holiday. This one brings out the psychos from all over. New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania.” He shakes his head. Those are the states where most lunatics live if you’re him. “You old friends with Mr. O’Dell?” He smiles, protected by his door. “I like him a lot.”
“No,” I say, stepping back to my car, which has cold air still pouring out, making me feel even more enervated.
“You’re just business acquaintances, I guess,” he says. “You an architect?”
“No,” I say. “My ex-wife’s married to Mr. O’Dell, and I’m picking up my son to take him on a trip. Does that seem like a good idea?” I can easily imagine wanting to harm Erik.
“Wow, that sounds pretty serious.” He leers from behind his open blue door. He’s, of course, got me figured now: I’m a defeated, pathetic figure engaged in a demeaning and hopeless mission — not nearly as interesting as a wacko. Though even my kind can cause trouble, can have a trunkful of phosphorous grenades and plastique and be bent on neighborhood mayhem.
“It’s not that serious,” I say, pausing, looking at him. “It’s something I enjoy.”
“Is Paul your son?” Erik says. He brings his forefinger up to his earring, a small gesture of dominion.
“Yep. You know Paul?”
“Oh yeah,” Erik says, smirking. “We’re all acquainted with Paul.”
“All who? What does that mean?” I feel my brows thicken.
“We’ve all had contact with Paul.” Erik starts lowering himself back into his stupid Yugo.
“I’m sure he hasn’t caused you any trouble,” I say, thinking that he probably has, and will again. Erik is the kind of monkey Paul would consider a barrel of laughs.
Erik is speaking from the driver’s seat now; I can’t make his words out. No doubt he’s saying something smart-assed he doesn’t intend me to hear. Or else he’s radioing messages via his shoulder. He drops the Yugo in reverse, scoots back out the drive and wheels around.
I consider saying something vicious, running over and screaming in his window. But I can’t afford to get arrested in my ex-wife’s driveway. So I only wave, and he waves back. I think he says, “Have a good day,” in his policey, insincere way, before heading slowly up Swallow Lane out of my sight.