A white van roared down the street. Eric pushed himself against the remains of the phone, trying to disappear. A man in the passenger’s seat looked right at him. His eyes were small and cold, like a beetle’s. His mouth was straight and hard. Eric was glad they didn’t stop. He wouldn’t want to meet a man who looked like that.
Pieces of paper swirled in the wake of the van; its tail-lights flashed when it turned the corner a couple of blocks away. Eric rested his cheek against the phone booth’s cool metal. A minute later, a police cruiser with darkly tinted windows turned onto the street. He started to step out, to wave, then fear welled up, making him weak. Across the sidewalk, he saw a deep doorway to duck into, but there was no way to get there without being seen. He stayed in the kiosk and tried to act like he was busy, which felt ridiculous since the phone was broken. He opened the directory to the yellow pages and studied them. The car stopped at the curb, and the window rolled down.
A tired voice from inside said, “Sir, would you mind stepping next to the car?” Eric looked behind him. Nobody had ever called him “Sir” before.
“Me?” he said.
The voice deepened, became threatening. “Don’t make me get out.” Eric moved by the cruiser and bent so he could see in the window. What he noticed first was in the back seat, a stack of what he took to be heavy, black plastic tarps. Eric didn’t understand why tarps would have zippers on them though. Then he saw the officer’s revolver. His stomach gripped into a tight ball. The revolver rested on the seat, and the officer’s hand was on it. His mirrored sunglasses reflected a distorted picture. “Give me the stereo,” he said.
For a second Eric didn’t move. He didn’t know what the officer meant, then he unclipped the cassette player from his belt, disconnected the headphones and offered the player to the policeman. When he didn’t stir, Eric dropped it on the seat. It bounced once. Without moving his head, the officer’s hand floated from the gun and picked up the cassette player. He held it in front of his glasses, then floated it back to the seat. His movements were smooth and careful. Eric didn’t want to make him angry. The man made Eric think of a snake, a meticulous, cautious predator, ready to burst into motion any second.
“Now, the backpack,” he said.
Eric shucked the strap off his shoulder and placed it next to the cassette. The hand drifted from the gun, undid the straps and explored the contents. He lifted each item out and placed it carefully on the seat until the empty bag sagged beside him.
During the process, Eric thought about fidgeting, but he held himself still. He knew he should be frightened, but now he felt detached, almost meditative about what was happening, as if he were hovering above the sidewalk watching the scene unroll. Maybe the event was too surreal, like one of those weird paintings he’d seen in art books where mountains levitated in living rooms and watches melted over tree branches.
He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but it suddenly occurred to him that they wouldn’t be malicious eyes, not the eyes of a killer; they would be crazed eyes. Below the officer’s sunglasses, even in the tinted window shadows in the car, Eric saw deep, purple circles like twin bruises. The man’s face sagged from his cheekbones. His hair, brown streaked with gray, stuck out in uncombed angles from under his hat. Crumpled fast food sacks and crushed Styrofoam cups covered the floor of the cruiser. The car smelled strongly of old coffee and sweaty clothes. Eric knew—he didn’t know how— that the rigidity of the man’s posture, the unnaturally precise hand movements, masked exhaustion and madness. For the first time in his life, Eric felt like he understood something about someone else. He felt a connection to him, an empathy, as if for this instant they were sharing the same thoughts. The policeman must have been patrolling for days, maybe never getting out of the car, just driving and looking and upholding the law because he didn’t know what else to do. Eric felt very sorry for the policeman, though Eric knew he was a hair’s width away from being shot.
He wanted to say some kind thing to him, but he didn’t know how to start.
The officer said, his voice gravelly and no less threatening than before, “Looters don’t last in this town.”
“Yes, sir. I’m just looking for my dad,” said Eric.
The man started to replace Eric’s goods to his backpack. His hand shook slightly as he lifted a can of peaches.
“Let me help,” said Eric as he leaned into the car and reached for the can. The peaches dropped from the policeman’s hand, and in it he held the gun. He was very fast. Eric tried to swallow, couldn’t. The end of the barrel, only a foot from his face, looked a mile wide and infinitely deep. Trapped, his head in the car and off balance, Eric heard the policeman’s hard and heavy breath. The man said, “Do you know Gloria?” The gun didn’t waver.
Eric tried to answer, but he couldn’t force a word through his throat. He shook his head no. The gun sank to the backpack, and the officer gazed out the front window, turning away from Eric. His voice became distant and soft. “She’s about your age. At the hospital with her mom now. They got a touch of something,” the policeman said. He focused suddenly on Eric, and his voice became business-like. “I thought maybe you went to school with her.”
Cupped loosely around the pistol grip, the man’s hand fascinated Eric. He tried to speak again and squeaked out, “I go to Littleton High.”
“A Littleton Lion.” The policeman slid the gun onto his lap and stuck it between his legs so the barrel pointed down and the grip was still visible. “I was a Golden High Knight. Played football.” He licked his lips.
Eric let out a long breath silently and realized he hadn’t been breathing. “Uh huh,” he said.
“Thousand people buried in that football field now.” The policeman gripped the steering wheel. He was wearing a black glove on his left hand. “Don’t think the Knights will have a good season this year,” he said.
He plucked the radio microphone from the dash and held it to his lips. “Tanner, this is Buck. I’m on 12th and Jackson talking to a Littleton Lion. What you got?”
The radio crackled feebly.
He rested the microphone on his lap and continued to stare out the front window. “Gloria thinks she might be a cheerleader. She’s a little bony, but she can do the gymnastics. Eight years of lessons.” His chest expanded as he took a deep breath, and when he finally let it out, it shook. “Her mother’s real proud. Bought us shirts that say Gloria’s Mom and Gloria’s Dad.” He tried the radio again. In the quiet of the car, the steady hiss sounded baleful and lonely. “Nobody home,” said the policeman. “Burnt to the ground…” He paused and took another deep breath. “…just like the hospital. Forgot for a second.”