You Are Here(32)

“What happened to the guy who tore into the rest stop?” she asked, propping her feet up on the dashboard and reaching over her shoulder to hand the dog a potato chip. “You were a maniac yesterday. Now I’ll bet we get pulled over for going too slow.”

Peter raised his foot with the intention of hitting the gas, but then saw yet another police car—this one tucked in the entrance of a fast-food restaurant just off the highway—and instead jammed down on the brake, causing the car to balk and both him and Emma to lurch forward in their seats. Behind them a truck driver leaned hard on his horn before swinging into the left lane and blowing past them in a haze of exhaust.

As they crawled past the dust-coated police car—a Maryland state trooper whose head was tipped back against the seat as he slept, his mouth propped open so that he looked a bit like a baby bird—Peter breathed out and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. It was nearly impossible to stop his heart from pounding each time they passed one, not necessarily because he was speeding or driving any more erratically than usual, or even because one of the taillights was cracked and refused to light up—though that last was also true. Mostly it was because Peter had started to see the face of his dad behind every shadowy windshield of every single emergency vehicle they passed.

Peter knew it wouldn’t have been terribly hard for him to put out some kind of alert, the kind of thing that would come over every crackling radio in every worn-down cop car from upstate New York straight down to the very tip of Florida, a warning to every fellow man in uniform that the son of a sheriff had stolen an impounded car and was now fleeing to who-knew-where. Peter guessed it wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort for his dad to call in a few favors, have someone fetch the blue convertible and reel them back home like a couple of squirmy fish on a hook.

But even so, a part of him wasn’t surprised they’d gotten this far. That would have been like being surprised that Emma’s parents were still calling every hour. It was simply their nature. Just as this—this long, stubborn silence—was Dad’s.

Peter remembered the first time he’d ever gotten beat up, sucker punched (not for the last time) by a bully of a kid named James McWalter as they walked home from school in third grade. Dad must have been patrolling the neighborhood in his squad car, because even as Peter staggered to his feet—a hand cupped over his eye, blinking back tears as he felt the side of his face begin to throb—Dad had the kid by the shoulders, steering him calmly over to the car, where he must have given him a good scare, because after a moment James grabbed his backpack, mumbled an apology, and darted off in the direction of his house, white-faced and trembling.

Afterward, Dad had taken Peter by the shoulder in a similar manner, half shoving him toward the squad car. His left eye was twitching, and his thumb was pressed hard against the back of Peter’s neck, as if Peter had done something wrong. When they got home, Dad pulled a bag of peas from the freezer and jerked his chin toward the couch, all without a word.

Later, while Peter stood on his tiptoes in the bathroom, examining the pink-tinged bruise that had bloomed below his eye, Dad appeared in the doorway.

“You were holding your books with both hands.”

Peter stared at him, not quite sure how to respond.

“If these kids are gonna keep bothering you, make sure to put your books in your backpack,” he said. “Keep your hands ready and your eyes open. Don’t be such an easy target. You have to be able to take care of yourself.”

Peter nodded feebly. It wasn’t until later that he realized this meant Dad must have seen him before he was punched, before his books went tumbling to the ground. Which meant he hadn’t come to the rescue just in time. He’d seen what was happening and had chosen to wait.

And so when Peter finally did spot a flashing red light in the rearview mirror—accompanied by a whirring siren so loud it made him feel sure the whole interstate was in on it, hitchhikers and semi trucks and roadkill alike—it didn’t come as much of a surprise. In fact it was almost a relief. And even as Emma began to speak fast—outlining such a litany of possible excuses and explanations that even Peter had the presence of mind to be impressed—he was still half thinking it would be easier to simply stick out his arms and wait for the officer to clap on the handcuffs, bringing this whole mismanaged expedition to a fitting end.

By the time he pulled the car onto the shoulder of the highway, he was feeling like he might very well throw up. The top was up, and suddenly the inside felt crowded and close, with Emma looking amused and the dog’s tail thumping steadily against the back of his seat, making everything seem too small and impossibly stuffy. Peter sat frozen, staring straight ahead at a pink billboard for a nightclub, and so he failed to notice the policeman stepping up to the car.

“Put down the window,” Emma said, looking at him with alarm when the cop knocked on the glass and Peter still didn’t make a move. He was so focused on imagining what his dad might do to him once he was returned home that he didn’t even flinch.

There was a second knock, this time a bit louder.

“Put. Down. The. Window.” Emma’s face was very close to his now, and Peter blinked at her, a bit stunned by the proximity.

“Jeez, Peter,” she said, once it was clear that he wasn’t in the state of mind to follow even the simplest of instructions. She launched herself across him, straining against her seat belt, and rolled the window down herself.