Not Today, But Someday(6)

“Come on!” I yell loudly as I approach two cars going the same speed as one another, spreading across both lanes of the highway. I just want to get the hell out of Basking Ridge, on to an open road. Looking for a way past them, I glance to my left, wondering if it’s safe to cross the double striped line to pass these idiots. I don’t see any cars, and push my Ferrari to its limits as I steer into the empty lanes of oncoming traffic to get past the slower vehicles. One of the cars honks as I blow past it. I wave in response, cranking up the volume to the radio as I move my hand back to downshift.

I hear the siren before I see the police car. Fuck. I could outrun him, I’m sure, but being the son of Donna Wilson makes me pretty recognizable in this county. That, and I’ve already pulled over twice in my car that’s not even two months old yet. And there aren’t a whole lot of Ferrari convertibles around here. With everything working against me, I waste no time pulling over to the shoulder. The passengers of one of the cars I’d passed laugh at me out of the window. I fight the urge to flip them off with the officer parking his squad car behind me.

The wind whips harshly against my skin after I roll down the window. Denying myself the cigarette I need, I steady my breathing, trying to figure out a story to tell the cop.

“Step out of the car, sir.” The officer is still ten feet from my convertible when he yells this at me. This isn’t good. I turn off the engine and pocket my keys in my leather jacket.

“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask him, not realizing how cliché the question sounds until it’s too late.

“You joking with me, son?” he asks, not at all humored by me. His accent is strange. His voice has Jersey nuances, but some words sound elongated, as if spoken with a southern drawl. His pace is slower than that of most local cops, and I notice he’s wearing black cowboy boots.

“No, sir.”

“License and registration,” he says as he encroaches on my personal space. I’d back up if I wasn’t already leaning against my car. As soon as I touch my wallet, I feel a tiny sliver of hope. My motions obvious, I search my wallet for the identification forms he requested. “You’re not trying to bribe me, kid, are you?” he asks quickly, seeing all the bills folded beneath the money clip.

“What? No,” I answer, my hope immediately dashed as I tuck the billfold back into my pocket.

“Didn’t think so. Stay here,” he says in a commanding tone as he returns to his squad car. I wonder how many laws I broke. Speeding. Crossing the solid line. If he finds my cigarettes, I’m sure he’ll find a way to tack that on. They’re sitting on the passenger seat. Panicked, I take one step toward my door before the cop jumps out of his own car, yelling at me to stop. When I turn around, he’s got his hand on his gun.

I raise my hands up, scared out of my mind. “I was just–” I stutter.

“You’re Nathaniel Wilson?” he calls out to me, taking his hand off his gun and walking toward me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Son of Charles and Donna Wilson?”

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering what info they have in that database. Do they know about my parents? My dad? “Yeah.”

“Charles Wilson, who died after driving his car into a tree?”

My nostrils flare. How the f*ck does he know that? “Yeah,” I say softly. He’s returned to my car, once again standing a mere foot away from me. He’s a few inches shorter, but that doesn’t make him any less intimidating.

“You remember what your daddy looked like in the casket that day, kid?”

“No, sir. It was a closed casket service–”

“Damn right it was. Know why?”

“Because my mom didn’t want to remember him that way,” I tell him, suddenly feeling ten years old again, feeling every ounce of loss that I felt that day.

“That may be what she told you to protect you, son, but I was the first officer on the scene that night. To this date, it’s one of the worst accidents I’ve seen and I will never forget what he looked like when we found him. You’re old enough to know that your dad didn’t make it out of that car in one piece. Those Jaws of Life retrieved pieces of a dead man, Nathaniel.”

I stop breathing briefly before the urge to throw up strikes me. I’ve had nothing to eat all day, so I dry heave, finally falling to my knees in weakness, spitting out saliva and bile. When my stomach finally stops convulsing, I pant, trying to get air back into my lungs. I feel a hand on my back, but I don’t look at the policeman. “Why would you tell me something like that?” I mumble to him angrily.

“Stand up,” he says, now patting me on the back three times. I push against the concrete, forcing myself into an upright position, but I still feel light-headed and empty. I glare at the officer, waiting for him to answer me. “My records tell me that this is the third time you’ve been stopped for a traffic violation in a little over a month. Is that correct, Nathaniel?”

“It’s Nate,” I tell him, “and yeah.”

“This time, I got you for speeding, crossing into oncoming traffic, rolling that stop sign back there, and... do I smell smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“My records also say that you got off with warnings both of those other times, is that correct?”

“It is.” Both of the other cops had asked to see my car up close. One even got in the drivers seat and checked out the instrumentation panel.