Antiques Roadkill (8 page)

“Really?” I squinted at him; I was sure I would have remembered those puppy-brown eyes.

“Yes, about five years ago. Back when I was a state trooper.”

State trooper, five years ago …

Lawson’s small smile got bigger. “I stopped you one summer afternoon … along Highway 22?”

My eyes widened. Oh my God, was that
him?

Okay, here’s what happened …

… I was driving back from Chicago by myself, for Tina’s wedding, wearing a St. John’s navy and gold cotton knit cardigan and skirt, and a new Victoria’s Secret lace bra. All the way home, the bra was pinching and scratching, and I was getting crabbier and crabbier, until—by the time I hit the outskirts of town—I just couldn’t stand it one minute longer. Driving with my knees, I proceeded to remove the bra from under my top, rolled down the BMW’s window, and flung the offensive item out.

In immediate response, lights flashed behind me.

Pulling my arms back inside my top, continuing to steer with my knees and the occasional elbow, I managed to ease off the road. In the rearview mirror I saw a highway patrol car roll up behind me.

And wrapped around the patrol car’s antenna was my white lacy bra, flapping in the breeze like a flag of fancy surrender.

The tall trooper, in those patented highway patrol wraparound sunglasses, retrieved the undergarment, then handed it back to me with an expression that said,
Well, that’s one for the books.

I had swallowed and placed the bra on my seat. “I guess … I littered or something.”

“Or something,” he said. “Try to stay in that thing, in the future … while you’re driving, anyway.”

“… Okay.”

“Step out of the car, please?”

A few minutes later, after he’d put me through some very demeaning motions, he had smiled, wished me a pleasant day, put a finger to his cap in a small salute, and turned away … while I’d created a thousand baby wrinkles in my red-faced crinkly frown that shot impotent daggers at his cocky back.

I number that encounter among my more humiliating moments, so when my new policeman pal Brian brought it all back to me, I was chagrined and dumbfounded and … well, not speechless, of course.

“That was
you?”
I asked. “Behind those sunglasses?”

Brian nodded, grinning.

I could feel my cheeks burning—and not from embarrassment.

Fists on hips, I said, “You didn’t have to make me walk a line—right there by the highway, with all those cars going by, honking.”

He shrugged. “I thought you might be drunk, way you were weaving all over the road.”

“Well, I
wasn’t,”
I snapped. “And after
that,
you gave me a
Breathalyzer
test! Was
that
really necessary? You wouldn’t have done that to a truck driver!”

Another shrug. “I would have if he threw his bra out his window.”

I was gathering steam. “And then …
then!
… you wrote me out a friggin’
ticket!”

Brian’s smile faded. He went on the defensive. “Hey, you
were
driving recklessly, after all. ‘I was driving with my knees’ is not the best explanation I ever heard for reckless driving.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “So what was wrong
with giving me just a warning citation? Or did you have some quota to make?”

“Look, lady, I was just doing my job.”

Lady?

I smirked. “Oh, I bet I made some kind of story round the ol’ state trooper watercooler. Bet that bra size just got bigger and bigger every time you—”

He turned abruptly and went down the porch steps. A moment later the squad car door slammed in response.

Grumbling, I went inside the house.

Sushi was waiting for me, whimpering a little. I scooped her up and buried my face in her soft fur.
“You
love me, don’t you, girl—no matter what.”

Maybe I’d been bullheaded. Some things I can never let go. Considering the pickle Mother and I were in, we certainly didn’t need to make an enemy out of Officer Brian Lawson. He’d been kind to us tonight, cut us a heck of a break, and I’d gotten all witchy with him. With a “b.”

Sighing, I carted Sushi through the kitchen, to put her out back … but then saw that she’d already peed by the door. The whimper had been Sushi’s confession—every female in this house had confessed tonight.

Anyway, it wasn’t her fault; we’d been gone too long for a diabetic drinks-a-lot dog to hold it in.

I put her out, anyway, and wiped up the mess, as if this were the punishment for tonight’s crimes.

Of course, cleaning pet pee-pee on bare floors is easy, but what about carpet?

Here’s what you do:

Cover the spot with paper towels, and with your shoes on (I know a guy who did this in just his socks!) (don’t!) jump up and down on it—you can take your anger at your pet out, this way. Repeat the process until no more moisture appears on the towels. Then pour a pan of lukewarm not-too-sudsy water on the same spot, and do the paper
towel routine again. (P.S., keep
lots
of paper towels on hand. Particularly if
your
dog is diabetic, too.)

My legs ached as I trudged upstairs with Sushi. I could hear Mother snoring, and slipped into her bedroom to check on her. She was on top of the covers, still in her clothes. By all rights I should have woken her, confronted her, gotten to the bottom of all this.

But instead I got an extra blanket, drew it over her, then tiptoed back out. Just didn’t have the heart, and anyway, I was beyond beat myself.

I collapsed onto my own bed, also not bothering to get undressed, and pulled Sushi close to me, like a living hot water bottle.

Next thing I knew, Mother was shaking me.

“Brandy, Brandy, that policeman’s here again … wake up!”

I felt like a tranquilized animal coming around. “What … what
time
is it?”

“Almost nine. Get up!”

I groaned. “So early?”

But Mother was gone.

Anyway, once Sushi stirred, that was the end of sleeping, so I might as well get up.

I frowned to myself.
What was that dream I had?
It lingered, just out of reach, an almost memory taunting, a mood that held on, ambiguously.

And while we’re on the subject of dreams, remember this:
no one wants to hear your stupid dreams
(except maybe your psychiatrist, who is after all getting paid for the “privilege”). No one else can share your dream experience … so don’t bore people!

And, anyway, dreams are never as good as you think they are. Case in point: there was this guy I dated in high school who once told me about a dream he’d had. In it, he’d thought up the funniest joke in the world. At the beginning,
he told the joke to a class at school. His classmates laughed so hard, they encouraged him to share it. He went on local TV and told the joke, cracking up all within range. He went on a national tour with the joke, on television, finally performing it in stadiums. It was so funny, in fact, that every time he told it, a certain number of people literally died from laughing. He became famous, went on
Letterman,
opened for Chris Rock.

My slumbering boyfriend, sensing a fortune to be made, forced himself awake, stumbled over to his desk, and scribbled down the joke, then went back to bed, secure he would awake a potential entertainment giant.

And in the morning, he eagerly looked at the note, which said:
the banana is yellow.

And that boyfriend grew up to be Lewis Black. Not.

What annoys me most about dreams is this: with our entire imagination at our disposal, with the ability to make ourselves (in our dreams) gorgeous, rich, talented, young, loved, etc.—why do we dream such vile crap? Like falling to our death, having loved ones burn up in a house fire, being pushed out onstage in a play you’ve never rehearsed, taking a final exam in a class you’ve never been to, wandering around in public in the nude, or (the worst) shopping without any credit cards.…
Come on!
Who is in charge here?

I’ve been working on a system to combat nightmares. Before I turn in for the night, I give myself a good talking-to. Usually this happens in front of the bathroom mirror, where I waggle my finger, and say things like, “Now no bad dreams tonight … only
good
dreams.”

The first time I tried this, I snarled, “If you dream something bad, Brandy, I’m going to kick your freakin’ ass!” Only I didn’t say “freakin'.” Bottom line, my psyche didn’t like being spoken to like that, and I dreamed I fell down a well.

So, anyway, I dismissed my dream to slumber-limboland and hurriedly got out of bed, after which I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and ran a brush through my hair—there was a rat’s nest back there I hadn’t been able to comb out for days.

Then I straightened the clothes I’d been wearing since yesterday, dashed toward the stairs, and then … nonchalantly descended. Why should I hurry for Officer Brian Lawson, the man who had returned my bra only to humiliate me further?

And there Officer Lawson stood, in the middle of the sparse living room, his demeanor businesslike. Mother sat regally on the couch we’d gotten at Goodwill, hands folded prayerfully (maybe she was praying for a new couch). I sat beside her and slipped an arm around her.

“I don’t have a lot to tell you,” Lawson said, “except that a preliminary report from the county coroner could—and I emphasize the word ‘could'—clear you both.”

Mother and I exchanged hopeful glances.

Lawson continued: “It appears Carson was dead before either of you came along.”

With a gasp of relief, Mother turned to me. “Then you
didn’t
kill him, Brandy! You
didn’t
run him over before
I
ran him over.”

“Well …
no,
Mother.” Did she really think I’d do such a thing?

“Ladies,” Officer Lawson was saying, “I’d prefer you waited for your attorney—”

Mother ignored this and blurted, “But, Brandy, in the parking lot of the hotel, you said—”

Before my loving mother could tell the officer how I’d said I wanted to kill the deceased, I gave her shoulder a really
big
squeeze, and she said, “Oww!”

And I whispered, “Mother, that was just an expression. You know I didn’t mean it.”

Sometimes
—now
for example—Mother could be a tad exasperating. Not very—just enough to make you want to hurl yourself into the Grand Canyon. Or her.

Beaming, Mother patted my hand. “Well, that’s nice to hear, dear. I’m glad!”

I rolled my eyes and looked at Lawson. “Is there anything else you can tell us? How
did
the man die?”

Lawson rocked on his heels, thought for a moment about how much he should say, then shared the following: “We won’t know for sure until the tox report comes back, which could take a week or more.”

Behind her big lenses, Mother’s eyes blinked. “Tox?”

“Toxicology,” he said.

Mother sat up straight, as if poked by a cattle prod. “You think he died of a
drug
overdose?”

“Well …”

She smiled wickedly. “Or maybe the poor man was
poisoned?”

“I don’t think
anything,
Mrs. Borne,” Lawson replied firmly. “And I caution you about repeating any such notions.”

Mother put on her most angelic face and touched hand to bosom in genteel display. “Well, of course, Officer. Everyone knows how I
abhor
idle gossip.”

I thought it best to get off
that
subject, so I asked, “What about Mother’s driving charges?”

His eyebrows went up. “She’ll have to appear in court, of course … but we’ll let you know. In the meantime, may I suggest you both stay out of trouble? And do have a talk with your attorney.”

“Certainly,” Mother said. Then to me, sotto voce, “Such a nice young man.”

I gave her a glazed look, then got up off the couch and trailed Brian out onto the front porch in my bare feet,
where just a few hours ago I hadn’t behaved very well to him.

His expression was friendly, almost warm. “Listen, about your mother … this driving thing. I didn’t want to say this in front of her, but …”

“But what?”

“Technically, she could be facing jail time.”

“Jail time!”

“Wait. Considering her age, and, well, mental history, that’s extremely doubtful. Obviously it’s not my place to say, but my guess is … a suspended sentence.”

Relief flooded through me.

“Brian … can I call you Brian?”

“I wish you would.”

“And I’m Brandy. Brian, uh … when can we have our cars back?”

His expression turned businesslike again, and he gave me another “We’ll let you know.”

At least he didn’t slam his cop-car door, this time.

Inside I found Mother in the downstairs bathroom, slapping on lipstick and rouge.

“Where do you think
you’re
going?” I asked.

“Nowhere. In particular.”

She was sounding like Mr. Toad in
Wind in the Willows.

“Well, you look like you’re going somewhere. In particular.”

“Perhaps.”

“Muuuhther … we’ve been advised to lie low …”

She turned from the mirror and patted me on the head, as if I were still a child, or perhaps a puppy. “I’ll be back in a little while, Brandy.… You get some sleep, now—you look dreadfully tired.”

I groaned.

With no energy to stop her, I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.

In my dream, Mother was playing Sherlock Holmes in a play. Just another stupid dream …

… which, unfortunately, Mother was off making come true.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

If you start to collect something,
don’t tell anyone about it!
I know an otherwise perfectly sane woman who has a room filled with ceramic frogs, only about a third of which were her own doing. How would you like to inherit that?

W
hen I awoke, several hours later, I found Mother sitting on the edge of my bed wearing a cat-ate-the-canary smile.

I leaned up on an elbow. “Where have
you
been?”