Me & Death (19 page)

And then we all go to the police station.

CHAPTER 37

N
ot right away. First we hang around the backyard while the cops make phone calls and wait for orders. Then we go to the hospital, where a doctor checks out the burn marks on my bad arm. He asks if it hurts and I say yes. He asks why I’m smiling and I shrug. He writes something on a clipboard and goes next door to check on Lloyd, who is okay. Ten minutes later I’m in the back of a police car, on my way to 11 Division.

The police want statements from all of us. There’s a dead man and property damage and they want to know who to blame. They start with me.

I tell my story to a sergeant whose skin hangs on her face in folds, like drapes or something. She asks questions in a slow, flat monotone. What was I doing in the Snelgrove garage so late at night? Where did I get the carjacking tools? Why did Mr. Snelgrove attack me? Why am I so happy?

I tell her the truth. Not the whole truth, but a lot of it. I was walking, heard a noise, went to check on it, got attacked, tried to escape by driving away, lost control of the car and crashed. I may have touched the tools, I say, but the car was running when I got into it.

All right, that part is a lie.

She doesn’t believe me, but what she can do? I have never been arrested. She can’t prove anything except joyriding.

“Why are you smiling, Jim?” she asks again.

“Me? Smiling?”

She pushes skin away from her eyes so she can glare at me.

“You’re doing it right now. You like to laugh at cops, Jim? This is no laughing matter, you know. You’re in real trouble. You’ve broken the law and a man is dead. What is so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’m just a happy person.”

She sends me back to the tiny waiting room and its plastic chairs. I sit beside a tiny woman with eyes that dart around and with a voice like rustling paper. Lloyd’s mom. She’s here because they wanted a grown-up present when they questioned Lloyd. (They called my house, even sent a car over, but no one answered the phone or the door.)

Lloyd sits on the other side of his mom. The two of them are holding hands. They look like Christmas morning. I can’t imagine what it was like living in their house. Can’t imagine it.

I’ve already said sorry. I don’t know if he heard me. I try it again.

“Sorry for what?”

“For everything. You know. Everything. I’m … I’m a …”

“It’s okay.”

“
I
think you’re a brave boy,” says his mom.

“Thanks, Mrs. Snelgrove.”

A door slams somewhere in the building and they jump, fear on their faces as clear as a bloodstain. They catch themselves, laugh, and settle back into their chairs again.

The sergeant with the drooping face skin comes into the waiting room, along with the mom and daughter from the wrecked backyard. I get up, and the daughter comes over to take my hand in both of hers. She smells of soap and sunshine.

“So, are they going to arrest you, Jim?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Marcie. And I don’t care.”

She’s the reason I’m smiling. I’ve been smiling pretty constantly ever since I recognized her on the back porch and realized that it was her fence I’d crashed through, her water feature I’d smashed. She recognized me too, and we sat on lawn chairs while we were waiting for the cops, and I told her Lloyd’s story. In fact, I told her everything that had happened since Morgan dragged me away to make his grog. She cried and squeezed my hand. Her mom came over and said it was nice to see me again. Marcie wiped her eyes. The dog Scipio jumped up and licked my face.

There are statements for us to sign. A cop with a pot-belly and sniffles hands them out. The sergeant stands in the doorway, yawning and kneading her face.

They don’t want to let me go until they sort out what to do about Lloyd’s dad’s death. Apparently I could be charged with vehicular manslaughter, which sounds bad. When she hears this, Mrs. Snelgrove snorts. A loud noise for a tiny woman. “They should give you a medal,” she says. And everyone is real quiet.

Marcie’s mom volunteers to take me home and make sure I get back to the police station the next morning.

“You sure you want that responsibility, ma’am?” says the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“She’s a swing-shift manager,” says Marcie. “She’s used to responsibility.”

Lloyd and I shake hands on the way out. I’m sure I’ll do stupid things again, maybe even mean things, but not to him.

The sniffling cop sneezes three times into a tissue.

“Bless you,” says Lloyd.

So I ride home in the same blue Pontiac that ran over me. Marcie falls asleep in the front seat, next to her mom. I look out the window at the stars, and the streetlights, and the oncoming headlights, and wonder about everything.