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Z put his walkie-talkie away and returned his attention to us. “Do you realize,” he said, handing the license back to me, “that your blinker is still blinking? And has been for the last several miles?”
“I know, officer,” I said. “I’m sorry. My brother and I will get it fixed as soon as we get home.”
“Where’s home, dear?” Z said.
“New York.”
Josh closed his eyes and slowly began shaking his head.
“There will be no driving to New York in this automobile,” he said. “That would be a considerable hazard.”
I turned toward Josh, who I was sure by this point was having visions of us wandering down the highway, calling Berringer and waiting the three hours and change for him to come and get us.
Which was when it occurred to me that this would only ever happen today—this nonsense with Officer Z, being pulled over for this blinker crap—that the universe only delivered up moments like this in the one moment when what you needed was the exact opposite.
“Oh, I’m sorry, officer,” I said. “Did I say New York? I meant the next exit. Home is the next exit. See, I’m in graduate school near here at the University of Rhode Island. I’m not driving to New York right now. No, sir. I just meant that we’re not going to get the blinker good and properly fixed until we get home. But we’re staying in Rhode Island tonight. We’re staying in Rhode Island for the whole week, in fact. I promise. We’re off at the next exit.”
Z looked skeptical, but slowly he handed me back my papers. “I’m going to have to escort you to there, I’m afraid. Just to make sure that no one’s feeling inclined to take any chances.”
“That would be good, Officer,” I said. “More than good. Great.”
Z started to walk away, but then—just as I was about to tell Josh that we’d get back on the Interstate on an exit three exits away from here, less than twenty minutes away—Officer Z turned back around.
“Don’t let me catch you on the interstate further down the line,” he said. “I have friends all along the way. Believe you me, you’ll be sorry if that happens.”
Then he offered a final nod and began the inevitably disheartening walk back to his automobile. Josh was taking maps out of the glove compartment.
“Now what?” I said.
“Now,” he said, picking one of the maps out of the bunch on the floor, “I hope you know some back roads.”
“Back roads? Josh, we’ll never make it home in time that way. We barely were going to make it in time taking 95.”
He didn’t even answer me, shaking his head fiercely, eyes scouring the map.
I pulled back onto the highway, Officer Z right in front of me. “Excuse me,” I said. “But how is it my fault? I’m not the one who needed to make this trip today. None of this has anything to do with me.”
He flipped the map over to the other side. It was completely upside down now. “Emmy, I’m trying to concentrate here,” he said. “I have to figure out what I’m doing.”
No kidding, I wanted to say. But I refrained.
He tossed the map back onto the ground. “You know what?” he said. “When you get off the highway, let me drive, okay? I’ll feel better that way. You’ll navigate or something.”
I said that would be fine, but as far as I knew there was nothing to navigate. The only way back to New York besides the interstate required going through Narragansett, something I wasn’t particularly eager to do right then. And, still, I made the first necessary left that would wind us the long way down Boston Neck Road, leading us to Route 1. Then I pulled the car over and swung into the passenger seat. Josh walked to the driver’s side and we were moving again.
On the left, soon enough, we’d be passing the beach, the ocean and Little Clam restaurant, Narragansett’s tiny pier. I looked out the window the other way. Because somewhere out there in the distance, right before Little Clam—right after the pier—was where I lived. In someone else’s house with someone else’s things. A light not on, a window not even open, nobody at all at home.
“Isn’t there someone you could call?” Josh said. “Someone whose car we could maybe borrow for the weekend?”
I thought of everyone who I knew well enough to call: my boss Bobby, who as part of his renewed marriage arrangement wasn’t allowed surprise visitors at home, the carless Martins from next door, the 107 wives, none of whom I wanted to bother with this. With all of my questions for them, they were always trying to figure out information on me beyond the brief bio I’d provide for them. I didn’t want to start by introducing them to my brother and explaining what we were doing here the day before his wedding.
The only person who seemed like a real possibility was this guy Cooper, who was less my friend and more a guy who just came into the shop a lot now that his girlfriend had left him. I was pretty sure that he didn’t like me, but I think he kept hoping that if he met me again, he might.
“I know this one guy,” I said. “He lives right behind the high school. We could stop by his place, if you want.”
In truth, we had to stop by Cooper’s because I didn’t have his phone number to call. Of course, I didn’t offer this part up. I just di
rected Josh left and then right—waiting for Narragansett High School to appear before us: the low-rise brick building, empty summer parking lot, the Arthur L. Stewart Football Field. Cooper’s house was right past it—the football field—a small, broken-down colonial.
