Antiques Roadkill Read online

  As the great Inspector Clouseau once said, in regard to a priceless Steinway he’d destroyed, Not … any … more.

  “I pulled into that circular drive of his, drove past the farmhouse and barn, but saw no sign of you, Brandy dear … so I hit the gas and headed home.”

  “And also hit Carson?”

  “No. Well, yes—he was in the road, prone there, and I didn’t see him. I sort of … bumped and thumped over him.”

  Yikes, I thought.

  “Brandy, I got out to check—he was, not surprisingly, dead.” She straightened. “But. I think he must’ve been dead already. In fact, I assumed you had done it. So … so I turned myself in!”

  Mother leaned forward, put a hand on mine, as if I were the one who needed comforting; maybe I was.

  “Brandy,” she said, with considerable drama (make that melodrama), “you mustn’t worry about your old mother. Why, I’ve lived a good life, a long life.”

  “Save it for the matinee, Mother. We need to call Mr. Ekhardt.”

  “And that’s exactly why you needn’t worry! We will have Mr. Ekhardt in our corner! Don’t forget about that!”

  Assuming the old gent lived long enough to defend her.

  One thing was clear to me: Mother could not survive the ordeal of a trial. Or at least, her mental state couldn’t, and I was not about to see her institutionalized again, not after we’d made so much progress.

  I stood, sighed, swallowed, opened the door, and asked Officer Lawson to step back in.

  Calmly I said, “I don’t know what my mother told you, but I was the one who ran Carson over.”

  “… Really?”

  “It was dark and I just didn’t see him.”

  Mother bolted up from the chair. “Brandy! What in heaven’s name are you saying? Officer, don’t you believe her. She’s just trying to protect me!”

  I shook my head and pointed at Mother accusingly. “No … she’s trying to protect me.”

  Lawson raised a traffic-cop palm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, as if we were a couple of brawling kids. “Settle down, ladies. Do I need to separate you two?”

  Mother and I said nothing, not looking at each other.

  “If I took your statement tonight, what—”

  “I did it,” Mother and I said.

  The officer took a long look at us, giving each of our faces a thorough going-over; he shook his head, sighed, smiled in a rumpled way, then crooked a finger at me, as if I were a grade-school student being summoned to the principal’s office.

  And he said, “Ms. Borne, a word in the hall, please?”

  I stepped out there with him, after he shut Mother back in.

  “Can I give you a small word of advice?” He wasn’t really asking. “Stop covering for your mother.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Look, it’s not gonna take TV show forensics to know which of your cars was involved, and we’ll soon know who was behind the wheel, too. Pretty rudimentary police work.”

  The thought of Mother facing a trial and even a prison sentence sent tears trailing down my cheeks. I didn’t have a tissue, but he found one for me. I used it.

  His voice softened. “I’m not going to take your statements tonight. Neither one of you is a flight risk, and I know the police chief will want to talk to you, personally. Isn’t the chief a friend of yours, Ms. Borne?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Look,” Lawson said, his voice softening. “I’m sure everything will straighten out—it’s clear you’re covering for each other.”

  “I can—”

  “No, you can’t. If either of you were involved, it was likely an accident. Everybody in town knows your mother has a history of mental illness—”

  “What are you—”

  “Quiet. I’m not going to report that your mother confessed to this, only that she was dazed and confused. And anything you said, well, I hadn’t advised you of your rights.”

  I frowned at him. “Are you now?”

  “No. But I am advising you to contact your attorney, first thing tomorrow. And to stay in town.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “You sure aren’t. There’s a little matter of your mother driving with a suspended license to sort out, at the very least.”

  I nodded. Sniffed.

  “I’ll come around to your house in the morning, after I’ve had a chance to talk with the police chief. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  Since the PD had impounded both our cars, Officer Lawson had to take us home.

  Mother and I sat in exhausted silence in the backseat of the squad car, fenced in behind the wire barricade like a couple of criminals. Maybe one of us was.…

  Lawson pulled in our drive, got out, and opened the car door for us. Mother loped on ahead, disappearing into the darkened house surreptiously, a prisoner making a break for it. Lawson saw me up to the front steps, like a polite suitor; crickets and bullfrogs serenaded us.

  I said, “Thanks for taking us home … and thanks for being decent to Mother. And … and for taking this slow.”

  “I always take things slow,” he said with a shy smile. “By the way, my first name’s Brian.”

  “Brian. Glad to meet you.”

  “Oh, we’ve met before.”

  In the darkness I could see a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “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.