Peter knew it wouldn’t have been terribly hard for him to put out some kind of alert, the kind of thing that would come over every crackling radio in every worn-down cop car from upstate New York straight down to the very tip of Florida, a warning to every fellow man in uniform that the son of a sheriff had stolen an impounded car and was now fleeing to who-knew-where. Peter guessed it wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort for his dad to call in a few favors, have someone fetch the blue convertible and reel them back home like a couple of squirmy fish on a hook.
But even so, a part of him wasn’t surprised they’d gotten this far. That would have been like being surprised that Emma’s parents were still calling every hour. It was simply their nature. Just as this—this long, stubborn silence—was Dad’s.
Peter remembered the first time he’d ever gotten beat up, sucker punched (not for the last time) by a bully of a kid named James McWalter as they walked home from school in third grade. Dad must have been patrolling the neighborhood in his squad car, because even as Peter staggered to his feet—a hand cupped over his eye, blinking back tears as he felt the side of his face begin to throb—Dad had the kid by the shoulders, steering him calmly over to the car, where he must have given him a good scare, because after a moment James grabbed his backpack, mumbled an apology, and darted off in the direction of his house, white-faced and trembling.
Afterward, Dad had taken Peter by the shoulder in a similar manner, half shoving him toward the squad car. His left eye was twitching, and his thumb was pressed hard against the back of Peter’s neck, as if Peter had done something wrong. When they got home, Dad pulled a bag of peas from the freezer and jerked his chin toward the couch, all without a word.
Later, while Peter stood on his tiptoes in the bathroom, examining the pink-tinged bruise that had bloomed below his eye, Dad appeared in the doorway.
“You were holding your books with both hands.”
Peter stared at him, not quite sure how to respond.
“If these kids are gonna keep bothering you, make sure to put your books in your backpack,” he said. “Keep your hands ready and your eyes open. Don’t be such an easy target. You have to be able to take care of yourself.”
Peter nodded feebly. It wasn’t until later that he realized this meant Dad must have seen him before he was punched, before his books went tumbling to the ground. Which meant he hadn’t come to the rescue just in time. He’d seen what was happening and had chosen to wait.
And so when Peter finally did spot a flashing red light in the rearview mirror—accompanied by a whirring siren so loud it made him feel sure the whole interstate was in on it, hitchhikers and semi trucks and roadkill alike—it didn’t come as much of a surprise. In fact it was almost a relief. And even as Emma began to speak fast—outlining such a litany of possible excuses and explanations that even Peter had the presence of mind to be impressed—he was still half thinking it would be easier to simply stick out his arms and wait for the officer to clap on the handcuffs, bringing this whole mismanaged expedition to a fitting end.
By the time he pulled the car onto the shoulder of the highway, he was feeling like he might very well throw up. The top was up, and suddenly the inside felt crowded and close, with Emma looking amused and the dog’s tail thumping steadily against the back of his seat, making everything seem too small and impossibly stuffy. Peter sat frozen, staring straight ahead at a pink billboard for a nightclub, and so he failed to notice the policeman stepping up to the car.
“Put down the window,” Emma said, looking at him with alarm when the cop knocked on the glass and Peter still didn’t make a move. He was so focused on imagining what his dad might do to him once he was returned home that he didn’t even flinch.
There was a second knock, this time a bit louder.
“Put. Down. The. Window.” Emma’s face was very close to his now, and Peter blinked at her, a bit stunned by the proximity.
“Jeez, Peter,” she said, once it was clear that he wasn’t in the state of mind to follow even the simplest of instructions. She launched herself across him, straining against her seat belt, and rolled the window down herself.
“Afternoon,” said the cop, a balding man whose name tag, perhaps ominously, read officer hurt, and whose uniform strained against a belly that made it look like he was hiding a bowling ball under his shirt. He lowered his face so that it was level with Peter’s, glancing at him and then at Emma as if puzzled by how the two of them had ended up here together.
“You were doing a fair amount of weaving back there, son,” he said, turning a suspicious eye back to Peter, who hitched his glasses up farther on his nose and attempted a smile that seemed to go sorely wrong. “I’m gonna need to see your license.”
As Peter fumbled through the glove compartment for his wallet, the dog took the opportunity to dart forward between the seats—eager to greet this visitor to his new home—and let out a bark so loud it rang against the sides of the car. Startled, Peter jerked away, managing to bump the back of his head hard against the cop’s chin.
“What the hell?” the officer said, drawing back from the window and clapping a hand over his jaw. He narrowed his eyes at Peter. “Out of the car.”
“Both of us?” Peter asked, shooting Emma a desperate look.
“Just you’ll be fine.”
Officer Hurt swiped the driver’s license from Peter’s hand before he was even fully out of the car, then stood examining it for what seemed like far too long. Peter shifted from foot to foot and tried not to look too guilty, following the flight of two crows circling overhead in the glassy sky. A guy in an old green Chevy gave them all the finger as he drove past.
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Finnegan?” the officer asked, and even as he shook his head and croaked out a feeble “no,” Peter could feel his face turn an incriminating shade of pink. The cop looked at the picture on his license and then back up at him several times, and Peter felt sure that at any minute he’d realize who he’d found, would recognize in him the same jawline and freckles and thin brown hair as his father. As the seconds wound past and neither of them spoke, it seemed impossible that he couldn’t have made the connection, and it seemed that in only a moment he’d reach for his walkie-talkie to send out a nationwide bulletin, listening back as thousands of sighs of relief came in from all over the country— That damn Finnegan kid’s finally been caught in Maryland —and the one faint whoosh of air that would be his dad shaking his head in a mixture of anger and relief.