Drives his daughter to school, parks, holds her backpack, walks her into class, does this all year. Last week of school he says “Want to go in on your own today?” She says no. Next day he asks the same. She says “I think so.” “Do if you want to, don’t if you don’t want to; it’s all up to you. I think you’re ready.” “Yes, I do.” “Good, because someday this is how I’ll leave you off every time. I’ll pull up, kiss you goodbye, open the door for you from the inside or if it’s raining, from the out, you’ll leave and wave to me and I’ll wave back and probably blow you a kiss and if you’re real nice to me you’ll blow me back one and then run into school. If it’s raining I’ll get you inside with an umbrella unless you’re dressed for it.” “OK, I’ll go by myself.” Comes around her side, opens the door, takes her backpack out, puts it on her shoulders, kisses her head, her hands, she says “Bye, Dada,” he says “Bye, my sweetheart,” she starts for school, up the steps, waves to him from the landing railing, looks sad, he says “What is it?” she says “I want you to come in with me.” Drives his daughter to school. “Bye, darling,” “Bye, Daddy.” Opens her door from the inside, she gets out, he hands her her backpack, kisses her cheek, says “Be careful of your fingers closing the door, or want me to do it?” she says “You always tell me that and I’m always careful,” shuts the door carefully, starts for the steps, turns to wave at him, he’s waiting for her to turn, smiles, waves, blows a kiss, leans out her window, “Have a great day, sweetheart, goodbye,” and she goes up the steps. Drives his daughter to school, glances at her, something’s different about her, looks at the road, glances back, missing or changed, “Your glasses, they’re not on you. Damn, what the hell, can’t you remember any bloody thing?” she says “They’re not bloody,” “I know they’re not bloody, I’m just saying, goddamnit,” makes a turn at the next street, backs up, goes back up the hill to their house, “Fucking stupid kid,” he mumbles low, looks at her, she’s about to cry, did she hear? why’d he do that again? now she’ll be sad for hours unless he apologizes, parks in front of the house, runs in, “What’s wrong?” his wife says, “Glasses,” “They’re on your face,” “Hers; where the hell are they? that fucking dimwit kid,” “On the dining room table, but don’t make it awful for her, don’t scold her,” “I won’t; it’s what I feel like doing but I know what it does to her too,” runs out, she’s still sad he sees through her window, gives them to her, she puts them on, he drives down the hill, says “I’m sorry, very sorry, I was wrong, not you. Because what am I expecting from you? You’re only six and you already do more intelligent and helpful things than kids twice your age.” “No I don’t.” “You do, take it from me. I should have made sure you had your glasses just as I do your backpack and lunch and quarter for milk and so on.” “No, I should.” “Then both of us, but I was all wrong and am sorry. Forgive me?” “It was only a mistake,” looking straight ahead, never at him. “What, my yelling, mumbling those awful things under my breath with the stupid hope you’d hear them?” “I didn’t hear them. What did you say?” “Just stupid things. Your daddy’s an ass. But what did you mean a mistake?” “Leaving my glasses home. But everybody makes mistakes.” “That’s right. That’s why I’m saying I’m so sorry.” Pulls up in front of her school. “We’re late. Want me to write a note to Mrs. Barish saying why?” “No, it’s only a few minutes.” “I wouldn’t say I yelled at you or about the glasses, just that I lost track of time or something.” “You’d be lying.” “A little lie, what’s that? So she doesn’t have to know everything that goes on with us. And look at me, sweetheart.” “She says you don’t have to every time. I’ll get in trouble if you do,” and doesn’t look at him. “Please say you’re sorry then. I mean that you know I am and you forgive me.” “You always get so angry. You scare me when you do. I think it’s something I’ve done.” “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right.” Puts his hand out to turn her face to his so she’ll look at him and he can kiss her. She opens her door. He barely pecks the back of her head as she’s getting out. “Your backpack.” She comes back for it and he hands her it through her window. “And your glasses. I must’ve smudged them when I got them for you because I know I cleaned them this morning.” Takes them off her, wipes them with the front of his shirt, gives them back. She puts them on, blinks a few times through them as if testing them out, turns without looking at him and goes up the steps. “Sweetheart,” he yells out her window. She doesn’t come to the railing. He waits for about a minute. What he deserves, he thinks. What’s he doing to the poor kid?
Thought several times what he’d do if a policeman stopped his car when he was on his way to pick up his oldest daughter at school. He’d explain he was picking her up, he’d meet him at any spot he wanted right after he gets her but he didn’t want her waiting alone too long in front of her school. The policeman probably wouldn’t go for it, would think it another excuse, one he might not have heard but another one, would make him wait while he looked at his car registration and driver’s license and perhaps put both through to some central police checkup. What would he do then? He’d say “Listen, I’m sorry, but I really have to go, my daughter, I’m frightened for her, please, I’ve never asked a thing from an officer before, but this is too important,” and if the policeman said he couldn’t go, he’d say “Fine, I’ll wait it out then, but please don’t take too long,” and when the policeman looked back at his registration and license or was doing something else like that, he’d drive away, no doubt the policeman chasing after him, but speed to the school, through red lights if there were any and it was safe—he wouldn’t care by now, he’d be in about as much trouble as he could get into with the police—and after he picked up his daughter he’d take the consequences. Or he’d ask the policeman to call the school from his car if he could or have his precinct house call the school to have someone there bring his daughter to the school office where he’d pick her up. He’s told her what to do in a situation like this but he doesn’t know if she’d remember what he told her. She’s five—smart but only five—or maybe the policeman would let him off almost immediately, say he understands, admonish him briefly for driving over the speed limit or whatever offense he might have made to have the policeman go after him. He’s thought about this a lot when he’s driven from his job to her school to pick her up. He’s driving from his job to her school to pick her up, not thinking about what he’d do if a police car stopped him, when he sees through the rear view mirror lights flashing behind him. Police car, wants him to pull over. Or maybe it wants to get past, and he pulls into the right lane and slows down, but the police car stays behind him, lights flashing. What was he going, five, maybe eight miles over the limit at the most? He’ll already be five minutes late picking up his daugher. Should he speed up? What did he decide to do if this happened? Oh, dope, dope. He’s told himself he doesn’t know how often not to speed along this stretch, and not just when he’s picking her up but anytime he’s on it. It’s a speed trap—he’s seen police cars hiding in side lanes, cars being ticketed on the road, sometimes two and three at a time. Pulls over, gets out of the car as the policeman’s getting out of his. “Why didn’t you stop sooner?” the policeman says, approaching him. “I’m sorry, officer, I didn’t see you.” “You saw me enough to pull into the slow lane.” “When I finally saw you I thought you wanted to get past me, since I didn’t think it was me you were after. If I was doing anything over the speed limit, it was three, maybe five—” “I clocked you at twelve over it.” “Twelve? I don’t see how, but I’ll take your word. I’m sure your speedometer’s in much better shape than mine.” “My radar.” “Your radar. But I’m very sorry. I know no excuse makes it right, but I was in a hurry to get my daughter at school. Number 122, on Endicott, in Mt. Bradley.” “What’s she, sick?” “No, I’m just picking her up. Maybe I should have said she was sick, but I’m not like that, and they get out at 2:45 on the dot. I don’t like her standing there waiting for me.” “Then you shouldn’t have been speeding
.” Sticks his hand out. “Driver’s license and car registration please.” “I can’t give them now. I mean I’ll give them, of course, and you check them, but please let me get back in my car to pick her up. I’ll do it and drive right back here with her—it shouldn’t take ten minutes. Because you see, sometimes there have been strange guys hanging around the playground there—the schoolyard after school so maybe in front of the school too. There have been complaints—a couple of the girls touched—and you know, in this city or around, every now and then a kid gets picked up by a stranger and is never seen again. And I consciously made an effort not to speed, but I suppose I was so eager to get there so she wouldn’t wait that I went over the limit. And I’m already,” looking at his watch, “almost five minutes late.” “No can do. And five minutes or so will be all right. Lots of kids coming out, school buses taking their time, lots of parents picking up their kids.” “But it takes a minimum of five minutes from here. So that’ll make me ten minutes late at least if I even leave right now. And around ten minutes after she’s let out, the place is almost cleared.” “I’m sure your little girl knows what to do. She goes to the office. You must have told her.” “I have, but she’s in kindergarten, is only five. A young five. She’s the second youngest in her class. I mean she’s smart but she forgets my instructions.” “Kids often do. Your license and registration? This shouldn’t take long if you don’t force me to send a check through on you and your car.” “Don’t send a check through. I teach at Wilma. I live on Bradley. When I get a ticket, and I can’t remember the last time I did, I send a check for it the same day. All my papers are in order. There’s nothing wrong with my life. Be a nice guy, really. Whatever fine I’m supposed to pay for speeding, I’ll pay. I’ll meet you—at your police station, my house, this same spot—in ten minutes: five to get there, five to get back—or any place and at any time you want.” Hand’s still out, fingers motioning for his papers. “Here,” and he gets out the license and registration, car insurance form, gives them to him, “but please let me leave now. By the time you go through these, check me through your precinct, write up a ticket and so forth, I’ll be back.” “I can’t let you go without your license and registration, and I don’t need this,” giving him back the insurance form. “Look, it’s already been eight minutes—more. Theoretically—on paper, let’s say—she’s been there thirteen minutes—maybe fifteen to sixteen minutes, if there’s traffic at the Kealy Avenue bridge and an unusually long light from here to her school—and how do I know my watch is right? I could be slow.” Policeman looks at his watch. “I’ve got 2:43.” “That’s about what I have. But by that time—fifteen minutes after her school breaks—all the buses have gone, the principal and teachers have gone back in or got in their cars and are driving home.” “I’m sure her principal or teacher, seeing her out there waiting, will take her back to the office or your daughter’s homeroom.” “The principal doesn’t come out every day—maybe every other or every third day—and her teacher just brings the class to the exit door, goes back to her room a few minutes later and then out the back way to the staff parking lot to get her car to go home. Nobody will be there. Strangers might. If I’m lucky a mother or two in the schoolyard with their kids. But they won’t be watching my daughter, and if they happen to and see a man they’ll think he was her father. Or maybe one of the fourth or fifth graders will be there. They sometimes hang around outside because nobody picks them up and they can walk home when they want and if they normally take the bus, today they might decide to stay. Some of those kids can be tough. At least too tough for my daughter, who’s shy, easily cowed and afraid. Some of them don’t live in the neighborhood so think they can get away doing anything in it once school’s over.” “Then those kids wouldn’t walk home. It’d be too far, as you have to live a minimum of a mile from school to take the bus. As for the others you mentioned”—looking at the driver’s license and then staring at him—“chances are slim they’d hang around, and who’s to say they might not be nice kids. You’ve no glasses in the photo.” “I didn’t need them when I got the license.” “But you wear them when you drive, so you should have them on in the photo and noted on the license that you use them when driving. The photo and what you look like driving have to match. Wait here. Let me put in a quick check on you,” and heads back to his car. “For what,” following him, “my no-glasses? I’ll get a new license. But everything else is OK. The car’s mine. The insurance is paid up. We haven’t had a ticket in years. Please,” through the car window now, “can’t you see the importance I’m talking of? Call my wife then. Not my wife—my kid’s school. I don’t have the phone number but it’s P.S. 122 on Endicott Street, and my daughter’s Olivia.” “I can’t reach anything on this but my base unit and other patrol cars.” “Then have your unit call. I don’t know why I didn’t say this before. But immediately, because it’s getting late. Eighteen, nineteen minutes. To bring her to the school office and have her wait for me there.” “They don’t like me making arrangements like that for anyone, and she’ll be OK; I know it. I’ll put the check through, and if everything’s all right, give you a warning and let you go.” “But she’ll also be scared something’s happened to me. Or she might start walking home herself, if nobody comes out for her and I don’t come and she’s all alone for so long. I’ve told her not to but she could. It’s up a long hill. A car could stop and say ‘Give you a lift, kid?’ and she might fall for it. Adults can convince kids. Or the guy might stop at her school and say her mommy or daddy told him to pick her up—that he’s someone who works with me and my car got a flat or I’m very sick and her mommy wants him to take her to the hospital where I am—and she wouldn’t question that. What kid would? I’ve warned her but not gone into details so as not to frighten her. Or she could be dragged into the car. It happens all the time. You know that. Come on, don’t you have kids?” “Two, in first grade—twins, and my wife picks them up.” “But if she didn’t? If she was stopped by a cop—” “Then the teacher stays with them. And if it’s for too long, then they’d stick them with the after-school-program kids till one of us showed up. But nothing will happen. Like your kid, they know to go inside the school.” “Well, they’re at least a year older than mine, and there’s two of them, so they think better together. But one kid—” “Stay with me, will you? I don’t want you scooting away,” and calls in, says “Reardon, yes,” gives some lettered code, reads off the license plate and driver’s license numbers. Howard runs for his car, gets in, policeman yells “Hey, what the—,” drives off, policeman after him, siren on, red light up ahead, what the hell, too late now, goes through it, is doing seventy-five in a forty-five zone, he’ll explain all that later, policeman right behind him, his hat on now, another light at the bridge but this one cars in both forward lanes waiting for it to change and cars pulling off the bridge into the lanes next to his, policeman pulls up behind him, gets out, gun in his hand, points it at him, says “That’s enough, I’m taking you in. Get out and keep your hands up and spread.” Gets out, runs, doesn’t look back, the policeman won’t shoot him for trying to get his kid, across the bridge, up the hill, cuts through some houses’ yards, gets to school, she’s sitting against the wall in front of the school, looking at a book. “Suppose I ran for my car now, drove to her school, what would you do?” “Put a report in on you.” “Please tell them to phone her school.” “You’re making me take longer than I should, and I can’t hear both them and what you say. If you want to get away from here sooner, you’re ruining it for yourself.” Howard stands there, looks around him, the road. Cab’s passing, empty. Signals it, cab stops, he gets in, cop yells “Hey, don’t go,” he says to the cabby “Pretend you didn’t hear. I’m picking my kid up at school. I’ll give you fifty bucks up front and take all the blame for your driving away, saying I threatened your life if you wouldn’t drive. That I even pretended to have a gun,” and shows him the inside of his wallet with the bills in it. Cabby grabs for it; he pulls it back. “Go first, an
d you don’t want him seeing you take the money.” Cab goes, he drops the money on the front seat, policeman’s in his car now and following them. No red lights, tie-ups, cab’s there in less than five minutes, she’s standing out front, crying. He jumps out and hugs her. Looks at his watch. Twenty-three minutes late, theoretically. She probably went back into school. Though she could have started up the hill and even be home by now. Or a stranger might have picked her up in front of the school or while she was going up the hill or even a few steps from their house. She could be in some room, park, basement, abandoned building, being beaten, fondled, raped. She could be in a car, on the floor, driver’s free foot pressed down on her neck, going to Washington, Delaware, some other neighborhood here. She could be frightened out of her head, screaming, fighting back, dead. What if she isn’t at school when he gets there? Or walking up the hill, at home or at any of her friends’ homes? If she were at one, friend’s parent would have phoned his wife saying she was there and also probably told the school office she was going to be taken there. Her teacher would have told the office to call or called herself if she took her back to her homeroom. Or maybe a friend’s parent saw her waiting in front—friend of theirs or parent of one of her friends—and said she’d wait with her out front or in the office till her mother or father came. Or this parent could have driven her to her home or his daughter’s home without telling the office but got a flat on the way in an area without a nearby phone. “OK,” policeman says, handing him his license and registration, “everything checks out fine. I’m not going to ticket you this time but if I catch you driving as much as two miles over the limit I’ll stop and ticket you for that time and this. So you’ve been warned.” “I can go?” “Yeah, sure, go.” Runs to his car, drives the maximum speed limit to her school, she’s not outside. Runs inside. She’s sitting in front of the office, books on her lap. “Where were you? They called home for me and Mommy didn’t answer too.” “You came in here by yourself?” “Yes. That’s what I was to do; you and Mommy said.” “Boy, that’s a relief, knowing you knew. You’re so smart. Ooh, what a darling,” and kisses her hands, puts the books on the floor and picks her up. “I was so worried. I got held up in traffic. Long lines of cars. Couldn’t get past them and couldn’t call here because I couldn’t get to a phone. And where’d Mommy go if she didn’t answer the school calling? They call a lot?” “Lots. Five, ten times.” “Then she can’t be in the garden. At first, maybe, but then she would have heard the phone the second or third time they called and knew someone was trying to reach her badly, especially that we weren’t home yet, and come in just to be there for the next time they called. It worries me. It could be something with her or maybe Sister. Let’s get home quickly and see.”
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