Linwood Barclay: A Tap on the Window

“Yeah,” I said.

“When was it, again?” she asked. “’Cause, like, it seems like it was only a few weeks ago.”

“It’ll be two months tomorrow,” I said. “August twenty-fifth.”

“Wow,” she said. “But, yeah, now that I think of it, there was no school at the time. ’Cause usually everyone would be talking about it in class and in the halls and stuff, but that never happened. By the time we got back, everyone had sort of forgotten.” She put her left hand to her mouth and glanced apologetically at me. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That’s okay.”

There were a lot of things I wanted to ask her. But the questions would seem heavy-handed, and I’d known her less than five minutes. I didn’t want to come on like someone from Homeland Security. I’d used Scott’s list of Facebook friends as something of a guide since the incident, and while I’d probably seen this girl on it, I couldn’t quite place her yet. But I also knew that “friendship” on Facebook meant very little. Scott had friended plenty of people he really didn’t know at all, including well-known graphic novel artists and other minor celebrities who still handled their own FB pages.

I could figure out who this girl was later. Another time maybe she’d answer a few questions about Scott for me. Giving her a lift in the rain might buy me some future goodwill. She might know something that didn’t seem important to her that could be very helpful to me.

Like she could read my mind, she said, “They talk about you.”

“Huh?”

“Like, you know, kids at school.”

“About me?”

“A little. They already knew what you do. Like, your job. And they know what you’ve been doing lately.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.

She added, “I don’t know anything, so there’s no point in asking.”

I took my eyes off the rain-soaked road a second to look at her, but said nothing.

The corner of her mouth went up. “I could tell you were thinking about it.” She seemed to be reflecting on something, then said, “Not that I blame you or anything, for what you’ve been doing. My dad, he’d probably do the same. He can be pretty righteous and principled about some things, although not everything .” She turned slightly in her seat to face me. “I think it’s wrong to judge people until you know everything about them. Don’t you? I mean, you have to understand that there may be things in their background that make them see the world differently. Like, my grandmother — she’s dead now — but she was always saving money, right up until she died at, like, ninety years old, because she’d been through the Depression, which I’d never even heard of, but then I looked it up. You probably know about the Depression, right?”

“I know about the Depression. But believe it or not, I did not live through it.”

“Anyway,” Claire said, “we always thought Grandma was cheap, but the thing was, she just wanted to be ready in case things got really bad again. Could you pull into Iggy’s for a second?”

“What?”

“Up there.” She pointed through the windshield.

I knew Iggy’s. I just didn’t understand why she wanted me to pull into Griffon’s landmark ice cream and burger place. It had been here for more than fifty years, or so the locals told me, and even hung in after McDonald’s put up its golden arches half a mile down the street. Folks around here who liked a Big Mac over all other burgers would still swing by here for Iggy’s signature hand-cut, sea-salted french fries and real ice cream milk shakes.

I’d committed myself to giving this girl a ride home, but a spin through the Iggy’s drive-through window seemed a bit much.

Before I could object, she said, “Not for, like, food. My stomach feels a bit weird all of a sudden — beer doesn’t always agree with me, you know — and it’s bad enough I’ve got your car wet. I wouldn’t want to puke in it, too.”

I hit the blinker and pulled up to the restaurant, headlights bouncing off the glass and into my eyes. Iggy’s lacked some of the spit and polish of a McDonald’s or Burger King — its menu boards still featured black plastic letters fitted into grooved white panels — but it had a decent-sized eating area, and even at this time of night there were customers. A disheveled man with an oversize backpack, who gave every indication of being a homeless person looking for a place to get in out of the rain, was drinking a coffee. A couple of tables over, a woman was divvying up french fries between two girls, both in pink pajamas, neither of whom could have been older than five. What was the story there? I came up with one that involved an abusive father who’d had too much to drink. They’d come here until they were sure he’d passed out and it was safe to go home.

Before I’d come to a stop, Claire was looping the strap of her purse around her wrist, gathering everything together like she was planning a fast getaway.

“You sure you’re okay?” I asked, putting the car in park. “I mean, other than feeling sick?”

“Yeah— yeah, sure.” She forced a short laugh. I was aware of some headlights swinging past me as Claire pulled on the door handle. “Be right back.” She leapt out and slammed the door.

She raised her purse in front of her face as a shield against the rain as she ran for the door. She disappeared into the back, where the restrooms were located. I glanced over at a black pickup, its windows tinted so heavily I couldn’t make out who was driving, that had pulled in half a dozen spots over.

My eyes went back to the restaurant. Here I was, late at night, waiting for a girl I hardly knew — a teenage girl at that — to finish throwing up after an evening of underage drinking. I knew better than to have allowed myself to get into this position. But after she’d mentioned that some guy in a pickup was putting the moves—

Pickup?

I glanced again at the black truck, which actually might have been dark blue or gray — hard to tell in the rain. If anyone had gotten out of it and entered Iggy’s, I hadn’t noticed.

What I should have done, before she’d gotten into my car, was tell Claire to call her own parents. Let them come get her.

But then she’d gone and mentioned Scott.

I got out my cell, checked to see whether I had any e-mails. I didn’t, but the effort helped kill ten seconds. I hit 88.7 on the radio presets, the NPR station out of Buffalo, but couldn’t concentrate on anything anyone was saying.

The girl had been in there five minutes. How long did it take to toss your cookies? You went in, you did your thing, splashed some water on your face, and came back out.

Maybe Claire was sicker than she’d realized. It was possible she’d made a mess of herself and needed extra time to clean up.

Great.

I rested my hand on the ignition key, wanting to turn it. You could just go. She had a cell phone. She could call someone else to come and get her. I could head home. This girl wasn’t my responsibility.

Except that wasn’t true. Once I’d agreed to give her a ride, to see that she got home safely, I’d made her my responsibility.

I took another look at the pickup. Just sitting there.

I scanned the inside of the restaurant again. The homeless guy, the woman with the two girls. Now, a boy and girl in their late teens sitting in a booth by the window, sharing a Coke and some chicken fingers. And a man with jet-black hair, in a brown leather jacket, was standing at the counter, his back to me, placing an order.

Seven minutes.

How would it look, I wondered, if this girl’s parents showed up now, trying to find her? And discovered me, local snoop-for-hire Cal Weaver, waiting here for her? Would they believe I was just driving her home? That I’d agreed to give her a ride because she knew my son? That my motives were pure?