Richard Ford - Independence Day

Not that I approve of dispatching blameless tweeties and leaving them by the mailbox as portents of bad things on the wing. I don’t approve. It scares me silly. But as little as I hope to be involved in domestic life here, I also believe an ounce of intervention might deter a pound of cure. So, putting my car in park, I shove open my door and climb out into the heat, my brain still expanding, stoop stiffly down, lift the little dull-feathered, ant-swarmed carcass by its wingtip, take a quick look behind me at Swallow Lane curving out of sight, then quick-flip it like a cow chip off into the bushes, where it falls soundlessly, saving my son (I hope) one peck of trouble in a life that may already stretch out long and full of troubles.

Out of ancient habit I quickly raise my fingers for a sniff-check in case I need to go someplace — back up to the Chevron on Route 9—to wash the death smell off. But just as I do, a small dark-blue car (I believe it is a Yugo) with silver lettering and a silver police-shield door decal inscribed with AGAZZIZ SECURITY pulls in to block me where I’m standing beside my car. (Where has this come from?)

A slender, blond man in a blue uniform gets quickly out, as though I might just take off running into the trees, but then remains behind his door looking at me with an odd, unhumorous smile — a smile any American would recognize as signifying wariness, arrogance, authority and a conviction that outsiders cause trouble. Possibly he thinks I’m filching mail — ten reggae CD offers, or some prime steaks from Idaho, special for high rollers only.

I lower my fingers — unhappily they do smell of feral death — my skull tightened back down into my neck sinews. “Hi,” I say, extra cheerful.

“Hi!” the young man says and nods in some unclear sort of agreement. “Whatcha up to?”

I beam probity at him. “I was just going into the O’Dells’ here. I’ve been driving a ways, so I decided to stretch my legs.”

“Great,” he says, beaming cold indifference back. He is razorish-looking and, although thin, undoubtedly schooled in lethal martial-arts wherewithal. I can’t see a firearm, but he’s wearing a miniature microphone that allows him to talk to someone in another location by speaking straight into his own shoulder. “You friends of the O’Dells, are ya?” he says cheerfully.

“Yep. Sure am.”

“I’m sorry, but what was it you threw over in the trees?”

“A bird. That was a bird. A dead one.”

“Okay,” the officer says, peering over in that direction as if he could see a dead bird, which he can’t. “Where’d it come from?”

“It got caught behind the outside mirror of my car. I didn’t notice it till I opened the door. It was a grackle.”

“I see. What was it?” (Perhaps he thinks my story will change under interrogation.)

“Grackle,” I say, as if the word itself might induce a humorous response, but I’m wrong.

“You know, this is a wildlife sanctuary back here. There isn’t any hunting.”

“I didn’t hunt for it. I was just disposing of it before I drove in with it on my car mirror. I thought that’d be better. It’ll be okay over there.” I look where I’m referring.

“Where you driving from?” His young weak eyes twitch toward my blue-and-cream Jersey plates, then quickly back up at me so that if I claim I’ve just driven in from Oracle, Arizona, or International Falls, he’ll know to call for backup.

“I’m from down in Haddam, New Jersey.” I adopt a voice that says I’d be glad to help you in any way I can and would write a letter of commendation to your superiors complimenting you on your demeanor the moment I’m back at my desk.

“And what’s your name, sir?”

“Bascombe.” And I haven’t done a goddamn thing, I say silently, but toss one dead bird in the bushes to save everybody trouble (though of course I’ve lied about it). “Frank Bascombe.” Cool air surrounds me from my open car door.

“Okay, Mr. Bascombe. If I could just look at your driver’s license, I’ll get out of your way here.” The young rent-a-cop seems pleased, as if these words are the standard words and he positively loves saying them.

“Sure thing,” I say, and in a flash have my wallet out and license forked from its little slot below my realtor certification, my Red Man Club membership, my Maize and Blue Club alumni card.

“If you’d bring it over here and put it on the hood of my car,” he says, giving his shoulder mike an adjustment, “I’ll have a look at it while you stand back, then I’ll put it back and you can pick it up. Is that all right?”

“It’s just great. It seems a little elaborate. I could just hand it to you.”

I start in the direction of his Yugo, which has a springy little two-way antenna stuck onto its dumpy top. But he nervously says, “Don’t approach me, Mr. Bascombe. If you don’t want to show your license”—he’s eyeing his shoulder mike again—“I can get a Connecticut state trooper out here, and you can explain your case to him.” The blond boy’s amiable veneer has, in a heartbeat, disappeared to reveal sinister, police-protocol hardass, bent on construing obvious innocence as obvious guilt. I’m sure his real self is right now trying to figure out how Bascombe is spelled, since it’s obviously a Jewish name, remembering that New Jersey’s chock-full of Jews and spicks and darkies and towelheads and commies, all needing to be rounded up and reminded of a few things. I see his hands drifting somewhere below window level and around toward his backside, where he probably has his heat. (I have not provoked this. I merely am handing over my license.)

“I don’t really have a case,” I say, renewing my smile and stepping over to his Yugo and laying my license above the headlight. “I’m happy just to play by the rules.” I take a few steps back.

The young man waits till I’m ten steps away, then comes round his door and snakes up my license. I can see his idiotic gold name-plate above his blue shirt pocket. Erik . Besides his shirt and blue trousers, he’s wearing thick crepe-soled auxiliary-police footwear and a dopey little red ascot. I can also see that he’s older than he looks, which is twenty-two. Probably he’s thirty-five, has multiple applications in with all the local PDs and been turned down due to “irregularities” in his Rorschachs, even though from a distance he looks like the boy any parent would love and spare no expense in sending off to Dartmouth.

Erik steps around behind his open car door and gives my license thorough study, which includes looking up at me for a mug-shot match. I see now he has an almost colorless Hitler Youth mustache on his pale lip, and something tattooed on the back of his hand — a skull, maybe, or a snake coiled around a skull (no doubt a Body Artistry creation). He is also, I can just make out, wearing a tiny gold earring bead in his right lobe. An amusing little combo for Deep River.

He turns my license over, apparently to see if I’m an organ donor (I’m not), then he walks it back around, lays it on the Yugo’s hood and returns to his protective door. I still can’t tell if he’s packin’.

“There you go,” he says, with a remnant of his former warmth. I don’t know what he’s learned, since it wouldn’t say on my license if I was a serial killer. “We just have a lot of strangers drive in here, Mr. Bascombe. People who live in here really don’t like being harassed. Which is why we have a job, I guess.” He grins amiably. We’re friends now.

“I hate it myself,” I say, coming over and snugging my license back in my billfold. I wonder if Erik got a whiff of the dead-bird stink.

“You’d probably be surprised the number of wackos come off that I-Ninety-five and end up back in here, roaming around.”