Clown Girl - Monica Drake [40]
He didn’t look me in the eye. He said, “Unfortunately, you’re our only suspect to date in a burglary. As an officer, it’s my job to maintain the safety of people and property in the area. In short, yes. I need to take you down to the station, take your fingerprints and file a statement.”
I said, “A statement? Do I even have a statement? Everything’s coming out a question?” The bees doubled the size of their hive in my brain. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know anything about this mower. It’s barely mine, I just got it, you can see the yard. Does this look like we’ve owned a lawn mower?” I waved a hand over the crop of weeds and the tiny, fizzy bugs that danced like the spray on new champagne.
I said, “I don’t want to go to the station, I can’t do that. My heart.” I wouldn’t last a minute in the slammer!
Jerrod said, “Sniffles, I can’t make autonomous decisions… We have to treat all situations equally. You have the right to remain silent,” he said.
My rights! A clown doesn’t have any rights. Silent? Ha. That’s already the lay of the land in clown work. The bees were frantic; my sight collapsed around itself. My heart thumped. Chance barked at the window. I covered my ears.
“I don’t have to handcuff you,” he said. “If you’ll just get in the car, we’ll go down to the precinct and get this cleared up.”
Cuffs? I dropped my hands to my sides and whispered, “Handcuff me. Please. It’ll look better.”
“Really?”
“Please. Cuffs on,” I said. I turned around, threw myself against the shed, and slapped my hands together. The shed shook under my weight, the boards loose. Something crashed inside.
“Hey! No rough stuff,” the neighbor, William, said. He waved the Yoo-Hoo bottle and rose up from his plastic chair. “I’m witness here.”
I waited for the cuffs. When nothing happened, I turned my head to one side and looked at Jerrod. Jerrod turned his Steve McQueen blue eyes to the neighbor in a glare. Muscles rippled along his jaw.
“Citizen review,” the neighbor mumbled, dropped back into his chair, then fumbled around like he’d lost his Yoo-Hoo cap.
Jerrod reached a hand to my shoulder and walked me to the car; I stayed out ahead of him. “Cuffs,” I whispered. “Please. This looks a little too friendly.”
“OK, OK. Whatever you want. I’m sorry about this,” he said, and he snapped the handcuffs on. Two silver bracelets. Tiny teeth inside. Even in the heat, the metal felt cold. Final.
“Is that too tight?” Jerrod’s breath tickled the side of my ear.
“Just fine,” I said.
He helped me settle in the backseat. Then he walked up the driveway, got the lawn mower, and pushed the mower back down to the car. The car bounced as he popped the trunk and struggled to bungee-cord the Snapper in.
Jerrod threw my cane in back with me, then closed the door again. Through the grill that separated us, I could see the back of his neck and the short hair there. I searched for his eyes in the rearview.
“I didn’t steal it,” I said, one more time, “for the record.”
We drove in silence past Baloneytown’s lineup of hookers and johns. Every other hooker leaned forward to get a better look into the cop car, to see who was in the crook’s seat. I stared into lipsticked lips and open rabbit-fur coats too hot for the weather. Every one was in costume—high heels and tiny shorts, old dresses and tall hair. I caught my reflection in the window: a sorry old sun hat, Elton John shades. My costume. I wanted to laugh and cry and most of all just keep breathing. We drove past cars marked For Sale, and bicycles, mattresses, couches, cardboard boxes all For Sale. There were even a few optimistic realtor signs, like anyone ever bought into the burg.
I said, “Out of all the deals in For-Salesville, I had to pick a hot one.”
Jerrod mumbled, “Tell me about it.”
“What’s that mean?” Any conversation would be better than none.
He didn’t answer.
We passed the same girl twice, on the side of the road in her greasy silver dress. Then we passed the same stack of tires for sale. The same worn-out old house with a dog chained to the realtor’s post. Finally Jerrod took a right where