Monday, October 21, 2013

The Honest Truth


 



           Angela sat on the passenger side, grey sweatshirt spotted with rain, hood covering her head. She stared straight ahead into the dark night at nothing, looking less like my sixteen-year old daughter than the ten-year old I’d coached at soccer.
            “It’s not my fault he was driving fast,” she tried.
            I let my silence answer her as we watched the tow truck’s flashing lights mark its movements like a strobe. The red numbers on the dashboard read-out said one a.m. The rain continued A warm wind whipped through the roadside trees, but I shivered even in the car with the windows rolled up..
Boyfriend Ryan’s semi-upright Ford Bronco was in a miserable drainage ditch and would be a tough pull. Harnessed up, the rear wheels and axle made a sucking sound as they pulled free of the muck. Angela started crying.
            She really sobbed, her head rocking forward against the dash.
            “A little longer and we can go home, Honey.” I reached over and massaged her neck. The trooper came alongside and I rolled the window down. Rain dripped off his hat brim and into the car when he handed me the paperwork. Not a citation – she hadn’t been driving – but a notice to appear.
            “I’d still take her to Valley, Sir.” He referred to the hospital.
            “Maybe tomorrow. We’ll watch her tonight.”
            We drove off. Behind us, Ryan’s folks sat in their car, the boy in the backseat like a busted drunk in a squad car and the three of them backlit against the still laboring tow truck.