Notes From the Backseat (7 page)

“Everything all right, miss?”

Miss—he called her miss. Why would he call her miss and me ma'am? Are my crow's feet getting worse?
Dannika wasn't responding. Again, I could see it was time to intervene.

“She's deaf.” For some reason I found it necessary to add, “Can't hear a word.”

He looked concerned. “Should she be driving?”

“Oh, no, she doesn't drive. She just likes to pretend…when we're not moving. It's her little game.” My tone implied her hearing wasn't the only part of her that was damaged.

“Uh-
huh.
” It seemed to me the officer was gazing rather longingly at Dannika, even though the lengthening shadows of twilight made it impossible to really appreciate her perfect features and her luminous hair, which was practically holographic in full sun.

“Um, do you think you might be able to give my boyfriend a lift? I mean, if he hasn't already hitched a ride?”

Officer John-Boy tore his eyes away from Dannika and looked at me like a man just waking from a long, morphine-induced dream. He clearly had no idea what I'd just said, so I repeated it. Finally, he nodded.

“Sure. We'll be back in a few. Go ahead and lock all the doors.”

I thought about this for a second. “Would that really help with the top down?”

Like I said, the light was fading, but I could see him blushing just the same. He glanced at Dannika, as if expecting her to sneer at him, but she was still playing corpse-at-the-wheel.

“Just—exercise caution. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

When he got in his car, he actually turned on the siren before speeding down the road. I watched the spinning light disappear around the bend. It was sad, knowing that siren was for Dannika who, even as a mentally feeble deaf girl, inspired grown men to do and say stupid things. I felt like the infinitely less attractive sidekick in a romantic comedy—the one who gets the funny lines but never gets the guy.

“What was that all about?” I sounded overly irritated, even to myself.

Dannika sighed and let go of the wheel at last. “I'm sorry. I lost it.”

“You played dead.”

“Because if I didn't I was going to say something really, really stupid.” She wiped her forehead and unzipped her sweatshirt halfway. It was getting steadily colder and there she was, sweating.

“Why?”

She looked exasperated. “What do you mean,
why?
”

“I mean, what was the big deal? He wasn't even giving us a ticket.”

She looked around, a cagey gleam in her eye. “He's coming back, isn't he?”

“What's in the trunk?”

She turned to me, wide-eyed with panic. “You think he'll search the car?”

“Maybe you should just tell me what's going on.”

She popped the trunk and opened her door. “I'm getting rid of it.”

“Getting rid of what?”

I got out and followed her back to the trunk. She was unzipping her backpack, pawing past brightly colored cottons and hiking boots. “It's really none of your business.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands.

“It's blow.”

“What?” I spun around.

“Coke? Cocaine?”

“Oh my God, really? In there?” I stared at the backpack she was still rifling through, feeling horrified.

“If I can just fucking find it,” she muttered.

“You're a yogi! You can't be a cokehead.”

She finally produced a Ziploc baggie filled with white powder. “Want to do a couple lines?”

“Dannika!”

“It's really good stuff.” She held up the baggie and gazed at the powder with hungry affection.

“You've got to get rid of it.”

She caressed the plastic. “Right this second?”

“Yes, this second.”

“I'll just hide it,” she said, stuffing it into the bodice of her tank top.

“Are you insane?”

“I paid good money for this,” she whined.

“Look, no offense, but if your performance a minute ago is any indicator, you're not that great under pressure. I'd hate to see how you'd act with a few grams of coke in your bra.”

She pulled it back out. “Shit,” she said. “What do I do?”

“I'm going to say three words, and I want you to listen to me very carefully.” I employed the tone I reserve for intimidating unruly toddlers in my store. “Cop. Coming. Back.”

In a panic, she tore the bag open and let the powder fly. At that moment the wind must have shifted, or maybe she was just too terrified to factor its direction, and the next thing we knew everything—the backseat of the Mercury, the surfboards, the trunk, our clothes and even our faces—was covered with a fine dusting of coke.

“Fuck,” we said in unison.

It was the first time we'd agreed on anything all day.

 

By the time Coop and Officer John-Boy got back, the twilight had given way to full-on night and we had cleaned most the coke off ourselves and the car. It was a good thing our friendly copper didn't travel with dogs, though, I'll tell you that. We were in no mood to be sniffed.

Once the coke was gone, Dannika gave up her rigor mortis routine and managed to turn on a little charm. All she had to do was smile in Officer John-Boy's direction and he went positively twitchy with delight.

“You guys okay?” Coop asked as he poured the gas into the tank. “You're so quiet.”

Dannika started to answer, but I kicked her foot, hoping Officer John-Boy wouldn't notice. She sort of squeaked, but didn't actually speak.

“We're fine,” I said.

Dannika smiled sweetly at John-Boy, illuminated by his headlights. The harsh white glare would have made anyone else look ghoulish, but she managed to work the effect as if they were twin spotlights. John-Boy fidgeted with his belt, his radio, his billy club, a gawky kid at a junior high school dance—albeit an armed one. Watching from the shadows, I just rolled my eyes and fought the urge to gag.

When we were on the road with Coop at the wheel, Dannika riding shotgun and me (surprise, surprise!) in the back, I leaned forward so my face was in between them. “Dannika,” I said, “have you ever gotten a ticket?”

“Parking ticket,” she said.

“What about a moving violation?”

I noticed Coop was grinning a little in the dashboard light.

“I've been pulled over,” she said. “Lots, actually. But I've only gotten one actual ticket.”

“And was the officer a woman?” I asked.

Coop's grin deepened.

“Yeah, actually. How'd you know?”

“Just a lucky guess.” I leaned back in my seat to watch the stars.

 

I realize, of course, that I haven't yet covered how we ended up here, at my mother's house, Chateau de Dog Hair. I'm getting to that, I swear.

What happened is this: it was getting late, we were inching our way toward the Sonoma County line, when out of nowhere this fog rolled in that was so thick you couldn't see two feet in front of you.

“This is crazy.” Coop sounded edgy, and it occurred to me that the running-out-of-gas episode had been even more trying for him. After all, he was the one who had to hitch-hike—a pretty scary thing to do, even if you are six foot four. Sure, we were nearly arrested for Schedule II narcotics, but he was the one who had to stick his thumb out and make himself easy prey for random serial killers cruising down the coast. And let's face it, a wildly disproportionate number of serial killers end up in northern California.

My thoughts were interrupted when a huge deer, wide-eyed with shock, emerged from the fog like a ghostly, overgrown Bambi. Coop turned the wheel sharply and missed hitting it by inches; it shot off into the darkness, a blur in the corner of my eye. My heart was pounding wildly and, from the silence in the car, I sensed they were similarly shaken.

Coop sounded a little weak when he said, “Gwen, do you know if there's a road that cuts inland? We've got to get out of this fog.”

I closed my eyes, and a map of the coast came into focus. The obvious choice was Bodega Highway, of course, but the fact that it goes right past my mom's house made me hesitate. The catch was that there really wasn't a better way east for quite a while and the fog was likely to get worse from Salmon Creek to Mendocino, since the highway hugs the coast that whole stretch. “Yeah,” I said. “It's not far from here.”

“Great. Let me know when you see it, okay?”

“Sure.”

Dannika sat up straighter. “Where are we going?”

“I'm heading inland.”

“Why?”

Coop sighed. “Because, Dannika, this was a really stupid plan. It's late, we're hungry, there's no place to eat out here, and the fog is so thick I can barely see the road.”

“And your point is…?” She brushed a strand of hair back from her face and glared at him.

“I'm going back to 101.”

“Wait a minute! This is my car.”

“Look, stop being such a spoiled brat, okay? It's not safe to drive in this.” He nodded at the swirling shroud of mist beyond the windshield.

“It's right up here somewhere,” I said, still watching for the turn. “Oh, there it is.” I pointed at the road veering off to the right.

Dannika scowled as Coop turned inland, but she knew it was no use; she was outnumbered. I was proud of Coop for standing up to her, even if it had taken him all day to work up to it. I wondered if he'd put his foot down very often during their ten years of friendship. I had a feeling this was more the exception than the rule.

We rode a few miles in moody silence. The fog wasn't thinning much. A possum darted into the road, pale and confused. Coop swerved, but instead of moving away from the car, it scurried blindly toward it. We all listened in horror to the sickening thud-crunch of first the front, then the back tire making contact. I couldn't help swiveling around to check it out. The tail lights illuminated a pulpy mess of fur; I could see its rodent feet still clawing at the air.

“Gross,” I said, turning back around.

Dannika shook her head. “Is that all you can say?
Gross?
”

“What, should I prepare a eulogy?” I was in no mood for an animal rights lecture.

Coop intervened. “Gwen, how much farther to Mendocino taking 101?”

I did some mental mapping and calculations. “Realistically? We're probably looking at three or four hours, at least.”

“You know, I hate to be a whiner, but I'm so wiped out,” he said.

“Fine,” Dannika snapped. “I'll drive.”

“Mmm,” Coop said, “I think that's kind of a bad idea.”

“Why?” She said it in two syllables, like a pissed-off teenager.

“I just think you're tired, too. We all are. And this fog isn't really getting much better.”

“See? We should have just stayed on the coast.”

Coop let that one pass.

Dannika turned around to face me. “Gwen, you want to drive for a while? You should be fresh as a daisy.”

“She doesn't drive,” Coop said.

Dannika looked amazed. “You live in L.A. and you
don't drive?
”

I shook my head. I was used to this reaction. “Never have.”

Coop looked at me in the rearview mirror. “What do you think, G? Should we stop somewhere and spend the night, or am I just wimping out?”

“What, like a hotel?” Dannika asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Something along 101. We could get dinner, chill out, have a drink. We haven't eaten much all day.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I hate hotels—especially hotels along the freeway. And what would we
eat?
Big Macs?” She made a sort of half scoffing, half gagging sound. “Let's just keep going. It's only a couple more hours.”

“Three hours,” Coop corrected. “Probably more if the fog doesn't break up.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and the road back out to the coast is pretty gnarly.” We were only about six miles from my mom's house at that point, and as much as I hated to admit it, staying there made sense. I agreed with Coop—it was dangerous to keep going when we were starving and tired and the conditions were so sketchy. The hotel idea was mildly appealing, but I had a feeling Dannika would make us drive around Santa Rosa for hours, trying to find a place to stay that wasn't morally or aesthetically offensive. I found myself reverting to my old standby: WWJD (What Would Jackie Do)?

“Actually,” I said, “my mom's house is only a few minutes from here.”