Lacey sat up. Someone had pointed in our direction and a
burly motorcycle cop in a blue uniform and black boots came over with his pad
out and began writing down Lacey’s name and address.
“Did you see the
driver’s face?” he asked, without looking up.
“I tried—his head
was turned the other way,” Lacey said.
“Did you see the
license plate?”
“It happened so
fast, officer. Surely someone did.”
The officer shook
his head. “Looks like he got clean away,” he said. “But we’ll keep trying.
Sometimes people wait a while before coming forward. He asked Lacey to be
available for further questioning if necessary.
We all heard the
shout—“Hey, Burnett, get a load of this.”
It came from a guy in an orange vest on his hands and knees staring at
something in the gutter. The officer snapped his pad shut and we followed him.
“You won’t believe
this,” the guy in the vest said.
The three of us bent
over and stared. Staring back at us were two pairs of eyes belonging to a bride
and groom sitting atop the remains of a wedding cake. Both looked surprised and
helpless as they sank into the mash of white icing and yellow doughy texture.
The whole thing was in a white box with a tire print on the edge.
The officer
scratched his head and squinted. “What’s this supposed to be? Someone getting
married?” He turned to Lacey. “Was your
friend getting married by any chance?”
“Good Heavens, no,”
Lacey said. “That was ages ago. She was divorced.”
“It was just lying
there,” the man in the vest said. “What the Hell should we do—eat it?”
Officer Burnett
shrugged. “Bag it and take it in.”
--From THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK
--From THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK
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