precinct house in a patrol car, but she sat calmly in the back seat between me and the dozing Stuart Wolff, humming a Sidartha song under her breath.
I was the one who was upset. It was obvious that Officer Lentigo didn’t believe my story. Which was that we were eighteen-year-old New York University students, that we were out on a date with Stu and another guy, that the other guy had gone to get his car, and that we’d taken Stu to the diner to sober him up a little while we waited.
“You know what college guys are like,” I’d joked.
“He looks a little old to be in college,” said Officer Lentigo.
I laughed, indulgently. “He’s doing his master’s in literature.”
Officer Lentigo didn’t so much as crack a smile. “You got any ID?” he asked.
It was then that Officer Grimkin came back with Stu, and Officer Lentigo decided to take us all back to the precinct to call our folks.
The desk sergeant recognized Stu the minute he leaned against the front desk, demanding a drink, under the misapprehension that he’d finally found a bar.
“Hey,” said the sergeant. “I know this guy.” He wagged his pen at Stu. “Aren’t you a singer?”
It was as if – like Sleeping Beauty kissed by the Prince – Stu had been under a spell that had finally been broken. He looked around, blinking in confusion. “What’s going on?”
The sergeant shook his head emphatically. “Yeah, you are a singer.” He looked over at Officers Lentigo and Grimkin. “Janellen’s got pictures of him all over her walls,” he explained.
“Lucky her,” said Officer Grimkin.
“I thought you told me he was a grad student,” Officer Lentigo said to me.
“That, too,” I said.
Perhaps realizing that his fellow officers weren’t as impressed by Janellen’s wall decorations as they might have been, the sergeant became more business-like.
“OK,” he said brusquely. “Let’s have some names, addresses, and telephone numbers.” He pointed his pen at Stu again. “You first.”
“Stuart Harley Wolff,” said Stu immediately. He frowned. “Are we being arrested?”
“Not yet,” said the sergeant. “Address and phone?”
Stu gave him his address and number, and then turned his frown on me and Ella. “Are we together? Who are you?”
The sergeant tapped on the desk with his pen. “I was just about to ask them the same thing.”
Now, I thought, was the moment when Ella would lose it. The moment when she had to put the New York Police Department in touch with Marilyn Gerard. I turned to give her a smile of support, but to my surprise Ella wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at the desk sergeant.
“Ella Gerard, 58 Birch Hollow Road, Dellwood, New Jersey, 201 238 4917,” she said almost regally. You’d think she did this kind of thing all the time.
Then everyone looked at me.
“Lola Cep,” I said. I’d been giving this moment a lot of thought on the drive over; I didn’t hesitate for a nanosecond. The last thing I needed was for the police to wake up Karen Kapok in the middle of the night. Besides, what could my mother do? No one could expect her to drive down in a hurricane with her two little daughters, could they? Tragedy could only result from such a rash action. I was doing her a favour. My father could tell her – later. He isn’t as volatile as my mother. “My father’s address is 311 Second Avenue, Apartment F, 460 5517.”
I felt, rather than saw, Ella’s expression change from one of princessly serenity to cataclysmic horror.
“OK,” said Officer Lentigo. “Why don’t you two take the literature student here, and go sit down while I make some calls.”
I don’t know if it was all the walking in the rain or the sobering effect of being taken in by the cops, but though Stu was kind of dazed, he definitely wasn’t as drunk as he’d been earlier. Walking almost steadily, he followed us to the row of chairs against the wall.
Ella didn’t seem to notice him. Her calm and cool totally gone, she turned on me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “Why did you lie like that? Don’t you think they’re going to find out that your father doesn’t live on Second Avenue?”
Stu tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, obviously struggling to clear his head, “but what’s going on? Who are you two?”
I’d been so absorbed in what was happening, that I’d forgotten Ella thought my father was a road statistic. Stress wreaks havoc with delicate fabrications. That’s one fact of life that I’ve learned. Another is that the best defence is a quick offence.
I ignored Stu, too.
“What’s with you?” I snapped at Ella. “All of a sudden you’re giving your address and phone number to the first policeman who asks for it. How come you’re not afraid of what your parents are going to say?”
“I’m resigned to my fate,” said Ella rather dramatically. She shrugged. “Besides, what’s the use of more lies? They’re going to find out one way or another.” She shrugged again. “At least this’ll be something to tell our grandchildren, won’t it?” She forgot her outrage enough to smile. “The only things my parents will have to tell their grandchildren are their golf handicaps.”
It really had been quite a day. I could hardly believe I was hearing this from Ella Gerard, perfect daughter of perfect parents. Her true soul and spirit were finally beginning to emerge.
Maybe a little too much.
Ella folded her arms in front of her. “So,” she said. “Why did you lie?”
It was time, I could tell, to unleash the truth. I turned my eyes on the rich mix of life that was milling around the front desk while I answered.
“I didn’t lie,” I said quietly as some guy in handcuffs was dragged down the hall. “My father does live on Second Avenue. He has a rent-controlled apartment and a dog named Negus.”
Stu cleared his throat. “Look,” he said, “this is really fascinating, but could one of you please tell me what happened? The last thing I remember is throwing a CD at Steve.” He made a face. “And I only remember that vaguely.”
But Ella was no longer interested in Stu. She leaned close to me. “You told me your father died in a motorcycle accident,” she said very loudly and clearly.
I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “All right,” I gave in. “So I exaggerated a little.”
She almost laughed. “You exaggerated a little? You killed off your own father, and you call that exaggerating a little?” Her Gestapo gaze bored into the side of my head. “What do you call exaggerating a lot?”
“Look,” I said, still trying to avoid direct eye contact. “Can’t we talk about this later? Don’t you think we should tell Stu what happened first?”
The old Ella would have backed down instantly. She would have apologized for being rude and, remembering all the rules about politeness and manners instilled in her by her parents, would have started being helpful to Stu. But the new Ella couldn’t care less.
She shook her head. “I think you should tell me what happened. Why did you say that your father was dead?”
I shrugged. “I had a reason.”
“Well that’s a start,” said Ella. “And what, pray tell, was that?”
Stu’s head moved back and forth between us as though he were watching a tennis match.
Before I could answer, Ella held up a hand. “And don’t tell me you lied because he’s a criminal or was tragically maimed rescuing a baby from a burning building, either,” she warned me. “This time I want the truth.”
“The truth?”
“Yes,” said Ella. “The truth. You do remember what that is, don’t you?”
“Were we in a diner?” asked Stu. “I have this image of old Christmas decorations…”
Ella stopped staring at me. Temporarily. “If you could just hold on a minute,” she said, “I’d be happy to explain. But right now I’m talking to
