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The officer approached the pink 1997 Lincoln Continental, noticing four ladies barely tall enough to ride without child boosters, their hair crowning the seatbacks like white, lace doilies. He tapped twice, “Can you open the window, Ma’am?”
Lowering the electric window halfway, the driver snapped, “What is it, Sonny?” as if he had just interrupted her daily toilet.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
Glaring over the top of her Ben Franklin glasses, she said, “I don’t have the time nor the inclination to play Twenty Questions with you. You’re gonna make us late for our DAR meeting. Nodding her head toward the woman in the passenger seat, she added, “Hattie over here is getting the Octogenarian of the Year Award.”
Hattie stared straight ahead with a smile on her face, the same steady gaze and vacant smile as when the window was first lowered. In her blue paisley dress with a slightly worn silk flower pinned to the bodice, she appeared to be still moving down the highway.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I’ll try to be brief, but when you turned onto Shore Road, there was a stop sign and you didn’t – “
“What’s your name, Sonny?”
“Officer Peterson, Ma’am.”
The woman sitting behind the driver said, “Are you Maura Peterson’s boy? I’m Mrs. Breckinridge; you used to play in my side yard when you still had snots in your nose.”
“No Ma’am, I’m not from around here.”
The driver seized on his words and repeated them slowly as if she were addressing a jury, “Not from around here?” She paused before delivering her verdict, “Then, stop bothering us, Peterson.”
“Can I see your license and registration please, Ma’am?”
“No you may not! Just write our names in that little book of yours, or whatever it is that you do, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Please Ma’am, do you have ID?”
“Stop calling me Ma’am, I’m not your Ma’am. My name is Penelope Banks, Mrs. Banks to you, and I’ve lived in this town since before old man Timken run off with that Presbyterian preacher’s wife. What was his name? Abercrombie or something, I think?
The woman sitting behind Hattie hurried to blow out a cloud of cigarette smoke and jump into the conversation, “His name was Reverend Bacon, and it wasn’t his wife. It was his daughter. She was a wild one, that one.”
“Officer Peterson widened his eyes, “Is that Marijuana your smoking “Ma’am?”
It’s medical Marijuana, Officer. Wanna hit? I’m Nellie, by the way, Nellie Nordman. I live up on the hill near the lighthouse.”
Penelope turned to her friend, “Cool your pits, Nellie, this gentleman ain’t a callin.”
Nellie replied, “Ya never know. Ask him if he’s married, will ya Penny?”
Officer Peterson wrenched his attention back to Penelope Banks, “Ma’’am –“
She glared at him.
“ – I’m sorry, Mrs. Banks, please just show me your license and registration, and you can be on your way. “
“My pocketbook is locked in the trunk with our DAR ribbons … and my Smith and Wesson. I suppose you’ll wanna see that license too? I can make the long trip back there to get it if you want, but first you gotta get my walker out of the trunk. Maybe you want all of us to get out of the car? That will take til a week from Tuesday, if you’re willin to wait. Should I pop the trunk for you, Peterson?”
“No Mrs. Banks, I will just give you a warning this time. Please drive more carefully and don’t go through any more stop signs.” Lowering his head like a curious ostrich, he looked in toward Hattie, “Congratulations on your award, Ma’am.”
She was still smiling.
Mrs. Banks hit the window button and almost clipped Officer Peterson’s nose. He stepped back in surprise, and headed back to his cruiser, mumbling to himself, The guys back at the station aren’t going to believe this.
Penny Banks sped off heading north on Shore Road. Pointing toward the road ahead, she declared, “Girls, we’ll be at the Casino before five.” Jacking her thumb toward Nellie, “You got enough weed for us all?”
