Free Pitch Dark by RENATA ADLER Page A

rental agency’s sticker on the rear window of my car. His eyes narrow, and he says, Is that a rental car? I say it is. He says, very slowly, Rental cars have insurance, and asks to see my insurance form. I say I haven’t one, just the rental agreement, and start to look for it in my purse. Still trusting, I say, I guess I ought to see your driver’s license then, we ought to exchange them. He says, There’s no need. It’s nothing. Fortunately there’s no harm, fortunately. He looks at my car, says, I just don’t want them coming after me. I find the rental agreement. He takes it, says, I’ll just be a minute, show this to the agent, for his advice. Then, he walks rapidly away.
    Time passes. I don’t know where he has gone. By agent, for some reason, I think he meant a news agent, and from his allusion to advice, I assume the news agent is some sort of worldly friend. More time. He does not return. I park my car in a better spot, further from the curve. The town, it occurs to me, is absolutely still. I look for the news dealer, find him, ask where the truck driver might have gone. The man is oddly evasive at first, seems to know nothing about the truck, the driver, or the events, for that matter, which have just taken place, in that stillness, on a curve just a few yards from his door. He waits. Suddenly, he says, Perhaps he’s gone to the police station. I ask where that is. And though the street is the only one in town, and though it has on each side at most ten small buildings, either he, and the other people in his shop, and two people I subsequently ask are incapable of giving directions, or I am too rattled and obtuse to follow them, but I cannot find the police station. More time. I walk more slowly. I notice a doorway over which there is a small blue porcelain medallion, lettered, perhaps in Gaelic. The windows are dark. The door is locked; it has no handle; and when I knock there’s no reply. Twenty more minutes. I’ve walked the length of the town, several times, returning always to the truck. I wonder how I’m going to manage without my rental agreement, but I give up. I start to walk, again, toward my car, when the truck driver comes out of I don’t know which door. Where have you been? I ask, in an almost apologetic voice. He says, I’ve been to the agent, for his advice, it’s all taken care of, there’s no harm done. Although, for some reason, I still don’t altogether distrust him, I say, You know, I’ll need that rental agreement back. He’s been walking toward his truck. He says, It’s all right, I believe the agent has it. And his eyes shift briefly, involuntarily, toward the doorway under the medallion. The door is now slightly open. I walk toward it. The driver turns to follow me, runs. We enter almost at the same moment.
    At the right of the room, which is small and almost completely dark, sits a policeman, writing, by the light of a small lamp, in a huge, lined ledger, at a wooden desk. The back of the room is dark, with, darker still, in outline, what appear to be three chairs. At no moment so far, not at the airport, not when I thought I was lost, not even when I heard the slap of bumper and fender, or in the long wait since, have I felt the slightest rush of adrenaline. Now, for some reason, I’m a little out of breath. The policeman says, It’s all right, ma’am, it’s taken care of. I say, almost accustomed now to not understanding and feeling somehow remiss, Well, officer, how do you mean? He is wearing his helmet, and writing in his ledger. He says, We’ve already rung the rental agency, and they have said they’ll pay. I say, No, don’t you see, I didn’t sign for their insurance. Under the agreement, I’m the one who has to pay. The policeman continues writing, says, It’s all right, ma’am, I’ve spoken to them, and I’m nearly finished. I say, Well, in that case, don’t you see, officer, I’ll need your name, and the driver’s, and a copy of your report.