Myrtle Watkins drove down the darkened two-lane highway in her 1995 Toyota Avalon.
The gnarled fingers on her right hand wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, while two of her left wrapped around a drug-store cigar. The knocking noise grew louder. Thankfully, she was headed to her son Randal’s service shop. She had called him after leaving the Piggly Wiggly.
She inhaled the spicy smoke of the cigar. The cherry on its end blazed, lighting up the interior of the car far more than the faint dashboard lights. The knocking noise stopped. Her sturdy shoulders relaxed a little. Problems. She didn’t like these types of problems. But what was she to do since her Donald passed away? He was far from the best husband, taking to the drink a little more than most. But he kept the bills paid, and she could count on him when trouble called.
She rolled down her window, breathing in the fresh air with scents of pine and fallen leaves. The knocking started again. She shook her head. Randal had better fix this. He wasn’t the man his father was. He could handle problems but fluttered around a little too much in the career department. Partly because of her mothering. She coddled him, Donald used to say.
Myrtle saw it as helping Randal find his path to success and was willing to put her own back into making that happen. Probably took it too far, she thought. She’d delivered his papers when he overslept as a boy. When he was in his 20s, she battled bulls as a rodeo clown for him when he went on fishing trips with his friends. Hell, when he was in his 30s, she let him use her as a teaching partner when he opened that Jiu-Jitsu studio so often, she eventually earned her black belt.
Blue strobe lights broke through the darkness.
“Damn.”
She pulled over. Her lips pulled tight. She butted out the cigar and gripped the steering wheel, her wrinkled knuckles whitening. The knocking noise stopped.
“Good evening, ma’am. Do you know why I stopped you tonight?” the officer asked.
Myrtle leaned into her age, slumping her shoulders for effect.
“Well,” she said quizzically, “I couldn’t have been speeding. I drive like a grandma. Was I going too slow?”
The police officer’s strong jaw relaxed and a smile spread between his cheeks.
“No ma’am. Your speed was fine. I pulled you over because one of your taillights isbroken.”
“Well, sadly, my car is in need of quite a few repairs. I’m on my way to my son’s shop right now. I’ll be sure to add the taillight to the list.” Myrtle turned her head a little to the side and smiled again.
“Where are you coming from?”
“I just went to get my groceries. That’s about the only time I come into the city anymore,” she replied.
“May I have your license and registration, please?”
Myrtle handed him the paperwork and her license.
“Hold tight. I’ll be right back,” he said as he tipped the front of his wide-brimmed hat and returned to his car.
The knocking started again in a frantic cadence. Myrtle turned on the radio and tapped her foot for several minutes until the officer returned.
“Ma’am,” he said, handing her the license and registration back. “Everything is good. You’re free to go. Just gonna let you off with a warning. But also, I’d like to warn you about another matter. I heard on the radio that a robbery happened pretty near the grocery store. Just be careful driving to your son’s shop. Don’t pick up any strangers or stop anywhere. The suspect is still at large.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll be very careful, officer.”
Myrtle watched the police car pull off before she reached into the console ashtray and retrieved her half-smoked cigar.
The knocking started back up.
Myrtle thought again about Randal. He had a bigger problem to solve than she originally thought. The cops knew about the misguided young man in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. This definitely complicated things.
She inhaled her cigar.
That man made a very poor choice today. Not the robbery; Myrtle didn’t care about that.
But picking an old lady putting her groceries in her trunk to carjack—that was a mistake.
Myrtle put the car in drive. The knocking grew louder and much more frantic.
Leanne Edelen | Louisville