Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Page 19

  I spent the next few minutes brushing the tangles from my shoulder-length hair and applying a quick coat of mascara, trying to make myself out in the blur of metal on the wall. Then I headed into the handicap toilet stall to change into a fresh pair of shorts and a clean tank top. It was 5 a.m. and time to hit the road if Dad and I wanted to make it to Wisconsin at a decent hour.

  By the time I returned to the station wagon, Dad had already put away our pillows and sleeping bags.

  “You took so long I could have slept for another half hour. Are you all cleaned up and beautiful now?” he said as I slid into the passenger seat beside him.

  I loved early summer mornings in the Midwest―the way the sun came up out of the ground and seemed to sit on the fields before creeping into the sky. I loved the crisp, cool air and the quietness around us as we drove. Aside from the occasional semi truck, there were no other vehicles in sight. It was like the freeway was a never-ending open road built just for Dad and me.

  I breathed in the air and smiled, excited about the day ahead. Dad and I had decided to take the day off from work, because aside from two jacks, we had sold out of all our tools. Dad wanted to be refreshed and relaxed when he got to his meeting that evening so he could confront Joe about the faulty hydraulic jacks he’d been selling us.

  I’d never been to Madison and couldn’t wait to get there. Dad told me it was a fun town and said if we got there early enough, we would celebrate by renting another room at a Holiday Inn and spending a few hours relaxing before the meeting.

  We were in southern Illinois, just a little more than two hundred miles away, which meant we could get there in time for a late breakfast and have the entire day to ourselves if we hustled.

  “So what do you think, Ingrid?” Dad asked, patting my leg.

  “I think everything’s great,” I said, rolling down my window so I could feel the early morning air rush against my face.

  We sped down the freeway, pushing the Plymouth as fast as it would go. Dad turned on the radio and scanned the selections. He stopped on a country station. As if we had planned it, Willie’s Nelson’s “On the Road Again” started playing.

  Dad turned the volume as loud as it would go and we both began belting out the lyrics. We knew the song by heart. It was like Willie Nelson had written it with us in mind. I tilted my head back against the headrest and hung my arm out the window as we sang, soaking in the moment. This was already turning into a great day.

  We were midway through the last chorus when Dad abruptly turned off the radio. I sat up in my seat and looked over at him. His face was tight and his smile was gone.

  “What’s wrong, Dad? What’s going on?”

  He didn’t answer. But his eyes darted to the rearview mirror. I turned toward the back windshield to see what he was looking at and saw red flashing lights closing in on us. Dad eased up on the gas pedal and steered the car over to the shoulder of the road.

  “What in the hell was I thinking?” he muttered as he turned off the ignition switch.

  I watched the highway patrolman walk toward our car. He was at least six feet tall with thick arms and a broad build that reminded me of a heavyweight boxer. He wore a brown ranger hat that matched his uniform and had on reflective sunglasses that made it impossible to see his eyes.

  Dad rolled down his window.

  “How you doin’ officer?” he asked, flashing a warm smile.

  “Do you know how fast you were going?” the patrolman asked.

  “I know I was going a little fast,” Dad said in an apologetic tone. “We were just trying to get to Wisconsin for a meeting and there were no cars on the road so I guess I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “Seventy-five miles an hour. That’s twenty miles over the speed limit.”

  “Was I really going that fast? I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t realize it.” Dad was smiling and trying to act congenial but I could tell he was nervous. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and his knuckles were turning white.

  “Let me see your driver’s license and registration.”

  Dad pulled his wallet from his back pocket, fumbled for his driver’s license, and handed it to the scowling patrolman.

  “Ingrid, will you look in there and see if you can find the registration for me?” he asked, motioning toward the glove compartment.

  I opened it and frantically began shoving around the mass of papers, knowing intuitively that I wasn’t going to find it.

  Dad turned back to the patrolman.

  “I guess I’m not really sure where the registration is, but the car is registered and we definitely have insurance.” Dad offered him another sincere, apologetic smile.

  “Stay put,” the officer said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Dad watched in the rearview mirror as the patrolman walked back to his car. His hands were still on the steering wheel and I noticed that his right hand was shaking. I had never seen him scared before, and it was scaring me.

  My mind flashed back to our conversation about the arrest warrant in Texas because of the checks his ex-sales guy had bounced. Once Dad explained it, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal to me. He liked to refer to himself as a ‘creative financier’ and often floated checks to get through tough times. He always eventually paid back any checks that bounced. And this time it wasn’t even him who had done the bouncing.

  At least five minutes lapsed. Dad didn’t speak; he just kept glancing at the rear view mirror.

  “Oh shit!” he yelled suddenly. His face had turned chalk-colored. Before I could respond, I saw the patrolman at Dad’s door. Then I saw his gun, pointed only a few inches from Dad’s head.

  "Get your arms in the air and keep your hands where I can see them! And don’t make any sudden moves!”

  We both threw up our arms and kept our bodies frozen. I was too scared to breathe. The cop yanked the car door open with one hand while keeping the gun trained on Dad. He grabbed Dad by his left arm, yanked him out of the car, and pulled him around to the back, where he threw him face down against the trunk.

  I stayed frozen in my seat, watching in what seemed like slow motion as he slammed Dad against the trunk a second time and pulled out handcuffs, which he clamped down on Dad’s wrists. I felt tears streaming down my face and heard a strange howling noise coming from inside me.

  Dad lay bent over the trunk, his face smashed against the steel. The patrolman frisked him and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He spent a minute combing through our tool money, about one thousand three hundred dollars—mostly in tens and twenties.

  “Looks like a lot of money to be carrying around on you,” the patrolman said.

  “What’s this?” he asked seconds later, pulling out an ID card from Dad’s wallet.

  “Jerry Jones, huh? What other names do you go by?”

  "I had that made up as a joke," I heard Dad say, his face still smashed against the trunk.

  “Shut up!” the officer snarled.

  I watched as he pushed Dad toward his patrol car and locked him in the backseat. Then he was at my window.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  "Let me see your driver's license.”

  I couldn’t stop my hand from trembling as I reached for the card. Mascara streamed down the front of my face and smeared as I wiped my eyes.

  The officer grabbed it out of my hand. He stared hard and then laughed.

  “Are you sure this is you?” he sneered as he tossed it back into my lap.

  “So you live in Utah?” he continued, motioning toward my driver’s license.

  I nodded my head.

  “Do you have a way to get back there?”

  “No,” I managed between sobs.

  “Well, we’re probably going to end up extraditing your dad to Texas so I don’t know what we’re going to do with you.”

  He paused for a moment. He frowned, and then spoke.

  “Normally we would impound the car, but si
nce you can drive, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to follow me back to the police station and we can figure out what to do with you from there.”

  A fresh round of sobs had taken over and I was crying too hard to speak. I nodded my head again in response.

  “Sure you’re in a condition to drive?” he asked.

  Another nod.

  The patrolman walked back to his car. I crawled over into Dad’s seat and adjusted it forward as far as it would go. Then I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out behind the squad car. I glanced at the car clock. It read 5:40 a.m.

  I kept my eyes trained on the taillights in front of me, unable to stop crying. The patrolman’s words played over and over in my head.

  Your dad will probably be extradited to Texas, and if he is, I don’t know what we are going to do with you.

  I felt dizzy and too overwhelmed to try to sort through it all. Tight, sharp cramps filled my stomach. I kept thinking of Dad smashed against the trunk and the handcuffs and the way the patrolman shoved him into the back of the squad car. What was going to happen to us?

  We stayed on the freeway for about twenty minutes before exiting and turning into the town of Tampico, Illinois. A large banner with the words “Birthplace of Ronald Reagan” hung across the empty main street.

  I followed the squad car into a large, vacant parking lot. The patrolman stepped out of his vehicle and motioned for me to stop.

  He walked over to my window. “You can leave the car here for now and come with me,” he said.

  I watched him pull Dad out of the car by his arms and followed the two of them across the street to the county jail. We headed into a small room where the sheriff sat leaning back in his chair, waiting to take a look at his prize capture. He reminded me of an overweight bull dog. His broad nose was squished flat against his fat face and he had squinty eyes that were partly covered by thick, droopy eyelids. His gut spilled into his lap and pressed against the buttons on his mud-brown shirt, leaving a gap just above his belly. I wanted to take his badge and stick him with it to wipe the smirk off his face.

  The sheriff looked at Dad, glanced at me, and then turned to the patrolman, who still wore his reflective sunglasses even though the room was dark and windowless.

  "What are we going to do with her?" the sheriff asked, nodding in my direction.

  He and the patrolman talked it over for a minute and decided to call Mom to make sure I hadn’t been kidnapped.

  “I’m not kidnapped,” I said, furious that they even suggested such a thing.

  “We’ll see about that,” the sheriff said. “What’s your mom’s name and phone number?”

  The last thing I needed was for them to call Mom. But the sheriff just glared at me until I told him her name and phone number.

  I watched him punch the numbers into the phone pad with his stubby fingers. I could hear the phone ring four times through the phone receiver before Mom answered.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said, “but we’re just here with your daughter, Ingrid. Jerry Ricks has been arrested and we’re just trying to figure out what the situation is.”

  After talking with Mom for a few minutes, and apparently convinced that I had a right to be with Dad, the sheriff handed me the phone.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said reluctantly.

  I could hear Earl breathing hard, listening to the conversation from the other extension. I wanted to scream for him to get off the phone, that this wasn’t any of his business.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asked.

  I could hear concern and frustration in her voice. I knew she was silently accusing Dad of trouble and I could visualize the self-satisfied smirk on Earl’s face.

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine!” I yelled into the phone. My hand shook as I handed the receiver back to the sheriff.

  He hung up the phone and looked at me for a minute without saying anything.

  “Well,” he said finally, “you are a minor, which means we could put you in foster care. But you’re old enough to look out for yourself, and I’m not yet sure what’s going to happen to your dad so I don’t want to do anything premature.”

  I sucked in some air and stayed frozen, waiting for this man to decide my fate.

  “But I’ll tell you this much. If we end up extraditing your dad to Texas, we’re going to have to find a foster home for you until you can figure out how to get back to Utah.”

  While the sheriff talked, Dad sat silently on a metal folding chair in the corner. Whenever I glanced over at him, he forced his lips into a smile.

  I wanted to smile back, but I couldn’t. I knew he was pretending. And seeing him sitting there in handcuffs and knowing they were about take him away from me and lock him up in some dingy cell had me so rattled and torn up inside I could barely breathe.

  “Well, why don’t you go get him booked,” the sheriff said to the patrolman, who had yet to remove his sunglasses.

  “I still don’t know what we’re going to do with you,” the sheriff added, turning toward me. “Minors aren’t allowed inside the county jail.”

  Dad spoke up. “Ingrid, why don’t you just get a motel room and relax for awhile?”

  He had given me his wallet when we arrived inside the county jail, and the cash was still intact.

  “That’s a good idea,” the sheriff agreed, looking relieved. “Just give us a call to let us know where you’re at, and we’ll keep you informed.”

  I bit my lip to keep from screaming as I watched the patrolman take Dad away. I waited until they were gone before approaching the sheriff.

  “I’m not getting a motel room,” I said, shooting him a look that dared him to challenge me. “I’m not going anywhere without my dad. I’ll just wait in the car.”

  He stared back at me and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Suit yourself. But it might be a long wait.”

  I was crying again when I left the county jail and headed back across the street to the parking lot. It was only 6:45 in the morning, but already the air was hot. I climbed into the car and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, wailing into it. I didn’t want to get cheated out of my summer with Dad. Without school as a buffer, I couldn’t stomach going back home to Mom and Earl. But I certainly didn’t want to get stuck in a foster home. I needed Dad, and I was petrified for him. What if they sent him to Texas? Would he end up going to jail for a long time? There was no way Dad could survive behind bars. He needed his freedom. He’d go crazy.

  I wondered what was going through his mind. I pictured him alone in a dark, dirty cell—wildly pacing back and forth. Dad couldn’t stand to be confined.

  My head felt foggy and my stomach was churning. Maybe I just needed to eat something. I grabbed Dad’s wallet, thick with our tool money, and walked a long block up the hill, where I found an Arby’s. I choked down a breakfast sandwich and then ran to the bathroom to throw it up.

  I didn’t know when I might hear something about Dad, so I hurried back to the car to wait. My head was spinning. Panic shot through me whenever I allowed myself to think about what might happen, so I tried to shut it out of my mind.

  Loneliness swallowed me. I needed someone to talk to and to be with me. I pulled out the orange notebook I still used to record our tool sales and started to write a letter to Heather, telling her about the awful situation. I sobbed as I scribbled down the words. When I finished the letter, I crumpled it up and threw it on the floor.

  It was now 8 a.m. and already the temperature on the bank sign down the street read ninety-five degrees. It was even hotter inside the car. Beads of sweat ran down my forehead, and my legs stuck to the vinyl seat. I didn’t care. I was glad I felt as miserable on the outside as I did on the inside. Without Dad, nothing mattered.

  I cried until the tears wouldn’t come anymore and then walked back to Arby’s so I could use the restroom again. My stomach was in knots and I had terrible diarrhea. When I finished, I bought a Sugar Free Dr Pepper and headed back to th
e car to figure out what to do. I decided my first task was to find Dad.

  I crossed the street and circled the county jailhouse, trying to peek into the foot-wide basement windows. I just needed to see him to make sure he was okay, and then talk to him so I could decide what to do. He would tell me the next step.

  The windows were barred and it was so dark inside I couldn’t see anything. After about a half hour, I returned to the car to wait.

  Time stood still. I turned on the radio and flipped through the stations. Nothing was on. I turned it off, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

  A rapping sound on the car window woke me, and I jumped in my seat. A police officer I hadn’t seen before was standing there. I rubbed my eyes and rolled down the window.

  “Hi,” he said, his eyes taking in my matted, sweaty hair and puffy eyes. The guy looked young; I guessed that he was in his mid-twenties. His voice sounded kind—the first kindness I had heard all day.

  “I have a letter from your dad. He asked if I would deliver it to you.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, grabbing it out of his hands.

  I waited until he left before unfolding the paper, which looked as if it had been ripped out of a school notebook. My hands were trembling so hard I had a difficult time reading Dad’s words.

  Ingrid,

  They are talking about extraditing me to Texas and you are my only hope. They might let me out if I can come up with the money I owe the bank. I need $10,000. I'm including a list of people for you to call to ask for money. But wait until you hear from me again before you do anything.

  Love, Dad

  Listed below his signature were the names and phone numbers of several relatives and friends. Even Mom’s name was on the list.

  I felt like throwing up again as I read over the names. I couldn’t call these people begging for money—particularly when I knew that everyone on the list was struggling just to pay bills and buy groceries. I could just imagine how Mom would react, given that Dad hadn’t paid her the child support he owed her.

  I glanced at the car clock. 10:30 a.m. I wondered if this day would ever end. Then again, maybe it was better if time didn’t pass. I didn’t know if I could handle what the future was going to bring.