CONTEST WINNER: A CALL TO DAD by Janet Feldman

Ten years had passed since Josie and Mitch had stolen the old clunker from the packed dirt driveway of the secluded Idaho farmstead.  Josie had thought how stupid these spud farmers were, leaving their keys in their cars because they lived acres away from anyone, believing they were safe from crime.

The car was almost two years old when six drunken teenagers had relocated it, as Sam had put it. Josie had steered the station wagon down the driveway with Mitch, Sam and Bobby pushing until they were far enough away from the house to start the engine. Kitty waited with Jess in his car on the rural paved highway in case a quick getaway was needed.

The dark and rain-saturated sky had provided sufficient cover for the theft to be accomplished without a hitch, and the group of them drove in the two cars to their hidden campsite in the woods. Six drunken teenagers, a stolen vehicle, and someone’s father’s gun was their recipe for a good time. They collected boulders and stacked them behind the car, setting their empty beer cans on the rocks for target practice.

Ten years later the bullet holes, corroded with rust, were a reminder to Mitch of that night. He had become a mechanic and kept the car running, but had always wanted to patch up the bullet holes, not wanting to see the evidence of what they had done. Josie, who made the decisions for them, wanted to keep the holes there. She had no regrets about that night, nor about anything else she had done. Mitch had grown up, but Josie had never matured, and breaking rules was as natural to her at twenty-seven as it had been at seventeen.

Josie lived on the edge, looking for trouble but managing to keep herself from the eye of the storm.  Mitch wondered why he didn’t leave her, but each time he decided to finally do it, he backed down.

“Cops coming,” she announced, as they drove along the boulevard in southern California.

“Where?” asked a startled Mitch.

“Ten o’clock,” said Josie.

Mitch saw the patrol car turning the corner, heading toward them. Even now, after ten years and knowing no one would be looking for the old heap, he still felt a frisson of fear whenever he saw a cop car.

The police drove past them in the opposite direction and Mitch relaxed, but only for a moment.  As he checked his rearview mirror, he saw the patrol car do a u-ey and speed up. The flashing light was now directly behind them. They were caught, thought Mitch. Ten years later and they were going to jail. Beads of sweat began to gather on his forehead.

Mitch glared at Josie. “Just keep your mouth shut and look pretty.”

“Why, you think I’m stupid or something?” she spit back at him. Mitch didn’t answer.

“Hello, officer,” Mitch said, trying to sound amenable and innocent. “I wasn’t speeding, was I?”

“No,” said the cop. “Nothing to worry about. My partner noticed your trailer hitch cord hanging low on your vehicle. You should tie it up so it won’t drag on the street.”

“Thank you,” said a relieved Mitch. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

The cop didn’t leave, but seemed to be looking carefully at the car. He typed something into his phone.

“Um, anything else, officer?” asked Mitch.

“No, not really,” replied the cop. “It’s just that my dad had a wagon identical to this one. I haven’t seen one in a long time. Not many of them on the road now.”

“Well,” said Mitch with pride, “I’m a mechanic, and I’ve been able to keep her running. Had to use my imagination at times, but I expect I’ll get another year or two out of her. Just have to treat her gentle.” The cop eyed his phone again but didn’t move.

“My dad really loved that car,” he said. “He and my mom pinched pennies for years so they could buy it new and keep their payments low. Thing is, someone stole it, right off our driveway back at our farm in Idaho. They never found the car. It caused us no end of troubles, and my father never bought a new car again, ever.”

Josie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Idaho?” she blurted. “Never been there myself.  I heard all that’s there are spud farmers.”

Mitch’s eyes drilled into her, and the sweat now dripped down his face.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” said the policeman. “Enjoy the car while you can, Mitch.”

Officer Larry Cogan walked back to his patrol car, turning once more to look at the car he had stopped.

“What’s wrong, Cogan?” said his partner. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You’re not far off, Joe,” replied Larry. “That car we just stopped used to belong to my dad.  It was less than two years old when it was stolen from the farm.”

“How do you know it’s the same one?” asked Joe. “They must have made hundreds of them.”

“I ran the plates. The owner is a Mitch Elgar. There are lots of Elgars in our county back home. I got the VIN too. I memorized that number years ago, before I ever became a cop. I was just a kid but promised my dad I’d find his car, and now I have.”

“But you don’t know it was these two who stole it,” said Joe.

“It was them alright,” said Larry. “It’s a nice day, right? Sweat was pouring out of the guy, his breath stank from anxiety, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. The girlfriend, trying to be helpful I guess, said Idaho was full of spud farmers. Only people from Idaho say that. Everyone else says potato.

“Too bad you couldn’t arrest them,” stated Joe.

“Nope. The statute of limitations on auto theft in Idaho is five years. I can’t touch them now.”

“We’ll keep an eye on ‘em,” said Joe. “We’ll get them for something. You’ve got them all nervous. How ‘bout we grab some lunch?”

“Sounds good,” said Larry, “right after I make a phone call.”

“Hi, Dad. It’s me. You’ll never guess who I just pulled over. I’m sending you a photo now.”