back and forth, until I was no more than a robot with aching feet.
Gradually, from the bits I heard, I understood that there had been some kind of shootout involving the police, but that was all I could learn. I didn't dare seem too interested, and I was so busy I didn't even have time to glance at the paper. It was an exquisitely cruel form of torture, especially for a knowledge junkie like me. I collect information and provide answers for a living. I have a compulsion to know and understand. But today I was Dora the waitress, running her feet off, too busy for even snatches of conversation. Once I caught, "...heard the cop's name was..." And another time I heard, "...expected to recover, but the..." I lingered to listen, but someone called for coffee. And that was all.
Finally, it was that magic time of the morning when people stopped eating breakfast and it was too early for lunch. Around 10:30, a silence suddenly fell over the place. Clyde scraped down his grill and went out onto back porch to smoke. Natty arrived and started, without a greeting to anyone, to work on preparations for lunch. He was followed shortly after by Kalyn, who dropped her pack on the table and said, "Hotter 'n hell out there. Gonna be a scorcher." She'd come on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle and was all pink and windblown.
I got myself a glass of milk, sat down at the table, and put my feet up on a chair. They ached with a throbbing that was almost like a second pulse. I was too tired even to go to the bathroom.
"You see the paper yet?" Theresa asked.
"Been too busy running the Merchantville marathon," I said. "I didn't think there were that many people in the whole town."
"Aren't," she said. "They come from miles around." She shoved the paper at me. "Big story. Something about a state trooper and a shoot-out."
My heart jumped as a surge of anxiety shot through me. Time, other people, and the kitchen all slid away as I grabbed the paper, frantically scanning the words. Anyone in the other room would have to wait. The headline got right to the point and restored my heartbeat. FEMALE TROOPER WOUNDED, MOTORIST DIES, WHEN TRAFFIC STOP TURNS DEADLY. It wasn't Andre, then. But was it Norah? I rushed through the paragraphs. It was Norah, or, as the papers put it, Trooper Norah Kavanaugh, a five-year veteran of the force, twice-decorated daughter of a Connecticut police chief.
According to the story, Norah had been traveling south on Route 4 when she encountered a car being driven erratically. Although she was off-duty and driving an unmarked car, she had called for a trooper to back her up, then mounted a portable light on her car and pulled the driver over. As she approached the driver's window, a man had stepped out of the car with a gun in his hand. When she identified herself as a police officer, he had opened fire. Despite being wounded, Trooper Kavanaugh had managed to draw her own gun and return the fire, killing the shooter. Kavanaugh's injuries were not life-threatening and she was expected to make a full recovery.
I closed the paper and stood up, hoping that my feelingsâa confusing mixture of guilt and reliefâdidn't show. It was my fault that Norah Kavanaugh had been in that place at that time. My fault, in a way, that she had gotten shot. If I already felt rotten, today's news made me feel worse. There had been little in the story about the identity of the man who was shot, pending notification of his family. I looked around the busy room. "Anybody hear anything about the guy that trooper shot?"
Theresa rushed past me and grabbed the coffeepot. "Local kid," she said. "Young guy. Hot-headed moron in love with guns. Came in here sometimes. Always rude. Always in too much of a hurry to bother to use his brain. Now see where it got him." But no name. No description. No comment about his family or connections. Or why he might have pulled a gun on a state trooper.
I nodded, not sure what I was agreeing to. Maybe Clyde
Gradually, from the bits I heard, I understood that there had been some kind of shootout involving the police, but that was all I could learn. I didn't dare seem too interested, and I was so busy I didn't even have time to glance at the paper. It was an exquisitely cruel form of torture, especially for a knowledge junkie like me. I collect information and provide answers for a living. I have a compulsion to know and understand. But today I was Dora the waitress, running her feet off, too busy for even snatches of conversation. Once I caught, "...heard the cop's name was..." And another time I heard, "...expected to recover, but the..." I lingered to listen, but someone called for coffee. And that was all.
Finally, it was that magic time of the morning when people stopped eating breakfast and it was too early for lunch. Around 10:30, a silence suddenly fell over the place. Clyde scraped down his grill and went out onto back porch to smoke. Natty arrived and started, without a greeting to anyone, to work on preparations for lunch. He was followed shortly after by Kalyn, who dropped her pack on the table and said, "Hotter 'n hell out there. Gonna be a scorcher." She'd come on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle and was all pink and windblown.
I got myself a glass of milk, sat down at the table, and put my feet up on a chair. They ached with a throbbing that was almost like a second pulse. I was too tired even to go to the bathroom.
"You see the paper yet?" Theresa asked.
"Been too busy running the Merchantville marathon," I said. "I didn't think there were that many people in the whole town."
"Aren't," she said. "They come from miles around." She shoved the paper at me. "Big story. Something about a state trooper and a shoot-out."
My heart jumped as a surge of anxiety shot through me. Time, other people, and the kitchen all slid away as I grabbed the paper, frantically scanning the words. Anyone in the other room would have to wait. The headline got right to the point and restored my heartbeat. FEMALE TROOPER WOUNDED, MOTORIST DIES, WHEN TRAFFIC STOP TURNS DEADLY. It wasn't Andre, then. But was it Norah? I rushed through the paragraphs. It was Norah, or, as the papers put it, Trooper Norah Kavanaugh, a five-year veteran of the force, twice-decorated daughter of a Connecticut police chief.
According to the story, Norah had been traveling south on Route 4 when she encountered a car being driven erratically. Although she was off-duty and driving an unmarked car, she had called for a trooper to back her up, then mounted a portable light on her car and pulled the driver over. As she approached the driver's window, a man had stepped out of the car with a gun in his hand. When she identified herself as a police officer, he had opened fire. Despite being wounded, Trooper Kavanaugh had managed to draw her own gun and return the fire, killing the shooter. Kavanaugh's injuries were not life-threatening and she was expected to make a full recovery.
I closed the paper and stood up, hoping that my feelingsâa confusing mixture of guilt and reliefâdidn't show. It was my fault that Norah Kavanaugh had been in that place at that time. My fault, in a way, that she had gotten shot. If I already felt rotten, today's news made me feel worse. There had been little in the story about the identity of the man who was shot, pending notification of his family. I looked around the busy room. "Anybody hear anything about the guy that trooper shot?"
Theresa rushed past me and grabbed the coffeepot. "Local kid," she said. "Young guy. Hot-headed moron in love with guns. Came in here sometimes. Always rude. Always in too much of a hurry to bother to use his brain. Now see where it got him." But no name. No description. No comment about his family or connections. Or why he might have pulled a gun on a state trooper.
I nodded, not sure what I was agreeing to. Maybe Clyde
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