Page 17 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

When we finally make our way to the front of the line, Adam places himself directly in front of the attendant. It’s a power move. I’ll handle this, his stance commands. “I’m here to pick up a car. An SUV.”

“Oh, yeah?” The large man shifts on his stool. His face is the kind that looks permanently tired, as though he’s too far in sleep debt from the daily grind to ever dig himself out. Those sleepy eyes are fixed to the clipboard he’s scrawling on.

“It’s an SUV.” Adam lifts the key fob as Exhibit A, but the attendant doesn’t so much as blink. “It’s…uh…black or dark blue, maybe.”

I push him aside with my hip. “It’s a navy blue Acura. License plate number six seven two YKX. And it’s one of those specialty state park plates.” I hold up the picture of the plate displayed on my phone, but the attendant doesn’t budge. “If that helps you find it.”

Adam removes a money clip from his coat pocket and slaps Samuel Lewis’s driver’s license on the counter. “If that helps.”

Finally, the attendant flips through the pages of the clipboard and walks away.

“You have a picture of his license plate on your phone?” Adam says. His posture suggests he’s accusing me of something, but of what? I’m not sure.

“I emailed it to my landlady so she wouldn’t have Sam towed. Why do you have his ID?” I accuse him right back.

“It was in his personal effects.”

The cold formality of personal effects stops me in my tracks. “You mean from the morgue?” My voice is the angry whisper of an unwitting accomplice.

“Of course not! What is wrong with you? His wallet was in his luggage in the rental car. His parents had it all sent to the apartment.”

“Then just say it was in the apartment. Personal effects sounds so creepy.”

The attendant returns with a yellow receipt. “That will be three hundred twenty-two dollars and fifty-six cents. We take cash or checks. As soon as you pay, I can release the car to the registered owner…” He glances down at the receipt. “Samuel Lewis.”

Adam pulls out a worn leather checkbook like an elderly person paying for groceries, writes it out in barely legible scrawl, and hands it over. The attendant studies Adam’s check. Then the two of us. Finally, the driver’s license. “Neither of you are Samuel Lewis.”

“That’s the ID for Samuel Lewis.” Adam points to the card in the attendant’s hand.

“But it’s not your ID. You’re not Samuel Lewis. Based on the check, I’m guessing you’re Adam Berg. I can only release the car to Samuel Lewis.”

Adam rubs a hand over the back of his neck until he makes a decisive move for his pocket. “You have the money. We have the right ID. What if you show us to the car and look the other way on the names?” Adam slyly pushes a bill toward the attendant. He’s expertly smooth, until he removes his large hand, revealing a ten-dollar bill.

The attendant snorts. Pointing to a sign under the canopy, he tells us, “Each day Samuel Lewis leaves his car here earns him a fifty-dollar fee.”

“This is ridiculous,” Adam argues, raking a hand through his hair. “It didn’t even snow!”

The attendant’s brows form a sharp V. “Kid, I don’t handle the weather. I just tow the cars.”

A truly idiotic idea pops into my brain, and I blurt, “Can I pick it up if I’m Samuel’s wife?”

I can feel Adam’s eyeballs burning a hole in the side of my face.

The attendant tilts his head. “Are you Samuel’s wife?”

“Yes.” My frozen feet stumble closer to the counter. “But I kept my last name,” I add, in case he checks my ID.

“Do you have a marriage license with you?”

I reach into my leather crossbody, as if a marriage license for me and my ex-boyfriend will appear inside like a divine miracle from the towing gods. “Do married people carry around their marriage licenses?”

“Married people don’t ask that question.” His eyes flit up, victorious, and then back to the clipboard.

He pushes back the check, driver’s license, and paltry bribe and shoos us from his counter.

“Can you give us a second?” I pull Adam by the arm out of the attendant’s earshot.

Adam angles his mouth down and murmurs directly into my ear, his hot breath moving strands of my hair. “So you’re a widow now? My condolences.”

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