William Heyen, Old Flame (short story)

It had been a long hard shift for officer Ed James—two domestic violence situations, mall vandalism, robbery investigation, a fatal accident. But now, at three in the morning, he was in his own car & heading home along the William Floyd on Long Island’s east end, unwinding as he sailed along. This was mid-summer, but there had been rain earlier that day, and now patches of fog seemed to part for him as he got closer to his exit at Whiskey Road, closer to Mary & their two kids who would be asleep as he quietly let himself in & got to bed. Mortgage, car payment, orthodontal work for Beth, Eddie Jr. would need new hockey equipment soon again, maybe the homeowner’s policy would pay for the busted sliding glass door between kitchen & deck but what was the deductible? Twelve years he’d been a cop & they were just staying even while college costs were going up ten percent a year & how could he & Mary afford this when the time came?… His thoughts drifted back to high school, the girlfriend of his senior year…. He had the vague sense of a car in front of him, or maybe a van, leaving a wake in fog that closed between them. He slowed down. His lights banked against swirls of grayblue, & then, all at once, the air was filled with floating objects that seemed to be pink & blue & gray scarves wisping against his windshield & away, one catching in his aerial, others, as he slowed to a stop on the highway’s shoulder, settling around his car. Officer James got out, bent over, picked up what he realized was a nightgown, gathered dozens of slips & panties & bras from the highway behind him & ahead of him for fifty yards. There he was, alone in moonlight that shone down on him through sweeps of fog as he filled his arms with expensive new negligees, & a story he wondered how he’d tell to Mary.