Since parents and kids spend so much time together in the car, it makes sense that some meaningful and puzzling exchanges take place on the road between school dismissal and dance class, soccer practice and piano lessons. Since I’m a teacher and writer, my curiosity often gets the best of me, and I find myself asking my daughter a string of questions as she sits idly in the backseat. About a month ago, Poppy told me that her friend Anastasia had said something strange to her while they were on the swings.
“What’d she say?” I asked, trying to pilot my car safely while entering into the world of an eight-year-old girl. I imagined a crisp fall day, students running across the playground, nothing on their minds but the pure joy that comes from being young and innocent and virtually carefree.
“Well,” Poppy began casually. “She said that since there had been a murder in her district and a murder in my district, then we were like twins.”
“What?” I barked and lost control of the car for a minute, almost running over a flock of booze groupies outside Owl Liquors. I had Poppy repeat the story, which she did in a bored way like she was explaining about the time someone found a lost lunchbox near the monkey bars. I recalled that there had been murders in both our areas and even more recently the police had busted up a roving meth lab not two blocks from our house. One of our neighbors brought out a lawn chair and a can of beer and enjoyed the spectacle like he had front row seats to a stage production based on the television show Cops.
“What did Anastasia do after she told you about being twins?” I asked.
Poppy shrugged. “Smiled, I guess.”
As we drove down Agua Fria, I reflected on my choice to raise my children in New Mexico, a state that ranks fairly high on the national crime index. Was my daughter becoming callous to malfeasance or was she oblivious, not fully understanding the grisly reality of violence and the difference between the drugs that kill you and the ones that make you popular in your college dorm.
My internal concerns became manifest in front of me as we approached Alto Street Park, home of the Bicentennial Pool we frequent in the summer. Three police cars, lights a-flashing, clustered around a school zone. I slowed down, realizing that my internal panic had increased my speed well over the posted limit. Like many other adults with a misspent youth, I subconsciously believe that cops can read minds so I tried to think pure thoughts as I passed the gaggle of men in blue.
“Dad,” Poppy said, craning her neck toward the incident. “Why would they arrest a crossing guard?”
“What?” I said stupidly for the second time in a ride that should be shorter than an episode of America’s Most Wanted. I turned right at the next side street, wanting to see this scene for myself. We circled around the pool, now locked up, not eligible for parole until next May. As we crept back toward the lights, frenzied in their oscillation, Poppy repeated her question with a degree of sincerity that offered me a sliver of hope.
“Why would they arrest a crossing guard?”
I know in her mind she thought of the sweet men, employed by her school, who escorted families through the gridlocked nightmare of SUVs piloted by hurried parents yielding soy lattes and cell phones no bigger than a pack of gum. Her innocence was still in tact, even if she was now known around the playground as one of the “murder twins.”
As the man in the orange vest surrendered his portable stop sign to the arresting officer and put his hands behind his back, I thought of the proper response to give to my daughter. Should I list the myriad things this man could be accused of or should I try to delay her fall from grace for as long as possible? The choice was clear.
“It’s probably a case of mistaken identity,” I said and waved nicely to the guard as they ducked his head inside the squad car.