“Did you see what happened to Gordon’s truck?” my husband asks as he walks in the door from work.
“No.”
“Someone rammed him sideways. Both doors are badly dented. And he just had the truck painted.”
I make sympathetic noises as we go out to take a look.
“Happened sometime today,” Gordon says. “It was fine this morning.”
I nod and make more sympathetic noises.
“Almost looks like it was hit by a car with bumperettes,” says my husband. “But how could a car hit you sideways like that?”
“Oh!” I say with a hand over my mouth in horror. “I think my car did that.”
Both men stare at me.
“I came home at lunch, left the car in the driveway, and ran into the house. I put the car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake. When I came back out the car was sitting with the front tires against the curb. It must have rolled across the street, hit the truck and then rolled back to our side of the street.”
We examine my car. No damage, but the bumperettes do line up with the dents in the truck doors.
“Well, I did report this to the police,” Gordon says.
We climb into his truck and drive to the nearest police station. The officer, barely containing his grin, holds up his handcuffs.
“You can’t,” I say. “I have children.”
“Oh, don’t worry ma’am,” he says. “We have visiting hours on Sundays.”
DARLENE JONES 