“In the summer of 1987, my husband and I sold our house in the Catskills and
rented a truck to move our furniture back to Iowa. We set out midafternoon
in separate vehicles, and for some reason it didn’t cross our minds to
make a meeting arrangement.
“I drove down Route 87 toward Interstate 80, where I pulled over
for a short nap. Later, I bought gas, craning my neck toward the highway in
hopes of spotting my husband in the truck. Passing State Patrol
Headquarters, it occurred to me to ask their advice. I explained
what had happened, and also that I had all our cash with me. Where did we want
to meet? I suggested a restaurant we’d stopped at before.
“Sometime later, at dusk, my husband heard a siren; a motorcycle patrolman pulled
him over. Keeping a straight face, the patrolman leaned in the window and asked, ‘Got
any money?’ Thinking the patrolman maybe wanted a bribe, my husband looked
in his wallet, then his pockets. No cash. He was visibly dumbfounded.
“‘She’ll meet you at the Howard Johnson’s in Emlenton,’ said
the patrolman. Then they laughed.”
