“Ralph's mother was upset,” Garp said; he hoped that would be enough, but the rejected lover in the police car started to laugh. The policeman with the flashlight shone his light on the lover boy and asked Garp if he knew him. Garp thought: There is no end to this in sight.
“My name is Garp,” Garp said, irritably. “T. S. Garp. I am married. I have two children. One of them—this one, named Duncan, the older—was spending the night with a friend. I was convinced that this friend's mother was unfit to look after my son. I went to the house and took my son home. Or, I'm still trying to get home.
“That boy,” Garp said, pointing to the police car, “was visiting the mother of the friend of my son when I arrived. The mother wanted the boy to leave—that boy,” Garp said, again pointing at the kid in the police car, “and he left.”
“What is this mother's name?” a policeman asked; he was trying to write everything down in a giant pad. After a polite silence, the policeman looked up at Garp.
“Duncan?” Garp asked his son. “What is Ralph's name?”
“Well, it's being changed,” Duncan said. “He used to have his father's name, but his mother's trying to get it changed.”
“Yes, but what is his father's name?” Garp asked. “Ralph,” Duncan said. Garp shut his eyes.
“Ralph Ralph?” the policeman with the pad said.
“No, Duncan, please think,” Garp said. “Ralph's last name is what?”
“Well, I think that's the name being changed,” Duncan said.
“Duncan, what is it being changed from?” Garp asked.
“You could ask Ralph,” Duncan suggested. Garp wanted to scream.
“Did you say your name was Garp?” one of the policemen asked.
“Yes,” Garp admitted.
“And the initials are T. S.?” the policeman asked. Garp knew what would happen next; he felt very tired.
“Yes, T. S.,” he said. “Just T. S.”
“Hey, Tough Shit!” howled the kid in the car, falling back in the seat, swooning with laughter.
“What does the first initial stand for, Mr. Garp?” the policeman asked. “Nothing,” Garp said.
“Nothing?” the policeman said.
“They're just initials,” Garp said. “They're all my mother gave me.”
“Your first name is T?” the policeman asked.
“People call me Garp,” Garp said.
“What a story, man!” cried the boy in the caftan, but the policeman nearest the squad car rapped on the roof at him.
“You put your dirty feet on that seat again, sonny,” he said, “and I'll have you licking the crud off.”
“Garp?” said the policeman interviewing Garp. “I know who you are!” he cried suddenly. Garp felt very anxious. “You're the one who got that molester in that park!”
“Yes!” said Garp. “That was me. But it wasn't here, and it was years ago.”
“I remember it as if it were yesterday,” the policeman said.
“What's this?” the other policeman asked.
“You're too young,” the cop told him. “This is man named Garp who grabbed that molester in that park—where was it? That child molester, that's who it was. And what was it you did?” he asked Garp, curiously. “I mean, there was something funny, wasn't there?”
“Funny?” said Garp.
“For a living,” the policeman said. “What did you do for a living?”
“I'm a writer,” Garp said.
“Oh, yeah,” the policeman remembered. “Are you still a writer?”
“Yes,” Garp confessed. He knew, at least, that he wasn't a marriage counselor.
“Well, I'll be,” the policeman said, but something was still bothering him; Garp could tell something was wrong.
“I had a beard then,” Garp offered.
“That's it!” the policeman cried. “And you've shaved it or”
“Right,” said Garp.
The policemen had a conference in the red glow of the taillights of the squad car. They decided to give Garp and Duncan a ride home, but they said Garp would still have to show them some information regarding his identity.
“I just don't recognize you—from the pictures—without the beard,” the older policeman said.
“Well, it was years ago,” Garp said, sadly, “and in another town.”
Garp felt uneasy that the young man in the caftan would get to see the house the Garps lived in. Garp imagined the young man would show up one day, asking for something.
“You remember me?” the kid asked Duncan.
“I don't think so,” Duncan said, politely.
“Well, you were almost asleep,” the boy admitted. To Garp he said, “You're too uptight about children, man. Children make it just fine. This your only child?”
“No, I have another one,” Garp said.
“Man, you ought to have a dozen other ones,” the boy said. “Then maybe you wouldn't get so uptight about just one, you know?” This sounded to Garp like what his mother called the Percy Theory of Children.
“Take your next left,” Garp told the policeman who was driving, “then a right, and it's on the corner.” The other policeman handed Duncan a lollipop.
“Thank you,” Duncan said.
“What about me?” the kid in the caftan asked. “I like lollipops.” The policeman glared; when he turned his back, Duncan gave the kid his lollipop. Duncan was no fan of lollipops, he never had been.
“Thank you,” the boy whispered. “You see, man?” he said to Garp. “Kids are just beautiful.”
So is Helen, Garp tbought—in the doorway with the light behind her. Her blue, floor-length robe had a high, roll-up collar; Helen had the collar turned up as if she were cold. She also had her glasses on, so that Garp knew she'd been watching for them.
“Man,” whispered the kid in the caftan, elbowing Garp as he got out of the car. “What's that lovely lady like when she gets her glasses off?”
“Mom! We got arrested,” Duncan called to Helen. The squad car waited at the curb for Garp to get his identification.
“We did not get arrested,” Garp said. “We got a ride, Duncan. Everything's fine,” he said angrily, to Helen. He ran upstairs to find his wallet among his clothes.
“Is that how you went out?” Helen called after him. “Dressed like that?”
“The police thought he was kidnapping me,” Duncan said.
“Did they come to the house?” Helen asked him.
“No, Dad was carrying me home,” Duncan said. “Boy, is Dad weird.”
Garp thundered down the stairs and ran out the door. “A case of mistaken identity,” Garp muttered to Helen. “They must have been looking for someone else. For God's sake, don't get upset.”
“I'm not upset,” Helen said, sharply.
Garp showed the police his identification.
“Well, I'll be,” the older policeman said. “It is just T. S., isn't it? I suppose it's easier that way.”
“Sometimes it isn't,” Garp said.
As the police car was leaving, the kid called out to Garp. “You're not a bad guy, man, if you'd just learn to relax!”
Garp's impression of Helen's body, lean and tense and shivering in the blue robe, did not relax him. Duncan was wide-awake and jabbering: he was hungry, too. So was Garp. In the pre-dawn kitchen, Helen coolly watched them eat. Duncan told the plot of a long TV movie: Garp suspected that it was actually two movies, and Duncan had fallen asleep before one was over and woken up after the other one had begun. He tried to imagine where and when Mrs. Ralph's activities fitted into Duncan's movies.