roll over. He didn’t budge, despite her efforts: a dead weight.
“Hey, mister?” she said, staring at the still man; he was a well-dressed fellow, wearing khaki slacks and a polo shirt under a cable-knit cardigan. Besides the bloody gash on his head and the blood that oozed in a messy stream from it, his nose was also crusted with old blood. Jaymie, dizzy and a little nauseous, wondered what the heck he had been doing on their summer porch. She glanced up and saw that the door was wide open and hung drunkenly from its hinges, which explained the night air drifting in. In the distance, someone’s dog was barking, which started a chorus of howls from the other dogs in town.
“C’mon, guy, please . . . wake up!” she said again, beginning to shake, and feeling weirdly unreal. Becca was babbling in the background, giving their address and details over the phone.
Jaymie looked up and out toward the backyard again, breathing deeply to quell a rising tide of dizziness; someone had pried the screen door off the hinges and popped the lock on the inside door to break in, and this guy was either the one who’d done it, or had tried to stop someone who did. She didn’t see any tool around that could have been used to do such damage to the door frame. Jaymie settled back on her heels, wondering what to do; was this guy friend or foe? Should she even be trying to revive him? Becca had set Hoppy down, and he came back and sniffed at the man’s loafer-covered feet, then nudged Jaymie’s hand as Denver slunk out to the summer porch and approached them.
“Jaymie, they want to know, is he conscious?” Becca asked, the receiver to her ear.
“No,” Jaymie said, her voice strange and hollow. “He’s . . .” She bent over to look at the man’s face. He was pale, too pale for life, and still, no movement of his chest. “I . . . I think he’s dead,” she said, her heart thudding and her stomach roiling.
“Jaymie, are you okay? Jaymie!” Becca cried, standing at the door with the phone to her ear. “My sister doesn’t look well,” she said to the 911 operator.
Jaymie felt herself sway, and sat down with a thump on the floor, staring at the still figure. “Becca, I’m okay, I just . . .” She retched and coughed.
In another moment Clive Jones, wearing just boxers, strode up the three steps to the summer porch. “Jaymie!” he yelped. “You okay?”
Jaymie looked up, as Becca babbled in the background to the 911 operator. She gazed steadily at Clive’s face, his dark eyes wide, the contrast between his white striped boxers and dark skin stark in the spill of light from the kitchen. “I think so.” She took a deep breath, calmed by his presence, and said, “Yes, I’m fine. But this poor guy isn’t. Clive, is he . . . is he dead? Can you tell?”
Composed as always, Clive immediately knelt down by the fellow, holding one long finger to the carotid artery and compressing lightly. He stilled for a long moment, then looked over at Jaymie. “He’s dead,” he said, his expression somber.
“Should we . . . should we try CPR?” Jaymie asked.
“Let’s try,” he said. “I don’t think there’s much hope, but . . .” He turned the guy over onto his back and began chest compressions, counting out loud. Then he bent over and tried to breathe into the guy’s lungs. When he looked up again, his cheek smeared in blood, he asked, “What happened here? Was this a break-in?”
“I wish I knew,” Jaymie said. She dashed back into the kitchen and got a tea towel, saying, “He was like this when we found him.” Apply pressure to the wound, first aid advertisements always said. She knelt at his side and put her tea towel to his head wound, looking away, trying not to notice the red sopping into the towel.
It seemed obvious. The busted door, the box of broken and spilled teacups and saucers that used to be atop the Hoosier: this guy, or someone else, had broken in to rob them, and the falling box had killed
“Hey, mister?” she said, staring at the still man; he was a well-dressed fellow, wearing khaki slacks and a polo shirt under a cable-knit cardigan. Besides the bloody gash on his head and the blood that oozed in a messy stream from it, his nose was also crusted with old blood. Jaymie, dizzy and a little nauseous, wondered what the heck he had been doing on their summer porch. She glanced up and saw that the door was wide open and hung drunkenly from its hinges, which explained the night air drifting in. In the distance, someone’s dog was barking, which started a chorus of howls from the other dogs in town.
“C’mon, guy, please . . . wake up!” she said again, beginning to shake, and feeling weirdly unreal. Becca was babbling in the background, giving their address and details over the phone.
Jaymie looked up and out toward the backyard again, breathing deeply to quell a rising tide of dizziness; someone had pried the screen door off the hinges and popped the lock on the inside door to break in, and this guy was either the one who’d done it, or had tried to stop someone who did. She didn’t see any tool around that could have been used to do such damage to the door frame. Jaymie settled back on her heels, wondering what to do; was this guy friend or foe? Should she even be trying to revive him? Becca had set Hoppy down, and he came back and sniffed at the man’s loafer-covered feet, then nudged Jaymie’s hand as Denver slunk out to the summer porch and approached them.
“Jaymie, they want to know, is he conscious?” Becca asked, the receiver to her ear.
“No,” Jaymie said, her voice strange and hollow. “He’s . . .” She bent over to look at the man’s face. He was pale, too pale for life, and still, no movement of his chest. “I . . . I think he’s dead,” she said, her heart thudding and her stomach roiling.
“Jaymie, are you okay? Jaymie!” Becca cried, standing at the door with the phone to her ear. “My sister doesn’t look well,” she said to the 911 operator.
Jaymie felt herself sway, and sat down with a thump on the floor, staring at the still figure. “Becca, I’m okay, I just . . .” She retched and coughed.
In another moment Clive Jones, wearing just boxers, strode up the three steps to the summer porch. “Jaymie!” he yelped. “You okay?”
Jaymie looked up, as Becca babbled in the background to the 911 operator. She gazed steadily at Clive’s face, his dark eyes wide, the contrast between his white striped boxers and dark skin stark in the spill of light from the kitchen. “I think so.” She took a deep breath, calmed by his presence, and said, “Yes, I’m fine. But this poor guy isn’t. Clive, is he . . . is he dead? Can you tell?”
Composed as always, Clive immediately knelt down by the fellow, holding one long finger to the carotid artery and compressing lightly. He stilled for a long moment, then looked over at Jaymie. “He’s dead,” he said, his expression somber.
“Should we . . . should we try CPR?” Jaymie asked.
“Let’s try,” he said. “I don’t think there’s much hope, but . . .” He turned the guy over onto his back and began chest compressions, counting out loud. Then he bent over and tried to breathe into the guy’s lungs. When he looked up again, his cheek smeared in blood, he asked, “What happened here? Was this a break-in?”
“I wish I knew,” Jaymie said. She dashed back into the kitchen and got a tea towel, saying, “He was like this when we found him.” Apply pressure to the wound, first aid advertisements always said. She knelt at his side and put her tea towel to his head wound, looking away, trying not to notice the red sopping into the towel.
It seemed obvious. The busted door, the box of broken and spilled teacups and saucers that used to be atop the Hoosier: this guy, or someone else, had broken in to rob them, and the falling box had killed
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