a patch of grass in the shadow of a red brick building, a little gabled house that didn’t match the elegant, monumental buildings that made up the rest of the campus. This house was the oldest building on campus, a remnant dating back almost two hundred years to when these were the grounds not of a university but of the Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum. Now called Buell Hall, the building once was home, depending on who you asked, either to the asylum’s warden or to his wealthiest male patients. Maybe both. No one wanted to knock the thing down, but somehow, except for a few French classes that had nowhere else to meet, no one much went there either. We sat in the shadow of one of its eaves. The nearest person I could see was a brawny Hispanic man sitting well out of earshot, eating his lunch under a tree.
“So,” Julie said. “The story.” She raised her gloved hand. “Six weeks in a cast, three weeks of physical therapy, seven pins in there holding it together, and this is the best they could do.” With her left hand she pulled open two Velcro straps, one at the wrist and one across the palm. She tugged the glove off, roughly enough that I winced. The hand under it was a motley pink and white from all the scar tissue and the fingers were bent at wrong angles. Her fingernails, I noticed, though trimmed short, had a coat of polish on them, a dark plum color. “Lovely, no? You’d like to get a handjob with that beauty, wouldn’t you.”
She flexed the fingers. They moved, but not very far.
“That’s me making a fist,” she said. “I’ve got to do it fifty times a day. Hurts like a bitch. But I’m a good girl, I am, and I does what the doctor tells me.” Her accent had gone up an octave and taken on a cockney flavor. She stared at me. “Christ, what’s it take to get a laugh out of you?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t find it very funny.”
“Yeah, me neither. But you laugh or you cry, right? And I’ve done all the crying I’m going to.”
“So who did that to you?”
“Di told you what happened, right? Big guy, name’s Miklos, known to all and sundry in the business as E.T. You know, like the little monster in the movie, ‘cause he’s got these fingers—”
“Right,” I said, “I get it, E.T., with the fingers. But who put him up to it and why?”
She took a long pull on her cigarette. It was almost down to the butt. “What makes you think someone did?”
“That’s his job, isn’t it? Doing strongarm work for the Mob?”
She shrugged. “If you believe him.”
“You don’t?”
“Will it surprise you to learn, Mr. Blake, that the men who hire women like us to jerk them off sometimes lie about what they do for a living?”
“Di said Dorrie—Cassandra—asked him why he attacked you, and he said ‘She knows why.’ Meaning you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I think you were unconscious.”
“And thank god for small favors,” Julie said. “She knows why. Well what if I told you I don’t.”
“I’d say you were lying to me.”
She raised her bad hand to me again and the fingers bent inward by a fraction. “That’s me giving you the finger.”
I didn’t smile.
“Ah—come on,” she said, “that was funny. Don’t tell me it wasn’t.”
“Why’d he do it, Julie? It’s important.”
“Why’d he do it. He did it to Teach Me A Lesson.” Her hands went up as if to frame her words but only on her left hand did the first two fingers curl downwards. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said, “I can’t even make proper air quotes anymore.”
“What lesson?” I said.
“Thou shalt not steal, you might call it.”
“Why? What did you steal?”
Instead of answering, Julie stubbed out her cigarette and bent forward, the fabric of her t-shirt stretching from the weight of her breasts. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
She was more than just pretty. She had some of the same quality Dorrie had had. But I didn’t know what she was getting
“So,” Julie said. “The story.” She raised her gloved hand. “Six weeks in a cast, three weeks of physical therapy, seven pins in there holding it together, and this is the best they could do.” With her left hand she pulled open two Velcro straps, one at the wrist and one across the palm. She tugged the glove off, roughly enough that I winced. The hand under it was a motley pink and white from all the scar tissue and the fingers were bent at wrong angles. Her fingernails, I noticed, though trimmed short, had a coat of polish on them, a dark plum color. “Lovely, no? You’d like to get a handjob with that beauty, wouldn’t you.”
She flexed the fingers. They moved, but not very far.
“That’s me making a fist,” she said. “I’ve got to do it fifty times a day. Hurts like a bitch. But I’m a good girl, I am, and I does what the doctor tells me.” Her accent had gone up an octave and taken on a cockney flavor. She stared at me. “Christ, what’s it take to get a laugh out of you?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just don’t find it very funny.”
“Yeah, me neither. But you laugh or you cry, right? And I’ve done all the crying I’m going to.”
“So who did that to you?”
“Di told you what happened, right? Big guy, name’s Miklos, known to all and sundry in the business as E.T. You know, like the little monster in the movie, ‘cause he’s got these fingers—”
“Right,” I said, “I get it, E.T., with the fingers. But who put him up to it and why?”
She took a long pull on her cigarette. It was almost down to the butt. “What makes you think someone did?”
“That’s his job, isn’t it? Doing strongarm work for the Mob?”
She shrugged. “If you believe him.”
“You don’t?”
“Will it surprise you to learn, Mr. Blake, that the men who hire women like us to jerk them off sometimes lie about what they do for a living?”
“Di said Dorrie—Cassandra—asked him why he attacked you, and he said ‘She knows why.’ Meaning you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I think you were unconscious.”
“And thank god for small favors,” Julie said. “She knows why. Well what if I told you I don’t.”
“I’d say you were lying to me.”
She raised her bad hand to me again and the fingers bent inward by a fraction. “That’s me giving you the finger.”
I didn’t smile.
“Ah—come on,” she said, “that was funny. Don’t tell me it wasn’t.”
“Why’d he do it, Julie? It’s important.”
“Why’d he do it. He did it to Teach Me A Lesson.” Her hands went up as if to frame her words but only on her left hand did the first two fingers curl downwards. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said, “I can’t even make proper air quotes anymore.”
“What lesson?” I said.
“Thou shalt not steal, you might call it.”
“Why? What did you steal?”
Instead of answering, Julie stubbed out her cigarette and bent forward, the fabric of her t-shirt stretching from the weight of her breasts. “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
She was more than just pretty. She had some of the same quality Dorrie had had. But I didn’t know what she was getting
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