curves, the old car still hanging tough around the corners, then bounce bounce bounce , Alhambra avoided the trees growing smack in the middle of the throughway, sharp right. “Home.”
“Hardly a spot on your brocade.” Gina’s sweater was soaked through with great splotches of blood—head wounds always bled like some animal had been gutted—she dropped it on the porch.
Alhambra picked it up. “No need to advertise to the neighbors that you’re a thug. I’ll wash this.” She looked at Gina’s bloody clothes. “Gah. Take them all off. They’ll get stiff and sticky if you don’t.”
Gina stripped on the porch, head tilted back, palm cupped over her eye. “This could be so romantic. But instead, how about you gimme some dope, like right now? Like even before I enter your Spanish palace?”
Alhambra wrapped Gina in a huge blanket, pushed her inside and onto the couch. “Here.”
“Yum.” Bright light, hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, scissors, tape, gauze—“Thread and needle? Get away!”
“Shhh. That’s just part of the kit, darlin, you aren’t gettin the full treatment this time. Just gonna clean here and here.”
“Ow. I would be stoic, but then you won’t give me any more drugs. Ooooh owwww.”
“Shit. Stop howlin. I need ta see if your eyeball is squished.”
Gina tried to sit up, “My eyeball ain’t just squished, I heard it crack like it was a egg!” She wondered how it would be to live one-eyed.
“It looks like his ring cut your eyelid. But your eyeball isn’t scratched or cracked or anythin.” Alhambra stepped back, smiling. “Gonna hava shinerrr.”
“Crap. Come to the country. Be bucolic. Frolic. Man, this sucks.”
Alhambra fixed a gauze patch over Gina’s eye, handed her a package of frozen peas to put on her cheekbone, and set the kettle on the stove.
Gina lay back with her eyes closed. Half-dreaming, she heard the sound of chopping, then wood hitting the slate floor with a clonk , crunkle of paper, skritch of match, whomp of a fire starting—the smell of pitch pine and oak, the flicker on her eyelids of orange dancers, the whistle of the kettle. Peppermint ginger tea. Something gritty slid through her mind about rural livin bullshit and how it just ain’t true, but she let it drift away. “I miss you sometimes in the city, yunno? I got a friend, he been on the streets now for I dunno how many years, but even with him, I don’t see that reflection of who I am—like I see in your eyes.” She muttered, “Lonely.”
“You needa learn to be gentle with yourself.”
“Gentle? No.” Gina shifted, grunting. “Oh. Right. You can say that now cause you’re the medicine woman of the woods. Livin clean. Chop wood, carry water.” She took a gulp of tea. Gina thought she heard monsters roaring in the distance. “What the hell is that big noise?”
Alhambra laughed. “It’s the river! Cool, huh?”
“Not cool. Wheelchair perverts anda howlin river. And you. I mean, you gotta cowboy hat now. A full medical kit. A rifle?”
“No rifle. Just an old Ruger with the numbers filed off. It was a gift, because it’s a classic, like me.”
“What?”
“That’s what the guy said. I wasn’t all that pleased with the man, but the gun is sweet.”
Gina growled, “Convicts like us can’t have guns, Karen. Can’t have dope. Can’t do medical stuff. We aren’t allowed to protect ourselves. Not even if there’s wolves at the door. Monsters in the woods. Once a convict, always a criminal.”
Alhambra laughed, “There’s no monsters in these woods.”
“Ha. What you gotta gun for? What the hell you doin up here?”
“Safe haven, Gina. That’s all. Sanctuary.”
“Dayam. Sanctuary?”
Alhambra put her hand on Gina’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, that guy you clobbered isn’t a gimp. He uses the wheelchair as a prop so people give him money. Dude’s not even poor. His daddy’s in grapes and development. Gonna shut the river down—says
“Hardly a spot on your brocade.” Gina’s sweater was soaked through with great splotches of blood—head wounds always bled like some animal had been gutted—she dropped it on the porch.
Alhambra picked it up. “No need to advertise to the neighbors that you’re a thug. I’ll wash this.” She looked at Gina’s bloody clothes. “Gah. Take them all off. They’ll get stiff and sticky if you don’t.”
Gina stripped on the porch, head tilted back, palm cupped over her eye. “This could be so romantic. But instead, how about you gimme some dope, like right now? Like even before I enter your Spanish palace?”
Alhambra wrapped Gina in a huge blanket, pushed her inside and onto the couch. “Here.”
“Yum.” Bright light, hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, scissors, tape, gauze—“Thread and needle? Get away!”
“Shhh. That’s just part of the kit, darlin, you aren’t gettin the full treatment this time. Just gonna clean here and here.”
“Ow. I would be stoic, but then you won’t give me any more drugs. Ooooh owwww.”
“Shit. Stop howlin. I need ta see if your eyeball is squished.”
Gina tried to sit up, “My eyeball ain’t just squished, I heard it crack like it was a egg!” She wondered how it would be to live one-eyed.
“It looks like his ring cut your eyelid. But your eyeball isn’t scratched or cracked or anythin.” Alhambra stepped back, smiling. “Gonna hava shinerrr.”
“Crap. Come to the country. Be bucolic. Frolic. Man, this sucks.”
Alhambra fixed a gauze patch over Gina’s eye, handed her a package of frozen peas to put on her cheekbone, and set the kettle on the stove.
Gina lay back with her eyes closed. Half-dreaming, she heard the sound of chopping, then wood hitting the slate floor with a clonk , crunkle of paper, skritch of match, whomp of a fire starting—the smell of pitch pine and oak, the flicker on her eyelids of orange dancers, the whistle of the kettle. Peppermint ginger tea. Something gritty slid through her mind about rural livin bullshit and how it just ain’t true, but she let it drift away. “I miss you sometimes in the city, yunno? I got a friend, he been on the streets now for I dunno how many years, but even with him, I don’t see that reflection of who I am—like I see in your eyes.” She muttered, “Lonely.”
“You needa learn to be gentle with yourself.”
“Gentle? No.” Gina shifted, grunting. “Oh. Right. You can say that now cause you’re the medicine woman of the woods. Livin clean. Chop wood, carry water.” She took a gulp of tea. Gina thought she heard monsters roaring in the distance. “What the hell is that big noise?”
Alhambra laughed. “It’s the river! Cool, huh?”
“Not cool. Wheelchair perverts anda howlin river. And you. I mean, you gotta cowboy hat now. A full medical kit. A rifle?”
“No rifle. Just an old Ruger with the numbers filed off. It was a gift, because it’s a classic, like me.”
“What?”
“That’s what the guy said. I wasn’t all that pleased with the man, but the gun is sweet.”
Gina growled, “Convicts like us can’t have guns, Karen. Can’t have dope. Can’t do medical stuff. We aren’t allowed to protect ourselves. Not even if there’s wolves at the door. Monsters in the woods. Once a convict, always a criminal.”
Alhambra laughed, “There’s no monsters in these woods.”
“Ha. What you gotta gun for? What the hell you doin up here?”
“Safe haven, Gina. That’s all. Sanctuary.”
“Dayam. Sanctuary?”
Alhambra put her hand on Gina’s shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, that guy you clobbered isn’t a gimp. He uses the wheelchair as a prop so people give him money. Dude’s not even poor. His daddy’s in grapes and development. Gonna shut the river down—says
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