he’s screwing Helen instead.
Go for it, Helen.
“So how did you meet Jeremy?”
“I had an appendectomy. We met in the hospital. I have a scar right here.” I make a motion with my hand.
“Couldn’t be,” she says.
“That’s what it was.”
“It’s on the wrong side. An appendectomy scar would be on your right side.” She smiles at me, having won a point.
I ponder this information. “Maybe my appendix was on the wrong side. It wouldn’t be the first time I was backwards in some way.”
“I don’t think so.”
I reveal the scar to her, careful not to show any of the other nice marks.
“That’s a jagged cut. Not surgical, unless your surgeon was drunk. Looks like a wound.”
I’m really stumped. The rest of the interview is a waste.
She gives up and hands me a free packet of Prozac. “What did you do to your face?”
“I have a rash.”
Helen makes an appointment for me in a week. On the way out, I ditch the Prozac.
While stewing about my famous scar and its being on the wrong side, I begin to whack things off my list. The first order of business is the bank. I use my Elizabeth Boone IDs to withdraw the whole pile of money from my account. Ben has a way of getting to things. And after last weekend, I have a suspicion that Ben isn’t going to let me go anywhere if he can help it.
I have them put the lump sum in a bank check. Then I jump into my Porsche again and tool down to South Philly, averaging about ninety. I swing into the first bank I see and cash the check, having them put it in small bills. At the next bank, I keep five thousand out and dump the rest in a safety deposit box. I check the card Bob gave me and ask directions.
It’s in one of the seediest neighborhoods I’ve been to for a long time. I walk in. Shopping in gun stores is like eating at McDonald’s. You begin to feel at home. I take my time, asking lots of questions like some dumb chick. Then I reach in my purse and flash a big wad of bills.
“Uzi?” I say. “With all the extras.”
The gun guy’s an Asian man in his late sixties, I’d say. He has a heavy accent. “You cop?”
“Would a cop have a face looking like this?”
He frowns.
“It’s my boyfriend.” I begin to sniffle. “He threatened to kill me.” I show him a couple welts.
He shakes his head, waves his hands, and starts talking to me in his native dialect. I think he’s giving me a lecture.
“One week,” he says. “You come back.”
I bite my lip, wondering if it’s a setup. But what would be worse, Ben or the cops?
“Okay,” I say, turning to leave. Then I have a brilliant idea. As a matter of fact, given the present circumstances, I think it rates as one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.
“Fake IDs.” I drop a fifty on the counter. “I need to blow town.” He sits staring at me, his face unreadable.
Just as I’m thinking I should make a quick exit before he calls the cops, he writes out an address on a scrap of paper. I check the address and see that the place is just a block away. I thank him as I back out the door.
But I have to make another stop first. So I cruise the neighborhood until I find a beauty shop with bars over the windows and door. Inside, one whole wall has row upon row of fake heads with wigs. It looks like a night at the symphony.
Mandy and me found a wig and a toupee in a Dumpster behind the Beauty Box in town. It appeared as though some couple had to arrive in tandem to get their retreads. We tied the toupee to a string and hung it from a tree branch like it was a spider, and we used the wig at night when Vin, me, and Mandy did séances sitting by the river in the dark.
At night the river swells and grows in power, getting you to feel like you should just give up, lie down, and let it drag you off . It can throw up a thick fog or thin-layered mists. I’d lie awake in the two-room, hearing its low thunder, its wearing down the banks.
When I was little, sometimes I’d scare myself listening
Go for it, Helen.
“So how did you meet Jeremy?”
“I had an appendectomy. We met in the hospital. I have a scar right here.” I make a motion with my hand.
“Couldn’t be,” she says.
“That’s what it was.”
“It’s on the wrong side. An appendectomy scar would be on your right side.” She smiles at me, having won a point.
I ponder this information. “Maybe my appendix was on the wrong side. It wouldn’t be the first time I was backwards in some way.”
“I don’t think so.”
I reveal the scar to her, careful not to show any of the other nice marks.
“That’s a jagged cut. Not surgical, unless your surgeon was drunk. Looks like a wound.”
I’m really stumped. The rest of the interview is a waste.
She gives up and hands me a free packet of Prozac. “What did you do to your face?”
“I have a rash.”
Helen makes an appointment for me in a week. On the way out, I ditch the Prozac.
While stewing about my famous scar and its being on the wrong side, I begin to whack things off my list. The first order of business is the bank. I use my Elizabeth Boone IDs to withdraw the whole pile of money from my account. Ben has a way of getting to things. And after last weekend, I have a suspicion that Ben isn’t going to let me go anywhere if he can help it.
I have them put the lump sum in a bank check. Then I jump into my Porsche again and tool down to South Philly, averaging about ninety. I swing into the first bank I see and cash the check, having them put it in small bills. At the next bank, I keep five thousand out and dump the rest in a safety deposit box. I check the card Bob gave me and ask directions.
It’s in one of the seediest neighborhoods I’ve been to for a long time. I walk in. Shopping in gun stores is like eating at McDonald’s. You begin to feel at home. I take my time, asking lots of questions like some dumb chick. Then I reach in my purse and flash a big wad of bills.
“Uzi?” I say. “With all the extras.”
The gun guy’s an Asian man in his late sixties, I’d say. He has a heavy accent. “You cop?”
“Would a cop have a face looking like this?”
He frowns.
“It’s my boyfriend.” I begin to sniffle. “He threatened to kill me.” I show him a couple welts.
He shakes his head, waves his hands, and starts talking to me in his native dialect. I think he’s giving me a lecture.
“One week,” he says. “You come back.”
I bite my lip, wondering if it’s a setup. But what would be worse, Ben or the cops?
“Okay,” I say, turning to leave. Then I have a brilliant idea. As a matter of fact, given the present circumstances, I think it rates as one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.
“Fake IDs.” I drop a fifty on the counter. “I need to blow town.” He sits staring at me, his face unreadable.
Just as I’m thinking I should make a quick exit before he calls the cops, he writes out an address on a scrap of paper. I check the address and see that the place is just a block away. I thank him as I back out the door.
But I have to make another stop first. So I cruise the neighborhood until I find a beauty shop with bars over the windows and door. Inside, one whole wall has row upon row of fake heads with wigs. It looks like a night at the symphony.
Mandy and me found a wig and a toupee in a Dumpster behind the Beauty Box in town. It appeared as though some couple had to arrive in tandem to get their retreads. We tied the toupee to a string and hung it from a tree branch like it was a spider, and we used the wig at night when Vin, me, and Mandy did séances sitting by the river in the dark.
At night the river swells and grows in power, getting you to feel like you should just give up, lie down, and let it drag you off . It can throw up a thick fog or thin-layered mists. I’d lie awake in the two-room, hearing its low thunder, its wearing down the banks.
When I was little, sometimes I’d scare myself listening
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