wouldn’t listen to my story.
“Miss, have you seen this man before?”
“Never.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Blondish brown, I guess.”
“Did he have any distinguishing marks?”
“He had a beard. And long hair.”
“Damned hippie,” the cop said.
“Did he look like a hippie, Penny?” Mother asked.
This was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t want them to catch Conor, even though I doubted they could. But if he did appear, he’d probably slice off their heads with one blow. I remembered him slashing and stabbing the earth in his rage. Would Mother and I be somehow responsible for a cop-killing? I had to get them to stop searching. The wilder my story, the sooner they’d call off the search. “He was a Celtic king! Come back to look for his lost wife.”
“A king?” Marone’s eyebrows came together.
“Don’t make up stories,” Mother said.
“I’m not. Ask Deirdre. She’ll tell—”
“Officer Marone, please.” Mother looked up at the cop with a soulful stare. She was using her big eyes to derail my outing of Deirdre. I knew it was bad, if Mother was turning on the charm for a cop. “This isn’t going anywhere.”
The cop was not immune to Mother’s beauty. “Okay,” he said. “That’s enough for now, Penny.”
Mother and I sat in the back of Marone’s squad car, the lights flashing without the siren as he sped through the empty Prairie Bluff streets. The faux gas lamps shone with a meager yellow light. I was too worried to speak to Mother, and the harsh and raspy voice of the dispatcher spewing code numbers and addresses from his radio silenced us both. Everything felt recognizable, but in a TV way: the grating between us and him, the back doors that wouldn’t open. I stared out the window, watching the houses get smaller, from Tudor mansions to split-levels to ranches; the gas lamps changed to ordinary streetlights. When we pulled into the North-bluff Hospital, I felt as if I were entering a movie set: the squares of lit windows, the staff milling about in the parking lot, the boxy ambulance with the doors flung open. Marone let us out of the backseat, then said he’d go and talk to the admitting desk for us. Mother and I followed him in.
The corridor and waiting room were crawling with people. Two little boys ran circles around a pregnant white woman. When I sat down in a vinyl chair, one of them cocked an eyebrow and said, “You don’t look sick.” A woman with pudgy arms and swollen ankles wept in her husband’s arms. He patted her back and said, “We’ll find a way.”
Behind a curtain, a woman screamed, “I just want this needle out of my hand!”
A nurse charged in and yelled, “We have a life-threatening situation here! I’ll have him talk to you when the life-threatening situation is settled!”
But the woman wouldn’t let up. “I want this needle out of my hand right now!”
A Boy Scout hobbled around on crutches, his purple and swollen foot tucked behind him. A baby squalled in his mother’s arms. A man held his stomach and stared up at a bombed Vietnamese village on a corner television. Mother shook her head at the screen, tapping her foot. I scanned the room for Marone. He stood at the front desk, talking to a man in a doctor’s coat. Pushing huge silver-rimmed glasses up his nose, he laughed and patted Marone on the back. He gestured to a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, but Marone shook his head. They both turned and looked at me, and I dropped my head.
A few minutes later, a nurse with a single gray braid called my name and led us into a private examination room. Mother sat down with a clipboard and started to fill out papers the nurse gave her. The nurse had me pee in a cup in an adjacent bathroom. I thought they would put iodine on my cuts, make me say ah! and send me along with an aspirin. Instead, the nurse wrapped a tube around my forearm and told me to pump my fist.
“Gonna draw some blood.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as she stuck
“Miss, have you seen this man before?”
“Never.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Blondish brown, I guess.”
“Did he have any distinguishing marks?”
“He had a beard. And long hair.”
“Damned hippie,” the cop said.
“Did he look like a hippie, Penny?” Mother asked.
This was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t want them to catch Conor, even though I doubted they could. But if he did appear, he’d probably slice off their heads with one blow. I remembered him slashing and stabbing the earth in his rage. Would Mother and I be somehow responsible for a cop-killing? I had to get them to stop searching. The wilder my story, the sooner they’d call off the search. “He was a Celtic king! Come back to look for his lost wife.”
“A king?” Marone’s eyebrows came together.
“Don’t make up stories,” Mother said.
“I’m not. Ask Deirdre. She’ll tell—”
“Officer Marone, please.” Mother looked up at the cop with a soulful stare. She was using her big eyes to derail my outing of Deirdre. I knew it was bad, if Mother was turning on the charm for a cop. “This isn’t going anywhere.”
The cop was not immune to Mother’s beauty. “Okay,” he said. “That’s enough for now, Penny.”
Mother and I sat in the back of Marone’s squad car, the lights flashing without the siren as he sped through the empty Prairie Bluff streets. The faux gas lamps shone with a meager yellow light. I was too worried to speak to Mother, and the harsh and raspy voice of the dispatcher spewing code numbers and addresses from his radio silenced us both. Everything felt recognizable, but in a TV way: the grating between us and him, the back doors that wouldn’t open. I stared out the window, watching the houses get smaller, from Tudor mansions to split-levels to ranches; the gas lamps changed to ordinary streetlights. When we pulled into the North-bluff Hospital, I felt as if I were entering a movie set: the squares of lit windows, the staff milling about in the parking lot, the boxy ambulance with the doors flung open. Marone let us out of the backseat, then said he’d go and talk to the admitting desk for us. Mother and I followed him in.
The corridor and waiting room were crawling with people. Two little boys ran circles around a pregnant white woman. When I sat down in a vinyl chair, one of them cocked an eyebrow and said, “You don’t look sick.” A woman with pudgy arms and swollen ankles wept in her husband’s arms. He patted her back and said, “We’ll find a way.”
Behind a curtain, a woman screamed, “I just want this needle out of my hand!”
A nurse charged in and yelled, “We have a life-threatening situation here! I’ll have him talk to you when the life-threatening situation is settled!”
But the woman wouldn’t let up. “I want this needle out of my hand right now!”
A Boy Scout hobbled around on crutches, his purple and swollen foot tucked behind him. A baby squalled in his mother’s arms. A man held his stomach and stared up at a bombed Vietnamese village on a corner television. Mother shook her head at the screen, tapping her foot. I scanned the room for Marone. He stood at the front desk, talking to a man in a doctor’s coat. Pushing huge silver-rimmed glasses up his nose, he laughed and patted Marone on the back. He gestured to a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, but Marone shook his head. They both turned and looked at me, and I dropped my head.
A few minutes later, a nurse with a single gray braid called my name and led us into a private examination room. Mother sat down with a clipboard and started to fill out papers the nurse gave her. The nurse had me pee in a cup in an adjacent bathroom. I thought they would put iodine on my cuts, make me say ah! and send me along with an aspirin. Instead, the nurse wrapped a tube around my forearm and told me to pump my fist.
“Gonna draw some blood.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as she stuck
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