us. She was smiling, and clearly she was not going to let us pass.
"Where the fuck did she come from?” Keith whispered.
She was wearing a little cape—a gray one. It was hot that day, but she was wearing a cape. She was crazy, that was obvious, or she wouldn't be here. She wore a dress, basically the kind all the young women wore on the passeggiata in the evening at the waterfront—the kind they'd been wearing for decades—and she was pretty, though her eyes were a little far apart and her lipstick wasn't on quite right. She was wearing a little cap, too—a cap made from the same gray cloth as the cape. She didn't seemed scared of us, and she didn't seem frightened by what had happened to Marco. She seemed concerned, sure, but calm, as if this happened all the time, boys and arrows and screams and wounds.
What do you do with a calm crazy woman standing in your way in an old building? We weren't sure. We just knew we needed to get Marco out of there and to a real hospital.
" Voglio aiutare," she asked calmly.
"What did she say?” Bobby asked.
"She wants to help,” I answered.
"Right,” Keith snorted. “He needs a doctor."
"Yes, he does,” Bobby said.
Marco was staring at her as if in a trance—as if this were all a dream. He was in shock, and in shock you can be awake but dreaming, too.
"Marco?” I said, and he didn't answer.
She was looking at him as if she knew him—which made no sense. How could Marco know her? He wasn't acting like he did.
"Let me help you,” she said in Italian, and Bobby didn't ask for a translation.
She came over to them, and Bobby stepped back.
"What are you doing?” Keith said to Bobby. “She's crazy. We need to get out of here."
Bobby was staring at her as if in a dream, too.
She was close enough to us all that you could hear the rustle of her dress, smell her perfume, even smell the wool of her cape and cap—as if it were winter and they were wet.
She took Marco's good arm—Marco let her, and so did Bobby—and led Marco to the corner. We followed.
There was indeed a table there, and it wasn't empty. It was covered with all sorts of things, the very things I'd imagined had once been on tables here. Hadn't Keith seen them? First-aid things, gauze and bandages and needles and bottles of tablets and rubber tubing and thread for stitching.
"Those weren't there—” Keith started to say, but didn't finish.
The woman was pulling the table out into the light, and we were helping. She sat Marco down on a stool—the one she'd been sitting on in the shadows, I guess—and inspected the arrow, where it entered his neck above his T-shirt. With scissors from the table she cut away his shirt, and then, giving him something to bite down on—a thick wad of gauze—she pulled the arrow out carefully, watching the angle of it.
Marco should have been screaming, at least crying, but that would have embarrassed him; and besides, she was right next to him, her perfume in his nose, the smell of her clothes, too, and her touch, the touch of someone who seemed to care, even if she was crazy. He was looking up at her puzzled, but grateful.
She had a glass of water on the table, too—perhaps because she'd been thirsty, sitting there in the abandoned building all day. Who was she? Why was she here? Why did she have a table covered with first-aid things? Were there men, migrants from the south, living in these olive groves and she wasn't crazy at all; she was married to one of them and sat here in case one of them got hurt? Or was she crazy as a loon and did this because she thought she was someone else and was waiting for someone who'd never come? But if she was crazy, where was her family? Where did she live? Why did they let her do it? Alone in an abandoned building where men—men more dangerous than us—could stumble in one day and maybe hurt her?
She gave Marco three pills to take with the water, which he did, and did not try to stitch up the perfect little hole left by the
"Where the fuck did she come from?” Keith whispered.
She was wearing a little cape—a gray one. It was hot that day, but she was wearing a cape. She was crazy, that was obvious, or she wouldn't be here. She wore a dress, basically the kind all the young women wore on the passeggiata in the evening at the waterfront—the kind they'd been wearing for decades—and she was pretty, though her eyes were a little far apart and her lipstick wasn't on quite right. She was wearing a little cap, too—a cap made from the same gray cloth as the cape. She didn't seemed scared of us, and she didn't seem frightened by what had happened to Marco. She seemed concerned, sure, but calm, as if this happened all the time, boys and arrows and screams and wounds.
What do you do with a calm crazy woman standing in your way in an old building? We weren't sure. We just knew we needed to get Marco out of there and to a real hospital.
" Voglio aiutare," she asked calmly.
"What did she say?” Bobby asked.
"She wants to help,” I answered.
"Right,” Keith snorted. “He needs a doctor."
"Yes, he does,” Bobby said.
Marco was staring at her as if in a trance—as if this were all a dream. He was in shock, and in shock you can be awake but dreaming, too.
"Marco?” I said, and he didn't answer.
She was looking at him as if she knew him—which made no sense. How could Marco know her? He wasn't acting like he did.
"Let me help you,” she said in Italian, and Bobby didn't ask for a translation.
She came over to them, and Bobby stepped back.
"What are you doing?” Keith said to Bobby. “She's crazy. We need to get out of here."
Bobby was staring at her as if in a dream, too.
She was close enough to us all that you could hear the rustle of her dress, smell her perfume, even smell the wool of her cape and cap—as if it were winter and they were wet.
She took Marco's good arm—Marco let her, and so did Bobby—and led Marco to the corner. We followed.
There was indeed a table there, and it wasn't empty. It was covered with all sorts of things, the very things I'd imagined had once been on tables here. Hadn't Keith seen them? First-aid things, gauze and bandages and needles and bottles of tablets and rubber tubing and thread for stitching.
"Those weren't there—” Keith started to say, but didn't finish.
The woman was pulling the table out into the light, and we were helping. She sat Marco down on a stool—the one she'd been sitting on in the shadows, I guess—and inspected the arrow, where it entered his neck above his T-shirt. With scissors from the table she cut away his shirt, and then, giving him something to bite down on—a thick wad of gauze—she pulled the arrow out carefully, watching the angle of it.
Marco should have been screaming, at least crying, but that would have embarrassed him; and besides, she was right next to him, her perfume in his nose, the smell of her clothes, too, and her touch, the touch of someone who seemed to care, even if she was crazy. He was looking up at her puzzled, but grateful.
She had a glass of water on the table, too—perhaps because she'd been thirsty, sitting there in the abandoned building all day. Who was she? Why was she here? Why did she have a table covered with first-aid things? Were there men, migrants from the south, living in these olive groves and she wasn't crazy at all; she was married to one of them and sat here in case one of them got hurt? Or was she crazy as a loon and did this because she thought she was someone else and was waiting for someone who'd never come? But if she was crazy, where was her family? Where did she live? Why did they let her do it? Alone in an abandoned building where men—men more dangerous than us—could stumble in one day and maybe hurt her?
She gave Marco three pills to take with the water, which he did, and did not try to stitch up the perfect little hole left by the
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