turned
away from the children, willing to forgo the anxious faces of their faces
already pitting skills against one another at the arcade .
My
beautiful puerile friend announced, “Let’s go ride a pony,” he said. He led me
over toward the historic carousel.
I began
to suspect I was in for more than a pony ride, but if it wasn’t a raise he was
looking for I was duped.
We
stopped long enough for me to purchase a bag of caramel corn.
“Breakfast
of champions,” I explained as we gave the ticket taker our red coupons. “Now
tell me, is this a pony ride or a phony ride. Just why are we playing hooky?”
“It’s
bad, honey,” Geoff whispered in a hoarse voice. We had just taken our seats in
a golden chariot for two; two magnificent white wooden Clydesdales prancing us
through the woods, or at least up and down through a fading forest mural scenery.
“Our
reviews?” I gasped. “No way! We’re on top!”
He
ignored my mock horror and looked away. “Remember your doctor from
Afghanistan?”
“Of
course I do. Brave female doctor. She’s coming to L.A. to do some more photo
work with Sukie. She’s a guest speaker at some huge women’s conference this
weekend.”
“She’s
already here. She was here.”
“What do
you mean?”
“There’s
no easy way to say this, Laurs. She’s dead. She was killed.”
“What?”
“Rumors
are already flying. Not sure if it was crazy L.A. locals or her own government.
Word got out quick about our article. Maybe to the wrong people.”
Geoff
reached into his linen shirt pocket and pulled out a package of mini-tissues,
prepared for my emotions to gush the tears that would stream down my cheeks in
two rivers.
I shook
my head. “We don’t know that. It’s L.A. Anybody could have done it. A robber. A
doper. Anybody.”
“It
looks personal. That’s all I’ve learned. She was knifed eighteen times. The
detective I spoke with said that ranks it up there as a likely crime of
passion.”
“Why am
I just hearing of this now?”
“Because
I stepped in. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
My
throat felt lined with something the thickness of creosote. “But she doesn’t
know anybody in this city.” I pulled at another tissue only to blacken it with
streaming mascara. “Geoff. Oh, no, Geoff. Are you saying our story killed her?”
I finally managed.
The
chiming music from the carousel became distorted. The display of bright lights
became dizzying.
“A crime
of passion means someone probably knew her, Laurs. And if not, it was a bad
society that killed Dhurra. She knew what she was doing. Taking risks. In the
long run, by her talking to us, maybe she knew she could save more lives than
she could have, ever, in any medical practice.
“Listen
to me, Laurs. A man can kill a woman there for dishonoring him. Any time. Any
place. Any reason he wants.”
“But she
was on American soil. We should have protected her.”
Death’s
putrid orifice once again came to stare me in the face. But this time I’d
bargained with it. And I’d lost.
“She had
no family. Her husband is dead. No children,” I offered Geoff.
Our
wooden chariot glided up and down the slick brass poles. Relentlessly our
Clydesdales pushed on, in circles, trying to reach to our unattainable
destination.
“God,
Geoff. I thought we were helping her. I thought our article would—”
“Would
what?” Geoff broke in. “Change the world? C’mon, Babe. Hang in here with me.”
“The
thing is Dhurra loved her life. She was allowed to practice some medicine and
medicine was her life.”
“Operative
words there. Allowed . And some . Dhurra couldn’t travel without a
male escort. She couldn’t vote. She had no rights. Hell, she couldn’t even show
off her beautiful face in public!
“All we
did was let her tell her story, the way she wanted it to be told.”
Tears continued
to stream down my face as our dear Clydesdales came to a rest. Geoff took over
in an unexpected display of manhood,
away from the children, willing to forgo the anxious faces of their faces
already pitting skills against one another at the arcade .
My
beautiful puerile friend announced, “Let’s go ride a pony,” he said. He led me
over toward the historic carousel.
I began
to suspect I was in for more than a pony ride, but if it wasn’t a raise he was
looking for I was duped.
We
stopped long enough for me to purchase a bag of caramel corn.
“Breakfast
of champions,” I explained as we gave the ticket taker our red coupons. “Now
tell me, is this a pony ride or a phony ride. Just why are we playing hooky?”
“It’s
bad, honey,” Geoff whispered in a hoarse voice. We had just taken our seats in
a golden chariot for two; two magnificent white wooden Clydesdales prancing us
through the woods, or at least up and down through a fading forest mural scenery.
“Our
reviews?” I gasped. “No way! We’re on top!”
He
ignored my mock horror and looked away. “Remember your doctor from
Afghanistan?”
“Of
course I do. Brave female doctor. She’s coming to L.A. to do some more photo
work with Sukie. She’s a guest speaker at some huge women’s conference this
weekend.”
“She’s
already here. She was here.”
“What do
you mean?”
“There’s
no easy way to say this, Laurs. She’s dead. She was killed.”
“What?”
“Rumors
are already flying. Not sure if it was crazy L.A. locals or her own government.
Word got out quick about our article. Maybe to the wrong people.”
Geoff
reached into his linen shirt pocket and pulled out a package of mini-tissues,
prepared for my emotions to gush the tears that would stream down my cheeks in
two rivers.
I shook
my head. “We don’t know that. It’s L.A. Anybody could have done it. A robber. A
doper. Anybody.”
“It
looks personal. That’s all I’ve learned. She was knifed eighteen times. The
detective I spoke with said that ranks it up there as a likely crime of
passion.”
“Why am
I just hearing of this now?”
“Because
I stepped in. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
My
throat felt lined with something the thickness of creosote. “But she doesn’t
know anybody in this city.” I pulled at another tissue only to blacken it with
streaming mascara. “Geoff. Oh, no, Geoff. Are you saying our story killed her?”
I finally managed.
The
chiming music from the carousel became distorted. The display of bright lights
became dizzying.
“A crime
of passion means someone probably knew her, Laurs. And if not, it was a bad
society that killed Dhurra. She knew what she was doing. Taking risks. In the
long run, by her talking to us, maybe she knew she could save more lives than
she could have, ever, in any medical practice.
“Listen
to me, Laurs. A man can kill a woman there for dishonoring him. Any time. Any
place. Any reason he wants.”
“But she
was on American soil. We should have protected her.”
Death’s
putrid orifice once again came to stare me in the face. But this time I’d
bargained with it. And I’d lost.
“She had
no family. Her husband is dead. No children,” I offered Geoff.
Our
wooden chariot glided up and down the slick brass poles. Relentlessly our
Clydesdales pushed on, in circles, trying to reach to our unattainable
destination.
“God,
Geoff. I thought we were helping her. I thought our article would—”
“Would
what?” Geoff broke in. “Change the world? C’mon, Babe. Hang in here with me.”
“The
thing is Dhurra loved her life. She was allowed to practice some medicine and
medicine was her life.”
“Operative
words there. Allowed . And some . Dhurra couldn’t travel without a
male escort. She couldn’t vote. She had no rights. Hell, she couldn’t even show
off her beautiful face in public!
“All we
did was let her tell her story, the way she wanted it to be told.”
Tears continued
to stream down my face as our dear Clydesdales came to a rest. Geoff took over
in an unexpected display of manhood,
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