raspier than ever. He was tired.
He lifted her into a sitting position, one long arm curled
around her while the other poured water from a pitcher into a glass. She liked
the feel of his arm against her bare back, his skin cool against hers. She
could feel his muscles tense to support her weight.
He brought the glass to her lips and she drank, then he eased
her back down again. She tried to remember what it was she had wanted to ask
him when she had said his name…. His name… it had always struck her as
odd….
She said, “Tucker—that’s a funny name.”
He leaned over her, his arms flanking her on either side. For
a few seconds he just looked at her, faint amusement in his eyes, then he
smoothed some stray hairs off her face and pressed a wet cloth to her forehead
and cheeks. “It’s an old family name on my father’s side. Saxon. It means a
tailor— a tucker of cloth.”
He picked something up off the night table, fiddled with it,
and aimed it at her mouth, saying, “Under the tongue.” While he held the
thermometer in place, he said, “Harley’s kind of a funny name, too.” There came
a beep. He withdrew the thermometer and said, “Down to 101 on the nose. Were
you named after a relative?”
Harley tried to shake her head no, but it made everything
start to reel. “A motorcycle,” was all she managed to say before oblivion
reclaimed her.
***
“What happened to my clothes?”
Tucker opened his eyes. The room was yellow with sunlight.
Harley sat up in bed, holding the sheet to her chest. Her color seemed normal,
her hair was in delicious golden disarray, and she looked angry.
He wanted to laugh, but he knew that would probably be a
mistake. He pried himself out of the chair in which he had fallen asleep, every
bone in his sorry body complaining. The book he had been reading—Kerouac’s On the Road —tumbled off his lap onto the
floor.
“I said, what happened to my clothes?”
He pointed to the pile in the corner, zebra panties et al. “ The’re right there.”
She glanced at the pile and then glared at him. She looked
like a scruffy, mean little cat. “Who took off my clothes?” she asked more
pointedly.
Tucker came to stand over her. She noted his state of
undress—he still wore shorts and nothing else—and pulled her sheet up higher.
He said, “Dr. Philip Zelin , M.D., of the Stony Brook
University Medical Center Department of Internal Medicine, took off your
clothes.”
She squinted, as if trying to remember. “You weren’t here?”
He poured her a glass of water. “Little hair of the dog?”
“You aren’t answering me.”
“That’s a bad habit of mine. You’ve called me on it before.”
“That’s still not an answer.”
“Here, drink this.”
Her lower lip jutted and her eyes glittered ferociously. “Why
aren’t you answering me?”
He sat on the bed and she squirmed away from him. “Because
you are so very, very beautiful when you’re angry. Drink.”
“What is that?”
“Straight vodka. I’ve been pouring it down your throat for
days.”
She swatted at him. “Get away from me!”
“First drink this. It’s water.”
She took the glass with the hand that wasn’t holding up the
sheet, but it shook, so Tucker steadied it while she drank.
“Excellent.” he purred demonically. “My plan is working
perfectly.” He traded the glass for the thermometer. “Open up the hangar, here
comes the airplane.”
“That never worked with me.”
“No? And I had such hopes for that one.” He popped it in— beep —and popped it out. “Congratulations,
Miss… What’s your last name, anyway?”
“Sayers. Ms. Sayers.”
“ Ms. Sayers, you
are, at long last, normal. Except, of course, for being named after a
motorcycle.”
Harley allowed Tucker to help her stumble up the stairs to
her room, wrapped in the sheet, but then shooed him away, preferring to wash and
dress unassisted—a challenging task. She was confused and uncoordinated, aware
that
He lifted her into a sitting position, one long arm curled
around her while the other poured water from a pitcher into a glass. She liked
the feel of his arm against her bare back, his skin cool against hers. She
could feel his muscles tense to support her weight.
He brought the glass to her lips and she drank, then he eased
her back down again. She tried to remember what it was she had wanted to ask
him when she had said his name…. His name… it had always struck her as
odd….
She said, “Tucker—that’s a funny name.”
He leaned over her, his arms flanking her on either side. For
a few seconds he just looked at her, faint amusement in his eyes, then he
smoothed some stray hairs off her face and pressed a wet cloth to her forehead
and cheeks. “It’s an old family name on my father’s side. Saxon. It means a
tailor— a tucker of cloth.”
He picked something up off the night table, fiddled with it,
and aimed it at her mouth, saying, “Under the tongue.” While he held the
thermometer in place, he said, “Harley’s kind of a funny name, too.” There came
a beep. He withdrew the thermometer and said, “Down to 101 on the nose. Were
you named after a relative?”
Harley tried to shake her head no, but it made everything
start to reel. “A motorcycle,” was all she managed to say before oblivion
reclaimed her.
***
“What happened to my clothes?”
Tucker opened his eyes. The room was yellow with sunlight.
Harley sat up in bed, holding the sheet to her chest. Her color seemed normal,
her hair was in delicious golden disarray, and she looked angry.
He wanted to laugh, but he knew that would probably be a
mistake. He pried himself out of the chair in which he had fallen asleep, every
bone in his sorry body complaining. The book he had been reading—Kerouac’s On the Road —tumbled off his lap onto the
floor.
“I said, what happened to my clothes?”
He pointed to the pile in the corner, zebra panties et al. “ The’re right there.”
She glanced at the pile and then glared at him. She looked
like a scruffy, mean little cat. “Who took off my clothes?” she asked more
pointedly.
Tucker came to stand over her. She noted his state of
undress—he still wore shorts and nothing else—and pulled her sheet up higher.
He said, “Dr. Philip Zelin , M.D., of the Stony Brook
University Medical Center Department of Internal Medicine, took off your
clothes.”
She squinted, as if trying to remember. “You weren’t here?”
He poured her a glass of water. “Little hair of the dog?”
“You aren’t answering me.”
“That’s a bad habit of mine. You’ve called me on it before.”
“That’s still not an answer.”
“Here, drink this.”
Her lower lip jutted and her eyes glittered ferociously. “Why
aren’t you answering me?”
He sat on the bed and she squirmed away from him. “Because
you are so very, very beautiful when you’re angry. Drink.”
“What is that?”
“Straight vodka. I’ve been pouring it down your throat for
days.”
She swatted at him. “Get away from me!”
“First drink this. It’s water.”
She took the glass with the hand that wasn’t holding up the
sheet, but it shook, so Tucker steadied it while she drank.
“Excellent.” he purred demonically. “My plan is working
perfectly.” He traded the glass for the thermometer. “Open up the hangar, here
comes the airplane.”
“That never worked with me.”
“No? And I had such hopes for that one.” He popped it in— beep —and popped it out. “Congratulations,
Miss… What’s your last name, anyway?”
“Sayers. Ms. Sayers.”
“ Ms. Sayers, you
are, at long last, normal. Except, of course, for being named after a
motorcycle.”
Harley allowed Tucker to help her stumble up the stairs to
her room, wrapped in the sheet, but then shooed him away, preferring to wash and
dress unassisted—a challenging task. She was confused and uncoordinated, aware
that
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