into her home. Wolfie managed to walk Me into the bathroom & with badly shaking fingers dabbed at her wounds with a damp bath towel & Me sobbed quieter now, breathing swiftly & shallowly as if she’d been running, & her hair dark with sweat. Seeing that Wolfie was scared, his face pinched & dead-white, Me grabbed the bloody towel from him & tended to her own wounds, impatient, cursing. Wolfie tried to ask was it the guy they’d given a ride to? the guy with the tattoos? & Me said, “Who the fuck d’you think it was? That bastard, I’m gonna get a warrant for his arrest. I saw his face. I can describe him to a T. I can sketch his likeness.” But Wolfie had to wonder: had there been a guy? Any guy? An intruder? The knife on the bedroom floor was one of Me’s knives from her collection, & how’d a stranger get hold of it? Unless Me flashed it, first? & he got it away from her?
Wolfie wasn’t going to ask.
Me was bleeding from a dozen knife wounds. Most were just surface cuts, though they bled a lot. The deepest were in the fingers of both hands as if she’d shut her fists hard around the blade and squeezed. By this time, now the worst was over, Wolfie’d begun to cry, nervous & scared, for if there’d been a man in Me’s bedroom, & a man who’d beaten & cut her, & Me wouldn’t call the police, what was to stop this from happening again?—& if there hadn’t been a man, that was worse, Wolfie’d have to wonder if Me would be hospitalized to prevent harm to herself & others, & where would that hospital be? & where’d Wolfie be, then?
Even beyond 18, he could foresee he’d be responsible.
O R, MAYBE, NO: he’d hitch-hike West. Soon as Me was stable again. He’d seen photos of the Rockies, the Grand Canyon & Zion National Park & Yosemite. He’d get a job with the National ParkService he’d been reading about, maybe as a fire ranger. Emergencies that had nothing to do with him.
A T AGE 13 Wolfie was too young for even a driver’s permit in New York State but he could drive any reasonable vehicle, & had driven, spelling Me in the Chevy van on their long, mostly nighttime drive from Minnesota, & so that morning, a few hours later, Wolfie drove Me to a hospital in Newfane where in the emergency room, nearly deserted at 6 A.M., a young doctor treated her wounds & stitched the deep cuts in her fingers. The doctor was shocked & suspicious asking what had caused these cuts? & Me shrugged & murmured what sounded to Wolfie, some feet away, like “Life.” Wolfie came quickly to join Me. He was anxious, protective. He’d talked Me into coming to Newfane for medical treatment (he knew about infections) & now he was worried that even in her moderately subdued state, not exuding the actual stink of mania, Me yet gave off an odor any professional could detect, as dogs are trained to sniff out illegal drugs. Wolfie said, “My mom’s a sculptor, she carves things & cuts things up, like drift-wood & metal & stuff like that. Sometimes she hurts her hands.” This was such an inspired answer, & even proud, & that word mom at the core, Me brightened & smiled at Wolfie, & Wolfie saw that it would be O.K. The dice were being tossed again, & it would be O.K. “What about these other lacerations, on your body & face?” the doctor asked, & Me said with her most winning smile, like even with her stitched & bandaged fingers she was stroking this guy’s thigh, “These’re the hazards of being an artist, doctor. But I could use some painkiller.” A nurse completed Me’s treatment, putting gauze & bandages on Me’s wounds, four on her face alone, & giving Me a tetanus shot, & Me insisted that her son be given a shot, too—“There’s so much danger for kids these days. Even good, normal kids.”
The hitch-hiker from the Wawa store was never mentioned again between them. Calling the police, or not-calling, was never mentioned again. Though in one day in November they’d see a motorcyclist on Route 78 who
Wolfie wasn’t going to ask.
Me was bleeding from a dozen knife wounds. Most were just surface cuts, though they bled a lot. The deepest were in the fingers of both hands as if she’d shut her fists hard around the blade and squeezed. By this time, now the worst was over, Wolfie’d begun to cry, nervous & scared, for if there’d been a man in Me’s bedroom, & a man who’d beaten & cut her, & Me wouldn’t call the police, what was to stop this from happening again?—& if there hadn’t been a man, that was worse, Wolfie’d have to wonder if Me would be hospitalized to prevent harm to herself & others, & where would that hospital be? & where’d Wolfie be, then?
Even beyond 18, he could foresee he’d be responsible.
O R, MAYBE, NO: he’d hitch-hike West. Soon as Me was stable again. He’d seen photos of the Rockies, the Grand Canyon & Zion National Park & Yosemite. He’d get a job with the National ParkService he’d been reading about, maybe as a fire ranger. Emergencies that had nothing to do with him.
A T AGE 13 Wolfie was too young for even a driver’s permit in New York State but he could drive any reasonable vehicle, & had driven, spelling Me in the Chevy van on their long, mostly nighttime drive from Minnesota, & so that morning, a few hours later, Wolfie drove Me to a hospital in Newfane where in the emergency room, nearly deserted at 6 A.M., a young doctor treated her wounds & stitched the deep cuts in her fingers. The doctor was shocked & suspicious asking what had caused these cuts? & Me shrugged & murmured what sounded to Wolfie, some feet away, like “Life.” Wolfie came quickly to join Me. He was anxious, protective. He’d talked Me into coming to Newfane for medical treatment (he knew about infections) & now he was worried that even in her moderately subdued state, not exuding the actual stink of mania, Me yet gave off an odor any professional could detect, as dogs are trained to sniff out illegal drugs. Wolfie said, “My mom’s a sculptor, she carves things & cuts things up, like drift-wood & metal & stuff like that. Sometimes she hurts her hands.” This was such an inspired answer, & even proud, & that word mom at the core, Me brightened & smiled at Wolfie, & Wolfie saw that it would be O.K. The dice were being tossed again, & it would be O.K. “What about these other lacerations, on your body & face?” the doctor asked, & Me said with her most winning smile, like even with her stitched & bandaged fingers she was stroking this guy’s thigh, “These’re the hazards of being an artist, doctor. But I could use some painkiller.” A nurse completed Me’s treatment, putting gauze & bandages on Me’s wounds, four on her face alone, & giving Me a tetanus shot, & Me insisted that her son be given a shot, too—“There’s so much danger for kids these days. Even good, normal kids.”
The hitch-hiker from the Wawa store was never mentioned again between them. Calling the police, or not-calling, was never mentioned again. Though in one day in November they’d see a motorcyclist on Route 78 who
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