opened his eyes.
And looked into Ron’s face.
For a moment the face looked almost human: the pouty mouth, the close-set eyes, were in a sort of repose, the nastiness set aside. Then she saw that he was awake and, with just a subtle shift, the features turned ugly again.
She stopped dabbing his face with the damp washrag; she pulled back.
“Don’t stop,” Jon said. “Feels good.”
“You got bunged up,” she said. Her tone was strangely apologetic. And almost a whisper. “I was cleaning off the dirt.”
His face did hurt; even without touching it, he could feel the raw patches.
“Go ahead,” he said. “That felt good, what you were doing.”
She shrugged, with her shoulders and mouth both, and started touching his face again. Her touch was gentle. Which struck Jon as weird.
“I . . . I don’t remember passing out,” he said.
“You hit your head,” she said.
“When?”
“When I tossed you in back of my car, after you tried to crawl off. You hit your head on the door. You got a bump.”
He tried to feel his head, and his hand jerked, like a dog on a leash. He glanced over and saw that the hand was cuffed to the headboard of an old brass bed. His left hand was free, however, and he touched the bump on his head; it was sore, but it wasn’t a big bump. On the side of his head, though, where she’d hit him with the gun barrel earlier, there was a real goose egg.
“You don’t got a concussion or nothing,” she said.
He was beginning to get his bearings. He was on his back, on the bed; his right hand was cuffed, and his left leg was, too, by the ankle. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, tending him. The room was dim: the only light on was a shaded lamp on the nightstand. This appeared to be a room in an older home. There was yellow floral wallpaper, faded, and paint was coming off the ceiling in spots, from water damage. Opposite the foot of the bed was an old dresser with mirror; on top of the dresser was a row of trophies of some sort. There was a door to the right; a window over to the left. It was an average-size bedroom. Nothing remarkable about it.
Except maybe for the pictures. The mirror over the dresser was covered with them, pin-ups taped to it, but not of girls: Elvis Presley, James Dean, Eddie Cochran; fifties teen faves, mostly dead. Some of the pictures were faded pages clipped from old magazines, the Scotch tape yellowed and dried; others looked more recent. It was a mirror you couldn’t look into. But the faces on it looked back at you, peeking over the row of trophies.
She yanked the cloth away from his raw face. “What are you lookin’ at?”
“Just the pictures. On the mirror.”
“What about ’em?”
“Nothing. They’re fine. They’re fine.”
Her face lost some of its nastiness, and she said, “You name’s Jon, huh?”
“Right. And you’re Ron.”
“Yeah. Sounds like a poem, don’t it? Jon and Ron.” She laughed.
He found a little smile for her somewhere and forced something out of him that he hoped sounded like a laugh. God , this dyke is nuts , he thought.
“I’m, you know . . . sorry about this,” she said. Sullenly.
“Sorry?”
She dragged it out of herself. “I . . . got nothing against you, really.”
“You don’t?”
“I used to come listen to you. Your band. You guys were good.”
“Thanks.”
“You played too much sixties. I like fifties.”
“Uh, well, there’s lots of requests for sixties stuff these days. But I like fifties music myself.”
She smiled; the sullenness was gone. “I know. I heard you do ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’.’ Anybody that can do Jerry Lee that good is okay by me.”
“I’m . . . glad you liked it.”
“Look, I know I probably made a . . . bad impression that time, few months ago, when I got on your case for being with Darlene. I know it’s not your fault. Darlene, she’s always hitting on people.”
He tried to think of something to say to that, but couldn’t. He was trying to stay low
And looked into Ron’s face.
For a moment the face looked almost human: the pouty mouth, the close-set eyes, were in a sort of repose, the nastiness set aside. Then she saw that he was awake and, with just a subtle shift, the features turned ugly again.
She stopped dabbing his face with the damp washrag; she pulled back.
“Don’t stop,” Jon said. “Feels good.”
“You got bunged up,” she said. Her tone was strangely apologetic. And almost a whisper. “I was cleaning off the dirt.”
His face did hurt; even without touching it, he could feel the raw patches.
“Go ahead,” he said. “That felt good, what you were doing.”
She shrugged, with her shoulders and mouth both, and started touching his face again. Her touch was gentle. Which struck Jon as weird.
“I . . . I don’t remember passing out,” he said.
“You hit your head,” she said.
“When?”
“When I tossed you in back of my car, after you tried to crawl off. You hit your head on the door. You got a bump.”
He tried to feel his head, and his hand jerked, like a dog on a leash. He glanced over and saw that the hand was cuffed to the headboard of an old brass bed. His left hand was free, however, and he touched the bump on his head; it was sore, but it wasn’t a big bump. On the side of his head, though, where she’d hit him with the gun barrel earlier, there was a real goose egg.
“You don’t got a concussion or nothing,” she said.
He was beginning to get his bearings. He was on his back, on the bed; his right hand was cuffed, and his left leg was, too, by the ankle. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, tending him. The room was dim: the only light on was a shaded lamp on the nightstand. This appeared to be a room in an older home. There was yellow floral wallpaper, faded, and paint was coming off the ceiling in spots, from water damage. Opposite the foot of the bed was an old dresser with mirror; on top of the dresser was a row of trophies of some sort. There was a door to the right; a window over to the left. It was an average-size bedroom. Nothing remarkable about it.
Except maybe for the pictures. The mirror over the dresser was covered with them, pin-ups taped to it, but not of girls: Elvis Presley, James Dean, Eddie Cochran; fifties teen faves, mostly dead. Some of the pictures were faded pages clipped from old magazines, the Scotch tape yellowed and dried; others looked more recent. It was a mirror you couldn’t look into. But the faces on it looked back at you, peeking over the row of trophies.
She yanked the cloth away from his raw face. “What are you lookin’ at?”
“Just the pictures. On the mirror.”
“What about ’em?”
“Nothing. They’re fine. They’re fine.”
Her face lost some of its nastiness, and she said, “You name’s Jon, huh?”
“Right. And you’re Ron.”
“Yeah. Sounds like a poem, don’t it? Jon and Ron.” She laughed.
He found a little smile for her somewhere and forced something out of him that he hoped sounded like a laugh. God , this dyke is nuts , he thought.
“I’m, you know . . . sorry about this,” she said. Sullenly.
“Sorry?”
She dragged it out of herself. “I . . . got nothing against you, really.”
“You don’t?”
“I used to come listen to you. Your band. You guys were good.”
“Thanks.”
“You played too much sixties. I like fifties.”
“Uh, well, there’s lots of requests for sixties stuff these days. But I like fifties music myself.”
She smiled; the sullenness was gone. “I know. I heard you do ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’.’ Anybody that can do Jerry Lee that good is okay by me.”
“I’m . . . glad you liked it.”
“Look, I know I probably made a . . . bad impression that time, few months ago, when I got on your case for being with Darlene. I know it’s not your fault. Darlene, she’s always hitting on people.”
He tried to think of something to say to that, but couldn’t. He was trying to stay low
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