afternoon, but this morning we have to go to Corbett’s to pick up a few things they called us about.”
Corbett’s was the town’s premier gift shop. Every bride with any claim to class went to Corbett’s to register her china and silver patterns, and also to indicate a range of acceptable colors that would look good in the bride’s future kitchen and bath. Corbett’s also carried small appliances, pricey kitchenware, and sheets and table linens. Many brides left an all-encompassing list at Corbett’s. Varena and I had always called it the “I want it” list.
Two hours later—two dragging, boring hours later—we were in Varena’s car, parallel parking on Bartley’s town square. The old post office crumbled on one side, while the courthouse, in the center on a manicured lawn, was festooned with Christmas decorations. Unlike Shakespeare, Bartley was holding on to its manger scene, though I had never found plastic figures in a wooden shed exactly spiritual. Carols blared endlessly from the speakers located around the square, and all the merchants had lined their store windows with twinkling colored lights and artificial snow.
If there was a true religious emotion to be felt about Christmas, I had been too numbed by all this claptrap to feel it for the past three years.
I was glad to see Varena click the “lock” button on her key-ring control, and the car gave its little honk! to show it had received her command. Naturally we all looked at the car as it made the sound, a senseless but natural reaction, and I almost didn’t see the running man until too late.
He was coming for us out of nowhere, his hand already outstretched to grab my mother’s purse, which she was clutching loosely under her right arm.
With a positive rush of pleasure, I planted my left foot, came up with my right knee, and flicked my foot out to catch him in the jaw. In real life (as opposed to movies) high kicks are risky and energy draining. The knee and the groin are much more reliable targets. But this was my chance to land a high kick, and I took it. Thanks to hours and hours of practice, my instep smacked his jaw correctly, and he staggered. I got him again on the way down, though it was not as effective an impact. It hastened his fall rather than damaging him further.
He managed to land on his knees, and I seized his right arm and twisted it sharply behind him. He screamed and hit the pavement, and I kept his arm behind and up at an angle I knew to be extremely painful. I was on his right, out of reach of his left hand if he could manage to lever himself up to grab for my ankle.
“I’ll break your arm if you move,” I told him sincerely.
He believed me. He lay on the sidewalk, panting for breath—sobbing for breath, really.
I glanced up to see my mother and sister staring not at their assailant but at me, with stunned amazement making their faces foolish.
“Call the police,” I prompted them.
Varena kind of jumped and ran into Corbett’s. She was doing a lot of police calling these days. The Bard sisters were on a roll.
The man I’d downed was short, stocky, black. He had on a ragged coat, and he smelled. I figured this was probably the same man who’d taken Diane Dykeman’s purse a couple of days ago.
“Let me up, bitch,” he said now, having gathered enough breath to speak.
“Be polite,” I said, my voice harsh. I gave his arm a yank upward, and he screamed.
“Oh, Lily,” my mother gasped. “Oh, honey. Do you have to . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as I looked up to meet her eyes.
“Yes,” I said. “I have to.”
A siren went off right behind me. The patrol officer must have been two blocks away when he got the call from the dispatcher, so he put on his siren. It nearly made me lose my grip. The car had “Bartley Police Department” printed in an arc over the Bartley town symbol, some complicated mishmash involving cotton and tractors. Under the symbol, the word “Chief” was centered in
Corbett’s was the town’s premier gift shop. Every bride with any claim to class went to Corbett’s to register her china and silver patterns, and also to indicate a range of acceptable colors that would look good in the bride’s future kitchen and bath. Corbett’s also carried small appliances, pricey kitchenware, and sheets and table linens. Many brides left an all-encompassing list at Corbett’s. Varena and I had always called it the “I want it” list.
Two hours later—two dragging, boring hours later—we were in Varena’s car, parallel parking on Bartley’s town square. The old post office crumbled on one side, while the courthouse, in the center on a manicured lawn, was festooned with Christmas decorations. Unlike Shakespeare, Bartley was holding on to its manger scene, though I had never found plastic figures in a wooden shed exactly spiritual. Carols blared endlessly from the speakers located around the square, and all the merchants had lined their store windows with twinkling colored lights and artificial snow.
If there was a true religious emotion to be felt about Christmas, I had been too numbed by all this claptrap to feel it for the past three years.
I was glad to see Varena click the “lock” button on her key-ring control, and the car gave its little honk! to show it had received her command. Naturally we all looked at the car as it made the sound, a senseless but natural reaction, and I almost didn’t see the running man until too late.
He was coming for us out of nowhere, his hand already outstretched to grab my mother’s purse, which she was clutching loosely under her right arm.
With a positive rush of pleasure, I planted my left foot, came up with my right knee, and flicked my foot out to catch him in the jaw. In real life (as opposed to movies) high kicks are risky and energy draining. The knee and the groin are much more reliable targets. But this was my chance to land a high kick, and I took it. Thanks to hours and hours of practice, my instep smacked his jaw correctly, and he staggered. I got him again on the way down, though it was not as effective an impact. It hastened his fall rather than damaging him further.
He managed to land on his knees, and I seized his right arm and twisted it sharply behind him. He screamed and hit the pavement, and I kept his arm behind and up at an angle I knew to be extremely painful. I was on his right, out of reach of his left hand if he could manage to lever himself up to grab for my ankle.
“I’ll break your arm if you move,” I told him sincerely.
He believed me. He lay on the sidewalk, panting for breath—sobbing for breath, really.
I glanced up to see my mother and sister staring not at their assailant but at me, with stunned amazement making their faces foolish.
“Call the police,” I prompted them.
Varena kind of jumped and ran into Corbett’s. She was doing a lot of police calling these days. The Bard sisters were on a roll.
The man I’d downed was short, stocky, black. He had on a ragged coat, and he smelled. I figured this was probably the same man who’d taken Diane Dykeman’s purse a couple of days ago.
“Let me up, bitch,” he said now, having gathered enough breath to speak.
“Be polite,” I said, my voice harsh. I gave his arm a yank upward, and he screamed.
“Oh, Lily,” my mother gasped. “Oh, honey. Do you have to . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as I looked up to meet her eyes.
“Yes,” I said. “I have to.”
A siren went off right behind me. The patrol officer must have been two blocks away when he got the call from the dispatcher, so he put on his siren. It nearly made me lose my grip. The car had “Bartley Police Department” printed in an arc over the Bartley town symbol, some complicated mishmash involving cotton and tractors. Under the symbol, the word “Chief” was centered in
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