windshield. “Hey,” I said.
Abbie yelled, “Shut the door! The light, the light, shut the door!”
I wasn’t thinking fast enough. I looked at her, confused, meaning to ask her what was going on, and then something very hard hit me all around the head and all the lights everywhere clicked out.
13
I thought: I’ve been drinking. It was the only explanation I could think of for the head I had. I thought it was morning, and I was waking up in the usual way, but with the kind of splitting headache I get from drinking Scotch or bourbon. I knew the cure was two aspirins and a quart of orange juice followed by another thirty minutes in the sack, but getting out of bed long enough to start the cure was going to be difficult. In fact, impossible, and as you recall, the impossible takes a little longer.
I knew one of the worst moments of the morning would be when I opened my eyes. Brightness was already beating against my eyelids, wanting to slice through my eyes and directly into my brain. Even with my eyes closed I was squinting, my face wrinkled up like a chipmunk. Tentatively I inched up one eyelid, testing my capacity to withstand torture, and what I saw made me snap both eyes open wide and lunge upward to a sitting position on the bed.
I was in a strange bed in a strange bedroom in the middle of the night, the ceiling light was on, and a girl in bra and panties, her back to me, was getting something out of a dresser drawer.
“Detective Golderman!” I shouted.
The girl turned around, and it was Abbie. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you? I thought you were out for the night.” Without haste she walked over to the closet and slipped on a robe.
I had too many things to be confused about at once. I said, “What did I say that for?”
Tying the robe’s belt, Abbie said, “What did you call me, anyway?”
“Detective Golderman,” I said, still bewildered.
So was she. She looked down at herself and said, “Detective Golderman?”
Then I got it. “The room,” I said. “This is Tommy’s bedroom.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“The only other time I was ever in here,” I explained, “was when Detective Golderman questioned me after— This is Tommy’s bed! ”
“Sure,” she said.
I leaped out of bed.
“You’re naked, Chet,” she said.
I leaped back into bed. “What—what—”
“The doctor and I undressed you,” she said. “He helped me carry you up here.”
“Doctor?” My confusion getting worse and worse, I lifted a hand to my head, meaning to lean my head against it for a minute, and felt cloth. I felt around on my head, and it was covered with cloth and what felt like adhesive tape. I said, “What the heck?”
“You were shot,” she said.
Then it all came back to me. The car stopping, me opening the door, the light coming on, the backfire, the starred hole in the windshield, the fluttering of my hair, Abbie screaming at me, and then the abrupt darkness, as though I was a television set that had been switched off.
I was awed, I was absolutely reverent in my presence. I said, “I was shot?”
“In the head,” she said.
That struck me as impossible. “That’s impossible,” I said. “If I was shot in the head I’d be dead. Or anyway in the hospital.”
Abbie said, “The bullet just skinned you.”
“Skinned?” What an awful image that conjured.
“It didn’t go into your head,” she said, explaining patiently. “It just sort of sideswiped you. On the side of the head there, above your left ear.”
I touched the side of my head above my left ear, and it hurt. Very badly. Underneath the bandages, my head reacted to the touch of my fingers by going twwaaannngg. “Ow,” I said, and left my head alone after that.
Abbie said, “The doctor said it removed some skin and put a little teeny crease in your skull, but you’ll be all—”
“Crease?” It seemed as though my part of the conversation was limited to astonished repetitions of individual
Abbie yelled, “Shut the door! The light, the light, shut the door!”
I wasn’t thinking fast enough. I looked at her, confused, meaning to ask her what was going on, and then something very hard hit me all around the head and all the lights everywhere clicked out.
13
I thought: I’ve been drinking. It was the only explanation I could think of for the head I had. I thought it was morning, and I was waking up in the usual way, but with the kind of splitting headache I get from drinking Scotch or bourbon. I knew the cure was two aspirins and a quart of orange juice followed by another thirty minutes in the sack, but getting out of bed long enough to start the cure was going to be difficult. In fact, impossible, and as you recall, the impossible takes a little longer.
I knew one of the worst moments of the morning would be when I opened my eyes. Brightness was already beating against my eyelids, wanting to slice through my eyes and directly into my brain. Even with my eyes closed I was squinting, my face wrinkled up like a chipmunk. Tentatively I inched up one eyelid, testing my capacity to withstand torture, and what I saw made me snap both eyes open wide and lunge upward to a sitting position on the bed.
I was in a strange bed in a strange bedroom in the middle of the night, the ceiling light was on, and a girl in bra and panties, her back to me, was getting something out of a dresser drawer.
“Detective Golderman!” I shouted.
The girl turned around, and it was Abbie. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you? I thought you were out for the night.” Without haste she walked over to the closet and slipped on a robe.
I had too many things to be confused about at once. I said, “What did I say that for?”
Tying the robe’s belt, Abbie said, “What did you call me, anyway?”
“Detective Golderman,” I said, still bewildered.
So was she. She looked down at herself and said, “Detective Golderman?”
Then I got it. “The room,” I said. “This is Tommy’s bedroom.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“The only other time I was ever in here,” I explained, “was when Detective Golderman questioned me after— This is Tommy’s bed! ”
“Sure,” she said.
I leaped out of bed.
“You’re naked, Chet,” she said.
I leaped back into bed. “What—what—”
“The doctor and I undressed you,” she said. “He helped me carry you up here.”
“Doctor?” My confusion getting worse and worse, I lifted a hand to my head, meaning to lean my head against it for a minute, and felt cloth. I felt around on my head, and it was covered with cloth and what felt like adhesive tape. I said, “What the heck?”
“You were shot,” she said.
Then it all came back to me. The car stopping, me opening the door, the light coming on, the backfire, the starred hole in the windshield, the fluttering of my hair, Abbie screaming at me, and then the abrupt darkness, as though I was a television set that had been switched off.
I was awed, I was absolutely reverent in my presence. I said, “I was shot?”
“In the head,” she said.
That struck me as impossible. “That’s impossible,” I said. “If I was shot in the head I’d be dead. Or anyway in the hospital.”
Abbie said, “The bullet just skinned you.”
“Skinned?” What an awful image that conjured.
“It didn’t go into your head,” she said, explaining patiently. “It just sort of sideswiped you. On the side of the head there, above your left ear.”
I touched the side of my head above my left ear, and it hurt. Very badly. Underneath the bandages, my head reacted to the touch of my fingers by going twwaaannngg. “Ow,” I said, and left my head alone after that.
Abbie said, “The doctor said it removed some skin and put a little teeny crease in your skull, but you’ll be all—”
“Crease?” It seemed as though my part of the conversation was limited to astonished repetitions of individual
Similar Books
