The Housewife Blues (27 page)

Above her, the knife remained poised for another blow, a
thin red line along its blade. The boy's face was ashen.

He looked up, his eyes boring into her. She saw more than
horror there now, a fulminating disorientation. He shook his head, eyes
narrowing as they searched the room, clutching his arm. She noted that the
blood had begun to spill over the leather, like droplets of red paint.

"I warned you," she began hoarsely.

"It hurts bad," the young man said, clutching his
arm. He looked at her helplessly, the swagger gone. She watched his arm,
bleeding profusely.

"I can fix that," she said. She still held the
knife poised for another blow if he came at her.

"No cops, okay?" He grimaced in pain, defeated.

"No cops," she whispered, knowing it was a hollow
promise. At the very first opportunity she would certainly call the police.

His face was the color of mud, and he was losing a great
deal of blood. "Help me, lady," he said.

She was still frightened, but the boy's pain seemed genuine
enough. She felt Larry watching her, berating her for her compassion, her
foolishness. Don't believe him, he would say. He has no conscience, no morals,
no feelings. He tried to rape you, maybe worse. You're stupid, naive, a dumb
little hick. His words raced in her mind.

"Dammit," she said, putting the knife down on the
island.

"Please," the young man said. "I be good. I
promise."

His pleading seemed sincere. Besides, he looked terrible.
She moved slowly around the kitchen island.

"It's okay, lady," the young man pleaded.

He was leaning against the refrigerator door. When she
reached him, she pulled down the zipper of his leather jacket.

"Easy," she cautioned as she helped him out of
it. He grimaced, his features convulsed with pain. Then she unbuttoned his
shirt and helped him move his injured arm out of the ripped sleeve. Handling
his dark arm gently, she inspected the wound. The blood was flowing freely, but
it wasn't, thankfully, an artery.

She washed the wound with water, took a clean dish towel
from a drawer, then applied pressure. The trembling in her hands, she noted,
had miraculously stopped. Then she told him to keep the pressure applied while
she went to the bathroom to get her first-aid kit.

When she returned, he was still leaning against the wall,
his hand holding the dish towel, which was soaked with his blood. She removed
it gently. The blood flow had eased. Using a bottle of peroxide, she washed
away the blood. He winced with pain.

"It needs stitches," she said. "You should
have it looked at."

"Who gonna look? I got no doctor."

"Go immediately to the emergency room at Mount Sinai," Jenny advised.

"They treat you like shit there. Ask too many
questions," he said. "I been."

"You've got to have it treated and stitched,"
Jenny pressed, hesitating, wondering if she should mention her past experience.
Suddenly tears filled the boy's eyes, spilling over his cheeks.

"Look ... I..." Jenny began, then stopped.
"Dammit, why did you have to..."

The boy looked down and shook his head.

"I can stitch it," Jenny blurted. "I know
how."

The boy straightened, and with the sleeve of his good arm,
he wiped his face, cleared his throat, and looked at her.

"Please, lady, you do this for me. I'm sorry I done
what I did. I musta been crazy."

"I'll agree with that."

"Please, lady. I ain't really that bad. I got crazy is
all."

"It will hurt," Jenny said.

"Just fix me up," the young man said.
"Please."

Again she imagined hearing Larry's voice berating her.

Jenny shrugged and looked into her first-aid kit. She had
the makings for flesh-wound stitches, medical thread and an appropriate needle.
She threaded the needle and sterilized it in alcohol. Then she turned toward
the young man. But first she ran the tap and filled a glass with water and gave
the boy two codeine painkillers. He swallowed them and washed them down with
the water.

"I told you, this will hurt," she said.
"Just don't look."

She worked swiftly as the boy groaned with pain. At one
point she thought he might faint. Somehow she managed to keep his arm steady
until she'd finished the job. Ten stitches. Then she dressed the wound, put a
bandage over it, and helped him put his leather jacket over his shoulders.

"Now go home and lie down. I still say you should see
a doctor as soon as you can."

The young man nodded. Holding his good arm, she walked him
toward the door. But before she opened the door, he turned and their eyes met.

"Bet you think I'm the crazy one, right?" she
asked gently.

He shrugged his shoulders. "You gonna call the
cops?" he asked, his voice weak.

"You ever going to do this again?"

He sighed. "You gonna believe me?"

"Maybe." She wouldn't put her hand on a stack of
Bibles over that one, she thought.

"Don't call the cops, lady. Please. My mama got enough
troubles."

"How does it feel?" she asked, pointing to his
arm.

"Like shit," he muttered. He managed a thin smile.
"Lucky I got stuck by a nurse," he said.

"I'm not a nurse. Just a glorified receptionist."

She chuckled, watching the boy's look of puzzlement.

"No cops, right? You're not going to tell?"

"Macho man," she said.

"I didn't mean to..." The young man paused.

"I did," Jenny said, looking at his wounded arm.
"You're lucky it was only your arm." She hoped the implication of her
words would sink in.

"Yeah," he agreed.

"Did you learn anything from this?" Jenny asked
sternly.

"Yeah," the boy drawled. "Maybe."

She opened the door for the young man, then helped him open
the outside door. As she did so she noted that his pure white sneakers were
soiled by bloodstains. She did not point them out to him.

"Your pizza's cold by now," he said. Then,
holding on to the stone banister, he walked slowly down the stairs. When he
reached the sidewalk, he turned and raised his good arm in a kind of wave, then
walked off toward Second Avenue.

When she got into her apartment again, she put up the chain
and rolled the dead bolt into place. For a moment she leaned against the closed
door. Cops or not? she thought. What would Larry have done? she asked herself.
"Cops," she whispered, shaking her head in the negative. Then she
brought the first-aid kit back into the bathroom and put it in the cabinet
under the sink.

When she rose again, she saw her face in the mirror.

"No matter what," she told her mirror image,
"never become like them."