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Authors: Lydia Adamson
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red pickup truck had already double-parked in front of it. Good, I thought, it would protect the windows from slush.
I looked at Jo. She was standing contentedly, her face up to the sun.
The red pickup truck in front of her car started to move. I watched it casually, the sun sparkling along its red sides. Something was wrong, though. The truck crossed to the far side of the street, where no cars were parked—the illegal side.
It began to accelerate, and one set of wheels squealed against the curb. The little red truck was coming straight at us.
I grabbed Jo’s arm. I started to run, pulling Jo with me.
I heard a screaming, grinding noise behind me. Terrified, I tried to run faster. My legs started to wobble like jelly.
I heard a person scream. Showers of glass rained down. All went dark.
9
“Only one more landing to go,” I said to Jo as we both hovered on the cusp between the third and fourth landings, exhausted, still dazed. Jo had a large bandage on one side of her face. I had a dressing across the top of my forehead, right at the scalp line.
Noticing that one of the tenants still had a Christmas wreath on the door, I snarled. Why hadn’t it been removed? Christmas was over and done with. And as I stood there between landings, holding Jo, I remembered some lines from a play I had once appeared in. A woman faces a hated husband and says, “What I’d like on this ominous Christmas Eve is a visitation from Baby Jesus, or at least a Christ in some highly recognizable form.”
What was the name of the play? The playwright? The character? I could remember nothing, only those lines.
I touched my thigh gingerly. It hurt very badly. The doctors in the emergency room at Beekman Downtown Hospital had said nothing was broken, just bruised.
The police had told us the truck had crashed into a lightpost, destroyed a parking sign, smashed the windows of the Chinese restaurant, destroyed a hydrant, spun around twice���and driven off. They told us we were very lucky. Drunk drivers like that one usually ended up killing or maiming people—and both of us had been only inches from death. It was a miracle, they said, that we had escaped with only superficial wounds from the flying glass.
We started up the final flight to my apartment, Jo in front, my hand lightly on her back to make sure she didn’t fall. Or perhaps my staying behind her was not altruistic. When I had gained consciousness I had seen one side of her face drenched in blood from dozens of tiny glass cuts. And her cropped white hair had been flecked with blood. The sight had made me ill.
Finally, sanctuary. We both dropped onto the sofa like stones. We didn’t move. We didn’t speak.
It was already dark outside and there were no lights in the apartment. I realized I should turn on a light, but for the moment I couldn’t intellectually locate the switch.
When I finally did turn it on and returned to the sofa, I saw Bushy and Pancho sitting calmly, side by side, staring at us. It was a very unusual pose for Pancho. He seemed to be assessing the situation. It must be our bandages, I thought. The white bandages must fascinate him.
“Can I get you something, Jo?”
“Nothing.”
I stared at Pancho. I longed to cuddle with that crazy cat. For a brief moment I contemplated making a grab for him. But I didn’t. Pancho was always too swift for me. He simply didn’t want to cuddle. I smiled at him. His body was less relaxed. His curiosity was almost satiated. He would get back to business shortly—flight from the enemy.
Jo laughed, and I looked at her. Her hand was feeling her bandaged face. “I was just thinking,” she explained, “how ridiculous it is to come into Manhattan and almost get killed by a drunk driver. I thought all the drunk drivers were on the Long Island Expressway.”
“How do you know he was drunk, Jo?”
“Well, the police said he was drunk.”
“Yes, they did.”
“You have to be drunk to climb a curb and run your
I looked at Jo. She was standing contentedly, her face up to the sun.
The red pickup truck in front of her car started to move. I watched it casually, the sun sparkling along its red sides. Something was wrong, though. The truck crossed to the far side of the street, where no cars were parked—the illegal side.
It began to accelerate, and one set of wheels squealed against the curb. The little red truck was coming straight at us.
I grabbed Jo’s arm. I started to run, pulling Jo with me.
I heard a screaming, grinding noise behind me. Terrified, I tried to run faster. My legs started to wobble like jelly.
I heard a person scream. Showers of glass rained down. All went dark.
9
“Only one more landing to go,” I said to Jo as we both hovered on the cusp between the third and fourth landings, exhausted, still dazed. Jo had a large bandage on one side of her face. I had a dressing across the top of my forehead, right at the scalp line.
Noticing that one of the tenants still had a Christmas wreath on the door, I snarled. Why hadn’t it been removed? Christmas was over and done with. And as I stood there between landings, holding Jo, I remembered some lines from a play I had once appeared in. A woman faces a hated husband and says, “What I’d like on this ominous Christmas Eve is a visitation from Baby Jesus, or at least a Christ in some highly recognizable form.”
What was the name of the play? The playwright? The character? I could remember nothing, only those lines.
I touched my thigh gingerly. It hurt very badly. The doctors in the emergency room at Beekman Downtown Hospital had said nothing was broken, just bruised.
The police had told us the truck had crashed into a lightpost, destroyed a parking sign, smashed the windows of the Chinese restaurant, destroyed a hydrant, spun around twice���and driven off. They told us we were very lucky. Drunk drivers like that one usually ended up killing or maiming people—and both of us had been only inches from death. It was a miracle, they said, that we had escaped with only superficial wounds from the flying glass.
We started up the final flight to my apartment, Jo in front, my hand lightly on her back to make sure she didn’t fall. Or perhaps my staying behind her was not altruistic. When I had gained consciousness I had seen one side of her face drenched in blood from dozens of tiny glass cuts. And her cropped white hair had been flecked with blood. The sight had made me ill.
Finally, sanctuary. We both dropped onto the sofa like stones. We didn’t move. We didn’t speak.
It was already dark outside and there were no lights in the apartment. I realized I should turn on a light, but for the moment I couldn’t intellectually locate the switch.
When I finally did turn it on and returned to the sofa, I saw Bushy and Pancho sitting calmly, side by side, staring at us. It was a very unusual pose for Pancho. He seemed to be assessing the situation. It must be our bandages, I thought. The white bandages must fascinate him.
“Can I get you something, Jo?”
“Nothing.”
I stared at Pancho. I longed to cuddle with that crazy cat. For a brief moment I contemplated making a grab for him. But I didn’t. Pancho was always too swift for me. He simply didn’t want to cuddle. I smiled at him. His body was less relaxed. His curiosity was almost satiated. He would get back to business shortly—flight from the enemy.
Jo laughed, and I looked at her. Her hand was feeling her bandaged face. “I was just thinking,” she explained, “how ridiculous it is to come into Manhattan and almost get killed by a drunk driver. I thought all the drunk drivers were on the Long Island Expressway.”
“How do you know he was drunk, Jo?”
“Well, the police said he was drunk.”
“Yes, they did.”
“You have to be drunk to climb a curb and run your
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