humiliating her. She tended to the boy with patience, asking him what his favorite sports teams and television shows were, trying to keep his wounded dignity in tact. The boy’s mother had gone outside for a cigarette—the poor kid had been in the emergency room all day waiting for a bed.
At eleven, the last thing most boys wanted was for a strange woman to see them in their jockey shorts. Jill felt for the kid, and felt even sorrier for him when he apologized for making such a mess. She assured him it was no big deal, ruffled his hair and was on her way.
After gathering her purse from her locker and punching out, she left the main hospital building and stepped into the sunshine. It was the middle of August and summer was baring its teeth, the sun blinding her for a moment until she could dig out a pair of sunglasses from her purse and get them on her face. The air felt thick and sticky; it was ninety-five, easy.
She entered the parking garage, her footsteps clacking on the pavement and echoing through the cavernous structure. It always amazed her how silent these ramps were, and she found it a little unsettling. She hurriedly took the stairway to the second level and found her Toyota.
After paying the attendant in the booth, she turned right onto Elmwood Avenue and headed toward home. The encounter with Dorothy Gaines had gotten her pipes warm, but she had kept from overheating. No reason to give Gaines justification for writing her up.
Her street was a little more than two miles away from the hospital. The houses on Wharton were mainly duplexes, built after the Second World War. Gnarled maple trees, some a hundred years old or more, provided shade for the entire street and created an effect not unlike entering a cave. Jill supposed it was good to have them because they provided at least some relief from the heat.
She saw the cop car in her driveway and immediately thought, a cop car in the driveway could not be a good sign. It was like getting a phone call at two in the morning. It was always bad news, like someone had a heart attack, or there was a horrible car crash and a family member was lying mangled on a highway.
Jill pulled the Corolla up behind the silver-and-blue patrol car, threw it in park and climbed out. The police car’s left rear tire sagged, low on air. The driver’s side window was open and voices buzzed on the radio. There was no sign of an officer.
She approached the house, which was painted yellow with black trim and always made her think of a bumblebee. The front porch ran the entire width of the house and on it was a glider that creaked with the slightest breeze. Jill kept promising herself she was going to park herself in that glider and read a good novel, but she’d been too busy.
She opened the screen door, took her keys out of her purse and inserted the house key into the lock.
The door creaked open. She would swear on her mother’s name that she’d locked it that morning. Jill looked up to see a cop taking up the doorway and gasped.
“I’m sorry, Miss Adams. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“Nothing wrong. And you can call me Ed. Everyone else does.”
“He gave her a big smile, but it lacked any sign of warmth. The fact that the cop had been shorted in the looks department didn’t add anything to the smile. His head was shaved bald, the forehead lined and cracked like a dried riverbed. His face looked as if it had been carved by an angry sculptor: sharp cheekbones, a pointed chin. And the eyes, seemingly locked in a permanent squint.
“How do you know my name? Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”
The cop threw his head back and laughed, revealing big, yellowed teeth. “No trouble. I make a point of having the townspeople let me know when someone new moves in. I like to come out and personally greet folks like yourself.”
Something about him made her uneasy, but if asked she could not put her finger on the exact reason.
At eleven, the last thing most boys wanted was for a strange woman to see them in their jockey shorts. Jill felt for the kid, and felt even sorrier for him when he apologized for making such a mess. She assured him it was no big deal, ruffled his hair and was on her way.
After gathering her purse from her locker and punching out, she left the main hospital building and stepped into the sunshine. It was the middle of August and summer was baring its teeth, the sun blinding her for a moment until she could dig out a pair of sunglasses from her purse and get them on her face. The air felt thick and sticky; it was ninety-five, easy.
She entered the parking garage, her footsteps clacking on the pavement and echoing through the cavernous structure. It always amazed her how silent these ramps were, and she found it a little unsettling. She hurriedly took the stairway to the second level and found her Toyota.
After paying the attendant in the booth, she turned right onto Elmwood Avenue and headed toward home. The encounter with Dorothy Gaines had gotten her pipes warm, but she had kept from overheating. No reason to give Gaines justification for writing her up.
Her street was a little more than two miles away from the hospital. The houses on Wharton were mainly duplexes, built after the Second World War. Gnarled maple trees, some a hundred years old or more, provided shade for the entire street and created an effect not unlike entering a cave. Jill supposed it was good to have them because they provided at least some relief from the heat.
She saw the cop car in her driveway and immediately thought, a cop car in the driveway could not be a good sign. It was like getting a phone call at two in the morning. It was always bad news, like someone had a heart attack, or there was a horrible car crash and a family member was lying mangled on a highway.
Jill pulled the Corolla up behind the silver-and-blue patrol car, threw it in park and climbed out. The police car’s left rear tire sagged, low on air. The driver’s side window was open and voices buzzed on the radio. There was no sign of an officer.
She approached the house, which was painted yellow with black trim and always made her think of a bumblebee. The front porch ran the entire width of the house and on it was a glider that creaked with the slightest breeze. Jill kept promising herself she was going to park herself in that glider and read a good novel, but she’d been too busy.
She opened the screen door, took her keys out of her purse and inserted the house key into the lock.
The door creaked open. She would swear on her mother’s name that she’d locked it that morning. Jill looked up to see a cop taking up the doorway and gasped.
“I’m sorry, Miss Adams. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“Nothing wrong. And you can call me Ed. Everyone else does.”
“He gave her a big smile, but it lacked any sign of warmth. The fact that the cop had been shorted in the looks department didn’t add anything to the smile. His head was shaved bald, the forehead lined and cracked like a dried riverbed. His face looked as if it had been carved by an angry sculptor: sharp cheekbones, a pointed chin. And the eyes, seemingly locked in a permanent squint.
“How do you know my name? Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”
The cop threw his head back and laughed, revealing big, yellowed teeth. “No trouble. I make a point of having the townspeople let me know when someone new moves in. I like to come out and personally greet folks like yourself.”
Something about him made her uneasy, but if asked she could not put her finger on the exact reason.
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