Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [49]
I jumped out, hands empty, too much inside the gull to care. Sun bounced off the windshields of the other cars—I couldn't see the drivers.
The Camaro revved its engine, its nose aimed at where I stood. I heard the Lincoln's door slam behind me. I didn't look back. Spread my legs. Shook my hands at the wrists, breathing through my nose, watching the car doors. If they came out together, I knew what I had to do. Drop the closest one, jump in the car he left behind. And see how the others liked being chased.
Rubber fought with pavement as all three cars shot out of the lot, leaving me standing there. I watched, expecting them to regroup and come back at me. Taillights winked as they hit the brakes at the end of the lot, but they pulled onto the highway. I turned back to the Lincoln. Blossom was bent at the waist over the Lincoln's fender, her hands inside the big canvas purse.
The gull hadn't moved. I dropped into a squat, started toward him.
"Wait!" Blossom's voice. She came up behind me, handed me a pair of thick leather gloves. "Use these. That boy's got a beak like a razor."
I slipped on the gloves, wondering how she knew what I had to do.
I moved in again. Duck–walking. One slow step at a time. Feeling the blacktop through the soles of my shoes. Talking softly to the gull.
"It's okay, pal. The punks took off. We faced them down. You're a hell of a gull. Boss bull of the flock you'll be when we get you fixed up. Everything's okay now. Easy…easy, boy."
He let me get to about ten feet away, flapped his good wing, and faked a run to his right. I was already moving to my right when the beak lashed out at me. I moved just out of his way, talking to him. He centered himself, watched. I let him have my eyes, willing him to feel the calm. "We're not all alike," my mind called to him.
My legs were starting to cramp when he moved. Toward me. Dragging the broken wing, eyes stabbing into mine. He was out of gas. Coming to trust or to die. I held out a gloved hand. He took it in his beak, experimentally. I felt the pressure, didn't move. Rubbed the back of his neck. His head bowed, eyes blinked. I reached back for the good wing, pinning it to his body as he flapped the broken one, shrieked his battle cry, and ripped at my gloved hand. I pinned the beak closed, stepped over and smothered the bad wing, holding him close, crooning to him.
Blossom. She snapped open a roll of Ace bandage. Left it on the ground as she manipulated the gull's bad wing, carefully folding it against his body. I got what she was doing, held him as she wound the bandage around his body. He had most of the leather glove ripped open when Blossom slipped a heavy rubber band around his beak.
"Hold him—I'll be right back," she said.
She came trotting out of the drugstore with a carton. It said Pampers on the sides. "Give him to me." I handed her the gull. She cradled it against her. "Take off your shirt—he needs a bed inside the box before we close him up."
I dropped my jacket to the pavement, unbuttoned my shirt, piled it into a soft cushion on the bottom of the box. Blossom slowly lowered the gull inside, closed the top, leaving him in peaceful darkness.
She held the box on her lap as I drove. Told me to turn on McCook Avenue, off 173rd. "The gray house, the one with the shingles…see it?"
I pulled into the pebbled driveway, up to a closed single–car garage. Followed Blossom around to the back door.
She put the box on the kitchen table. Left me standing there. Came back with a leather satchel. Filled a copper–bottomed pot with water and put it on to boil.
"Let's take a look at him," she said, opening the top of the box. I lifted the gull out, carried him to the counter next to the sink. Sound of metal being tossed into the pot. Blossom deftly made a circle of white surgical tape, fastened cotton balls on the inside, and slipped the soft hood over the bird's beak to cover his eyes. She poured off the boiling water. I glanced in the sink. Gleaming surgical tools: scalpel, scissors,