Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [50]
"I'm going to cut the bandage loose on his bad side. Hold the other wing in place—I need to spread him out, see what the damage is."
The broken wing covered a good piece of the counter. Blossom talked to the gull as she worked, hands and eyes one perfect unit. "Take it easy, boy. We'll have you chasing girl gulls in a short piece. Let me take a look, now. Don't fuss."
More probing. "Here it is. A clean break. I can set it after I cut away these little fragments. There!"
She wrapped the wings together again, tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips as she concentrated. "There's some old birdcage in the basement. Big enough for a parrot or something. In the left corner off the stairs."
I found the cage. The handle came almost to my chest. I carried it upstairs. "Put it out on the back porch—we'll have to hose it down."
I did that while Blossom shredded newspapers for the flooring. She handed me a pair of pliers. "Take out all that other stuff—give him some room."
I removed the perches until the cage was an empty shell. The door wasn't big enough for the gull—I pried the bars apart to make room. Blossom gently lowered him inside. He made no move to fight. Watched us.
"There's some salmon in the cupboard. Open a can for him while I get him some cover."
I opened a can, dumped the salmon inside the cage. Filled the empty can with water and put that inside too. Blossom came back with an army blanket. Cut it into strips with the surgical scissors and draped it over the top of the cage.
"Have yourself a nice rest, boy," she said. "In a couple of weeks, you'll be back to work."
69
I SAT AT THE kitchen table. Blossom stood next to me. "Let's have a look at that hand."
Blood across the knuckles, one finger sliced cleanly. "Wash it off in the sink. Cold water, no soap. Make sure the blood runs clean."
She dried off the hand, spraying some stinging stuff across the open cut, put a butterfly bandage in place. "Won't even leave a scar," she said.
"You were a nurse once?"
Her turquoise eyes searched my face, a smile rippling across her wide mouth. "No. No more than you're a real estate speculator. Be right back."
70
WHEN I HEARD the rush of the shower, I knew she'd be a while. I cracked a wooden match into fire, lit a smoke. No ashtray on the kitchen table. I went looking. Four small clay pots on the windowsill, clogged with thick greenery. Looked like parsley. A twig planted in each one, standing tall and clean above the growth. Looked closer. Thick–bodied black–and–white–striped caterpillars, one in each pot.
I opened the dishwasher. No ashtrays, but I found a drinking glass. Opened the tap, poured a half inch of water inside. It'd do.
Blossom came back inside, wearing a tightly belted pink terry–cloth robe, a towel wrapped around her head.
"You want some coffee?"
"No, thanks."
"A beer?"
"No."
She busied herself with making coffee, pouring ground beans into a filter. The beans came from a plain white bag, no brand name. Somebody had handwritten Kenya AA on the side.
A motorcycle snarled in the street. Mother calling her kids inside for dinner. Dogs barked conversationally. Safe sounds.
She sat across from me, cradling her heavy white coffee mug in both hands, unselfconsciously plucking at the opening of her robe. At home, unhurried.
Maybe I couldn't mend a broken wing, but I could outwait a stone. Tossed my cigarette into the water glass and settled down into myself.
"You're not curious?"
"About what?"
"About why I asked you to come and talk to me. About what I said about you not being a real estate speculator."
"Curious enough to take the ride."
"But…"
"I can't play a hand until it's dealt."
She tapped long fingernails on the tabletop. "I've been here six weeks. Summer's almost over. Then I'll have to go."
I watched her. Laugh–lines around her wide mouth. Trace of crow's–feet next to her eyes. Harder lines. Her skin was as clean and clear and glowing as a young girl's, but she was older than I first thought. Even at ease, her back was straight, shoulders squared.
"I'm not