Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [28]
I try to twist around to face her and the sudden flame in my side serves as a reminder that I was busy being tortured about twenty-four hours ago. I gasp at the burst of pain and tears spill out of my eyes. Yvonne’s eyes flip open and she gives me a grim little smile.
—Morning, sleepyhead. Ready for a doctor?
After I blacked out, she got me inside and tried to call 911. Apparently, I managed to convince her that was a bad idea and she did the best job she could rebandaging me. She took Bud to a vet with emergency service, left him, and came home to check on me, but all I did was sleep. Eventually she went to work, and when she came home early this morning, she was able to pick up Bud. She told the vet Bud was hit by a car; he told her to be more careful and gave her some little kitty painkillers for him. The stitches are the dissolving kind, but he’s stuck with the cast for at least a few weeks. So all in all, it’s not such a bad morning. Especially the part about still being alive. But Yvonne’s patience with my loose-lips-sink-ships attitude is wearing thin and she wants some answers about what the hell is going on. Welcome to the club.
In the end we make a deal. I’m lying on the bed and Yvonne gently pulls the bandage away from my side.
—You know, I never went to college like you, Henry, but me? I’d say you’re pretty fucked up. So, now that you’re not all delirious with pain, I thought I might be able to get you to a doctor or something.
I grit my teeth as she wipes more blood away from the wound.
—No.
—Fuck you, Hank. Unless you have a better idea, I’m calling 911 and getting an ambulance over here before you ruin my bed with your fucking blood.
She stands and heads for the phone.
—Baby, wait.
—Don’t “baby” me, Hank.
She has the phone in her hand, waiting.
She’s right. I do need a doctor. I tell her the number to call.
Yvonne has her loft set up with her studio at one end and the living area at the other. Everything is open except for the curtained-off bathroom in one corner. In the middle she has a little kitchen built around an enormous antique oak table. She uses the table for counter space and dining, it bears innumerable burns and scars from both. She found it abandoned on the street a couple years back and me and some guys from the bar helped her to get it up here. We had to take the legs off and Wayne, this ex-marshal from the bar, tore his groin muscle getting it up the last flight. Yvonne sanded it down and refinished it, then promptly began abusing the hell out of it. I’m facedown on it right now because it’s the brightest spot in the room and Dr. Bob wanted as much light as possible to stitch up my side.
This is service above and beyond the call of duty even for the doc. A morning house call to sew up mysteriously brutal wounds on a surly and unforthcoming patient is not covered in the Hippocratic oath. However, ministering to the sick all measures that are required is. For that matter, there’s something in there about respecting the privacy of the patient, and the doc is doing a particularly good job on that one. Which makes a lot of sense, seeing as he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anyone to ever know he was here doing this.
—What I don’t want is some emergency room doctor asking for the name of the butcher who sutured you rather than sending you to the hospital. I don’t want to suddenly start receiving calls from lawyers regarding malpractice charges. I don’t want your buddies popping up at my door in the middle of the night with bullets they need taken out of their guts. I also don’t happen to want you slowly bleeding to death as you wander around the city.
He punctuates each statement by pulling the knots tight on each