Clown Girl - Monica Drake [36]
“Ah, St. Julian,” I whimpered, leaned into my cane and rubbed my thigh.
“Hello?” It was a man’s voice. From the car.
Without looking, I said, “I don’t need to buy anything and don’t want any trouble. Move on.”
The man said, “You all right, Sniffles?”
I held on to my hat and looked up at the sound of my name. This was no ordinary B -town harassment. It was a cop car that shadowed me, close and quiet as a shark. And there he was—the cop, the one who whistled “Happy Trails,” who chased me from the empty lot, who cost me most of my Green Drink. Soon as I saw him I wanted to duck and run, or do a duck run, a waddle on out. I was trapped!
But he was also the cop who held my hand on the sidewalk, who saved my life the day I fainted—the day I almost became a show that couldn’t go on. Even more, he was the cop with my urine funnel. I needed that funnel.
“Sprained muscle,” I said. “Comes with the job.”
“I’d give you a ride,” he offered from the window of his purring cruiser. Our eyes met, and his were endless, blue as a Slushee, blue as windshield wiper fluid. An unnatural blue.
I looked away fast, kicked the mower’s blade cover back into place. “I’m home.” I nodded at the overgrown yard, the cluttered porch, Herman’s lopsided bungalow and the hand-painted sign nailed over the front door: Baloneyville Co op.
Chance kept up her bark against the front window: Come in, come in, come in!
Herman was a human sonar machine camouflaged behind a plant, pretending not to listen.
The cop left his car running, got out, and walked over. “Let me help you with that,” he said.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “Any clown worth her greasepaint can lift her own lawn mower, sprained groin or not.”
The cop held up his hands in surrender. The sun hit his badge, his hair, his gun. I was dizzy, blinded by this man, his gear. I cleared my throat. He cleared his throat. He said, “Well, maybe you’ve been looking for me.”
Chance’s bark was a car alarm blasting behind us. Herman squinted from the shadows of the porch. House rules, his squint said. No cops at the co-op.
The cop said, “Heard a rumor that somebody called the station. Said I had something she needed?”
“Wasn’t me,” I said, loud enough to broadcast to the whole neighborhood. I hung my cane over my arm and put both hands on the mower again. “No way, sir.”
The cop slid his hands near mine on the mower’s chrome push bar. His arm kissed the side of my arm and doubled the heat between us. Together we pushed the rattling mower up the walk, toward the driveway. He giggled. The cop giggled like a boy, at a private joke.
I said, “What’s on your mind, officer?”
“This caller, she said I had cinnamon buns.”
His cloud of spice sweetened the air as he said it, and I blushed. Sweat was a finger-tickle down my spine, a shiver in the heat. I said, “No, that you smell like cinnamon buns. Like cinnamon, I mean. I don’t know about your buns—or the buns, I mean, whoever’s buns.”
The cop’s left hand brushed my right where our hands wrapped around the mower’s handle. No wedding ring. His laugh burst again, and I saw the lines around his eyes like rays drawn around a child’s sun. He said, “So you know about the cinnamon, but it wasn’t you who called the precinct, huh? Funny, that.”
I pushed my hat farther down onto my head. “I just happened to notice the cinnamon. Independently, I mean. Just now.”
“Just happened to notice the cinnamon, you did?”
“Not that I noticed, noticed.” I said. “I mean, not how you make it sound. I…”
His eyes were bright, laughing, looking at me like I was the most important thing on earth. I couldn’t help but smile back. Our hands were hot and close. I had to break away.
“I’ve got it, OK?” I tugged the mower to shake him off. The cop let go, still smiling. I gave it another yank, and stumbled on my big shoe. “Crumb!” I said. My bum leg squawked and with