Clown Girl - Monica Drake [70]
With one long arm Herman reached over the chest and pushed on the mattress until the mattress inched down toward the floor. I scurried out of the way.
He said, “Nita, what’re you crying for? You’ll be OK. Put pressure on it.”
“I’m not crying about a few cuts,” I said. I flung my hand aside, and blood splattered on my striped pants. I wiped it into a smear. “That doesn’t matter.” I was tired and sick. My dog was gone. Herman seemed so far away, I barely knew him anymore. I needed a comforting hand, a pat on the back, somebody to smooth my hair. Somebody to kneel beside me and say that everything would be all right. The soft scent of cinnamon, or the bite of sweat. Jerrod, Rex, Herman.
Emancipated minor? I’d been one for years—emancipated, but no longer a minor, and I was ready to have a team, a side, a family. Somebody to back me up. A person shouldn’t be emancipated so long.
“She won’t bother you,” Herman said. “We cut a deal.”
He tried to slide the dresser, but instead knocked the dresser over. I scrambled like a hamster in a cage dodging a falling water bottle. A sock drawer slid open on the way down and a silky rainbow of tricks and scarves fell out. Herman climbed over the mess. “Don’t worry about the windows. That’s easy enough to fix. But what’s up, what’s with the piss in the fridge?”
I coughed, and choked out, “I wasn’t trying to mess with anyone. I have a bad heart.” Then I started crying all over again, feeling sorry for myself—sorry for the fist of muscle, that failing, overworked blood pump, the underappreciated overachiever.
Herman said, “Are you sick?”
Upstairs, Italia stamped the floor, stomped the hallway, and threw something that clunked and thudded down the stairs.
“Not sick, really. Not contagious, but there’s something wrong…They don’t know what yet.” I said, “Maybe a heart attack, maybe a panic attack, depending on who you ask.”
Herman didn’t offer a hand to my shoulder. No curative, restorative pat on the back. He said, “Huh. Well, here’s a house rule: no biohazards in the kitchen unless you clear it with me first, OK? But this time, we’ll grandfather the piss in. Store all the piss you want, as long as it’s clearly marked. And medical.”
He said, “And get rid of the rubber-chicken dealers. We’re still getting about three a day.”
I nodded.
He said, “What were you yelling about a banana? What’s up with all that?”
Italia coughed, and the cough rattled through my room. She had her head to an air vent upstairs. Hack-too. She spit again.
I said, “Nothing.”
Herman cocked an eyebrow. He wasn’t buying it. Through the vent, Italia coughed again.
He said, “What were you doing at Hoagies last night?”
Ah! So he’d heard that much. “Just shooting a little stick. Practicing trick shots. Clown stuff,” I said, and gave a shrug of innocence.
“Bull pucky,” Italia said. Hack-too. “She’s lying.” Her voice was far away and tinny, like reception on an old-time radio.
“Sweets,” Herman said to the air vent. “Go to bed. I’ll be right there.”
“She’s full of shit,” Italia said. A cloud of dust fell from the vent.
I stood up and yelled, “Stay out of it.” My bad leg winced, and my hands were still bleeding. I picked up a striped scarf and wrapped the scarf around my cuts.
Italia said, “She was out with a cop.” Her voice was small, and sharp. “Cop date,” her voice echoed in the vents. “That’s a cop’s banana.” It was like having a tiny, tattling fly on the wall.
“Cop’s banana?”
I said, “Herman, she’s crazy. Here’s the deal—I was out practicing pool shots, clown work. A cop came in the place. I had to run out. She saw me run… ”
Herman nudged the smashed banana where it lay near the window. He picked the banana up, held it by the stem, let it dangle. “I don’t need to hear the whole story,” he said. “I don’t think I want to. Just keep the cops away from the house. Don’t talk to Italia, and she won’t talk to you. We’ll be our own little demilitarized zone, OK?”
He stood up and dropped the fruit. “Your room smells like compost, Nita. Clean it up, before we get