Clown Girl - Monica Drake [86]
“We don’t want to use force,” the doctor said.
“What do you mean, armed? These are boobs. I’m not armed, I’m boobed.” Another one-liner, that nervous habit.
“Whatever it is,” the doctor said. “Let’s not argue. Just drop the, ah, what you’d call boobs.”
I let go. The Pendulous Breasts fell to the floor.
The doctor relaxed. His shoulders sagged. “That’s a girl. Now we’ll just move slowly, OK. We’ll take care of your burns, see to your needs. And the fire department has a few questions. Soon as we get you admitted, they need a moment of your time. They’re waiting outside.” He slid along the wall toward me.
Beyond the door, I saw them: blue uniforms, a line of men. The fire department. I felt a cold sweat on my back, and my palms steamed.
“After you talk to the fire department, we’ll give you something to help you sleep. Show’s over. The curtain will drop. And it’ll all be different when you wake up.”
The nurse stepped in, ran an alcohol wipe over the inside of my elbow.
A shot?
“Clean up the burns,” the doctor said. “Then prepare the meds.” He had a file close to his chest. Written across the top, in large red letters, it said, Possible danger to self and others.
The firemen shuffled, impatient.
The nurse bent over her tubes and bandages. She said, “Doctor, there’s a fly in this ointment.”
One fireman came forward, the smallest of the pack. He moved fast in his blue uniform, and I saw then it wasn’t a fireman at all—it was Jerrod. The streaks in his hair were muted under the hospital’s lights, but they were still there, gleaming and golden. The lines around his eyes were more weathered than ever. He needed sleep and looked serious, maybe sad. I smelled cinnamon and spice over the antiseptic air, the apple streusel cloud of sweetness. My friend. He flashed a badge.
My only hope.
He reached for me.
“We need her downtown. Right away. She’s dangerous.”
Dangerous? He grabbed my arm. His grasp wasn’t gentle. Shit. He pulled me forward. Something in my neck sprung with the whiplash of his yank. “You’ll have time for questions.” He waved to the firemen. “You’ll all have a chance. She’s not going anywhere. We’re managing this city’s clown problems. The bashing, the improv—we’re on it.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Not on purpose.”
He said, “You’ll have time to tell your side of the story.”
I said, “The boobs! Please.”
I couldn’t stand to lose another thing. First my chicken, then the dog. First Rex, then our baby. First my parents, then everything else. “Just grab the boobs.”
Jerrod jerked to a quick stop, leaned toward me, and whispered, “Grab whose boobs?”
“Mine.” And fast as his hands came toward me, ready to comply, I pointed at the two lumps of burnt sandbags on the floor. “Not mine—those. Those are my boobs.” The boobs were scorched and crumpled as well-worn paper lunch bags.
“Ah, pyromaniacal evidence,” Jerrod said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He darted forward, grabbed the boobs in one hand and held me by the elbow with the other. He held my arm as we marched down the hall. The firemen got out of our way, though not fast enough or far enough to escape the jiggle of the Ass as it jostled side to side. It knocked into firemen as Jerrod pulled me past. The swing of the Ass was like two heavy hands, a gun to my back.
17.
Evidence, One and All; or, Life’s Bloody Picnic
SOON AS THE CAR ROLLED I KICKED OFF MY BIG SHOES. The burns on my arms pounded in rhythm to my heartbeat. The one-liners slipped away like a winter coat I didn’t need in the spring of being sprung. It’s against Clown Code, or at least against my own code, to ride in the back of a cop car—don’t even get in a car if the door handles don’t work from the inside and the windows won’t roll down—but this time the ride was an act: My Big Escape.
I hoped it was an act. I’d barely