Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [156]
I took one of the pieces of aluminum in the medical kit that looked like a good fit, tested it against her forearm, bent it into the right shape. I put the aluminum splint against her forearm and wrapped it into place with an elastic bandage. It didn’t look pretty but it would work well enough if she didn’t jump around, and let the bone set properly.
I swabbed out the open wounds, packed them with Aureomycin, and covered them with gauze bandages. Then I walked her over to the couch.
“Which is better, Flood? Lying on your back or your stomach?”
“Depends on what you have in mind.”
“Flood, I don’t have the patience for this crap. You don’t have to convince me you’re tough. You’re going to be fine, okay?”
“You looked so scared, Burke . . .”
“Maybe you did get a concussion. I’m not the one who got mangled.”
“I know. I’ll be good. Whatever you say.”
I put her on the couch lying on her back, folded a pillow under her head, and covered her with another sheet. I got the splinted arm supported by a folded blanket, kissed her forehead, and went back to the desk to put things away.
“Burke,” she called out.
“What is it? Just relax, I’m not going anywhere.”
“My sash . . . the white sash with the black tips . . . ?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s for you. To keep, okay?”
“Okay, Flood, I’ll keep it.” By then it was obvious she didn’t have a concussion—but she was running on the fumes in her reserve tank.
“Keep it here . . . for me, okay?” she said, and was drifting off to sleep before I could ask her what she meant.
58
ALMOST A WEEK went by like that. Max brought over all kinds of strange-looking gunk from Mama Wong’s kitchen for Flood to eat. It looked like molten slag to me, but Flood seemed to know what it was. Pansy tried some too, but she didn’t like it . . . no crunch.
I watched her get stronger, watched the swelling go down until I could see the other eye, watched her flex the arm experimentally, practice her breathing.
I didn’t go out much, but Max stayed with her when I did. Pansy stayed to guard her when I went downstairs for the papers in the morning. I would read the stories to Flood until one morning she told me to stop. The headlines just sounded like body-counts, she said, so I stuck to the race results. I still watched the horses, but I didn’t feel like making any bets—with Flood getting better every day I sensed my luck was about to change, and I didn’t like the feeling.
One morning she was already up when I came back upstairs. She was wearing an old flannel shirt of mine—unbuttoned, it hung on her like a robe. She was working her body: hard now, not tentatively like before. A modified kata in the narrow office, but the kicks and chops and thrusts looked clean and sharp. She was back to herself. Her pain was leaving, and mine was on its way.
I tried not to show it. “You want one of these bagels?”
“You have any pumpernickel?” Flood wouldn’t eat white bread.
“Yep. New York Fresh too.”
“What’s New York Fresh?”
“Less than two days old.”
She grinned. Except for what looked like a monster black eye, she was as good as new. The splint was on the couch—she twisted the bad arm behind her and touched the back of her own head. “See?” Like a little girl showing off. I saw.
I took my bagel, cream cheese, and apple juice and sat down in the chair behind my desk to read the morning paper in peace. Flood wasn’t having any of this—she plopped herself in my lap, nuzzled my neck. “Let’s go out today, okay? I feel like I’m locked up in here.”
“You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she squealed, squirming around in my lap until I gave up trying to read the paper.
I finally got to the paper while Flood was taking a shower. I started with last night’s race results, like I always do, but I wasn’t that interested. I still had almost all of Margot’s money, and pretty soon it would be time to earn it. I’d been working out a plan in my head but needed to run it past Flood first.
She bounded out of the shower, water still glistening on