“Will she be okay?” Vera asked.
“The doctors will be able to tell you more when she gets to the hospital.” They began to move off.
“Can I come with you?” Vera asked.
“Sure,” one of the paramedics said as they rushed to get back to the ambulance.
“I’ll stay here,” Stacy said then. Vera looked back at her, realizing that Stacy looked tired for the first time—forlorn. Her limitless youth seemed somehow faded. Vera felt bad about what had happened—what she had said. She told herself that she would make things better once she knew the old woman was safe; at the same time, she knew this commitment to making peace would leave her open to the force of Stacy’s will. She was buffeted between these two impulses for a while, until she groaned and shook her head. She thought about the mother’s welfare to distract herself. For the next few hours, she would simply be a regular person, concerned for another human being. She realized that maybe some of her drive to be attentive to the old woman was in response to the coldness she had felt at the porn star’s death. She groaned again….
On the way out of the building, they passed two more police officers. Vera suddenly felt guilty about leaving Stacy alone, but there was nothing to be done now but hold on and allow events to unfold.
When the ambulance got to the hospital, Vera was told to go to the emergency waiting room. There, about thirty wretched-looking people were already sitting in anxious anticipation, waiting for news on their injured loved-ones. There was a huge television in a corner of the room. On it, a loud news segment was playing—something about the benefit concert that Pastranzo was going to have in Central Park tomorrow. The proceeds were supposedly going to go to starving Africans. The TV commentator was talking about the concert as if it would be the seminal event of civilization: as if world peace and the end to world hunger would be declared after it. Vera stared at the screen, vaguely remembering the crazed teenagers at the studio. And then Pastranzo, himself, appeared on the screen: he was a middle-aged Italian with huge oval sunglasses that made him look like one of those bug-eyed space aliens. He had a jarring falsetto voice, which Vera was convinced rotted the brains of teenage girls, because they all seemed to think that he sounded like an angel. Presently, as he began to sing the refrain of his latest hit, Vera shuddered, looked away and sat down in a secluded nook of the waiting room. There was a table with magazines in front of her; she picked up one randomly and began to flip through it. She figured that she would read until the doctor came to give her an update on the old woman. However, in ten minutes she was fast asleep. The dream world seized her quickly and completely. In her nightmare, a cackling version of herself was crouched over Stacy’s boyfriend’s body, bloody knife in hand, while Stacy sat nearby on an antique chair, sipping from a snifter of brandy and looking on approvingly—
Vera awoke with a start. As she opened her eyes, she realized someone had shaken her shoulder. When she looked up, the detective who had interrogated her earlier was smiling at her. She glanced at the clock on the wall: it was about 4:30 A.M. When she looked back at the detective, he chuckled.
“You sure are having an interesting night, Dr. Vera.”
She groaned and sat up: “Tell me about it,” she whispered. The entire night flashed in her mind, and she shook her head, as if to ward it off.
For whatever reason, the detective laughed at her again. “The word on the street is that you were around another corpse again tonight.”
Despite everything, she smiled. “You mean a corpse—the other one was a misunderstanding, remember?”
He sat down in the seat beside her, then reached down to pick up the magazine she had been reading: it had fallen on the floor when she fell asleep. He stared at the cover for a moment: an actor he had never heard of before had been named the world’s sexiest man. He frowned and handed her the magazine. Then, still with a pleasant expression on his face, he inquired, “Is the old lady going to be okay?”
“She was in surgery when I fell asleep—nothing life-threatening: just some broken bones.”
He looked around: “Where’s her son?”
“What?”
“At the police precinct, the old lady and her son were inseparable. I figured he’d be here.”
“Maybe he is,” Vera said without thought.
“Have you seen him here?”
“I was sleeping, remember?”
He frowned, then smiled, looking at her suspiciously. “What is it that you and your friend Stacy aren’t telling me?” he said then. “I go over to the apartment and your friend tells me a story about how some crazed woman got into a fight with her boyfriend’s mother. Why the two of them fought, she does not really tell me.”
“Maybe the old lady likes beating people up,” Vera said sarcastically, “my face is still numb from her attack.”
The detective looked at her face critically, noting the dark spots and bruises.
“Do I look that bad?” she asked.
“Nah, you’re fine—just a little swelling. …Anyway, back to your friend’s boyfriend, why do I get the feeling that you and your girlfriend are hiding something about him?”
“Maybe you’re simply paranoid.”
“That might be true,” he said with a laugh, “but something doesn’t add up. Can you tell me where the boyfriend was while his mother was fighting with this ‘crazed’ woman?”
Vera groaned and rubbed her temples: “Haven’t you interrogated me enough for one night? Stacy’s boyfriend will show up sooner or later.”
He looked at her suspiciously for a while, and then grunted.
She smiled. “When the boyfriend shows up you’ll have to apologize to me again.”
“I don’t mind: apologies are cheap.”
“Not if they’re done right. I’ve been known to charge an arm and a leg for an apology.”
“Okay, if the boyfriend shows up—”
“When he shows up,” she corrected him.
“Okay, when he shows up, I’ll take you to dinner—my treat.”
“Of course it’ll be your treat: I never go out Dutch!”
“I thought you were a modern woman?” he said with a chuckle.
“Because I’m modern does not mean I’m stupid.”
“Whatever happened to equality of the sexes?”
“I only call for equality when the man is getting more than me; when I’m getting more out of the deal, equality is a rip-off.” While she was laughing at her joke, the automatic sliding doors (which led outside) opened, and the boyfriend ran in, followed by Stacy. Vera smiled and looked at the detective: “You owe me an expensive dinner, sir.”
The detective turned to see the boyfriend looking around frantically. The detective and Vera stood up, but the boyfriend rushed past them, as if not noticing them, and ran up to the information desk:
“I’m here to see my mom!” he said too loudly. People who had been dozing looked up. The nurse at the desk shushed him. “—My mother fell down some stairs,” the boyfriend went on.
The nurse asked for his mother’s name, then checked the computer. “She’s still in surgery, sir,” she told him at last.
“Is she going to be all right?”
Stacy, who walked into the waiting room at a more leisurely pace, smiled when she saw Vera, but then she frowned when she saw the detective. She walked up to Vera’s side, and they all stood watching the boyfriend pump information from the nurse.
At the information desk, the nurse went on, “None of her injuries are life-threatening, sir. She just broke some bones. She’ll be bedridden for a few weeks.” The nurse started asking him for medical and insurance information then, and Stacy, Vera and the detective thought that would be a good occasion to divert their attention.
“I told you he’d show up,” Vera said again, addressing the detective.
“Yeah, you did indeed. He always seems to show up when I have you cornered.”
He and Vera laughed again, while Stacy looked on confusedly.
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“Well,” the detective began then, “I guess I’ll go find someone else to interrogate.” He took two steps before he stopped and faced Vera: “When am I going to pick you up?”
“How about tomorrow night at six?”
“Sounds good—that’s my day off.” He nodded his head and began to walk off.
Vera called after him: “Don’t you need to know where to pick me up?”
He laughed and continued walking, saying over his shoulder: “I already got all your information from the police database.” He waved then, and disappeared through the automatic sliding doors.
When he was gone, Stacy turned to Vera. They had both been watching his retreat. “You’re actually going to go out with that guy?”
“Why not? He seems nice.” However, as she said that, she realized she did not even know his name.
“Your funeral,” Stacy said with a shrug.
Presently, the boyfriend finished talking to the nurse and walked back over to Stacy and Vera, looking frustrated and devastated.
“Don’t worry,” Stacy reassured him, “—your mother will be fine.”
“I don’t understand how all this happened,” he said, growing distraught.
Vera looked at Stacy anxiously, wondering what lie the woman was going to make up.
“There are crazy people everywhere,” Stacy explained without missing a beat. “That woman came out of nowhere, and then the next thing I knew, she attacked your mother.”
The boyfriend stared at her, trying to understand. “I still can’t remember where I was.”
“I told you that you went out to get us something to eat.”
He stared at her uneasily. “What did I get?”
“You didn’t get us anything, silly,” she said, punching him playfully in the shoulder. “You probably heard about your mother and headed back.”
He groaned in frustration. “…But the only thing I remember is waking up on the floor.”
“You passed out from the shock of seeing your mother like that,” Stacy lied.
“I passed out?” he mused. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders at last. As he did so, he noticed Vera standing there. She nodded to him, trying to smile. He stared at her for a while:
“Have we met?”
Stacy answered him: “She was at the police station.”
“The police station?” he said confusedly, but then he nodded his head. “I remember. …What a crazy night.”
Vera inquired, “Did the nurse say how long your mother was going to be in surgery?”
He grimaced as he remembered: “She said she’d be in there for about three more hours. She broke her hip, and her leg…and there was some internal bleeding.”
“Maybe you should go home and get some sleep?” Vera ventured.
Stacy added, “That sounds like a good idea. You’re not going to hear anything for at least another three hours—and she’ll probably be unconscious for a long time after she comes out of the operating room.”
“No, no,” he cut her off. “I couldn’t leave her—no matter how long it was.”
“Okay,” Stacy said. “I’ll stay with you then.”
“No—there’s no need. …Why don’t you go home. I think I need to be alone anyway.”
“Nobody needs to be alone,” Stacy countered. “Why don’t you come home now and try to get some sleep. We can call the hospital anytime to find out how your mother’s doing.”
“Nah. Please go without me. …I need to see her before I go. You go and get some sleep, please. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Stacy stared at him for a while. At last, she sighed. “Okay, if you say. Call me if you need anything.”
“Sure.”
Stacy hugged and kissed him. At first, the boyfriend was limp in her arms, but then he held her close and nuzzled his face in her hair. Vera watched them for a moment before she looked away, feeling as though she were invading their privacy.
“Call me if you need anything,” Stacy said again. The boyfriend smiled and nodded his head. At that, she gave him one last kiss and began to walk toward the emergency exit. Vera followed her. She made no attempt to catch up to Stacy, however: she let her have her space for those few moments.
Finally, when they were outside, Vera caressed Stacy’s upper arm. Stacy looked over at her and smiled absentmindedly. They walked in silence to the rental van. Dawn was about forty-five minutes away, and there was a hint of a brightening horizon.
“I’m sorry we argued earlier,” Vera said as they neared the van.
Stacy looked over at her, as if she had no idea what she was talking about. Eventually, she nodded. “Don’t worry about it, Vera. I’m sure we’ll have lots of arguments in the days and weeks to come. Arguments are the starting points of all truths.”
Vera liked the way that sounded, regardless of if it was a valid comment or not. She sighed, as if in relief, and smiled.
When they were inside the van, driving out of the parking lot, Stacy said, “Have you thought of a story for me yet?”
“A story?”
“You were supposed to tell me a story earlier, to pass the time.”
“Is that one of your driving rituals? People have to tell you a story?”
“Absolutely. It makes the drive go quicker.”
“…I’m still too dazed,” Vera admitted sorrowfully.
“Okay, I’ll have to tell you another one.”
“Is this another one of your future novels?” Vera teased her.
“Yeah,” Vera said with a wink, “—my magnum opus.”
Vera laughed.
“So, sit back and let me tell you a story, my friend,” Stacy declared in her usual self-mocking way. She paused dramatically, and then began: “One day a guy was returning home from work, when he looked down and saw a pair of panties lying on the sidewalk.”—Vera instinctively chuckled, and Stacy smiled as well—“…Anyway, let’s call him William Cooper. For whatever reason, he stopped and stared down at the underwear. They were stylish and silky, and he felt a strange attraction to them. Surreptitiously, Cooper looked around, to see if anyone was looking, before he grabbed the panties and slipped them into his pocket. As he walked the three blocks to his apartment, the idea of the panties in his pocket turned him on. He had never done anything like it before. He was a middle-aged high school principal, not some kind of horny freak. Nevertheless, he was walking quickly now, desperate to get home, where he could look at the panties at his leisure. It was only when he saw two little kids playing in front of his apartment building that he again began to think of himself as some kind of old pervert. By the time he got upstairs to his apartment he had resolved that he would throw the panties away. He would toss them into the garbage and all this would be forgotten—a minor aberration in a morally-driven life. When Cooper finally closed the door of the apartment behind him, he took the panties out of his pocket and looked at them again. As he held them before him, he realized that they looked like the underwear of a supermodel—or at least, that was the fantasy that suddenly popped into his mind. He imagined the panties belonging to Tyra Banks. Maybe they had slipped off while she was running to catch a cab. Anything was possible in New York! A woman like Tyra Banks probably had hundreds of panties anyway, so she probably would not even bother to bend down to pick up a pair that had slipped off.
“Now suddenly excited, he fingered the delicate fabric of the panties, sliding his thumb over the silky material of the crotch. The panties seemed so new that he wondered if they had even been worn. Instinctively, he brought them to his nose and sniffed. Immediately, his eyes widened—not so much because of the scent (which was indistinguishable)—but because of something else, which surged through him. He began to tremble. He felt suddenly energized, as though he could do anything—be anything. Amazed, he stared at the panties, like a marijuana smoker who had gotten a particularly good sack of weed. He brought the panties to his nose again and inhaled deeply, so that he felt lightheaded and drunk afterwards. �
��Shit!’ he whispered as he lost his balance. He barely managed to make it to the couch before collapsing. Still, there was a silly grin on his face now. He had no idea what the hell was happening to him, but he liked it. Somehow, he felt all-powerful—invincible!
“It was then that something blared in the air; he jumped, startled. He was so stunned by the noise that for a moment he could not even move. At first, the noise made no sense, but then he realized that he had super hearing. Someone was crying outside. In fact, more than that, it was as if someone were calling directly to him—making an entreaty only he could satisfy. The cries outside the window seemed somehow to take possession of him, fueling his muscles so that for a moment he had no control of himself. The next thing he knew, he had leapt out of the fourth-story window! Yet, as he dropped through the air, he was unconcerned. He did not so much seem to fall as glide. Below him, he saw the two kids he had passed when entering the building. The little girl was holding the little boy by his shirt collar and waving her fist in his face. She had hit him a few times already and seemed to be waving the hand to remind him. Each time she waved her fist, the little boy cringed and cried louder. Cooper landed a few feet from them. The little girl was so stunned that she let go of the boy—who promptly lost his balance and toppled into some garbage cans. ‘Oh shit!’ the little girl screamed, ‘—where you come from!’ William Cooper felt suddenly self-important. He stuck out his chest and stood there posing for them. ‘I flew,’ he said at last. The little girl sucked her teeth disdainfully, ‘People can’t fly, you dumbass!’ Cooper was appalled: ‘Is that how you talk to adults, young lady?’ The little girl had her hands on her non-existent hips now: ‘Well, my mamma said you’re a big pussy, so it don’t matter.’ Cooper opened his mouth to say something, but he was too stunned. And it was not only what the little girl had said: all at once, he felt drained and devastated, as if the power had left him. This, it occurred to him, was what a drug addict must feel like after he began to ‘come down’ from his high. Cooper staggered a little, and looked wretched. The little girl looked at him derisively: ‘What’s wrong with you, Pussyman?’ At that, the little boy, who had picked himself out of the stinking garbage and had been looking on at the conversation with awe, began to giggle. Cooper, who had supposedly come to save the little boy, felt betrayed somehow; and as children everywhere could sense despair and vulnerability in adults, the little girl began to chant: ‘Pussyman! Pussyman!’ All the while, Cooper was feeling even more drained and devastated. Just when he was beginning to think that things could not get any worse, the little girl started kicking him in the shin. Cooper cried out and grabbed his throbbing shin, but when the little boy started kicking the other shin, he lost his balance and crumbled to the sidewalk. Now, both kids were chanting, ‘Pussyman! Pussyman!’ The sound resounded in his head; as he was on the ground, the kids’ feet had better access to his body and head. He lay in the fetal position, trying futilely to cover his face. Yet, the kids were so quick that it was as if there were dozens of them kicking him. In his weakness, he could do nothing. It was only when an old woman screamed at the kids from her window that they ran off giggling. Cooper was so weak that he could barely move. Those little kids had had some sharp shoes too! He just wanted to lie there for a while, but that was when he remembered the panties. They were still in his pocket. Remembering the effect they had had on him the first time, he took them from his pocket and took another sniff. To his amazement, he immediately felt revived. He leapt to his feet, feeling like a million bucks. The old woman who had chased the children away called to him from her window. ‘You okay?’ she said. He smiled back and waved his hand.
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 9
