Cry Hard, Cry Fast
Page 18
“I’d like that. Have I been… wild? Raving or anything?”
“No. You’ve been half-asleep.”
“Are you my doctor?”
“No. I… I was in the same accident.”
“Did a Mr. Walter Houde come to see me?”
“No. No one came.”
“I’m so tired.”
“Come on then. We’ll go back in.”
She leaned on him heavily. He took her to her room. She started to unbutton her suit jacket. He closed the door and went off to find Dr. Dilby. He felt like singing. She had come willingly into his arms to cry. She would need him. Her need of him filled his emptiness. He had had his first glimpse of her, of what she was, and he liked what he saw. He burst in on Dilby. Dilby, using a rubber hammer on a fat woman’s knee, glared at him.
On that same day, May twenty-eighth, Roger Seiver mailed the letter to Mrs. Stanley Cherrik. It had been prepared with the utmost care, and he mailed it reluctantly. It might cost Jamison a pretty penny before it was all over, but the fool had been adamant—and it was his money.
Seiver knew the opening of the letter by heart.
My dear Mrs. Cherrik:
A man who prefers to remain anonymous and who was impressed by the selfless heroism displayed by your late husband in the accident that caused his death, has asked me to act as intermediary in a plan which he sincerely hopes you will accept. My client wishes to set up a fund which will provide…”
And, on May twenty-eighth, at three fifty-one P.M., eleven miles east of Blanchard, a young girl driving her father’s Buick at an excessive rate of speed gravely misjudged the clearance available when she attempted to pass, in the center lane, between a car in the left lane and a truck in the right. A light rain spoiled traction and the back end of the Buick swung as she realized her error and applied her brakes.
And the burst and smash of multiple collision was like a deep cough in a metal chest. Glass sprayed in elfin angel noise on wet concrete. Oil dripped and reeked on hot overturned metal. Tires screamed their panic chorus. And soon came the sirens, howling down under the wet sky. Soon came the wreckers and the white jackets and the arrogant whistles.
Clear the way. Come on. Get rolling, lady. Keep the line moving.
There’s nothing to see.