"Hai hao ma?" the Dragon demanded.
Tears course down April's cheeks. Shit. Scalded again.
"Hai hao ma?" Skinny's voice rose with her anxiety.
No, she wasn't okay. April held her breath to contain the agony.
"Ni?" Skinny screamed.
Oh, for God's sake. Hao. April opened her eyes. The room with its canopy of strings was still there. Her panicked mother was only just refraining from punching her back into consciousness. The weeny Dragon looked small and terrified. Typical Skinny, she always forced the medicine down when it was too hot, then got scared because it was too hot.
But April always took it almost boiling because she, like her mother, believed that merely warm wouldn't work. Her throat burned like hell as she crawled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Then exactly the right heat hit her stomach with a jolt and she felt sick again. The downstairs bathroom was a putrid avocado color that must have been popular back in the 1950s. The floor and wall tiles matched the tub and toilet, and everything was pretty badly cracked and chipped with age. In fifty more years, however, the Woos would never spend a single unnecessary dollar to update.
April assessed herself in the tiny medicine cabinet mirror. Shit. The bruises on her neck were still a deep and ugly purple, not even beginning to yellow around the edges. Through her tangled hair, she could feel the lump on her head, still huge and tender. Scabs were beginning to form on her throbbing knees. They protested when she bent them to sit on the toilet. Oh, yeah, she was just fine.
"Ni, talk to me," Skinny screamed through the door.
April ignored her and took a long hot shower. She was heavily into heat.
"Hao?" the Dragon said anxiously when she emerged.
April made a face and shook her head. First time in her life she had no interest in saying a word. She was ready to listen, but not to talk. She lifted a shoulder. Sorry.
By then it was one o'clock and she was wondering where the world went. No word from Mike yet today. No word from Iriarte. She was a little annoyed. She pointed to the telephone, and Skinny made as if she didn't understand that April wanted some clarification on her calls. It took her a while to figure out that her cell phone hadn't rung all morning because her mother had turned it off. She checked her messages.
Eleven p.m. Thursday. "Querida, I talked to your mother. She says you're sleeping. Love you. Hasta mañana."
Eight a.m. today. "Buenas, corazón. Your mother says you're still sleeping. Te quiero. Hasta más tarde."
Eight-fifteen a.m. "Hey, it's Woody. Your mother says you're very sick. Iriarte is driving me nuts on the Stilys case. He wants some word on your court appearance Monday. If you're still with the living, call me… If you're not with the living give me a call anyway. Ha, ha." A real card.
Nine forty-five. "Lieutenant Iriarte. Mike says you're not doing so good. Call in. I'm worried." Ha, ha. Another card.
There were seven more in that vein, two more from Mike. In the last one he threatened to come over. Nothing useful until she got to Kathy's. Eleven-seventeen a.m.
"It's Kathy. Look, this is going to be a long message. The funeral is set for Monday. The Department doesn't want to do it. This is an outrage. Is something going on? They said the reason was they don't do big funerals out of the city unless it's a line-of-duty death. Too many people off from work. This is terrible. Dad deserves the whole honor thing, the PC, the brass, the bagpipes, soup to nuts. What am I going to do?" She sounded close to tears.
"And something else… the ME's office won't give us the death report. Bill's getting the deep freeze. What's going on? It's pretty crazy what's happening here, and I don't like what I'm hearing. If you still can't talk, for God's sake get in touch somehow. Smoke signals. I don't care. You know the number. The hordes are here. I'll be around all day."
April took a few minutes to throw on yesterday's clothes and try swallowing a few spoons of her mother's jook (rice gruel) garnished with minced beggar's chicken, ham, and boiled-until-melted vegetables (only deep green ones for throat).
Skinny's face fell when she started gathering up her things. "You didn't eat anything, ni. Where are you going?"
April didn't answer.
"You can't leave. You're not finished. Are you leaving? Ni! You can't talk yet. Are you coming back?" Skinny had a whole one-sided conversation as she followed April to the door.
April didn't want to say she'd be back later in case she wasn't. She didn't want to say anything. She gave Skinny a little smile. Once again you almost killed me, Ma, the smile said. Xiexie. Thanks.
Eighteen
At two p.m. Birdie Bassett was having lunch at York U and receiving more of a giving lesson from Al Frayme than she had bargained for. He was in the alumni office, and as soon as Birdie had became a widow, he pressured his boss to add her name to the list for the last president's dinner of the year, which was coming up Wednesday.
"Gee, Al. I'm not sure I can go," Birdie said.
"Look, you need to learn the ropes. The one thing the president doesn't want is negative donors. So don't get any off-the-wall ideas in your beautiful head."
Birdie didn't like the way he was talking, as if she were a sure thing. Just barely, she decided to let pass the possible put-down of the "beautiful head" remark. Perhaps she was just overly sensitive. "What's a negative donor?" she asked.
"A negative donor is someone with big money who wants to build a building or start a program or new school that the university doesn't need or want just to get their name on something."
"Give me a for-instance," Birdie said.
"Okay…" Al dropped his head back and rolled his soft gray eyes at the ceiling. "Ah, here's a good one." He focused on her again with a grin.
"Say you loved the sea, loved it, and wanted to start a marine biology center here at the university to rival the one at Wood's Hole."
Birdie laughed, relieved finally to be with someone who didn't make her feel stupid or uncomfortable every single minute. For the first time since Max died she was actually having fun.
"See, I told you I could cheer you up." Al looked pleased.
"Thanks, this was a good idea." She liked the restaurant he'd chosen, 103 Waverly Place, where Fifth Avenue met Washington Square. A small restaurant where university people from all the schools in the area went. Birdie was pleased to be in such a place. At the very next booth sat the latest star that John Warmsley, York U's new president, had lured from Harvard with an endowed chair of her own. Angela Andersen was a skinny, salt-and-peppering, wild-haired woman with no makeup who'd cracked the code on the psychology of girls. Birdie had read her book a few years back and nodded all the way through. And there she was sitting only a few feet away with an angular wild-haired man who could have been her male twin. The close proximity to such high-powered brains was enough to give her goose bumps. Al caught her staring over his shoulder. "Do you want to meet them?" he asked in a stage whisper.
"Maybe later. Go on with the marine biology." Birdie focused on Al again, someone who'd circled in and out of her life over the years who suddenly resurfaced as a potential friend with Max's death. She was glad he'd called.