“You see?” Max mumbled. His face was covered with blood. “You see?” he repeated. He slumped, his pulpy cheek resting on the bars of a twisted headrest and mumbled, “Nothing…” as he lost consciousness.
Carla pulled at her seat belt. He was badly hurt, maybe dying. She shoved at all the things around her — tiny pieces of glass, a long metal rod, a large brown plastic funnel — and pushed at the crumpled rear door. People were nearby. She called to them as she got her door partly open. Someone took her hand and pulled. She fell out onto the ground. The Saab was several feet in the air, halfway gone into the building. Its exposed rear tires were spinning.
“Help him!” Carla shouted at the man who had gotten her out. A woman ran toward them. She moved in a funny waddle, both hands covering her mouth. Carla yelled at her — and at each person as they appeared — to get them to do something. They just stood and stared. Poor Max was dying, stuck up in the wall, slumped toward the remains of the box, his body squeezed into a tiny space, bright red blood washing down his forehead and nose — and no one made a move. Carla tried to get up to what there was of his window (it seemed to be only a quarter of its original size) to comfort him; but she couldn’t get a grip. Finally someone told her an ambulance was on the way.
Fire engines, police cars and two ambulances arrived after what seemed like hours. They urged her to sit in the car or go to the hospital, but she didn’t make the same mistake twice; she told them Max was her husband and she wouldn’t budge until they got him out.
The paramedics hovered around the wreck, unable to figure out how to reach Max. They were shooed away by the fire department. Two of the firemen, elevated on a platform attached to the engine’s ladder, were maneuvered toward the wreck. They carried what appeared to be a gigantic chain saw.
“Stop the bleeding!” Carla yelled at the paramedics.
They didn’t respond. Everyone was focused on the two firemen and the machine they planned to use to open what was left of Max’s door.
“They have to cut him out of there, ma’am,” said a young cop with dirty red hair and fair skin covered by pimples. He moved to lead her toward his police car.
“Stop the bleeding!” she yelled and got away from the cop. She ran up to the advancing platform that carried the firemen and grabbed hold. She could hang on to it and her feet would still reach the ground. They stopped the engine immediately. It had almost reached the wreck anyway. “Stop the bleeding,” she yelled at them.
“They can’t get up there,” one fireman argued.
“Get outta the way,” the other said.
“Let me try and put something on the wound!” a paramedic called to the firemen. He touched Carla, she let go of the ladder and he clambered up, using part of the platform and part of the broken wall and finally part of the car for his footing. Perched up there he bandaged Max’s forehead. Max was unconscious; his head lolled as if he were dead.
Carla got down and watched from below. “Is he alive?” she called up.
“I think he’s gonna be okay,” someone said to her. It was the cop with pimples. What did he know?
Another paramedic came rushing with a plastic pouch of liquid and an IV. He handed the needle and line up to his colleague, who got it into Max and strung the feed around the collapsed roof to the other side. They did it fast and got down so the firemen could use their enormous metal claws. The machine made a hideous tearing sound, as if it were murdering the car.
“Are you Mrs. Klein?” the pimpled cop said to her during the agonizing wait as they worked on the car door.
“Yes,” she said, afraid they would take her away if she admitted she wasn’t related to Max. The cop asked what had caused the accident; Carla told him the wheels had suddenly begun to skid and Max couldn’t control the car. The cop argued with her. He said there weren’t any skid marks, that it looked like they must have been going very fast and straight at the wall.
She said, “My husband may be dying. I have to pray for him.”
She didn’t. She thought about praying for Max, but she didn’t. She leaned back on a police car and looked up at the sunny blue sky. She watched her bream make small clouds in the pretty air. It was crazy — she felt good.
They carried a limp Max out of the car, swaddled and still, as if he were a newborn. She pushed her way — they halfheartedly tried to stop her — into the ambulance and sat beside him. By then the paramedics had wiped most of the blood off his face. It was puffy all over. His nose was broken. He looked as if he’d been in a heavyweight fight. She felt pain for him and was amazed at what he had done for her sake. His eyelids were puffy, his cheeks had swollen his head into a square, and his lips had been spread wide. Just before they reached the hospital, he opened his eyes as best he could through the thickening lids.
They focused on her. He didn’t seem scared or in pain. The pale blue of his eyes was thoroughly washed out by the sunlight coming through the window. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something.
“I understand now,” she said and that seemed to be what he wanted to hear. His mouth creased in a pained smile and he passed out again.
She waited until she had to before she called Manny and told him what had happened. First, the doctors checked her and said she was okay. They also said Max had a severe concussion and there was some danger of his brain swelling too much. That was what the doctor actually said. She thought the brain swelling sounded made up, possibly to conceal a more dangerous fact.
She especially thought so when the doctor went on to say that they might have to do surgery on the skull to relieve pressure and they needed permission to go ahead if necessary. That was when she told the doctor that she wasn’t Max’s wife. He blinked and said in a low but somehow threatening tone, “How do I get in touch with her?”
Carla promised to get him what he needed if she could make a phone call. The doctor showed her to a waiting room with a pay phone and said he would be back in ten minutes. She called Manny.
“I’m coming for you,” Manny said sternly, as if making a threat. “Stay there,” he added.
“No,” she said. “You’re going to call that lawyer, the one who’s working for us. He’s his lawyer too. Tell the lawyer to call his wife and tell her that her husband is okay but they need to talk to her. I’ll give you the name of the doctor for her to call.”
“I don’t want to,” Manny said darkly.
“Don’t want to what?”
“Call Brillstein.”
“Why not!” Carla demanded.
“I don’t know,” Manny said.
“You call. Make sure you explain everything to him. Tell him it was just an accident. Tell him Max is alive but he’s got a concussion and his wife should call the doctor.”
“Then I’m coming for you,” Manny said.
“Then you come for me. But don’t bother if you don’t talk to the lawyer first. It’s a matter of life and death. And make sure you don’t let the lawyer scare the hell out of his wife.”
“Okay,” Manny said.
“Oh. And when you come here, bring some food.”
“Food?” Manny mumbled something in Spanish away from the receiver so she couldn’t hear. She knew what all his favorite curses meant. When his voice returned it was louder than ever: “What for?”
“We’re not leaving until I know he’s okay. And I’m hungry.”
She stayed in the small waiting room where the doctor had taken her to make the call. It was painted light blue and had a window with a view of a narrow shaftway and large air-conditioning ducts. She sat on a black plastic chair attached by a chain to two others. There was nothing to look at in the room except for the pay phone she had used to phone Manny and a poster explaining how you could be helpful to recovering heart attack patients. She kept expecting the cops to arrive, angry that she had lied to them. The doctor showed up much later than he had promised he would. He said he had talked to Max’s wife and had permission to do the surgery. He said Max was running a fever but that was normal because of the swollen brain. He also said Mrs. Klein had explained everything about Carla and Max.