The trembling against my throat grew worse and the razor shifted slightly as the wielder moved restlessly. In my peripheral vision I saw red sneakers. Small red sneakers. Razorboy was wired, needing a hit so badly that probably none of my words made sense. But the story wasn’t for him.
“The falcon was so sure there was nothing in the garden to hurt it that it didn’t see what I saw. A cat, skinning up the trunk of that oak, quiet as a snake. The jays were screeching even more: now there were two predators on their turf. The cat inched belly down along the branch until it was about three feet away. Its tail lashed back and forth, and it gathered its back feet, but just as it jumped, the hawk dived. It nearly hit the ground but just managed to swoop back up. It was so—”
The arm spasmed and the razor jerked, hard, and one of the red sneakers kicked out involuntarily, and the razor fell and clattered cheaply against the concrete bench. I stared at it. Blinked. Stood up.
He, or perhaps it was a she, it was too dark and he was too thin and too young for me to be sure, backed up a step. I picked up the razor, hefted it, looked at his oversize turtleneck and flapping khakis. He was shaking so badly he wouldn’t get more than two steps before I’d be on him. He knew that, too.
I moved the razor back and forth, thinking, and took a step towards him. “—the hawk was so flustered the jays managed to drive it off. But do you know what the best part was? The cat. It was a long branch that the hawk had been on, and where the cat was now it was so narrow that it couldn’t turn around. It was stuck. And that’s when all the little birds, the finches and sparrows and tits, came out to play. They flew to the twigs and branches nearby and sang at the cat, and flicked their tails at it. The cat couldn’t do a thing. Take off your sweater.”
He was so far gone, arms and legs jerking so badly, that it took him almost a minute to get it over his head.
“Throw it to me.” He tried, but it dropped at his feet. I advanced. He backed away. I bent, picked it up. Black, thick, filthy. “There are clothes in the bag under the bench.” I lifted the razor and took another step towards him. He watched, dead-eyed. I folded the blade.
“So the cat had to jump.” I threw him the razor and walked away.
The world jerked, like a badly edited film, and I was lying down with something taped to my face. I blinked. Tammy rose from one of the recliners.
“Hey,” she said.
My knee seemed to be clamped between two blocks. I tried to move the cover to look, but Tammy leaned forward and lifted it for me.
“I iced it, then bandaged it and stuck a bag of ice on each side. I gave you some Vicodin for the pain, but you should really take ibuprofen or something too. Shouldn’t you?”
I reached up and touched my face. Gauze.
“I cleaned it.”
“Peroxide,” I said, remembering. I hoped she hadn’t used it on my neck. “Ice. Move the ice. And put some—”
The airport felt larger than it should but perhaps it was just because it was so late and there were fewer people. The black turtleneck was sodden with blood but it hid my throat. My scheduled flight was long gone. There was one more plane flying to North Carolina, to Charlotte, just before midnight.
“They’ll be starting preboarding about now,” the counter clerk said, trying not to be obvious about glancing from side to side to see if there was anyone within calling distance.
I started to walk. Nothing sounded right. I kept clutching for bags that weren’t there. The concourse was hard hard hard beneath my feet. I was alive. I was alive because the damaged child who had wanted to kill me hadn’t had the physical strength to hold a blade at my throat for three minutes. My pulse fluttered fast and light and sweat filmed my forehead.
I barely made it to the bathroom.
I vomited several times, resting in between with my head against the steel pedestal. It was warm against my skin and I longed for porcelain, white and cold. The whole airport was too warm; my feet sweltered in two pairs of socks. I retched again, and blood trickled over my collarbone.
Another bad edit, and Tammy stood in front of me, holding out pills and water. My arms would hardly move. She sighed, put the glass down, helped me sit up, and with one arm still around my shoulders handed me the pills, then held the water to my mouth. I spilled half of it down my front, which was more or less clean.
“Yeah, I sponged you down. Mud and blood. How come you were naked? What did you do with his—with the clothes?”
“She wanted to know that, too.”
“Who did?”
But I was remembering the blood pouring down the drain of Karp’s shower.
“Aud? Are you going to puke again? Aud? Jesus, I’ve just about fucking had it—” She was crying.
“Down.”
She lowered me back down. “Don’t fucking puke, just don’t you dare.”
If you button the jacket so all they see of the filthy sweater is an inch of turtleneck beneath obviously high-quality clothes, if your haircut is expensive and your teeth white and even, if you keep your voice pleasant, and if they find your money to be good and your ID valid, they will doubt the evidence of their senses. Smell is hard to document: impossible to photograph, difficult to describe. Move with assurance, act as though there is absolutely nothing wrong and—if the plane is half empty and you’re flying first class—they will make no comment about your smell as they take your ticket; they will process your car rental in Charlotte without demur. Act as though there is nothing wrong and you can make it true, for a while.
Late afternoon. I hurt all over. The blocks were gone from around my knee. Tammy was reading at the table. I managed to sit up, but it left me panting. Tammy looked up; her eyes were red. “You look a little better.”
“Yes.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
I touched the bandage around my neck.
“You should see a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine.” My mouth felt as though it belonged to someone else. “What pills?”
“Vicodin—”
Vicodin. Funny word. After a moment I realized she was still talking, repeating something. “What?”
“What did you mean, earlier, when I asked you about his—the clothes. You said, ‘She wanted to know that, too.’ Was there someone else in the woods?”
“Yes. No. Sort of.”
“Well, that’s clear. Is there someone or not? I mean, should I be worried about some crazy running around in the woods?”
“No.” I felt myself drifting again.
“Okay. So where did your clothes go? Stolen by the wood ghost?”
I shut my eyes to the tears, but they leaked out. Who did he remind you of? Is that how she really saw me?
It’s how you wanted me to see you, she said from beside me. I tried to turn without twisting my neck too much. “But you loved me anyway.”
“Aud?”
She’ll think you’re crazy.
“Aren’t I?”
Julia smiled, blew me a kiss, mouthed, I’m glad you’re safe, and disappeared.
“Aud? Do you think there’s someone there?”
“Not anymore.” My eyes leaked again.
“But—”
“I’m tired.”
“Jesus,” she said in an after-all-I’ve-done-for-you tone, but when I didn’t respond she changed tack. “You should eat before you go back to sleep. Unless you think you’ll get sick again?”
I tried to say, I never get sick, but what came out of my mouth didn’t make sense even to me.