She was strong, in that slow old Russian lady way, strong enough to
grunt ten sacks of groceries in a bundle-buggy up the stairs to the
apartment. When she picked me up and tossed me, it was like being fired
out of a cannon. I rebounded off the framed motel-room art over the bed,
shattering the glass, and bounced twice on the mattress before coming to
rest on the floor. My arm was hanging at a funny angle, and when I tried
to move it, it hurt so much that I heard a high sound in my ears like a
dog whistle.
I lay still as the old lady yanked the drawers out of her vanity and
upended them on the floor until she found an old book of matches. She
swept the photos and my sketches into the tin wastebasket and then lit a
match with trembling hands and dropped it in. It went out. She repeated
it, and on the fourth try she got the idea of using the match to light
all the remaining matches in the folder and drop that into the bin. A
moment later, it was burning cheerfully, spitting curling red embers
into the air on clouds of dark smoke. I buried my face in the matted
carpet and tried not to hear that high note, tried to will away the sick
grating feeling in my upper arm.
She was wreathed in smoke, choking, when she finally turned to me. For a
moment, I refused to meet her eye, sure that she would kill me if I did,
would see the guilt and the knowledge in my face and keep her secret
with murder.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287