'I guess you're all right though.'
The finger waltzed aimlessly, over the sheet, and he couldn't help looking at it without seeming to, watching it, mesmerized by it, and finally squeezing his legs together because of where it was heading.
When he cleared his throat and pushed himself into a higher sitting position, the finger only paused before dancing on.
'Yes, thanks.'
'I hear they're going to make a big deal at the concert.'
'Yeah, so I heard too.'
She smiled at him and winked. 'Brian and Tar aren't going. He says you'll make him puke.'
'If that's true, I'll be there early.'
Her lower lip vanished briefly between her teeth before she leaned over again and kissed him, hard, surprising him so much he let her tongue in before he knew she was doing it, astounded him so much he opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. She laughed without pulling away, and the laugh was deep in his mouth, and he prayed neither of his parents would walk in, not now.
She broke the kiss, but didn't move away. 'Listen, after the concert?'
He waited.
'If your folks let you-I mean, you being in the hospital and all, they may not even think it's a good thing for you to go-but if they do let you, maybe we can go to Beacher's after.'
He laughed. 'And try the Don Boyd Special?'
'You know?' And she laughed, rocking slowly as her finger moved to his groin, traced the bulge there, and retreated. 'All right! The Don Boyd Special it is!'
All he could do was nod, and swallow, and watch the play of her buttocks beneath the skin of her jeans.
Jesus, he thought; oh Jesus.
someone was screaming and there was blood on his hands He closed his eyes and saw Jeff take Tracey's hand, and saw the promise in Chris's eyes, and felt someone in the room, watching him and not moving.
Please, no, he thought, and opened his eyes with a soundless gasp.
Fleet stood at the foot of the bed. His face was lined, his eyes red-rimmed, and his hands gripped the metal footboard while he examined Don's face.
'God, you scared me,' Don said, smiling.
Fleet nodded.
'Hey, you okay?'
'I'm supposed to ask you that, m'man,' Robinson answered, his smile only a pulling back of his lips. 'Shit, you done it good, didn't you?'
He shrugged. 'I guess.'
'You guess?'
'I don't ... I don't remember everything, exactly.'
'No shit?'
'No shit.'
Fleet pushed away from the bed, and the light from the window put half his face in shadow.
'Thanks,' he said then, in a voice barely heard. 'Thanks. For Mandy.'
Don didn't know what to say, nor did he know what to do when Fleet came suddenly around the bed and leaned close enough to touch. 'I wanted that dude, Donny boy,' he said, the words scraped out of his throat. 'I wanted that fucker myself, can you understand that?'
Don nodded, afraid that Robinson was going to hit him.
Fleet nodded back as if a point had been made, straightened, and walked out without saying another word.
Dr. Naugle came in, Joyce and Norman behind, and before Don could ask anything, there were reporters in the room. They were quiet but eager, and they had apparently agreed before hand on the rotation of questions.
He did the best he could with some help from his father who sat on his one side while his mother sat on the other, and he tried not to squint in the glare of the lights or lose his temper when one of them suggested offhandedly that Brian's story was somewhat closer to the actual fact than the police report; he made a few self- deprecating jokes they laughed at politely, and just as politely he refused when a photographer wanted him to hold a bat like a club; a woman reporter asked about girlfriends and his running; a man in a tweed suit made his throat freeze up; and when someone asked how he felt about the medal, he said in a quiet voice he was pleased and didn't deserve it.
They left without a fuss when Dr. Naugle called time.
His parents left him alone to dress in the clothes they had brought.
And when he was tucking in his shirt, the nurse returned with a wheelchair.
'Do I have to use that?' he said, pointing with one hand while the other hurried to zip his fly and buckle his belt. 'I can walk.'
'If you don't, I'll have to carry you.'
He grinned and took the seat.
And there were more pictures at the hospital entrance, and while he was getting into the station wagon, and while the wagon pulled away slowly from the curb. He wanted his father to hurry, and didn't want to think that the smile on the man's face was meant for more than him.
When they arrived home, there was a police car at the curb and Sergeant Quintero on the sidewalk. He opened the door for Joyce and took Don's hand when he climbed out weakly. The moment was awkward because he knew the man wanted to say something about the Howler, about Tracey, and he was rescued by Joyce, who hustled him inside after a quick invitation to the patrolman to come in when he could and have a cup of coffee.
In the foyer he glanced up the stairwell and let himself be led into the living room, where he was put in on the sofa. A fussing over him he enjoyed and didn't care for, and with apologetic smiles his parents left him alone.
He looked around, thinking things should be different, realizing with a start he hadn't been gone for even a full day. It unsettled him. Time shouldn't have stretched so far, shouldn't have had so much crammed in, yet his father's chair hadn't moved, and there was an empty cup on the floor beside it, folders on the couch, magazines on the end table. Nothing had changed, and suddenly he was convinced that somehow, this time it should have.
They returned with steaming coffee, and a can of soda for him. He grinned as his father sagged loudly into the chair and kicked off his shoes, squirmed when his mother dumped the folders on the floor and knelt on the cushion beside him. She kept looking at her watch.
'Well!' Norman said explosively, and took a sip of his drink.
Joyce hugged him quickly and gave him an impish grin.
'Are you all right, son?' Norman asked solemnly. 'I mean, really all right?'
'I think so,' he answered truthfully. 'A little shaky, but I think I'm okay.'
'Good,' his mother said, retreating to her corner. Then there were tears. 'God, I was so frightened!'
'We both were,' his father said when Don reached out a hand to touch Joyce's leg. 'From the moment we found you gone, we were scared to death something had happened to you.'
The tone in the man's voice made him turn. 'Oh,' he said then. 'Oh, shit.'
'Right,' Norman said, sternly but not unkindly. 'I got up to get a glass of water and I saw your door open. You were gone, Donald. It was almost midnight and you were gone. You can't imagine what we thought.'
'You ran away,' his mother said. 'I mean, that's what we thought-that you'd run away or something.' Her smile was one-sided and her laugh was abrupt. 'I was going to call the police, can you believe it?'
'I couldn't imagine,' Norman said tightly, 'where you had gone. We took the car and started to look for you. We drove around the whole neighborhood trying to figure out what the hell you were doing to us, why you'd do something stupid like this.'
Don swallowed. 'I couldn't sleep,' he explained. 'I went for a walk.'
'Without telling us?'
'You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you.'
'You drove your mother crazy, you know that, don't you?'
