“Called Tony while he was in the hospital. He told me the cops didn’t seem to know I was there. You haven’t said anything about me, have you? I didn’t really have anything to do with it. I don’t see why I need to get involved. I mean, you’re out of that shithole and into a better deal. I hear you’re staying with Samson and his folks for a while, until the state finds you a foster home. That’s a relief—really, I mean it. I knew the son of a bitch would go too far one day. But you fixed him.” J.C. laughs.
“Leave me alone,” she whispers.
He strokes her forearm. “You got Samson between you and Tony now. Smartest thing you ever did, D. You looked at ol’ Samson and saw a guy whose lights all dim when he gets hard. A guy like that, somebody gets between him and his knothole, he takes it personal. I figure I was lucky not to be in that parking lot the other night. It coulda been my ass got kicked.”
“All he did was yell at me,” she says. “He’d never hit me.”
J.C. smiles conspiratorially. “Right. And Tony Lord hasn’t been balling you since you were eleven.” He chuckles as if he is relating an amusing incident. His voice has not risen above a pleasant conversational level and his face is bright with wit and affection. His fingers close around her wrist and dig into it. “Just keep your tame gorilla on his leash, baby. And your mouth shut. You don’t want the wrong shit turning up in his gym bag or yours. You don’t want him freakin’ out in the middle of the tournament. Things like that could happen, D.”
She licks her lips. “Just leave him alone.”
His eyes are moist with emotion. “I’m glad we’re straight about that. I feel funny, D., I guess I always thought you and me, we’d be close forever. But everything dies, right?”
She stares at him. “Let go of me or I’m going to scream my head off.”
J.C. drops her wrist hastily and springs to his feet.
“Chill out, baby.”
“Get out of here, you chickenshit,” she spits, her voice rising. “Now!”
Scooping up his books, he’s gone. She huddles under the blanket and listens to the rapid squeak of his expensive high-tops propelling him down the corridor.
With no reason to trust the law to protect her from Tony’s vengefulness, any more than it ever protected her from his abuse, she is only too aware of how much she needs ‘god’s muscle between her and Tony. She hates the way J.C. makes it seem calculating. It’s survival. It’s about as calculating as grabbing a life ring in heavy seas. J.C. Over the surface of the bandage, her fingers trace the line of her wound. Mouth trembling, she feels her eyes leaking.
The magazine flops open in Deanie’s hand to the right page. Dr. Spellman peers at the photograph. She looks up and smiles. “You’re very determined.”
The girl smiles crookedly.
“This fellow, what’s-his-face, he’s a professional athlete. This is his living, his career. You’re just sixteen, playing a high school sport.” Before she finishes the observation, the doctor’s tone slides into frustrated resignation. She sighs and asks Sam to wait outside.
He wanders back to the reception area and finds a corner to slump in. Helping Deanie fill out the form on the clipboard the receptionist handed them when they arrived was a jolt; this was going to cost more money. Again he printed his own name on the line for the financially responsible person.
“I’ll pay you back,” Deanie whispered as his pen twitched over the paper.
“It’s all right. I got in a full day’s work yesterday.”
He doesn’t add he’s already signed his name to a cock-knocking hospital bill and paying it will keep him too poor to insure his bike for months. He watches the clock, anxious not only to escape a place where every minute seems to drag him further into debt but to get back to school—luckily they are playing the return game with Mount Grace at home—girls first.
The doctor crooks a finger at him.
In her small inner office she gestures toward a chair and drops into her own, behind her desk, to scrawl notes. “I’m going to contact the sports medicine team in North Conway to see if they can help us with a protective mask for Deanie. I don’t want her on the court until she has one—and not before another week is up, anyway.”
Sam paces the office. From the window, the Mill is visible. He rubs a circle of condensation from the glass to see it more clearly.
“Maybe you could persuade her to let me do a complete physical,” Spellman says. “If she’s going to take oral contraceptives, she must have the appropriate checks. And the two of you shouldn’t be having unprotected intercourse.”
Blushing furiously, he mutters, “We’re not doing anything now.”
“She might not want to for a long time. You’ll have to be careful. She could be afraid of an inadvertent injury to her face. She may not be feeling very sexy. Maybe she’ll want to be cuddled and comforted more than she’ll want to have sex. It would be a good idea for both of you to get some counseling—her especially, but you too. Something like this usually takes time and professional help to get over.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to pay for any of this,” Sam blurts. “She hasn’t got the price of a pack of gum herself.”
“Once she’s in state care, she’ll have Medicaid,” the doctor tells him. “We’ll work it out.”
Leaving unasked the question of whether the state will pick up the bills that already exist, he follows her to the cubicle down the hall, where Deanie sits cross-legged on the examining table, reading the Sports Illustrated.
“All set,
