Ghouls

Kurt smiled, thanked the nurse, and stepped into Vicky’s room.

She didn’t look nearly as bad as he’d feared, not when compared to last night. She was lost beneath blankets, her form diminished by a bed which threatened to devour her. Much of her forehead was padded by a thick, white bandage. At first he thought she might be asleep, which probably would’ve been all for the best, but next her head turned lazily in the pillow. She looked at him for a distended moment, then managed a small smile.

“Hi,” she said.

“I guess this is a dumb question, but how are you feeling?”

She laughed out loud. “My head feels three times its normal size, my wrist feels like it’s in a grape press, and my whole body hurts like hell, but other than that, I’ve never felt better.”

“Sorry I asked. What’s the damage report?”

“Minor concussion, minor blood loss, an interesting assortment of scrapes and bruises, and one fractured tubercle, whatever that is.” She raised a plaster-cast wrist.

“It could be worse, I guess. At least it’s not as serious as I thought it would be.”

She shook her head. “No, they don’t make Vickies like this one anymore.”

Kurt turned, hands in pockets, and faced the wall. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to joke about it. But last night, when I found you in the driveway, I thought…”

“That I was gonna die? Well you’re not the only one.”

Kurt’s voice was deliberately soft, as if loud talk might make her rattle. “All you have to do is give me the word, and—”

“Forget it, Kurt. I’m not going to press charges.”

“Shit, Vicky! Goddamn!” he exploded. It was an invitation to tirade. “I don’t fucking believe you. I suppose you enjoy getting the crap kicked out of you every other day. That guy almost killed you last night, and you act like you couldn’t care less.”

Her words came out enfeebled. “Kurt, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he recited. “Don’t worry about it.” He quickly crossed the room and aimed his finger at her. “How much longer are you going to let this go on? You won’t be able to press charges if you’re in a coffin, and it’s a miracle you’re not being measured for one right now. Last night you were lucky, and all the other times, too. But you might not be so lucky next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” she said. “I’m not going back to him, and he knows it. This was my going-away present; if you ask me, it was worth it. I’m free of him now, Kurt. Forever. Last night was the last time. So there’s no point in pressing charges. I’m just going to forget about him once and for all. It’s better this way, and a hell of a lot easier.”

Kurt went tinglingly rigid. He fell silent. Is she just saying that to shut me up? he thought. Or is it true? This was good news, so good he didn’t trust himself to believe it. When he finally got around to speaking again, all he could say was, “Are you kidding? You’re really not going back?”

“I may be a glutton for punishment and a diehard, but enough is enough. If I didn’t leave him after this, then I’d deserve another beating.”

Kurt smirked sourly. “That makes sense, so how come you didn’t leave him a year ago?”

“Various reasons. Reasons I’d rather not go in to. Just take my word for it, you don’t have to worry about finding me in your driveway anymore. I wouldn’t go back to that house for a mil— Oh, no, that reminds me. I do have to go back at least once. To get my money.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the past year I’ve been putting away little bits of my Anvil pay. Now I’ve got about five hundred dollars stashed, and I’m going to use it to get away.”

“Get away where?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve lived in Tylersville for twenty-six years. I figure I can spend the next twenty-six as far away from the place as possible.”

The words sank hooks into his brain. “You mean you’re going to leave town?”

“You act like I’ve just said something crazy. I’ve had my fill of that dumb, backward, redneck turd of a city. Just as soon as I get the divorce papers rolling, I’m gone.”

Now Kurt stalled. He wanted her to leave Stokes, but not Tylersville altogether. Of course, he had no way of telling her that, and could imagine how he’d sound if he tried. In that moment of quiet, he admitted the facts. Tylersville was nothing. Only a jackass would want to live in Tylersville, and that idea made him think very hard about himself. There was no reason for Vicky to stay; in fantasy, though, he wished he could be the reason.

“So when’s the doctor letting you leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.” She gave an achy shrug. “He says he’ll see.”

“In the meantime I guess you can file your entry blank for the Miss Battered Wife Pageant.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Kurt. It’s not easy when you’ve got a mouth full of cotton.”

This time Kurt’s smile was forced. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

“Sure, Kurt… And thanks for last night.”

“Don’t mention it. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll find me in your driveway. Then you can return the favor. See ya.”

Kurt exited the hospital as if pressed for time. He drove home sullen and a little bit sick, yet he knew full well that it was childish to feel this way. He just couldn’t help it.

Later, at work, he sensed something awry the instant he stepped into the station. Mark Higgins, whose shift had just ended, sat back behind the report desk as though fatigued or exasperated or both. There was something reviling about the way he looked at Kurt.

“I’m not late, am I?”

“No,” Higgins replied. “Ten minutes early as a matter of fact.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Chief wants to see you.”

Kurt stopped what he was doing. He eyed Higgins suspiciously. “What about?”

“I don’t know,” Higgins said in a way that indicated he did. “But he’s pissed, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Kurt said shit under his breath. Then he walked into Bard’s office. The chief glanced up in a single, abrupt movement. He appeared squat, munchkinlike behind the desk, and his face was pink, the way it always got when formidably angry. Before Kurt even had time to shut the door, Bard said, “What, no ten-gallon hat?”

“Huh?”

“Everybody’s got to be a cowboy, ain’t that right. That’s just what I need—another cowboy.”

Kurt’s expression turned jagged. “You mind telling me what’s going on? I don’t know wha—”

“Did you punch Lenny Stokes in the face today?”

Shit, he thought. Shit. All he could muster to say was, “Who, me?”

Bard slammed an open palm on the desk, so hard Kurt’s heels came an inch off the floor. “Damn it!” Bard yelled. “I fucking knew it! What’s the matter, didn’t God give you a brain like the rest of us? You’re supposed to be a police officer, and police officers don’t go around bashing citizens in the chops.”

Kurt slumped standing up. “Relax, Chief. Stokes won’t file a complaint.”

“Stokes did file a complaint. He called the Maryland Police Grievance Board, and they called the fucking state attorney’s office, and the fucking state attorney’s office called me, and those sons of bitches would just as soon put you on a ball crusher as say hello to you.” Bard grimaced as if he’d sipped flat beer; he waved circles in the air with his hand. “So that’s all that matters, smart boy. You and I know that Stokes is a liar and a thief and an asshole, but MPGB doesn’t know that, and they don’t care. All they care about is cops guilty of brutality.”

Somehow, Kurt produced some anger of his own. “Break it off in my ass then, huh, Chief? You don’t seem the least bit interested in hearing the other side of the coin. Don’t you want to know what Stokes did?”

“No!” Bard replied, his voice held to a sharp, spittling shout. “I don’t care if he pissed off the water tower. I