22

Wendolyn slouched at his typewriter and read again what he had done. He saw that it was good. But could he, with the same godlike stroke, revive her?

He imagined the sort of entrance she would make. She would be hesitant, seeing him there. Yes, brash as she was, she would still be hesitant.

He typed some more, describing the girl’s descent into the room where he sat, his back to the doorway.

She would stand, breathing heavily, wiping her damp palms against her skirt. She would visibly gather herself, regain a semblance of her earlier bravado.

But what would the dialogue be like? She had been injured, after all. What would Christine Rivers, in a circumstance like this one, say?

“Jesus Christ,” she would whine behind him. “I think you broke my nose.”

Wendolyn typed on.

“Hey, what the hell is this? You break my nose and then you come down here and type?” Whimpering her way across the room into the circle of light. “I feel dizzy,” she would say, leaning against the desk.

His fingers fell heavily upon the keyboard, jamming several letters. He stood. “I’ll get you to a doctor,” he would say. “I’ll take you to the infirmary. I’ll get some ice.” Her noisy weeping. He could hear her energetic wails, even when he ran the tap over the ice tray. He would fold a towel around several cubes of ice and return with the compress.

“What do I look like?” Petulant now, tossing the towel aside as though it were a pillow. “Get me a mirror.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. It feels … I don’t know, big. It just feels big.”

He went upstairs, returned with his hand mirror and her panties.

She would look at herself, propping the mirror against his typewriter. “Oh, Christ,” she said. Her lip trembling when she touched her nose. Her hands shaking too, briefly. “I thought you’d be different,” she said, tossing her head back and covering her face again with the towel.

The desk would be wet where the towel had rested. “I’ll get a plastic bag,” he would say.

“Why?” Panic edged her question.

“Relax. I’m not going to suffocate you. The ice is melting, that’s all.”

“Oh,” she said.

He went off again, grateful for this minor respite.

“I really thought you’d be different,” she called. “I really thought so.”

“I’m sorry,” he shouted back. He emptied half a loaf of bread onto the counter and returned with the empty wrapper. He handed it to her.

“I don’t mean about being a lousy fuck,” she said, pushing the towel inside it. “Most of the men around here are. I mean about hitting me.” She grew introspective. “He hits me,” she said, more to herself than to him. “God, does he hit me. But never in the face. Never once in the face. But the son of a bitch hits his wife, too. He told me.”

“I think I’d better take you to the infirmary,” he said. “It’s after seven and they close at eight.”

“After seven! Oh, no! I’m supposed to meet someone!” She handed him the plastic pouch. “I’ll tell you what. You let me off at that billboard. You know, the one on the edge of town?” She wiggled into her panties. “I’ll be all right.”

Gentle reader, thought Wendolyn, do I wake or sleep?