Twenty-seven

In my former life, as a little girl, I’d wanted to be a nurse. Now, seeing us both soaked in blood, I knew what a joke that had been. My heart was racing. The car was hot, and the air sticky sweet with the scent of blood. I wanted to throw up.

I didn’t think he was outright bleeding to death. I think blood spurts out in spasms when you’ve cut an artery or some vital blood vessel, but I don’t know, because I’d given up on my medical career when I learned about bedpans. All I could do now was drive. That was something I could do very fast and very well. It was twenty-some miles back to the Lively Oaks Trailer Park. I think I made it in just over fifteen minutes.

John hadn’t said a word the whole trip back. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t regained consciousness. I, on the other hand, said plenty.

“You know,” I said, “you shoulda been straight with me up front that you was hurt. We coulda wasted less time that way. But, no, you’re too macho or whatever.” When that didn’t work, I moved on to threats and intimidation. “If you wake up,” I said, “if you let me take you to the hospital, I’ll dance naked on your bed every night for a year.” When that brought no response, I started a new conversation. “Okay, God,” I said, “it’s me again. Only this time, listen, it ain’t for me. It’s for him. Honey, don’t let this one die on me. Not so much on account of me, but on account of he’s a good guy. He ain’t never hurt nobody. And look, Ruby’s gone. Isn’t that enough dying? I don’t know if you knew Ruby was gonna die, or nothin’. I’m not saying you did. Maybe you were busy and it slipped by. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened. Whatever. I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, ‘Hey! Listen up! Don’t let him die.’”

Sometimes you gotta get people’s attention.

I didn’t need to get attention when I drove up. Maybe that was on account of me laying on the horn. At any rate, Al came running down the steps as I pulled up, the ugly gun back in his hand.

“Sierra, what the hell’s with the horn? Hey, you got blood all over you!”

“I need Ma,” I said. “Look!” I jumped out of the car and flipped the driver’s seat to reveal John Nailor passed out on the backseat.

Al stuck his gun in his waistband. “You shouldn’t have done this!”

“I didn’t do it, burgerhead!” I said, lapsing back into our childhood name-calling. “He’s shot, we gotta get him inside.” I went on before he could start in with the cop-interrogation routine. “He said he can’t go to the hospital.”

Al gave me a look and must’ve seen something in my face, because he didn’t ask another question. By the time he’d reached into the backseat, Ma was on the stoop. When Al pulled out of the car and turned around, he had John cradled in his arms. Ma looked from me to Nailor and went into action.

“Put him in Sierra’s room,” she barked. “Sierra, run out to the Lincoln and get Pa’s first-aid kit out of the trunk. Al, move it! Don’t jar him!”

By the time I was back with the kit, which was more the size of a small suitcase on account of Pa being an EMT, Ma was working. She had John on his side, with Al holding him, as she cut away his shirt with a pair of scissors.

“Oh, Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the Saints,” she breathed. “Sierra! Towels! I’ll need warm water and a washcloth. Move it!”

I flew. I threw the towels on the bed and ran into my bathroom to run water. Al was supporting Nailor with part of his body and opening the first-aid kit with one hand.

“It looks like it went in the front,” Al was saying, “with the exit wound here in the back above his elbow.”

“Apply pressure there, honey,” Ma said. “We’ve gotta stop the bleeding.”

I brought a wet washcloth into Ma and stood there by her side, waiting for her to take it and feeling useless. Nailor moaned suddenly, and Ma and Al both stopped what they were doing, as if surprised to find that the gunshot wound was attached to a person.

“Hey,” I said. I made my way up to the bed and knelt down. “Tough guy,” I said softly, “it’s me.”

His eyes fluttered and then opened.

“That’s Ma,” I said when I saw his eyes connect with hers. “And Al’s behind you, there. Welcome to Nurse Sierra’s Home Health Care Center for the Physically Wounded and Terminally Stubborn, that, of course, being you.”

He licked his lips and winced.

“Don’t go making any speeches,” I said. “We’ll take donations when you’re back on your feet.” My God, he looked pale.

Ma looked at Al. “Is it stopping?”

Al carefully lifted back the edge of the towel and peered at the exit wound. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Well, keep it elevated while I try and put a tourniquet on.” Then she looked at Nailor. “You’re bleeding a lot,” she said, her voice an even, calm monotone. “We’ll get that stopped and you’ll be fine.” Her eyes seemed to soften, even as her hands worked to tighten the tourniquet around his upper arm. “It hurts, huh, sweetie?”

He nodded. “Not too bad.” But his eyes made him a liar.

“Sierra, get the boy a little of your Pa’s tonic,” she said. “Thickens the blood.” She nodded to Al to tighten his hold, then looked back at Nailor. “If you ate more Italian food and drank red wine regular, this sort of thing would go a lot easier!”

Nailor laughed softly. “Just need you to cook it for me,” he sighed, and his eyes closed. Ma smiled, reached out, and grabbed the washcloth off the bedstand. Gently, she began wiping the soot and dried blood off his face and neck.

“You’re a mess, son,” she said softly.

I sat down next to Ma and waited until she was finished. “You want him to have this?” I said, pointing to the tumbler of Chianti I’d brought into the room.

“Al,” Ma said, “we gotta prop him up a little.”

It took the three of us to get him positioned, but finally Ma was satisfied. “That’s good. Sierra, just give him a little sip at a time.”

“You with us, here?” I said, a little louder than normal.

His eyes fluttered open.

“This is gonna help. You’ve had it before, but I didn’t tell you it was good for you.”

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Chianti. Thickens the blood.” Al sighed and Ma reached out to swat him.

“Mr. Wiseguy,” she huffed.

Nailor took a sip and choked, then another. “How much, Ma?” I asked.

She looked at Nailor and the tumbler I held in my hand, as if maybe she was actually calculating a dose. “At least half the glass,” she pronounced. “We got a lot of blood needs thickening.”

Nailor’s eyes weren’t opening, but he drank. Al was sitting next to him in the bed, keeping Nailor’s arm elevated and pressure applied to the wound. I saw him lean closer to John and lift the towel. His eyes met Ma’s.

“It might be slowing down,” he said.

Ma nodded. “Thank your father for that, Mr. Know-It-All!” She looked at the clock and then back at me. “Sierra, don’t you gotta be at work in an hour?”

“I’m not going to work with him hurt like this.” Nailor appeared to be sleeping, his head slumped back against the pillows.

“Oh?” Al said. “And so you’d be telling your boss what? That your cop boyfriend got hurt and you can’t come in? You wanna draw attention that something’s not right?”

“No, Al, I’ll tell him I’m sick.”

“Oh,” he scoffed, “that’s real smooth. Were you sick yesterday? You think him and anybody else who’s wondering won’t know that’s bogus?”

I hadn’t thought about it that way.

“Sierra, you’re in the middle of some deep shit, or haven’t you noticed? Have you caught on yet that every time you do anything connected with finding out who killed your friend Ruby, that you or somebody else gets hurt?”

Or killed, I thought, remembering Wannamaker Lewis.

“This is dangerous, Sierra. We gotta play this one safe. Go to work. We don’t want anyone coming around here asking questions, especially if we’re gonna hide a cop with a gunshot wound.”

“All right, all right! I’ll go. You done with the sermon?”

“All’s I’m asking is for you to use your brain. You kicked over a big can of worms, Sierra, and somebody out there don’t like it.”

*   *   *

Before I left, I walked back into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. He was sleeping, a lock of straight brown hair falling across his forehead. I leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek. His eyes popped open and he smiled slightly.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered.

I was Sierra, Queen of the Night, my blond hair curled to fall across my shoulders, all powdered and scented, with gold glitter lotion perfuming my body.

With his good arm, he reached out and touched my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck and across my shoulders.

“You know why I did it?” he said.

“Did what?” I had to lean closer to hear him.

“Kissed her.”

“Yeah, why did you do that, you snake!” I was kidding, a little.

“I wanted to make you mad.”

“Good job, sport! It worked.”

He smiled. The bastard was actually smiling. “I know.” Then the frown came. “If you hadn’t been mad, somebody might’ve killed me. If you’d blown my cover…” His eyes closed. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Anytime, big man.” I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. I’m a sucker for a pitiful man. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” I couldn’t tell if he heard me. He looked to be asleep again. “I’ll crawl in bed next to you,” I added. There was no reaction for a moment, so I started to leave. The sound of his voice surprised me.

“Naked, I hope.”

“You just keep dreaming, sport. I’m more woman than you’ll ever handle.”

“Try me,” he whispered.

I figured my detective was on the road to recovery.