by Ana Good
“Yes, ma’am,” said the medic. “We’re going to do that, just as soon as we have you strapped onto the body board.”
Thumper didn’t like the sound of that. Body board sounded way too much like body bag for her liking.
“Stand back!” cried one of the medics.
Thumper felt the medics grab hold of her parka and lift her onto the bright-orange board. One of them cradled her head, slipping her neck into a cervical collar. The other busied himself tightening black nylon straps around her body.
Thumper tried to bend her knees, just for the hell of it, but no matter how hard she concentrated she couldn’t make her leg muscles obey her mind. Her legs lay stiff. Dead.
“I’m okay,” she lied to Mary Lou as the medics loaded her into the back of the ambulance. “Fine. Okay. Understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” said Mary Lou, who jumped into the ambulance with Thumper, still holding her hand.
“Ma’am,” complained one of medics. “You can’t ride back here, it’s against the law. Your sister will be fine. You go on and meet us at the hospital.”
Mary Lou ignored the medics, except for the comment about her “sister.” “She’s not my sister. She’s my partner. Now get on that little radio of yours and call this in to emergency or whatever you guys do. I’m not going anywhere but up your ass if you don’t do everything you possibly can to help the love of my life get up and walk again.”
71. Reality TV
Storm woke up, rolled onto her side, and hurled like a Scud missile over the edge of the cot. She gazed after her lunch, pita bread and some sort of mystery meat, happy to have it out of her system.
The military officer, who had by now introduced himself as Hasi Ahmad, stood up from his chair in the corner and stalked toward her cot. “You do not feel well?”
Storm wiped her lips on the shoulder of her combat jacket. “You might say that. Do you have my camera?”
“Yes, I think.” Hasi pulled the camera out of a pile of equipment and firearms nested in a corner of the room. “This? Yes?”
“That’s it,” said Storm. “I was thinking maybe we could do an interview.”
“An interview?” Hasi raised his eyebrows. “With me? For American TV?”
“Unless you have someone more handsome stashed around here. I was thinking my people would like to know about you, your men, what you are fighting for.”
Hasi frowned. “We are fighting to kill you.”
“I got that,” said Storm. “I mean your message, your religious message.”
“We sent your people a message. When you were asleep.”
Storm sat up, as best she could, given her ankle was chained to the cot. “What message? What did you say?”
“We want to trade you.”
“Trade me?”
“Yes, for three of our men.”
“They’ll never do that,” scoffed Storm. “Your men are military prisoners. I’m a civilian. A reporter. The military doesn’t care about me.”
“That is bad for you.”
Storm chewed her bottom lip. “Look, you’re probably going to kill me. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Storm flinched a little at Hasi’s forthrightness. “So, how about we do an interview, anyway? How about you tell the American people why you’re going to kill me? Then, after I’m dead you can mail the tape to my TV station and upload it to YouTube and everyone in America will hear your message.”
Hasi rubbed the side of his face with the edge of the bayonet on the end of his rifle. “I think I like this.”
Storm sat up and pointed at the camera, which lay in Hasi’s lap. “All you have to do is turn on that red button. Set the camera on top of something so it’s high enough to tape us. Release my ankle so I can come over there and sit next to you and then I’ll ask you a lot of questions. You’ll be famous.”
“Like on Survivor?” asked Hasi, his grin wide.
“Something like that,” grumbled Storm as she yanked at her elaborate ankle bracelet. “Come here. Unlock this thing. Let’s get started. I want that tape done by the time you decide to shoot me.”
Hasi scooted over and slid a key into the padlock on Storm’s ankle. He did not see how releasing this little American woman could make any difference. Besides, he liked the idea of seeing himself on TV.
72. Who Has to Ask?
Poppy threw a set of khaki desert fatigues at Wee Gee’s face. “Pull these on,” she commanded in a hoarse whisper.
The two women were cramped together inside a supply closet on a military air base just outside Herndon, Virginia. Poppy had used her rock star credentials, a phone call to her booking agent in the U.K., and her outrageous flirting skills to earn them special passes at the USO entrance. She and Wee Gee were booked to depart ASAP as entertainment for the troops. Poppy was to sing. Wee Gee’s pass declared her a backup dancer: a Pop Tart.
Wee Gee shook her head at the fatigues. “If I put those on, I could be shot for impersonating a soldier, maybe even treason, baby girl.”
“That’s the general bloody idea,” griped Poppy as she zipped up her own fatigues. Her uniform was a bit baggy. “Blimey!” she called as she studied her reflection in a floor-length mirror. “My ass looks like a Frisbee in these fatigues. Don’t know how Storm pulls this look off.”
“That girl has junk in her trunk. You don’t even have a trunk. More like a shoebox.”
“My ass is not unattractive!” protested Poppy.
“It is if you like a little rump in your hump.”
“Ass bandit!” growled Poppy.
Wee Gee threw a duffel bag of medical supplies at Poppy’s head.
A noise outside the closet caused both women to sober up. Poppy hurriedly stuck her long hair up under a duty cap. Wee Gee followed suit. “Let’s board that plane.”
The two women crept out of the closet toward a runway outside a hangar where two transport planes were loading soldiers for desert deployment. It was dark on the runway. All the marching women were dressed alike n khaki dessert print fatigues so it was very easy for the singer and Wee Gee to fall into step and blend in.
Wee Gee had never seen so many bull dykes in her life. She leaned over and whispered into Poppy’s ear as they fell into formation: “Don’t ask, don’t tell. Hell, what sane sober person has to ask!”
A sergeant at the boarding door to the plane barked for silence as Poppy and Wee Gee approached. The sergeant’s hand shot out after Poppy had gone into the plane, blocking entrance for Wee Gee. “Who might you be, little lady?” barked the sergeant.
Wee Gee thrust out the plastic USO pass Poppy had obtained for her. “Wee Gee Judd, ma’am. I’m here to shake my groove thing for you girls.” Wee Gee wiggled a bit to illustrate her point.
The sergeant, a gray-haired Latina with cheekbones that could cut glass, and eyes as black as obsidian, made a sound deep in her throat. “This pass says you’re a backup dancer. Damned Pop Tart. Kinda old for that, aren’t you?” The sergeant held the pass firmly, yanking Wee Gee toward her as she spoke.
Squaring her shoulders, Wee Gee leaned into the sergeant’s ear and whispered, “Honey, this girl will never too old for some of that, if you catch my drift.”
The sergeant roared with laughter. “How long will you be with us?” the sergeant asked Wee Gee as she stepped to one side, allowing her to enter the plane. (Wee Gee did not miss the fact that the sergeant gave her posterior the old twice-over.)
“Long enough to get to know you better,” whispered Wee Gee as she slid on by.
As soon as Wee Gee was settled next to Poppy, the rock star leaned over and whispered into her ear. “What the bloody hell were you doing back there?”
“Booking a date,” said Wee Gee with a satisfied smile.
Wee Gee and Poppy fell into silence as the plane rumbled to life. Even if the two friends had wanted to turn back, they were in too deep. The door had closed. Literally and figuratively. They were a hop and a skip away from active duty.
Fo
r the first time in a decade, Wee Gee Judd shut her eyes and prayed.
73. Free at Last, Free at Last
Dylan stripped off her jeans and stepped boldly into the hot blast of her own shower. She shook her head, flinging water everywhere. Water rained across her shoulders, down her lanky backside and legs, as she twirled in the shower.
God, it’s delicious to be home again. Free at last! Free at last!
Dylan lived in the top story of a three-story renovated work/live studio warehouse midway up Portrero Hill, in San Francisco. On a clear day, she could see the downtown skyline across every window. Right now, inside her glass-block shower, she had such a view through a curtain of steam.
God. It’s great to be home again. No bitchy old ladies acting like my mother. No one keeping me from having fun.
Dylan jumped out of the shower and eyed the treatment release papers that lay on a wine barrel converted into a table beside her king-size bed as she wrapped a towel around her boyish hips. She stumbled over a roll of canvas and an industrial-sized box of burnt sienna paint on her way to snatch some fresh clothes from the walk-in closet.
Dylan wasn’t surprised when the Japanese temple bells she’d installed in the hallway outside her studio pealed out, announcing a visitor.
“About freakin’ time!” she yelled as she loped to the warehouse door and slid it open. She didn’t quite have both legs shoved into a fresh pair of black hipster jeans when her visitor stepped into the warehouse space.
Bunny Van Randolph stood there, a white Westie cradled in her arms. She was wearing a midriff-length white leather jacket accented with pink diamond-studded cuffs and collar. The dog wore a matching ensemble.
“You have a dog?” asked Dylan as she raked back a flap of hair, a look of terror on her face.
“Like, yeah. This is Mr. Yummy. And I love him to death.” Bunny rubbed noses with the yapping dog. “Mommy loves her Mr. Yummy. Yes she does!”
Dylan stepped back.
“What are you doing?” chided Bunny. “Mr. Yummy won’t hurt you.” Bunny held the dog out, but Dylan sidestepped the squirming pet. “Hold him!” commanded Bunny. “If you hold him, he’ll stop yapping.”
Dylan dodged the squirming dog as she slid around Bunny. She threw herself onto an overstuffed shabby-chic sofa. “Dogs totally freak me out,” she confessed as she slung one leg over the back of the sofa and reached for a cigarette.
Bunny advanced, releasing Mr. Yummy under his own volition. The dog ran to the kitchen, where he engrossed himself in a scent trail close to the refrigerator.
Dylan sat up and lit her cigarette, obviously relieved. “Uh, sorry, but dogs freak me out. I mean, I really have a thing about them.”
Bunny shed her jacket and, tossing it onto the back of the sofa, sat down next to Dylan. She reached up and raked the damp hair from Dylan’s eyes. “I missed you. You miss me?”
Dylan shrugged. “Hey, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea here.”
Bunny slid a hand to the back of Dylan’s neck. “Nothing wrong about this,” she purred as she kissed Dylan with a good bit of passion.
Dylan squirmed until she’d managed to slip out from under Bunny’s arms. She flipped the hair from her eyes with the heel of one hand. “Sorry, I guess I should have been clearer on the phone, about why I wanted to see you.”
Bunny crossed her arms to her chest. “I didn’t think that needed an explanation.”
“Uh, I think it kinda does.” Dylan was up now. She paced to an overstuffed chair and threw herself into it before continuing speaking. “I owe you an amends,” she blurted as she continued to fidget uncomfortably in the chair.
“What?”
“An amends. That’s why I wanted to see you. I was thinking about it. I gave you drugs in rehab. I probably messed up your chance at getting sober.”
“No biggy.” Bunny shrugged.
“Yeah,” countered Dylan, “I think it kinda is.”
Bunny narrowed her eyes. “Oh my God, they got to you, didn’t they? You’ve been mind-fucked by those rehab goons. Oh my God!”
Dylan blushed. “No one fucked any part of me. I just think maybe this sobriety thing makes sense. I’m gonna give it a try.”
Bunny stood. “You made me fly all the way out here to hear this!”
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“How thoughtful of you. No offense, dear, but you if you were going to dump me you could have done that in a text.”
“Dump you? How could I dump you, I never picked you up.”
“I beg to differ!” Bunny cried, her voice escalating.
Dylan took a deep breath and counted to ten (just like Babe taught her to do). “Look, I don’t want to argue. I thought maybe you and I could go on a real date. There’s an installation down at Fort Mason by this woman who’s really hot: this chick named Yoto, from Japan. She creates these amazing sculptures using radioactive waste, yarn, old zippers, and scrap metal from military planes.”
Bunny wrinkled her nose. “Art bores me. Let’s stay here and drop E. You have any more of that stuff you had in rehab? That stuff was fabbo. Really yummy.”
“Bunny, you can’t be serious.”
“I certainly can.”
“Look, I told you, I’m clean. No drugs.” Dylan stood and turned her pockets inside out. “Clean. For real. Isn’t that freaking great?”
“Maybe for you,” said Bunny as she stood and called Mr. Yummy back to her. The terrier vaulted into Bunny’s outstretched arms. “But frankly, dear, I find it a real turnoff.”
74. Thumper Gets a Halo
The next time Thumper opened her eyes, she could not move her head. While she’d been unconscious in the emergency room, the attending physician had ordered a metal halo screwed into her skull. The device sat on her shoulders, ringing her neck so she could not move her head to the right or left. It felt weird, like her neck was locked into a tube.
“The halo and brace hold her spine erect, keep her from suffering any further injury until we’ve assessed her neural state,” Thumper heard someone say. Thumper could see three women standing at the doorway to her room, one of them her mother, Sheila. Sheila and Mary Lou seemed to be quizzing the third woman, a doctor, about her test results. Thumper did not say anything for the longest time. Instead she listened as her mom, Mary Lou, and the physician, a stocky redhead with a pert nose, discussed her status.
Sheila was talking to the doctor: “Will she be able to walk?”
“I don’t know. We can’t know. Right now she has no feeling from the lumbar vertebrae down. That might be permanent; might not. Sometimes spinal tissue inflammation can cause temporary swelling; and that swelling can block the transmission of feeling. When the swelling subsides, she may be fine.”
“So,” said Sheila, “she might be fine?”
“She might.” The doctor shook her head. “I can’t make any promises. No one can at this stage of the game.”
Mary Lou jumped in. “What did all those tests show?”
The doctor flipped through papers on her clipboard. “Some good news. Doesn’t appear to be any breaks in her vertebrae, but here” — the doctor walked over to a lighted display box that showcased a row of X-rays — “something here worries us. This could be a hairline fracture.” The doctor retracted a pen from her lab coat pocket and tapped on the glass.
“Could be?” asked Mary Lou as her finger gingerly touched the spot the doctor had isolated.
“Could be; or could not be. We’re waiting for the results of the MRI. Those images will show more. We’ll see a clean break in those images, if there is one.”
Thumper waited until the doctor was gone before speaking. “Hey, guys, like, what the hell is this thing on my head? I go unconscious for, like, a few seconds and you let them screw a lampshade on my head.”
Mary Lou bounded over to Thumper’s bedside and grasped her head. “Welcome back, hon. Your mom is here.”
Sheila came over and kissed her daughter’s cheek. Te
ars glistened in her eyes. “You scared us real bad, honey. Running the track like that, that was something your boneheaded sister would have done.”
“I know, Mom. But Dirk isn’t racing anymore. Just me.”
“You trying to be your sister? That it? That what this foolishness is about?”
Dirk blushed. “I’m trying to win, Mom. That’s all.”
Sheila took a deep sigh. “You did that, all right.”
Thumper tried, unsuccessfully, to sit up. “I won?” she asked, her voice high in excitement.
Mary Lou took hold of her hand. “Yes, hon, you won. A real photo finish. The judges took an hour deciding, but they ruled you won the race, and that you didn’t foul. Jane isn’t happy, but you won, fair and square. You’ve got a place on the World Cup team, honey. And you set a new time trial record.”
“Jane? Oh God,” croaked Thumper. “Is Jane okay? I didn’t hurt her, did I? Tell me I didn’t hurt her.”
Mary Lou leaned down and whispered into Thumper’s ear: “That old New Hampshire bitch is fine. Don’t worry your head about her. She made a clean tumble. Walked away without a bruise.”
“Thank God!” murmured Thumper, who had no choice but to stare straight up at the acoustical-tile ceiling, a view she now feared might be hers for the rest of her natural life.
75. The Fire She Lights in Me
After an hour of keeping Birge at bay with a butter knife and a bookend, Nan finally decided she’d allow the woman to sit next to her on the couch in the library. “If you come near me, I’ll scream for help!” warned Nan.
“Fine. I’ll stay here. Nothing will move on me but my tongue.”
“Seems to me that’s what got us into this fix to begin with.”
“Are you going to keep smart-mouthing me or are you going to be still for a few moments and let me talk?”
Nan shrugged. “Talk all you want. Yak. Yak. Yak. Be my guest, dear.”
The butler tiptoed into the room. “Would you like anything, Ms. Birge? A plate of dinner?”
“Just my Scotch, please.”