by Alice Duncan
"No. I think you're the only who has to worry about that," said Sam tartly. Then he grinned. "But, hey, we're a matched set now. I have a bum left leg, and you have a bum left arm."
"Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better."
"You were all cut up, too," said Pudge, still excited unless I missed my guess. "Like Mrs. Gumm said, after it hit you, that car flung you really hard against that tree and you got scraped all over."
"Oh." No wonder everything hurt.
"But I disinfected all your wounds and got you bandaged. You'll be fine in a couple of weeks. Except for your arm. That will take more time."
"Oh, no," I began to cry and then felt like a fool.
"It will be all right, sweetheart," said Pa, leaning over to give the top of my head a peck.
"And you'll regain full use of your arm," said Doc Benjamin, probably trying to cheer me up.
"Who was driving the car that hit me?" I thought to ask.
"We don't know," said Sam.
"What do you mean, you don't know? You mean whoever it was got away? You didn't even copy the number plate?"
"Didn't have one," said Sam.
Silence filled the room as I contemplated Sam's comment. "Isn't there some kind of law that you have to get a number plate on your motor?" I asked. "And a driving license?"
"Yes. But the car that hit you didn't have a number plate. Don't know if the driver had a license, but if I ever find him, he'll never get another one." Sam sounded grim.
"Good," I said. Then I dripped a few more tears, feeling sore, pathetic, and silly.
"Oh, Daisy, We're all so sorry," said Vi. "But you just rest in bed for a while. Don't do anything. Just rest."
"Yes," said Doc Benjamin. "You need to rest more than you need to worry.
If he said so. But I did worry. I worried about my livelihood and that of my family. You see, I was the primary bread-winner therein, and I won the bread we bought by being a spiritualist-medium to people in Pasadena who had lots of money to waste. I appreciated them for wasting so much of their money on me.
But how could I practice my skills if my arm was in a sling?
And who had hit me with his or her car? Stacy Kincaid, my best client's daughter and the only person I know who'd like to run me over and kill me, was in jail. The reason she hated me was because I'd been, in part, responsible for getting her arrested. But, for Pete's sake, she'd assisted her lover-boy in committing murder! Not to mention that she'd participated in a child-trafficking scheme that kidnapped children and sold them to perverted men. She was evil, and she wanted me dead, but I figured that was only fair. I loathed her and wouldn't be at all upset if someone were to do her in.
That sounds terrible, doesn't it?
I don't care. It's the truth.
"I'm going to sit with you for a while," said Sam, dragging my mind from the swamp of its distressing thoughts. "And then I'm going to do my best to find out who hit you."
I gazed at my darling fiancé with eyes swimming in tears.
"Th-thank you, Sam."
He took my right hand and gave it a little squeeze. I shrieked in pain, and he dropped my hand like a hot rock.
Good Lord, I really did hurt everywhere.
~
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Shaken Spirits
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Aunt Vi's Swedish Smothered Chicken
Aunt Vi's "Swedish Smothered Chicken"
Ingredients:
2 Small Broiler Chickens
Salt & Pepper to Taste
Flour
1 1/2c Heavy Cream
1 1/2c Chicken Stock
Parsley
Preparation:
Dress, clean and split two young, small broilers. Sprinkle inside and outside with salt and pepper, dredge outside sparingly with flour and fold over. Heat a Scotch kettle*, pour in one cup heavy cream and chickens. Cook until chickens are well browned, turning frequently, and adding more cream as necessary. Cover and cook until chickens are tender and remove to hot platter. To the three tablespoons fat remaining in kettle add three tablespoons flour and stir until well blended. Then pour on gradually, while stirring constantly, one and one-half cups chicken stock and one-half cup cream. Bring to the boiling point, season with salt and pepper and strain. Pour around broilers and garnish with parsley.
* You might call this a Dutch oven
In an effort to avoid what I knew I should be doing with my life (writing — it sounded so hard), for several years I expressed my creative side by dancing and singing. I belonged to two professional international folk-dance groups. Dancing made for a lousy living, but it was certainly fun. I also sang in a Balkan women's choir. I got to sing the tenor drone, for the most part. My first book, ONE BRIGHT MORNING, was published by Harper Monogram in 1995. What's more, it won the HOLT Medallion for Best First Novel. It was a good start, but my career has been... rocky, is the best word for it, I guess. Publishing's a brutal business, but I've got more persistence than brains so the publishing gods haven't killed me yet, although they seem to be trying awfully darned hard, curse them. In September of 1996 my herd of wild dachshunds and I moved from Pasadena, CA, to Roswell, NM, where my mother's family settled fifty years before the aliens crashed. Roswell is kind of in the middle of nowhere, but it does have its advantages: no smog, no crowds, no money—but I had no money in California, too, and you don't need so much of it here. Please visit my web site at www.aliceduncan.net or write me at [email protected]