by Warren Adler
She was still frightened, but the boy's pain seemed genuine enough. She felt Larry watching her, berating her for her compassion, her foolishness. Don't believe him, he would say. He has no conscience, no morals, no feelings. He tried to rape you, maybe worse. You're stupid, naive, a dumb little hick. His words raced in her mind.
"Dammit," she said, putting the knife down on the island.
"Please," the young man said. "I be good. I promise."
His pleading seemed sincere. Besides, he looked terrible. She moved slowly around the kitchen island.
"It's okay, lady," the young man pleaded.
He was leaning against the refrigerator door. When she reached him, she pulled down the zipper of his leather jacket.
"Easy," she cautioned as she helped him out of it. He grimaced, his features convulsed with pain. Then she unbuttoned his shirt and helped him move his injured arm out of the ripped sleeve. Handling his dark arm gently, she inspected the wound. The blood was flowing freely, but it wasn't, thankfully, an artery.
She washed the wound with water, took a clean dish towel from a drawer, then applied pressure. The trembling in her hands, she noted, had miraculously stopped. Then she told him to keep the pressure applied while she went to the bathroom to get her first-aid kit.
When she returned, he was still leaning against the wall, his hand holding the dish towel, which was soaked with his blood. She removed it gently. The blood flow had eased. Using a bottle of peroxide, she washed away the blood. He winced with pain.
"It needs stitches," she said. "You should have it looked at."
"Who gonna look? I got no doctor."
"Go immediately to the emergency room at Mount Sinai," Jenny advised.
"They treat you like shit there. Ask too many questions," he said. "I been."
"You've got to have it treated and stitched," Jenny pressed, hesitating, wondering if she should mention her past experience. Suddenly tears filled the boy's eyes, spilling over his cheeks.
"Look ... I..." Jenny began, then stopped. "Dammit, why did you have to..."
The boy looked down and shook his head.
"I can stitch it," Jenny blurted. "I know how."
The boy straightened, and with the sleeve of his good arm, he wiped his face, cleared his throat, and looked at her.
"Please, lady, you do this for me. I'm sorry I done what I did. I musta been crazy."
"I'll agree with that."
"Please, lady. I ain't really that bad. I got crazy is all."
"It will hurt," Jenny said.
"Just fix me up," the young man said. "Please."
Again she imagined hearing Larry's voice berating her.
Jenny shrugged and looked into her first-aid kit. She had the makings for flesh-wound stitches, medical thread and an appropriate needle. She threaded the needle and sterilized it in alcohol. Then she turned toward the young man. But first she ran the tap and filled a glass with water and gave the boy two codeine painkillers. He swallowed them and washed them down with the water.
"I told you, this will hurt," she said. "Just don't look."
She worked swiftly as the boy groaned with pain. At one point she thought he might faint. Somehow she managed to keep his arm steady until she'd finished the job. Ten stitches. Then she dressed the wound, put a bandage over it, and helped him put his leather jacket over his shoulders.
"Now go home and lie down. I still say you should see a doctor as soon as you can."
The young man nodded. Holding his good arm, she walked him toward the door. But before she opened the door, he turned and their eyes met.
"Bet you think I'm the crazy one, right?" she asked gently.
He shrugged his shoulders. "You gonna call the cops?" he asked, his voice weak.
"You ever going to do this again?"
He sighed. "You gonna believe me?"
"Maybe." She wouldn't put her hand on a stack of Bibles over that one, she thought.
"Don't call the cops, lady. Please. My mama got enough troubles."
"How does it feel?" she asked, pointing to his arm.
"Like shit," he muttered. He managed a thin smile. "Lucky I got stuck by a nurse," he said.
"I'm not a nurse. Just a glorified receptionist."
She chuckled, watching the boy's look of puzzlement.
"No cops, right? You're not going to tell?"
"Macho man," she said.
"I didn't mean to..." The young man paused.
"I did," Jenny said, looking at his wounded arm. "You're lucky it was only your arm." She hoped the implication of her words would sink in.
"Yeah," he agreed.
"Did you learn anything from this?" Jenny asked sternly.
"Yeah," the boy drawled. "Maybe."
She opened the door for the young man, then helped him open the outside door. As she did so she noted that his pure white sneakers were soiled by bloodstains. She did not point them out to him.
"Your pizza's cold by now," he said. Then, holding on to the stone banister, he walked slowly down the stairs. When he reached the sidewalk, he turned and raised his good arm in a kind of wave, then walked off toward Second Avenue.
When she got into her apartment again, she put up the chain and rolled the dead bolt into place. For a moment she leaned against the closed door. Cops or not? she thought. What would Larry have done? she asked herself. "Cops," she whispered, shaking her head in the negative. Then she brought the first-aid kit back into the bathroom and put it in the cabinet under the sink.
When she rose again, she saw her face in the mirror.
"No matter what," she told her mirror image, "never become like them."