An oblong mural of blood.
No, she would go to her local doctor, to which all of them agreed: she was tougher than she looked.
The police joked that they were arresting her, and drove her smoothly home. The younger of them, the one chewing spearmint gum, also took care of the dress.
He laid it delicately down in the trunk.
* * *
—
When she made it home, she knew what had to be done.
Get cleaned up.
Have a cup of tea.
Call Michael, and then the insurance company.
As you might expect, she did none of those things first.
No, with all the strength she could muster, she placed the dress over the couch and sat at the piano, completely dejected, then bereft. She played half of Moonlight Sonata, and she couldn’t see the notes, not once.
* * *
—
At the doctor, an hour later, she didn’t scream.
Michael held her hand while her ribs were gently pushed upon, and her nose yanked back into place.
It was more just a gasp and a swallow.
On the way out, though, she buckled, then lay on the waiting room floor. People craned to see.
As Michael helped her up, he saw, in the corner, the usual fare of children’s toys, but he shrugged them quickly away. He carried her out the door.
* * *
—
At home again, on her old used couch, she lay down with her head in his lap. She asked if he would read from The Iliad, and for Michael there was great realization—for rather than think the obvious, like, I’m not your long-lost father, he reeled out far beyond it; he knew and got used to a truth. He loved her more than Michelangelo and Abbey Hanley combined.
He wiped at the tear on her cheek.
There was blood cracked into her lips.
He picked up the book and read to her, and she cried, then slept, still bleeding….
There was the fast-running Achilles, the resourceful Odysseus, and all the other gods and warriors. He especially liked Hector the panic maker—also named tamer of horses—and Diomedes, true son of Tydeus.
He sat like that all night with her.
He read, turned pages, and read.
* * *
—