The Pet Part 19

"Me? Me, a medal?"

A look to his father brought a proud nod; a look to his mother brought him another kiss.

"I can't," he said, fingers digging into the stiff sheet. "I can't, Mom."

"We'll talk about it later, when you get home, dear," she said quickly and softly. "We'll send up the kids now, while I get you some clean clothes."

greensparks greenfire Don didn't understand why Tracey was wearing jeans and an old jacket until he remembered that school was closed today, because of Amanda. Nor did he understand why Lichter had to come with her.

Tracey, after exchanging glances with Jeff, took the chair while he sat on the bed and grabbed for Don's hand.

"The Detention Kid strikes again," he said heartily. "Man, are you nuts or something?"

"Shut up, Jeff," Tracey ordered gently, and leaned over to kiss Don's cheek. Her hand found his and held it. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," he said. "I didn't get hurt or anything. Your father-hey, easy on the merchandise," he protested to Jeff, pulling free his hand and wincing in false pain. "I'm a black belt, remember?"

"I remember you're crazy, that's what I remember."

"It takes one to know one."

179.

"Very funny."

"Don," Tracey said, "Brian says-"

'' s.h.i.t on Brian,'' Jeff mumbled.

"-my father was the one who did it, not you. He's saying all kinds of crazy things, like he chased you home last night before you even got to the park." Concern was then replaced by a smile. "But n.o.body's listening."

"Did they ever?" he asked without much humor, then swallowed the sour moment with an effort that made him grunt.

"You okay?" Jeff said quickly."Gas," he said, patting his stomach. "It's the food. Almost as bad as Beacher's."

Jeff laughed, slapped the mattress and looked to Tracey. She giggled, shook her head, and he told her to go ahead.

"What?" Don said, not liking the intimacy. "What?"

"Beacher," Tracey started, then burst out laughing, shook her head and her hand and inhaled deeply to choke off the fit. "He's named a sandwich after you."

"He did what?"

Jeff nodded. "He named a sandwich after you and he's serving it to all the reporters! G.o.d, can you believe it?"

"What is it, raw hamburger?"

"No. It's ..." Jeff stood and leaned against the wall to keep from falling down. "It's grilled cheese and bacon, with lettuce and onions."

"What?" Don yelled. "I don't even like grilled cheese. What the h.e.l.l does that have to do with anything?"

"Who the h.e.l.l knows? But if you go in and ask for a Don Boyd Special, that's what you get."

It was prairie fire laughter that spread from one to the other, dying down, then roaring again, until his sides ached and his cheeks felt ready to split and his lungs refused to give him enough air. Jeff crumpled to the floor with his hands locked over his stomach. Tracey rolled in her chair until it 180.

slammed back against the wall and nearly skidded out from under her. The nurse looked in once, and saw them and grinned and winked at them to quiet down; Dr. Naugle came by and suggested loudly they calm down before they were all put in straitjackets.

Don sobered first, blinking away the tears and moaning while the ache faded from his ribs.

The nurse reappeared, arms folded over her chest, one eyebrow lifted to signal the end of the visit.

"s.h.i.t," Jeff whispered, and shook his hand again, averting his eyes when Don saw the question there-did you really kill him with your own two hands?

"See you later," Tracey told him before the question could be asked.

"Take care of yourself, hero, okay? We'll see you later, maybe tonight."

She kissed him on the lips, once and quickly, so quickly he couldn't taste it. When they were through the door, he watched as Tracey went left, as Jeff grabbed her hand and pulled her to the right. She giggled; he hushed her with his head close to hers.

A sandwich, he thought; Jesus Christ, a sandwich!greensparks and greenfire and the stallion's silhouette against the white of the moon "I wouldn't let him come up," Chris said, perching on the mattress by his hip. "He's acting like an a.s.shole. Would you believe, even Tar thinks he's acting like a jerk?"

Gratefully, and somewhat embarra.s.sed, he turned his cheek toward her oncoming lips, and was nonplussed when she cupped his face in her hands, turned it back, and gave him a kiss he knew the doctor wouldn't approve of. She didn't seem to notice his bewilderment, only leaned away and slumped so that her man's white shirt bagged over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s under the fall of her hair.

181.

"I think he's jealous."

"Brian?" That he could not believe. "You're kidding."

"Well," she said, one hand leaning on his waist, "he's been drinking already. Smells like a brewery, and he can't figure out why the reporters won't talk to him anymore." A finger toyed with the sheet. "He said ..." A look without looking up. "He said something about Donny Duck to them, y'know?"

"Wonderful," he said.

"Oh, don't worry about it. n.o.body cares. My G.o.d, you're a genuine hero, you know that? I mean, you're the kind of man that c.r.a.phead only dreams about.''

"Jesus, Chris." He looked to the window and wished she'd go away. No, he thought in a panic. No; just lay off the bulls.h.i.t.

"No, really."

"G.o.d, knock it off, huh?"

"Man can't take a compliment," she said to the wall.

"Well ..."

She laughed silently and pushed her hair back behind her ears, the movement half-turning her toward him so he could see, if he wanted, the flat of her chest where the shirt was creased back.

"I guess you're all right though."

The finger waltzed aimlessly, over the sheet, and he couldn't help looking at it without seeming to, watching it, mesmerized by it, and finally squeezing his legs together because of where it was heading.

When he cleared his throat and pushed himself into a higher sitting position, the finger only paused before dancing on.

"Yes, thanks."

"I hear they're going to make a big deal at the concert.""Yeah, so I heard too."

She smiled at him and winked. "Brian and Tar aren't going. He says you'll make him puke."

182.

"If that's true, I'll be there early."

Her lower lip vanished briefly between her teeth before she leaned over again and kissed him, hard, surprising him so much he let her tongue in before he knew she was doing it, astounded him so much he opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. She laughed without pulling away, and the laugh was deep in his mouth, and he prayed neither of his parents would walk in, not now.

She broke the kiss, but didn't move away. "Listen, after the concert?"

He waited.

"If your folks let you-I mean, you being in the hospital and all, they may not even think it's a good thing for you to go-but if they do let you, maybe we can go to Beacher's after."

He laughed. "And try the Don Boyd Special?"

"You know?" And she laughed, rocking slowly as her finger moved to his groin, traced the bulge there, and retreated. "All right! The Don Boyd Special it is!"

All he could do was nod, and swallow, and watch the play of her b.u.t.tocks beneath the skin of her jeans.

Jesus, he thought; oh Jesus.

someone was screaming and there was blood on his hands He closed his eyes and saw Jeff take Tracey's hand, and saw the promise in Chris's eyes, and felt someone in the room, watching him and not moving.

Please, no, he thought, and opened his eyes with a soundless gasp.

Fleet stood at the foot of the bed. His face was lined, his eyes red-rimmed, and his hands gripped the metal footboard while he examined Don's face.

"G.o.d, you scared me," Don said, smiling.

Fleet nodded.

183.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm supposed to ask you that, m'man," Robinson answered, his smile only a pulling back of his lips. "s.h.i.t, you done it good, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I guess."

"You guess?""I don't ... I don't remember everything, exactly."

"No s.h.i.t?"

"No s.h.i.t."

Fleet pushed away from the bed, and the light from the window put half his face in shadow.

"Thanks," he said then, in a voice barely heard. "Thanks. For Mandy."

Don didn't know what to say, nor did he know what to do when Fleet came suddenly around the bed and leaned close enough to touch. "I wanted that dude, Donny boy," he said, the words sc.r.a.ped out of his throat. "I wanted that f.u.c.ker myself, can you understand that?"

Don nodded, afraid that Robinson was going to hit him.

Fleet nodded back as if a point had been made, straightened, and walked out without saying another word.

Dr. Naugle came in, Joyce and Norman behind, and before Don could ask anything, there were reporters in the room. They were quiet but eager, and they had apparently agreed before hand on the rotation of questions.

He did the best he could with some help from his father who sat on his one side while his mother sat on the other, and he tried not to squint in the glare of the lights or lose his temper when one of them suggested offhandedly that Brian's story was somewhat closer to the actual fact than the police report; he made a few self-deprecating jokes they laughed at politely, and just as politely he refused when a photographer wanted him to hold a bat like a club; a woman reporter asked about girlfriends and his running; a man in a tweed suit made his throat freeze 184.

up; and when someone asked how he felt about the medal, he said in a quiet voice he was pleased and didn't deserve it.

They left without a fuss when Dr. Naugle called time.

His parents left him alone to dress in the clothes they had brought.

And when he was tucking in his shirt, the nurse returned with a wheelchair.

"Do I have to use that?" he said, pointing with one hand while the other hurried to zip his fly and buckle his belt. "I can walk."

"If you don't, I'll have to carry you."

He grinned and took the seat.

And there were more pictures at the hospital entrance, and while he was getting into the station wagon, and while the wagon pulled away slowly from the curb. He wanted his father to hurry, and didn't want to think that the smile on the man's face was meant for more than him.

When they arrived home, there was a police car at the curb and Sergeant Quintero on the sidewalk. He opened the door for Joyce and took Don's hand when he climbed out weakly. The moment was awkward because he knewthe man wanted to say something about the Howler, about Tracey, and he was rescued by Joyce, who hustled him inside after a quick invitation to the patrolman to come in when he could and have a cup of coffee.

In the foyer he glanced up the stairwell and let himself be led into the living room, where he was put in on the sofa. A fussing over him he enjoyed and didn't care for, and with apologetic smiles his parents left him alone.

He looked around, thinking things should be different, realizing with a start he hadn't been gone for even a full day. It unsettled him. Time shouldn't have stretched so far, shouldn't have had so much crammed in, yet his father's chair hadn't moved, and there was an empty cup on the floor beside it, folders on the couch, magazines on the end table. Nothing 185.

had changed, and suddenly he was convinced that somehow, this time it should have.

They returned with steaming coffee, and a can of soda for him. He grinned as his father sagged loudly into the chair and kicked off his shoes, squirmed when his mother dumped the folders on the floor and knelt on the cushion beside him. She kept looking at her watch.

"Well!" Norman said explosively, and took a sip of his drink.

Joyce hugged him quickly and gave him an impish grin.

"Are you all right, son?" Norman asked solemnly. "I mean, really all right?"