The mud was slick and cool. It oozed into her mouth and nose. She panted in small breaths, trying to avoid the sensation of fire in her lungs. She had knocked the wind out of her lungs when she fell.
Night was above her, branches reached over her head, the creek lay to her right, and her body was sinking gently in the mud. She felt anonymous. Completely anonymous. No one knew where she was. No one. Incredible. No boss, lover, friend, sister, ill-tempered brother, or sick mother. Not a teacher or a secretary or a nurse. No banker, lawyer, officer of the law, pedestrian. No dog. No cat. No mouse. It was a great feeling.
Then she realized that a turtle was staring at her. There
was just enough
moonlight to see the shape of its shell and the shine of its eyes.
It was
about a foot from her face, and it seemed to be about the size of
her palm. It
didn't run off. He gazed at her, slowly blinking his eyes as if he
were bored
by the massive absurdity of her smooth, doughy face next to his
small leathery
green sausage face.
"Do you have salmonella?" Sheila whispered.
It lifted a leg and urinated.
"Great," Sheila said.
The mud released Sheila with the sound of wet kisses as she slowly sat up. She moved slowly so she wouldn't lose sight of the turtle or frighten it away. She wanted to keep it. Capture it. Keep it in a box, call it Simon, and wait for it to die of salmonella, like the tiny turtles from Woolworth's always did. And this was the real thing, a real crick turtle, not a puny Woolworth's turtle. She had never actually caught a real crick turtle. And this one was right under her nose, placid and dumb, as if it wanted to be captured.
She needed something to carry it in. She didn't want it to pee in her hand just in case it really was dying of salmonella. But her purse was gone. She had no pockets in her pants. And she didn't care to slide Simon into her bra. She thought for a while.
Simon would have to go in her sneaker.
Moving as slowly as she could, she maneuvered her left leg until she was able to pull off her left sneaker. She held it in her hand. It was heavy with mud. She leaned forward, reached over Simon with her other hand, palm down, as if blessing him, and then she hooked her fingertips over the edges of his shell. He pulled his head in but he didn't fight. His shell felt cool, wet, and angular. Sheila lifted Simon up to her face. He began to squirm. His four piddly feet wriggled. His sausage eyes blinked. Sheila sniffed deeply. The smell of crick mud. The dirty fish-tank smell. The smell of domestic mud for amphibians, dragonflies, and mosquitoes.
She lowered Simon from eye-level and proceeded to worry Simon's rear-end into her sneaker. He vigorously pushed his legs against the walls of the sneaker. It seemed that he didn't care for the smell of a muddy sneaker. This was going to be harder than she had expected.
Sheila heard footsteps behind her. Mud smucking
footsteps. Shit, she
muttered. She held her breath and tightened her grip on Simon. A
light beam
bounced through the foliage. The light was followed by a voice:
"Lady, what
are you doing?" She let out her breath. It was the tired,
irritated voice of
a grown man, a serious, grown-up man, not one of those boys. She
was having
trouble hanging onto Simon, so she let the sneaker fall. The light
fell on
Simon's shell, and its wet surface gleamed.
"Don't move," the man said abruptly.
"What's wrong?"
"What's that in your hand?"
"A turtle." She started to raise Simon in the air.
"DON'T MOVE!" he bellowed, sending a sonic shock wave through
Sheila.
She stopped moving.
The light beam bounced across the pale underside of Simon's
shell. She
heard the man take a few steps forward, keeping the light on Simon.
Sheila
squinted her eyes against the glare of the flashlight, trying to
see the form
of the man, trying to make sure that she really was dealing with a
cop.
"Okay," The man said.
"Can I move?"
"Yes. But slowly." Sheila let out a slow breath and she
carefully
lowered Simon so that she could cradle him in her lap.
"I thought your turtle was a gun, lady. What are you doing out
here?
It's 2 o'clock."
Sheila raised her right hand in front of her face, trying
to shade her
eyes. "Can you move that light some?" she asked. The man aimed the
light at
the ground and Sheila could see better. He was a cop. At least, he
had the
outline of one. And he was talking to her again -
"No one is supposed to be in the park after sundown, lady."
"Huh?"
"You're not supposed to be in this park."
"This isn't the park."
"Yes it is."
"It's the crick."
"The creek is part of the park."
"It is?"
"It is now. The township is cleaning it up"
"The kids hang out here."
"That's why the township is cleaning it up."
"But this has always been THE CRICK. You can't keep the kids
out. It's
the CRICK!"
"Never mind the kids and the creek. What are you doing here?
You been
drinking?"
She tilted her head and tried to make out the cop's face. He
had a
square jaw. That was all she could see. She looked down and
returned to the
business of worrying Simon into her sneaker. After all, this was a
muddy bank
of the CRICK, and NO, she hadn't been drinking, this guy was about
as dense as
Jason, and she could capture a turtle at 2 AM if she wanted, and
she could
shove the fucking turtle into her shoe if she wanted and Simon's
head bobbed
in and out and his legs pumped frantically against the walls of her
shoe.
"What are you doing to that turtle? the man asked.
"I'm packing it."
"Let it go, lady. I'm gonna take you down to the station."
Just her luck, Sheila thought. She was going to get arrested
for packing
a turtle. She continued to ram Simon into her shoe. The cop took a
few steps
towards her and squatted. He shined the flashlight into her face.
She didn't
look at him. She looked at Simon who was finally packed into her
shoe.
"Jesus, lady," the officer said, almost whining. "What
happened to you?
It looks like your head is bleeding--"
**********************************
"Could you please let go of the turtle?" Dr. Harkway, the ER
doctor,
asked. His white lab coat was rumpled and too small for him. He was
billowing
out of it, like an over-yeasted cake. His dark eyes peered at
Sheila as if she
were from Mars and he was tired of Martians.
"Officer Denton said I could keep it."
"I don't think I can suture that cut while you're holding onto
a turtle,
okay?"
"He's not going to stop you."
"The turtle smells."
"Well, you don't smell so great, either."
"I haven't been off duty in thirty hours."
"Then maybe you shouldn't be suturing my head."
He rolled his eyes and groaned.
A nurse walked over. She was about four feet tall. She was
crispy frail
like a saltine cracker. Her hair was milky yellow, and cut so short
it seemed
demolished. One eye was smaller than the other. She held a
turquoise plastic
basin in her arms. There was water in the basin, making it look a
bit like a
child's swimming pool.
"Simon goes in his pool," she said to Sheila.
The nurse had a lot of lines on her face. Fragile, river-like
lines. Her
skin looked like it would flake if Sheila touched it. She scared
Sheila. "All
right," Sheila muttered. Sheila sat up on the stretcher and she put
Simon in
his pool. He swam around in the cool water and he looked a lot
happier. Sheila
lay back down.
"All right. Do it," she said to Harkway. "But make sure you
tell me when
the needle is coming."
He shaved part of her scalp and washed it with a cool
antiseptic. Then
he covered her face and head with a white paper drape. Part of the
paper got
stuck to her lips. She could hear him moving things around,
muttering
directions to the nurse. He asked for lidocaine. He was breathing
roughly
through his nose. He muttered some more. Sheila gripped the sides
of the
stretcher. She had never been sewn together before. It was going to
hurt, she
knew it was going to hurt, damn it, stop breathing like a dragon,
she knew
this was going to hurt -
She felt the jab of a needle and a hot burning sensation--
She jumped up and tried to bite Harkway.
After that, the crispy nurse was allowed to put her in four point leather restraints.
Sheila could hear the nurses playing with Simon. Now that he
was in a
turquoise plastic pool, he was all of a sudden cute.
"My god, I haven't seen a turtle like that since I was a kid."
"We need a dead fly. He must be hungry."
"A fly? Do turtles eat flies?"
"I don't know. Maybe worms."
"No. Turtles don't eat worms!"
"I bought a turtle from Woolworth's when I was eight years
old. It died
in two days."
"Probably had salmonella. Isn't that what turtles get?"
"Salmonella? Can you catch Salmonella from a turtle?"
The leather belts dug into her wrists and ankles when Sheila tried to move. She was cleaned up, sewn up, and tied down. She felt like Frankenstein. She needed to urinate. "Hey! Hey!" she called.
Sheila wrestled and writhed and yelled. It was fun to
wrestle and writhe
and yell. She had never done it before. "I want my turtle back!"
she yelled.
"I want to urinate!" she yelled. She raised her head off the
stretcher as much
as she could so she could see where the nurses were. She was about
to let out
another yell when she saw Jason walking towards her. She collapsed
back down
on the stretcher and turned her head to the right as Jason's head
loomed over
her from the left.
"Sheila?"
"Hi."
"Are you okay?"
"Sure. I"m fine."
"You were yelling."
"Yeah."
"Sheila? Look at me."
"I'm okay. Go on home. I didn't tell them to call you."
His shadow moved. Sheila thought he had walked away. But then
his face
came into view, like a passing moon. He had walked to the other
side of the
stretcher and squatted so that his face was level with hers. His
eyebrows were
drawn together and his lips were parted. He looked pale.
"Why did you run off like that?"
"I needed some air."
"One minute we're talking about chicken or pizza for dinner,
and the
next thing I know, you're gone. I don't understand."
"I couldn't decide."
"Huh?"
"We never used to worry about eating together."
"But we were both hungry."
"Don't make me choose between chicken and pizza. It confuses
me."
The harsh overhead light bounced off his dark hair. She could
see the
hidden colors in his hair, the flecks of gold, the strands that
were a deep,
gleaming purple, a few strands that looked almost pink. His
eyebrows were
still pulled together. He looked like he was trying to figure out
a chess
move.
"The doctor says you have a concussion. That's why you're, uh,
confused."
"All right."
He looked away for a few seconds, as if he was trying to find
some sort
of help, and then he looked back at her.
"You really scared me."
"I'm fine. You should go. I'm fine. Really."
"You could have been killed. I can't believe you went down to
Gordon's
creek."
"I like it there."
"It's a hang out for teenagers and drunks--"
"And turtles, bull frogs, and dragon flies. Punks grow there.
Did you
ever light the end of a punk, like it was a cigar? It keeps--"
"Sheila--"
"What?"
He closed his eyes and took a breath. He brought his face
closer to
hers, pushing his forehead against the guard rail of the stretcher.
"They, uh,
asked me to talk to you. The doctor needs to examine you. Officer
Denton is
waiting."
"There's no need. I told them that. They chased me, that's
all. I fell
and hit my head--"
"And you're confused--
"No. I'm fine!"
"You tried to bite that doctor."
"I had my reasons."
"You never act like this--"
"I have a temper you don't know about--"
"But what are you mad about?"
"I told you. I don't want to choose between chicken and
pizza."
Jason's eyebrows were buckling with the weight of his bewilderment. Sheila almost felt sorry for him. But she didn't. It was his fault. All of it. He came to her. He started it. Two weeks ago. Walked into her study while she was working at her computer. Fell to his knees, put his head in her lap. So dramatic. Jesus. She almost laughed. But all that beautiful hair in her lap. The comfortable weight of his head. She had put her hand in his hair. And realized she was trembling.
They had been doing fine. They had quietly danced around each other like dragonflies on dry, hot summer days. Six months they had lived like that, sharing the house and the bills and the chores. Their conversation was polite and intelligent, a bit hushed and awkward, but not a big deal. Things were fine, just fine. Best housemate she ever had. Until Jason decided to wander into her study.
Jason stood up and looked away, shoved his hands in his
pockets,
shuffled his feet.
"Should I call your mother or something, Sheila? I'm not sure
what--"
"No, godammit!" she yelled. "I'm ALL RIGHT."
"All right, all right--take it easy--"
"Please go. I'll take a cab home or something."
"I'll wait for you--"
"Don't wait for me!"
"No. I'll wait. But, uh, I'm going to go sit for a while.
I'll, uh, be
back."
Damn him, she thought. Damn him.
She loved the way his hair swayed in front of her face when he leaned over her. She loved the hidden colors in his hair. She loved the peculiar intensity of his eyes, the small electrified pools of water peering at her. She loved the way his mouth twisted into a strange, tight coil when he was upset, like a turtle, like Simon--
Where was Simon? What had happened to Simon?
She decided to yell some more. "Where's Simon?!" she yelled. "Where's my fucking turtle!"
The saltine nurse suddenly loomed over her. Sheila shut up.
The nurse
smiled gently with a little quiver of her lip. She held an emerald
liquid in a
small plastic cup.
"What's that?" Sheila asked.
"Dr. Harkway wants you to relax."
"He's not going to examine me."
"He wants you to stop yelling about turtles. He has a
headache."
"Oh."
The nurse held the little cup to Sheila's lips and let the liquid ooze into her mouth. The green liquid burned as it went down. It burned like green dragons. The nurse walked away and Sheila closed her eyes.
Some time passed. She dozed. She wasn't sure how long.
Jason's head was
over her again. He was asking her about the boys. He wanted to know
exactly
what happened. Exactly -
"Wasn't a big deal," Sheila said. "They didn't hurt me.
They chased me."
"Four of them," she said. Her mind felt wavy like hot air in an
open
field. "They were like angels," she said. "Heated up angels."
Jason turned his head, slowly and with repetitions, like an
image seen
through the turning spokes if a bicycle wheel. "What did you give
her?" he
asked someone.
"Just a little vistoril. She'll be fine," a voice answered.
Jason looked back down at her. The many colors in his hair
jostled in
front of her face, flinging into tiny explosions like light worms
after a
flashbulb.
"Did they hurt you?" he asked.
"They couldn't catch me," Sheila said, watching the storm. "I
ran."
"You ran?"
"Yeah. I ran. You know how I can run. They couldn't catch me."
"How did you get cut?"
"I fell. By the crick. A branch got me. BING! Like that. I
tore open."
She twisted, leisurely, in the restraints. She was in a soft, flaky snowstorm. The branch had BING! made the hole, and now the world was drying up and silently billowing away. She dozed off again for a few minutes. When she woke up, Jason's face was gone from over her head, but she could hear him, vaguely, talking to a nurse or a doctor.
She didn't see them at first. The boys. They were standing by the crumbling brick wall of the old bridge--the little one that cut through the rotting, smelly meadow which was now, apparently, a park. The boys seemed to be between thirteen and fourteen, and they were drinking from cans, sullenly, methodically, periodically laughing with low grunts. They were children, but they seemed ancient.
"Hey, baby," one said, as Sheila passed, walking quickly, on her way to the crick.
She should have ignored him. She knew that. Like she always
did. Like
she had been taught to do. Ignore the sneerers and mutterers and
ones who blew
kisses from cars or bothered her at bus stops. But the energy of
her abrupt
flight had distorted her thinking and her fury at the boys was
suddenly blind
and amorphous and pulled tight like a wire. She stopped short and
stared full
face at the speaker: He had pimples and watery blue eyes.
"Don't call me baby you dim shit."
His watery blue eyes blinked for a few seconds with surprise. One of the others--a boy with a round face and dark, greasy hair, laughed. The other two smirked. She turned, glared at the group of them, and then walked quickly away.
A few seconds passed. Silence. Then she heard the footsteps behind her. Breathless laughing. "Bitch," one muttered. They were close. They were running hard.
But she had always been good at running. So she ran from the boys. The swarm of adolescent testosterone. It was almost a joke. She lost them in a minute. But then she was suddenly running too fast to ever stop, she was running in a dark mass of foliage that was upon her like a sudden, inexplicable jungle, brisk things snapping in her face, vines grabbing her ankles, thorns slicing her arms--she tore through the stuff until one branch caught on her scalp like a dagger, held it a split second and BING released it, tearing the flesh of her scalp open. She then exploded through the foliage and slid down a muddy bank, right to the rim of the crick, right to the benign face of a turtle.
"Where's Simon?" she called, softly this time. She shifted her wrist and ankles in the restraints. The hospital gown slipped from her shoulder. She felt a bit of cool air against her breast.
Jason was back. He was leaning over her, frowning.
"Who is Simon, Sheila?"
"He's the turtle," she whined. "The nurses have him. I want
him back."
"A turtle?"
"He's my turtle, I want him back."
Jason blew out a puff of air. "Sheila, why did you run off?
And don't
talk about chicken and pizza."
She bit her lower lip and glared at him. The sharpness of his
tone
jarred her. She was alert now. The medication had worn off.
"I, uh. I, uh. I want you to leave my plants alone," she said.
"Huh?"
"Stop watering my plants, okay?"
"But they'll die!"
"Let them die. And stop opening my mail."
"I don't open your mail! I throw out the junk mail!"
"And, and--"
"What? What?"
"I want to leave."
His mouth opened.
"I think I want to leave. You're swallowing me up. I don't
like it."
"What do you mean I'm swallowing you up? We've been so
happy--"
"You're happy, damn it. I don't know what I am."
Her heart was hammering against her chest. She didn't like
making it
clear just how much he affected her, affected her mind, her energy,
her
emotions, tears, laughter, sighs, and yawns. He wasn't like the
others, the
ones who had been like Simon, the ones who were a comfort for a
while,
company, a voice in the hallway. But Jason's voice held her, and
his eyes held
her, and the many colors in his hair held her, and she didn't like
it--it made
her restless, crazy. It was an awful, awful place to be, especially
for
someone like her, someone who knew how to run.
"Please," she said. "I have to see that I can leave."
"But it's your place--"
"Not any more, damn it!"
"Do you want me to leave? Is that it? I'll go, if that's what
you want--"
"Oh, jesus. Jesus." She pulled against the restraints. She
wanted to hit
him. "You can't wander into my room and land your head in my lap
and then ask me to chose
between chicken and pizza and then tell me you'll leave if that's
what I want--"
"But look at you. If I upset you this much, then maybe it was
all a mistake--"
"Shut UP!" she said. "SHUT UP!"
He shut up. He stepped back and looked down at her. She watched as his face relaxed and a faint smile crossed his lips. Damn him, she thought. Damn him to hell. He was getting it. He was looking at her lying on her back, tied to a stretcher, her hair still bloody, stitches in her scalp, a twisted sheet over her legs, and a hospital gown that was slipping off her shoulders. He was seeing her. Maybe for the first time. Bloody, torn, and tied up. A strand of hair fell across his face and knocked gently against his upper lip. She watched the strand bouncing off the lip like the pendulum of a clock. She swallowed.
He moved forward, close to the stretcher again. He touched
her shoulder.
"I don't want you to leave, Sheila," he said. "Or, I don't
want to leave--"
"It doesn't matter that much to you."
"Of course it matters to me." He gently touched the cloth of
her hospital gown, the
part that was slipping off her shoulder. But instead of pulling it
up, he slowly pulled it
down, exposing part of her breast.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm nuts about you. You know that."
"Stop it, Jason."
"We'll get married."
"I don't WANT to get married."
"We'll have babies."
She moaned. "I Don't WANT to have babies!"
He brought his hand up, gently, to the side of her face. She
twisted in the
restraints.
"Stop it," she said. "Please."
He leaned down and kissed her ear. His hair fell into her face. He pulled the hospital gown down with a deliberate tug and slowly cupped a hand over her left breast. His lips were parted, his face was pale, and his eyes were glassy.
Jesus, she thought. He likes the restraints. He looks like he's just been struck by God.
Sheila wet her lips and swallowed. The fluorescent light
glowed more fiercely, and
Jason's hair became wisps of tremulous colors and Sheila thought
well, maybe God HAD struck
him. Perhaps both of them.
"The turtle," she said, hoarsely. "I want my turtle."
"Okay," he whispered.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Pull the curtains."
He stepped away from her, and pulled the curtains. That done, he examined the latch on the side rail of the stretcher. His hair dangled over her mouth, and then his mouth was on her neck and his chest over hers, and then she felt a knee, and Jesus, he really was climbing onto her, he really was, the stretcher was beginning to slide--
And then the curtain flung open, a shadow fell over them, and
they both stiffened.
"Oh, for crying out loud," she heard Officer Denton say.
The cracked nurse came back. She clutched a syringe in her
hand. There were more
lines in her face than ever. Sheila stared and stared at her face,
trying to understand all
the lines, until the nurse suddenly got mad at her.
"Your behavior is very bad," the nurse said.
"Excuse me?" Sheila asked. She shifted her weight off her
right buttock. She was
still in the restraints.
"You're very bad. Very, very bad," the nurse said.
"Don't say that. Please. You're making me sad."
"You're unbelievably bad."
"Where's Jason?"
"The policeman has him."
"Why?"
"Jason is very very VERY bad."
"I want my turtle. Jason promised he'd get my turtle!"
"I'm going to kill your turtle. I'm going to make him swim in
betadine. Kill all the
salmonella. Make him a clean, dead, turtle."
Sheila looked at the nurse's face. It was turning very red.
The lines were becoming
etched cracks. Her neck was twitching. Sheila felt concerned for
her. She frowned and bit
her lip.
"Is that for me?"
"What?"
"That? The needle. Dr. Harkway said I had to get a tetanus
shot."
The nurse suddenly shook herself a bit, like a bird settling
on a branch. The redness
drained from her face. She looked around. She looked at her hand
holding the tetanus shot.
She smiled.
"Just tell me when you're going to do it," Sheila said.
"Yes, of course," the nurse said. "Here it comes."
Sheila made a face as the dart entered her arm. The nurse pushed the plunger, and then pulled the syringe out. Her face was triumphant. She nodded at Sheila and then walked quickly away.
Dr. Harkway agreed to release Sheila from the four point restraints. Officer Denton left. No one cared about examining her anymore. They all said she could go home.
Jason was in the waiting area. He sat in an orange plastic chair with metal legs. His legs were stretched out in front of him. He held the green plastic basin in his lap. He looked uncomfortable. He sat up, still holding the basin, when he saw Sheila walking towards him. He smiled.
She walked up to him and looked into the basin. Simon looked
up at her with his
sausage eyes. His expression was one of benign pain.
"Let's go," she said.
[current t.o.c.] . [about Schuylkill] . [previous issues] . [submissions] . [events & announcements] . [credits]