Free Sex in a Sidecar by Phyllis Smallman Page B

in her gaunt face we re like a living skull under a fine layer of chamois.
    I screamed. I knew who it was but I screamed anyway, then I leaned towards her. “Mrs. Travis?” I asked. “Mrs. Travis, is that you?” I hoped she’d say no.
    I’ve no idea what she did say. I couldn’t hear her over the storm, but by the way her lips were moving she had rather a lot to say.
    I knelt down beside her. “The keys? Where are the keys?”
    Something flickered in her eyes and a wily look replaced normal meanness. She knew what I was after, must have guessed, hidden deep in my most intimate heart, I’d want to take her keys and drive off without her. But then she was always willing to think the worst of me.
    I bent over and grabbed her by her belt and shirt, dragging her the rest of the way out from under the car. I admit I could have been gentler, but the thought of her bare back, scraping along the concrete where the shirt pulled up, gave me my first warm fuzzy feeling of the whole day. Even above the wind I could hear her scream.
    The warm fuzzies went away when I saw the blood staining the white denim of her designer jeans. I watched the rain carry it away in a red stream across the pink concrete.
    Pity passed quickly. I bent over and frisked her for the keys. Nothing. I lay down on my belly and looked under the Mercedes. They winked at me from two arm’s-lengths away. I shimmied under the car and retrieved them.
    Bernice, the Christian name that I never been invited to use, grew more and more agitated. I ignored her, something I’d had a lot of practice at and unlocked the Mercedes. Opening the back door, I reached down and took her in a big bear hug. The scent of an expensive perfume filled my nostrils. It was the most intimate embrace of our whole foul relationship.
    Bernice, her face pressed into my neck, screamed in pain. “Sorry, sorry,” I yelled in reply.
    As I had done with Gina, I tugged and cursed and pushed her onto the back seat of the car.
    When I had her stretched out, pumping blood onto the white leather, I tried to decide if there was a major artery involved. How the hell can you tell? I only knew it was a lot of blood. I undid the buckle and ripped off her belt. Then I slid it under her leg, wrapping it around the thigh above where the blood was seeping out, threading it through the buckle and pulling it tight. The blood seemed to slow.
    How long should I keep it tight? First aid and I had only a nodding relationship; I didn’t want her leg to fall off. I loosened the belt. I couldn’t really tell if it helped or hindered. “Is there a blanket in the trunk?” I yelled at her. Her lips moved but the wind swept away the sound.
    I backed out of the car and closed the door behind me to protect her from the storm. The trunk was full of suitcases and blue plastic boxes full of stuff. Jimmy’s face smiled up at me from a box of photo albums and pictures. “Bastard,” I yelled down at him. I didn’t know how, or why, but he was responsible for this as he was for most of the bad things that had ever happened to me. Everyone needs something to believe in and I wasn’t giving up on this conviction now.
    I unzipped the closest Gucci bag and pulled out the first thing that came to hand.
    In the back seat I wadded up the clothes and used the belt to keep them fixed tightly over her injury. It might help but even I knew she needed real medical help pretty damn quick.
    â€œThe best thing we can do,” I yelled at Bernice, “is get you to a hospital.”
    Her lips were pulled back from her rather big ugly teeth in pain; her back arched and her hands were locked in fists by the side of her face. I patted her good leg awkwardly. “Okay, just hang on.” I scuttled back out of the car.
    The Mercedes’ engine was so quiet or the wind and rain were so loud, I couldn’t tell if it had started. I put it into reverse. The car