Free Bitter Medicine by Sara Paretsky Page B

andwaited for him, my hand reflexively touching the dried blood on my jaw.
    “It’s nothing, really. They were pissed. It’s kind of complicated. The guy has been carrying a grudge against me all these years.” I gave a little laugh. “It’s
Rashomon.
Everyone sees it differently. I saw myself helping this goon get off a heavy sentence he deserved. I saw myself overcoming my hatred of his behavior and his attitude to help him. He saw me being contemptuous and forcing him to do time. That’s all.”
    Mr. Contreras ignored me. “We’re getting you to a doctor. You can’t go around looking like this. You come back down here with me. This is no time for you to be going off by yourself. Oh, I should never have waited. I should have called them right away when I got worried.”
    His strong, rough fingers pulled importunately on my arm. I followed him back downstairs into his apartment. His living room was crowded with old, sagging furniture. A large chest, draped in a blanket, stood in the middle of the floor. We walked around it to a mustard-colored overstuffed armchair. He sat me down, clucking softly to himself.
    “How you even got home like this, doll! Why didn’t you at least call me—I would have come for you.” He bustled away for a few minutes and returned with a blanket and a mug of hot milk. “I used to see a lot of accidents when I was a machinist. You gotta keep warm,and stay off booze…. Now, we gonna get you to a doctor. You want to go over to the hospital or you got someone to call?”
    I felt as though I were far away. I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Doctor or hospital? No choice. I didn’t want either. I held the mug of milk and sat silent.
    “Listen, cookie.” A little desperation in his voice. I’m not as strong as I used to be. I can’t knock you out and carry you. You gotta get help. Come on, talk to me, doll. Or you want me just to call the cops? I should be doing that anyway—why am I asking you? I should just call them.”
    That roused me a little. “No, wait. Don’t call. Not yet. I have a doctor. Call her. She’ll come.” I dialed Lotty’s number so often, I knew it better than my own. So why couldn’t I remember it? I frowned in effort, and my jaw twinged. Finally, helpless, I said, “You’ll have to look it up. She’s in the book. Lotty Herschel. Charlotte Herschel, I mean.”
    I leaned back in the chair, carefully clutching the mug of milk. The heat felt good on my cold hands. Don’t drop this. It’s Daddy’s coffee. He likes to drink it while he’s shaving. Carry it carefully. He likes his little girl to bring it to him. His eyes crinkle up behind the white foam on his face. You know he’s smiling, smiling to see you.
    Mother is telling Daddy to bring a lamp, shine it on her little girl’s face. Something happened. A fall. That’s right. She fell off her bicycle. Mother is worried. Aconcussion. Bad fall, iodine burns where the skin was scraped.
    I struggled awake. Lotty was swabbing my face, frowning in absorption. “I’m giving you a tetanus shot, Vic. And we’re going up to Beth Israel. This is not a dangerous cut, but it’s deep. I want a plastic surgeon to see it. Get it put together properly so it doesn’t scar.”
    She took a syringe from her bag. Wet swab on the arm, sting. I stood up with her arm supporting the small of my back. Mr. Contreras was hovering at one side, holding a blue suede jacket that looked familiar.
    “I took your keys and went up to your apartment,” he explained, holding out both jacket and keys for me.
    My arms still ached. It hurt to move them into the jacket sleeves and I accepted his help gratefully. He shepherded me tenderly out of the building into Lotty’s Datsun. He stood watching on the curb until Lotty put the car into gear and squealed up the street. Her frantic speed was not a sign that my condition was dangerous—she always drives wildly.
    “What happened to you? The old man says you went up against some