Free What Dies in Summer by Tom Wright Page A

said Gram, moving over to help me keep the ice pack on my eye and cheek. “They might not, because it’s your head that got hurt.”
    “Nothing but a flesh wound,” said L.A. “A fat wound.”
    I could tell she was starting to cool off. Through the glass I saw Dr. Colvin talking into the phone and watching Mom and Jack, who had now moved into the waiting area, Jack slouching down into
one of the green plastic chairs, cracking his gum. Then the doctor turned away from them with the phone still at his ear and said something else, punching three holes down through the air one after
another with his finger as he talked.
    Mom got a cola from the machine against the waiting room wall and walked over to us. “Hey, honey,” she said. “Hi, Mom. How ya doin’, Lee Ann?”
    “Hi, Auntie Leah,” said L.A., taking a step back.
    Mom glanced back at Jack, then took my hand, saying, “How are you, baby?” She ran her hand through what she could reach of my hair. “I’ve just been so worried about
you.” She took a sip from her drink.
    “I’m pretty good,” I said, noticing that although Mom did look sort of worried, most of her attention was directed back at the nursing station and waiting area.
    As the nurse was getting me into a wheelchair to go upstairs, a big cop in a brown uniform and a sad-looking woman in a dark dress suit came in through the main doors. The woman had several
manila folders in her arms. Dr. Colvin motioned them over. As he talked he tipped his head toward Jack, who was now paging boredly through an old National Geographic. I couldn’t catch
what Dr. Colvin was saying from this angle but it looked like he was angry at the woman, who kept nodding along with his words.
    Then the cop thumped his palm on the counter, nodded to Dr. Colvin and stuck a kitchen match in his teeth as he walked over toward Jack, who had stood up when he saw the cop eyeing him.
    “Say, podnah,” said the cop, his voice carrying clearly. “You Jack Ardoin?”
    “Yeah,” said Jack, hitching up his belt.
    “Cajun, right?”
    “What about it?”
    “Y’know, I’m thinkin’ I might already be acquainted with you,” the cop said as the match traveled slowly over to the middle of his mouth and then back.
“Wrecker service and repo lot offa Harrison, id’n it? You and that joker with the glass eye, what’s his name?” Now that they were standing face-to-face you could see the cop
had at least fifty pounds and five inches on Jack, and he wasn’t giving him any room. Jack had to crook his neck to meet the cop’s eyes.
    “Bailess,” said Jack.
    “Yeah that’s it, Lester Bailess. I do remember y’all. Old Lester’s uglier’n a Arkansas hairball, ain’t he? Scratches his ass all the time—wouldn’t
doubt but what he’s got pinworms. Went up for something a few years back too, if I remember right. Lessee, what was it, forgery? No, wait, it was messing with little girls, wudden
it?”
    Jack swallowed. There didn’t seem to be any need for an answer.
    “Oh, well,” said the cop, waving the subject off. “Tell you what let’s do, Jack. Let’s you and me come to the altar here for a minute.”
    The sorrowful woman took Gram and L.A. away to talk. I couldn’t remember seeing her before, but it looked like they all knew each other already. As the nurse started to roll me away I
could still see the cop talking to Jack, his voice now too low and soft for me to make out what he was saying. He’d laid his big hand on Jack’s shoulder and seemed to be massaging and
pinching the muscles at the base of Jack’s neck as he looked down at the tip of Jack’s nose and talked around the match in his mouth. He shook his head and made a couple of weed-cutting
strokes in front of Jack’s face with his finger, then put the end of the finger against Jack’s breastbone. Jack had stopped chewing his gum and turned white around the lips but
didn’t say anything, just nodded.
    As I watched them an understanding