Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

Mills was screaming and scrambling to his feet. He squeezed off a shot and something hot roared past my ear and whanged into an iron column behind me. I got my legs under me, and to my right I saw Jane square herself, take a half step, and launch a kick. Mills raised the gun, and I drove up and forward with everything I had and he fired. I buried my head in his sternum and felt the breath leave him and felt his feet come off the ground and I kept going-forward, forward, until I heard glass shattering, heard Mills cry out, and felt the cold night air on my face.

I leaned on my shoulder against the empty window frame. Below me, the street was still, a tableau of frozen traffic, upturned faces, and the body of Evan Mills, broken in a sea of broken glass. The only movement was the tattered window shade, brushing against my face; the only sound I heard was my own gasping. I eased myself carefully back inside.

I remember trying to think of something clever to say, something understated and ironic. Maybe something about first dates or lousy houseguests, I don’t know. I remember turning around. And then I saw her there, on her back, her hands still bound, one leg out, the other bent beneath her, her head resting at an odd angle in a spray of blood.

They kept me overnight, for observation, they said. They inventoried the new damage and declared me lucky-cuts, abrasions, and bruises only. Nothing broken, nothing shot. I was the lucky one. But I was still getting over a head injury, and someone thought I was displaying a strange lack of affect, and they had the beds available, so what the hell?

From time to time there were a lot of people in my hospital room, but I don’t remember much of what they said. The Manhattan cops came first, and then the feds; the Queens cops were close behind. Fred Pell was there; Shelly DiPaolo sent Conaway in her stead. Mike stood in the doorway while they asked questions and I gave answers, and when I got tired of repeating myself, he made them leave. They seemed satisfied, he said. I didn’t care if they were or not. When the cops were gone, the nurse gave me something for pain. It worked well, but left me feeling like my brain was hovering high above the rest of me.

After that, Tom Neary stopped by, and so did my brother Ned and both my sisters. Even though I was the lucky one, they all seemed very grave. Maybe it was just me; maybe it was the drugs. They came and spoke and left quickly, until only Mike remained. I was getting tired.

“Where is she?” I asked. He told me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the room was mostly dark and Mike was gone. I looked at the clock. It was past midnight, and quiet. I heard voices speaking far away, I heard the distant whoosh of traffic, and I heard my own breathing, still slow and regular from sleep. Beyond my small table lamp, the only light came from the blue glow of a television, playing to an empty bed across the hall.

I hauled myself up to a sitting position. The world stayed on its axis and my brain was back home in my skull. I lowered the railing and swung my legs over and stood. The floor was cold, and I felt a draft creep in behind me. I stepped into the hallway. It was empty and dark. The nurses’ station was a long way off and lit up like a cruise ship on a nighttime sea. I walked quietly across the hall and down two doors. The door to room 420 was open. It was a double room, but there was no other occupant than Jane, asleep like a child atop the high bed.

They’d told me she would be fine. Yes, it looked bad; head wounds often do, they’d said. But this was a graze and a mild concussion and nothing more. Not even a scar would remain. She’d be out in two days’ time. She would be fine, they’d promised, and though I believed them, I needed to see. I walked slowly to her bed.

She was on her side, turned toward me, and in repose her face looked very young and impossibly beautiful. Her cropped black hair was like ink on the pillow, and in the glow of a nightlight I could see the bandage on the side of her head and the bruising around it like a shadow. Even amid the hospital odors, I caught a hint of her perfume.

There was a chair against the wall that was light enough for me to lift without screaming. I carried it to the bed and sat. When I looked up, Jane was looking back at me. She smiled a tired, sort of goofy smile and murmured something I couldn’t make out. I leaned in closer.

“Stay,” she whispered. Then she reached a small hand out from under her blanket and took hold of mine and closed her dark eyes and slept. I put my head back and shut my eyes too, and it was well after dawn when human voices woke us.