Ken Douglas - Nightwitch

“ What?” he said, with a quiver in his voice.

“ I don’t think I can pull your sweatshirt up. I might hurt you.”

“ Go ahead,” he said, the tears welling up in his eyes, “it can’t hurt more than it does now,” but then he changed his mind. “Maybe we ought to just leave it the way it is. I’ll fix it when I get home.” He’d spent a good part of the last month worrying about junior high school next year and gym class, where he would have to undress in front of all the other boys. Nobody had seen him naked for years. He didn’t take his shirt off in front of anybody. He was too ashamed of his fat.

“ No,” she said, “I’ll look at it and maybe see how bad it is.” She forced the words out between tense lips, her voice as weak as his. “I’m going to wash my hands first.”

“ Why?”

“ So I don’t give you any germs. They do it on television all the time.” She eased off the bed and went into the bathroom.

He heard the running water splashing in the basin and realized that his mouth was dry. “Can you bring me a drink?” he called out.

“ Sure,” she called back.

He closed his eyes and tried to wish the pain away. It didn’t work.

“ It’s my rinsing glass.” She handed him the water.

“ Thanks.” He opened his eyes, took the plastic glass and drank it all.

“ You were thirsty,” she said. He noticed the real concern in her sweet green eyes and all off a sudden it didn’t hurt as much. “I’m gonna pull up your sweat shirt now.”

“ Okay.” He was glad it was her and not some doctor in a hospital.

“ Ready?” She moved into place behind him.

“ Easy.” His skin tingled with the electric shock of her hands on his back.

“ Just sit up straight. I’ll try not to hurt you,” she said as her small fingers grabbed both the sweatshirt and flannel pajama top. “Can you raise your hands?”

“ Sure.” He winced and raised his arms. She pulled the two shirts over his head, slowly and carefully.

“ There’s a lot of blood, maybe we should call the paramedics,” she said, getting off the bed.

“ I’ll get in a lot of trouble. Can’t you just put a bandage on it?” He didn’t think it hurt that much anymore and he wondered if she was looking at his fat and laughing.

“ I’m going to drop your bloody clothes in the bathtub. Then I’ll get a washcloth and some peroxide. My mother always puts peroxide on every cut and scrape to kill the infection. Don’t go away.”

“ Where would I go?”

“ I don’t know, just don’t.” She started to leave the room.

“ Wait,” he said, “could you turn the radio on. I really like the Beatles.”

“ You can’t be hurt that bad.” She moved around the other bed and turned on the radio.

The Beatles were singing about the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

“ This is great, they’re gonna play the whole album.”

“ I could’ve just played the CD if you wanted to hear Sgt. Pepper.”

“ It’s not the same as hearing it on the radio. Could you turn it up?”

“ Why not?” She turned it up a little, but not full blast like it was earlier.

“ Because when you hear it on the radio, you know you’re sharing the music with all the other people listening. It’s not like you’re alone in your room, with headphones, trying to block out the world.”

“ I never thought of it like that,” she said as she was leaving the room.

The medicines were in the hall bathroom. She went straight for the medicine cabinet, opened it, took out the peroxide and noticed two partially used inhalers on the bottom shelf. She took one out and gave herself two puffs, for safety’s sake, then put it back. She still had the one in her pocket. With the peroxide in her hand, she hurried into the kitchen, but stopped as soon as she entered the room.

She started to reach for the light switch, but stayed her hand. She heard a faint scratching sound, mingled with the music filtering from her room, but couldn’t tell where it was coming from, the living room, dining room or the hallway behind her. She had thought she was safe. They’d heard a car go screeching away. But cars can come back. She heard the sound again as it intermixed and twisted with the music and rippled stereo-like throughout the house

She wanted to go shooting back to her bedroom and the safe and familiar sound of one of her very most favorite songs, She’s Leaving Home, because that’s what she’d been wanting to do for a long time, but her feet were frozen in place. What if it was behind her? She had to know where it was coming from, before she could run away from it. She listened for the sound, but heard only the thump, thump, thump of her pulse beating between her ears, till it drowned out the soothing sounds of John, Paul, George and Ringo. She took small, silent breaths, not wanting to betray her position. She wondered how, whoever it was, had gotten in the house. The windows were all locked and the front and back doors were deadbolted shut.

It wasn’t possible for someone to be in here with her. She heard the sound again. There was no mistaking where it was coming from this time. It was in the kitchen with her. She wanted to scream, but her mouth was frozen shut and dry. She had never been so thirsty. She caught a quick vision of Arty gulping down the water from her rinsing glass. She wasn’t as scared then as she was now.

Arty had been scared though, but he still protected her. He got shot pushing her out of the way. If it wasn’t for him she would probably be dead. She wished he was here with her now, instead of listening to the Beatles carry on about Lovely Rita the meter maid.

Silverware crashed on the floor on the other side of the kitchen and something came rushing along the kitchen counter toward her. She heard it as it thumped onto the floor and she jumped sideways, banging into the breakfast table, dropping the peroxide.

Sheila squealed when the jar landed on her back.

Carolina caught her breath and fought to keep from laughing. She’d been scared over nothing but Sheila. She turned on the light and chased away the dark.

“ You bad girl,” she said, in a soothing voice that conveyed the exact opposite of what she was saying to the ferret. “Did I hurt you?” She bent over and scooped her pet up and picked up the peroxide. “You know you’re not supposed to be in this part of the house. What if Mom catches you? I’d be having ferret stew for dinner. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She continued talking to the animal as she crossed the kitchen and got a sauce pan from the cupboard next to the oven. She smiled, bent again, picking up the silverware Sheila had knocked out of the dish strainer and plopped them back in it. Then she filled the pan with warm water.

“ Now you, little girl, I have to go and check on Arty and I want you to be good. No getting jealous, okay?”

The ferret answered her by wiggling in her hand. Carolina set it on her shoulder. She needed both hands to carry the pan of water.

“ I didn’t go anywhere,” Arty said, trying to make a joke. She’d been gone for three and a half songs and he was starting to get worried.

She set the pan of water down on the nightstand and the ferret jumped from her shoulder to the bed as Carolina went over and shut off the radio. “I’m kind of tired of the Beatles, tonight,” she said.

“ Yeah, me too,” he said as she went in the bathroom.

She came out a second later with a wash cloth and towel. “I hope this doesn’t hurt too much.” She moved back up behind him on the bed. “I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know-I’m only a kid.” She soaked the towel in the water and dabbed at the blood.

“ That feels good,” he said, meaning it. The feel of her warm hands on his cold skin sent shivers of pleasure up his spine, drowning away the pain.