Desperate Measures

15

The silence woke him. Pittman blinked, disoriented, realized that he was slumped in the car’s backseat, and squinted ahead toward Jill behind the steering wheel. The sky was gray with false dawn. The car was stopped.

“Where are we?” Groggy, he sat up and winced from stiffness.

“A motel in Greenfield, Massachusetts. That’s about ten miles south of Vermont and a hundred and fifty miles from the school. That ought to be far enough to keep them from finding us.” Jill hesitated. “For now.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“I shouldn’t be. Normally I’d be getting off my shift at the hospital in an hour. I’d work out, eat a light dinner, watch something I taped on the VCR, and go to sleep around noon.”

“But this isn’t ‘normally.’”

“No kidding. You’d better stay in the car while I see if the desk clerk will accept cash to rent a room. With that dried blood on you, you’re not exactly presentable. I’ll tell the clerk we were visiting relatives in Waterford, Connecticut. We thought we could drive all night and get home, but finally we’re exhausted.”

Jill got out of the car, went into the motel’s office, and returned with a key.

The room was on the bottom level, in back of the motel, a location Jill had requested, telling the clerk they didn’t want to be disturbed by morning traffic.

No one was around when she unlocked the door and Pittman followed her in. They set the gym bag and small suitcase on the floor, assessing the unit. It was plain but clean, its air stale but not offensive.

“I asked for a nonsmoker’s room.” Jill locked the door. “The clerk assured me the television works. There’s no one in the rooms on either side of us, so we won’t be disturbed that way, either.”

“Twin beds,” Pittman said.

“Lucky.”

“Yeah.” Sex was the last thing on Pittman’s mind. Nonetheless, he felt self-conscious.

“You’d better get in the bathroom and take your clothes off. We have to find out how badly you were injured.” Jill reached into Pittman’s gym bag and pulled out a first-aid kit that they’d bought, along with the flashlight and Pittman’s wool coat, the day before.

“I bet you were a drill sergeant on the ward.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get modest on me.” Jill looked amused. “I didn’t say I was going into the bathroom with you. Close the door, undress, rinse the blood off, and after you get a towel around you, I’ll check you out. For sure, I’ll have to change the bandage on your hand.”

“I bet you loved poking big needles into your patients.”

Pittman went into the bathroom and, feeling a strain on his right side, removed his clothes.

“And you’d better not use the shower.” Jill’s voice came muffled from the opposite side of the door. “You might get weak and lose your balance. Sit in the tub.”

He examined himself. “I can tell you right now, there aren’t any holes in me. But I’ve got a nasty bruise along my right ribs.”

“Soak in the tub. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

“There’s an all-night convenience store across the street. I’m going to see what they’ve got to eat.”

Orange juice, doughnuts, and skim milk, Pittman discovered when he finished his second bath (the first had been pink from the dried blood he’d rinsed off). He came out of the steaming bathroom, feeling awkward, knowing he looked embarrassed, holding a towel around his hips.

“I’m surprised,” Jill said. “Given everything you’ve been doing-sleeping on park benches, pretending to be a policeman-you didn’t strike me as the bashful type.”

Pittman saw a blanket on a metal shelf outside the bathroom and pulled it down.

“Before you cover yourself, I need to look at that bruise on your ribs.” Jill drew a finger along it.

“Ouch.”

“Ouch? Grown-ups don’t say ouch. Little kids say ouch. Does this rib hurt?”

“For Christ sake, yes.”

“Now that’s what big kids say. Inhale. Exhale. Does the pain get worse? No?” She thought about it. “An X ray would tell for sure, but I doubt any ribs are broken. Not that it matters.”

“Why?”

“The treatment for broken ribs is the same as for bruised ones-nothing. You don’t put on a cast for broken ribs. These days, you don’t even get taped. What you get is a warning not to exert yourself and not to bump your ribs against anything.”

“Swell.”

“The miracles of modern medicine. The cut on your hand, those scratches and scrapes, those I can do something about.” After putting on antibiotic cream and rebandaging Pittman’s left hand, Jill began applying disinfectant to portions of his face. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but I wish you’d brought some coffee along with the doughnuts, orange juice, and milk.”

“After the adrenaline rush you just went through? Haven’t you had enough chemical stimulation for a while?”

“I get the feeling you don’t do much without thinking of the chemical effect on your body,” Pittman said.

“Better living through proper diet.”

“In that case, I’m surprised you bought doughnuts.”

“It’s the only thing remotely acceptable the store had. Beef jerky was out of the question.”

“I hate skim milk.”

“Give it a chance. You’ll learn to like it. Then even two percent tastes awfully rich.”

“If we stay together, I suppose I’m going to have to learn to like it.”

Jill looked strangely at him.

“What’s the matter?” Pittman asked.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. What is it?”

“You were talking about if we stay together. Under better circumstances, I’d like that,” Jill said.

Pittman felt himself blush.

“It’s my turn for that bath.” Looking as self-conscious as Pittman had earlier, Jill picked up her suitcase and went inside. “Turn on CNN,” she suggested before closing the door. “See if there’s anything about us.”

Pittman didn’t move for a moment, thinking about what she had said… about staying together. Six days ago, he’d been eager to die.