The vituperation pouring from her beloved, old friend shocked Amanda. His anger far exceeded the situation. Deep, hidden frustration boiled forth unchecked in his shouted hostile reprimands.
A yell of rage mixed with pain burst from the instructor as he backed into a large cabinet filled with plaster casts. There was a moment’s horrible pause before a piercing scream of shock stilled the roiling students. A large fragment of a Greek torso toppled from a high shelf and struck the teacher to the floor, shattering around his crumpled body.
“Parkerson!”
“Oh my God!”
“He’s out cold!”
“He’s bleeding!”
“He’s not moving!”
“Get help!”
“Does anyone know first aid?!”
Professor Angeli staggered backward in horror, his trembling hands to his gaping mouth and fevered brow, a picture of pure melodramatic terror. “What have I done?” With a heart-rending cry he dashed from the room.
Amanda shoved shocked bodies aside to get to the fallen instructor. It looked serious. Blood poured from his head and he was growing pale. She thrust the large chunks of broken plaster aside to inspect the wound without moving Parkerson’s body.
“Call 911 now,” she instructed loudly to the mob of milling students. “Nathan, get this stuff out of the way! Christine, grab that clean drapery from the posing platform. Bring it here, quickly.”
She lightly touched Parkerson’s forehead. “We need to cover David, he may go into shock. Mr. Wilde, go after the professor. He’s hysterical. He might hurt himself. He’ll listen to you.”
She brushed a bit of plaster from the instructor’s head. The wound seemed clean. Folding an end of the drapery Christine handed her, she placed the pad against the bleeding slash and pressed firmly as several members of the class covered Parkerson with drapes and coats.
A horrified member of the League’s office staff appeared with a first aid kit. Within minutes, paramedics arrived to attend to Parkerson’s wound properly and bundle the still unconscious man onto a stretcher.
Amanda leaned against the doorway to the classroom.
Where is Marc?
The paramedics wheeled the gurney down the hall and out the front door as Amanda grabbed the coat and portfolio that Christine pushed into her hands.
She turned to follow the group and caught sight of a scowling Nathan staring after the stricken instructor as the attending group disappeared down the front entrance.
“C’mon, Nathan. We’re all going to the hospital.”
“No, I don’t like blood.”
Christine reappeared, looking for the young artist.
“Christine, you and Nathan check in the office about insurance. We don’t need that to hang us up at the hospital. I’ll call you from emergency.”
“Right. C’mon, hot shot. Let’s go make ourselves useful.”
Nathan pulled away from Christine’s grip. “I’m sorry the old guy got hurt, but he brought it on himself. Pompous bastard.”
“Step one: denial.” Christine shoved the glowering young man toward the office. “Don’t worry, stud bunny, you’ve got four more steps to go through before you accept the fact you were as guilty as the rest of us hot-headedartistes in getting the man hurt. Get word to us as quickly as you can,” she called after a departing Amanda.
Amanda flung a hand over her head in acknowledgment and dashed out the door.
The next hour was chaotic. Fortunately Roosevelt Hospital was only a few blocks away and David was quickly attended to, but it seemed forever before any information on his condition filtered down to the waiting group of students.
Amanda filled out forms with what information could be gleaned from David’s wallet, answered questions characterizing the incident as an unfortunate accident, and called the League to see what information Christine and Nathan had learned about the school’s liability.
“It’s going to be a while, Christine,” she finished the conversation. “Why don’t you and Nathan go on home? Most of the others have left the hospital already. I’ll give you a call when I find out something definite. They’re running tests now, but the E.R. physician’s first impression is it seems to be a minor concussion.”
“We’ll be at my place,” Christine answered. “The kid’s a wreck. Who would have thought the hard-hearted little beast had so much compassion in him- or guilt, hard to say which.”
“I’m so worried about Antonio. There’s no answer on his phone.”
“You know where he lives! Well, well, well. Does Mr. Horn Rims know you’re in tight with a naked, Italian model, too? A damn good-looking, incredibly hot, naked, Italian model if memory serves, who could probably give your horn rimmed stud a run for his money.”
Amanda flushed. “Of course he does. I mean, of course I’m not…” She was rattled.
I hate all this confusing hiding of identities. I hate all this duplicity. Why can’t we just be honest with each other.
It was a childish plaint, an “I-want-my-Mama” resurrected from ancient childhood. And a waste of wishful energy.
When her Mom had died, little Amanda had learned very quickly that I-want-my-Daddy brought little comfort. An alleviation of the problem, perhaps, but little sympathy or empathetic understanding. The man did not hug much.
She knew he cared. But he never learned to show it.
Still doesn’t. He’s a very good man, and he means well, but a “well-meaning parent” is cold comfort when what a little girl needs is to be cuddled.
And the younger brothers were as bereft as she. So Amanda became Mama. To her brothers and to her father.
And sometimes the job got really tough.
Christine’s voice through the receiver cut through her thoughts. “C’mon, tough lady, you sound like you could use some rest yourself. Parkerson’s in good hands. Why don’t you turn it over to the professionals?”
Amanda cut her off. “Christine, I have to go. Mr. Wilde’s shown up with Professor Angeli. Oh, the poor man. I’ll talk to you later.”
The professor was a shambles. Filled with regret and remorse. Self-flagellating to the point that Mr. Wilde threatened a sharp slap to the old artist’s quivering chops.
“Pull yourself together, man. No one’s blaming you any more than we’re all to blame for behaving so beastly. Rather exciting, in a way, to see everyone so excited about something.” A brief moment of shame passed over Wilde’s face remembering the exhilarating rush. “Obviously, the extraordinary artistry of young Antonio was the final catalyst that permitted so much animosity to be unleashed. Rather a sad state of affairs really.”
He leaned closer to Amanda. “I’m afraid I poured too many whiskeys into the professor after I caught up with him wailing and gnashing his teeth in the middle of Columbus Circle. I dragged him by what little hair he has left to the nearest bar. Don’t worry, I’ll see him home. You should pack it in, too, my dear. You’re looking a bit peaked. You’ve done a splendid job of handling things. We’re all in your debt.”
Peaked? More like totally wiped.
Amanda got the latest report from the attending doctor and staggered for a cab. David was probably going to be okay, but that relief only allowed a wave of dreadful premonition to break through her steely control. Thank God the cab ride was harrowing. It kept her alert.
There was no answer to the buzzer at David’s apartment house. She ran her hand up and down the row of buttons and presently someone let her in as an angry voice yelled at her from a high window. David’s front door was closed but on close inspection she could see the lock had been jimmied. It looked familiar. The same as the break-in at her and Cissy’s apartment.
She felt a rush of anger at the large man who was invading all their lives. In a rage she slammed her sneakered foot against the door as Marc had done, bursting it open. Only at the last second did she realize she had no gun with which to make the same dramatic entrance.