“Thank you.” Jenny grabbed her purse and headed to the door.
“One moment!” Dr. Patel finished scribbling on a sheet and ripped the paper from its pad. “Go to room three fifteen and give this to the nurse. You’ll need a tetanus shot.” He groped in the pocket of his jacket and came out with a smaller prescription pad. “Take this to the pharmacy afterward and have it filled. Antibiotics. Infection is our worst enemy. You’re not taking anything else, are you?”
“Antivert. Just one a day for the last two months.”
“There should be no problem, then. Off you go.”
The police officer who had escorted Jenny to the hospital was waiting to take a description of her assailants. “Do you have any word from Thomas, uh… Mr. Bolden?” she asked afterward, as the policeman folded up his notepad.
“As of ten minutes ago, no one of Mr. Bolden’s description has come by the crime scene or the precinct house. I’m sorry.”
She took a step down the hall, then came back. “Why didn’t they take my purse?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Why didn’t they take my purse? It was just dangling there. He didn’t need a knife. He could have just grabbed it.”
The officer shrugged. “I guess they only wanted the watch. You never know with these guys. What’s important is that you’re all right.”
But Jenny was unconvinced. She knew a little about thieves. She had a half dozen of them as students. Not one of them would have left the purse behind.
Jenny thanked the officer, then made her way to the waiting room. It was a calm night and half the chairs were empty. Besides the legitimate cases, she was quick to pick up the usual lost souls. People with no place else to go who congregated in any heated room during the winter. She scanned the room for Thomas, but he wasn’t there. She caught an older woman wearing a Yankees jacket and cap giving her a long look. Jenny smiled, and the woman averted her eyes.
The admitting nurse was no help, either. No one had been in asking about her.
The clock on the wall read 2:15. Over two hours had passed since Jenny had been mugged, or assaulted, or whatever you wanted to call it. She told herself not to worry. If there was anyone who could take care of himself in the big bad city, it was Tommy. Still, she couldn’t help but be concerned. She had seen something in his eyes that scared her. Something vicious. Something from the part of him he kept hidden from her. She felt certain that he’d been hurt. She took Tommy’s phone from her purse and began to dial, then saw that the batteries were dead. She’d already left a half dozen messages for him. That would have to do.
There was a line running out the door of room 315. A young Puerto Rican mother stood in front of Jenny, cradling an infant in her arms, singing to him sweetly. Jenny recognized the song. “Drume Negrita.” In front of her stood an elderly African-American man clad in a dashiki, sporting a leopard-skin Shriner’s hat. All he was missing was the royal flyswatter and he could have passed for Mobutu Sese Seko.
Farther down the corridor, she spied the woman in the Yankees cap again, loitering at a water fountain. Was she following her? Jenny tried not to stare, but there was no doubt that the woman was staring right back at her. The gaze was frightening. Dark, accusing, and utterly paranoid.
New York City certainly didn’t lack for variety.
Jennifer Dance had moved to the city ten years ago, a junior transfer from the University of Kansas to Columbia University, an English major hoping to become the next Christiane Amanpour. And, if that didn’t work out, Katie Couric. She had all the qualities to succeed. She was a decent writer, curious, willful, attractive, with a yen to travel. Hardship didn’t scare her. She had no qualms about living in faraway places without running water, regular electricity, or indoor plumbing. She enjoyed spicy food.
She was also polite. Ruthlessly, unfailingly, sickeningly polite. Jenny was congenitally unable to be rude. She wasn’t meek. God, no. The bruised knuckles on her right hand attested to that. But when someone told her, “No, dammit, I have no comment,” she could not bring herself to ask again or to demand that they change their answer. The thought of having to stick a microphone in someone’s face and scream your questions at them made her ill.
She left Columbia with a degree in American history and few job prospects. She spent a year giving private tours around the city and working as a docent at the Museum of Natural History. Every few months, her parents would call and ask when she was coming home. The thought of returning to Kansas City-of Saturday afternoons quilting with Mom, and Sunday church suppers, of babysitting her brother’s twins and a job at Daddy’s bank (“We’ll start you in the trust department at twenty-eight thousand a year. Buy you a little Ford to get around town. How’s that sound, sugarplum?”)-was too much. She did not want a life that had already been decided for her, with rites and rituals carved in stone, obligatory friendships, and prescribed duties. She was through with Hardee’s, the Chiefs, and A Prairie Home Companion. The only things she liked about home were crisp green apples sprinkled with salt, and pork tenderloin sandwiches with a dollop of mustard and a slice of raw onion on top.
She earned her teaching credential from Columbia a year later.
Her first job was at St. Agnes, a parochial school in Greenwich Village. In those days, she’d still been a good Catholic, and the small classes and promise of order appealed to her. But a twenty-three-year-old with a zest for life didn’t last long at St. Agnes. The sisters did not approve of Jenny’s fast lifestyle-“fast” being defined as missing Friday-morning mass, drinking margaritas after work, repelling Father Bernadin’s all too frequent passes.
She was not asked back for a second year.
With no savings, no recommendation, and no thought of returning to Mom and Dad in Kansas City, Jenny took the first job she could find. She’d been at the Kraft School ever since.
Officially, the job called for Jenny to provide instruction in math, science, and the arts. Given her students’ variance in schooling and abilities, that was impossible. Jenny saw it as her job simply to show the kids that following the rules wasn’t such a bad thing. That if you just gave the system a chance, it might work for you. That meant showing up on time, dressing appropriately, and looking someone in the eye when you shook their hand.
One day in five, bedlam ruled in the classroom. Students argued with one another. Rulers were thrown like boomerangs. A bong had been reported seen, and yes, marijuana had been smoked on the premises. It wasn’t exactly the high school from Fame. But on those days when the classroom grew quiet, and the eyes that weren’t too red actually focused on Miss Dance, Jenny felt as if she was getting through. Making a difference even. Corny, maybe, but it felt good.
“Miss Dance,” came an authoritative voice.
“Yes.” Jenny stepped forward, her heart catching a beat. She craned her neck, hoping it might be news of Thomas. A nurse stood at the entrance to room 315, waving a clipboard high in the air. “We’re ready for you, hon.”
She was out three minutes later with a Band-Aid and a stick of licorice to cheer her up. The elevator arrived. Jenny got in and pressed the button for one. What kind of mugger leaves a purse? The question refused to go away. If he could use a knife to snatch a watch, why not take an extra second and grab the purse, too? And that question begged another. Why wasn’t Thomas at the hospital? Why hadn’t he, at least, found a phone to call? It had been two hours, for Pete’s sake!
She remembered the look in Thomas’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was something beyond anger. A bloodlust. She rubbed at her own aching eyes. Don’t be hurt, Thomas, she prayed silently. There was so much she didn’t know about him. So much he refused to tell her.