Any Deadly Thing by Kesey Roy

Author:Kesey, Roy [Kesey, Roy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Any Deadly Thing
ISBN: 9781938103650
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2013-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

Probably Somewhere

I ROLL UP A newspaper and head to the park. It’s raining hard and the wind is blowing branches off the trees. Pretty soon the paper goes to mush in my fist. I sit down on a bench and have a look at the lake.

The ducks still aren’t back from wherever, but they’re due. The last time I heard from Marie she was down in Costa Rica. Ann and Joan send their love—that’s how the postcards end. I wouldn’t write back even if I knew their address, and Marie knows that perfectly well, but the postcards keep coming, first of every month or nearabouts.

I toss the newspaper into the garbage, unsnap my harness and take off my arm. Usually I wear the extension with the metal hooks in case I need to rip something open, but yesterday I jammed the wrist swivel trying to jimmy my toolbox, so today I went with the hand. It’s a nice model with adjustable fingertips, two-position thumb, the works. It doesn’t look much like a real hand, but the doctors or whoever, they did the best they could.

Now there’s a woman coming up the far path. Her hair is either black or just looks that way from the rain. She’s carrying a big blue umbrella, but it isn’t helping much. She keeps turning her back to the wind, and the umbrella tips away and blows inside out, and she can barely hang on.

She’s almost to the swing set when she gives up and lets go, or else the wind rips it out of her hands. The umbrella cartwheels across the grass, pops up off the pavement and flips into the lake. The woman stares after it. Then she climbs on one of the swings, sits there for a while, pushes off with her feet. She’s a big gal—the swing set bows a little with her weight. Back and forth. She arches her back and points her toes, her feet reach up as high as the top bar, and as she comes back down the bar snaps and the whole thing collapses on top of her.

I strap my arm back on and walk over, and she’s making this sound that’s maybe half-zombie, half-goose.

–You okay?

She keeps gasping. I hunch down and rub her shoulders until her breath comes easier. There are pieces of swing set all over.

–Whoa, she says.

–I know.

–I think my arm’s broken.

–Yeah, looks like it’s twisted a little weird. If I were you I’d lay off the swings for a couple of days. Now she smiles.

–Help me up?

So I do. I brush the wet sawdust off her coat. She has her bad arm cradled, and it must hurt but she isn’t going to show it.

–Should I call you a cab?

–Would you?

I kick at the ground a little.

–I was just kidding. There aren’t any cabs around here.

–Oh.

–The hospital’s not too far away, though. I’ll walk you over if you want.

I put my good arm around her and we head across the grass. It isn’t raining quite so hard anymore.

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