Chapter Nine
I drove back toward my grandmother’s apartment, doubled over a bit from the pain in my stomach and breathing hoarsely. I drove past a bank and saw that it was 101 degrees at 2:37 p.m. I was hoping that my grandmother’s apartment would be cool and dark when I got there, and it was.
She was sleeping when I got in, so I snuck past her to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. To look at me, you couldn’t tell I’d been hurt. My face looked fine, and, other than some dirt on my clothes, the rest of me did, too. I washed up and went into the kitchen for some cold water, then sat on the sofa and put my feet up. And thought.
What had just happened? I hadn’t been in a fight in years, if you could call this a fight. I didn’t know the name of the man who assaulted me, but I was determined to find out.
I decided not to tell my grandmother about it and to try to work it out on my own. She woke up about half an hour later and saw me on the sofa. She made a funny face and I laughed.
“How ya’ doin’, baby?” she asked, and shuffled over to where I was sitting, her oxygen tube trailing behind her. She patted my knee and sat, facing me, in her easy chair.
“I’m okay,” I said, and I guess I really was.
“Did you get to see Lester III?” she asked me.
“Yeah. He’ll never change, will he?”
She laughed and it turned into a cough. “I remember every bit of trouble that boy was ever in. Did I ever tell you about the time he was in college and got caught peeping?”
“Peeping?” I began to smile.
“Sho’ ‘nuff. He was in some fraternity, and I reckon they decided to visit the girls’ sorority house. Well, Lester III may not have been the only one in the bushes looking in those windows, but I know one thing: he was the only one to get caught!”
We laughed. “Anything happen to him?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. I imagine his daddy took care of it, like he always took care of everything for that boy.” She got up from her chair. “Time for a cigarette,” she said, and walked into the kitchen. I hadn’t told her about what had happened because I didn’t want to worry her. I guess I also didn’t want her getting involved--she’d get on the phone and everyone would know and that would be that. I wanted an explanation or revenge, I wasn’t sure which, but I wanted it on my own terms. I decided to use the one connection I’d made on my own: Sally Ann Martin.
“I’m going out for awhile,” I told my grandmother.
“Need anything?”
“No,” she replied.
“I’ll be home later,” I told her, and kissed her cheek.
I went out to my Chevy and got in. It was after four and I hoped Sally Ann was working. I passed the same bank on the way, and the temperature was now 102. My windows were down, but I wasn’t going fast enough to make much of a breeze. I got a sudden headache that settled in in the back of my head and throbbed rhythmically.
I pulled into the 7-11 parking lot and didn’t see Sally Ann’s car. Inside was a young man, who told me it
was her day off. I walked around in the store for awhile, hoping that the cool air would ease my headache,
then I headed back out to my car and sat behind the wheel for a moment, wondering if I should just give up. But the thought of Sally Ann on the porch of her house, her red hair moving in the evening breeze, made me turn the key to the ignition and drive to Bowie Lane. I parked behind the station wagon on the street in front of her house and walked up the path to the porch, climbing the stairs and looking through the screen door at Sally Ann, who sat alone on the sofa, watching TV.
I tapped on the wooden part of the door and she smiled when she saw me. She clicked off the set and invited me in.
“Hello, Carey,” she said. “What in the world are you doing out and about in this heat?” Her living room was cooled by a large window fan, and the slight breeze was more pleasant than the icebox-cold air of the 7-11 had been. My head began to feel better.
“Would you mind if I sat down?” I asked. “I have a lot to tell you. I sat, and she brought me a glass of iced tea.
“I decided to do a little investigating of my own,” I told her.
“Lulabelle?” she questioned, and I nodded.
“I got myself knocked around for my trouble.” Suddenly she was next to me on the sofa, a look of genuine concern on her face, her soft hand on the back of my head, stroking my hair.
“What happened?” she asked, and I told her. She listened quietly to my story, only registering surprise at the end, when I was attacked.
“We have to tell my dad,” she said.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I kind of want to handle things myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “We’ll call the station and see if he’s there, then I’ll drive you right down.”
“But . . .” I tried to interrupt.
“But nothing,” she said. “you’re no private detective, and you’ve obviously got yourself mixed up in something bigger than you think. That man didn’t come after you for no reason. You must be looking in the right places or talking to the right people, and somebody doesn’t like it.”
“Do you think that your dad might be able to use some of my information? Maybe it’ll help the investigation.”
“Maybe so. It’s worth a try. Do you feel like going now?”
“Sure,” I said. I took her hand and she gave it a quick squeeze before letting go. That was enough to keep my spirits up, and my confidence in her and in myself was restored.
She came back with her purse and we headed out to her station wagon. “I’ll drive,” she said, and I assented,
figuring that her car would be recognized at the police station.
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