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How she smells is wet.
"You don't understand," I say. "I have almost two whole days of sobriety."
The gold light shows her warm and glowy. Still, the feeling is if I kissed her my lips
would stick the way they would on frozen metal. To slow things down, I think of basal
cell carcinomas. I picture the bacterial skin infection impetigo. Corneal ulcers.
She pulls my face into her ear. Into my ear she whispers,
"Fine. That's very noble of you. But how about if you start your recovery
tomorrow...."
She thumbs my pants off my hips and says, "I need you to put your faith in me."
And her smooth cool hands close around me.
Chapter 15
IF YOU'RE EVER IN A BIG HOTEL LOBBY, and they start to play "The Blue Danube Waltz,"
get the hell out. Don't think. Run.
Anymore, nothing is straightforward.
If you're ever in a hospital and they page Nurse Flamingo to the cancer ward, do not
go anywhere near there. There is no Nurse Flamingo. If they page Dr. Blaze, there is no
such person.
In a big hotel, that waltz means they need to evacuate the building.
In most hospitals, Nurse Flamingo means a fire. Dr. Blaze means a fire. Dr. Green
means a suicide. Dr. Blue means somebody stopped breathing.
This is stuff the Mommy told the stupid little boy as they sat in traffic. This is how
far back she was going nuts.
This one day, the kid had been sitting in class when a lady from the school office had
come to tell him his dentist appointment was canceled. A minute later, he'd raised his
hand and asked to go to the bathroom. There never was any appointment. Sure,
somebody had called, saying they were from the dentist, but this was a new secret signal.
He went out a side door by the cafeteria, and there she was waiting in a gold car.
This was the second time the Mommy came back to claim him.
She rolled down the window and said, "Do you know why Mommy was in jail this
time?"
"For changing the hair colors?" he said.
See also: The malicious mischief.
See also: The second-degree assault.
She leaned over to open the door and never stopped talking. Not for days and days.
If you're ever in the Hard Rock Cafe, she told him, and they announce "Elvis has left
the building," that means all the servers need to go to the kitchen and find out what
dinner special has just sold out.
These are the things people tell you when they won't tell you the truth.
In a Broadway theater, announcing "Elvis has left the building" means a fire.
In a grocery store, paging Mr. Cash is a call for an armed security guard. Paging
"Freight check to Women's Clothing" means somebody is shoplifting in that department.
Other stores page a fake woman named Sheila. "Sheila to the front" means somebody is
shoplifting in the front of the store. Mr. Cash and Sheila and Nurse Flamingo are always
bad news.
The Mommy shut off the engine and sat with one hand gripping the steering wheel at
twelve o'clock, and with her other hand she snapped her fingers for the boy to repeat stuff
back to her. The insides of her nose were dark with dried blood. Twisted old tissues
smeared with more old blood were on the car floor. Some blood was on the dashboard
from when she sneezed. On the inside of the windshield was some more.
"Nothing you learn in school is this important," she said. "This stuff you're learning
here will save your life."
She snapped her fingers. "Mr. Amond Silvestiri?" she said. "If he's paged, what
should you do?"
At some airports, paging him means a terrorist with a bomb. "Mr. Amond Silvestiri,
please meet your party at gate ten on the D concourse" means that's where the SWAT
teams will find their man.
Mrs. Pamela Rank-Mensa means a terrorist in the airport with just a gun.
"Mr. Bernard Wellis, please meet your party at gate sixteen on the F concourse"
means somebody holding a knife to the throat of a hostage there.
The Mommy set the parking brake and snapped her fingers again. "Quick like a
bunny. What's Miss Terrilynn Mayfield mean?"
"Nerve gas?" the boy said.
The Mommy shook her head.
"Don't tell me," the boy said. "A rabid dog?"
The Mommy shook her head.
Outside the car, the tight mosaic of cars was packed around them. Helicopters beat
the air above the freeway.
The boy tapped his forehead and said, "Flamethrower?"
The Mommy said, "You're not even trying. Do you want a clue?"
"Drug suspect?" he said, then, "Yeah, maybe a clue."
And the Mommy said, "Miss Terrilynn Mayfield . . . now be thinking about cows
and horses."
And the boy screamed, "Anthrax!" He pounded his forehead with his fists and said,
"Anthrax. Anthrax. Anthrax." He pounded his head and said, "How come I forget so
fast?"
With her free hand the Mommy messed his hair and said, "You're doing good. You
even remember half of these and you'll outlive most people."
Everywhere they went, the Mommy found traffic. She listened for radio bulletins
about where not to go, and found those tie-ups. She found gridlock. She found jams. She
searched for car fires or open drawbridges. She didn't like driving fast, but wanted to look
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