The bruise swelled against Ted’s hand; Bobby could see its purple shape between his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Does that hurt?’
She shook her head.
‘Not to breathe?’
‘No.’
‘And not when your ribs go against my hand?’
‘No. Only sore. What hurts is . . . ‘ She glanced quickly at the terrible shape of her double shoulder, then away.
‘I know. Poor Carol. Poor darling. We’ll get to that. Where else did they hit you? In the stomach, you said?’
‘Yes.’
Ted pulled her blouse up in front. There was another bruise, but this one didn’t look so deep or so angry. He prodded gently with his fingers, first above her bellybutton and then below it. She said there was no pain like in her shoulder, that her belly was only sore like her ribs were sore.
‘They didn’t hit you in your back?’
‘N-no.’
‘In your head or your neck?’
‘Huh-uh, just my side and my stomach and then they hit me in the shoulder and there was that pop and they heard it and they ran. I used to think Willie Shearman was nice.’ She gave Ted a woeful look.
‘Turn your head for me, Carol . . . good . . . now the other way. It doesn’t hurt when you turn it?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re sure they never hit your head.’
‘No. I mean yes, I’m sure.’
‘Lucky girl.’
Bobby wondered how in the hell Ted could think Carol was lucky. Her left arm didn’t look just broken to him; it looked half torn off. He suddenly thought of a roast-chicken Sunday dinner, and the sound the drumstick made when you pulled it loose. His stomach knotted. For a moment he thought he was going to vomit up his breakfast and the day-old bread which had been his only lunch.
No, he told himself. Not now, you can’t. Ted’s got enough problems without adding you to the list.
‘Bobby?’ Ted’s voice was clear and sharp. He sounded like a guy with more solutions than problems, and what a relief that was. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’ And he thought it was true. His stomach was starting to settle.
‘Good. You did well to get her up here. Can you do well a little longer?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I need a pair of scissors. Can you find one?’
Bobby went into his mother’s bedroom, opened the top drawer of her dresser, and got out her wicker sewing basket. Inside was a medium-sized pair of shears. He hurried back into the living room with them and showed them to Ted. ‘Are these all right?’
‘Fine,’ he said, taking them. Then, to Carol: ‘I’m going to spoil your blouse, Carol. I’m sorry, but I have to look at your shoulder now and I don’t want to hurt you any more than I can help.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said, and again tried to smile. Bobby was a little in awe of her bravery; if his shoulder had looked like that, he probably would have been blatting like a sheep caught in a barbed-wire fence.
‘You can wear one of Bobby’s shirts home. Can’t she, Bobby?’
‘Sure, I don’t mind a few cooties.’
‘Fun- nee,’ Carol said.
Working carefully, Ted cut the smock up the back and then up the front. With that done he pulled the two pieces off like the shell of an egg. He was very careful on the left side, but Carol uttered a hoarse scream when Ted’s fingers brushed her shoulder. Bobby jumped and his heart, which had been slowing down, began to race again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ted murmured. ‘Oh my. Look at this.’
Carol’s shoulder was ugly, but not as bad as Bobby had feared — perhaps few things were once you were looking right at them. The second shoulder was higher than the normal one, and the skin there was stretched so tight that Bobby didn’t understand why it didn’t just split open. It had gone a peculiar lilac color, as well.
‘How bad is it?’ Carol asked. She was looking in the other direction, across the room. Her small face had the pinched, starved look of a UNICEF child. So far as Bobby knew she never looked at her hurt shoulder after that single quick peek. ‘I’ll be in a cast all summer, won’t I?’