‘Hey,’ he said, cutting the motor and shaking her gently. ‘We’re here.’
‘Oh … okay.’ She sat up and drew her coat more tightly about her.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Better. My stomach’s sore and my back hurts, but better. Johnny, you take the car back to Cleaves with you.
‘No, I better not,’ he said. ‘Someone would see it parked in front of the apartment house all night. That kind of talk we don’t need.’
‘But I was going to come back with you…
Johnny smiled. ‘And that would have made it worth the risk, even if we had to walk three blocks. Besides, I want you to have the car in case you change your mind about the emergency room.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You might. Can I come in and call a cab?’
‘You sure can.
They went in and Sarah turned on the lights before being attacked by a fresh bout of the shivers.
‘The phone’s in the living room. I’m going to lie down and cover up with a quilt.’
The living room was small and functional, saved from a barracks flavor only by the splashy curtains – flowers in a psychedelic pattern and color – and a series of posters along one wall: Dylan at Forest Hills, Baez at Carnegie Hall, Jefferson Airplane at Berkeley, the Byrds in Cleveland.
Sarah lay down on the couch and pulled a quilt up to her chin. Johnny looked at her with real concern. Her face was paper-white except for the dark circles under her eyes. She looked about as sick as a person can get.
‘Maybe I ought to spend the night here,’ he said. ‘Just in case something happens, like…’
‘Like a hairline fracture at the top of my spine?’ She looked at him with rueful humor.
‘Well, you know. Whatever.’
The ominous rumbling in her nether regions decided her. She had fully intended to finish this night by sleeping with John Smith. It wasn’t going to work out that way. But that didn’t mean she had to end the evening with him in attendance while she threw up, dashed for the w.c., and chugged most of a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
‘I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘It was just a bad carnival hot dog, Johnny. You could have just as easily gotten it yourself. Give me a call during your free period tomorrow.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Okay, kid.’ He picked up the phone with no further argument and called his cab. She closed her eyes, lulled and comforted by the sound of his voice. One of the things she liked most about him was that he would always really try to do the right thing, the best thing, with no self-serving bullshit. That was good. She was too tired and feeling too low to play little social games.
‘The deed’s done,’ he said, hanging up. ‘They’ll have a guy over in five minutes.’
‘At least you’ve got cab fare,’ she said, smiling.
‘And I plan to tip handsomely,’ he replied, doing a passable W. C. Fields.
He came over to the couch, sat beside her, held her hand.
‘Johnny, how did you do it?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘The Wheel. How could you do that?’
‘It was a streak, that’s all,’ he said, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘Everybody has a streak once in a while. Like at the race track or playing blackjack or just matching dimes.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘I don’t think everybody does have a streak once in a while. It was almost uncanny. It …
scared me a little.’
‘Did it?’
‘Yes.’
Johnny sighed. ‘Once in a while I get feelings, that’s all. For as long as I can remember, since I was just a little kid. And I’ve always been good at finding things people have lost.
Like that little Lisa Schumann at school. You know the girl I mean?’
‘Little, sad, mousy Lisa?’ She smiled. ‘I know her. She’s wandering in clouds of perplexity through my business grammar course.
‘She lost her class ring,’ Johnny said, ‘and came to me in tears about it. I asked her if she’d checked the back corners of the top shelf in her locker. Just a guess. But it was there.’