A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (rocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

to put him down. Couldn’t. He was too big. He nearly cut my face off.”

“He was naked,” said Thode. “Should have been easy. I think you panicked.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. There was no talking to these two, and they made a few threats about the DA and possible manslaughter charges and I didn’t really care. The Dilaudid had me feeling far, far away, and I had killed a man. No matter what they threatened, I couldn’t get any lower.

When they finally left me alone, I tried to sleep but it wasn’t possible: I kept seeing Rat Eyes—Carl Lusk—coming at me. The knife raised. The knife coming down.

8.

Monica came for me around noon the next day, Thursday, and she brought me some fresh clothes, picked up at my house, to change into. I was given a printout of “wound-care” instructions and a prescription for more Dilaudid, which I was becoming quite fond of.

I had a big white square bandage on my face, anchored by several horizontal strips of tape that went across my nose, and my arm was also trussed up.

They wheeled me to the front door—protocol—and then I stood up and walked out of the hospital and my legs were a little wobbly, but it was good to be outside. It was bright and chilly and there was a strong wind. It was the best winter in LA in years: lots of rain and cold, and when the sun was out, like it was then, the light was crystalline and pure.

When we got in her car, a dirty black Prius, she said: “Did you see the LA Times?”

“No. Is it bad? I haven’t wanted to look at my phone.”

“Front page,” she said. “The tragic story of a football player. There were a lot of quotes from the coach. But your name doesn’t come up until later in the paper. I don’t think people will read that far.”

I nodded. Then: “What does it say about me?”

“They said it was self-defense. That you saved the girl.”

I lowered my head. If only I could have saved her without pulling my gun. Then Monica, trying to lighten things up, pointed at my bandage: “You know, we’re gonna be twins now. Scars on the left side.”

And she traced her finger down her scar: the thin pink line that ran from just below her eye to her jawline. It was like she had cried so much one time that a path had been cut, like a riverbed.

“Yeah, we’ll match,” I said, trying to be light, too. “They’re gonna love it at the bar.”

Except it wasn’t light. Monica got her scar when her father, drunk, pushed her through a plate-glass window. She was six years old, and he went to jail for it and she never saw him again. When he got out, he disappeared, and she talked sometimes about finding him. She had heard once that he was in Ecuador, where he was from.

We made a quick stop at the pharmacy for my drugs, and then when she pulled up in front of Glen Alder, she turned off the Prius and wanted to help me up the stairs.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I can manage. But thanks for getting me…and for George, and for everything.” George was already inside; Monica had dropped him off before coming to the hospital.

“Of course,” she said, and then we hugged in the front seat and when I tried to pull away, she held on tight, wouldn’t let go, and so I exhaled and gave over to some deep need and put the right side of my face—my good side now—into her neck and her hair, and it felt so good. I hadn’t been that close to anyone since our night four years ago, and I wondered how I could have gone so long without this feeling.

Then she began to let go of me, and we parted and looked at each other and she smiled, and I looked away, suddenly shy, and became aware that outside the windshield, we were surrounded by hundreds of fluttering orange-and-black butterflies. They were flying courageously but somewhat spasmodically in the wind.

“What’s going on?” I said to Monica.

“It’s the Painted Ladies,” she said. “Started yesterday. They keep appearing all over the place. Flocks of them. Because of all the rain and climate change there are millions of them this year.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “Like flowers that can fly.”

We sat there and looked at them. Then I opened the door and started to slide out, but Monica touched my arm, stopping me. “Don’t do that again,” she said. “No more fights.”

Then she kissed my good cheek and restarted the car. I slid all the way out and then lowered my head into the still-open door. My bag of bloody clothes was in my hand.

“Thank you again,” I said. “For taking care of George. For picking me up—”

She cut me off. “You already said that and you don’t have to thank me. I love you.”

Then I said, “I love you,” without hesitation or fear, and she smiled wide and her eyes twinkled like they do, and I closed the door. She pulled away, and my heart was pounding. I had given up on love.

Then I climbed the stairs to my house, and I greeted Frimma and the plants and the trees. “Hello, everyone,” I said. “I’m home. You’re all looking so beautiful.”

And from inside the house, George barked his greeting, and the Painted Ladies, like auguries of good things, I thought, fluttered around me.

9.

While Monica and I had been sitting in the car, Lou finally called me back—my ringer was off—and left a message. He sounded exuberant. He said:

“What happened, Hank? Somebody cut you? But listen, I got everything worked out! Some things came through and I won’t need your help after all. But thank you, son, for being willing. That means a lot. I’ll call you later. I got things to do. Hope you’re not cut too bad.”

I wondered