Out of the Easy(45)

“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.” I couldn’t stop saying it. Charlie reacted to the fear in my voice and started bucking in the chair. Blood spilled from a slice on his forehead. I grabbed the towel, swiping at the blood to see the wounds. His forehead, his ear, the side of his neck. Charlie continued to resist my efforts with the towel. We struggled. I heard Willie’s voice: Don’t be an idiot and panic. Pull yourself together.

I took a deep breath and stepped back. I started humming. Charlie stopped bucking. I continued humming and once again picked the towel up off the floor. I walked behind Charlie and put my arms around him, humming in his ear and examining the wounds. I applied pressure to his forehead and neck while holding him. If he lost any more blood, we’d be in trouble.

I heard the key in the lock.

I called out before he entered the room. “Now, Patrick, it looks worse than it is. It’s just a couple cuts.”

Patrick screamed. Loud. The kind of scream that hurls out of you when you see a loved one spilling red. The color slid from his face, quickly replaced by a ghost I didn’t recognize.

“Be quiet!” I snapped. “Do you want the neighbors to come running? I was going to give him a haircut, and when I went for my comb, he went for the scissors.”

“There’s . . . so much blood,” said Patrick.

“It’s coming from the slice on his head. I’m putting pressure on it now. Do you have a first-aid box?”

Patrick shook his head.

“Give Charlie his medicine.”

Patrick just stood, staring.

“Patrick! Listen to me. Give Charlie his medicine.”

“More medicine?” said Patrick.

“I didn’t give it to him.”

“What? How could you forget?”

“I didn’t forget. I wanted to see if his clarity would increase without it.”

“Oh, Jo, how could you be so stupid?” Patrick ran to the kitchen and came back with Charlie’s medicine. His hands shook as he gave his father the meds.

“He has to have his medicine, or he goes crazy. That’s why we got him the meds in the first place.”

“I’m sorry, but it really seemed like he was coming out of the fog. I was going to ask you, but you were over two hours late. Where were you?”

“Don’t play doctor, Jo. He needs the medicine,” said Patrick. “Thank God he didn’t hit an artery.”

“He’ll need stitches,” I said. I looked at Charlie. What had I done?

“He can’t see a doctor. They’ll take him to the mental ward immediately. How will I explain that my father carved himself up with scissors?”

“Willie knows people. I’ll call her. Things happen at the house, and she takes care of them.”

We got Charlie to the couch. I called Willie, and she said she’d send Cokie over with the first-aid kit. She said Dr. Sully was out of town, but she knew an army doctor who had seen a lot of action during the war. She’d give him a credit at the house, and he’d probably come running over to stitch Charlie up.

So we waited.

Patrick alternated watching the clock and watching Charlie. I cleaned the cuts on my fingers and tried to scrub the blood off the chair and the floor. You had to get at blood early, preferably with peroxide, before it set. I sat on my knees, raking the scrub brush over the spot. Maybe it would fade with time. Most homes in the Quarter had bloodstains anyway.

Cokie arrived within an hour. He took one look at me and reached for the wall to steady himself. “Josie girl,” he breathed. “Lord, you look like a butcher. You all right?”

I looked down at my blouse and pants. Cokie was right. I was one big smear of blood.

“I’m fine. Hurry, bring the first-aid box in here.”

Cokie gasped when he saw Charlie. “Oh, Mr. Charlie, what you gone and done to yourself? Jo, this looks bad. Willie’s sending an army doctor she knows. Maybe you best wait on the first aid until he gets here.” Cokie looked at Patrick. “You okay, buddy?”

“I can at least wrap up his head. That’s what’s bleeding the most.” I set to work on the bandage.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“The neighbors are probably all looking out their windows, trying to watch the show,” lamented Patrick.

“Don’t you worry about those neighbors,” said Cokie.

Randolph was a young army doctor who had seen a lot of action in France during the war. Randolph was also drunk.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Nah, coffee makes me jittery. That’s not good for sewing. I’ll splash some cold water on my face,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

“Oh, great,” whispered Patrick.

Randolph came back and opened his bag.

“Do you have a license to practice?” said Patrick.

“If you wanted to interview physicians, you would’ve taken this old dog to the hospital. Since you’re not at the hospital, I’m thinkin’ you don’t have options. I’m probably your best bet right about now. Slap me across the face.”

“Excuse me?” said Patrick.

“You heard me. Slap me across the face. Hard. It’ll sober me up.”

Patrick hesitated. Cokie stared.

“Oh, for cripe’s sake. Do I have to slap myself?” yelled Randolph.