A Body to die for

Christ’s sake.”
    “Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Larry said by rote.
    I rolled over it. “If Molly was going to stab a man in the heart, she’d take a butcher knife, or something hair-splitting sharp. If she was going to, say, chop off Barney’s arm, a serrated knife would be good. You, Larry, a simple chemical engineer, just grabbed the first knife you could reach.”
    “She could have, too, if she was rushing,” he tried. I was amazed that Larry was so comfortable with the idea of Molly taking the fall for him.
    “You’ve got big plans, don’t you?” I asked.
    Larry smiled and said, “Someone like you could never understand what it means to believe deeply in a faith. I have a spiritual path, and that’s the only reason to go on living. Molly and I believe in a fat-free, cholesterol-free, healthy, fit America. It’s my purpose to make that happen.”
    “And that’s what you’re going to do in Hawaii?” I asked.
    “Or Oregon. A lot of fledgling religions find a happy home in the Northwest.”
    Max said, “Wanda—you’re turning fuchsia. I think you need to go to the hospital.”
    “I’ve got an idea,” said Larry. “You go to the hospital. Keep the notebook. Molly and I will leave quietly, and this whole thing will be over.”
    “But Larry,” Molly protested, “the formulas were our gold mine. If we leave now, we’ll have nothing.”
    “Except each other,” I deadpanned. Just turning up the corners of my mouth felt like fishhooks digging into my skin. I fought a wave of nausea and dizziness. I looked at Max. Beads of worry sprouted on his forehead. I nodded to myself. “Okay. If you agree to fly out of here tonight, and promise never to come back to New York, I’ll look the other way.”
    I took a step toward the door, stumbling slightly. Max caught me. He whispered in my ear, “Wanda, you’re about to let a killer go free.”
    “I’m too sick to care,” I said, meaning it. My legs were bubbling now with blisters. I must have been in the tanning bed for an hour. Max lifted me in his arms Tarzan-style. Even in my pain, I felt buoyed by the manliness of it. The four of us walked down the stairs. They carried their suitcases. Max carried me. I carried the murder weapon in my purse, but not for long.
    Once on the street, Max ran me to the car service on Montague Street. We hopped a hack and sped to Brooklyn General. On the way, I told Max what to do. He took mental notes. Unlike me, he’d keep them. “Remember how you said you wanted to get married and have kids?” I asked him when we pulled up to the emergency room entrance.
    “I said that?”
    “You bastard.”
    “Just kidding,” he said. “Don’t tell me the burns have fried your sense of humor.”
    “I guess my days as a fair maiden are over.”
    “Your days as a maiden are,” he said.
    I was about to say something like, “I’d rather drown in sweetbreads than marry you,” when I passed out clean. As I sank down the dark spiral, I wondered if losing consciousness twice in one day could cause brain damage. I wondered if I’d wake up scarred and ugly. I dreamed of caviar on toast and burned onion rings.
     

11

This One Goes to Eleven
     
     
    “You have to keep your wrists firm, like steel,” Max instructed from the end of my hospital bed. He was explaining to Alex how to bench press properly. I watched them in disbelief.
    “Where’s the lavishing of attention on me, huh?” I asked. Max and Alex stopped trading pumping secrets for a moment. They each patted me on my precious head and then launched into a hearty discussion of protein supplements. Alex had brought chocolates. I forgave him.
    I’d been a resident of Brooklyn General for twenty-four hours. The previous afternoon, I spent four of them in the emergency room. I had first- and second-degree burns on ninety percent of my body. The only part that wasn’t fried was the back of my head. Max massaged it hourly. The rest of me was suspended by traction straps. They rotated me like a rôtisserie pig every five hours. I got sponged with icy water every twenty minutes. The pain was only bad when I didn’t take my Percodans. I never forgot so that wasn’t a problem. The doctor didn’t think I’d scar too badly. I’d cool off in a couple months.
    This was not my idea of the perfect summer. Or honeymoon. That’s right. I got married. Max did, too.
    But I’m getting ahead of myself. Earlier, in the emergency room, I was taken to a