Mohawk

mind. I’m not going to die before you pay up, so you can forget about that.”
    “Really. I’d just like to know.”
    “I’ll piss on your grave anyhow, so what’s the difference?” Greenie’s was filling up. “Go away. You’re bad for business, and I need a good day for once.”
    Dallas threw a dollar bill on the bar. “I can take up a collection if you want,” the bartender offered.
    “He already did,” Untemeyer growled. “Your ex-wife still live around here?”
    “She’s almost as broke as me,” Dallas said.
    “The old lady still alive?”
    “Her mother? As far as I know.”
    Untemeyer shivered.

59
    The corridors of the Mohawk Medical Services Center smelled smoky, though all the windows were open and fans had been set up to circulate the air. Like many summer storms, the one that had struck the night before had granted only temporary respite. Again it was muggy and wet, and when the sun broke through everything steamed. Anne Grouse had the waiting room all to herself. There were magazines to read, but instead she watched the sun drop out of sight behind Myrtle Park. Then the street lamps came on, barely discernible in the gloaming.
    No one—doctor, nurse, staff—had said anything to her for hours. She had spoken to Dan on the telephone, and of course he offered to come out, but she told him not to, then regretted it immediately. She almost wished Dallas was here to share the responsibility of waiting. He’d been by the house earlier and she’d foolishly given him her savings account for Randall’s bail. She didn’t mind the money, obviously, but in a weak moment had violated one of the few rules she lived by, which was never to give money to Dallas. In a way, that Dallas was off someplace trying to be useful was just as well. His company was never soothing, though it wasn’t all his fault. He wanted to be taken seriously,the one thing she’d never been able to do. Briefly she felt sorry for the people he was borrowing from. If he didn’t get the full amount, he’d probably drop the whole bundle on a sure thing at Saratoga. In the end she’d have to ask her mother to put a second mortgage on the house, and of course Mrs. Grouse would do it. The old woman could inspire random violence moment to moment, but for the big things could be counted on, provided that sacrifice and not intervention was called for. Anne smiled to herself. There was, after all, something to be said for sacrifice.
    Mrs. Grouse had been shaky after her assault on the worms, and Anne had sat with her until she finally slept, but when she came down early in the morning, before the call about Randall, her mother had already eaten breakfast and was housecleaning. She’d even been outside to clean up the lawn. She never allowed the ship of state to list for long. Now it was back on an even keel, and Anne knew that any references to the previous night would be greeted with blank stares. That night no longer existed. When Dallas called with the news, Anne said nothing to her mother.
    When the evening shift came on at the hospital, one doctor made the mistake of venturing into the waiting room. “I want you to tell me about my son,” Anne told him. The doctor was young and clearly intimidated by so attractive a woman fifteen years his senior. “Let me find out what I can,” he said. “They’ll talk to me. I think.”
    Fifteen minutes later he was back, but in the interim had gathered himself and applied the mask of his profession. “He’s resting well. You’d better go home and get some rest yourself.”
    “I’d like to sit with him a while.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s the police, isn’t it.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    At nine, she gave up. In the lobby she saw Diana Wood at the admissions desk. Anne almost didn’t recognize her, she was so stooped, so gnarled. There was no girl left in her, and her expression was even more vacant than Anne felt. When she looked up and saw Anne at her elbow, she flushed.
    “You didn’t have to come,” Anne said.
    “I’m ashamed,” she said. “I’m not here about Randall.”
    “Not again.”
    “She’s curious about the fire, I think. Has to know what’s going on.”
    “I’m really sorry.”
    “Don’t waste the feeling,” her friend advised. “Most people assume they have an unlimited supply of emotions. They don’t.”
    “Do you have time for coffee?”
    “I better not. I always end up paying double for tardiness.”
    “Please,