Shame

scraped up?”
    A nod. “Look for a car with my skin on it.”
    As Caleb spoke, his voice grew softer, and his breathing became more regular. He slept the rest of the way and woke to Lola trying to help him out of the car. She walked next to him up the path and into the bungalow, then tried to guide him into bed, but he resisted, insisting on the sofa instead.
    “I need the MP3. I have to listen to the
Shame
recording.”
    “What you need is some doctoring. That story can wait.”
    “Can’t. There might be some clue.”
    “You’re in no condition to be a hero again.”
    “What?”
    “What part don’t you understand?”
    “The hero.”
    “Your setting off that alarm saved the girl in the sorority.”
    “She’s alive?”
    “Yes.”
    Caleb fought off unfamiliar tears. It had been so long since he had heard any good news.
    “Of course no one in law enforcement’s ready to pin a medal on you,” Lola said. “They think you probably have some partner in crime. That explains how you were able to call Elizabeth right after she was attacked.”
    Caleb shifted on the sofa and then wished he hadn’t. Lola noticed his flinch. “Sweatshirt’s going to have to come off,” she said, “and so’s the shirt. They’re looking like some petri-dish experiment.”
    Caleb struggled to get the garments off. He tried not to groan aloud, but the sounds kept escaping him.
    “Let me help you,” Lola said.
    He was in no position to resist her efforts, and besides, it was so much easier, and she was so gentle about it. When she removed his garments, Lola stared at his exposed chest and drew in her breath.
    “That cut looks ugly. It looks like you tried to carve yourself another belly button.”
    She took a closer look, then shook her head. “I’m no Florence Nightingale, but I think it’s infected.”
    “There’s antiseptic in your medicine cabinet.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    “When you apply the antiseptic, you can wear your white nurse’s outfit.”
    “Only if you’re in the market for an enema as well.”
    She left the room. On the end table nearest to him Caleb noticed a newspaper. He reached for it, took a look at the front page, then wished he hadn’t. The picture was yellowed with age. He had hated it then and hated it just as much now.
    He’d been surprised when the photographer had jumped out and snapped the photo, and that showed in the picture, but to the casual viewer, he knew, he just looked defiant. The snarl caught on his face gave him a wild look that was further accentuated by the particular baseball cap he was wearing. The headline read,P ICTURE P ROVES P ROPHETIC . Caleb threw the paper down in disgust. He didn’t need to read the story.
    Lola walked into the room with a bottle of antiseptic and some washcloths. She saw the newspaper being tossed and saw Caleb’s expression. She never commented, just walked out to the kitchen and returned with some aspirin and a gallon of water. Most of that gallon disappeared within minutes. When his thirst was slaked, she took a washcloth, wet it with water, and placed it on his forehead.
    She wasn’t as certain about what to do with the other washcloth. She poured some antiseptic on it, said, “This will probably hurt,” then tentatively started in on the minor scrapes. As Lola dabbed, it was her face that showed the pain.
    “When I was young,” she said, “my mother believed the only good kind of antiseptic was one that hurt. So when I’d get a cut, she would pour Merthiolate on it, and I’d scream out in pain. No one else I knew had to endure that. Their mothers used stingless ointments.”
    Lola took on her first major abrasion, tried to gently clean out the dirt. “You can talk, you know,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “I’m nervous,” she said. “I don’t know how those people in the ER do it. I’d hate to have someone’s life depend on my every move. I couldn’t take that kind of responsibility.”
    Caleb shrugged.
    “You probably don’t talk or laugh during sex either, do you? Out of necessity, you learned to swallow your pain. Problem is, your joy got swallowed up as well.”
    She started to work on his very raw jaw. “What was that newspaper picture all about?”
    He chose his answer carefully. “No lie like an old lie.”
    “It wasn’t you?”
    “No. It was.”
    Caleb sighed, shook his head, then started talking. “That picture was shot a few weeks after my father was arrested. By thenI’d already learned to