Strangers

Wycazik walking toward them, they were usually reminded of drill sergeants or football coaches. His solid body and the self-confident, aggressive way he used it were not what one expected of a priest. And when he was in a hurry, he was not so much like a drill sergeant or a football coach as he was like a tank.
        From Tolk's room, Father Wycazik blitzed down the hall, shoved through a pair of heavy swinging doors, then through another pair, into the intensive care unit, where the wounded policeman had been until just an hour ago. He asked to speak to the physician on duty, Dr. Royce Albright. With the hope that God would forgive a few little white lies told in a good cause, Stefan identified himself as the Tolk family's priest and implied that Mrs. Tolk had sent him to get the full story of her husband's condition, about which she was not yet entirely clear.
        Dr. Albright looked like Jerry Lewis and had a deep rumbling voice like Henry Kissinger, which was disconcerting, but he was willing to answer whatever questions Father Wycazik wished to pose. He was not Winton Tolk's personal physician, but he was interested in the case. "You can assure Mrs. Tolk that there's almost no danger of a setback. He's coming along marvelously. Shot twice in the chest, pointblank, with a.38. Until yesterday, no one here would've believed that anyone could take two shots in the chest from a large-caliber handgun and be out of intensive care in twenty-four hours! Mr. Tolk is incredibly lucky."
        "The bullets missed the heart, then… and all vital organs?"
        "Not only that," Albright said, "but neither round did major damage to any veins or arteries. A.38-caliber slug has lots of punch, Father. Ordinarily, it chews up the victim. In Tolk's case, one major artery and vein were nicked, but neither was severed. Very fortunate, indeed."
        "Then I suppose the bullet was stopped by bone at some point."
        "Deflected, yes, but not stopped. Both slugs were found in soft tissue. And that's another amazing thing-no shattered bones, not even a small fracture. A very lucky man."
        Father Wycazik nodded. "When the two slugs were removed from his body, was there any indication they were underweight for.38-caliber ammunition? I mean, maybe the cartridges were faulty, with too little lead in the bullets. That would explain why, even though it was a.38 revolver, the shots did less damage than a pair of.22s."

    Albright frowned. "Don't know. Could be. You'd have to ask the police… or Dr. Sonneford, the surgeon who took the slugs out of Tolk."
        "I understand Officer Tolk lost a great deal of blood."
        Grimacing, Albright said, "Must be a mistake about that on his chart. I haven't had a chance to talk to Dr. Sonneford today, it being Christmas, but according to the chart, Tolk received over four liters of whole blood in the operating room. Of course, that can't be correct."
        "Why not?"
        "Father, if Tolk actually lost four liters of blood before they got him to the hospital, there wouldn't be enough in him to maintain even minimal circulation. He'd have been dead. Stone cold dead."
        
        Las Vegas, Nevada.
        Mary and Pete Monatella, Jorja's parents, arrived at her apartment at six on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and grumpy from too little sleep, but determined to take up their rightful posts by the brightly trimmed tree before Marcie awoke. Mary, as tall as Jorja, had once been almost as shapely as her daughter too; now she was heavy, girdled. Pete was shorter than his wife, barrel-chested, a bantam rooster who seemed to strut when he walked but was one of the most self-effacing men Jorja had ever known. They came burdened with presents for their only grandchild.
        They had a present for Jorja - plus the usual gifts they brought every time they visited: well-meant but annoying criticism, unwanted advice, guilt. Mary was hardly through the door before she announced that Jorja should clean the ventilation hood above the range, and she rummaged under the sink until she found a spray bottle of Windex and a rag, with which she performed the chore herself. She also observed that the tree looked underdecorated - "It needs more lights, Jorja!" - and when she saw how Marcie's presents were wrapped, she professed despair. "My God, Jorja, the wrapping papers aren't bright enough. The ribbons aren't big enough. Little girls like bright papers with Santa