Don't Cry Now Read Free

had to adapt to today’s teens. She checked her watch again, tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. This was ridiculous. While she hated to interrupt Joan while she was trying to make a sale, the fact was that the woman had insisted she be here before one o’clock, and it was almost that now. “Joan,” she called out, returning to the hall, walking down the corridor toward the kitchen.
    The voices continued as if she hadn’t spoken. She heard snatches—“Well, if this health plan is implemented…” “That’s a pretty lamebrained assessment.”—and wondered what was going on. Why would people—Joan, of all people—be involved in such a discussion at such a time? “I’m going to have to cut you off, caller,” the man’s voice suddenly announced. “You don’t know what you’re talking about and I feel like listening to some music. How about the always classic sound of Nirvana?”
    It was the radio. “Jesus Christ,” Bonnie muttered. She’d been wasting her time discreetly coughing so that a rude radio host could finish hurling invectives at some hapless caller! Who’s the crazy lady here? she wondered, losing her patience, raising her voice over the sudden onslaught of sound that was Nirvana. “Joan,” she called, stepping into the yellow and white kitchen, seeing Joan at the long pine kitchen table, her large sable eyes clouded over with booze, her mouth slightly open, about to speak.
    Except that she didn’t speak. And she didn’t move. Not even as Bonnie approached, waving her hand in front of the woman’s face, not even as she reached out to shake her shoulder. “Joan, for God’s sake…”
    She wasn’t sure at what precise moment she realized that Joan was dead. It might have been when she saw thebright patch of crimson that was splattered across the front of Joan’s white silk blouse like an abstract work of art. Or perhaps it was when she saw the gaping dark hole between her breasts, and felt blood on her hands, warm and sticky, like syrup. Maybe it was the awful combination of smells, real or imagined, that was suddenly pushing its way toward her nose that convinced her. Or maybe it was the screams shooting from her mouth like stray bullets, the ungodly sound creating a strangely appropriate harmony with Nirvana.
    Or maybe it was the woman in the doorway screaming with her, the woman with her arms full of groceries who stood paralyzed against the far wall, the bags of groceries glued to her sides, as if they were all that were keeping her upright.
    Bonnie walked over to her, the woman recoiling in horror as Bonnie pried the groceries from her arms. “Don’t hurt me,” the woman pleaded. “Please don’t hurt me.”
    â€œNobody’s going to hurt you,” Bonnie assured her calmly, laying the bags on the counter and wrapping one arm around the shaking woman. The other arm reached toward the wall phone and quickly pressed in 911. In a clear voice she gave the operator the address and told her that a woman appeared to have been shot. Then she led the still-trembling owner of the house into the living room where she sat down beside her on the textured tan sofa. Then she put her head between her knees to keep from fainting and waited for the police to arrive.

2
    T hey burst through the front door like a violent thunderclap in the middle of a storm, expected but terrifying nonetheless. Their voices filled the front hall; their bodies swarmed into the living room, like bees to a hive. The woman beside her on the sofa jumped up to greet them. “Thank God you’re here,” she was saying, her voice a wail.
    â€œAre you the one who called the police?”
    Bonnie felt the woman’s accusatory finger pointing toward her, was aware of all eyes turning in her direction as the room filled up around her. Reluctantly, she forced her eyes to