soldier groped his way to the theater aisle and headed toward the safety of the light in the lobby. Someone else in the theater was whimpering, in fright.
Jenny wiped her scalpel on the movie seat, returned it to her purse, and covered the blade with the thermometer cap. Then she went to the lobby, where keen wailings could be heard and the manager was calling through the lobby doors over the dark audience, “Is there a doctor here? Please! Is someone a doctor?”
Someone
was
a nurse, and she went to lend what assistance she could. When the soldier saw her, he fainted; it was not really from loss of blood. Jenny knew how facial wounds bled; they were deceptive. The deeper gash on his arm was of course in need of immediate attention, but the soldier was not bleeding to death. No one but Jenny seemed to know that—there was so much blood, and so much of it was on her white nurse’s uniform. They quickly realized she had done it. The theater lackeys would not let her touch the fainted soldier, and someone took her purse from her. The mad nurse! The crazed slasher! Jenny Fields was calm. She thought it was only a matter of waiting for the true authorities to comprehend the situation. But the police were not very nice to her, either.
“You been dating this guy long?” the first one asked her, en route to the precinct station.
And another one asked her, later, “But how did you know he was going to
attack
you? He says he was just trying to introduce himself.”
“That’s a real mean little weapon, honey,” a third told her. “You shouldn’t carry something like that around with you. That’s asking for trouble.”
So Jenny waited for her brothers to clear things up. They were law-school men from Cambridge, across the river. One was a law student, the other one taught in the law school.
“Both,” Garp wrote, “were of the opinion that the
practice
of law was vulgar, but the
study
of it was sublime.”
They were not so comforting when they came.
“Break your mother’s heart,” said one.
“If you’d only stayed at Wellesley,” said the other.
“A girl alone has to protect herself,” Jenny said. “What could be more proper?”
But one of her brothers asked her if she could prove that she had not had previous relations with the man.
“Confidentially,” whispered the other one, “have you been dating this guy long?”
Finally, things were cleared up when the police discovered that the soldier was from New York, where he had a wife and child. He had taken a leave in Boston and, more than anything else, he feared the story would get back to his wife. Everyone seemed to agree that
would
be awful—for everyone—so Jenny was released without charges. When she made a fuss that the police had not given her back her scalpel, one of her brothers said, “For God’s sake, Jennifer, you can steal another one, can’t you?”
“I didn’t
steal
it,” Jenny said.
“You should have some friends,” a brother told her. “At Wellesley,” they repeated.
“Thank you for coming when I called you,” Jenny said.
“What’s a family for?” one said.
“Blood runs thick,” said the other. Then he paled, embarrassed at the association—her uniform was so besmirched.
“I’m a good girl,” Jenny told them.
“Jennifer,” said the older one, and her life’s earliest model—for wisdom, for all that was right. He was rather solemn. He said, “It’s best not to get involved with married men.”
“We won’t tell Mother,” the other one said.
“And certainly not Father!” said the first. In an awkward attempt at some natural warmth, he winked at her—a gesture that contorted his face and for a moment convinced Jenny that her life’s earliest model had developed a facial tic.
Beside the brothers was a mailbox with a poster of Uncle Sam. A tiny soldier, all in brown, was climbing down from Uncle Sam’s big hands. The soldier was going to land on a map of Europe. The words under the poster
Jenny wiped her scalpel on the movie seat, returned it to her purse, and covered the blade with the thermometer cap. Then she went to the lobby, where keen wailings could be heard and the manager was calling through the lobby doors over the dark audience, “Is there a doctor here? Please! Is someone a doctor?”
Someone
was
a nurse, and she went to lend what assistance she could. When the soldier saw her, he fainted; it was not really from loss of blood. Jenny knew how facial wounds bled; they were deceptive. The deeper gash on his arm was of course in need of immediate attention, but the soldier was not bleeding to death. No one but Jenny seemed to know that—there was so much blood, and so much of it was on her white nurse’s uniform. They quickly realized she had done it. The theater lackeys would not let her touch the fainted soldier, and someone took her purse from her. The mad nurse! The crazed slasher! Jenny Fields was calm. She thought it was only a matter of waiting for the true authorities to comprehend the situation. But the police were not very nice to her, either.
“You been dating this guy long?” the first one asked her, en route to the precinct station.
And another one asked her, later, “But how did you know he was going to
attack
you? He says he was just trying to introduce himself.”
“That’s a real mean little weapon, honey,” a third told her. “You shouldn’t carry something like that around with you. That’s asking for trouble.”
So Jenny waited for her brothers to clear things up. They were law-school men from Cambridge, across the river. One was a law student, the other one taught in the law school.
“Both,” Garp wrote, “were of the opinion that the
practice
of law was vulgar, but the
study
of it was sublime.”
They were not so comforting when they came.
“Break your mother’s heart,” said one.
“If you’d only stayed at Wellesley,” said the other.
“A girl alone has to protect herself,” Jenny said. “What could be more proper?”
But one of her brothers asked her if she could prove that she had not had previous relations with the man.
“Confidentially,” whispered the other one, “have you been dating this guy long?”
Finally, things were cleared up when the police discovered that the soldier was from New York, where he had a wife and child. He had taken a leave in Boston and, more than anything else, he feared the story would get back to his wife. Everyone seemed to agree that
would
be awful—for everyone—so Jenny was released without charges. When she made a fuss that the police had not given her back her scalpel, one of her brothers said, “For God’s sake, Jennifer, you can steal another one, can’t you?”
“I didn’t
steal
it,” Jenny said.
“You should have some friends,” a brother told her. “At Wellesley,” they repeated.
“Thank you for coming when I called you,” Jenny said.
“What’s a family for?” one said.
“Blood runs thick,” said the other. Then he paled, embarrassed at the association—her uniform was so besmirched.
“I’m a good girl,” Jenny told them.
“Jennifer,” said the older one, and her life’s earliest model—for wisdom, for all that was right. He was rather solemn. He said, “It’s best not to get involved with married men.”
“We won’t tell Mother,” the other one said.
“And certainly not Father!” said the first. In an awkward attempt at some natural warmth, he winked at her—a gesture that contorted his face and for a moment convinced Jenny that her life’s earliest model had developed a facial tic.
Beside the brothers was a mailbox with a poster of Uncle Sam. A tiny soldier, all in brown, was climbing down from Uncle Sam’s big hands. The soldier was going to land on a map of Europe. The words under the poster
Similar Books
Finding Forever (Smoky Mountain Lawmen Book 1)
Ashley Quinn
Poems 1962-2012
Louise Glück
Private Politics (The Easy Part)
Emma Barry
Unquiet Slumber
Paulette Miller
Exit Lady Masham
Louis Auchincloss
Sunset & Vine: Loose Lips
Per Hampton
Trade Me
Courtney Milan
The Day Before
Liana Brooks
