Karen gasps, envisioning the man crawling headfirst into her partially exposed ass. “Stay there! I’m ... I’m fine. Coming out right now. Fine.”
He mutters something in a doubtful tone, but the bushes behind her don’t part.
Karen takes a deep, cleansing breath, then tries to move forward, as if the motion itself can reverse the downward migration of her skirt. No such luck. She attempts to pivot so she can at least come out of the bush headfirst and not preceded by her naked bum. But there’s no room among the thorns to pivot.
“To hell with it,” she sighs. Then, louder: “Could you close your eyes, please? I’ve...my skirt’s fallen down.”
A pause, a grunt from the bushes behind her, then the shuffle-squelch of feet moving in the mud. Gritting her teeth, Karen resumes crawling backwards.
Just as she comes out into the open, her skirt skies the rest of the way over the smooth moguls of her buttocks and rests around her thighs. A cool autumn breeze dances across her rump.
Now what to do? She can’t stand up by herself, not with her bad ankle. She doesn’t look up. The pair of black Nikes to the left of her, facing away, shift. An awkward pause.
Then the Nikes move and the man’s knee joints backfire as he swiftly kneels. Karen cringes as he gives an almighty heave on her skirt. He yards it up to her waist with such force that the fabric under her knees separates from the rest of the skirt with a sharp rip. Without missing a beat, the man stands again, lifting Karen onto her feet by her elbows. She almost swoons from the sudden elevation change and the furnace of pain in her ankle.
They avoid each other’s eyes as they try to regain their composures.
“Thank you,” Karen eventually mumbles. “I couldn’t ... I tried ... my hands weren’t free. Anyway, thank you.”
He studies a hemlock. “You’ve got your cat?”
“In my sweater.”
“Can you walk at all?”
“I ... can try.”
Silence.
“I’ll carry you,” he says, then scoops her off her feet with such dizzying speed that her tofu burger lurches into her throat.
Although Moey is a very strong man (as the thrice-defeated Todd “The Sledgehammer” Dupuis would be the first to admit), the woman is neither small nor slender. By the time he staggers into the parking lot with his burden, breathing like a bull facing down a matador, he feels certain he’s torn at least one ligament in his pectorals. He places the woman gently on the hood of his Plymouth and fumbles in his pockets for his car keys.
“You don’t have to drive me to the hospital.”
“Can’t...drive there...yourself,” he pants.
“Just find me a stick to lean on. Really. I’ll walk the rest of the way home and my husband can drive me.”
He stops digging in his jacket. “Home?”
“There.” She points.
His eyes swivel to the enormous ghostly white foot painted on the side of the nearest house.
“The Footstop,” she says. “That’s where I live.”
“Ah, yes. Well ...” He nods as if confirming something he already knows. “Yes.”
The woman sticks out her free hand. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”
“No problem. Any time.” His sweaty hand slowly crushes hers. “Any time.”
“My name’s Karen.”
“Moey. Moey Thorpe.”
They continue to shake hands, both bobbing their heads like woodpecker toys.
“If you’re in the neighbourhood one afternoon, drop by. I can massage your feet or something. To say thank you. You know.” She flushes.
“Yes. Well. I’ll do that.”
They release hands. Moey shrugs at her house. “Maybe I should carry you to the door.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Taking a deep breath, he scoops her up again like a praying mantis attacking its prey, and bulldozes his way through the cedar boughs overhanging the rock path to her back door.
“Thank you very much again,” she gasps as he puts her down beside the metal garbage can, the same one that contains an Andy-soiled towel.
“Take care of that foot, you hear?” he says. Then, panting like a farrowing sow, he ducks back through the cedar boughs and disappears into the night.
Karen staggers into the house, calling for help. Morris and Andy greet her in the hall with matching dropped jaws. Candice bursts from the bathroom with a towel wrapped about her torso and starts shrieking.
“Ohmygod! You’ve been raped! I don’t believe this! Don’t just stand there, Dad, do something! Call the police, call an ambulance! Andy, get him the phone!”
“Candice —”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mom. It isn’t your fault. And you’re not supposed to have a shower or anything, ’cause that’ll wash away the evidence.”
“I wasn’t raped.”
“That’s denial, Mom. Gloria says that —”
“Have you, Karen?” Morris asks, bewildered. “Have you been ... defiled?”
Andy bursts into tears.
“Don’t just stand there crying!” Candice shouts. “Go get the phone like I told you!”
Karen takes a deep breath, sticks two fingers in her mouth, and lets loose a whistle. All tears and shouts cease.
“I have not,” she says firmly, “been raped. I have, however, broken my ankle. I fell. Simple as that. I fell.”
“But your skirt,” Candice says.
Karen glances down to where Moey inadvertently shortened the length of her skirt by six inches or so. The ragged hem trails a few twigs and leaves. “It ripped during my fall,” she says, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “I’m okay.”
Her husband’s face turns sallow, however. He stares at her feet in horror. “You’ve broken an ankle?”
“I think so, yes. My left one.”
“Oh, no,” Morris gasps. He falls to his knees and flutters his hands over her left foot. “Karen, how could you?”
Andy bursts into tears again.
Chapter Three
