The October Light of August by Robert John Jenson Page A

there.”
    “What's this we shit? It's my leg. Quit trying to sound like a God damned doctor.”
    “Sure,” I replied. She was sitting on the lid of the toilet and twisted her legs to prop her foot up on the edge of the tub. I stepped over her and into the tub, then grimaced as I got on my knees.”
    “Oh boo-hoo,” she quipped. “What the hell's your problem, anyway? What the hell have you been doing over - ”
    The sudden silence was a little shocking, and I looked up but couldn't read her face in the gloom. Dawned on you I've been burying bodies over here, has it? I thought. One of them your dearly departed husband? I asked her to hold the flashlight as I screwed the cap off the bottle of alcohol. She took it meekly and shone it on her foot.
    “Thank you,” I said. “This might sting some? Sorry, but I think we should kind of flush the nail first?
    “Yeah,” she whispered. In the hush that filled the bathroom and with the light pointed in my direction, I began to feel self-conscious. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, and little details popped out at me with startling clarity: drops of blood looked almost as dark as the mud caked on her toenail against the metallic polish, and her shin still had indentations and little blue-green granules embedded in it from the shingles of the porch roof.
    Crap. What do I – do I touch her? Hold her foot? I wondered. I shifted around until I faced her foot from the top, and still hesitated, my hand hovering stupidly.
    “It's okay,” she said. “Just do it. I'm a big girl.”
    I grabbed her foot lightly and tipped the bottle over her toe in a quick dollop. She twitched once, but I didn't hear so much as a hiss or gasp, so I poured another burst and leaned in close to examine the wound. The nail had split down the middle, but not more than halfway. The leading edge was ragged so I clipped it clean and tweezed a splinter out of the toe.
    “I actually tripped over edge of the garden,” she offered. “After crawling over the rocks...”
    I nodded and poured some more alcohol on for good measure, then used a swab to try and wipe away flakes of blood and nail polish. I patted it dry as lightly as I could, applied some Neosporin and wrapped the toe with non-stick pads, then taped it up. Finally I bound her ankle, and stood up with a gasp, my knees screaming. She swung her legs in front of her and braced her left arm against the sink to push herself up. I offered her my arm as she began to hop to the door and at first she waved it off with a protest, but I said, “Oh, come on now,” and she grabbed it with a sheepish smile and we maneuvered out of the bathroom, down the hall and into the living room where she sank into a recliner. I levered up the foot rest, the chair tipped back and she sighed.
    “Doing okay?” I asked. “Want some water? You should probably have something to drink. Oh – some pain reliever? Aspirin? Ibuprofen?”
    She laughed, and began to wave me off again. I said, “Well, I bet you at least need the fluids – I'm sure I have an unopened bottle of water.” I hustled to the kitchen, found a sealed bottle and brought it back to her.
    “I know I need some aspirin at least. Plus, I want to see what's going on over there. I'll be back in a minute or two.” I moved off through the dining room and began to creep up the stairs. As I limped down the hallway I heard muffled voices outside. Easing into the room, I carefully moved to the window and looked down through the sheer drapes. I couldn't see any of the chuckle-heads, but a dead girl – might have been eleven or twelve – was making steady progress down the street towards Jackie's house.
    I went into the bathroom and grabbed the aspirin and ibuprofen, stared at a bottle of Midol. Grabbed it, put it back. Grabbed it again, then put it back for good. I was afraid she could take that in all sorts of wrong ways rather than what I had intended.
    My stomach rumbled and I realized I was hungry. As I came