Bambi, A Short Story

Bambi will live.

They don't keep Bambi at the hospital but two days. I watch him help her inside from my kitchen window. She got a bandage on her hand. Few cuts and bruises on her face. 

They must have put her head back together, because ain't nothing oozing out nowhere. She a little unsteady on her feet. But don't look too bad. That boy who do yard work for the Bullards will still jog across the street, all shirtless and full of teenage hormones, when she offer him a glass of lemonade.

Bambi will live. I go back to my coffee. A little while later, someone come knocking on my door. I ignore it. The knock come again, louder this time.

I answer it, ready to tell whoever that whatever they need, I ain't got. There's a man on the other side. One that I was expecting sooner or later. Seeing as he seen my eyes the other night, I figure there's something he want to discuss.

"Afternoon. How you doin'?" His voice sound softer up close than it do when he screaming at Bambi. It don't fit him. He too rough for a soft voice. "I'm Johnny."

He too rough for a name like Johnny, too. A Johnny is a shy loan officer at the credit union. He come home with a box of chocolate just because, and help with chores. Bambi got the wrong kind of Johnny.

"I'm your neighbor over here." He point to his house. "Something happened the other night. My wife, such a stupid woman, she tripped and hit her head. Had to call the ambulance."

I wait for the part that got something to do with me.

"The cops got it in their head I done something to her. That it wasn't no accident." He take a step closer. His soft voice start to crunch like gravel. That sound more like him. "Been going around bothering people with questions. They come bother you?"

His stormy eyes rake me over. That look I know. I can guess what he got brewing behind 'em. I wonder, if he can guess what I got just inside this door.

"You some kind of mute or something?"

I'm some kind of fed up. I lean against the door, letting my left hand—the one with the better grip—slip closer to the only kind of talking I bet he understand.

"Look, I know one of them cops was over here too long for you not to be running your mouth."

Folks always seem to know something about me, without me saying nothing. They always know what to expect from people like me on sight.

"What I do with my wife is my business." He prop his foot on the threshold. "Ain't no nosy bitch, or no Mayberry cop, gonna tell me how to handle my house. You hear me?"

"I didn't catch that, Johnny." The good one come hopping up my porch. Chest puffed up, wearing a pair of Levi's with a hole in the knee.

"It was nothing, officer." Johnny's too-soft voice is back.

"I was just looking in on my neighbor."

"That right?"

Johnny stare down his nose at him, then look over at me. My hand stay on the shotgun.

"How's Rebecca doing? Heard they released her from the hospital." The good one look him up and down. 

Johnny still ain't talking.

"Listen here." The good one take a step, put himself chest to chest with Johnny. "If I ever catch sight of you on this property again, my badge won't matter."

That must make some wheels start turning in Johnny's head, because he tell us both to have a good afternoon, and get off my porch.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Vincent." The good one give me a smile.

"Officer Miller."

"May I, come in for a moment?"

I straighten up. "I was in the middle of something."

He walk up to me, get close enough for me to smell his sandalwood cologne.

"If you worried about that shotgun you got by the door, don't be. Not here as an officer." He meet my eyes. "I just want to talk."

Whenever somebody say they just want to do one thing, they got a whole other thing in mind. Ain't no room in my life for other things. I'm about to tell him that, when Mrs. Bullard come outside. Before she can look across the street, I take a step back and open the door for the officer.

I shut the door and lock it, wishing I'd left him on the other side. He wander around my front room for a minute, looking but not looking. I tell him to have a seat, while I make some tea. He nod. But instead of sitting, he follow me to the kitchen.

I try to act like him being here don't make me feel all loose in my skin. He start picking up the mason jars on the shelves, reading each label like it's in another language.

"What's this one for?"

I glance at it. "It's good for hypertension."

"They make medication for that."

"Not everyone can afford the white coat."

His face flush, and he put it back. The kettle whistle. I put some Earl Grey in the teapot. While it steep, I warm up two tea cups with a bit of hot water. I remember the shortbread cookies I made yesterday and put those on the table. I make his cup, two cubes of sugar, and a dash of cream.

"You remembered." He smile at me.

I don't smile back.

He drink his tea, eat half my cookies. Still ain't said why he here. He can bring it up when he feel like it. Whatever it is he need to say is about a decade too late anyway.

He put his cup down, stare at his hands. I can see words building up in his mouth, making it hard for him to keep it shut.

"I'm sorry." He look at me so long, it start to hurt.

I don't know what to do with his apology. So I tuck it in the pocket of that little hand-me-down girl's dress.