Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,52
two that Steven holds. When they reach me, Steven offers me one of the glasses.
“You must be thirsty after what you’ve just been through.” His smile is warm.
“Thank you,” I say as I take the glass.
“So you got yourself into another pickle, didn’t you?” Steven was chuckling.
“My adventures would make some pretty wild movies, huh? Want to buy my story?”
Steven shakes his head. “Not believable enough. Sorry.”
Right. Because a story about a hairless, midget alien phoning his home planet with a child’s toy is so probable. That movie would never make a dime. I’m about to argue this point, but that’s when I notice that they are both barefoot. I look at my feet and realize I’m not wearing shoes either. Somehow, this doesn’t bode well.
“Am I dead?” I ask.
Meryl laughs. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because I’m barefoot. In movies, when people dream that they’re barefoot, they’re usually . . . you know . . .” I run a finger across my throat as if giving it a lethal slice.
“There is some truth in that,” Steven answers, “but you’re also dreaming that you’re by a swimming pool on a hot summer day. Shoes really wouldn’t be the appropriate costume for such a scene, do you think?”
He has a point.
“Then why are you wearing those white robes?”
They exchange mournful glances. “Should we tell her?” Meryl asked.
“She’s going to find out eventually.”
They are making me very nervous. The glass is cold in my hand and I want to gulp it down, but for some reason my hand can’t move anymore. Figuring this is a dream, I try to will the glass to my lips with my thoughts, but it stays there, dripping, teasing.
“What will I find out eventually?”
“That man,” Meryl shook her head sadly. “That Randolph man. He is dead.”
Steven adds, “Howard blew his brains out.”
Meryl puts her arm around me. Don’t worry though, the water is helping.”
I’m really confused. What water? Because I can’t drink the blasted glass of water in my hand even though I’m thirstier than an elephant in the Sahara. Suddenly the pool and Meryl and Steven vanish and I’m standing in the middle of a field. It’s raining. I tip my head back and catch the rain drops with my open mouth.
Even though no one is around, someone repeats over and over again, “The water is helping. The water is helping.”
I became aware of hard ground beneath my shoulders while someone supported my head. My face and lips were wet.
Howard’s voice said: “Barb, drink.” He was holding a plastic bottle to my mouth. Instinctively, I gulped at it.
“Slow down. Not too fast.”
I’d been pulled from the car and laid on the ground. Judging from the people and activity around me, I hadn’t been lying on the asphalt for long. An EMT ran up with a bag and asked how I was feeling.
“Tired,” I mumbled.
Howard told the young female technician that I only blacked out for a few seconds and that I hadn’t experienced any physical trauma. She felt my hands, commented that my skin wasn’t clammy, then shined a penlight in my eyes. Finally she told Howard that I wasn’t showing signs of shock and that she was needed to assist with the shooting victim. The nice lady smiled and patted my hand. “If you need me, just tell someone, okay?” She scooted off around the car.
“Do you think you can walk if I help you?” Howard asked.
Nodding, I sipped on more water first. “Where are we going?” I asked after I’d quenched my thirst.
“Just to my car where you can sit.”
When we finally got comfortable in the backseat of his FBI-issue sedan, he kissed my hand and held it tight. “Eighteen years I’m in the Bureau, and in the last two years you’ve been in more danger than I have all my time as an agent. You’re making me look bad.”
“How are you doing?”
He looked into my eyes with an amazing sense of calm that surprised me, given that he’d just killed a man. “I’m fine now that you’re safe.”
“It’s that easy?” I asked.
A puzzled look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”
“Steven Spielberg said you blew Randolph’s brains out. That doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothers me that you’re having Steven Spielberg hallucinations.” He put his hand on my forehead. “You sure you feel okay?”
“It wasn’t just Steven. Meryl Streep was there too. They gave me water but I couldn’t drink it.” I squeezed his hand. “You mean Randolph isn’t dead?”
“He’ll survive. I wanted to