OCR Text |
Show 200 at the hospital. There was an unreality about the morning, the sky close and grey, a sense of being detached. Not so much when she was walking down through the blocks of houses from home, as when she came to the center and saw the store standing there. It hadn't changed, of course, since last night. But it did look different somehow. As if she hadn't seen it in a long time-months maybe, or even years. Mr. Richards was sitting in the car in the parking lot. "Get in." He leaned over and opened the door. It was a new Buick, with plush blue upholstery. He had dark bags under his eyes, he was chewing on an unlit cigar. With his small-brim hat, his dark olive skin, he looked like a gangster himself. "Have you heard anything about Steve?" "It was a double hernia," he said, "like the paramedic thought." "It's not serious?" "Well, it's not a picnic." He read the concern in her face. "But no, it's not life and death, nothing like that." Evidently Steve was going to be all right; she tried to conceal her relief from him. But he was looking out the windshield. "I thought I'd wait out here," he said. "I don't feel like being in there-alone-this morning." "I can understand that," Sharon said. "I wouldn't want to be in there by myself this morning, either." "That's one thing about this job: a person's inside too damn much." He sighed. "Not out in the air enough. It's not good for a person." |