33 The Return of Bowie Bravo (7 page)

He did look up then, wood and knife all but forgotten in his hands as the door slowly opened. Johnny was on the other side, wearing his winter jacket, a wool hat and flannel airplane pajamas tucked into his rubber boots. His dark eyes were steady and serious. An icy gust of wind blew in around him.

Bowie gave him a couple of seconds to say something. When he didn’t, Bowie went for it. “Come on in. Shut the door. It’s freezing out there.”

Johnny did as he was told, stepping inside and turning to push the door carefully closed until the latch clicked. After that, he simply stood there, with his back against the door, wearing an expression that said he’d rather be just about anywhere else.

Bowie said, “You can hang your coat on that peg there.” He pointed with his roughed-out piece of basswood.

“It’s okay.” The boy didn’t move. His hair was still wet from his bath, slicked down close to his head. Bowie would have bet good money that he smelled of soap and toothpaste, but he doubted the kid would get close enough for him to know for sure.

Bowie lowered his head and went to work again, putting his concentration on the small job between his hands, telling himself that he wasn’t going to push. Not now. If he looked up and Johnny was gone, well, so be it. There would be other bedtimes.

This wasn’t his only chance. Even if it felt like it.

One step. Two. In his peripheral vision, Bowie could see Johnny’s rubber boots.
Come on. It’s okay.…

There. No doubt. The smell of toothpaste.

“What are you making?” Johnny asked.

“A train set.” Bowie kept shaving away at the wood.

Johnny was maybe three feet from Bowie’s chair. “You mean a
whole
train set, with cars and an engine, a caboose and everything, all out of wood?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“That’s a funny-looking knife. What kind of knife is that?” Johnny reached out a hand.

Bowie sent him a warning glance. “Don’t touch it. It’s very sharp. It’s called a bench knife.” He held the knife up—but out of the way. “Nice rounded wooden handle, a short, stable blade, tapered so that the tip can get into tight spaces, but wide at the base, so it’s strong enough for heavy cuts.…”

Johnny’s eyes kind of glazed over. Bowie almost grinned. Okay, the wonders of his bench knife were a little over the head of a six-year-old.

But a train set sure wasn’t. “How many cars?” Johnny asked.

“Well, I think at least ten. More, if I feel ambitious.”

“More than ten.” Eyes wide as saucers. “Will you paint it and everything?”

“I sure will.”

“That would be good.”

“I’ll remember you said that.”

“Who will it be for—I mean, when it’s finished?”

Bowie set his knife on the table by his chair and reached for the mug of coffee he’d mixed up a while ago using the water he kept going on the stove and a jar of instant he’d picked up at the grocery store yesterday. He sipped, trying to think how to tell Johnny it was for him without making some big deal of it.

But he never got a chance to say the words he was so carefully choosing. In the split second he had glanced away, Johnny had reached for the knife.

He must have got it by the blade.

Out of nowhere, blood was spurting.

And Johnny dropped the knife to the floor and let loose with a long, loud, terrified scream.

Chapter Six

I
n the kitchen, Glory heard Johnny scream. She flew out the back door and raced for the barn, shoving back the door to the workshop so hard that it banged against a workbench, rattling a bunch of tools hanging on a pegboard above.

She saw Johnny by the stove, holding his right wrist with his left hand. Blood poured from right palm. He turned and looked at her. “Mom,” he said. He seemed calm now. There had been only that one terrible shriek. “I cut myself.…”

Glory wanted to run to him, but something held her back. Maybe that he seemed so calm. If she got all over him, he would only get upset again.

Plus, Bowie was there, beside him, with a white T-shirt in his hands. As she watched, Bowie ripped a strip off the shirt and wrapped it quickly—and tightly—around the wound.

“Make a fist of your hand and hold it up,” Bowie said, “over your head.…”

Johnny’s T-shirt-wrapped fist shot into the air. “This way?”

“That’s it. Just right. The blood doesn’t pump so hard when you keep the wound up above your heart.”

“Above my heart,” Johnny repeated in a dazed and wondering tone.

Bowie, as calm as their son—and even more white around the mouth—spoke to her then. “I’m guessing he’ll need some stitches. We should call Brett.…”

“I’m on it.” She turned.

“There’s a phone here,” he said.

But she was already dashing back the way she’d come. The truth was, her mind had gone blank. She couldn’t remember her own sister’s number. And in the house, she had it on auto dial. She grabbed the phone the minute she was back inside, hit the right button for Angie’s house.

Brett answered. “Bravo residence.”

In a breathless rush, she told him that Johnny had cut his hand and probably needed stitches.

“Wrap it tight and keep it elevated,” he said.

“Done.”

“Good. Bring him over to the clinic, then. I’ll meet you there.”

She hung up and whirled to run back to the barn. But Bowie and Johnny, with his small, bloody fist high, were already coming up the back-porch steps. She held the door open for them. “Brett says he’ll meet us at the clinic.”

Bowie asked, “Sera asleep?”

“I’ll just get her.” Glory started to whirl away again, this time for the stairs.

He caught her arm. “Wait.” She froze—and blinked down at the sight of his big, warm hand wrapped around her elbow. He let go instantly. “I just mean, why wake her up?” he asked carefully. “I can take him—or stay here with her and you can go.”

Johnny gazed up at Bowie. “We should go,” he said gravely, his fist still up in the air. “Mom can watch Sera.”

Glory wanted to burst into tears. Her son needed stitches and he hadn’t once cried or clung to her. Plus, he had actually volunteered to let Bowie take him.

She was happy about that—or at least, she knew it for the breakthrough it was. He was a great kid. And it looked like he might actually begin to forge a relationship with his father, after all.

Still, her mother’s heart ached. He was growing up so fast. She’d never realized—how swiftly it was all going to happen, how quickly he would grow up and start to claim his independence, a state that set him apart from her.

Bowie, still way too white around the mouth and grim around the eyes, deferred to her. “Glory?”

She made herself nod. “Yeah, you two go on. I’ll stay with Sera.”

Now he looked doubtful—or maybe more like scared to death. “You sure?”

“Come
on,
Bowie,” Johnny insisted. He actually got hold of Bowie’s sleeve with his uninjured hand and gave it a tug. “I need to see Uncle Brett right now. ’Cause I need
stitches.
”

Bowie seemed to shake himself. “All right, let’s get going.” He fumbled in the pocket of the jacket he must have thrown on when she ran for the phone. The keys jingled in his hand.

Johnny was already headed for the front door, rubber boots clump, clump, clumping past the stairs. Bowie sent her a last, desperate glance over his shoulder as he went after him.

The front door opened. And then it shut. A minute later, she heard Bowie’s SUV start up outside.

She put her hand against her aching heart and whispered, “Drive carefully,” even though they were already gone.

The lights were on at the clinic when Bowie pulled into a parking space in front.

In the backseat, Johnny barely waited for the car to stop moving before popping the latch on his seat belt and jumping out. Injured hand still held high, he raced up the steps and grabbed the doorknob with his good hand. It was open.

Johnny threw the door wide, “Uncle Brett! I’m here and it looks like I’m gonna need stitches!”

Brett called, “Back here, Johnny!”

Johnny bolted across the reception area to the open doorway that led to the exam rooms. Bowie followed, hating himself for what had happened.

The lights were on in the first exam room. Brett signaled them in. “So, what’s happened here?”

The blood—so dark, so red, so much of it—had soaked through the torn section of T-shirt. Bowie felt sick every time he looked at it.

Johnny waved his bloody fist triumphantly. “Bowie told me not to touch the knife, but I touched the knife.” Now he looked at Brett with serious eyes. “Uncle Brett, it was
very
sharp.”

Brett sent a glance at Bowie and Bowie saw the glint of humor in his brother’s eyes. What was so funny? Not a thing, the way Bowie saw it. The kid could have bled to death. And Bowie knew whose fault that would have been.

“Let’s have a look.” Brett snapped on exam gloves. “Can you take off that jacket and get up on the bench by yourself?”

Johnny got the jacket off without much trouble. “Here, Bowie.”

Bowie stepped up to take the jacket. There was blood on the sleeve. And also on the sleeve and down the front of his airplane pajamas. Bowie felt sick at the sight. All that blood. And now the poor kid would need his hand sewn up. Why? Because his long-lost, would-be dad didn’t have sense enough to keep a sharp knife out of his reach.

At least Johnny was taking it all in stride. He proudly got on the stool and clambered onto the examining bench. “Will I have to have a
shot?
Bobby Winkle had a shot that time he had those stitches in his knee. Remember that, Uncle Brett?”

“Yes, I do.” Brett swung a steel tray on a stand in front of Johnny. “Okay, put your hand here.”

“Below my
heart?
”

“I think we’re safe to try that now. The bleeding seems to have slowed a little.” Johnny held out his hand and Brett unwrapped the bloody strip of cloth. “Okay, now, this might sting.” He went to work cleaning the gash.

Johnny was a trouper. He shut his eyes tight and tipped his head back. And said “ow” only twice. After the cleaning, it was time for that shot Johnny had asked about.

“This will numb the area.” Brett delivered the injection smoothly, with little fanfare.

Bowie couldn’t bear to watch. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away and hated himself some more. Johnny whimpered when the needle went in but quickly regained his composure.

And his excitement. He watched, fascinated, as Brett stitched him up. “Wow, nine stitches. That’s a lot, huh, Uncle Brett?”

Brett bandaged him up. “Yes, it is. And you shouldn’t have touched that knife.”

“I know. I was bad.” The big brown eyes turned Bowie’s way. “I’m sorry, Bowie.” Bowie gave him a nod.

Brett said, “But as far as getting the stitches goes, you did very, very well.”

Johnny’s brown eyes shone. “I didn’t cry once, did I?”

“Nope, not once.”

“Do I get a tattoo?”

Brett snapped off his gloves, dropped them in the trash and grabbed a clear glass bowl from a shelf by the sink. “You get two.”

Johnny proudly fished out two temporary tattoos. One of a skull and crossbones, the other of a yellow shield with SuperKid printed in red across it. “Thank you,” he said.

Brett gave him a wink and turned to Bowie, who stood near the door again, wrapped up in his own personal hell, reliving that moment when Johnny screamed. “Don’t disturb the bandage for forty-eight hours,” Brett said. “Don’t let him get it wet. After that, you can apply fresh antibiotic cream and a clean bandage. Children’s acetaminophen or ibuprofen if he has any pain. He should come back in a week. If the area around the stitches gets red or swollen, give us a call.”

Bowie gaped at his brother, the doctor. “Uh, gotcha,” he said, thinking about those words
red or swollen.
What if the hand got infected? Bowie would never forgive himself.

Brett grinned and handed him a small folded pamphlet. “Instructions for care of the injury. Just in case you forget.”

“Great.”

“Nine stitches,” Johnny crowed. “Bobby Winkle only got eight. Isn’t that right, Uncle Brett?”

“That’s right.” Brett took him under the arms and swung him down from the examining bench. “Be careful with that hand, now.”

“I will. I promise.”

Glory was standing at the bay window in the family room, waiting for them, when Bowie’s SUV pulled up in front of the house again. She watched as Johnny ran up the front walk, his right hand wrapped in a snow-white gauze bandage. Bowie followed after him at a more sedate pace.

As soon as her boy reached the porch, she went through the arch into the front hall so that she was waiting there when he pushed open the door.

“Mom!” He ran to her, arms outstretched. Her heart aching—but in a
good
way now—she gathered him in. “Mom, I had nine stitches! Nine! And Uncle Brett said I did very, very well.”

She hugged him tighter. “Oh, you are a brave, brave boy.”

Too soon, he was squirming to be free again. “I have to keep it clean and not get it wet and go back in a week.”

She straightened to her height again. “It’s all very exciting. Hang up your coat and take off your boots and maybe we should have a little hot chocolate before you go to bed.…”

He was already easing his injured hand free of his coat sleeve, beaming up at her. “Hot chocolate. I think that’s a good idea.”

“And give me that coat.” There was blood on the sleeve. “I’ll soak it overnight. You’ll have to wear your old coat tomorrow.”

“’Kay.” He handed it over.

She folded the jacket over her arm and glanced at Bowie, who stood by the door, his head hunched into his collar and his hands in his pockets. “A little hot chocolate, Bowie?”

“You know, if everything’s all right now, I think I’ll just go on out to the barn.…”

Was something wrong? Yeah, it had been scary, but everything had worked out all right. Still, he didn’t sound so good. She frowned at him.

But he was already focused on Johnny again. “Good night, Johnny.”

Johnny was sitting on the bottom stair taking off his boots. “’Night.”

“Care instructions—for his stitches,” Bowie muttered, holding out a folded piece of paper. She took it from him. And then, without another word, he eased around her and headed for the kitchen. A moment later, she heard the back door open and close.

Johnny drank his hot chocolate and then went up to brush his teeth a second time. He was already in bed wearing clean pajamas when she went in to say good-night.

He confessed in a solemn tone, “Bowie told me not to touch the knife, but I did. I told him I was sorry.”

“Good.” She smoothed his silky hair back off his forehead. “It all turned out okay, and I’m so glad about that. But what you did was wrong. Sharp things are not for kids.”

“I know. I just wanted to hold it.”

“If you wanted to hold it, you should have told Bowie. Then he would have either shown you the safe way to hold it, or explained why that wasn’t a good idea.”

“I
know,
Mom. It was dumb, what I did. I won’t do that again.”

“All right, then.”

Reluctantly, he asked, “Will I have to have a big time-out and stay in my room after school for a whole month or something?”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t think a time-out is necessary. I have a feeling you won’t be grabbing any knife blades in the future.”

“No, I will not,” he vowed. “Never, not ever.”

She bent and kissed his cheek. “Does your hand hurt?”

“A little. Maybe.”

“I’ll be right back.” She went and got him a kids’ ibuprofen and water.

He took the pill. “There.” He passed the glass back to her. “I’ll be just fine now, Mom. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m so glad. Good night.”

“’Night.” He snuggled right down and shut his eyes.

She turned off the light, quietly shut the door—and right then, from the room next to Johnny’s, she heard Sera fussing.

A half hour later, she had Sera fed, changed and back in her crib. Then she got Johnny’s blood-spattered pajamas out of the bathroom hamper and took them downstairs to soak them with the jacket.