Authors: Frank Juliano
As she bent over the dog’s collar to reattach her leash, Joyce felt someone come running up behind her. He brushed up against her, knocking her to the ground.
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Joyce quickly got to her feet and saw that a thin young black man had scooped up her purse and was running down the street.
Without thinking, she gave chase, Amelia barking at her heels.
The man headed into an alley and Joyce followed. Although it had been a bright, sunny day, a cold mist was enveloping both of them.
She looked back to see a crowd of people gathering at the opening to the alley. Doug was in front, waving frantically at her.
Amelia shot ahead of her and got her jaw around the man’s leg.
He threw Joyce’s purse ahead of him and tried to shake the dog off. The contents of the purse spilled onto the ground.
Joyce could see it was raining at the far end of the alley, and that the man had picked up the purse again and was waving something shiny at her. Probably a knife, she thought.
The mugger reached the far curb of the street at the other end of the alley, Amelia still clamped onto his pant leg.
Joyce charged after them, cold rain pouring onto her face and in her open mouth. The man and her dog were gone, but Joyce saw her wallet half open and lying in the flooded gutter.
She reached over to pick it up and suddenly she felt herself being knocked into the air, accompanied by a screech of brakes and several loud screams.
There must have been a few minutes when Joyce was aware of nothing at all, but when she came to, the back of her head felt like it had been shot full of Novocain.
The same dull, throbbing feeling radiated down her right arm.
Joyce felt a sharp, stabbing pain on her lower right side when she inhaled. I’ve been stabbed, she thought dully.
She moved her hand over the spot and picked her head up to look at it—there was no blood. It only hurt when she breathed, maybe it was a bruised rib, Joyce thought idly.
There was a circle of concerned faces hovering above her, all 59
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strangely unfamiliar. There was something odd about the way they were dressed. The men all wore long overcoats and fedoras.
The women’s flowered print dresses were attractive enough, even though they were cut in a rather shapeless pattern. There was a lot of rouge on the cheeks above her and bright red lipstick.
The women’s shoes were decidedly unfashionable: big, black clunky things with laces and sturdy square heels.
“Are you making a movie or something?” Joyce whispered through her pain. She noticed she had been moved under an awning on a storefront, between several stacked crates of fresh produce.
Someone had slipped a rolled-up coat under her head. By turning her head Joyce could see the shiny metal grill and black hood of the car she supposed had struck her.
“Okay,” a police officer with a decidedly Irish brogue said from behind her. “Did any a ya see what hoppen ’ere?”
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The driver of the big black car claimed he tried to stop when he saw Joyce dart into the street, but there wasn’t enough time.
People in the crowd murmured “the girl came out of nowhere,” and “damn silly girl, running into traffic like that.” No one had seemed to notice the thief who stole Joyce’s purse.
The cop wrote all this down in a leather-covered notebook. He took the driver’s name and address, but for the time being let him go on his way.
A man from the circle of faces above her reached his arm down to Joyce. “Can you get up?” he asked. His scraggly sideburns continued down the line of his chin, but the man had no moustache. He had intense, dark eyes like burning coals that smiled kindly at her.
“I think so,” she said weakly, and grabbed his hand. The man pulled Joyce to her feet and began walking her to the curb.
“You’ve taken a nasty spill, we ought to get you to a hospital.”
While he hailed them a cab, Joyce looked down and noticed he was carrying a beat-up leather case that, from its shape, she concluded held a saxophone.
The crowd was beginning to dissipate, but some people were 61
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muttering darkly about the impropriety of a stranger spiriting away a confused girl.
As a cab swung to the curb and the man guided Joyce inside, a woman who had been standing on the sidewalk during the whole incident also jumped in.
“I’m going to help you help her,” the older woman said, leveling a stare at the good Samaritan. He nodded.
Joyce thought the inside of the taxi was huge. There seemed to be miles between the driver’s seat and the passenger compartment, and no Plexiglas shield separated them.
The car smelled of wet galoshes, appropriate Joyce thought, as she watched the downpour through the car window. The man’s overcoat was scratchy and smelled tweedy as she put her cheek against it.
When they pulled up to the main doors of a hospital a few minutes later, the man paid the hack and then the two helpers guided Joyce inside, one holding her under each arm. Despite the support, she limped badly and grimaced in pain with each step.
A nurse in starched whites and carrying a clipboard met them just inside the doors. The stiff pointed hat on her head looked like Origami to Joyce, or as if some exotic sea bird had perched on the nurse’s head to lay eggs.
“This young lady was struck by a car,” the woman chaperone said.
“Oh dear,” the nurse clucked. She motioned for an assistant, who came up pushing a wheelchair. They helped Joyce into it and began bringing her down the hall. The wide halls had scarred linoleum floors and butter-yellow walls.
She was surprised to find herself in a big open room, lined along each wall with metal-framed beds and washstands. Long curtains on a track hung between each bed, but all of the curtains were pushed back against the wall and the room reminded Joyce of a warehouse.
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“Shouldn’t I be going to the ER?” she asked, as the staff helped her into one of the beds. “I have insurance. I think it covers a semi-private room.”
The nurse looked at the people who had brought Joyce to the hospital. They just smiled wanly back at her.
A doctor appeared at the foot of the bed, with a ward nurse at his side. He asked everyone to wait while he examined Joyce.
The musician and the older woman said their goodbyes, and the man handed Joyce her wallet. “You dropped this and you’ll probably be glad to have it. I’ll come by and see you if that’s all right.”
Joyce nodded blankly and the nurse put the wallet on the bedside table. Then she spun the drape closed on its ceiling track behind her.
“Okay miss, do you know your name?” the doctor asked, sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Joyce Waszlewski.”
“Okay, Joyce. Do you know what happened to you?”
“I was struck by a car. Someone stole my purse and I was chasing him.”
The nurse asked for her age and address, and her parents’
names, and Joyce provided the information. She had to think a minute to recall the address of Debbie’s apartment. “I just moved there yesterday,” she explained.
The doctor took out a tiny flashlight and asked Joyce to follow the beam with her pupils, keeping her head still. Then he held Joyce’s eyelids back and shone the light directly into her eyes.
The nurse helped Joyce out of her clothes. The corduroy pants were tight, and when they wouldn’t slide easily over Joyce’s bruised hip, the material was cut away.
The doctor pressed his hands into Joyce’s abdomen and sides, asking her to tell him where it hurt. She didn’t need to say 63
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anything, when he palpated the lower rib cage on the right side.
Joyce’s back arched in pain and she grabbed the sheets in both fists.
“Bruised, possibly cracked fourth rib, bruised hip,” he said, and the nurse made notes. He asked Joyce to turn onto her stomach, which she did gingerly, and he massaged her lower back and shoulders.
When she jumped again, the doctor intoned, “bruised coccyx,” and the nurse made another note. When she moved onto her back again, the doctor grabbed each of Joyce’s feet in his hands and pulled gently, feeling along the femur and tibia for breaks or bruises.
“Well Joyce, you are pretty banged up. But you are going to be fine,” the doctor said. “We’ll have you stay with us a day or so until we can bring down the swelling. We’ll give you aspirin for that and for the pain.
“We’ll wrap your ribs to give them support. Your lungs are clear and there is no sign of any internal bleeding. The nurses will bring you cold compresses,” he said. “Is there anyone you want us to call?”
Joyce propped herself up on her elbows. “Aren’t you going to X-ray my ribs?”
The doctor and nurse smiled quickly at each other, and the doctor said, “sometimes the old ways are still the best ways. I could tell everything I needed by the physical examination.”
“I never heard of not X-raying to make sure there are no broken bones,” Joyce said. “I demand an X-ray.”
“Dear, the doctor knows what’s best for you,” the nurse said in a condescending tone that was supposed to soothe her. “An X-ray isn’t called for in this case, and we don’t question the doctor.”
“Well, I need more Depakote. I lost mine when my purse was stolen. I take 500 milligrams three times a day. The prescription is 64
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from my doctor in Maine,” Joyce said. “You can call him. He has the history.”
“Hmm. Depakote,” the doctor repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “And what is that for, Joyce?” he asked mildly.
She looked up at him. That was a pretty common drug, even a hospital resident would be familiar with it. But this doctor seemed not to be.
Joyce grew uneasy, and wanted more than anything to get out of this hospital. She decided not to tell them she had a seizure disorder. Instead she started to thank the doctor and nurse for their time, using the bed railings to pull herself upright.
“I have my insurance card and some money here in my wallet.
I’ll just settle the bill with admitting on my way out,” she said.
The doctor and nurse stood on either side of her and gently but firmly pushed Joyce back onto the bed. “You need to stay here,” the doctor said. “We’ll call your family.”
“Call my father in Maine,” Joyce said. “He’ll straighten everything out.” And she gave the nurse the number.
The nurse glanced up at the doctor, who sat on the bed and picked up Joyce’s hand.
“Now what’s wrong?” Joyce said, alarmed.
“You gave us too many numbers, dear,” the doctor said. “Are you confused perhaps?”
“The area code is 207,” she said.
“What is that?” the doctor asked patiently. “You didn’t give us an exchange. For example, this is Murray Hill. Our phone number is MU 5555. A phone number is one number or two letters, followed by four digits.”
Joyce looked at him incredulously. Then she glanced at the clipboard the nurse had slid into a metal tray at the head of her bed. “May 30, 1939,” was entered next to “date.”
“This isn’t 2007?” she asked, stunned.
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The doctor patted her hand, reassuringly. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t you worry.”
As he left the ward, Joyce heard the doctor whisper. “Close observation. Possible head injury.”
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“I tell you, she vanished right in front of my eyes!”
Doug was sitting in a gunmetal grey chair at the side of a police detective’s desk. The blank missing persons report was on the desk in front of the cop, but instead of filling it out, he was drawing large circles on a scratch pad.
“You say she was chasing someone. Was there any sign of this person when you reached the end of the alley?” The question was asked perfunctorily; the answer didn’t matter.
“No, for the one-millionth time. When I got there, no one was around, and there was no sign of any commotion,” Doug said.
“There were just some parked cars and a guy selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner.
“Joyce and her dog had disappeared, and I wasn’t that far behind her. There wasn’t enough time for her to even reach the corner.”
“Mr. Bryan,” the weary-looking cop said. “I can’t file this report. Technically, your girlfriend is not a missing person. Right now she is an adult who is barely an hour late for an appointment.”
“What about the storm I told you about? I saw it was pitch-67
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pouring in that alley, but when I got to where she had been the sun was out. Could a tornado have blown through?”
The detective was an 38-year veteran named Ryerson who had worked on the Son of Sam murders 30 years ago and was now waiting for his pension.
He smiled with his lips, while his eyes remained steely. “A girl and her dog disappeared in a tornado, in midtown, like Dorothy and Toto. I don’t need this, kid. You’re busting my chops here.”
“Can’t you check the weather reports?”
Ryerson looked at the earnest college student, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Son, she isn’t missing. Trust me. There’s a logical explanation,” he said almost kindly. “I’ve been around; I know.”
“Joyce had a great-aunt who disappeared in New York City in 1939,” Doug piped up again. “She was never found, at least that they knew for sure.” Then, after the slightest hesitation: “Do you think there’s a connection?”
“What, that every 68 years or so one of them does this?”
Ryerson belched idly. “It’s a pattern all right. Just like Judge Crater. If memory serves, he was from Maine too.”
But in spite of himself he asked Doug for Joyce’s great-aunt’s name and the approximate date of her disappearance. “I’ll have the file sent up here from records. It’ll take a day or so. In the meantime your girlfriend will turn up and we can all go through it together.”
Doug left, mollified for the time being.
“What the hell are you up to, Ryerson?” the detective at the next desk asked when Doug was gone. “I’m going bust them on Wyllie in records. He’s got life too easy.”
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