After the Wreck, I Picked Myself Up, Spread My Wings, and Flew Away by Joyce Carol Oates Read Free Book Online Page A

be alone for a while.”
    I don’t say “I’m sorry.” I don’t say “thanks.”
    My sailor hat rim is pulled over my eyes, I can’t see my aunt’s face. Already I’m walking away, trying not to favor my right knee.
    I can feel Aunt Caroline looking after me. Hoping she won’t call my name, and she doesn’t.

7
    “Hey.”
    I look up, and there’s this guy.
    This guy I’ve never seen before, in jeans and a black T-shirt, ropy-muscled arms, black stubble on his jaws and throat, staring at me.
    “You hurt?”
    I’m swiping at my eyes. Afraid to say anything, I might break into tears.
    “…need some help getting up? Or…”
    No! Don’t need help getting up; really I’m okay.
    Kind of twisted my ankle when my knee gave out. He must’ve seen me wobble and fall. Must’ve seen I’m alone on the wood-chip trail, nobody else running up behind me.
    This lonely place! Except there are voices somewhere close by, laughter, boom-box music.

    For a while I was running okay, sort of slow running like you see some women and older men, panting and puffing and swinging their arms bent awkwardly at their elbows, “jogging” at about a half mile per hour. That’s how I was “running” on the wood-chip trail beside Sable Creek when suddenly my right knee felt like the bones were splintering, both my knees gave out, and I crashed down like a bag of wet laundry and my right ankle kind of twisted and I fell hard. I’m just kind of lying here now, panting and biting my lip to keep from crying, listening to my heart beating rapid and panicked, and angry, feeling some kind of disgusting trickle out of my nostrils I’m hoping isn’t blood.
    “Thanks. I’m okay.” My voice sounds like a choked little-doll voice when the battery’s running down.
    “Yeah? You sure?”

    Is he laughing at me? This guy from out of nowhere. He seems about eighteen. Standing maybe ten feet away, fingers hooked in his frayed leather belt. Unshaven black stubble like quills covering his jaws, he looks kind of scary. A few minutes ago I passed some young guys in the park, some girls with them, loud voices, laughter, like they were drinking beer at midday. Heavy metal rock out of a boom box. Motorcycles parked nearby. This guy is with them? A biker? His black T-shirt is too faded to make out the name of the band (I guess it’s a band) on the front, but I see what looks like a tattoo on one of his forearms. I’m scared of a guy appearing out of nowhere.
    I’ve pushed myself up partway, on my knees now. Moving with caution so I don’t wince visibly with pain. I tell myself this is after the wreck , what’s a sprained ankle? A throbbing knee? I survived broken bones, a brain concussion, I should be used to pain.
    “Now what?”
    The unshaven guy is watching me with a skeptical look. Like he doesn’t know whether to be sorry for me or laugh at me.
    “What do you mean—‘now what’?”
    “Like, what’re you going to do now? You think you can walk?”
    “Walk,” he says, like it’s the punch line of a joke. When it looks like I have all I can do to stand up, cautiously.
    I don’t have to answer this smart-ass remark. I’m managing to walk, slowly. Trying not to limp or whimper in pain.
    “Looks like you sprained that ankle. Maybe you need a ride home.”
    No! I don’t need a ride home.

    Limping along, away from this guy who’s scrutinizing me too closely. My heart is beating against my ribs. I don’t know if I’m embarrassed, or excited, or angry, or scared. In Tarrytown, which is in close proximity to New York City, if a guy appeared out of nowhere on a trail like this, and a girl was alone, she’d have reason to be scared. Only last year an eighteen-year-old girl jogger was dragged into a wooded area, raped and strangled and left to die in Morningside Heights, near the Hudson River, and whoever did it hasn’t been found.
    About twenty feet behind me the unshaven guy is trailing after me, whistling through his teeth. I’m