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her staying in Mid City, in case he s still here or, if not, in case he decides
to return. But she s just about given up hope of either of these possibilities.
He sold his apartment. He sent in his resignation. And now he s gone.
Once again he has left his life behind, everyone he s known and everything
he s built. But this time he s older, and he s left more behind than ever
before, and she just doesn t see his finding the strength to start a whole
new life all over again.
Somewhere a car alarm begins its unvarying cycle.
The Savage Gi r l 207
The tremulous wave.
The glottal stutter.
The dancing octaves.
The hopeful risers.
She wonders how many people throughout the world at this moment
are hearing these same sound patterns, and how much more frustration,
anxiety, and wistfulness are born with each new peal. She imagines Javier
hearing a car alarm in whatever anonymous hotel room he s come to
occupy. She imagines him sitting on the bed of his hotel room as the
inescapable sounds of the car alarm wend through the window and wrap
him ever more tightly in their silken shroud. He is paralyzed but still con-
scious. He will never move again. He knows this and waits to be devoured.
All activity is restricted to his sad, panicked eyes and the deepening crease
in his brow.
So Javier sits, somewhere. So Ursula sits. So the savage girl sits.
The sun spreads across the jagged rooftops. A bloody, runny egg.
A police car climbs the curb at the West Gate and creeps toward them
along the cobbled path. As it nears, Ursula discerns two policemen in the
front seat and someone in the back: the strawberry blonde, her face bright
as a strawberry now as well, crying. She wipes the tears and snot from her
face with a tissue as the car drifts past Ursula and stops just short of the
savage girl s position on the park bench. The two cops get out, hands on
their guns. The savage girl stares straight ahead, as though determined to
will them out of existence. One of the cops is a woman, short and heavy-
set, with dark hair protruding from the back and sides of her hat. The
male cop says something to the savage girl, who doesn t respond. But
when he takes another step toward her, in one sudden motion she jumps
up to a standing position on the bench and brings the hatchet above
her head, where she holds it ready. Simultaneously, both cops draw their
guns, and from inside the car comes the stifled scream of the strawberry
blonde.
Ursula is up and running toward them, not knowing what she ll do.
The male cop looks in her direction, his gun still pointed at the savage girl.
His head jerks back and forth between them. He takes a couple of quick
steps away from the girl and turns, pointing his gun at Ursula. He is
shouting commands at her. His voice is so tight and frayed she thinks his
vocal cords might snap.
Ursula stops, raises her hands. Beyond the barrel of the pistol, the cop s
eyes are round and his face is square, his bottom lip pulled tight to reveal
208 Al ex Shakar
his yellowing lower teeth, strangely small for such a large, fleshy head. The
cop s teeth make her more sad than scared. If she moves, she will be shot,
but she knows the situation is really not that much different from many
others that people find themselves in every day: if you jump into the
tracks, you die; if you turn the steering wheel toward oncoming traffic,
you die. She probably won t move her hands and he probably won t shoot.
The four of them stand still for a moment Ursula and the savage girl
with their arms raised above their heads, the two cops with their arms
extended in front of them, the symmetry of it all rather sculptural and
then the woman cop begins yelling.
Drop your weapon NOW let go of that ax you want to get shot?
The savage girl doesn t drop the hatchet. She crouches a little, maybe
preparing to pounce.
Don t shoot her, Ursula says. She doesn t know . . .
Doesn t know what? the small-toothed cop shouts at her.
Ursula pauses. Doesn t know language? Doesn t know what a gun is? Can a
person will herself into forgetting these things? Ursula doesn t know what
the savage girl does or doesn t know.
Is she crazy? the cop says. Do you know this woman? Is she nuts?
She thinks she will say no but the word that comes out is yes. Her heart
squirms behind the bars of her chest. She looks up at the savage girl, wish-
ing she could apologize. The savage girl stares at the cop pointing the gun
at her, who now backs off slowly. Her ravaged face has become strangely
expressive. Her lips are bunched into a small, tight ring. Her eyebrows are
lowered. Her eyes burn. The expression is rage.
What about you? the male cop says. Are you nuts, too?
No, Officer.
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