"Someone order a hard-boiled detective?" asked a voice from outside the doorway, and a second later, Detective Vecchio stood in front of us, carrying an armful of flowers and a blue helium balloon with arms and legs of accordion crepe. All of which looked suspiciously similar to the ones we had passed the night before in the hospital gift shop window.
"For you, Maggie," he said, presenting them, before they joined Ben's growing bower of plants. I stifled the urge to announce that he could bow.
"How you feeling," he asked, raising his chin with the question. I didn't respond right away, certain that he was addressing his partner. But he walked deliberately up to my gurney and grabbed onto the railing.
"I'm okay, I guess. The doctor is supposed to be by soon."
"I'm sorry," he said, putting his hand on top of mine--the one with the IV tube taped to it. "I should have known--shouldn't have brought you along, gotten you even more hurt." The lines around his eyes seemed so kind, so concerned. So different from the tense, angry cop of yesterday.
"It's not your fault," I said, and I meant it. "Things happen. If not here, then somewhere else. I doubt the Saint would've known what to do if I had collapsed by myself back at home."
"The Saint?" Ben asked.
"My Saint Bernard," I told him. "He's smart, but lacks a few credits before he can get his Red Cross First Aid certification."
"Oh," he said, and nodded.
"I'm joking."
"Don't worry, Maggie," Vecchio kidded. "Benny here believes you 'cause he's got a wolf that can practically knit and play Schubert--that is when he's not out rescuing the population of Chicago at large."
He smiled widely and I wasn't sure what to think. So I smiled too.
"Oops--almost forgot." Vecchio pulled a rolled-up newspaper out of the inside pocket of his coat. "The Consulate sent this over--the newest edition of Mountie Monthly, I guess. And I thought I'd round it out with today's Guardian. But the two of you'll have to fight over who gets to do the crossword, I only brought one copy."
A conversation ensued about the wolf Diefenbaker, the one Victoria had shot, who apparently had an impressive aptitude for both crosswords and the daily jumble. It seemed Vecchio was taking care of him at Ben's apartment until he was well enough to come to the hospital.
During this I decided to try and get a comb through my hair. If I had to see a doctor and spend another night here, I thought I might as well try to re-braid it and keep it out of my way.
There was a small comb in the drawer of Ben's bedside table, obviously more suited to his abbreviated shock of hair than mine, but I tried to make do. It was rough going. I was all tangles and rats, most of which I couldn't see. I did not realize that I was also emitting sound effects to accompany my struggles until Detective Vecchio stood and crossed from Ben's bed to mine.
"Here," he offered, taking the comb from my stunned hand. "Let me."
I didn't know what to say, and from the perplexed expression on Ben's face, neither did he.
"What?" Vecchio wailed. "I got two sisters and a couple of nieces. I can't know how to braid hair?"
Ben and he continued talking, I faded in and out, sometimes listening, sometimes thinking to myself. He was very careful of my stitches, and hardly pulled at all even on the rat's nests.
When he was finished, he had done a pretty good job.
