Chapter 7: Twenty Months of Kisses

Luka sat down on the porch steps and stayed there.

He held the heavy black gun between his knees and looked at the dead man's boots.

I sat beside him. The boards were wet, and the cold came up through my torn dress.

"He said Viktor," Luka said at last.

"Yes."

"The man could have lied."

"He could have."

"He's dying. He had no reason to."

"No," I said.

He nodded once.

He put the gun down on the step very carefully.

"Twenty-six years," he said. "Every Sunday. Every funeral."

"Every time I was sick, my father sat at the end of my bed and read me the newspaper."

I didn't answer, because there was nothing in me that could.

I took his good hand in both of mine, and he let me.

We sat that way until the sky went from black to gray.

Then he stood up and said, "Come inside. I'm bleeding on the steps."

He was.

The bandage I'd wrapped had soaked through, and a dark line ran from his elbow to his wrist.

Pavel Orlin was awake at the table when we came in.

He had the cushions piled up beside him, and his hands were folded over his bag.

"I am sorry," he said, to Luka. "I am so sorry."

"Go back to sleep, Mr. Orlin."

"I could not."

"Then drink some water."

The old man drank it. His glass shook against his teeth.

I found a sewing kit in the bathroom, with a needle and a spool of black thread.

Under the sink there was a bottle of plum brandy.

I boiled the needle. I poured brandy over my hands.

"Take off your shirt," I said.

Luka looked at me.

"I need to see the whole arm."

"You've seen me without a shirt before."

"Not with a hole in you."

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