what he was doing in that neighborhood. If I hadn't been distracted, hadn't been watching him..."
"You don't have to do this," her husband says gently. She sees him glare at her inquisitor.
She tries to smile at her husband, reassure him, but the corners of her mouth won't turn up. The pills, she is sure. They have numbed her emotions, but not enough to ease the pain deep inside.
"He came from the same side of the street, a little in front of the man on the curb, and he literally flew at me. I saw his startled face, and then he must have realized what was happening, because I saw his expression of horror." She leans against her husband. "That's it. I slammed my foot on the brake, but he was already under... under the tire. People started screaming, 'Back up. Back up.' And I did."
She covers her face and struggles for composure. Her husband hands her a tissue and protests again.
"Really," he says. "This is too much."
"Getting out and seeing him like that was the hardest part," she continues. "All those people gathered around trying to help him. And he twitched and then lay motionless, and I knew. I knew he was dead."
"Did you see a box?" The man looks up from his notepad where he has been taking notes, and she notices how intense his eyes are. Watchful, studying, calculating. Perhaps hoping for some inconsistency in her side of the story, a plausible reason to arrest her for manslaughter. Her arrest is a possibility, even though her husband doesn't believe it will happen.
"A box?" She shakes her head, wishing to be helpful.
"No, he wasn't carrying anything that I recall." She frowns and concentrates. "I think... uh... no, sorry... no box that I remember."
"This is the last time," her husband says, anger in his voice. "I mean it. She's repeated the story for the last time."
7
Curves for Women literally hopped with activity. When Nina and Gretchen arrived, almost all the stations were in use. Gretchen spotted April and the rest of the doll collectors who made up their exercise group on the far side of the room, exercising away. Nina and Gretchen found space and jumped into the routine.
"Change stations now," a voice boomed every thirty seconds from a recorded message overhead. Women of all sizes and shapes moved around the circle, running on platforms and using pieces of equipment. Gretchen worked on the stepper while Nina ran in place on a platform next to her, arms slightly bent, her feet barely moving.
"Hey!" The greeting came from April, whose long gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore an extra large muumuu over her enormous torso and beatup sneakers. Sweat ran down her puffy face in streams that she blotted at with a wad of tissues clutched in one chubby fist.
Gretchen wondered if anyone in the room knew CPR. Just in case. She waved and greeted each of the collectors she'd come to know in the past two months.
"All set for your first show tomorrow?" April asked.
"Change stations now."
"It's more work than I thought," Gretchen said, moving to the next station on command. "But I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
"You'll do fine. I'm only selling a few of my miniatures at the show, so I can help you." April attempted a squat on a hydraulic machine but became wedged in a crouched position. She edged out sideways and glared at the machine.
"And I have all my books together for appraisals. After a few hundred shows, packing is easy."
"You have to increase the price of your appraisals,"
Nina told her. "You've been charging the same rate for years now."
"I'm thinking about it. I guess it depends if I have any competition and what they're charging."
"I hear Steve's in town to take you home," Bonnie said. The president of the Phoenix Dollers wore her standard red flipped wig and a face full of colorful makeup. Gretchen couldn't see any physical resemblance between Bonnie Albright and her son, Matt. Fewer cups of coffee, and her makeup lines might be a little straighter, Nina had commented to
"You don't have to do this," her husband says gently. She sees him glare at her inquisitor.
She tries to smile at her husband, reassure him, but the corners of her mouth won't turn up. The pills, she is sure. They have numbed her emotions, but not enough to ease the pain deep inside.
"He came from the same side of the street, a little in front of the man on the curb, and he literally flew at me. I saw his startled face, and then he must have realized what was happening, because I saw his expression of horror." She leans against her husband. "That's it. I slammed my foot on the brake, but he was already under... under the tire. People started screaming, 'Back up. Back up.' And I did."
She covers her face and struggles for composure. Her husband hands her a tissue and protests again.
"Really," he says. "This is too much."
"Getting out and seeing him like that was the hardest part," she continues. "All those people gathered around trying to help him. And he twitched and then lay motionless, and I knew. I knew he was dead."
"Did you see a box?" The man looks up from his notepad where he has been taking notes, and she notices how intense his eyes are. Watchful, studying, calculating. Perhaps hoping for some inconsistency in her side of the story, a plausible reason to arrest her for manslaughter. Her arrest is a possibility, even though her husband doesn't believe it will happen.
"A box?" She shakes her head, wishing to be helpful.
"No, he wasn't carrying anything that I recall." She frowns and concentrates. "I think... uh... no, sorry... no box that I remember."
"This is the last time," her husband says, anger in his voice. "I mean it. She's repeated the story for the last time."
7
Curves for Women literally hopped with activity. When Nina and Gretchen arrived, almost all the stations were in use. Gretchen spotted April and the rest of the doll collectors who made up their exercise group on the far side of the room, exercising away. Nina and Gretchen found space and jumped into the routine.
"Change stations now," a voice boomed every thirty seconds from a recorded message overhead. Women of all sizes and shapes moved around the circle, running on platforms and using pieces of equipment. Gretchen worked on the stepper while Nina ran in place on a platform next to her, arms slightly bent, her feet barely moving.
"Hey!" The greeting came from April, whose long gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore an extra large muumuu over her enormous torso and beatup sneakers. Sweat ran down her puffy face in streams that she blotted at with a wad of tissues clutched in one chubby fist.
Gretchen wondered if anyone in the room knew CPR. Just in case. She waved and greeted each of the collectors she'd come to know in the past two months.
"All set for your first show tomorrow?" April asked.
"Change stations now."
"It's more work than I thought," Gretchen said, moving to the next station on command. "But I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
"You'll do fine. I'm only selling a few of my miniatures at the show, so I can help you." April attempted a squat on a hydraulic machine but became wedged in a crouched position. She edged out sideways and glared at the machine.
"And I have all my books together for appraisals. After a few hundred shows, packing is easy."
"You have to increase the price of your appraisals,"
Nina told her. "You've been charging the same rate for years now."
"I'm thinking about it. I guess it depends if I have any competition and what they're charging."
"I hear Steve's in town to take you home," Bonnie said. The president of the Phoenix Dollers wore her standard red flipped wig and a face full of colorful makeup. Gretchen couldn't see any physical resemblance between Bonnie Albright and her son, Matt. Fewer cups of coffee, and her makeup lines might be a little straighter, Nina had commented to
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