WAILING WAUL

‘Siggy, Siggy, help! I see his hand reach out to me but it is a second too late. My ice skate lace loosened and has tripped me. Here I am, lying on my back, cold water splashing on my face, hair, as more adept skaters dip and glide past me. I am embarrassed. A tall, ugly kid purposely skids close to me so that shavings of wet ice go inside my jacket. I try to dig my skates into the ice while Siggy pulls me up. It doesn’t happen. I pull him down. ‘OOPS!’ A pretty teenager wearing a short pleated skirt can’t avoid Siggy’s prostrate body and falls heavily across his right leg. His scream comes from the depth of hell. It shuts out the recorded waltz coming from two staticky loud speakers. On my knees, I crawl to the railing, get a tight hold and rise, water dripping from inside my padded pants. Siggy’s in trouble. A crowd is forming around him. Whistles blow. An announcement asks everyone to clear the rink until the injured person is removed. ‘Skating will resume as quickly as possible.’

It seems forever as I worry, fidget, try to find out what has happened to Siggy. He is surrounded. I am ignored. The circle opens as four medics carry in a sturdy board, talk to Siggy, and somehow manage to get the board underneath him, throw a warm blanket over his body and skate out of the rink. I barely hear him yelling, ‘Mildred, Mildred call my,’ and he is gone. I sit on the wooden steps that lead to the exit, manage to remove my skates, soaked socks and go looking for my shoes and Siggy’s as well as his back pack. I spot them on the bench in the section next to me. I can’t believe nobody stole them.

The canned music is already playing The Blue Danube. Siggy and I are not missed. The skating goes on. Perfect timing. I reach the rink exit at the very moment Siggy is wheeled out, lifted into the ambulance, shouting, ‘Harry Golden, Yellowstone Dr. Going to St. Alphonso’s Hospital.’ The wailing sirens give me goose flesh right thru my soaked underwear.

‘ Mrs. Golden. This is Mildred. Siggy might have a broken leg. .He’s on the way to St. Alphonso’s. Tell him not to be worried. I have his shoes and back pack, but I don’t see his car key.’ ‘Mildred, surprise, Siggy’s home already. His leg isn’t broken, just bruised badly. He wants you to come over so he can beat you to a pulp for pulling him down on the ice. Come soon. I’ll have good hot chocolate with tollhouse cookies ready for you both.’

Relief overcomes me. I put Sig’s shoes and socks into his back pack. He must have still had his skates on when he was taken away. It is as heavy as a roasting 25 lb. turkey and just as hard to manage. Books, magazines, Game Boy, pack rat junk. I force my skates in and zip up, put the straps over my shoulders and walk lopsided to the bus. Street lights are on and I walk as carefully as I can, which isn’t carefully enough. My ankle gives in to a huge crack in the pavement where a sycamore’s roots came up for a fast taste of snow. I scream the scream from hell. My ankle has to be broken.

A few passersby stop to help me stand, but I can’t put any weight on my right foot. A woman, a complete stranger, kindly uses her cell to call 911 and leaves me there. The wailing sirens wail again. This time I wince for my own pain. I give the medics all the information they want. ‘Will you please call my mother, tell her where you are taking me and she has to call Mrs. Golden at 542-6112 to tell her I can’t come over. I’m at St. Alphonso’s.’