He just wished she’d been more careful.
The Caddy was for special occasions—anniversaries when he took Marie to Ruth’s Chris Steak House downtown, student art shows where Angie always won first prize. First and last days of school were special occasions. So was opening day for the snowball stand.
THE GOD OF LIGHTNING BY LAURA BOGART 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 07
Jack’s wife drove from Baltimore to DC, where they got Angie from that hospital between the Unitarian Church and the Cluck-U Chicken/Laundromat. Marie piloted their Civic through a zig-zag of cross-streets and medians. For a hot minute, Jack understood how that idiot girl could’ve T-boned his daughter. But that swell of empathy subsided when he remembered Angie’s tear-strained voice on the line, the first time she’d called in three months: “My left hand is broken, and my show goes in the gallery in a fucking month, and of course, the principessa who hit me only has a scratch on her pretty little chin. Fucking bitch has five-hundred-dollar heels!” She must’ve been i…