“Now what the hell have you been up to?”
My face evidently looked like a muffin that had spilled over lopsided in baking, for my nose was broken and two points off its course.
“Answer me. What happened?” Father repeated with force.
“I guess I’ve busted my flippers. Can you fix them?” was all I could reply.
He took my broken wrists in his hands and examined them, then sent the man at the wheel after a fruit box.
“Now you get below, Joan. I’ll make some splints out of slats of wood and set your arms. But about your nose, how in the hell can I do anything with that?”
Despite his doubts, Father made a good job of patching me up. He used a ruler broken in two pieces for a splint for my nose, and then put a finishing touch on his handiwork by giving me a big dose of salts. Father sincerely believed salts were a cure for everything from bad temper to a broken neck, and I became so inured to swallowing the darn stuff that I almost learned to like it.
