For All Their Lives (47 page)

“Señor Harper, the men are lining up around the corner for my hand. My father says none of them are good enough for me. What am I to do?” She giggled.

“Keep right on sneaking out and down the fire escape the way you've been doing for the past three years.” Steve laughed.

“My thoughts exactly.” Elena laughed.

“Aren't you going to take our orders?”

“Why? We only serve one thing. My father already knows you are here so it will be out in a minute.” To Casey she said, “I think he's trying to impress you. This is a humble restaurant.” She flashed another wide smile.

“Yeah, right. And they own half of Sutton Place,” Steve teased.

“I never had Mexican beer before,” Casey said. “Is it strong?” Steve shrugged. Elena set down a pitcher of ice water and glasses. A moment later she was back with two bowls of chili sprinkled with chopped onions.

It was ten o'clock before Casey's tongue, teeth, and lips returned to normal. She'd made six trips to the bathroom, to Harper's amusement. She alone had consumed the first pitcher of water. He'd lost track of the glasses of beer both of them put away. He was feeling no pain; in fact, he was having a hell of a good time. Mary Ashley was a great dinner companion. He hadn't had this good of a time since Julia had dumped him.

“It's getting late, Steve. You said you wanted to discuss something with me.” She waited, not knowing what to expect. She'd actually celebrated her birthday, first with Izzy and then with Steve. She felt giddy, half drunk.

Steve slapped at his forehead. “That's right, I did. I've been having such a good time, I almost forgot. We'll have to do this again. Well, what I mean is, we'll go out to dinner again, but not necessarily here. You know, a . . . date.” He held his breath waiting to see her reaction.

Casey smiled. “I'd like that.”

“You would?” Steve asked, feeling suddenly stupid.

“Uh-huh.”

“Ah, great. We'll . . . ah, I'll check my schedule and we'll . . .
do it
.”

“Okay.” Casey smiled.

“Yes, it is okay.” Steve grinned. “Listen, remember the piece we did back in January, right after you came to work for us? The one on Coco Chanel? I think we did it January eleventh, the day after she died? For our ‘Show-and-Tell' segment.”

“I remember. It was quite good. She once made a dress especially for me. I never got to wear it. It was a beautiful sapphire-blue color. She was a true trendsetter,” Casey said quietly.

“The station had so many calls after we aired, I couldn't believe it. Wherever did you come up with that bit about her calling her perfume No. 5 because a fortune teller told her it was her lucky number?”

Nicole had told her that, and without thinking, she'd added it to the research she'd compiled for Steve's “Show-and-Tell” . segment. Of course, she couldn't tell him that. Palms up in the air, she said lightly, “Who knows, someplace in all the research I did on her. I thought it was a good piece too.”

“Well, what do you think about this, then? Two minutes, three times a week. A ‘Show-and-Tell' about newsworthy and noteworthy people who are alive, not dead. Six minutes total. One film clip of Cassidy and the person, a thirty-second clip. Along those lines. I thought we could compile a list of possible candidates. I want you to do the research. I'm prepared to hire a part-timer to assist you if you agree. A good profile is what I'm looking for. You know, meaty, with a script that crackles. Something that will make people want to tune in and stay tuned. What do you think, Mary?”

“It sounds . . . like a lot of work. I think the idea is wonderful. I like hearing about famous people.”

“That's just it, Mary, I'm not sure I want famous. If some guy grows the biggest tomato in the state of Pennsylvania, I want that. If some kid rides his bike a hundred miles and doesn't get a flat tire, I want that.
Real
people. I guess what I'm trying to say is I want people who in some way make a difference. I
don't
want movie stars. I realize it's going to be a lot of work in the beginning, but once segments start to air, we'll get all kinds of leads and possibilities. Then it will be a simple matter of weeding out the prospects and doing the interviews. I want you to think about it and we'll talk tomorrow. No, we won't. You're off tomorrow. Tuesday. Lunch. I'll bring some hot dogs from the vendor on the corner. Izzy loves hot dogs. Is that okay with you?”

“It sounds good. I think I should go home now. The beer is making me sleepy.”

“I'll put you in a cab. I enjoyed this evening, Mary. You're sure you think this is a good idea?”

“I think it's a wonderful idea. Don't the others think so? What does Mr. Cassidy say?”

“I haven't told the others. I wanted your reaction. I'll spring it on them at next Sunday's meeting.”

Casey blinked at the size of the tip Steve left for Elena.

“It's for her trousseau,” he said with a wink.

What a kind man he is, she thought. Just like Alan, in many ways.

“I'll see you on Tuesday,” Steve said lightly as he closed the door of the cab.

“I enjoyed dinner. Thank you, Steve.”

All the way home she hummed the birthday song under her breath. All in all it was one of her nicer birthdays.

O
UTSIDE THE APARTMENT
on Seventy-ninth Street, the wind howled and rain sluiced against the windows. It was Wednesday, March 24, Casey's day off.

Casey liked having a day off in the middle of the week, it broke up the long work hours. She was now putting so much time in at the station that she had no time to call her own. It was a good thing, she thought, that she wasn't involved in a relationship. Even the dinner date with Steve hadn't materialized. He had less free time than she did, and she knew for a fact that he often slept at the station on a folding cot kept in the office closet for emergencies.

Her day had been planned. She was going to shop for some new spring clothes, fill her pantry, dust up the apartment, and if time permitted, after she took a nap, take in a movie. Now, however, with the rain, none of her plan would work out, unless she wanted to get soaked and catch cold.

Every lamp and overhead light in the apartment was lit in her attempt to keep the darkness outside. She cringed when an angry slash of rain slapped against the living room window. She remembered the monsoon rains in Vietnam. She started to shake. She clasped both her hands in an effort to regain calmness. Sometimes it worked when she talked to herself or dialed Luke's number. It was almost a game now, calling Luke after one of her bad dreams, listening to his calm voice. She could tell that Luke was intrigued by the things he said to the silence on her end of the line. Sometimes he talked for as long as three minutes before he hung up. She always wrote down what he said, immediately after replacing the receiver in the cradle. In a minute she would reach for the sheaf of papers and read them over and over. Actual phone calls were for bad dreams. The notes were for second-hand comfort during the bad times, when something triggered a painful memory. Her head was pounding, and for a second she thought she was going to throw up. She grappled with the papers in the desk drawer. She took a huge, deep breath. Damn, it wasn't working. She ran to the bathroom, but she managed to keep down the coffee and toast she'd eaten earlier.

She paced. It had been three years since her ordeal in Vietnam. She shouldn't be feeling like this. If only Alan were here to talk to, but he hadn't seen fit to answer any of her letters. She'd sent one every week. She was out of his life now, and he simply didn't want to be bothered, she told herself.

Lately she'd toyed with the idea of calling the foundation Mac Carlin had set up for Vietnam veterans. She'd read about it a few months ago. The Vietnam Veterans Foundation. She had called information for the telephone number and had even drafted a letter, but she hadn't carried through. She remembered so clearly writing the letter and then shoving it in the desk. At that precise moment she'd said aloud, “I should go back. Maybe if I go back all of this will go away.” She'd gone into such an unholy tizzy then that she'd actually blacked out, but when she came to, the thought had still been with her. Since then the thought was always with her.

She thought about Alan again. She ached with rejection. How could he cut her off so completely? She tried to make her mind understand that Alan had done his job. He'd saved her life, made her whole again, and moved on with his life.

At the station they had constantly spoken of the “bottom line.” Everyone, they said, had a bottom line. Hers, she knew, was the open acknowledgment that she needed someone. On that last day, Alan had told her to get a cat. She hadn't gotten the animal, but now she wished she had.

She continued to pace, circling the apartment, staring at the few possessions she'd accumulated in the past few months, little things to brighten her new home. In an antique store she'd spotted a fat, happy buddha made from teakwood. Every time she looked at the silly expression on its face, she smiled. Now it rested in one of the dark corners on a pedestal next to a luscious green fern that she watered and spritzed every Sunday. On her coffee table a music box that played “As Time Goes By” rested next to a potted Japanese garden. She watered the small garden once a month and played the music box every day. It always made her sad. In a fabric store on Second Avenue, she'd purchased a pile of pillows in rainbow colors, just like Maline's back in Thailand, to add color to the quiet living room.

On her days off she'd scoured art galleries until she found, she thought, the duplicate prints of the Moulin Rouge pictures that were in her father's house. She had three now. They hung on the wall over the sofa; the vibrant colors of the flower stalls were the same as those in her pillows. Home.

It was still too quiet, even with the rain lashing and gouging at her windows. She turned on the television and the stereo. Now she had too much noise, but she didn't care. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She sniffed, blew her nose and wiped at her eyes. Anger at her situation engulfed her, raging through her until she couldn't think. She lashed out with her foot, kicking at the coffee table, toppling the music box and the Japanese garden. She flung the colorful pillows in every direction, and sobbed as she threw ashtrays across the room and heaved magazines at the television set. When her anger was spent, she dropped down to the floor and cried great, hacking, gulping sobs. She wondered if she was having a nervous breakdown, if this strange behavior would continue, and for how long.

She was calm now, her tears gone. She reached for the telephone directory, and in the Yellow Pages found a long list of psychiatrists. How was she to choose? She closed the book.

Fear drove her as she searched in the hall closet for her raincoat, plastic boots, and umbrella. She was on the street heading for First Avenue, her destination, a pet store. She thought she was crying again, but she couldn't be sure if her face was covered with tears or raindrops.

She turned out to be the only customer in the shop. The owner sat behind a desk with a sheaf of papers in front of him. He waved lazily to indicate she should look around. “Call me if you need me.” His voice, Casey thought, was as lazy-sounding as he appeared.

Casey bypassed the tropical fish tanks, the bird cages, the racks of dog, and cat and bird toys. Then she came to the animal cages. She peered into each one, searching for what she hoped would be the perfect animal to comfort her. Tiny pink tongues licked at her fingers. Soft yips of pleasure pleased her. Three times she walked up the puppy aisle. She walked up and down the kitten aisle four times. Cat or dog? Both? Two? Yes, two, she decided, for they would be lonely while she was at work. She craned her neck to look over the rack of animal toys.

On her sixth trip up and down both aisles, she finally made her decision. She motioned to the owner. “What do you call this dog?” she asked.

“She's a Yorkie Poo. Six weeks. She just came in yesterday, and she'll be gone in a few days. She'll make a wonderful pet. I always recommend female dogs for women. You probably won't believe this, but Yorkies are great little watchdogs.” Casey nodded.

The moment the dog was placed in her hands, she knew she had a friend. She was so tiny she could fit in Casey's raincoat pocket. She cradled the dog to her cheek. She felt so warm and so
alive.

Holding the puppy against her cheek, she meandered down the kitten aisle until she came to the last cage, where four kittens romped with a ball of string.

“That one,” she said, pointing to a yellow tiger cat.

“Good choice.” The owner beamed. The Yorkie licked at the kitten, who playfully swiped at her with one tiny paw. “They'll get along, contrary to what you may have heard about dogs and cats. The kitten is just five weeks old, so the Yorkie will be boss, you'll see. What else will you need?”

Casey shrugged helplessly. “I never had an animal before. You tell me.”

“Two kennels, two beds, leashes, food, a few toys, their own blankets, litter box and litter. It's almost like outfitting a room for a new baby,” the owner said happily.

“Can you deliver?” Casey asked anxiously.

“Of course. If you like, I can drive you home with the animals. I'll close the store for a little while. Do you live close by?”

“Seventy-ninth, around the corner really. I appreciate it. By the way, do these animals have names?”

“Of course. That's the first thing I do when an animal comes in here. To me they aren't real until they have names. The Yorkie is Samantha. Sam, for short. I thought the name would make up for her size, which, by the way, won't go past eight pounds. The kitten is Gracie. Of course if you want to change the names, you can, but I found that once an animal responds to a name, it's hard to get them used to a new one. It's up to you. These little beauties are going to give you many hours of pleasure,” he said. He selected rubber toys and leashes from the rack.

With the animals in their respective kennels, Casey wrote out a check for nine hundred dollars. She blanched at the amount but somehow managed to keep her hand steady when she wrote the check. The Yorkie, the owner said, was a pedigree and worth seven hundred dollars.

It took the owner, Casey, and the doorman to carry everything to Casey's apartment on the sixteenth floor.

The moment Casey was alone with the animals, she let them free of their kennels. They yipped and squeaked as they streaked about the apartment, to Casey's delight, piddling every time they stopped to catch their breaths. Casey felt like an indulgent mother as she cleaned up mess after mess. At five minutes to noon both animals collapsed one on top of the other in sleep. Casey thought it the cutest thing she'd ever seen. Her good mood soured when she wondered if the two pets would exclude her from their affection. Not likely, she decided, since she would be the one who fed them.

Casey was on page seven of the dog manual she'd purchased when Matthew Cassidy's face flashed on the screen. “And now the
Noonday News!”
She listened with half an ear, her eyes on the manual, when she heard Cassidy's voice turn somber. “We've just learned that in the face of heavy communist resistance, South Vietnam was forced to end prematurely its military operation against enemy supply lines in Laos. The withdrawal comes only forty-four days after South Vietnamese troops, supported by American air power and artillery fire, swept into Laos in an attempt to disrupt the supply line, known as the Ho Chi Minh trail. We're told that at the height of the operation, more than twenty thousand South Vietnamese troops were in Laos. South Vietnam suffered heavy casualties, one thousand, one hundred forty-six killed. The United States lost eighty-nine helicopters, and fifty-one Americans were killed . . . In London, Sir Laurence Olivier takes his seat today in the House of Lords . . . ”

The despair was back again, so deep and dark, Casey thought she would black out. Would it ever be over? Would people ever understand? Would
she
ever understand? She didn't stop to think, to rationalize. She dialed the long-distance operator and asked to be connected with Dr. Luke Farrell, in Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania, person to person. “My name is . . . Mary Ashley, from TSN News in New York,” she said.

Dear God, his voice was the same. So sane-sounding. So very, very real. She almost sobbed in relief when she heard him say, “This is Luke Farrell, Miss Ashley, what can I do for you?”

In the space of time it took for her heart to beat three times, Casey made her decision. “Luke, this is . . . Casey Adams. I need to . . . oh, Luke, I need someone! Luke, I think I'm losing my mind. Can you . . . will you come? I can meet you at the airport. Please, say you'll come. I'm this new person—Mary Ashley . . . I thought I . . . Will you come, Luke? I'll meet you wherever your flight lands, La Guardia or Kennedy. Please, Luke. New York, Luke. I'm in New York City,” she said tearfully.

“Casey! Jesus Christ, they said you were dead. I believed them. Son of a bitch, you're alive! I'll leave now. Christ, you're alive. Goddamnit, I should wring your neck for letting me think you were . . . ah, shit.” His voice was so happy, so joyous, Casey laughed in spite of her tears.

“Call me from the airport when you know the time of your flight. I'll meet you. I can't wait to see you, Luke. You're all right, aren't you?”

“I'm fine. I'm really fine. You bet. Couldn't be better. Jesus, I can't wait to see you. Hang up for God's sake so I can get to the airport. I have to go to Pittsburgh, you know. Are you gonna hang up?”

“I don't want to, but I will. 'Bye, Luke.”

It was an asinine thing she'd just done. “I don't care,” she said so forcefully that both the puppy and kitten awoke simultaneously. She scooped both animals into her arms, her tears falling on their silky heads.

“He's nice, you'll like him,” she crooned as she dabbed at her tears. She talked to the animals then, her voice rising and breaking from time to time. They appeared to listen, content in the cradle of her arms, licking at her face, her hands and arms. As one, they leaped from her arms the moment she laughed at their antics. They stopped long enough to listen to her voice.

“We need a routine. I'll get the litter box ready and put down the paper for Sam. That's how we're going to do things until you're ready to walk on the leash, which won't be for a few months, according to the manual. Come along, ladies, while I get things organized, and I bet you're hungry.” She filled dishes with the greenish-gray pellets that looked terrible and smelled worse. The Yorkie looked at her dish and backed away. The kitten pawed her dish of dry food but wouldn't eat it. Both animals lapped at the water in a small red bowl she set on the floor. “I don't blame you, it smells shitful. I'll make something.” They watched her movements, their heads cocked to the side, their eyes never leaving her striding form as she opened tuna and scrambled eggs. “This probably isn't good for you, but until I can get to the store for some canned food, it's all we have.” She squatted on the kitchen floor to watch them wolf down their meal. Immediately she placed the kitten in the litter box. She and the Yorkie watched as Gracie scratched around before she did what she was supposed to do. The minute Casey praised her and lifted her from the box, Sam hopped in and did her thing. “I don't think it works that way, but I'm open to anything that doesn't cause a mess.” She gurgled with pleasure when she lifted the Yorkie from the box, calling her a good girl. “Now, go play,” she said, putting the rubber squeak toys into a small wicker basket. “This is yours,” she said, wagging her finger. “You don't chew anything else.”