Casualties (13 page)

Ruth stood at the bottom of the stairs trying to decide whether to go back to bed; it was only nine thirty in the morning, but the thought of the day ahead drained her. Maybe she would slip out the door so that Neal and Terri, deep in conversation upstairs, would never know she'd left. She'd like, for a little while at least, to be free of their worried scrutiny. It seemed to be exhausting them as much as it was her. She half turned and came face-to-face with the alcove that shadowed the guest room door. She hadn't been inside that room for three days, not since she'd read Robbie's journal. The notebook probably lay where she'd dropped it, among the clothes and other belongings scattered across the floor. She turned again, this time away from the guest room, but moved too quickly and lost her balance. The glass of water she was holding slipped from her grasp and shattered on the tiles.

“Ruth?” Neal's head appeared over the upstairs railings. “You okay?”

“Just broke a glass.”

“Leave it. I'll get it later. Come on up.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Ruth said. “Just toss me the paper towels.” She didn't know what frustrated her more, the missed opportunity to sneak out or the mask of strained patience on Neal's face.

“Here, I'm coming.” A few moments later, Terri rounded the turn on the landing and clattered down the steps bearing towel, dustpan, and broom. She crouched to sop up the water.

Ruth gave in. “Thanks, Ter.”

Terri rose, a smile on her round face. She handed Ruth the sodden towel and stooped to finish sweeping the glass into the dustpan. “You head up. I'll follow.”

When Ruth got to the top of the stairs, Neal was standing behind the island unit as if waiting to see how she would respond before attempting to come closer. Behind him, the television suspended from the corner was on. A cup of espresso steamed on the granite counter.

“Sorry for snapping,” Ruth said. She dropped the towel into the sink and went to Neal. She touched his arm. He put it around her awkwardly and gave a quick squeeze. Terri appeared and Ruth thought she saw a smile of approval.

Then she glanced down at the newspaper on the counter, its sections spread all around. Sunday, August 17, she read. Nine days. Nine days since she'd learned Robbie was dead. When she looked up, she saw him on the television screen, a photograph of him, smiling from under his helmet, his arm flung over another set of camouflaged shoulders.

“What's this? What are they doing?” she asked, as text began to crawl along the bottom of the screen.
Local Marine, suicide . . . growing national trend.

“Reporters have called a couple of times,” Neal said. “I didn't want to bother you with it. I ignored them, but they kept at it.” He frowned in disgust. “The paper, the radio, they've all got something. There's suddenly a focus on military suicides. Robbie fits in, makes the story local, I guess.” He waved his hand over the papers on the counter.

On the front page of the
Union Tribune
, Ruth saw a photograph of Robbie sitting on the back of a truck with two other Marines, legs dangling, guns on their laps, grinning from under their helmets. It was one of the photographs he'd posted to his old MySpace page during his first deployment. That must have been where the television station had found the other snapshot. Ruth's stomach felt tight. “Bastards. This has nothing to do with Robbie or me.”

She caught sight of another headline, this time in a section of the
Los Angeles Times
.
Marine Suicide Under Investigation
, it read.
Son of defense contractor found dead of gunshot wound.
In the gray paragraphs surrounding yet another photograph of Robbie, Ruth saw her own name:
Ruth Nolan, executive, RyCom, recently the target of a lawsuit by families of contractors the firm places in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Ruth snatched up the pages. “What are they saying? Why are they doing this?” They had no right. They were treating Robbie like fodder, using him to fill their daily news hole.

“We need to talk,” Neal said. “The thing is . . .” he started to say, but then the house phone rang. Ruth watched him pick up the receiver, glance at the display, look at Terri.

“What? Another reporter? Give me the phone.”

“It's not . . .”

“Give me the goddamned phone!” Ruth grabbed the receiver from Neal. “Who is this?” she demanded.

There was a pause, and then she heard a familiar rasp.

“Hello, Ruth. Sorry we haven't spoken until now. My condolences.”

Ruth fought for control of her voice. “Gordon.”

“I'm sorry to be calling at a bad time but, let's face it, there isn't likely to be a good time.”

“That's all right. I can talk.” Confusion infiltrated Ruth's anger. A quick glance at Terri's face, then Neal's told her that they knew something she didn't.

“Don and I've been talking and it isn't necessary for you to rush
back,” Gordon said. “In fact, this might be a good time for a sabbatical.”

“I don't need a sabbatical,” she said.

What she needed was work. She wanted to lose herself in something hard, complicated, and demanding, something that would fill every hour and leave her exhausted.

“You say that now, but you may need more time than you think and we're fine. We've got everything taken care of.”

“Are you saying I should stay away?” Ruth tried to steady her voice.

Another beat of silence.

“Perceptive as usual.” Gordon's rasp sounded normal now, as if up until this point he'd been trying to sound like someone else.

“Forget it. I'm coming in. I'll come tomorrow,” she said.

“As you can imagine, your misfortune has touched more than our hearts. RyCom's been in the papers a little too much these days for our customers' tastes. We thought it would simplify things to have Andrea take over for you, ease the bumps we've encountered with the Transglobal deal.”

“No.”

“You will continue to be paid your salary and get all benefits until the merger goes through. When that happens, your stock will make you a rich woman. In other words, you'll reap the benefits of all your hard work. Don wanted me to specifically reassure you on that point, in recognition of your long partnership.”

Ruth slammed her hand down on the counter. She saw Terri startle and look to Neal with worry in her eyes. Ruth wheeled around so her back was to both of them. This was too much loss. Too much. They couldn't do this to her.

“I want to speak to Don,” she said.

“What you need to do, Ruth, is focus on what is best for the company and remember that what is best for the company is also best for you.”

“No.”

“It's done. I'll tell Don that we've spoken and that we can count on your support. I've already asked Terri to provide Andrea with all the files on the contractors involved in the suit. If you have anything at home, give it to Terri. She'll be supporting Andrea now.”

No. No. No.

“We're squared away now. Take some time off, relax, wait for the merger to go through. Then you'll be fabulously rich and can go on to the next chapter in your life.”

“You prick! This was your idea, yours and Andrea's. I won't let you do this.”

“I'll assume that's grief talking, Ruth. So here's a gentle reminder: The decision is made. You can go along and make it easy or you can resist and run the risk of Don losing his temper. And his generosity.”

Ruth tried to think. There must be something she could do to salvage the situation.

“Good-bye.”

Ruth heard a click, then a hollow buzz. She slammed the phone down on the counter and turned to Neal and Terri. “You knew. Both of you knew.”

“We were going to come find you,” Neal said.

“I still want to help out, Ruth,” Terri said. “I told Neal that. Anything you need. All you have to do is call. Day or night.” She took a step toward Ruth. But Ruth went rigid.

“You work for Andrea now.”

Terri held Ruth's gaze. “I've known Robbie since he was a little boy. I want to help.”

Ruth could not look at her eyes, soft now with tears and concern. Her assistant felt sorry for her. For some reason, this unnerved Ruth even more than Gordon's cold dismissal. She wanted to sweep the newspapers off the counter, wanted to throw the telephone at the television screen, which now was broadcasting a clip of dogs helping
disabled children. They'd finished picking over Robbie's bones and moved on.

Neal's mouth was moving but Ruth's thoughts drowned him out. He had to have known this was happening even before today. He represented too much business for RyCom. Don and Gordon would have had to tell him what they were doing so he could tell his clients. He hadn't warned her. He hadn't fought for her.

“. . . for the best,” she heard him say. “You need time.”

She interrupted. “If he'd been killed in Iraq, this wouldn't be happening, would it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your company, you, Transglobal, no one wants anything to do with a suicide.” Even as she said it, she knew there was more to it. The media focus on Robbie's suicide had provided Don, Andrea, and Gordon with an easy way to move her out. Her loss was their opportunity, pure and simple. She turned on Neal. “You helped them. You sold me out.”

“The contractor suit, then this . . . they just don't want anything to do with the publicity,” Neal said. “You can't take it personally. You're getting the same payout you would've gotten if you stayed. We'll be able to start our own company like we—”

“Get out,” Ruth said. “Leave. She swept the paper from the counter in a fury.

Neal's patience slipped; Ruth saw the flare in his eyes before he turned to face her assistant. “Ter, thanks for coming. Why don't we call you later?”

“About what?” Ruth said. “Are there more surprises you're hiding from me?”

A beat of silence followed. Neal's voice, strained but calm, broke it. “The county called. They're ready to release Robbie's body. The mortuary is going to pick him up. They'll handle the cremation but they'll want to know what to do about a service.”

Her anger collapsed inside her. Words and the breath she needed to utter them went missing.

“Ruth, I meant what I said earlier,” Terri said. She almost whispered the words. Tears filled the corners of her eyes. “When you're ready, I'll make all the calls. Anything you need. I'll take care of it.” She paused, as if she were waiting for Ruth to say something.

Ruth nodded; it was all she seemed able to do. She watched Terri pick up her bag, step past the newspapers strewn on the floor, and make her way downstairs. Moments later, she heard the front door open, then close, then the sound of a car starting. She walked slowly across the tiles, out of the kitchen, to the bank of windows opening onto the ocean. Behind her, she heard Neal clear his throat.

“We figured you'd want your family here but we didn't know who or what else you might want.”

Her family. Ruth closed her eyes to the blues and greens shimmering outside the window. She saw her grandmother's eyes, huge and sad behind her glasses, full of questions she would never ask. And Kevin, always silent, would wonder how this could have happened, how she could have let their boy die.

Neal coughed again, sounding as if he were trying to loosen the words from his throat. She opened her eyes but didn't look at him.

“A friend of mine told me about an old Navy guy with a boat,” Neal said. “He'll take everyone out so you can distribute Robbie's ashes.”

“Robbie hated the ocean.”

“It was just an idea.”

Ruth turned. She caught him looking past her out the window, checking the waves. She'd seen that gaze every morning and every night. Even though she knew he hadn't surfed in days or even spoken of it, that one long look at the water kicked the embers of her rage back into life. He wanted to be out there on the water. He wanted to pick up his life where he'd left it when Robbie died, and he could. He would. The inevitability of this, the unfairness of it, scalded her.

“Why are
you
still here?” Neal wasn't looking at the ocean anymore. Ruth saw his eyes soften, the way a parent might look at a child who made no sense.

“You really want me to leave?”

“Why didn't you . . . do what Robbie did?” she asked now. “When you came back?

She saw the condescension dissolve into surprise. His jaw tightened.

“I told you. We're all different,” he finally said.

“Different how?”

“What do you want me to say, Ruth? You have a duty and you do it. You don't walk away. You do what you have to do.”

Those words didn't mean what she'd always thought they meant. She didn't know what they meant.

“You're still doing it, right? You're going along with Don and with Gordon because it's what you ‘have to do.'”