Casualties (19 page)

Casey watched the night recede from the steps of his trailer. He pulled the nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and plucked one of the two remaining joints he'd been saving. He shivered as he lit it. The cool night air was the only thing keeping him awake, that and the fact that he had nowhere to lay his head. He inhaled and held the smoke in his lungs, glancing over his shoulder through the screen door. In the dull glow of the overhead light, he could make out Ruth's form on the little fold-down bed. Her breathing was ragged and heavy but she was finally still and mostly clean. He'd done the best he could with an old washcloth, even though she'd fought him. Then she'd sobbed, not like a drunk, but like a kid in pain.

What had he been thinking? Didn't matter. She was here now. He had to look at the situation as if it were a card he'd been dealt. Like showing eleven at the blackjack table. The next move could make him richer, or leave him where he was. He'd figure it out quick enough and send her on her way.

The edge of the doorjamb dug into his back. He shifted and tried
to focus. It had been a long time since he'd greeted the dawn this sober and this tired. Shit, he might as well do something useful. He glanced at the Jaguar. She'd need some clothes.

He sucked once more on the joint before pinching it out. He pulled himself up, stretched, and limped down the steps.

Even in the shadows and layered with dust, the Jaguar looked out of place next to his rusted-out, flat-tired El Camino. Casey sighed and patted the car's roof.

“We've both seen better days,” he said. Then he opened the driver's door and looked around.

Something gleamed from the floor in the weak interior light. A BlackBerry. He reached down and put it in his shirt pocket. What else? A leather briefcase in the back, wedged tightly behind the driver's seat. He abandoned the briefcase and hunted around the car, looking for luggage, something fresh she might be able to wear. Nothing. He should try the trunk. Then the jingle for the morning news sounded from one of the trailers nearby. An early riser and his radio.

Casey straightened and scanned the shadows formed by the other trailers, the RVs parked in the adjacent camping area and the building that housed the café, public shower, and washing machines. The sky was already paling where it met the edge of the desert. Soon Lenny would fire up the grill and the old people who liked to walk a little when it was still cool would get up and take a turn around the campground. He didn't want to explain himself or the Jaguar to the busybodies.

“Fuck it,” he said, climbing out of the car. She'd have to put up with whatever he could find.

—

The slam of a screen door went off like a gunshot in Ruth's ear. She jerked up and then convulsed in waves of nausea.

“I don't think you've got anything left,” said a man standing somewhere nearby. “Just in case, here.” His wiry forearm thrust a
plastic garbage pail toward her. The smell of old coffee grounds, sour milk, and mold rose from the bottom.

She buried her face in her hands and pulled her knees to her chest. The sudden pain made her gasp. Every breath hurt.

The pail disappeared. “What you need is water. Better yet, a nice cold Coke.”

Her eyes were so dry they stung; her lids seemed stuck halfway. The man slouched against a counter less than two feet away in a black T-shirt, damp hair pushed back off his face. He lifted a mug to his lips and stared back at her over the top of the stained rim. She was naked. She hugged her knees with one hand and reached behind for a sheet. There must be a sheet.

“You kicked it off. Here.” The man set his mug down on the chipped surface of the counter and stooped. A bit of steel showed between the hem of his jeans and a black shoe. Images returned to her in fragments. That metal leg lying on pavement. Screams of rage. A kick that she felt all over again. She snatched the clump of material from him and backed against the wall, trembling uncontrollably.

“Easy. I'm not the enemy.” He seemed to be looking for something more to say but then he shrugged, picked up his mug, and leaned back again.

“Who are you, then?” She tasted bile.

“Your guardian angel.” One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin that revealed a small gap between his front teeth.

Ruth sat up, pulling the sheet tight around her. Where was the door to this place? It looked like some kind of camper: old brown paneling, chipped vinyl, everything—sink, refrigerator, cheap laminate counter—in miniature and crammed into the same small space. There. The door. Right next to the microwave. She glanced at the man again and then back at the door. “You won't get far dressed in a sheet,” said the man.

“Give me back my clothes.”

“Lady, you don't want those clothes, believe me.”

“You can't keep me here.”

“You think I want to? You're free to go whenever you want to. As far as I'm concerned, the sooner the better.”

Ruth stared at him, not sure of the next step. He looked equally uncertain.

“Look, first things first,” he said. He put the mug down on the counter, limped over to a laundry bag just inside the door, and began rummaging around.

Ruth sagged against the wall. She blinked and found she could not fully open her left eye.

“You should probably put some ice on that shiner.” He was in front of her again, holding out a dark bundle. “In fact, you should probably see a doctor. You might have a concussion or something.”

Ruth watched him lay the bundle next to her, men's clothes and a faded, but clean, towel. “Who are you?” she asked again.

“You don't need to know my name. We're not going to be lifelong buds.” His back was to her now; he rooted around below the counter.

Ruth glanced again toward the flimsy door. She could be out of here in two steps. She grabbed the sheet and started to push herself up, but pain shot through her ribs, arms, and legs. She fell back; her breath seemed trapped in her chest.

“Yes!” The man turned to face her holding a can of Coke. “Thought I had one of these in there. Nothing better for a hangover except maybe a beer. Even have a few ice cubes.” He pulled out a child-sized plastic tray from the miniature freezer and set it on the counter.

Robbie drank Coke in the morning. He would never try coffee.
Smells like skunk, Ruthie. How can you drink that?
She clutched the sheet and tried again to stand.

“Where's my car?” She tried to breathe around the pain.

“Relax, Ruth, relax. It's just outside. A little low on gas, maybe, but it's okay. Here, try this.”

How did he know her name? Ruth's hand shook but she took a
small sip of Coke. She waited for the bubbles to burst before swallowing.

“That's it.” He picked up his mug.

Ruth felt soda dribbling down her chin but she didn't care. “You're the man from the parking lot,” she said.

“The one you ran over, not the one who roughed you up.”

“You took my money.”

“You owed me, don't you think?”

Ruth eyed his legs, now hidden in his jeans. “Fixed it up pretty fast.”

He glanced down at his left leg and then back up at Ruth. “Good enough to get around until I can take it to the VA for permanent repairs.”

The VA. So he was a veteran. He'd been broken but he'd come home. He looked so much older than Robbie but here he was, nearly whole and still alive. Ruth forced herself to ask. “Your leg, did you lose it in Iraq?”

His eyes narrowed; a hard smile formed. “Were you about to thank me for my service? Don't bother. It wasn't this war, it was the first Gulf war. Operation Desert Storm.”

Through the fog of pain came the facts that Ruth associated with that war: Robbie was six and a half; he'd lost both his front teeth the week the bombing started. Don uncorked champagne to celebrate the sale that put RyCom over the ten-million-dollar mark. She'd gotten home late and forgotten to put the tooth-fairy money under Robbie's pillow. Ruth looked down at the soda in her hands.

“Forgot about that one?” the man said. “Don't worry. You're not alone. Let's move on.”

His eyes, some shade between blue and gray, flickered with a light that could be laughter or derision. The Coke was nearly full, but Ruth couldn't drink any more. She glanced at the bundle of clothes and the towel next to her. When she looked up she found her computer bag in the corner by the door.

“Where's my purse?”

“Gone.”

“Why should I believe that?”

He set the mug on the counter without taking his eyes off hers. “Because I didn't take it.”

“Right.” She held his gaze, but it dawned on her that he wouldn't have brought her here if he'd taken everything. As the seconds ticked by she knew she wasn't fighting him as much as she was trying to beat back the thoughts of Robbie at six and a flood of new images from the evening before. The salty rim of a margarita glass, a wobbly walk across a crowded room, fingers biting into her arm like a pit bull's jaws. And then.

“Yeah, right. Because here's what happened, Ruth. You went back into the bar after we left you and drank yourself into a coma. Then some asshole followed you and took you down.”

Ruth shook her head.

“I found you lying in your own puke in the parking lot.”

Ruth flinched. “Stop.”

“Your bag was long gone. But you can't blame me. If it weren't for me, you'd have been run over before anyone saw you out there.”

“Stop, I said!” Ruth hurled the can of Coke at Casey, but he leaned to the side and it clattered to the floor.

“This place isn't much but it's mine. Show some respect.” His eyes took on a flinty look, then softened into uncertainty. “Look. I don't know how to say this, but you may want to know, I don't think he . . . your underwear was still on. Didn't look like—”

“Stop. Please stop.” Ruth couldn't look at him another minute.

“Sorry.” He sounded relieved, and tired. “We've both had a rough night. I'm going to go get another cup of coffee and let you get yourself together. Shower's in there.” He jerked his thumb toward the closet. “Works okay, not great. You can use the public shower if you prefer.”

He looked at her and Ruth looked back, silent.

“You're welcome,” he said. “You're a treat, lady, a real treat.” A few limping steps and he was gone.

The bang of the screen door reverberated through Ruth's brain. She had to calm down. God, she smelled. The stink was alien, leaching out her pores. She pushed herself into a standing position, one hand clutching the sheet to her body and the other leaning against the wall for support.

The trailer, though shabby, had not quite surrendered to the heat, dust, and grime. She saw pockets of discipline and care. Hangers held two unwrinkled Hawaiian shirts on a short rod protruding from the wall. Cotton shirts were folded neatly on a shelf to the side, and two pairs of thick-soled black sneakers faced the wall below as though awaiting orders. A wall rack held old magazines:
The Atlantic, The Sun, Rolling Stone, Mother Jones.
She picked up an issue to look for an address label, but all she found was a sticker:
Las Vegas Public Library Copy. Not for Circulation.

When she turned, she found herself eye level with a shelf of books above the bed. One of them was for children,
Where the Sidewalk Ends
. Robbie had loved that one. Ruth could remember his weight in her lap, his chubby fingers pointing to the pictures, the smell of his scalp, the way she would settle her chin on the top of his head so that she could sniff more deeply. He would twist in her lap and command her, “Stop tickling!”

She grabbed the clothes Casey had left her and let the sheet drop to the floor. Then she recalled the look he'd given her before he left.
You're welcome
, he'd said in the same terse tone her grandmother used when she caught Ruth neglecting her manners.

A dingy washcloth was folded on top of the little refrigerator. Ruth dropped the clothes back on the bed and held it in the trickle produced by the kitchen sink faucet. She stooped over, head pounding. On her hands and knees, she began to clean up her mess.

—

She awake?” Lenny leaned down on the counter so his face was just across from Casey's. He was trying and failing to whisper. Casey glanced over his shoulder at the white-haired couple sharing the paper and an order of pancakes at the other end of the counter. They didn't look up.

“More or less.” Casey was still pissed. Here he was, no sleep all night long, had to beg a shower from Lenny and she throws goddamn Coke all over his place. “Heat this up again, will you, Len?”

“Whatcha gonna do with her?”

“Jesus, Len, for the hundredth time already, I don't fuckin' know.”

A bell sounded from the back entrance and Lenny snapped to attention. He began to move toward the older couple, wiping the counter as he went. Belva appeared in the door between the grill and the back room, wearing her Marilyn wig today, a shiny blue blouse hanging over the top of her stretch pants. Her eyes darted up to the other customers, dismissed them, and then speared Casey.