Casualties (24 page)

Casey watched Ruth move around the room. She turned the switch of a small lamp on the dresser and Casey braced for pain, but it was a dull light and instead of piercing his eyes, it cast a tepid glow over the dresser with the box on it. Like an altar.

For a split second he was thirteen again, sitting in the front pew of St. Francis just a few feet from his grandmother's coffin. The shoulder of Mikey's blue blazer seemed melded to his own; his friend's voice skidded from tenor to baritone to bass as Mikey sang, loud enough for both of them, the hymns that would not come out of Casey's own mouth.

“Here's some more water,” Ruth said, emerging from the bathroom clutching a plastic cup.

“Thanks.” Casey sat up and took the cup from her hand. It shook in his hand. She reached as if to steady it. “I've got it, I've got it,” he said, but half of the water splattered the bed. He took a sip. He wished it were Jameson.

“I'll go see what there is to eat,” Ruth said.

Casey dug the crushed cigarette pack out of his pocket. “Whatever.” He extracted the remains of the half-smoked joint from the other night. “Matches. We need matches.”

She stopped, glanced over her shoulder at him. “What's that?”

“For medicinal purposes, Ruth. And I'm not smoking out in the rain for you or anyone else.”

Ruth started to shake her head. A price tag popped out of her collar and poked her in the lip. Ruth tore the tag off and frowned at Casey as though it were his fault. He almost laughed.

“There's another one,” he said, pointing to the hem of her shorts. She tore that one off, too, and this time he grinned at her. She didn't exactly smile back, but the lines between her eyebrows softened, and he thought he saw her swollen lips relax.

—

Ruth ran through the rain carrying a plastic bag over her head as a makeshift umbrella. No one was behind the desk when Ruth opened the door to the office. She crossed to the shelves of food, picked up a cardboard container of noodles, and put it back. Nothing looked good, but they needed to eat something.

“The soup's not bad if you want something hot.” The woman, Lil, rolled her chair from the back room and pointed to a plastic container of tomato soup on the shelf in front of Ruth.

“Thanks,” Ruth said, and reached for it. Her stomach suddenly growled.

“You just heat it up in the microwave.”

Ruth picked up a second container. While she waited for them to heat up, she picked out a box of crackers, peanut butter, and two apples, then added a small box of matches with the name of the motel on the cover. “There you go,” Lil said. “That'll keep you until the morning. We've got coffee, toast, and cereal from six thirty to nine. Complimentary.”

“That's great, thanks,” Ruth said with what she hoped was a smile. Lil returned the smile and settled back in her chair.

“Glad to help. How's the room?”

“Fine. The phone doesn't work, though.”

“Costs another ten dollars and no long distance. Want me to turn it on?”

Ruth had grabbed her purse automatically but there was no money in it. Not a dime. Her stomach growled again. “No, that's okay. Can I charge the food to the room?”

Lil's smile remained but her eyes narrowed. “Sorry. Cash only. That going to be a problem?”

A blush crept up Ruth's cheeks. She straightened and grabbed her purse. “No, not at all. I'll be right back.”

Casey was snoring when she got back to the room. His wet clothes were in a heap by the bed and he was stretched out in a black T-shirt and another pair of shorts. His prosthesis lay beside the bed, but he'd turned the liner inside out and stuck it pin-first into a drawer of the bedside table, apparently to dry it. Ruth avoided looking at the stump as she tiptoed to the table and picked up his wallet. The small weight in her hand triggered a realization. She could be the one who left. She could take the car, the money, all of Robbie's things, and leave him here. He'd wake up in the morning, maybe still planning to move on without her, but she would already be gone.

A moan escaped Casey as he turned on his side, away from her. He brought his knee up, covering the stump beneath. The back of his neck was still grimy from the mud and rain. He'd been too tired to take a shower. Or, maybe it was too hard to stand on one leg.

She flipped open the slim leather billfold and felt along the side for some bills. Nothing. She opened the little drawer of the bedside table and found the wad of bills wrapped in a sock. Here it was, all he had. She could take what she needed, retrieve her keys, and go on by herself to someplace where Terri could send the credit cards
or wire some money. He'd be all right. Maybe even glad. She was a burden now. Just then, Casey moaned in his sleep and began to shiver. Ruth reached over and pulled the other half of the bedspread to cover him.

It was raining. They were tired. Where would she go tonight anyway? Ruth peeled several twenties from the roll of cash and put it back. The wallet slipped from her fingers to the floor and when she picked it up, she saw the face of a child, a little girl smiling back at her through a film of plastic. Ruth squinted at it in the dim light. All she could make out were dark eyes, an uneven fence of teeth framed by a wide smile, and a cloud of curly hair. She looked to be six or seven.

Ruth glanced at the sleeping Casey looking for a connection. She could not find it in the lank blond hair spreading behind him on the pillow or the hollow cheeks. She glanced at the photograph again and then, taking care to be quiet, she closed the wallet and placed it back on the bedside table.

—

Mikey again. The scream of a horn, the Camaro's headlights searing through the night, eighteen-year-old Mike behind the wheel, radio blaring, screaming “Fuck you!” as he hurtled into the void.

Casey woke and began to scan the room wildly. Headlights in the motel parking lot sent shards of light through the blinds. Where was he? A diesel engine roared, then fell silent. He heard the voices of two men walking across the parking lot and the rattle of a key in the lock of a nearby door. Then another sound, close to his ear. Breathing. He bolted up and reached for a light sprouting from the pine paneling above his bed.

“What is it? What's the matter?”

A woman sat up fully dressed on a little wooden chair across from the bed. Her short red hair was flat on one side where she'd leaned on her hand. Her face was puffy and bruised. He
remembered now. He leaned back against the headboard and shut his eyes, trying to calm the pounding in his chest.

“Nothing. The lights woke me.”

“You yelled,” Ruth said, sitting up now and pushing her hair away from her face.

“Yeah, well, I'm sorry.”

He yanked the spread off him and swung his legs around to the edge of the bed.

“I've got to use the bathroom,” he said, pushing himself to a standing position and leaning for support against the wall.

“Do you need help?”

He looked over his shoulder at Ruth, who ducked her head, suddenly looking as embarrassed as he felt. He tried to grin. “No thanks, Ruth. I've got it under control.”

He felt her staring at him as he leaned on the wall and hopped. He'd never done this with anyone watching. On top of that, the bathroom seemed a mile off. Nothing in his trailer had been more than a few feet away. Sweat formed around his temples as his right calf muscle stiffened and started to cramp. Shit. Without looking at Ruth, Casey made his way into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He unzipped and, swearing, sat down to piss. It had been a long time since he shared a bathroom with a woman. He looked down at his arms, at the streaks of mud from the roadside.

A few minutes later he was leaning against the stained fiberglass shower stall, face lifted to the stream of hot water. He fumbled for some soap.

“You look better,” Ruth told him when he emerged. She was hunched in the only chair, a small wooden one with no arms. The bed had been straightened. The dirty bedspread was piled in the corner. His stump socks, still damp, were hanging from the windowsill. Now she was cleaning up after him. Damn. Casey was in the middle of a game that he had never played. He didn't know the rules.

“There's some food if you're hungry,” Ruth said. “The soup's
cold. You were asleep when I got back.” She sounded almost apologetic.

Casey wasn't even hungry, but all he said was, “That's okay. It'll go down the same, hot or cold.”

He made his way along the wall to the bed and sat down. He picked up the container of soup and raised it to Ruth with a half-grin. “Cheers.”

—

That can't be too comfortable,” Casey said, after he'd finished his soup and devoured the crackers and all of the peanut butter. “Come over here. You're entitled to half the bed.” He bit into an apple.

Ruth glanced at the other side of the bed but didn't move.

“Come on, Ruth. I'll be good, I promise. Besides, we've shared a bar of soap; that's as good as married in some places.” He grinned and bit into the apple again. The food had helped. He was still tired, but he did not feel as though he were falling off a cliff.

Ruth shrugged and got up. She settled herself against the headboard and stretched her legs out in front of her.

“What time is it anyway?” he said.

“A little after midnight,” she answered, reaching around to adjust the thin pillow behind her head.

The mattress shifted beneath him as she moved. Casey turned and looked at her. The bruises spread like a map across her profile. In them, he could see the route she'd taken over the past forty-eight hours. He knew now that she'd been trying to erase one pain with another. That was something he could understand. He wanted to tell her that but did not know how.

“You must be beat,” was what he said.

Ruth nodded.

“Think you can get some sleep?”

She looked at him. Her lips trembled just enough for him to notice. “I'm not sure.”

He understood that too. Sleep was both friend and enemy. It sucked you in, swathed you in oblivion, and then stabbed with truths you could keep at bay when your eyes were open, your mind filled with the crap you built your days around.

“Where are those matches?”

Ruth pointed to the bedside table and closed her eyes. Casey dug through the clothes he'd been wearing and pulled out the half-smoked joint from the cigarette pack. He lit up, inhaled, and nudged Ruth.

“Here.”

Ruth's eyes opened. He nudged her again.

“C'mon.”

She hesitated. Then she sat up and took the joint from him. She fit it into the corner of her mouth that was least swollen and inhaled. She coughed, but she took another hit. Then another. They passed it back and forth a couple of times.

Then Casey had an idea. He leaned down next to the bed and rooted around in his bag.

“A book?” Ruth asked.

“My foolproof method for getting through the night.” He did not say that it had been his friend during the long desert days too. Reading saved him, at least the piece of him that wanted to be saved.

He settled back on the bed and adjusted the light. Ruth was up on one elbow, watching him.
“Moby-Dick?”

“Yup.” He began to read. She was still leaning up on one elbow, staring at him. “What?”

“I never figured you for—” She stopped.

“Life is full of surprises.”

“Why that book, because of your leg?”

What? Oh, for Christ's sake. “I'm not that simple, Ruth. Made friends with Mr. Melville a long time before that happened.” He saw another question gathering and decided to put a stop to it once and for all. “Want me to read you some?”

The question seemed to puzzle her. She was stoned. Casey
resisted the temptation to laugh. Ruth lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Okay,” she said after a moment. “Yes.”

He opened the book but the first words were out of his mouth before he'd flattened the page. “Call me Ishmael.”

He read on, filling his mouth with words, lost in their rhythm and the paintings they made in his mind. When sleep started to steal over him, he glanced at Ruth. Her head was on the pillow, eyes closed. She snored. The sound was small, like the snuffle of a puppy.

He woke just before dawn. His headache was gone but the phantom pain from the missing limb throbbed. He'd thought all that was behind him. He started to turn over but stopped when he felt Ruth's hand on his. She was still asleep. He closed his eyes and made himself stay still. The warmth of her hand traveled through his fingers, deep into him where it found a memory of being held.

In the morning, Ruth tried to wash quietly but realized the thin walls of the motel room made the effort futile. Casey would be awake when she emerged and the day would begin whether she was ready for it or not. She turned on the water and froze, staring at the faucet. She wasn't ready.

She reached for her toothbrush, but her hand was shaking too hard to grasp it. She was glad she'd woken up before Casey. He wouldn't know she had reached for his hand like a child. The night was over. Who knew where things stood now?

With an effort, she began to brush her teeth. She glanced up into the mirror and saw that the swelling had subsided; she could open her bruised eye a bit wider. Soon enough, the bruises would fade. But she had no sense of healing inside. Instead, it seemed that the splitting open, the breaking apart was only beginning.

Casey was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing the end of his stump when she came out of the bathroom.

“Good morning,” he said, not looking at her.

“Hi.”

Ruth busied herself with repacking her shopping bags, stuffing the contents into the flimsy plastic, avoiding direct eye contact with Casey.

“We'd better look into getting the tire fixed,” Casey said.

We.
Ruth glanced over her shoulder at him. He met her eyes and then reached for the prosthesis lying on the floor, then the rubbery thing with the pin on the bed next to him. At least for now, they were back to their original plan. Her relief surprised her. She allowed herself to smile a little. He shrugged and smiled back.

“I'll go get coffee and ask for directions to a car repair shop,” she said.

“Bring me a—”

“A Coke, right?” Ruth said as she opened the door to the outside.

“Right.”

She closed the door behind her and faced the parking lot, stirring now with early risers. The sky was still dark with clouds and leftover night, no hint of the kind of day to come. But she had a task and she was not alone. These two facts tethered her to the present. Ruth took a deep breath and flexed her hands until they steadied. She stepped forward into the dim light.

An hour later, Ruth got them to the tire place but Casey seemed more interested in arguing with the man behind the counter than in replacing the tire. From where she stood, a few feet away, leaning against the passenger side of the Jaguar, she could see him through a plate-glass window cluttered with decals and a poster for the county fair. His head jerked back in apparent disbelief, and the round man behind the counter turned the computer monitor around and pointed at the screen. Casey shook his head. The man shrugged, looked past Casey, and nodded to the next person in line. A reasonable person who was going to get what he wanted.

Ruth let a sigh escape from her. They didn't have a choice, didn't Casey see that? She straightened as Casey limped out the door toward her.

“You won't believe that fuckin' asshole,” Casey said, limping toward her. “Wants nearly two hundred bucks for a new tire. Says Jaguars need special goddamn tires and that if I really wanted a smooth ride, I'd have to buy two!”

“What did you say?”

“I said we are getting one fucking tire and the hell with a smooth ride. Asshole's just trying to rip me off because he knows we're stuck.”

“You have a pretty limited vocabulary for someone who reads the classics.”

Casey stopped a few feet from her, with a scowl that was so much like a disgruntled two-year-old's she almost laughed.

“Oh, excuse me, Ms. Nolan. I'm sorry you find my vocabulary wanting. Let's see if we can find some better words to describe a guy who gets his jollies from overcharging the desperate. Ignorant? Small-minded? Greedy opportunist? Frankly, I think
fat, fucking asshole
is probably as good a term as any.”

Ruth glanced around the parking lot. The round man was in the doorway, and the other customers were craning their necks to peer through the window. Two men working in the garage bays paused, their hands still reaching for the tires above them, watching Casey.

“I think you need to eat.” She grabbed the atlas and her purse from the car and started to tug Casey across the lot, pointing to a diner across the road. She said nothing until they got settled inside a booth. She stared at him through her sunglasses.

“So, you're frugal. And well spoken when you want to be.”

“You can thank the brothers at St. Francis Academy, Jersey City's finest. Made sure we knew our way around a sentence.” Casey settled into the seat.

“Catholic school?”

Casey reached for the menu behind the napkin holder. “Come on, Ruth, let's order something. Prices are good here.”

“Go ahead. I'm not hungry.”

“You will be later. Might as well load up now.”

“Were you an altar boy?”

He laughed. “Until Father Bernard fired my ass in seventh grade.”

“What'll it be?” A waitress turned up, pad in hand, a perfunctory smile on her lips.

“Three eggs over easy with bacon, fries, and pancakes for me.” He nodded at Ruth. “Go ahead, live it up.”

“A salad.”

“It's not lunchtime yet,” said the waitress. She tapped her pencil on the menu where it said,
Breakfast served to 11 a.m.

“Do you have any fruit?”

“Fruit cocktail.”

“Fine, I'll have that, some wheat toast, and coffee.”

“Like I say, live it up,” Casey said.

Ruth ignored him while the waitress poured coffee into Ruth's mug and departed. She maneuvered the cup to her good side and sipped. Then she nearly spit the whole mouthful out. They'd given her the dregs of a pot that wasn't good to begin with.

She decided it was time she knew a little more about his plan. “Is that where we're going, Jersey City?” Casey loaded his cup with half-and-half and sugar and took a sip from his mug before nodding.

Ruth waited for him to say more but he just sat there, drinking his coffee.

“Here's your eggs and here's your fruit,” the waitress said. She plunked down the plates and, without asking, topped off Ruth's mug. Ruth let it sit there.

“So, you grew up there?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Casey responded, eyes on his plate, fork busy.

“I was born there,” Ruth said. “New Brunswick.” Why had she told him that? She barely ever thought of it herself.

“No shit?” Casey paused, a forkful of home fries hovering in the air. “You're a Jersey girl?”

Ruth wished she hadn't started down this road, but it was easier to answer than to clam up over something so inconsequential. “Not really. I grew up in New Hampshire.”

Casey, mouth full, lifted his eyebrows in a question.

Ruth shrugged as if the memory meant nothing to her, but she knew her choice of words betrayed the bitterness she felt, as sharp as it had been nearly forty years earlier. “My mother dumped my brother and me there before she left us.”

Casey swallowed. He put his fork down and studied his plate as if he'd shoveled something bitter into his mouth. Ruth picked up a piece of toast and began to tear off the crust.

“So,” Ruth said. “What else did you learn from the brothers at St. Francis?”

“All the usuals. Reading, writing, the perils of sex. A few Shakespearean insults. Those and the sexy stuff got us through Brother Philip's literature classes,” Casey said. He picked up his fork but put it down again.

“Us?”

Casey glanced up, then out the window at the parking lot. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Mike and me.”

Ruth looked out the window but saw nothing that would account for the way he was staring. “Who was he, your brother?”

“Like a brother. No relation.”

“Is that why you're going back? To see him?”

“Mike's dead.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. This was the same stupid thing that some had said to her when they heard about Robbie. Even Terri. To her surprise, Casey said exactly what she had wanted to say.

“Why? It's not your fault.” His gray eyes, now devoid of curiosity, fixed on hers. “But yeah, I'm going back to Jersey for a little visit with some folks we both used to know. That's the plan anyway. Depends on how well you navigate, right?”

Ruth picked up the atlas and spread it open next to her half-eaten
toast and the cup of fruit cocktail, a collection of flaccid grapes, cherries, and citrus sections that all tasted vaguely of the metal can they'd been in until moments before. The route was uncomplicated, a single road or two all the way across the country, but she was startled by how much distance she had already put between her and San Diego. Only two days of driving and she was miles from everything and everyone she knew.

On the atlas, Ruth traced the route to her office. She stared at the spot, seeing where the RyCom building would be. There were the people she'd come to know the way some people know friends or family: Terri, Don, Gordon. Phones would be beeping, and computer keys clicking without stop while customers, lawyers, and public relations specialists filed through to the conference rooms to cement the deal with Transglobal, fend off the contractor lawsuits, keep alive new deals like the ones she'd been working on. She imagined her desk, clean now, or more likely, ceded to Andrea.

In her old world, absences were often sudden. The bigger the casualty, the less was said, at least out loud. No matter what rationale had been provided in the office memo that announced Ruth's departure, the underlying message was clear and unsettling: No one was indispensable. She'd said this often enough herself but, like most of the other senior executives she worked with, had never quite believed it. Some would be rattled by her departure; others would simply see her loss as their gain. Either way, the survivors would want new skin to form over her absence as quickly as possible and move on. Some would expect her to pop up in a competitor's company or just take the money coming to her and disappear; most would not even give it that much thought. Even Neal had expected her to grieve discreetly, bury Robbie, and then wait until the Transglobal deal went through.

The clang of metal against the counter made her look up from the map. She saw the waitress grab a tub of iceberg lettuce from the cook and start to stuff handfuls of it into small bowls. Across the table, Casey lifted a pancake from a small plate onto his egg-smeared dish.

“We wouldn't need that thing if you had GPS,” he said without looking up. “How come you don't have it?”

“Didn't come with that year's model,” Ruth said. “Besides, I only drive near my home. I always know where I am and how to get wherever I'm going.”

“Not anymore,” Casey said. He popped a forkful of pancake into his mouth.

No
, she thought.
Not anymore.