Casualties (10 page)

The garage was empty when Ruth pulled in. A couple of oil stains marked where Robbie's truck had been. Ruth fixed on them as if the splotches could tell her where Robbie had gone, when he would be back, and if he was punishing her for failing him.
I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry.
She whispered the words like a prayer. She thought about trying his phone again, even though she'd done so twice in the past twenty minutes, once in the parking garage at work and again while she was flying south on I-5 toward her exit. It wouldn't do any good. He hadn't picked up, either because his phone was off or because it was on and he just didn't want to talk to her.

Gravity seemed to hold Ruth in her car. When she'd woken up, the day had contained such promise. Somehow, it had gone off the rails. But what could she have done differently? Ruth ran through it all again in her mind, dodging the arrows flung first by the contractor families with their banners and their lawyer, then by Don, Gordon, even Andrea Baumann with her research and her attitude. She'd tried to make it right for the people waiting for their claims to be
processed, tried to press Don and Gordon for a way to make the lawsuit go away. She'd tried. Tried to make it all happen and get back to Robbie, who hadn't even told her when he was coming, hadn't given her time to prepare. Not that she blamed him, of course not, but he would see her situation, he could understand. He was an adult.

Ruth pushed the car door open, then grabbed her briefcase and purse. Robbie would be back. She'd wait up for him. They'd have a chance to talk.

Still, once she was inside the house, emptiness dropped down like a net. It closed in on her from all sides: in the shadows cast by the few security lights that came on automatically when the sun set; in the breath of the air conditioner rumbling distantly; in the travertine tiles, hard and impervious beneath her soles. A pile of envelopes lay on the floor under the brass mail slot. She strode past them around the corner into her office, where the red message light was blinking on her phone. Robbie. Ruth dropped her briefcase and her purse and hit the message button.

“It's me.” Neal. Ruth turned away, stepping over the briefcase and the purse to get to the light switch. Neal's voice followed her. “Just checking in to see how things went today. Give me a call.” A pause. “Hey, say hi to Rob. Enjoyed my breakfast with him this morning.”

Ruth wondered if he thought Robbie was there, listening. She could see him, the way he'd been in the old days rolling his eyes as the two or three men she'd dated tried to connect. He'd never made it easy, had he? Offered a chance to go see the Lakers, he'd say he hated basketball. Would he like to try surfing? “Nah, I hate salt water.” For a while, things had been different with Neal.

Robbie was just turning ten when she brought Neal home for the first time. He ferreted out Robbie's love of engines and his fascination with the desert. He showed up one Saturday with an issue of
Dirt Riders Magazine
and two tickets to what he called a “desert quad” race near Ocotillo.

“Guys only,” Neal told Ruth. Ruth wasn't sure but she thought
she saw relief flash over Robbie's chubby face. At any rate, he never looked back as he climbed into Neal's truck.

Ruth had thought seriously about following them. Neal would not remember Robbie's sunscreen. What would they eat for lunch? What would she do for the rest of the day? Then it hit her. She was completely, utterly free in a way she had not been since they'd lived back east and Robbie's father took him for visits twice a month. Even then, she'd been constrained by time and weather. For once, Ruth left the work she'd brought home in her briefcase and spent an entire Saturday at the beach by herself with a stack of magazines and a thermos of margaritas. She'd drifted home to find Robbie and Neal stretched out on the living room floor, arms and faces scorched. But both of them were oblivious. They'd found more races on television and barely looked up when she walked in. Neal passed Robbie his beer—“just a sip,” he warned—as they compared notes on different machines and drivers. If they noticed her, they gave no indication. She backed out of the room, ordered a pizza, and, when it came, was given a race-by-race account of the day by each of them. She remembered nothing of what they said, only Robbie's eyes, unguarded and shining as he chomped his way through half the pie.

There had been other nights like that one. Ruth recalled them with mixed feelings. For a few months, she'd come home not to a sullen child but one who laughed and joked. He fell into easy banter with Neal, who seemed to know not to try too hard. She watched, first relieved, then amazed, and, finally, jealous, as her boyfriend won Robbie over. More and more often he would call her at the office and tell her not to worry about dinner, he'd pick up Chinese or pizza and meet her at the condo. A few times, she'd come home to the smell of steak on the grill and the sound of their voices mingling in the half dark as Neal explained the difference between medium rare and medium well.

Ruth found herself picking at the threads of their growing intimacy. She couldn't help it.

“He's getting too heavy,” Ruth said one night after sending Robbie to bed. The memory rushed back to her as she stood alone in her office, defenseless against it.

“Relax, he's fine.” Neal had responded, not looking up from a report he'd pulled out of his briefcase. He was stretched out on the couch, feet up on the arm, the sheaf of papers in his hands. They usually worked for an hour or two before going to bed. It was one of those things that Ruth liked about being with Neal; Robbie's father had always sulked when she brought work home. Still, Ruth remembered suddenly wanting to push Neal's feet off the sofa she'd splurged to buy.

“Easy for you to say, he's not your responsibility.”

Neal sat up then and put the papers aside. “No, he's not, but I've been around him now for a while. He's a good kid. You're making him nervous with all that stuff about the food, and the private school. Maybe you should just—”

“Let him do whatever he wants?”

“I'm not saying that.”

“What exactly are you saying?” She saw the flicker of wariness in Neal's eyes. Too late, the implications of the conversation dawned on her and, she saw, on him. His criticism only mattered if he was ready to step more deeply into the relationship. She wasn't sure she was ready even if he was. Still, she couldn't stand the indecision that was written all over his face.

“What's your stake in all of this?” she said.

“You're right. He's your kid. Sorry for interfering.” Neal looked away when he said it. Ruth remembered wondering how it was possible to feel disappointed and relieved at the same moment.

Arguments flared soon after that, little ones quickly dampened by apologies. Then bigger ones. Then they were “taking a break,” the first in a string of them interrupted by reunions that lasted anywhere from one night to several months and, sometimes, overlapped new relationships. They were never quite without each other, never quite all the way in. They were, Ruth once joked, each other's fallback
position, the final line of defense against commitment in any form. What had brought them together this time? Getting older, probably, looking for safe harbor. No kids to worry about.

Neal had been with Robbie that morning; maybe he knew where he might be.

Ruth picked up the phone again and hit redial. It was only ten o'clock or so; Neal would still be awake.

He picked up on the third ring. Television voices talked over each other in the background and there was some kind of organ music. He was watching a baseball game.

“Didn't think I'd hear from you today,” Neal said, yawning.

“Hi to you too. Did I wake you?”

“No, no.”

Liar
, thought Ruth, but it didn't make her want to smile the way it might have on another night.

“So, tell me,” Neal said. “Is RyCom going to come through this mess squeaky clean?”

“I don't want to talk about work.”

He laughed but sounded more alert. “Shit. It's worse than I thought.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Since when do you not want to talk about work?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

For a moment Ruth heard nothing through the phone except the television. Then Neal spoke again now. “Sorry. You're off duty, we can save the rehash for later.”

“Thanks.” Ruth sank into the chair behind her desk. “So, tell me about your breakfast with Robbie.”

“It was good to see him. Made me think of old times.”

“I was thinking of those myself just a minute ago. Remember when you took him to the desert for those races and came back so sunburned you both looked like barbecue?”

Silence. “Sure. Was trying to get on his good side so I could stay on yours. Worked. For a while, anyway.” Another pause. “How'd it go today?”

Ruth hesitated, but there was no point in trying to hide how badly things had gone. “We had to postpone lunch. I just got home from work a few minutes ago.”

“Geez, Ruth. You stood him up?”

Ruth bowed her head. She rubbed her temple with the forefinger of her free hand. No matter how good her reasons were for not going with Robbie, the effect was the same.

“I thought we agreed to meet here tonight instead, but I ran so late,” she said. “I called him. Terri called him. We haven't been able to connect.” The semidarkness around her gave her office the feel of a confessional.

The television in the background suddenly went mute. When Neal spoke, his tone had shifted from tired and casual to quiet, alert. “What happened?”

Ruth straightened. “What do you mean, ‘what happened?' You know what I was dealing with today.” But she didn't even believe herself now. The air around her seemed polluted with doubt. What would have happened if she'd left work for an hour or two? Would the result have been much different?

“So where is he now?”

“I don't know. I told you, I've tried to call him but he doesn't answer.”

Neal was quiet. Ruth remembered what he'd told her that morning. “. . . been to war . . . not the same kid.” She heard that warning now like a siren.

“What did he say this morning?” She stood and began to pace. “How did he act? Should I be worried?”

“He seemed fine,” Neal said, but Ruth heard an edge in his voice. “I didn't mean . . . He didn't say anything. Ruth, calm down. Look, he's probably out getting something to eat, having a few beers.”

Ruth wanted to believe him but then, for the past two weeks, she thought Robbie had been in North Carolina and instead he'd been in New Hampshire. With her family. But not with her.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Neal said. “Make it up to him tonight when he gets home, or tomorrow. He'll understand.”

“I know.” But she didn't.

“Want me to come over?”

Yes. No.
The reason Neal was in his own condo was so she could be alone with Robbie. What if he came home in an hour or even two? She couldn't risk another misunderstanding. “No. It's late. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Ruth?”

“No, it's okay. Thanks, though. Really. I'm going to hang up. I haven't eaten since . . .” Ruth couldn't remember when she'd last eaten. “I'll call you, okay?” Ruth heard Neal say, “Sure.” She was already moving the phone from her ear, already disconnecting, standing so she could get out of her office, turn on some lights, find some food. When Robbie came home he'd be hungry too.

An hour and a half later, Ruth wanted to throw her phone across the kitchen. Robbie's voice mail greeting echoed in her head, the pounding rap music, the disinterested “Yo.” He should have answered by now. Even if it was just to tell her he was all right. She'd stopped leaving messages but hit redial every twenty minutes or so. She'd found some tamales in the freezer, pulled them all out, and hunted down a jar of salsa. He'd come home after drinking to raid the kitchen and she'd be ready for him. She'd opened a bottle of pinot noir and waited. Nothing. Not even a text.

Ruth shoved the remains of a chicken tamale around on the plate in front of her. Then she poured another glass of wine and rubbed the back of her neck. She'd stripped off her work clothes, put on some sweats and a tank top. Still, the tensions of the day clung to her. Her nerves seemed to be downloading every missed connection, every frustrating conversation, every unanswered question into the knot she could not rub away. A long soak in a deep bath might help. She picked up her phone and the glass of wine and made her way down the stairs.

She paused outside the guest room, Robbie's room. She wouldn't be snooping. She just wanted to check, make sure he had everything he needed. Maybe she'd find some clue to his whereabouts. She wanted to see his unpacked belongings strewn around the room, smile at the mess he'd undoubtedly left in the bathroom. Maybe she'd surprise him, have all his laundry washed and folded by the time he woke up.

Ruth froze in the doorway. The bed was made and Robbie's duffel was packed and zipped. Something about the crispness of the folds in the bedspread and the tidy way the duffel stretched out next to the bed unnerved her.

Slowly, Ruth crossed the carpet to the bed. She sank onto the edge, and looked around. The grays, taupes, and blacks that she had allowed the decorator to select for the guest room made it look like a hotel, not a home. What had she been thinking? There were boxes in the garage, packed with all the things she'd swept out of Robbie's room in the old house. She should have gone through them, picked out some books, a poster, something that connected him to this new house.

His duffel, he should have at least unpacked it. Ruth set her wineglass on the bedside table. She reached down and tugged on the zipper of the bag, then let go and stood up. What if he came home and found his things in the drawer; he'd be furious that she went through his stuff.

“Don't worry, I won't.” The sound of her own voice startled her. If she was beginning to talk to herself, then it was time for bed.

Ruth reached for her glass. A square glimmered under the light. It was the snapshot he'd shown her in the office, his six-year-old hands raised, the string of trout dangling.

Ruth's heart leapt toward the photograph. When she picked it up, it fluttered in her hand like something winged and fragile. She was surprised to see that her hands were shaking.

A memory took shape. Her grandmother, Big Ruth, standing at
the stove heating an iron skillet to cook the fish. Kevin out on the front step where he'd shown Robbie how to slit the bellies and clean out the insides in one efficient sweep. Slime glistened on Robbie's hands, arms, even one cheek, and he was smiling wide enough to reveal the crenellated edge of his new front tooth and the pink-edged gap beside it.

Ruth traced the small face with her finger.

She'd been there too. Sitting, as always, at the round oak table in her grandmother's kitchen, paperwork spread out in front of her. Ruth searched the face smiling at her from the snapshot. Had she smiled back at the little boy covered with fish scales? Had she eaten one of the brookies he'd caught, sweet, tender, its crisp, delicate skin falling to pieces in her mouth?

Ruth pulled her legs up and curled into a ball on the bed. Her ears strained for the sound of a car in the driveway and the sounds of the refrigerator door opening, the way it always used to when Robbie came in late. She never knew when she fell asleep; in her dreams she was wide awake and waiting.

—

The front doorbell, not the refrigerator, woke Ruth. She sat up on one elbow. Gray light slipped around the edges of the drawn blinds. The digits on the bedside clock read 7:21. The doorbell sounded again. Ruth pushed herself into a sitting position and shoved her feet into the flip-flops she'd kicked off a few hours earlier. Robbie was home. He'd made her wait all night, but now he was back and stuck outside because she'd never thought to give him the remote for the garage opener or the security code for the door. The system went on automatically after midnight. How stupid of her to forget. She ran from the guest room to the front hall, punched the code into the receiver, and pulled open the door.

Three men looked up from their shoes into her eyes. One in khaki, a gun holstered at his waist, wore a badge on his thick chest.
The others, taller, leaner, wore the blue jackets and white hats of a Marine dress uniform. A wail began to sound deep inside Ruth, like that of a child locked in a room.

“Where's Robbie?” Her voice was loud in her own ears.

The men shifted their weight, planting their feet as if to brace themselves. The closest Marine removed his cap.

Fog hung in the air; water dripped off the spikes of the agaves that bordered the entryway. She shivered, tried to peer around the blue shoulders of the Marine, hoping to see Robbie slouched in one of the cars she now saw in the driveway. “Has there been an accident? Is he all right? Where is he?”

The blue coat answered. “Ma'am, we need to ask, are you Ruth Nolan, the mother of Lance Corporal Robert O'Connell?”

“Robbie. Yes. Yes.”

“Ma'am, my name is Captain Oliver Dixon, this is Captain James, our chaplain. On behalf of the—”

“You! Tell me where he is!” Ruth said to the smaller man in khaki, a sheriff's deputy, she could see now. He couldn't be much older than Robbie. He clutched a notebook in his hand. He cleared his throat.

Ruth stilled. She smelled the man's fear, saw the dark spots in the armpits of his polyester shirt. His slightly bulging brown eyes would not meet hers.

The Marine interrupted. “Ma'am. We regret to inform—”

No.
The man named Dixon stepped forward. She recoiled. “Get out.”

“Please, Ms. Nolan, may we come in?” The chaplain's voice, kind but firm, broke through. Ruth shook her head but her legs disobeyed her. She stepped back into the hallway. They followed her. She held herself straight, arms crossed across her chest. The chaplain spoke again. “Would you like me to pull up that chair over there for you?”

Ruth shook her head. She didn't want them to touch her.

Captain Dixon spoke again. “Ma'am, I'm sorry to say that Lance Corporal O'Connell was found dead tonight in Imperial Beach. He suffered a g—”

Ruth heard herself ask the question as if she were far away. “Did you see him?”

“Ma'am?”

“Did you see him with your own eyes?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Then how do you know it's him?”

She saw the captain glance at the chaplain. The chaplain stepped toward her.

“No,” she told him. “You didn't see him either.” She looked at all three faces, found the eyes of the young deputy.

“Ms. Nolan, we know this is very difficult,” the chaplain said, but Ruth looked only at the deputy.

“You,” she said. “You saw, didn't you?”

The young man stared back, frozen.

“Tell me,” Ruth said. She heard her voice rising but she didn't scream. She wouldn't scream. She would listen. Then she would tell them they were wrong. “Tell me!”

Captain Dixon finally nodded at the sheriff's deputy. The younger man reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a notepad. He stammered. Began again. His voice was young, trying to sound old. He looked at the pad, not at her.

“Imperial Beach.” Ruth heard him say, then, “Motel.” “Gunshots.” “Responded. Time: 0233 hours.”

Ruth shook her head. “Not him.”

The deputy didn't look up. He took a breath and began to list what they found. “Pint of Jack Daniels, empty, dog tags hanging from the neck, also bottles of”—he stumbled over the words
fluoxetine
and
alprazolam
—“with his name on the prescription labels. An empty backpack on the bed. Khakis, a green shirt, socks, underwear, folded and placed on the pack, shoes on top. Inside one shoe was a mobile
phone, battery dead. In the bathroom, a male, appearing to be in his early twenties . . .”

“It's not him,” Ruth whispered.

The sheriff's deputy paused, swallowed, pushed on.

“Said male in the bathtub half submerged in water, a forty-five-caliber handgun also submerged, held in the right hand of the deceased. A towel was wrapped around his head. Red stains, red water, appeared to be blood.”

Ruth began to sink to the floor. Someone's hands were under her elbows, supporting her. The deputy's voice broke like a fourteen-year-old's as he looked up from his notepad. “Ma'am . . . I'm sorry . . . It looked like he was trying to be as neat as he could.”