Casualties (29 page)

The Jaguar skidded on the gravel and came to stop on an angle. Ruth pushed open her door. She stumbled around to the back of the car and leaned against the fender trying to pull fresh air into her lungs, waiting for the heaving to subside.

Casey came up beside her but he did not touch her. When Ruth finally stood up, she felt like she'd been punched in the stomach; she couldn't seem to catch her breath.

“You look like shit,” Casey said.

Ruth shook her head. “It's nothing. The lunch. Something must have been off.”

“I had the same stuff. Hours ago. I feel fine.”

“I can't get back in the car,” she told him. She stumbled forward and then sank halfway down the embankment, in the tangle of grass and low shrubs.

“What are we supposed to do? We can't stay here.”

Ruth pulled her knees to her chest and began to rock. She knew now that no matter how fast or far she drove, the end was right there in the backseat waiting for her. It always would be. She would never forget how she had let him down the last night of his life. Hanging on to Robbie's ashes wasn't going to help her. What she wanted was to have him back. What she wanted was another chance. What she wanted was forgiveness.

“I'm sorry, so sorry.” But the words were too far away for Robbie to hear.

“Go,” she said now to Casey. “Take the car. Go.”

But worry had clouded his eyes. “C'mon, tell me what's wrong. Was it—” A flush of embarrassment colored his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “Was it last night? Because if it was, it won't happen again. I don't expect anything like that.”

Casey grabbed Ruth's elbow and tried to lift her up. “C'mon, Ruth. Snap out of it. I'm not leaving you by the side of the goddamn road.”

Ruth felt his hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her up. When she struggled to her feet, she felt him lose his balance. He crashed down the rest of the embankment into a ditch she hadn't seen.

Oh my God.
His plastic and metal limb lay twisted, half in, half out of his pant leg. Blood flowed from a cut on his arm. Ruth stumbled to him and knelt by his side.

“Oh God, Casey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What should I do?”

He didn't look at her, or wouldn't. His anger was palpable but there was something else too: shame. Or maybe it was her own. Ruth was almost grateful when he gestured toward the prosthesis and said, “Give me a hand with this fucking thing, will you?”

Ruth tugged on the black sneaker. It came off in her hands, revealing a foam foot on the end of the limb, once clearly flesh-colored, now the color of an old sponge. A strip of duct tape ran along the side.

“You folks okay down there?”

—

Ruth swung her head toward the voice above them. She saw a pair of blue-jeaned legs, an orange shirt, the bill of a black canvas cap with an orange logo she did not recognize. A silver pickup, sitting high above its tires, was parked behind the Jaguar, the door open, dust still settling around it. The owner didn't wait for a response.

“Hang on. I'll give you a hand.”

Ruth felt Casey's weight shift from her shoulders. Heard Casey's mumbled “Thanks, man.”

“Easy now.” The stranger's voice was young but not a boy's. The knuckles of his hands paled as he gripped the area under Casey's armpit. Ruth hesitated, then let the stranger take Casey from her. All three of them stood, staring at each other.

“I saw the car, thought there might be a problem.” He peered
at Ruth's face. Her hand flew to her cheek. Where were her sunglasses? Then she saw the plastic frames twisted on the ground, one earpiece gone. Well, there was nothing to do about them now.

“He needs to see a doctor,” she said.

“No, I don't,” Casey barked. “I don't need a doctor.” His face was pale. Sweat shone above his upper lip.

Ruth watched the man's face swing from the bruises on her face to the blood on Casey's shirt. He cleared his throat.

“It probably wouldn't hurt, though, would it? We're not far, as it happens. The medical center for the whole area's just ten miles up the road. You can follow me there. My wife's a nurse there, she'll take good care of you. Name's Alvie, by the way. Alvie Munroe.” Without waiting for a reply, he began to guide Casey up the incline to the road. Ruth followed him.

—

What's the situation with your prosthesis?” The nurse, Mary something, bent over his stump, swabbing it down. Casey's arm was still numb where she'd put in the stitches, and his shoulder throbbed from the tetanus shot she'd insisted on giving him. She'd helped him strip off the silicone liner when he told her his stump was a little sore. He was embarrassed about the rips in the socks that covered it, then humiliated when she sniffed and tried not to make a face when she smelled the liner itself.

“It's getting old,” he said, struggling to keep the embarrassment out of his voice. “I'm due for a new one but you know how the VA works.”

“Yeah, I know. I used to work at the VA in Iowa City. They do a damn good job. You haven't, though, have you? When's the last time you gave this thing a good wash?” She pointed to the liner.

“If you'd been me the last few days you wouldn't ask that.”

The woman glanced up. “Hmppfh.”

Casey pretended not to notice. “Looks like I need a repair job. Know any place that fixes these things?”

“Iowa City'd be your best bet, or Peoria. But it's Saturday. I don't think you'll have much luck until Monday.” She blotted the skin of his stump dry and frowned at the knob of flesh that always formed after he'd been wearing the faker all day. “What's the story with your lady friend?”

“She's not my friend.”

“That why she's got that shiner?” The woman's tone was even, but Casey felt her probe his stump a little harder than she needed to.

Casey winced. “No, I don't hit women. She got herself in trouble and I, if you really want to know, was the one who bailed her out.”

Mary eyed him for a moment and then let go of his limb.

“Sorry.” Casey dropped his gaze. “It's been a long day.”

Mary looked at him, head cocked, a skeptical look in her eye.

“She's a basket case,” he said, although he knew it probably wouldn't change the nurse's opinion of him. “Lost her kid in Iraq. Has his ashes in the back of the car. I didn't know that when we hooked up, but now . . .” Casey looked toward the door that separated the exam area from the waiting room. He spoke more quietly. “Now I don't think she knows what to do. I sure as hell don't.” He felt like a fool. He should have just gotten out of all this while he could. All he'd wanted was a ride to fucking New Jersey.

“You want me to check her out?”

“Probably a good idea, but it's not my call.”

Mary pushed the stool back and stared at him. “You bail her out, then you say it's not your call.”

“Listen, lady, I know you mean well. There's more going on there than I can handle. Just fix me up and I'll get out of here.” He wanted out now. All the way out. Wanted to find his way back to the desert and forget this whole mess.

Mary considered his words as she turned and tossed the soiled towels and swabs in a covered waste bin. After a moment, she spoke again.

“Alvie's trying to get over to Iraq.”

“Trying to? What's wrong with him?”

Mary glanced up.

“Found himself a job driving trucks. Can make more in six months than he has in the past two years. Wants to pay down the mortgage, put something by for the kids.”

“You want him to go?”

Mary looked at him. “It's a long time between construction jobs now. We could use the money, but I see guys, women too, coming home. . . . I don't know that the enemy takes the time to figure out who's a soldier and who isn't.”

She was talking low like she was telling him a secret she wasn't sure she believed. “They tell him he'll be working in a construction zone. Not where there's fighting.”

Casey pointed to his stump. “This happened to me when the fighting was supposed to be over. Our side did it, no enemies involved.”

Her brown eyes behind the glasses bored into him; her mouth straightlined. She stood. “I'll give you some antibiotics to prevent infection, although the wound on your arm looks clean. The stitches will need to come out in a week. As for that”—she pointed to the stump—“your skin will look a lot better if you give it some air and clean that liner. You may need to put it on to keep your stump from swelling too much while you're waiting to get the prosthesis seen to.”

Yeah. He didn't need a lecture. “Got any crutches I can use?”

“You don't have any?”

Casey reddened. “Left them behind. Didn't think I'd need 'em.”

Mary gave him a look. “I may have a set that'll get you around. If you need better ones, they have some at Walmart.”

Ruth saw Casey jiggle his leg impatiently as he stared out the passenger window. The town was nothing but a few blocks of clapboard and brick buildings, awnings yanked down tight against the afternoon sun. Equal portions of violet lobelia, crimson geraniums, and white dianthus were served up in half-barrel casks and planters along the sidewalks of the main street. Twin silos loomed over an auto parts store where the street ended.

“We can't keep going without gas,” Ruth had told him when she turned off the highway. She squinted. Her fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. A fatigue she'd never known before had frozen her into position. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to get out and pump the fuel into the car.

The pump was one of the old kind; she'd have to go in and pay first. She paused, trying to gather herself for another encounter with a stranger. The air around her was hot, unforgiving; her throat stung.

Behind her, she heard the passenger door open, then Casey. “What's the problem?”

“Nothing. I'll be back in a minute.”

The clerk behind the counter looked up from a newspaper and rose from her stool. Ruth averted her eyes and kept her chin down, as if that would hide her bruises.

“What can I do for you?” the woman asked. Her full cheeks pushed up the half glasses she wore so that her eyes were magnified.

“I'd like to fill the tank.” Ruth fumbled for her wallet and then remembered she had no wallet and Casey had all the cash. “Sorry.”

“That's all right.” The clerk hit a button somewhere behind the counter and leaned forward. “All set to pump.” She peered at Ruth over the tops of the glasses, a summer Santa Claus. She did not smile but Ruth glimpsed something like sympathy in her eyes.

When Ruth fled back to the car, Casey was still sitting with the door open.

“I need money,” Ruth said. She reached for the nozzle.

He cleared his throat. “Look, Ruth, we made a wrong turn but we're not that far from civilization. Let's fill up, figure out the route to Iowa City or Davenport. Neither one is more than a few hours' drive.”

Ruth turned away, closed her eyes, squeezed the nozzle. The pump gurgled, then hummed as gas poured through the hose into the tank. She couldn't face another two hours of driving. Or another two hours of Casey's frustration. “I need some cash,” Ruth said again. She held out her hand. But Casey kept talking.

“I'll get the leg fixed and take a plane. You can get going wherever it is you're going. It's better this way. I'll give you some money. You can pay me back. Like you said, I'm a gambler, I'll take a chance on you.”

Ruth said nothing.

Finally, Casey dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of wrinkled bills and handed them to her. His bandaged arm banged the door. She saw him wince.

The woman was waiting for her when she returned with the money. “Got everything you need?”

Ruth looked around, saw a cooler. “I'll take a Coke and a bottle of water.” She looked around some more. “You don't have any sunglasses, do you?”

“Not for sale, but there's a pair in the back in the lost and found. Wait a minute.”

While she waited, Ruth picked up a couple of chocolate bars and placed them on the counter. A counter easel loaded with brochures caught her attention. Red letters splashed across one card, over an ink outline of a tree bending over a river.
River Bend Motel, RV Park and Campground.
She plucked one of the cards just as the woman returned.

“Not a bad place if you're just looking for a night's rest,” she said. She handed a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses to Ruth. “These should work. Nothing fancy but they'll do the job.” She began to ring up the gas, water, and chocolate. She nodded toward a copy of the
Des Moines Register
on the counter. “You want a paper? That's the last one and I'm done with it. Take it.”

Why not? Ruth gathered the paper up with the small bag and change. “Thanks.”

Outside, Casey was still sitting, facing out the passenger door, his good leg on the ground, his shoe tapping out his impatience on the pavement. Ruth handed him the bag and then dropped the paper onto the console between the seats. “You can do whatever you want tomorrow, but it's getting late. I'm tired.”

“It's my money,” Casey said. “Maybe I don't want to spend it here.”

“I don't want to drive any more tonight, and you can't right now.”

She stared him down until he slumped back in the passenger seat. “Whatever.”

Ruth dug into her purse for her BlackBerry as she took the driver's seat. No calls. Just a text, from Terri.
Cards will be ready tomorrow. Call me so I know where to send them.
Ruth read the message twice, then deleted it. She called the number on the brochure. She would call
Terri, but first they needed a place to stay. A woman answered the phone.

“Campground.”

Ruth watched Casey's eyes, still clouded with frustration and leftover anger. But he did not protest as she made reservations for the night and got directions. He pulled the crutches into the car, then picked up the newspaper and began to flip the pages. “Keep an eye out for the sign to South River Road,” she told Casey as she pulled out of the gas station and headed down the street. He ignored her and picked up the paper.

“Look at this,” Casey said. “That guy again. The bastard that hired those contractors is fucking them over. It's a sweet deal, isn't it? At least when I got my leg blown off, the government had to pay for the new one. No one wants to pay these guys anything. Use 'em up and spit 'em out.”

Ruth glanced over to the open page and saw the face of Don Ryland. The photographer had caught him walking from his office to his car past a group of women with placards. A security guard flanked him, arms spread wide as if to keep the women from swarming forward.
Defense Contractor Under Fire
, the headline read. She looked away.

“Watch for the sign. I don't want to miss our turn.”

“That guy, Alvie, who showed us the way to the hospital? He got himself a job over there driving a truck. His wife, Mary the nurse, she doesn't like it. She's not going to feel any better when she reads this.”

That was right, the nurse was Alvie's wife, kind Alvie and his nice nurse wife who had pressed into Ruth's hand a card bearing the name of a domestic abuse hotline. She wanted Casey to stop reading the paper. “Watch for the turn we need to take, will you?”

Casey glanced up and then back at the little map on the back of the business card. “Try the next left.” He went back to the paper. “Jesus. Look at that asshole. Walking right by that woman like he
has nothin' to do with it. Picture of her dead husband right there on her sign. Look at that guy in the wheelchair.”

Ruth missed the turn. Her jaw pulsed. She waited while a blue Pontiac pulled out of a driveway and then turned back. Beside her, Casey continued to read the article, shaking the pages and swearing as he read. When they pulled into the campground fifteen minutes later, her fingers were cramped from gripping the wheel, her neck knotted as though Casey had been shaking her, not the paper.

—

The cabin room was a wallpapered cave enclosing two beds, a bath, a closet, and a corner with a small refrigerator and a hot plate. Casey leaned into the sill of a window for balance and tugged on the sash until sweat formed on his temples. Nothing. He tried again until a riffle of air seeped through the inch he'd managed to open between sash and sill. A mosquito floated through a tear in the screen and landed on the back of his hand. A scout for the invasion sure to follow once the sun went down. Christ.

“I'm out of here,” he said.

Ruth heaved the duffel and a couple of smaller bags onto the floor. “Where are you going?'

“Not as far as I'd like to.”

Ruth's mouth opened, but he didn't want to hear anything from her right now. Casey pushed past her to the screen door and let it slam behind him. He swung on the crutches down a narrow dirt path to the water. The air was thick with humidity. Sweat lined his upper lip and slicked the surface of his palms so that the crutches slid beneath them with each step. He stopped well short of the riverbank, gasping, looking for a place to sit. The only bench, attached to a picnic table, was twenty or thirty feet away. Two squat adults, four children, and an ancient Labrador retriever were already trudging toward it.

Fucking crutches. Fucking leg. Fucking goddamn Ruth.

He lowered himself to the ground by inches, careful not to let the
crutches get away from him. He'd been stupid to let the faker go so long without maintenance, to let himself run out of clean stump socks. Stupid to hook up with Ruth, to leave Las Vegas. He swatted at a pinch on his left forearm below the bandage. He rubbed at the bloody smear left by the mosquito.

A child squealed. Casey looked up in time to see a small girl hoisted into the air by her father, hip deep in the river. A pause, her mouth snapped shut, and she was launched, a missile in a pink and green bathing suit with a bright orange foam bubble on her back. She burst through the surface of the water, hair flattened and dark, skin shining, mouth wide and laughing. He watched her paddle back to her father, begging for more, saw the stocky man's teeth flash in the sun, radiating confidence. Casey looked away. Who had taken Emily to the shore in the summer? Who had taught her to ride the waves? Moira? Probably some guy Moira had found along the way to replace him. Casey thought of the letter and the clippings Katie O'Brien had sent, the ones that had launched him on this latest stupidity. Emily was seventeen, a big strong girl. She'd learned to propel herself into the air and make jump shots, to get on the honor roll, and she'd done it without him. She didn't need him or want him. Too many years had passed. He didn't deserve her.

Another splash. The father called, “Last time,” as he waded over to his daughter and pointed to the shore. She began to paddle furiously while he stayed behind her in the water. A lumpy guy, losing his hair, the kind of guy who would hit the five-dollar blackjack tables and walk away the minute he lost. Casey tried to summon the derision he felt for men like this. Lightweights, losers, he'd called them as he raked in his own chips. Now, for the first time, he saw that men like this walked away because they had someplace to go.

Behind him, a screen door squeaked, then slapped shut. He glanced over his shoulder. The Jaguar squatted silently next to the motel room door. He thought he saw Ruth moving behind the screen. All settled into a fucking dump of a motel room with hours ahead of
them and no way for him to escape. Casey turned back to the river. A few hours earlier Ruth had wanted out, told him to take the car. He tried to picture himself behind the wheel of the Jaguar. In a couple of days or less he'd be parked in front of the house he'd left all those years ago. Emily might be sitting on the steps, just like he used to sit with her mother and her uncle. Casey closed his eyes, trying to arrange the girl from the clipping into the picture forming in his mind. He tried to see himself getting out of Ruth's expensive sports car like it was his, walking up the steps, and sitting beside his daughter. But he couldn't do it. The girl on the stairs would look right through him. He wouldn't be able to get out of the car.

A mosquito whined in Casey's ear. He slapped at it. His eyes opened to the river, empty now, unmoving. The father and the daughter were with the rest of their family grouped around the picnic table, eating food that came out of a big blue cooler. The Lab sat under the table, in the shade, alert for falling scraps.

Casey knew he'd missed his chance.

And he was in the middle of the fucking heartland with a woman more lost than he was.

—

The bags seemed heavier than they had that morning, or maybe it was just that the day had sapped Ruth's strength. She struggled first with the duffel and then with Casey's bag. The straps slipped in her hands and her shoulders ached. When she laid Robbie's ashes on top of a small dresser, she paused to catch her breath.

Pineapples, palms, and parrots splashed the walls, defying the dull brown and tan of the early American braided rug and knotty pine of the ceiling. Her mother had had a bathrobe like that wallpaper, Ruth remembered. A cacophony of oranges, purples, reds, and greens. Cheap shiny material. She would wear it to breakfast in the morning at the farm. Next to the olive work pants and plaid
wool shirt worn by Ruth's grandfather, Stella looked like a caged lorikeet. She hadn't stayed in the cage.

Ruth blinked away the memory as she stood in front of a narrow mirror on the outside of the bathroom door. Her reflection displayed evidence of her own attempt to flee: Casey's dried blood on her Walmart shirt, now filthy with grass and dirt, the bruises stippled across her brow and cheek. She recognized loathing in the eyes of the woman staring back at her. The force of it sent her back out of the cabin to the car, driven suddenly to erase the dregs of the day, to blot out the coffee smell, the memory of Casey's face twisted in pain and the panic that had driven her into the field in the first place. She stuffed old coffee cups and fast-food wrappers into an empty plastic bag and brushed off the seats with a napkin before stuffing that in the bag as well. She yanked her briefcase out of the backseat for the first time since leaving San Diego.