Coming Home (37 page)

It was a beautiful day for a drive, and once he was on the
freeway, he opened up the Ferrari and let her roll.  It felt wonderful, the
powerful machine beneath him, the wind threading fingers through his hair.  He
was doing the right thing, and he wished that Casey could see him, for she
would be proud of his decision, proud of what he was about to do.  He’d been
battling these particular demons for too long.  It was time he finally laid
them to rest.

The V.A. hospital wasn’t hard to find.  Danny circled the block
several times before he mustered the courage to drive into the lot and park. 
He locked the car, squared his shoulders, and walked determinedly toward the
building.

He paused in the lobby to read the wall directory, then took a
sharp left and strode to the end of the corridor and through the door marked
MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES.

The woman at the reception desk looked up at him, then did a
double-take.  Her mouth fell open as he pulled his discharge papers from his
pocket and slapped them down on the counter in front of her. 

“Hello,” he said.  “My name is Danny Fiore, and I’m here to
collect on an old debt.”

She rented an apartment on Hanover Street, in Boston’s North End,
a cozy little two-bedroom with crooked wooden floors and one wall of ancient
brick.  From the window that looked out over the street below, she could watch
Coca-Cola trucks unloading, and tourists in white shorts with Japanese cameras
around their necks, and a never-ending stream of traffic, night and day.  She
turned the spare bedroom into a workroom, with a day bed and a rolltop desk and
a small upright piano that was carted up the stairs by two grunting,
muscle-bound deliverymen.  She covered the floors with colorful scatter rugs
and the windows with venetian blinds, filled the sunny open spaces with a
jungle of green plants, stocked the refrigerator with yogurt and fruit and Diet
Coke.

And she took up running.

It was a way of relieving her frustrations, a way of temporarily
escaping her problems, for while she was running it was impossible to think of
anything except the white-hot agony of pushing her body to the point of
collapse.  Running was a monster, a fire-breathing dragon, an enemy she met
with obsessive fury.  Gradually, as she built up her endurance, it evolved into
a challenge as each day she pushed herself just a little farther.  Until one day,
she realized she was no longer running to escape her problems or to prove
something to herself, but for the simple, sheer exhilaration of running
itself.  Daily, no matter what the weather, she ran up one side of the
Esplanade to the Harvard Bridge and back down the other side.  Afterward, she
bought the morning paper and a cup of steaming coffee from the grocer
downstairs and then stood beneath a scalding shower, face up to the spray as
the water sluiced off tender, aching muscles.

There were times when the loneliness overwhelmed her.  Nights were
the hardest, because she’d been sleeping beside Danny for twelve years, and
even during their most difficult times, he’d still been there beside her, a
comforting warmth to curl up to.  At home, his scent had lingered on the
bedding.  But her new pillows smelled like K-Mart, the new pillowcases like
laundry soap.  And she lay awake, night after night, cursing Danny to hell, and
herself right along with him, because she would have traded her soul to have
him lying there beside her.

Yet there was another side of her that relished the freedom of
having to answer to nobody but herself.  At times, she looked around her little
apartment in amazement at the realization that everything in it was hers and
she possessed sole responsibility for her own life.  For twelve years, Danny
had been the center of her universe.  Now she took small, fearful steps into
the unknown in an attempt to cultivate the acquaintance of the woman whose
green eyes gazed back at her from the mirror each morning.  For twelve years,
she’d thought she knew who that woman was.  Had been absolutely certain of her
identity.  Now, she was forced to rediscover who she really was, to relearn her
own tastes, her own interests, her own dreams.

On the morning of her thirtieth birthday, she awoke engulfed in a
deep blue sorrow that played a striking countermelody to the liquid brilliance
of the spring morning outside her window.  It was so uncharacteristic, this
paralyzing sadness, that for a moment she wondered if she’d contracted some
exotic flu bug.  She’d never allowed melancholy feelings to control her, had
always refused to take the time for them.  But this was like a heavy blanket of
despair, so thick she had difficulty getting out of bed.

Age had never held meaning for her before.  A birthday was simply
a birthday, a cause for celebration, the actual number meaningless.  But thirty
was loaded with meaning, ripe with recognition of her own mortality.  At
thirty, she’d lost some symbolic youth, had stepped over a threshold into an
alien territory from which she could never return.  At thirty, she should have
had it all.  Instead, her life was a shambles.  And she was forced to face the
truth that her chances for attaining that elusive happiness were growing slimmer
with each year that passed.

Most of the time, she tried not to dwell on thoughts of Danny, but
today she allowed herself just a few minutes to wallow in self-pity, wondering
if he even remembered it was her birthday.  How was he coping?  How was he making
it through the nights, when the nightmares woke him in the wee hours and she
wasn’t there to ward off the evil spirits?  Was he in as much pain as she was? 
Did he hate sleeping alone as much as she did?  Or had he even noticed she was
gone?

She exorcised her demons by running, pushing her body to its
limits and beyond, breaking her own records for speed and endurance.  She
returned home sweaty, gasping, barely coherent, but her depression had lifted.
The hallway was dark, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the
gloomy interior.  She was halfway up the stairs before she saw the shadowy
figure sitting on the top step.  She reached into her pocket and closed her
fist around the can of Mace she carried everywhere.  And then a familiar voice
said, “About time you got here.  Don’t blame me if the Cherry Garcia’s already
soup.”

Her entire body responded with an exultant, resounding joy.  She
released the Mace, let out a bloodcurdling whoop, and took the stairs two at a
time.  “MacKenzie, you insufferable jackass!” she said as she threw her arms
around him.  “What are you doing in Boston?”

He returned her bone-crunching hug.  “It’s your birthday, Fiore. Didn’t
think I’d forget, did you?”

“Let me look at you.”  She stepped back, held him at arm’s length
and studied him while he watched her with a bemused smile.  “You look
wonderful,” she said.

He chucked her under the chin and said, “Listen, the ice cream
really is melting.  I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour.”

She looked at the packages strewn over the landing.  “You really
brought ice cream?” she said.

“And cake.  And gifts.  A woman turns thirty but once, my sweet. 
It’s a milestone that deserves to be commemorated.”

She took out her keys and unlocked the door to her apartment.   Ruefully,
she said, “I’d just as soon commemorate it by drinking hemlock.”

“What you need,” he said, picking up the last of his packages and
kicking the door shut behind him, “is an attitude adjustment.  And that’s just
what I’m here to provide.”

While she watched, he unpacked a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a
homemade cake that looked like one of Mary’s specialties, two bottles of
sparkling wine—one red, one white—and an assortment of packages hastily done up
in Sesame Street wrapping paper.  “Sorry about the paper,” he said.  “It was
all Mom could dig up on such short notice.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.

He picked up one of the bottles and perused the label.  Frowning,
he said,  “Which do you think goes better with ice cream?  Red or white?”

“You’re a lunatic,” she said, “but I love you.  Let’s go with the
red.”

Without asking for permission, he began opening cupboard doors
until he found a pair of wine glasses.  “And note,” he said, “that I spared no
expense.”  He released the cork with a loud pop.  “See?  No screw-on cap.” 
With a flourish, he poured wine into one of the glasses and handed it to her.

“Duly noted,” she said dryly.

He filled his own glass and held it up.  “To thirty,” he said,
“and whatever’s on the other side.”

“To old age, infirmity, and senility,” she echoed darkly, and
drained her glass.

He leaned those lanky hips against the counter and rolled his wine
glass between both palms.  “Bad day, kiddo?” he said.

“Try bad year.”

Those green eyes examined her at length.  At last, softly, he
said, “Yeah.  I know.”

She picked up the bottle and refilled her glass.  Digging a
fingertip into his breastbone, she said, “I don’t want your damn pity.”

“Pity’s definitely not on the agenda,” he said.  “But a birthday
party is.”

So they drank red wine and ate Mary’s chocolate cake topped with a
generous puddle of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.  His gifts were eclectic,
and typical of him:  a coloring book denoting the joys of senility; an
oversized white tee shirt that said
Sexy Senior Citizen
; and an exquisite
pair of earrings, fashioned of jade and onyx, that must have cost him dearly. 
“Oh, Rob,” she protested, “they’re beautiful.  But they’re too expensive.  You
shouldn’t have done this.”

“Why not?  I’m loaded.  I can afford it.”

“I know, but—”

“I seem to remember a certain person who bought me a leather
jacket last Christmas.  One I saw on Rodeo Drive and refused to shell out the
bucks for.”

 “That was different.”

He squared that stubborn jaw.  “What’s different about it?”

“Jewelry is so personal.  A man buys jewelry for his wife, not
for—”  She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.

“For what?” he said.  “Another man’s wife?  Is that what you were
about to say?”

She shrugged in silent apology.  “Look,” he said, more gently, “if
said man is stupid enough to let his wife walk out of his life, then I’ll buy
her anything I damn well please.”

Casey raised her wine glass.  “
Touché
,” she said.

“Oh, I almost forgot.”  He picked up the aforementioned leather
jacket and began rummaging through the pockets.  “There’s one more.”

“More?  MacKenzie, you’ll spoil me rotten before you’re through.”

“This one’s different.”  He finally found what he sought, a flat,
square package done up in the same Sesame Street paper.  He held it in his hand
for a moment, thumb caressing it lazily, and then he slid it across the table
to her.  “Happy birthday, kiddo,” he said, and to her surprise, got up from the
table and walked to the window.

Casey picked it up, looked at it, glanced quickly at his rigid
back, his squared shoulders.  And knew.  Instantly, she knew.  She fumbled with
the ribbon, tore at Big Bird and Elmo to reveal the CD inside.  In the cover
photo, he stood beneath a huge maple tree, his guitar balanced on one booted
toe, deeply shadowed morning light filtering in through the branches and
teasing golden highlights from that riotous mass of curls. 
Rob MacKenzie
,
the words on the spine read. 
The Edge of Nowhere
.

“You did it!” she said, hands trembling with excitement.  “Hot
damn, Flash, you really did it!”

He turned away from the window, the color flushing his cheekbones
the only indication of his true feelings.  He shoved his hands into his
pockets.  “You might want to listen to it,” he said, studying the toes of his Reeboks,
“before you get too wound up.”

Casey snorted, in a loud and most unladylike manner, and didn’t
bother to respond.  Cake, ice cream and earrings forgotten, she carried the
disc to the living room and popped it into her CD player.  She plunked down
onto the couch and folded her arms around a raised knee, and while he paced her
kitchen, she listened to his first solo album all the way through.

The music was complex, cool and jazzy, with that sophisticated
edge that marked all his work.  He’d written and produced the album himself,
backing himself up with some of the best studio musicians in the business.  How
many times had she heard him sing over the years?  They’d been collaborating
for twelve years, and they’d sung together maybe ten thousand times, yet the
soft, slightly husky voice pouring from her twin Pioneer speakers still managed
to surprise her.  He’d always taken a back seat to Danny, but without Danny
there to overshadow him, she could hear the strength in his voice.  Rob
MacKenzie had been born to make music, and no matter what the instrument might
be, he handled it with aplomb.

 “I’ve had this stuff rolling around in my head,” he said.  “A
second album that’s not like anything we’ve ever done before.  I want to go off
in a completely new direction.  A little blues, a little rock, a little
fusion.  Remember Van Morrison’s
Moondance
?”

“So rich you could taste it.”