Coming Home (50 page)

“I won’t lie and say it’s easy, because it isn’t.  But I’m
surviving, one hour at a time.”

“You could come visit me.  Hop on a plane and get out of the ice
and snow.”

“It’s too soon.  I need to be here right now.”  She paused.  “He’s
here,” she said.  “In this house.  Everywhere I look.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Right now, that’s what I need.  It’s all I have.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue.   He rolled onto his side and shifted
the phone to his other ear.  “You’d tell me,” he said, “if you were in
trouble.  Right?”

“I’m not in trouble.  I told you, I’m stronger than you think. 
You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“Don’t be,” he said gruffly.  “I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Flash.  You’re not handling this well.”

He wrapped the coiled telephone wire once around his hand. 
Twice.  “I’m handling it,” he said, “the only way I know how.”

“And that’s the same thing I’m doing.”

“I’m one hell of a comfort,” he said, disgusted with himself.  “I
shouldn’t have called.”

“Rob,” she said softly, “what’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath.  Unwound the cord from his hand.  “I went
out with Kitty tonight,” he said.  “Kitty Callahan.  I slept with her.  It’s
not the first time.”

Softly, she said, “And?”

“I didn’t feel a goddamn thing.  She’s a nice girl, but I didn’t
feel a goddamn thing.  What does that say about me?”

“That you were lonely.  It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“I’m thirty-three years old,” he said.  “I’m too old for
bed-hopping.”

“Yes,” she said.  “You are.”

He plumped the pillow behind his head, propped himself against
it.  “You never talk about Katie,” he said.  “Does it bother you?  To talk
about her?”

“It doesn’t bother me.  Sometimes it makes other people
uncomfortable.  Why?”

He toyed with the telephone cord.  “I was just wondering what it
feels like.  To have a kid of your own.”

“For me,” she said, “it was the most incredible feeling of love
I’d ever known.  I don’t think you can understand the depth of that kind of
love until you’ve experienced it.  You’d fight off snarling wolves for that
child.  You’d give your life gladly.  And the feeling you get from knowing that
you and the person you love most in the world created that exquisite creature
together, that it came from an act of love, is the most profound emotion you’ll
ever experience.”

“One I’ll probably never know,” he said darkly.

“Yes,” she said.  “You will.  I promise.  It’ll happen.”

“I have to go,” he said.  “It’s the middle of the night.  You need
your sleep.”

“I don’t sleep much these days.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “The last thing you need right now is me
dumping my pathetic little life into your lap.”

“Wrong.  I’m grateful for the distraction.”

“Oh.  Well, in that case, I guess it’s okay.”

“It’s always okay.  You know that.”

“I know.  Next time it’s your turn to cry on my shoulder.”

“I’ve done more than my share of that lately,” she said.  “We have
a mile or two to walk before we even up those odds.”

“Get some sleep,” he told her.  “That’s an order.”

“And you know just how good I am at taking orders.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.  “G’night,” he said.

“Night, lovey.”

He hung up the phone and lay there in the darkness, soothed by the
strength of the aura that surrounded her, and fell asleep thinking about what
she’d said.

***

When Trish, trying to be helpful, sent Danny’s suede jacket out to
be cleaned, Casey tumbled headfirst into the abyss.

Her sister-in-law was suitably repentant, but the damage was
already done.  The coat had held Danny’s scent, and had comforted her through
several extremely dark nights.  It came back minus the blood and the broken
glass, and smelling of chemicals.  Trish looked so contrite that Casey didn’t
have the heart to scream at her.  “Just leave, please,” she said, and Trish,
not knowing what else to do, got in her car and drove home.

Curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor with the jacket in her
arms, her face crushed against it, the scent of leather mingling with that of
cleaning compound, she wept and ranted into the dark, empty house, her own
voice echoing back to her because nobody else was there.  She smashed dishes,
put her foot through an old door.  Broke her favorite crystal pitcher, then
sliced her hand and watched helplessly as the bright red lifeblood flowed out
of her.  She cried until there were no more tears left, and then she fell
asleep on the couch, her head cradled on Danny’s jacket.

The next morning, she picked up the broken glass and drew the
shades.  There was no sense in leaving them open, for she no longer had any
interest in anything outside her windows.  She stopped answering the telephone,
stopped reading the mail, turned away visitor after visitor until they finally
stopped coming.  Sometimes she remembered to eat.  Sometimes she didn’t.  But
it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered any more, because the light had left her
life and the world had gone dark.

After a time, she stopped combing her hair.  Sometimes she wore
the same clothes for a week.  There were days when she didn’t bother to get out
of bed.  It was easier to lie there in her darkened bedroom and pretend she
couldn’t hear the ringing of the phone.  Easier to ignore the messages Rob kept
leaving on her machine.  Eventually, tired of it all, she unplugged the phone
and put the answering machine on a shelf in the closet.  That put an end to the
aggravation once and for all.  And each gray and shapeless day drifted into the
next.

Until the day Rob MacKenzie came calling.

chapter twenty-nine

With his untamed mane of blond curls, he looked like an enraged
lion, pacing her kitchen.  “What the hell is going on here?” he said.  “You
don’t answer my phone calls, you ignore my letters—”  He abruptly stopped
pacing and stared at her.  “And you look,” he said, “like bloody fucking hell. 
Why hasn’t anybody done anything about the way you’re living?”

She tried to focus on his words, but it was difficult.  Grappling
with his final sentence, she said, “What’s wrong with the way I’m living?”

“For starters, you’d disappear if you turned around sideways. 
When was the last time you ate something?”

She tried to remember, but couldn’t.  Shrugging, she said,
“Sometime yesterday, I guess.”

“What are you trying to do, Fiore?  Starve yourself to death?  And
look at this mausoleum.  Doesn’t the light ever get in?  You’re starting to
look like Dracula.”  His mouth thinned into a grim line.  “I never thought I’d
see the day you’d do this to yourself.”

“Damn it, Rob, how long have you had this God complex?  It doesn’t
become you.”

He set his jaw at an obstinate angle.  “It looks better on me than
that crown of thorns does on you.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“They burned Joan of Arc.  Back in those days, martyrdom was in
style.”

With deadly calm, she said, “Are you through?”

“Through? 
Hah!
  I’ve only just begun!”

“By all means, then, MacKenzie, spill it!”

He squared his shoulders.  “The man is dead, Fiore.  That’s
spelled D-E-A-D.”

“I know how the hell it’s spelled!”

“He isn’t coming back.  No matter what you do, he’s
not coming
back
.  And damn it, woman, you didn’t die with him!”

“Maybe I wish I had!”

She spun away from him, but he was quicker.  He caught her by the
hand.  “Tough,” he said.  “You didn’t.”  He thrust the hand up in front of her
face.  “You see this?  You cut it, it bleeds.”  He dropped her hand and stalked
to the window and yanked on the shade, and it snapped up with a sharp crack. 
“I want to see an end to this—”  He yanked on another shade.  “And this—”  He
yanked so hard on the third one that it fell with a clatter to the floor.  “And
this!”

Atremble with fury, she said, “This is my house.  You have no
right!”

“I have every goddamn right in the world.  This is morbid, Casey. 
The man’s been dead for six months.  You can’t hide forever.  You’ve got
brains, you’ve got looks, you’ve got more talent in your little finger than
I’ve got in my whole body.  You’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had, and by
God, I won’t let you die up here in the sticks just because nobody else cares
enough to help you!”

“Maybe I want to die!  Maybe my life ended when that car went over
that embankment!”

“Bullshit!  Do you still think life is what your Mama taught you? 
Clean underwear and proper etiquette and 2 point 5 kids and a house in the
suburbs?  All neat and pretty and ordered, with blooming rosebushes and the
lawn trimmed?  Well, it isn’t.  It’s a lie.  It’s all a fucking lie!”

“Get out of here,” she said dully.  “Leave me alone.”

“Not until I’ve said what I came to say!”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Tough.  You’re going to hear it anyway.”  He shoved her into a
chair and pinned her hands to the chair arms.  “Life isn’t pretty or nice,” he
said, “and you won’t go to heaven for being a good girl.  Life is flesh and
blood, it’s tears and sweat and spit.  It’s being born and dying and all the
crap you have to go through in between.”  His voice thinned to a sharp, hard
edge.  “It’s slow, sweet fucking and it’s a saxophone wailing in the night. 
And you only get one shot at it, baby, so you’d better grab it now before it’s
too late, because once you’re gone, none of it will have meant a damn thing!” 
He released her abruptly and went to the window and stood there with his
forehead pressed against the glass.

For a moment she sat there with her mouth hanging open.  Then her
anger caught up with her.  “That was very nice,” she said.  “Have you thought
of setting it to music?”

He looked defeated.  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have
you?”

“Are you finished, MacKenzie?”

“Yeah.”  He sighed.  “I’m finished.”

“Fine.  You know where the door is.  Take it.  I don’t want to see
you, I don’t want to hear from you, I don’t want to smell you!  Get the hell
out of my house and my life. 
Capisce
?”

“I
capisce
.  But when it all falls down around you, don’t
come crying to me to wet-nurse you, because I just might have something better
to do!”  He stalked across the room and through the shed, and slammed the door
with so much force, the house shook.

She ran to the door and opened it and flung the words at his
retreating back.  “Insufferable jackass Irishman!”

He paused with the car door open, and the sunset gave his blond
curls a reddish glow.  “Go to hell,” he said.

The rented car spattered rocks and gravel in all directions as he
backed it down the driveway and screamed off at breakneck speed.  She slammed
the door as hard as she could, but she was surprised by the lack of
satisfaction the act gave her.

***

The minute Jesse Lindstrom opened his door, Rob blew through it,
tracking in mud all over Jesse’s clean floors.  “What the hell is wrong with
you people?” he said.  “Are you all stupid, or is it just that you don’t give a
damn?”

To his credit, Jesse calmly shut the door and leaned against the
frame.  “Care to clarify that?” he said.

“That woman,” he said, pointing in the general direction of
Casey’s house, “is sitting up there on that hill, and I don’t think she’s
combed her hair in a month.”  He began pacing, heedless of the mess his size
elevens were making on polished oak.  “Or eaten anything, for that matter.” 
Scowling, he said, “She’s so goddamn thin, it hurts to look at her.  She’s
sitting there in the dark, trying to commit slow suicide, and doing a damn good
job of it.”  He paused just long enough to glare at Jesse.  “How the hell can
you ignore it?  Doesn’t anybody in this godforsaken wilderness give a damn
about her?”

Jesse folded his arms and casually studied his cuticle.  “You
finished?” he said.

Rob paused in his pacing.  He was breathing hard, like he’d just
run the Boston Marathon.  He squared his jaw.  “Why?” he said.

“Take off the sneakers,” Jesse said, “and I might invite you in
for a beer.”

They drank it in the living room, in front of the hearth.  Rob
propped his feet on the edge of the coffee table.  “Nice fireplace,” he said
grudgingly.

“You get rebuffed enough times,” Jesse said, “after a while, you
stop trying.”

Rob studied the label on his bottle of Bud.  “Couldn’t you see
what was going on?” he said.

“She’s a grown woman,” Jesse pointed out.  “There’s only so much
anybody can do.”