The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(31)

“Iraq.”

It had seemed strange enough that Jeremy was a police officer, but it struck me as utterly peculiar that he’d been in the Marines. Across the expanse of the table, I looked at him with new eyes. The long fingers that had once gracefully stretched across guitar strings to play an F sharp had held an automatic rifle and pointed it at people in another country, a country that had done no harm to his. The eye that had once winked in mischief as he passed notes in class had calmly observed human targets through a riflescope. The voice that had softened as he told me he’d joined the Marines had barked instructions over a headset or a bullhorn. In our desert town, there were Marine flags on houses and yellow ribbons on cars. The grocery store was festooned with banners that said WELCOME TO OUR TROOPS. Most of the kids in our high school sat for the ASVAB. So it shouldn’t have surprised me so much that Jeremy had enlisted, and yet it did. I couldn’t reconcile the memories I had of the stuttering boy in grade school with the reality that he was an agent of the state. “But why?” I asked.

“I wanted to study speech pathology, but when I got to Cal State I hated my classes and didn’t do well in them. I felt like a complete stranger on that campus. Like I didn’t belong. I was just, I don’t know, not going anywhere with school. And we were at war. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Invading Iraq was the right thing to do?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I just meant, I’d always wanted to serve. My grandfather was a medic in World War II, and my dad was in the Army Reserve for a while, too. I was eighteen, I guess I wanted to be a part of something bigger, like them.”

An awkward silence fell on the table.

“You sure you don’t want any fries?” he asked after a minute.

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

I touched the charm of my necklace, my father’s gift to me for my high school graduation, and which I’d pulled out of the jewelry box in my bedroom the first night I got back, a protective talisman in the shape of a hand. I felt worn out all of a sudden and wanted desperately to be alone, to return to my grief, in solitude and without interruption. Beads of water had formed on my glass of gin and the black napkin underneath was soggy. Two tables down from us, an older woman pulled out a red lace fan from her purse and cooled herself with it. At the back of the restaurant, the waitress was refilling saltshakers, nodding along with the song that played on the stereo. Only when she noticed my insistent stare did she finally bring the check.

“I got it,” Jeremy said.

“No, it’s all right.” I put money down and he did, too, pulling a bill from his wallet and walking out of the restaurant behind me. Outside, the last rays of sunlight painted the white blooms of yucca shrubs a deep orange. It was very quiet.

“You really shouldn’t be driving, Nora.”

“I’ll be fine.” I crossed the parking lot to my car, and he followed.

“Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“There’s no need. I’m just going three or four miles.”

“Nora.”

“What?”

“I can’t let you drive. You’re, what, five-foot-three and a hundred-and-ten, a hundred-and-fifteen? You had two drinks in less than an hour and you didn’t eat anything.”

Hearing all this spelled out made me feel exposed. Vulnerable. All I wanted was to be alone again. I got in my car, but he held the door open with one hand. A familiar fear settled in the pit of my stomach. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice turning uneven. “Really.”

“Come on, Nora. Let me drive you. You can get your car tomorrow.”

I got out of the Prius after a moment and followed him, holding my purse against my chest like a shield. He eased his Jeep onto the 62 and was heading toward my parents’ house when I asked him to turn around and gave him directions to the cabin. “So you’ll be in town for a while, then?” he asked.

“For now,” I said, not wanting to explain that I couldn’t stay at the house with my mother and that I needed time to think through what I was going to do next.

Five minutes later we pulled up to the cabin. My mother was sitting on the porch, waiting. Great, I thought. Just great. All of my energy went into looking sober and alert. “Thanks for the ride,” I said and got out without waiting for an answer.

My mother stood up, her hands on her chest. “What happened?”

“Nothing, Mom. The battery in my key went out. I couldn’t get the door to open.”

“I told you not to buy a hybrid. They’re not reliable.”

“Okay. You were right.” A meaningless concession to avert an escalation.

Inside the cabin the smell of mint tea hung in the air. A stack of Tupperware containers, each filled with a different dish—grilled peppers, chicken with carrots, a fruit salad—sat on the kitchen counter. The realization that my mother had been inside the cabin finished sobering me up. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the Tupperware.

“You called Triple A?”

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“And who was that man? He looks familiar.”

“What’s all this, Mom?”

“I brought you something to eat.”

“You didn’t have to.” I dropped my purse on the sofa. That was when I noticed the flower arrangement on the mantelpiece. Some years ago, my mother had taken up arts and crafts and spent most of her afternoons working on one project or another. Her latest hobby was dry-flower arrangements; this particular incarnation involved pink and white roses laid out in the shape of a heart. A heart! On the other end of the mantelpiece three black vases stood like sentinels. “Mom. There’s really no need for any of this. I can take care of myself. And besides, I’m not staying long.”