The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(82)

With a grunt, he leaned back in his chair, waiting for the moderator to arrive. But a few minutes before eight, we discovered that Rossi was out that night. His replacement was a frail-looking therapist named Dexter, who kept clicking and unclicking his ballpoint pen. “Who would like to start tonight?”

Doug, the bald-headed guy who always raised his hand first, talked about how agitated he was all the time, how he couldn’t eat anything, what a tough day he’d had. After twenty minutes of his aimless chatter, Adriana, the nurse, got frustrated and interrupted him. “There are other people here,” she said sharply.

“Now, now,” Dexter replied, his palms raised. “Let’s calm down.”

“I am calm,” she snapped.

Fierro was sitting with his arms crossed and his good ear cocked toward Adriana. “She didn’t say nothing,” he agreed. “She’s calm.”

Doug objected to being interrupted, Adriana asked what he thought would happen when he wouldn’t shut up, and Fierro agreed with her again. It took Dexter a long while to regain control of the room. But then he called on someone different to speak, and that upset Doug, Adriana, and Fierro all at once. I tilted my wrist discreetly to look at my watch. There was so much I still had to do that night. Fill up with gas. Write a check for my car insurance. Run a load of laundry, I was out of clean socks. Suddenly I felt ten pairs of eyes locked on me, and realized I had missed something. “Sorry. What was that?”

“Would you like to share something about your anger?” Dexter asked.

Me, angry? Well, since he asked. I was angry that Vasco had been using that abandoned baby for PR advantage. I was angry that he’d sent us to a training session in San Bernardino just to make himself look good. I was angry that people were afraid of my uniform. Inside it, I was just like them, but they only saw me as a political prop or some movie fantasy, nothing in between. I was angry about the war. God, was I angry about the war. People were being killed while Bush was painting still lifes and Rumsfeld was writing books and Cheney just wouldn’t fucking shut up. I was angry that I had to spend my evening here, listening to other angry people. “I’m just here for support,” I said.

“He’s with me,” Fierro said, raising his hand, seemingly relieved that he finally got a chance to speak. He talked about the usual: his wife. How she had moved on, how she had a new life with somebody else, how he’d been left behind. Adriana nodded thoughtfully while he spoke, as if she understood or agreed with him. It seemed that this support group was helping him open up about himself, and I was glad he had stuck with it, but I wondered how Mary was doing now, too, and I made a mental note to call or visit her at the hair salon. I needed a haircut anyway.

At the end of the session, as we were putting the folding chairs back in the utility closet, Fierro asked when Rossi would be back. “I’m not sure,” Dexter told him. “I think he might be moving out of state. But I’ll be here.”

It was dark when we stepped outside, and the air was muggy.

“I don’t like this new guy,” Fierro said as he pulled out his car keys.

“He’s just getting to know everyone. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I guess,” Fierro said as we crossed the parking lot. “Wanna hit the bowling alley?”

“Not tonight.”

“Come on, dude. Just a couple of games.”

“No, I’m too tired.”

“You didn’t want to go last week, either.”

“I’ve got a lot going on.”

“How about a game of poker? My neighbors are playing tonight.”

“No, man. I feel like I’ve been driving for three days straight. I’m exhausted.”

“All right, then.” We shook hands, and I got into my Jeep and pulled out of the parking lot onto the 62. My windshield was dusty and in the yellow glare of my headlights the road seemed hazy. Never mind filling up with gas, I thought, or writing a check for the insurance, or running the laundry. All of that could wait. What I really needed now was some care, and some sleep. I turned on the radio, settling on a classic rock station, and headed for the cabin.



* * *



—

All the lights were on in the house. You could see everything inside, as clearly as if you were in a movie theater: the flower arrangement on the mantelpiece, the shelves that strained under the weight of books, the antique wooden chandelier, a baseball cap hanging from the hat peg. The fresh coat of paint made the kitchen look new and it startled me that even Nora at the window looked new. After she told me about her encounter with A.J. at the bowling alley, I’d insisted she get a second bolt for the front door, and I still planned to fix the loose screen on the kitchen window. The sound of my tires on the driveway gravel made her look up from the sink, and she dried her hands and came to the door. “How was training?” she asked.

“It was long.” I stepped across the threshold, took her in my arms, and kicked the door closed with my leg. All my worries shrank when I was with her. The loneliness I’d once taken for granted had disappeared from my life and in its place was something I hadn’t experienced before, the feeling that our two solitudes had joined together. Everything receded from my attention—the humming of the swamp cooler, the cooing of the turtledove, the music on the stereo. She was all that mattered. In another moment, we moved to the bed, struggling with buttons and hooks and zippers. I was taking off her bra when she froze and pushed me away, screaming. “There’s someone at the window.”