For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  This just wasn’t right, he thought, staring at the neon sign in Sadie’s window. Casey was supposed to be with him. He was going to show her off. They were going to walk through the door together and Sadie was going to close the bar. How could she be dead? Only young soldiers died ahead of their time, not vibrant, lovely young women who saved lives in the operating room. Not Casey, never Casey. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  He opened the door because that was what he was supposed to do.

  Sadie was dressed to the teeth, standing behind the bar. Benny was on a bar stool, a glass of orange juice in front of him. They looked at him. He looked at them. And they knew.

  Together they held him, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a mother, while he cried great, manly, gulping sobs. Their tears mingled with his and not one of the three cared. He thought he was going to die when he heard the platter drop on the Wurlitzer. He dug down to the last ounce of his reserve when he heard the words to “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

  “You okay, buddy?” Benny said gruffly.

  “Of course he’s not okay, he’s hurting,” Sadie said tearfully.

  “I can handle it,” Mac said hoarsely. “I’m hungry, Sadie. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Hungry? Well, you certainly came to the right place. I’ll fix you the grandest meal you’ve ever had in your life. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s cook,” Sadie babbled happily as she led the two most important men in her life up the stairs to her apartment.

  “It’s the same. Why did I think it would be different?” Mac said quietly as he sniffed the popcorn-scented air.

  Both men ate heartily. When the plates were slipped into the soapy water, Sadie took her place at the table.

  “So what are my options?” Mac asked wearily.

  “This isn’t the time to do anything,” Sadie said carefully. “You have the rest of your life to make decisions. You need to mourn, honey. You need this time to think about your life and what you really want to do.”

  “What do I do about Alice and the child?”

  “Why don’t you try the truth? Tell her what you told us, that you’ve been sterile since the age of fourteen when you had the mumps and there’s no way you could be the father of baby Jenny. You should have told her long ago, Mac. That’s just my opinion, of course,” Benny said miserably.

  “It’s mine too, Mac, honey,” Sadie said sadly. “This isn’t the time though. Why don’t you and Benny go off together on a fishing trip or something. You know, just hang out with nature. Bill always used to do that, and he would come back full of spit and vinegar. It might help, Mac.”

  “It’s been great seeing you both. I . . . talked about you to Casey, and I always told her what you wrote in your letters. She couldn’t wait to meet both of you. Look, I’m going home. I don’t know why because I don’t want to go there. I might even stop and see my old man. It’s something I have to do. I’ll be back. Thanks, it was wonderful, Sadie. Benny, thanks for being here. I’ll give you a call.”

  When the door to the bar closed, Sadie laid her hand on Benny’s. “You can’t go after him. He has to handle this in his own way. We’re here and he knows that. It’s all we can do. He’ll be all right, but it’s going to take a while. That business about him being sterile, I didn’t know that. Did you?” she asked in an accusing voice.

  “Yeah, I knew. It’s not the kind of thing men rush to explain to people. No guy wants to admit to that. I sure as hell wouldn’t. Hell, I don’t even think his old man knows. Just us.”

  “But . . . that was so long ago . . . Isn’t it possible he could have . . . what I mean is, is the sterility . . . forever?”

  “Jeeze, Sadie, I don’t . . . it wasn’t something we discussed in detail . . . I’ve heard of cases where . . . shit, I don’t know,” Benny groaned. “I just know that he doesn’t deserve this, Sadie.”

  “God never gives us more than we can handle,” Sadie said quietly. “Mac can handle this. He’s not the same, Benny, surely you noticed that. He’s his own person now.”

  “Yeah, guess you’re right. He’s gotten hard, Sadie. I hate to say this, but he reminds me of his old man.” Benny shrugged, his round, homely face worried. “I’ll call you, Sadie,” he said, crushing her to him. He wondered how it was possible for her always to smell the same, always just right. He had to remember to ask Carol, who always smelled like Johnson’s talcum powder. God, he couldn’t wait to hug Carol, to look at the kids asleep in their beds, to pull up the covers, to bend down and kiss them good night. He wanted to make love to his wife, to have her hold him, to have her tell him what they had would last forever, and when forever was over to have her tell him they would meet in eternity. That’s all he wanted, all he ever wanted out of life.

  “THIS IS GOOD enough,” Mac said to the taxi driver and handed him two bills. He wanted to walk the rest of the way up the long, curving drive. This was home, that wonderful place everyone in Nam thought about and talked about. His home. He’d never talked about it, but he had listened, his heart sore when he listened to the stories his men told. Home. Family. Parents. Pets. Friends. One out of five was all he had. All that counted.

  The house was lit. Alice had a thing about making the electric company rich. It looked the same, and why shouldn’t it? They certainly paid enough to gardeners and maintenance people. Still, he thought, there should be something different, some small change, but there wasn’t, at least not any he could see. Unless you counted his father’s car in the driveway. That was new. Usually his father had his driver waiting. Marcus Carlin never drove himself because he was a terrible driver, unable to concentrate on the road. Yet, here he was, the Mercedes 560 SEL with the government license plates.

  Something perverse in him made him ring the doorbell. A woman with a coronet of braids atop her head opened the door. He’d never seen her before. She was all in gray, from her gray hair to gray uniform, complete with gray ruffled apron. She even had on gray shoes. “Who should I say is calling?” she asked in a guttural accent Mac took to be German.

  The perverse streak was still with him. “The man of the house,” he said coldly. He wasn’t amused when he heard the woman repeat the words twice as she walked away.

  He stood in the foyer, the light at his back, more commanding than any general, as he surveyed the two people walking toward him, both their faces registering shock. He watched as his wife’s step faltered and his father’s eyes narrowed.

  “Mac!” they said in unison.

  “The prodigal son,” Mac said tightly.

  My God, Alice thought fearfully, this person can’t be Mac, not with such cold eyes and dark skin. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Thank God she’d had her hair done today.

  Marcus Carlin’s jaw dropped. He had it in place a second later. This was trouble, he could feel it oozing from Mac’s pores. Who was this steely-eyed man standing in front of him. Certainly not the young man he’d said good-bye to at the Jockey Club twenty-four months ago. For the first time in his life, he felt fear and wasn’t sure why. He didn’t need anyone to tell him there was a new game in town and it was called Mac Carlin.

  “Mac, boy, it’s good to see you,” Marcus said, holding out his hand. “You should have called us. We’d have rolled out the red carpet and hired a band. You deserve a hero’s welcome.”

  “I’m no hero,” Mac said curtly as he suffered through an arm’s length embrace from his wife. “I see you got your hair done today.”

  “You noticed,” Alice said.

  “What’s this you’re saying about not being a hero, boy?” the judge said playfully as he poked at the ribbon bars on Mac’s duty uniform blouse.

  “These,” Mac said, ripping at his jacket, “belongs to you, not me. It was what you wanted, and now you have it.” He wadded up his jacket and tossed it at his father. The elder Carlin had no recourse but to reach for it. “I gave you ten years and now I don’t owe you a thing.”

  “What’s wrong with you,
Mac? We had a deal. Ten years and then politics. You can’t welsh on me now. It’s all set to go. I expected a certain . . . change. After all, you just came out of a war. You’ll need time to get acclimated again. We have time. We’ll talk in a few days. I’ll leave you lovebirds alone now,” the judge said, stepping out of the way, his face flushed with controlled anger.

  Mac didn’t bother to reply. Instead he turned to Alice. “What’s the name of the maid this month?”

  “Why, it’s . . . Olga. Yes, it’s Olga,” she said fretfully.

  “Olga!” Mac roared.

  “Yes, sir,” the maid spoke up.

  “I want the guest house cleaned. Now! I want my things moved there. Now!”

  “I was about to serve dinner, sir.”

  “Dinner can wait. My father won’t be staying. Mrs. Carlin has lost her appetite and I ate at a bar and grill. Now!”

  Alice bristled. “What’s gotten into you, Mac? You certainly are not staying in the guest house. What will people think? Marcus, talk to your son,” she pleaded.

  Marcus was about to open his mouth when Mac swiveled to face him. “Don’t interfere,” he said coldly.

  “I wasn’t about to. She’s right though, it isn’t going to look good.”

  “That’s rather amusing since this is a fifteen-acre site and there are no neighbors. Unless of course you were planning on a press conference. It’s either the guest house or Sadie’s apartment.”

  He stared his father down. The judge’s eye twitched. Mac smiled.

  Alice seethed when Mac picked up his bag and headed for the door. “Don’t you even want to see the baby?”

  “No,” Mac said curtly, walking back out into the dark night. He heard the door of his father’s car shut then saw the headlights spring to life. He didn’t look back.

  He liked the guest house, had always liked it. It was a brick building that looked deceptively small from the outside. Inside, it was spacious, with a living room, a dining room, a study, two full baths, and three bedrooms. The study was Mac’s favorite room, with a huge fieldstone fireplace that stretched all the way to the ceiling. Bookshelves lined the other three walls and were full, from floor to ceiling. It had central heat and a fully equipped kitchen that would be stocked before the night was over. Tomorrow he would ask Sadie to hire him a housekeeper who would live in one of the three bedrooms, a motherly person who would take care of him, feed him, and iron his clothes. He wanted someone like his mother’s old companion, Maddy, not some cold-eyed fish like Olga.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. Air out the house, make a fire, and have coffee ready,” he ordered the housekeeper. “Build a fire in the bedroom too. After today you won’t have to concern yourself with this building. You do know that I’m the one who pays your salary, don’t you?”

  The German stared at him with a blank face. She didn’t know any such thing. She’d assumed the elderly gentleman paid her wages, and until this evening, she hadn’t known the man now standing in front of her existed. She nodded.

  While the housekeeper busied herself, Mac rummaged in the hall closet for his riding boots and a heavy sweater. He’d long ago moved some of his belongings here because Alice said his boots and riding clothes smelled up her scented closet.

  His horse, Jeopardy, welcomed him the way a lover would, nuzzling Mac’s hands, and neck, and whickering softly. “Hi, fella, hope you missed me. I sure as hell missed you.” The gelding whickered again, his tail swishing furiously. Mac could feel the animal tremble when he saddled him. A man and his horse. God!

  The moment they were out of the paddock, Mac gave the horse his head. He raced like the wind, faster than the wind, huge clumps of soft earth flying upward from his stampeding hooves.

  “Go, boy, go,” Mac shouted, and Jeopardy heeded his master’s voice. They were neck and neck with the elder Carlin’s car and then they were ahead of it until finally they were so distanced from the Mercedes that Marcus Carlin pulled over to the side of the road.

  He knows, the judge thought fearfully. He knows and he’s going to make me pay. His shoulders sagged, then righted and sagged again when he saw the powerful gelding and its master silhouetted in the moonlight. His brother-in-law Harry’s face rose like a phoenix in front of his car. Marcus cringed against the luxurious leather seat. “You told him,” he hissed. “I’m glad you’re dead, you bastard! Glad! Glad! Glad! Rot in hell!”

  From her position at her bedroom window, Alice watched her husband fly across the field. She saw the huge clumps of earth scatter backward. She was afraid of the horse, and more afraid of the man riding it. She trembled with that fear the moment she realized Marcus Carlin was afraid too. She’d seen it in his eyes this evening, and it had stunned her. The tables were turned now and Mac was in control. The realization brought a second wave of fear. Would Mac really divorce her? He’d already moved out of the house, and he’d been back less than an hour. “I’m not giving this up, I’m not!” she muttered.

  It was after ten when Mac returned to the stable. He rubbed down the gelding, then brushed him. He talked affectionately as he worked. Jeopardy whickered softly and snorted his approval of his master’s brisk strokes. He chomped down on the crisp apple Mac withdrew from the bin at the end of his stall, and sugar cubes brought a soft whinny of pleasure.

  “We’ll do this again and again, big fella,” Mac crooned softly, his face against the huge animal’s head. “Casey would have loved you. You would have liked her too. She’d have been like a feather on your back . . . you’ll never know now. It’s all gone, and I can’t get it back. I wanted it so bad. It wasn’t too much to want, to expect. Everyone has the right to a little happiness. I don’t even know where they . . . where they sent her. I need to know. She didn’t have anyone either. What do you think, Jep, will I ever get over this? Will I ever be whole again?” He felt the gelding’s warm breath on his cheek as the huge animal reacted to the sorrow in his master’s voice.

  “See you tomorrow, Jep. We’ll head out right after breakfast and make a day of it. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

  The guest cottage was ablaze. Obviously Olga liked light as much as his wife.

  The closed-up, musty odor was gone, replaced by a fresh citrusy smell that was pleasing. The fire was in need of another log. The fresh smell of coffee mingled with the scent of pinecones popping in the fireplace. This was cozy, this was real. This, he decided, was as close to a home as he was ever going to get. He liked the worn leather furniture, the shabby rugs, the old-fashioned kitchen. When his new housekeeper arrived, he would ask her to get some green plants and maybe some flowers that would bloom indoors. He was going to get a dog too, first thing tomorrow. Man, horse, and dog. It sounded right. He headed for the stairs, but not before he shot the security bolts home on both doors. The only way anyone was going to cross the threshold of this house was by invitation.

  Fresh from his shower, dressed in an old terry robe and slippers, Mac made his way to the kitchen, where he poured out a huge mug of coffee for himself. The refrigerator was stocked as ordered, right down to the mustard for his ham sandwich. He carried everything back to the study, flipping on the television before he sat down. He finished the sandwich and coffee. Then he cried. He ached to have someone hold him, ached for someone to tell him it was going to be all right, ached for someone to reassure him that time would heal him.

  If it was possible to lose one’s soul before death, Mac Carlin lost his in that moment, for he offered it up to the Supreme Being. “Take care of her,” he pleaded brokenly.

  Bullshit, he was not going to wait till tomorrow to get a dog. In five minutes he was dressed in jeans, shirt, and shearling jacket. He knew where the pound was and he could be there in fifteen minutes. He climbed into a Jaguar in his garage and wondered who it belonged to. Probably him. It smelled like perfume and hair spray. He rolled down the window. He laughed all the way to the pound, but it was a hurt, bewildered sound. As if a dog could ever take Casey’s place. “It’s a goddamn pla
ce to start,” he muttered as he swerved into the lighted gravel parking lot.

  Inside, lights shot to life as dog after dog barked furiously. An intruder was in their midst. A grumpy little man with a bald head opened the door as he struggled to fit the arms of his eyeglasses over his ears. “Whatcha want at this time of night, mister?”

  “A dog.”

  “We close at six. We open at seven. Come back then,” he said, preparing to shut the door.

  “Wait, you don’t understand. I need a dog. I need it now. I’ll pay whatever you want. Two dogs, two is good. How about if I take two? Can I get them now?” he asked desperately. He wasn’t going home without a dog. He must have conveyed that message, because the grumpy little man opened the door wider.

  “What kind of dog do you want? You said two. What kind, mister?”

  What kind. Hell, he didn’t know. “A man’s dog,” he said stupidly. “A buddy, a dog I can be pals with.”

  “You said two,” the little man said spiritedly.

  “Okay, two. Dogs who will respond to the names . . . Fred and Gus.” The little man raised sharp eyes. He’d caught the catch in the man’s voice, saw the mist in his eyes.

  “Got just the dogs, mister. Two golden retrievers. Five months old. Eight to the litter, no one wanted these last two. Five hundred bucks, papers and all. AKC registered. Beauties.”

  Mac dropped to his haunches when the dogs were led out of their pens. They eyed him warily before he fixed leashes to their collars.

  “They’re frisky little devils. Never been outside the run, so they’ll take off on you if you don’t use the leash. You gonna take care of these animals, mister?”

  “I think it’s the other way around; they’re gonna take care of me. Don’t worry, I’ll give them a good home.”