Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series)

by Breton, Laurie

  He tossed all that hair back over his shoulders. “Listen, babe,” he said. “If you think Danny doesn’t love you, you’re wrong. He’s crazy about you.” He slung the towel over his shoulder and busied himself gathering up the shampoo and conditioner.

  “Don’t patronize me, MacKenzie. Tell me the truth.”

  His eyes, when they met hers, were clear and deep and green. And miserable. “Don’t drag me into this,” he said. “Don’t make me take sides.”

  She knew then that it was more serious than she’d feared.

  It was the worst summer of Casey’s life. Danny was unreachable, New York was hot and stuffy and dirty, and for the first time since her marriage, she found herself longing for the cool pine forests of home. As the wealthy escaped the city for the summer, business at the Montpelier dropped off, and her hours were cut. June dragged on into July and July into August, bringing with it a heat wave that had sidewalks steaming and air conditioners working overtime.

  She was bent over the old slate sink one hot afternoon, sweat trickling down her back, her knuckles scrubbed raw as she washed clothes with a bar of Ivory soap. Danny was down to twenty hours a week at the Montpelier, and it had been two months since Rob had picked up a studio job. Today’s mail had brought a disconnect notice from the electric company, and she’d just used her last package of hamburger.

  They’d been in New York for two years, and this was the lowest they’d sunk. She thought about the five hundred dollars that was sitting in a secret bank account. She hadn’t touched a penny of it. It was there for a real emergency, and she’d never yet had justification for dipping into it. The money was her security. In a worst-case scenario, it would pay their way home. But once it was spent, there would be nothing to fall back on.

  She could have pleaded her case to city welfare, and they would have provided her with food stamps, paid the light bill. But she’d learned at an early age that self-reliance led to self-respect, and she was too proud to ask for help. They’d survived other bad spells, and they would survive this one.

  Soapy water gurgled down the drain as she pulled the plug and stepped away from the sink. Without warning, the room began to sway around her, and she clutched at the rim of the sink for support. The summer afternoon began to fade to black, and she struggled to hold onto consciousness. Iron determination kept her upright. She crossed the six feet to the table, drained and shaken, and slumped onto a chair.

  It was the third time this week that she’d nearly fainted. The first time, she’d blamed it on the heat. But the second time, it had happened at work, in the air-conditioned luxury of the Hotel Montpelier’s dining room.

  And now it had happened again.

  She’d never been sick in her life. But healthy women didn’t have fainting spells, not since they’d given up wearing corsets. She thought about brain tumors, about incurable soap opera diseases. About her own mother, who had died of cancer at forty-two. She thought about the empty kitty in the kitchen and dropped her face to the tabletop in despair. She couldn’t even afford to pay the light bill. How was she supposed to pay a doctor?

  ***

  Rob called in a favor from a friend who worked in the Registrar’s Office at Columbia. Armed with Nancy Chen’s class schedule, two pastrami sandwiches, and every ounce of charm he possessed, he loitered outside the entrance to her classroom building, waiting for her Tuesday morning class to end.

  At 12:15, Nancy emerged from the building, engrossed in conversation with some geek in a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses. When she saw Rob, she dismissed the geek, who shuffled off toward the bus stop. Looking troubled, she said, “Why are you here?”

  Her voice was as melodious as the tinkle of wind chimes on a summer evening. He held up a wrinkled brown bag. “I brought you lunch.”

  “How many times must I tell you, Rob MacKenzie? I won’t go out with you.”

  “Who said anything about going out?” He gave her his most endearing smile, the one that always worked on his mother and his sisters. “We’re just having lunch. Breaking bread. Taking sustenance.”

  Those dark eyes narrowed as she pondered his words. “If I have lunch with you,” she said, “will you leave me alone?”

  “Probably not.”

  He thought he saw a glint of humor in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure. “I could call the police,” she said, “and have you arrested for harassment.”

  “You could,” he agreed, “but you won’t.”

  “And why not?”

  In a lilting brogue, tongue of his fathers, he said, “Because you know I’m just a harmless Irish laddie who’s besotted by your beauty and your charm and your—”

  She held up a hand. “Enough. Please. I will have lunch with you. If I must listen to any more of this, I’ll cry.”

  He settled them on a grassy spot in a small park near campus. On a red and white checked plastic tablecloth from Woolworth’s he spread out a repast fit for a king and queen: two pastrami sandwiches and two kosher dill pickles, a bag of potato chips, and a warm bottle of Purple Passion grape soda. To the harmonious accompaniment of a jackhammer blasting at the end of the block and Otis Redding wailing through the open window of a nearby apartment, Rob lay on the grass, his chin propped on his hand, and watched Nancy eat.

  Although her movements were dainty and her manners impeccable, her appetite was enormous for such a small woman. She matched him bite for bite, then leaned back against a tree trunk, eyes closed, and basked in the sun. “Thank you,” she said at last. “That was wonderful.”

  “You’re wonderful,” he said.

  Her eyes, when she opened them, were hazy and troubled. “This is so difficult,” she said.

  “Why?”

  Otis Redding had been replaced by Aretha, asking anybody within hearing distance for a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T. “I cannot change who I am,” Nancy said. “Any more than you can change who you are. We are distinctly different individuals, and this difference, I believe, is the source of our attraction to one another. But to think that a relationship between us could succeed would be pure folly.”

  “Maybe you just think I’m not good enough for you.”

  “You are good enough,” she said softly. “What you are not is Chinese enough.”

  He gave her a beguiling grin. “So? I’ll learn to eat with chopsticks.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “It could be,” he said, “if you’d only let it.”

  A breeze ruffled her skirt, baring smooth, shapely brown legs. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He gathered up the remnants of their lunch, stuffing napkins and paper cups and cellophane into the paper bag and tossing it into a nearby trash container. Then he helped her to her feet. “I’ll walk you back to school,” he said.

  Outside the classroom building, he borrowed a pen from her and scribbled on a scrap of paper. “My phone number,” he said, pressing it into her palm and closing her fingers over it. “When you’re ready, give me a call.”

  As they both studied the contrast between her skin color and his, he thought she was going to throw the scrap of paper away. Instead, she tucked it into her purse. “Good-bye, Rob MacKenzie,” she said.

  “Sayonara, kiddo.”

  For the first time, she smiled. “That is Japanese,” she said.

  He shrugged, unembarrassed. “The only Chinese words I know are wonton soup and pork fried rice.”

  With mock solemnity, she said, “Such ancient and honorable Chinese words.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, “by how handy they are when you’re ordering Chinese take-out.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “for a most memorable lunch.”

  They stood, warm flesh clasped to warm flesh, eyes speaking the words they dared not say aloud, until Nancy withdrew her hand. “I must go,” she said, “or I’ll be late for my next class.” Her smile was wistful. “Good-bye, Mr. MacKenzie.”

  He touched the velvet skin of her cheek. “See you ar
ound, kiddo.”

  As she walked away, Rob MacKenzie’s heart turned to stone.

  ***

  The free clinic was uptown, in Spanish Harlem. Most of the patients were either black or Hispanic, but they couldn’t turn Casey away just because she was white. If she couldn’t afford to go elsewhere, they were obligated to treat her.

  The young doctor with the Afro examined her thoroughly, then left her alone to dress. When he returned, Casey sat on the end of the examining table, hands clasped together, knuckles white. “Mrs. Fiore,” the doctor said, “when was the date of your last menstrual period?”

  “Three weeks ago,” she said. “Why?”

  “Was it normal? Shorter or longer than usual? Was your flow heavier or lighter than usual?”

  “Why?” She leaned forward. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. You’re ten weeks pregnant.”

  Casey was stunned. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of pregnancy. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I’m on the pill.”

  “Even the pill isn’t foolproof.”

  She spent that afternoon walking the streets of Manhattan in a daze. She had longed so desperately for a baby. But now that she was confronted with the prospect of motherhood, she felt a dismay bordering on despair. They were broke, Danny’s career was at a standstill, and her marriage was falling apart. Half the time the refrigerator was empty, and she’d been wearing the same shoes for two years. How could she provide security to an infant under those circumstances?

  The future of her marriage was looking less and less certain. She’d tried everything she knew to break through Danny’s wall of silence, but he’d failed to respond. They had become two strangers sleeping in the same bed. How could she justify having a baby when her life was disintegrating before her eyes?

  In Washington Square Park, she watched a little girl in a yellow sun dress playing with the pigeons. Squealing with delight, the child swooped down on the flock, and they scattered with a flutter of wings and soft coos of reproach. The girl ran back to her mother and scrambled up onto her lap, and Casey felt a pang of jealousy so acute it took her breath away. She wanted a child’s sticky kisses and grubby hands. She wanted a little girl she could dress in ruffles and lace. Or overalls and a baseball cap. A laughing child with her chin and Danny’s eyes. But her hope wasn’t realistic. Not at this point in time. There was no way she could keep this baby.

  She was going to have to terminate the pregnancy.

  ***

  After two weeks of hell, the heat wave had finally broken. Rain was falling in a downpour, and Rob hunched his shoulders and thanked God that he was a block from home.

  Last night’s gig had lasted until two, and he’d been up again at five-thirty for a shift of parking cars. This morning Ramon had caught him sleeping again. He’d only dropped off for a minute, but Ramon had carried on like it was hours. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to make it, living this fractured life. If he could crash for a couple of days he’d be okay, but this sleeping in bits and pieces was killing him.

  The apartment was silent. He tossed his sodden shirt on the floor and searched the laundry basket for a towel. His stomach rumbled as he vigorously toweled his hair. He was going to eat everything in the refrigerator that wasn’t green, and then he was going to take a long, hot shower and crash for the next twelve hours.

  He found Casey in the dark kitchen, bent over a cup of coffee so old the milk had curdled on top. “What gives?” he said, flipping on the overhead light. “They cut off our electricity or something?”

  She snatched up her coffee cup and emptied it into the sink. “Do you have to sneak up on me like that?” she snapped.

  He raised both eyebrows. “Excuse me for living.”

  She scrubbed furiously at the empty cup with a dishcloth. Skirting her, he opened the refrigerator and scrutinized its contents. He discovered some leftover hash in a plastic margarine tub, and half a grapefruit that wasn’t too shriveled. Kicking the door shut, he dropped his bounty on the table and opened the drawer to get a fork.

  It was then that he noticed the quaking of her shoulders. He stopped, fork in hand, to stare at her in astonishment. Casey was not a weeper. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her cry. “Hey,” he said, more gently, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She rinsed the cup with trembling hands. “Eat your lunch.”

  “You’re not fine.” He set down the fork and caught her by the shoulders and turned her so that he could see her face. A tear rolled down her cheek, and he wiped at it clumsily with his thumb. “Hey,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders until he realized he must be hurting her. He released her and crossed his arms. “Have you told Danny yet?” he asked.

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? After a while, kiddo, it gets pretty hard to hide.”

  Come on, Rob. You know I can’t have a baby right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think about it. What do you think Danny would do if I told him I was pregnant?”

  “Before or after the screaming?”

  She didn’t laugh, and he wanted to kick himself for making a joke out of it. “It’s not that bad,” he said. “Danny will adjust to the idea.”

  “Look at the way we’re living. Half the time we don’t have enough to eat. Imagine bringing a baby into the picture. Danny would go out and get some nine-to-five job, and that would be the end of his career, his dreams, everything. Can you picture him punching a cash register at Macy’s?”

  He tried to, but couldn’t. Like him, Danny was wedded to his music. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve weighed all the options. I’m going to have an abortion.”

  “Jesus Christ, Casey, women die having abortions!”

  Quietly, she said, “I won’t die.”

  He drummed his fingers on the edge of the sink. “I think you should talk this over with Danny.”

  “Danny would never let me go through with it.”

  “How are you supposed to pay for it?”

  She peeled back a piece of her thumbnail. “Travis gave me some money when we left Boston. I’ve been saving it for an emergency.” Her smile was humorless. “I guess this qualifies.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do something this stupid!”

  “I’ve looked at it from every possible angle. It’s the only answer.”

  “Do you think I don’t know how bad you want a baby? You’re being a goddamn martyr, and I’d like to shake you!”

  “I’m not the saint you think I am,” she told him. “If Danny gives up his career because of me, I’ll lose him. I’m not letting that happen. He’s everything to me, Rob, everything! So you see,” she said bitterly, “I’m really looking out for my own interests. I’m taking care of number one.”

  He looked at his lunch and realized he’d lost his appetite. “Where do you find a doctor who does abortions?”

  “This is New York, MacKenzie. You can walk two blocks here and find anything you want.”

  She was right. Even as he said the words, he hated himself. “Want me to ask around?”

  “You’d do that for me?” she said.

  “It beats letting you go to some butcher.”

  “And you won’t tell Danny?”

  “No.” He sighed in defeat. “I won’t tell Danny.”

  “I didn’t mean to lay all this on you. I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

  “That’s great, Fiore. We could have read in the papers about how you bled to death in an alley somewhere.”

  chapter twelve

  The hallway was deliberately nondescript. Rob knocked on the door and it swung open immediately, as though the dour-faced woman in the white uniform had been waiting for them. She silently studied them both before ushering them inside. Not much bigger than a walk-in closet, the room held a battered wooden
desk and two hard chairs. Not exactly designed for comfort.

  The woman held out her hand. “The money?” she said.

  Casey opened her purse and pulled out a sheaf of twenty-dollar bills. The woman counted them, nodded, and tucked them into her pocket. “There’s a place across the street,” she told Rob, “where you can get a cup of coffee.”

  “I’m staying with her,” he said.

  The woman’s nostrils flared. He’d upset her routine, and she didn’t like it. She gestured toward one of the chairs. “You can wait here, then.”

  He squared his jaw. “I think you missed the point,” he said. “I’m staying with her.”

  For the first time, he saw uncertainty on her face. “You can’t go in there,” she said. “It’s not allowed.”

  “Either I go in with her,” he said, “or she walks back out the door, with her four hundred bucks in her hot little hand.”

  The woman glared at him with glittering pig eyes. “I’ll have to talk to the doctor,” she said, and disappeared through the inner door.

  Casey was staring out the window, her spine ramrod stiff. When he touched her, he could feel her quivering. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he said.

  She squared her shoulders. “I don’t have a choice.”

  He tightened his grip on those slender shoulders. “ Danny should be here with you.”

  “No,” she said, turning, eyes wide with terror. “If you tell, I’ll never forgive you.”

  The nurse returned with the doctor in tow. Gray-haired and stooped, he looked more like a kindly grandfather than a man who made his living murdering unborn children. Rob tried to squelch the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “but we don’t allow anybody inside while we’re performing the procedure.”

  “I’m responsible for her,” Rob said. “I can’t let anything happen to her.”