this?”
Suspiciously, he asked, “Like who?”
“Like a doctor.”
“Forget it! I don’t need any asshole in a white coat telling me
I’m psychotic!”
“For God’s sake, Danny, you’re not psychotic. You went through
hell over there—”
“Hell,” he said bitterly, “would have been a vacation.”
“Sweetheart, you wouldn’t be normal if it didn’t affect you
somehow.”
He got up from the bed, padded barefoot to the dresser, and lit a
cigarette. “When I first came back,” he said softly, “I’d be walking down the
street and hear a car backfire, and I’d hit the ground. Every time I heard
leaves rustling or a twig snapping, I’d freak. I was a wreck.”
“And now,” she said gently, “you’re all better.”
“I’ve learned to live with it. If you can’t—” He left the
sentence unfinished.
“We’re in this together, remember? For better or for worse.”
“In sickness and in health,” he said dryly, and blew out a cloud
of smoke. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Danny, you’re not sick.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of,” he said. “I don’t know too many
guys who wake up crying and shaking in the middle of the night. I’m also not
proud of what I did there.”
“What you did there was survive.”
“And by what fucked-up cosmic plan did I end up surviving? I
think the lucky ones were the guys who didn’t make it back.”
“Don’t you dare talk like that!” she snapped. “Whatever happened
there, it’s over. You have to let go of it!”
“You don’t understand. You can’t begin to imagine the things I
saw, the things I did. Christ, Casey, I have to live with the monster that’s
inside me.”
“Then talk to me about it. Hold me in your arms and tell me.”
“I can’t. You wouldn’t understand. You’d hate me.”
Furious, she said, “How can you believe it would make one iota of
difference in the way I feel about you?”
“I’m a killer,” he said bitterly, “a goddamn trained killer.
That’s who you’re sleeping beside at night. And the worst thing—” He rubbed
his forehead slowly. “The worst thing,” he said quietly, “is that there was a
part of me that liked it.”
chapter six
She learned early that musicians have difficulty putting down
their instruments when the gig is over. And Danny had a way of drawing people
to him, so their apartment became a sort of after-hours club, a continuous jam
session that must have given the neighbors apoplexy. As a songwriter, she
found the company intellectually stimulating and the music exciting. As the
lady of the house, it drove her crazy. More than one Saturday morning, she
stumbled out of bed to find someone she’d never laid eyes on before, some
bewhiskered and bedraggled guitar player, asleep on the couch. Or eating a
bowl of Cheerios at her kitchen table. They left behind empty beer bottles and
full ashtrays, water rings on her tabletops and chair arms, discarded pizza
boxes and bare cupboards.
Since Danny seemed to thrive on the chaos, she bit her tongue,
cleaned up the mess, and kept her misgivings to herself. Since she was the one
in charge of the checkbook, he remained blissfully unaware of the havoc this
lifestyle wrought on their finances. It was Rob MacKenzie who brought up the
subject, one Friday evening as she was standing before an empty refrigerator,
balefully surveying its contents. Peering over her shoulder, he said, “Hey,
kiddo, it looks like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “And don’t spread the word too far, but
Mother Hubbard’s checkbook is looking pretty bare, too.”
“I’m not surprised. Half the time you’re feeding six people on a
budget designed for two.”
“Milk,” she said in disbelief. “You have to love the irony. I
grew up on a dairy farm, and now I don’t have enough money to buy a gallon of
milk.”
He squared his
Suspiciously, he asked, “Like who?”
“Like a doctor.”
“Forget it! I don’t need any asshole in a white coat telling me
I’m psychotic!”
“For God’s sake, Danny, you’re not psychotic. You went through
hell over there—”
“Hell,” he said bitterly, “would have been a vacation.”
“Sweetheart, you wouldn’t be normal if it didn’t affect you
somehow.”
He got up from the bed, padded barefoot to the dresser, and lit a
cigarette. “When I first came back,” he said softly, “I’d be walking down the
street and hear a car backfire, and I’d hit the ground. Every time I heard
leaves rustling or a twig snapping, I’d freak. I was a wreck.”
“And now,” she said gently, “you’re all better.”
“I’ve learned to live with it. If you can’t—” He left the
sentence unfinished.
“We’re in this together, remember? For better or for worse.”
“In sickness and in health,” he said dryly, and blew out a cloud
of smoke. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Danny, you’re not sick.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of,” he said. “I don’t know too many
guys who wake up crying and shaking in the middle of the night. I’m also not
proud of what I did there.”
“What you did there was survive.”
“And by what fucked-up cosmic plan did I end up surviving? I
think the lucky ones were the guys who didn’t make it back.”
“Don’t you dare talk like that!” she snapped. “Whatever happened
there, it’s over. You have to let go of it!”
“You don’t understand. You can’t begin to imagine the things I
saw, the things I did. Christ, Casey, I have to live with the monster that’s
inside me.”
“Then talk to me about it. Hold me in your arms and tell me.”
“I can’t. You wouldn’t understand. You’d hate me.”
Furious, she said, “How can you believe it would make one iota of
difference in the way I feel about you?”
“I’m a killer,” he said bitterly, “a goddamn trained killer.
That’s who you’re sleeping beside at night. And the worst thing—” He rubbed
his forehead slowly. “The worst thing,” he said quietly, “is that there was a
part of me that liked it.”
chapter six
She learned early that musicians have difficulty putting down
their instruments when the gig is over. And Danny had a way of drawing people
to him, so their apartment became a sort of after-hours club, a continuous jam
session that must have given the neighbors apoplexy. As a songwriter, she
found the company intellectually stimulating and the music exciting. As the
lady of the house, it drove her crazy. More than one Saturday morning, she
stumbled out of bed to find someone she’d never laid eyes on before, some
bewhiskered and bedraggled guitar player, asleep on the couch. Or eating a
bowl of Cheerios at her kitchen table. They left behind empty beer bottles and
full ashtrays, water rings on her tabletops and chair arms, discarded pizza
boxes and bare cupboards.
Since Danny seemed to thrive on the chaos, she bit her tongue,
cleaned up the mess, and kept her misgivings to herself. Since she was the one
in charge of the checkbook, he remained blissfully unaware of the havoc this
lifestyle wrought on their finances. It was Rob MacKenzie who brought up the
subject, one Friday evening as she was standing before an empty refrigerator,
balefully surveying its contents. Peering over her shoulder, he said, “Hey,
kiddo, it looks like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard is bare.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “And don’t spread the word too far, but
Mother Hubbard’s checkbook is looking pretty bare, too.”
“I’m not surprised. Half the time you’re feeding six people on a
budget designed for two.”
“Milk,” she said in disbelief. “You have to love the irony. I
grew up on a dairy farm, and now I don’t have enough money to buy a gallon of
milk.”
He squared his
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