Hope Street Part 29

He lay motionless, his respiration growing deeper and more regular as he sank into unconsciousness. She stared into the darkness, too agitated even to close her eyes. What should she do? If they got a divorce, where would she go? She couldn't move back to Suzanne's house; her room there was occupied by that new college student. And she sure as h.e.l.l couldn't go back to Holmdell.

Nor would Bobby pay her alimony if they divorced. She was earning more money than he received from the V. A. Maybe he was staying with her only because of her salary.

"Shank," he mumbled.

She turned to look at him. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she could see his face contorted, his body twitching.

"Shank. Shank."

What was he talking about?

He flinched, deep inside a nightmare. "Oh, Jesus-Shank?"

She sat up and leaned toward him. He might not love her-he might even hate her-but the humane thing was to awaken him from his terrifying dream. "Bobby..."

She reached out to shake his shoulder. His body thrashed, his arms flying. Before she could duck, his fist connected solidly with her cheekbone.

She screamed.

BOBBY OPENED HIS EYES IN time to see Joelle leap out of bed and run out of the room. From the crib rose a thin, anxious wail. He cursed. His body was damp with sweat, his head throbbing, his bad leg rattling with pain.

Just when he'd thought he couldn't do any more damage, couldn't cause more destruction, couldn't ruin Joelle's life more than he already had, he'd hit her. That he'd been asleep at the time didn't matter. He'd hit Joelle and he'd hurt her, and he wasn't sure how he was going to live with himself.

He'd had lots of nightmares during his months at the hospital, but they'd tapered off since his discharge. Sure, he continued to suffer from flashbacks, tremors, black memories, but nothing so fierce it made him flail and punch people. Why he'd done that tonight he couldn't say, unless it had something to do with Joelle's accusations in the car.

An evening drinking wine with her girlfriends had given her the courage to take him on, and she'd slammed into him hard. Every word she'd said was true-except when she'd denied thinking he was a head case. He was. The war had messed with his brain, and he was afraid to tell her, afraid for her to think he really was insane.

Maybe he ought to leave, let her go, give her the chance to find someone better than him, someone who wasn't all busted up inside and out. Someone able to love her the way she deserved to be loved.

Claudia had revved up to a full-throttle roar. Bobby reached for his crutches and eased himself to his feet, not bothering with the brace. Two hops brought him to the crib's railing. Leaning against it for balance, he lifted Claudia onto his shoulder. He'd noticed that she liked big shoulders. She calmed down a lot quicker when he was holding her than when Joelle was.

Eventually Claudia wound down, sniffled, pressed her moist, overheated face against his neck and let out a breath. A few more minutes and she was asleep.

He lowered her into the crib, then pivoted and observed the empty bed. The blanket was rumpled, the sheets untucked.

Steeling himself for the likelihood that Joelle had fled the apartment, he hobbled out of the bedroom and into the living room. Relief swamped him when he saw her seated on the couch, pressing a lumpy dish towel to her face.

He worked his way over to the couch, lowered himself beside her and nudged the towel away. The lumps, he realized, were ice cubes. The skin where she'd been holding the compress to her face was cold and imprinted with the towel's texture. A faint red mark along her cheekbone told him where he'd hit her. He'd bruised her. h.e.l.l.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You didn't know what you were doing." Refusing to look at him, she directed her words to her knees. "You were sleeping."

"I'm still sorry." That faint red mark might as well have been a gushing wound. He'd promised her, the night they'd gotten married, that he would never hurt her. Add a broken promise to all the other reasons he was no good for her. "What you said earlier-if you want to leave me-"

"I don't want to leave you," she retorted. "I want you to..." She drew in a deep breath. "Touch me," she whispered, still staring at her lap. "I know you don't desire me. The pregnancy made me all pudgy-"

"Oh, G.o.d, Joelle." He closed his eyes, as if not viewing her would make him want her less. But even with his eyes closed he saw her, her soft golden hair, her soft body, her soft blue eyes. He had been watching her since the moment he'd spotted her behind the fence at McGuire, wearing a sleeveless minidress that showed off her graceful arms and legs. He watched her when she washed dishes, her fingers glistening with soap, and when she entered the apartment after a day working at the preschool, her hair disheveled and a smear of fingerpaint on her shirt. He watched her when she fed the baby. She always tried to cover herself with a cloth or the edge of her shirt when she nursed, but he could see. The sight of her nursing Claudia was so beautiful it pained him.

Everything pained him. That was the thing. His body ached, his mind ached, his soul ached. Joelle was lovely, untouched by anything mean and ugly and violent, and he was scarred, so grotesque he couldn't bear for her to get close to him.

And d.a.m.n it, he had touched her-in a mean, ugly way. The bruise below her eye was smaller than one of Claudia's hands, but it was there.

"Why were you talking about a shank?" she asked.

His eyes opened. "When?"

"In your dream. You kept saying 'shank, shank.'"

"Schenk," he corrected her, then closed his eyes again and leaned away from her.

"Schenk?"

"One of the guys in my platoon." His voice went paper thin.

"Tell me what happened, Bobby. Tell me about your dream."

He sighed. If she wanted to know-if she really wanted to know why he'd been such a c.r.a.ppy husband, such a poor excuse for a human being-he would tell her. "Schenk always had a canteen full of booze with him, even during the day, when we were out in the field. He'd share it if you wanted some, but it was vile stuff. He was...kind of wild, but a good guy. He'd give you the shirt off his back. Or the rotgut out of his canteen."

Joelle twisted on the couch, tucking one foot under her other thigh and facing him. Her expression was solemn, expectant.

"We were on patrol, and he was taking a hit from the canteen and he tripped a wire. I was maybe three, four feet away from him. All I saw..." A wave of nausea swept through him and he swallowed, wishing he could speak the memory without living it. "All I saw was red. There was no more Schenk."

She didn't fall apart, thank G.o.d, or do anything to indicate she pitied him. She only nodded.

"I was shouting-only, I couldn't hear my voice. I started running toward him-only, I wasn't moving. In my head I was running and shouting, but I was just...just lying there, seeing red."

She reached for his hand, but he drew back. She hadn't heard the worst of it yet.

"It wasn't just my leg. The explosion ruptured my left eardrum, but that healed. I had shrapnel embedded in my back, my side. The shrapnel didn't only come from the mine, Jo. It..." Another wave of nausea hit him, but he fought it off. "It came from Schenk. Pieces of his canteen. Pieces of his rifle, his helmet...Pieces of him."

She reached for him again, this time snagging his hand before he could pull it away. Her fingers were cool and smooth and gentle. He felt tears sting his eyes; he didn't deserve her gentleness.

"Did they get all the shrapnel out?" she asked.

He shook his head. "They don't remove it surgically, unless it's in an organ. If it's just in your skin, they leave it. It comes out on its own over time." His nausea seemed to fade, mostly because Joelle wasn't grossed out. She appeared sad, even anguished, but not disgusted. "It's still coming out, Jo. I can't let you see my body. Can you understand that?"

"I can understand it," she said, "but I'm your wife. If you want this marriage to work, you can't hide from me. I'm your wife, Bobby." She rose onto her knees, released his hand and freed his T-shirt from the waistband of his sweats. Jaw set, lower lip caught between her teeth, she shoved the shirt up, over his head and off.

He watched her while she scrutinized his torso, the mosaic of sores and scars along his side. Some of the wounds had closed into ropy pink scar tissue. Others were scabbed. He knew how grotesque he looked. He inspected himself in the mirror every day after his shower, searching for bits of shrapnel that had worked their way to the surface of his skin, reading his wounds as if they were some kind of obscene graffiti.

Joelle didn't recoil. She ran her hand lightly over his side, then shifted to view his back. Even the nurses in Hawaii hadn't ministered to him as gently as she did. "Does it hurt?"

"No." Not physically. Emotionally it was excruciating.

"I want to see your leg," she said.

"That's not so pretty, either." The grueling physical therapy was only just beginning to rebuild his wasted muscles, and he had surgical scars running like train tracks near his ankle and knee and along his thigh. But he couldn't bring himself to stop her as she untied the drawstring and eased his sweatpants out from under his b.u.t.t and down his legs. There he was, naked, mutilated. Not the man she'd married. Not the man he'd been before Vietnam had done a number on him.

Her hand glided the length of his legs, moving her fingers lightly across the scars on his left leg, tactfully not mentioning that the calf of that leg was a good three inches smaller in circ.u.mference than its mate. Her palms floated, glided. They were cool, but they made his skin burn. As she skimmed her hands up his thighs, the burning traveled with them. By the time she'd arrived at his groin, he was practically in flames.

She raised her face to him, then inched one hand around his d.i.c.k and stroked. Slow and tight.

She'd seen him and she hadn't run away. If he hadn't already loved her, he would have fallen madly in love right now, just because she was there, touching him, accepting what he was.

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to him, sinking into the cushions and bringing her with him. He kissed her, kissed her with everything he had, every bit of strength, every bit of trust and yearning and love the war hadn't wrung out of him. She kissed him back, matching his pa.s.sion, his desperation.

By the time she broke the kiss and gulped in a breath, he was ready to burst. "The bed might be more comfortable," she murmured.

"It's a friggin' nursery in there," he argued. He wasn't even sure he could make love to her when his leg wasn't working. He sure as h.e.l.l couldn't make love to her with Claudia snoring just inches away from them and the air smelling like baby powder.

Joelle smiled hesitantly, a little nervously, then leaned back and lifted her night gown over her head. A surge of l.u.s.t ripped through him as he gazed up at her. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.

She made a face. "I've got stretch marks, and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s are too big-"

"No such thing as too big," he argued, filling his hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He caressed them, then slid his hands down to her belly, to her crotch. She was already wet, and he was dying for her. Clamping her hips, he urged her down onto him.

As bad as he'd been feeling for far too long, that was how good he felt now, inside her. From nightmare to dream, from h.e.l.l to heaven, it was a change so swift he felt a whiplash in his spine.

She seemed uncertain, and he realized she'd probably never been on top before. What was her experience, anyway? One night with him, and one other guy he refused to think about.

He used his hands to guide her, moving her up and down. His body strained, pressed, wanted. He wasn't going to last-he knew that. His first time with Joelle in nearly a year, his first time since his world had come apart, and she was so soft and warm and snug around him, her skin like velvet, her hair spilling down into his face. He had no willpower, no staying power, nothing. Nothing but the pulse pounding in his head, the fire in his b.a.l.l.s, the tension in his muscles as Joelle rode him. Nothing but grat.i.tude and fear and love.

He tried to slow her down, but she was rocking on her own now, emitting hushed, throaty sounds. He wedged one hand between them, and when she rose, he found her with his fingers. She let out a cry, and that was it. He was gone, his body wrenching, emptying, spilling into her.

She collapsed on top of him, light and limp. He closed his eyes, closed his arms around her and willed his heart to stop hammering in his chest. He didn't deserve a woman as good as she was, a woman so s.e.xy, a woman who could accept his ravaged body, who could accept him when he'd shut her out for so long, when he'd been so sure she would reject him. He didn't deserve this.

But it was his, at least for now, and he'd take it.

NINE.

JOELLE LOOKED AT THE SHRIMP, on skewers, swimming in teriyaki sauce and ready for the grill. They'd been marinating for hours, far longer than necessary. Right now, she was ready to throw them into the trash.

She heard a rumble in the garage, the truck's engine echoing off the concrete walls, idling and then shutting off. The understanding that Bobby was finally home caused her hands to clench so tightly her fingertips tingled. Her gaze rose to the clock on the wall oven's facade: seven-thirty.

Would he be drunk this time? Would he break things and puke and act like a jerk? Had she been a fool to spend hours fussing with her shrimp, measuring rice and water into a pot, hoping that her having prepared yet another of his favorite meals would soften him up? Her lasagna hadn't made a difference. Her rosemary chicken hadn't. Nor had her rib-eye steaks.

Grilled shrimp teriyaki? While he'd been out doing who knew what?

She listened to the door opening, and then the clomp of his boots in the mudroom. Don't throw a tantrum, she reminded herself. Don't jump down his throat the instant you see him. Her willpower was in short supply, though. She'd been building up to this moment ever since she'd gotten that phone call an hour ago. She wanted to scream, to flail, to force that fool husband of hers to tell her what the h.e.l.l was going on.

He swung into the kitchen, his hair windswept, his skin darker than it had been just a week ago. He'd been working outdoors a lot, building a patio in Arlington and consulting on a plaza at a college down in Bridgeport. Unlike her, he wasn't fair-skinned. A few days in the summer sun and his complexion turned brick-brown.

He didn't seem drunk. But that was the least of her worries.

Without a word, he crossed to the sink and twisted on the faucet. He washed his hands, using soap, lathering up past his wrists. What was he washing away?

"Who is she?" she asked when she couldn't stand the silence anymore.

He gazed over his shoulder, scowled, then tore a few squares of paper towel from the roll. "Who is who?"

"The woman you were having a drink with," she said, her nerves cutting through her voice like jagged bits of broken gla.s.s.

He shot her an unreadable look.

"Harriet Briggs from down the street saw you go into the Hay Street Pub with a woman. She followed you inside. You and that woman were at a table for two."

"And then Harriet raced outside and phoned you," Bobby muttered. "She's a b.i.t.c.h. She's always trying to stir up trouble."

"She can't stir up trouble unless there's trouble to stir up." Joelle leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. That position forced her to relax her fists before her nails drew blood from her palms.

She wasn't jealous by nature. Early in her marriage, she'd been envious of other women-women whose husbands had married them for all the right reasons, women certain that their husbands loved them, women who understood s.e.x in ways she didn't. She'd wondered whether Bobby might have been with other women while he'd been in 'Nam. True, he'd been a married man, but their marriage had barely existed when he'd left her. Just one night, and then he'd been gone.

But he'd come home, and they'd stuck together and her schoolgirl insecurities had gradually faded.

They were back now. Drew's invasion into their lives reawakened all her anxieties, her worries about whether she was good enough, whether she should still feel beholden to Bobby for having married her. And he was obviously so angry with her now. If he could get drunk like his father, what else was he capable of doing?

"The woman," he said slowly, his frown aging his face, "was Helen Crawford."

That name meant nothing to Joelle.

"You don't know her," Bobby continued, parceling out information as if it were more precious than gold. "She's Foster's wife."

Drew's wife? Bobby had been having a drink with Drew's wife? Joelle struggled not to launch herself at him, grip his shoulders and shake him until the whole truth spilled out.

"She called and said she wanted to meet me. So I said okay, and she drove up to Gray Hill."

"And you took her to a bar?"

"I had iced tea. She had a wine cooler." He tossed the paper towels into the trash and turned back to Joelle. "She looks a little like you. Foster must have a thing for blondes."

How could he act so calm, so aloof? Didn't he realize their marriage was disintegrating? He was the one who'd said they were perched on a stone wall that was about to collapse. That was last Sunday. Now it was Thursday, and the stones were scattering and slipping. She and Bobby were in a free fall with no soft place to land.

And he chose to talk about Drew Foster's taste for blondes?

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked. "I would have met you there."

"Helen didn't want you there. She wanted to talk to me alone."

Joelle stared at him. Even across the room, he seemed to loom above her, tall and st.u.r.dy. He hadn't removed his boots, and their thick, ridged soles added an extra inch to his height.