When A Warrior Comes Home Page 5

  It was five of eight. Butch was downstairs, and she didn’t want to keep him waiting, he was so quick tempered nowadays. She opened the bedroom door and wobbled on her heels—it was a long time since she’d dressed as a woman instead of a mommy, too long.

  FOX Sports blared out of the TV. Smoothing the front of her dress, Rosa stepped into the living room, a smile on her lips and tingles in her belly, anticipating Butch’s reaction to her outfit. He liked her in a dress and heels—hello sexy lady he always said before grabbing her in a bear hug and kissing her or mussing her hair.

  “I’m ready, honey,” she said.

  Butch slouched on the sofa, head on the armrest, eyes on the TV.

  She stepped in front of the screen. “What do you think?” The new dress—size eight, black with a white pencil trim and spaghetti straps—flared from the waist as she twirled.

  Butch looked at her. No. Butch looked through her. Said nothing. Crushed her spirit like a bug underfoot.

  “Butch, are you okay?”

  “Tired.”

  Grubby and unwashed, a two-day stubble darkened his face. Yellow egg splashes stained the front of his T-shirt. His grimy old chinos bagged at the knees.

  “Honey, it’s almost eight,” she said. “Our table’s for nine. Why don’t you wash, and change into a fresh shirt and jeans?”

  Butch looked up with flat eyes and a slack face. “What for?”

  Her jaw tightened, and she ground her back teeth. Last time he returned from Iraq, he couldn’t get enough of her. That’s how Noe happened. But this time? Five weeks he’d been home. Five weeks of tired and cranky and living like a slob. Five weeks and Butch hadn’t looked at her in that way even once. After last night’s drag-down fight, he’d agreed the date was a good idea. She’d spent an hour getting ready, she smelled good; damn it all, she looked good, too.

  To hell with it!

  One hand on her hip, Rosa pointed to the door and shouted, “Soldier, get up this minute and change. We’re going out. We’re going to behave like a happily married couple. I’m tired, too. Tired of your shit!” Tears were close. Rosa swallowed hard and pushed them away; she’d cried enough. Softer she said, “Butch, please try. Try for me. You promised. Only last night, you promised.”

  He waved a hand. “I want to see this replay. You’re blocking the screen. Move.”

  Move? That was it? That was all he had? After the panic over the rocket attack—not knowing for three days if he was alive or dead. And the tiptoeing around since he returned home in case he went off. And forgiving him when he barked at her. And believing him when he promised it wouldn’t happen again. And then, when it did, forgiving him again. Anger, boiling and bubbling and brewing inside her for weeks, erupted. “The hell I’ll move!” she screamed. “Get up. Get changed. Or get out and I’ll find a man who will treat me like a woman.” As soon as she loosed the words, she wished she could take them back. Rosa didn’t want anyone else. She wanted Butch. But he made her so angry.

  Butch rolled into a sitting position. He glanced at his watch. “You’re early,” he said, a sly smile on his lips, “Fort Black whores don’t start work till after nine.”

  Rosa staggered back as though she’d taken a pile driver to the chest. “Is that what you see here?” She waved a hand down her dress. “A whore. Is that what I am to you?”

  “Whatever. I’m too tired. Go. Don’t go. I couldn’t care less.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Red fury swamped her mind. She took two steps, raised her hand, and slapped his face—full force.

  Lightning fast, Butch sprang from the sofa and smashed his open palm across her left cheek. The blow spun her around, and she staggered into the TV, which toppled from its stand and squealed as it hit the floor. Arms windmilling, one heel snagged the carpet. Her ankle twisted. She lost her balance and sprawled on the floor with her dress hitched high, exposing the black garters she’d worn for him. He glaring at her, eyes low-lidded and laden with hatred, lips curled back in a vicious snarl. Her cheek pulsed and throbbed. Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs she couldn’t catch a breath.

  Butch straddled her, legs braced, thigh muscles bulging against his chinos. He lifted his gaze to the snowstorm on the television screen. Spittle sprayed her as he shouted, “Fuck it. I’m outta here. Stupid bitch!”

  Sucking in a faltering breath, face inches from the floor, through tear-filled eyes she watched his boots leave the room. Blood dripping from her nose trickled down her lip, and she caught it in her hand to save the beige carpet. Her cheek stung and had swelled, narrowing her vision. The front door slammed. Something fell. Glass shattered in the hallway.

  She scraped off her shoes and struggled to her feet on cotton legs. In the kitchen, she wet a towel and pressed it to her nose, tasting iron, gasping for air, breathing through her mouth. A buzzing started in her ears. She dropped the towel and gripped the counter with both hands. Running tap water echoed in the sink. Outside, a motorcycle roared. She panted and swallowed until the lightheadedness passed and her whole world centered on the throbbing pain in her cheek.

  Rosa opened the trashcan and threw in the bloody towel. The lid clanged shut. Her home felt empty, cold, and foreign.

  I have to get out.

  After pulling on her old sneakers, she headed for the front door. Glass shards littered the hallway. Their wedding photo, dislodged from the wall when he stormed out, had smashed. Butch’s face smiled up at her from the fractured frame. She stepped over the mess and opened the door. A blast of rain-laden wind wrenched the handle from her hand and the door cracked into her knee.

  Butch had the car.

  It was pouring down.

  “To hell with it.” Rosa lurched onto the front step and slammed the door behind her.

  No key.

  No phone.

  No way back.

  Her hip ached from where she’d collided with the TV. Her knee throbbed from the door. A rain and sleet mixture peppered her face, stinging her cheek where he’d hit her, and drenching her new dress.

  She shuffled along the deserted sidewalk, bent into the wind like a hunchback.

 

  Sarah and Daniel sat on the sofa giggling at Sandra Bullock’s final scene in Miss Congeniality. When the doorbell rang, Sarah’s heart pulsed and her stomach knotted. One hand went to her throat. Daniel’s head jerked up; he stared, wide-eyed, at his mom.

  Unexpected callers after dark were never welcome at the home of a deployed soldier. She forced strength into her voice. For Daniel’s sake suppressing the fear. “Stay here. Finish the movie. I’ll go.” At the front door she called out, “Who is it?”

  “Rosa.”

  Sarah slid back the safety chain and opened up. Strands of Rosa’s long black hair plastered her face. A wind gust blew sleet into the hallway. Arms wrapped tightly across her chest, Rosa shivered in a thin dress so wet it hugged her body and showed her underwear.

  Mouth open, Sarah stepped back. “Christ, Rosa. What happened? Come. Come in.” Sarah glanced behind. Daniel stood at the living room door, watching. “Daniel, run upstairs and grab the white bath towel from my room.” He sprinted away. “Get my dressing gown, too,” she shouted after him, “the blue one hanging on the hook by the shower.”

  Her friend stepped into the hallway. “S… sorry, I’m dripping on the carpet.” Her voice cracked. Sarah stooped low and snatched a glance at Rosa’s face: drawn, stressed, frozen, and not all the moisture was from rain. She wrapped warm arms around her wet, trembling friend and pushed the door shut with her foot.

  Daniel clomped down the stairs, three at a time, and held out the towel. “Hi, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  Rosa reached out a hand. Without meeting his gaze, she covered her head and rubbed at her hair. “Thanks, Daniel,” she said in a tiny, high voice.

  Before Rosa hid under the towel, Sarah noticed the swelling on her cheek. This was no place for her teenager. She took the housecoat from him. “Son, the movie’s done by now. Why don’t you hea
d upstairs? Take a shower and change into PJs. You can play video games for an hour before bed. I’ll be up later to check on you.” When she nodded to him and widened her eyes, he got the message and left.

  Such a good kid.

  She parked Rosa on the couch and turned on a country music channel. “How about a cup of hot chocolate?”

  Rosa’s head nodded under the towel.

  “Daniel’s upstairs. The room’s yours. Take off those wet things, dry off, and put on the robe. I’ll be back in a five minutes.”

  When Sarah returned from the kitchen, Rosa had folded the towel on the back of the sofa and piled her wet clothes on top. The dressing gown swamped her. The collar, pulled high, covered her face. Sarah offered the steaming mug, but when she noticed the tremors in Rosa’s fingers, she placed it on the side table instead. She knelt in front of her friend and stared into her face. Rosa’s left eye glistened through a narrow slit. With one hand on Rosa’s knee, Sarah asked, “What happened? Is Butch all right?”

  She nodded and sobbed in a breath. “He’s probably at The Blue Note.”

  “On Friday?” The local watering hole featured bands on weekends. The place would be hopping, full of single soldiers looking to score. And Butch had never been much of a drinker.

  Rosa looked her in the eyes. “He goes every night.”

  Gently touching a fingertip to Rosa’s swollen cheek, Sarah asked, “How did this happen? Did Butch hit you?”

  “He didn’t mean it. He bumped me as he passed, and I fell. My fault. I was standing in the way. It was accidental.”

  Sarah frowned but held back judgment; the fingermarks on her cheek didn’t look like an accident. “Drink the chocolate while it’s hot. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sarah went into the kitchen, wrapped crushed ice in a dishtowel, and brought it to her friend. “Here. This’ll ease the swelling.”

  While Rosa held the compress against her face, Sarah sat next to her on the couch. “Where’s Noe?” she asked.

  “At my mother’s. I… we thought being alone for a couple nights would give me and Butch time to reconnect. Time to discover each other again. But—” The dam broke and desperate sobs racked her.

  With an arm around Rosa’s shoulders, Sarah waited for the grief to soften before asking, “What’s changed? You were so close. He seemed fine at Christmas, and I remember Butch after Noe’s birth. He was crazy about the baby and about you. Said he wanted another when he returned.”

  Rosa shook her head. “He doesn’t want me in that way nowadays.”

  “What? Why?”

  “When he first got back, I—” Color rose in Rosa’s cheeks.

  Sarah massaged Rosa’s shoulders. “We’re best friends. You can tell me. I won’t judge you, or Butch, and I promise it will go no further. Sharing helps. Rosa. Sometimes it’s all we’ve got.”

  She nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “When he came home before Christmas. When we climbed into bed, I was excited. You know, like a first time. Butch couldn’t get it up. I told him it was okay. We cuddled. That was enough. To have him there beside me in bed, was enough.”

  That image lodged a lump in Sarah’s throat. God, how she missed being in Mike’s arms.

  Rosa lifted her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Later that night I woke and reached for him. Butch wasn’t there. I thought maybe he went to the bathroom, but the house was quiet. I got up, walked around the bed, and about crapped myself. He lay on the floor, curled up, blocking the bedroom door, dressed in his cammies and fast asleep. I knelt beside him and whispered, ‘What’s wrong, ma vida?’ He whipped around,” she made a rapid sweep of her arm, “flipped me over, and started strangling me.” Rosa tilted her head and revealed a long yellowing bruise ringing her neck.

  “That’s why you kept the scarf on Christmas Day.”

  “Si.”

  “You should have told me.” But even as she spoke the words, Sarah knew, were the roles reversed, she’d have done the same. Their men were under such pressure during deployment. It was a wife’s role to protect them when they returned.

  Rosa shrugged. “His eyes were crazy, far away. The madness only lasted a few seconds. I called his name, and when he looked at me, when he saw me, he begged for forgiveness. He didn’t mean what he did. He didn’t know where he was, or who I was.”

  Sarah patted her arm. “What happened then? Did he come back to bed?”

  “Yes. I tried again. Tried to get him interested. I thought it might settle him. But he stopped me. Said he wasn’t up for it.” She pressed her lips together, shrugged. “And he wasn’t. You know…”

  This seemed odd. Mike was always horny when he came home from the field. “Was Butch like this after the last deployment?”

  “No. I think the rocket attack… He talked about it on Christmas Day. It sounded like a big explosion. I’ve begged him to go to the doctor on base, but he says they checked him out at Camp Liberation and cleared him for duty. He won’t go. Doesn’t want to get labeled a faker.”

  Mike would think the same way. Warriors who complained were weak. No officer wanted weaklings in their unit.

  “So did it help when you two finally had sex?”

  Rosa sucked in a breath. “We haven’t.”

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “He’s been home five weeks.”

  Rosa started to sob again.

  “Sorry, Rosa. I didn’t mean—”

  “S’okay. I can wait. That’s not the problem. Butch never used to get angry. He was my gentle giant. My mom said he spoiled me, treated me like fine china. Now all we do is argue. I can’t do anything right. I try not to upset him, but… And when he’s not mad, he sleeps on the couch. He sleeps all the time. When I ask why, he says I’m nagging. Says I don’t understand. Says he has to catch up after Iraq.”

  “I’m sorry, Rosa. Can you talk to the doctor?”

  Her head reared back. “Butch would kill me.”

  “What about Noe? Butch loves him so much. How is he with his son?”

  Rosa shook her head. “Last week, he looked after him while I went to the store. When I got home, Butch was asleep on the sofa. Noe was in the kitchen.” Her voice rose an octave. “My baby had climbed into the cupboard under the sink. He was playing with detergent and bleach bottles. What if he’d gotten a lid off, Sarah? My boy could have died.”

  Sarah swallowed the lump of fear that had lodged in her throat. Rosa must have been terrified.

  “What did Butch say?”

  “He said he only slept for two minutes and he was just about to get Noe. Told me I was getting hysterical for nothing. Then he stormed out and came back at three in the morning, drunk. I asked where he’d been, and he said—nowhere. I don’t know what to think. Butch lies. He lies all the time.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Sarah passed a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table. Rosa’s fingers trembled as she dabbed her eyes. “I can’t go home, and I can’t go to my momma’s this late.” She pointed to her face. “If Papa saw this I dunno what he’d do. Can I stay here tonight?”

  “Of course. Christopher’s staying with his grandma for a couple days. Let me change sheets, and you can take his bed.”

  “I couldn’t, but maybe the couch?”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. Rosa was embarrassed enough, so she didn’t press the issue. “Sure.”

  Rosa laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “Thanks. I can’t face another fight.” She straightened and stared into Sarah’s eyes. “Sarah, I don’t know who he is. But I do know who he isn’t. And he isn’t my husband. Butch went to Iraq, but someone else came back.”

  Rosa buried her head in her hands and sobs shook her tiny frame.

  “I’ll get the covers and we’ll make you comfy on the sofa. And I’ve got a sleeping pill with your name on it. Eight hours will do you good.”

  Upstairs, Sarah knocked on Daniel’s door, and went in. “Finish that game and then turn in. Okay?”

  “Is Mrs. Cassidy sick?”

  “
She’ll be fine.” Daniel waited for more. But Sarah couldn’t think what to say. If he still seemed concerned in the morning, they could discuss it further. Although what could she tell him?

  As she pulled a comforter, sheets, and a set of her PJs from the hall closet, her mind was with her husband. She missed him so much, especially at a time like this. Butch looked up to Mike. When he got home, she’d ask him to help. If he were here, maybe Butch wouldn’t be careening around like a loose cannon.

 

  After dinner, Mike climbed into his wheelchair and headed for the sixth floor. At the nurses’ station, Anke told him the surgeon had broken the news to Yaz. Mike rolled along the hallway to his friend’s room. How did you tell someone you’d chopped off his legs? How did a person do that? And how did Yaz react? How would he react? A sharp pain shot through Mike’s calf. But at least he had his leg.

  In the half-reclined bed, Yaz slept, mouth open, snoring—probably doped. Mike turned on the TV. For twenty minutes, he watched retired generals on CNN discussing Afghanistan and troop surges as though they knew what was happening. The Iraq war was, apparently, over—yesterday’s war. Because the pols said the US was pulling out.

  Yaz stirred and icicles skittered through Mike’s chest. How did you talk to someone who’d just learned he had no legs? What did you say?

  “Hi.” Yaz slurred the word.

  “How ya doin’?”

  Yaz pointed with one finger, toward the bottom of the bed. “They tell you?”

  “I’m sorry, man. I blame myself. I should have gotten you out faster. I should have moved, pulled the friggin’ bedframe off my leg and got to you. I should have made Brian take you first.”

  “Dude. None of this is your fault.”

  Mike sucked in deep breaths, stared at the TV, and blinked to clear his eyes. “What did the doctor say?”