I put my ass in this seat and stay here. And then Candy’s kids come up behind me and try to scare me, or they jump up and down and say the same thing over and over again, or they shriek—you know, the stuff kids do. And I feel like I’m going to beat the living shit out of them.”
“Me, too.”
He laughed a little. “No, but I really am going to beat the living shit out of them. I can feel my muscles pumping up for it. One time, John—the littlest one—came by and knocked over my beer. And I grabbed him by the shoulder and smacked him across the side of the head with my hand. He went running back to Candy crying, ‘Uncle Elias hit me, he hit me.’ She spanked him and told him to leave me alone.” He picked up the beer can again. “That’s when I got my ass to a doctor.”
“Did they tell you it was post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“Nope. Combat stress.”
I frowned. “That’s not what it sounds like to me. My mom knew some Vietnam vets who—”
“Well, I don’t know about Vietnam. But here, now, you pretty much have to point your weapon at your commanding officer for them to decide it’s PTSD. The Prozac helps, though. I don’t feel like hitting the kids anymore. The downside is, I don’t feel anything.” He shrugged and dropped his cigarette into his beer can. “No panic, no excitement. I’m like a ghost. But at least I’m not killing anyone.”
“Maybe they can change your medication. Or your dosage.”
“Maybe. That would require going back to the doctor.” He stretched his leg out and brought it back, gingerly, as though testing it for pain. “I just want everyone to leave me alone. You’re okay, though. If you think I’m a shitbag, it’s no skin off my nose, because I know what you went and did.” He nodded at my belly.
I laughed. “Hey, now. Your mom has declared me Cade’s true wife.”
“Yeah. You’re his biblical wife because he knows you in the biblical sense. Sorry to break it to you, but if that’s true, then your boyfriend’s a polygamist.”
“At college they just called him a man-whore.”
He shot me half a grin. “Fair enough. Say, can you pass me that heating pad over there?”
“Sure.” I handed it to him. “What hurts?”
“My leg and my shoulders. They always hurt.”
I moved behind the chair and let my hands rest on his shoulders. His muscles tightened, but he didn’t flinch, and so I began rubbing them slowly, rhythmically, working my way across his neck and upper back. He let his head drop forward, and so I worked my thumbs along his spine and down to massage his shoulder blades. He groaned, and I smiled.
“Is that better?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Damn, that’s way better.”
He sat upright again and sighed. Softly I rubbed his temples, the sides of his jaw, his scalp. I scratched his forehead along his hairline, and stroked my fingers back through his buzz-cut hair. He tipped his head upward, eyes closed, smiling.
“Fudgies are probably ready,” I told him. “You want some?”
Without opening his eyes, he asked, “What the hell’s a Fudgie?”
“Chocolate and peanut butter comfort food.”
“Fuck, yeah.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulders. “I hope you like them. I’m not the most awesome in the kitchen.”
“I have faith,” he said.
* * *
The next morning I awoke, groggy and exhausted from interrupted sleep, to the sound of bacon sizzling in the skillet downstairs. The smell of it wafted into the room, and I was out of bed and dressed in no time. Pregnancy had made me a serious carnivore. In my ordinary life my staples were bread and fruit, but lately I found myself snacking on strips of leftover flank steak, cold from the fridge. I hoped it was helping build the baby’s brain.
Scooter was already in the kitchen, dressed in a white crew-neck undershirt, a Patriots ball cap and a pair of Levi’s thirty-inch-waist extra-longs. He was chugging chocolate milk from a Coca-Cola glass. The beagles licked bacon grease from the floor around Candy’s feet. I could hear Cade washing up in the bathroom, and Dodge sat at the table with his arms folded in front of him, looking more alert than anyone ought to be at 6:00 a.m. He met my eye but offered no greeting. I wondered if Scooter could sense the tension.
“Mornin’, Jill,” said Scooter. He had a milk mustache.
“You guys doing a clean-out today?”
“Nope. The AC’s not