“It certainly helped that Parrish didn’t know Spanish.”
“Why?”
I realized that I had never told him what happened after I left him to cross the stream.
When I first came home from the mountains, I had told Frank everything that had happened there, but no one else, and I had steadfastly avoided the subject since. Now I wondered if Frank, who had often urged me to talk things over with Ben, had gone ahead with the dogs and J.C., hoping I would do exactly that.
So make the effort, I told myself. It’s the perfect time to talk it out.
“Parrish didn’t understand Spanish, so when I told Bingle to go to you, to guard you, Parrish thought I was just commanding him to go away.”
A single sentence. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t understand,” Ben said, stopping and staring at me. “Your story in the paper — you didn’t mention being so close to him again. You made it sound as if he tripped over that trap you made for him and ran off wounded. That you ran and hid after that, and just waited for the rescue.”
Panic struck. In my mind, Parrish was holding my face down in the mud; for a few seconds, it might as well have been happening again.
“Irene!” Ben said sharply. “Irene, what is it?”
“Another time, okay?” I said. I realized I had tears on my face, although I couldn’t remember when I had started crying.
There had been this easiness with tears between us for some time now. Frank and Jack and I had been allowed to see his. I don’t think many other people did.
When he had stayed with us, lots of people got to see “how brave Ben is” — although he absolutely despised any comments of this sort. Ben showed the world a determined face. It wasn’t an act — it just wasn’t the whole story.
There had been a nearly constant stream of visitors at first — friends from the university, colleagues who worked with him on the DMORT team and others. There was also a demanding schedule of recovery and rehab appointments, both at home and in other offices — doctors, nurses, his physical therapist, his prosthetist, Jo Robinson. There was work to be done learning how to balance and walk, to desensitize the residual limb, to strengthen Ben’s upper body, and more.
Ellen Raice came by with projects and questions, sometimes bringing bones that had been brought to the lab for help with identification or other determinations. Ben seemed glad to have the work and distraction.
Sometimes Ben had been abrupt with Ellen or other visitors, who knowingly smiled at me as they left, saying, “He seems to be having a bad day.” But they didn’t know the meaning of a bad day with Ben.
At first, almost every day was a bad day at some point. Even Ellen didn’t get to see that side of Ben. Ben tired of appointments and exercises that seemed designed to torture him. Ben in agonizing pain, taking bruising falls. The irascible, impatient Ben. Ben discouraged and grieving. Ben who wondered if women would be repulsed by him, who feared that his sex life was at an end at thirty-two, that he was doomed to a life of loneliness. Ben trying to get used to what he saw when he looked in a full-length mirror.
During that summer, whatever waking hours I could spend away from work, I spent with Ben. Frank and Jack covered the hours I couldn’t. He allowed the three of us to see him at his most vulnerable, but we were also first on hand for the victories. He was one of the most blessedly stubborn people I knew, and if he had setbacks, he didn’t let them stop him.
It was that stubborn determination that I saw on his face now, as I tried to regain my composure.
“I think,” he said, “that I just might die happy if I can kill Nick Parrish with my bare hands before I go.”
“It wouldn’t be worth it,” I said. “Besides, if you go, who . . .”
“Who will you have to talk to about it?” he finished.
I nodded. “I’ve told Frank. I’ve told him everything, but you — you were there.”
“And yet, you haven’t really talked to me, have you? Shielding the poor cripple?”
“Screw you, Ben,” I said wearily. “You know that’s a crock.”
“Sorry. Just what you needed, right? More abuse. You’re right. A crock. God, no wonder you don’t talk to me — I should start a company, ‘Cranky Assholes, Inc.’ ”
“I know the CEO’s position is taken, but could I at least have a vice presidency? I’m good at throwing things. Any glass-paneled offices?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh,” I said guiltily, “I guess I haven’t filled you in on my news.”
“It seems to me that there’s a hell of a lot you haven’t filled me in on. What is this, Irene? I move out, and you think I stop caring about you and Frank and Jack?”
“You wanted to be out on your own. Why should I burden you with—”
“Burden me! You burden me! Christ, that’s a laugh.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Tell me what happened at work,” he said.
I told him about my monitor shot put into Wrigley’s office. I did so with trepidation, figuring that he was bound to start feeling a little wary about being left out on the beach with a madwoman. But that wasn’t how he reacted at all.
“My God,” he said, looking at me with such concern, my tears threatened again. “You’ve really been having a rough time of it, haven’t you?”
“A little,” I said.
He laughed.
“Yes, a rough time,” I admitted.
“I feel like such a selfish bastard!”
“Don’t,” I said fiercely.
He didn’t say more, but I could see that he was angry. At himself, at me — I wasn’t sure who else was on the list.
By then Frank and J.C. had rejoined us. Frank took one look at me and put an arm around me. I returned the favor. Ben steadfastly ignored me, and sensing the tension between us, Frank let Ben and J.C. move ahead with the dogs.
“You okay?” he asked me.
I nodded. “Long day, that’s all.”
He gave a little snort of disbelief but didn’t push me to unburden my soul right at that moment. I was grateful.
At the end of the boardwalk, we again helped Ben across the sand to the stairs, but this time, he seemed embarrassed. We let the dogs go up first, then J.C. and Ben. When we reached the top of the stairs, J.C. and Ben were watching Bingle, who was lifting his head, making chuffing noises. The other dogs tried to follow his lead. He looked back at Ben, ears swiveled forward, and barked.
“Jesus,” Ben said, “he’s alerting.”
“Talk to him,” I said, tightening my hold on Frank.
I was impressed. Ben flawlessly spoke a series of encouragements in Spanish. Then, giving a hand signal, he said, “¡Búscalo!” Bingle focused on Ben much as I had seen him focus on David, and then hurried down the street, head high and sniffing, moving in a fairly straight line.
Within a few houses of our own, Bingle started barking again. He waited for Ben, then, crooning, he veered close to the van, then passed it by and hurried toward our porch.
“Oh no,” I said. “Please no.”
J.C. was saying, “It looks as if someone sent you roses.”
“Late in the day for a flower delivery,” Frank said.
But there was indeed a long golden box with a red bow on it, waiting on the steps.
“Everybody get back,” Frank said suddenly. “Ben, call the dog—!”
But Bingle had already pawed at the box, and it rolled down the steps and spilled open — ten, long-stem roses tumbled out, as did two long, dark bones.
We all stood frozen — until Frank shouted at our dogs, who obviously thought Bingle had made a capital find and were venturing closer to see if he’d share it with them. Hearing the unexpected sharp note in Frank’s voice, they immediately came to his side.