Part 6 (1/2)

”It's not addressed to you, either,” Ben countered. ”But whatever. I just want to know what they said when you called...” But as the words left his lips, he realized his mistake. He'd a.s.sumed that Greg had been as anxious and worried as he was. ”You didn't call.” He sidestepped Greg's pathetic attempt to get back that letter even as he moved toward the dirty white phone that hung on the kitchen wall. He picked it up and...Of course. There was no dial tone. What a surprise.

”Phone's out again,” Greg said, as if that were the phone company's fault, not his. ”Now you give that to me and clean up this-”

Ben hung up the handset with a crash as he stepped out of Greg's reach again. ”Phone's out out, because you didn't pay the f.u.c.king bill with the money my brother sent you. Did you pay the rent? At least you paid the rent, right?”

”Don't you dare use that language in my house!”

”It's my my house,” Ben shouted. ”The only reason the rent gets paid is because Danny sends it every month-for house,” Ben shouted. ”The only reason the rent gets paid is because Danny sends it every month-for me. me.”

”Don't you raise your voice to me, boy!”

”He could be dead-right now!” Ben got even louder as he moved to the other side of the kitchen table. ”And I know you don't give a s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t about what that means to my mother and me. But here's a newsflash for you. If Danny's dead, he can't send home that money. Have you thought about that?” about what that means to my mother and me. But here's a newsflash for you. If Danny's dead, he can't send home that money. Have you thought about that?”

And in a newsflash of his own, he realized that Greg had had thought about that. But he'd thought about it in terms of the insurance payout Ben's mother would receive if Danny died. He didn't say as much now, but his answer was all over his ugly face. Besides, he'd joked about it in the past, plenty of times. thought about that. But he'd thought about it in terms of the insurance payout Ben's mother would receive if Danny died. He didn't say as much now, but his answer was all over his ugly face. Besides, he'd joked about it in the past, plenty of times. Maybe the kid'll step on a landmine and we'll have the money to start up that restaurant you've been talking about for years...Heh heh... Maybe the kid'll step on a landmine and we'll have the money to start up that restaurant you've been talking about for years...Heh heh...

”You probably spent the afternoon praying that he dies,” Ben whispered.

”It would serve you right if he did die,” Greg spat as he hit Ben with a slap that stung his face and spun him into the wall. ”It wouldn't surprise me one bit if G.o.d punished you for your sins by-”

Ben had had enough. He lowered his head and threw himself forward with a roar, and he hit Greg in the chest with his full weight, which wasn't much, but was more than he'd ever done before.

Normally, he'd just cower and take his beatings.

But now they both went down onto the floor, right into the puddle of orange juice, with Greg kicking and scratching and slapping as Ben tried to keep that letter with its phone number out of the wet, even as he desperately tried to get away.

”I'll beat you, boy,” Greg was screaming, showering him with spittle as he grabbed hold of Ben's hair and pulled. ”I will beat you within an inch of your-”

Ben elbowed him in the stomach, doing some kicking himself to get free.

His knee must've collided with Greg's b.a.l.l.s, because his stepfather screamed in pain and then started retching, finally letting go of Ben, who scrambled to his feet. He jammed the letter into his pocket as Greg curled, rocking, into a ball. If he'd known it would be that easy to win, he would've fought back years ago.

He had time to open the refrigerator and sweep his entire supply of insulin into a plastic shopping bag. He took the OJ carton, too, because he was still feeling pretty majorly out of body. He picked up the bag of clothes for the girl at the mall-there wasn't time for him to pack anything for himself, which was a shame. And then, as Greg was starting to make more intelligible sounds, Ben went out the front door, letting the screen screech and slap behind him, in one final f.u.c.k you f.u.c.k you.

LANDSTUHL, GERMANY.

MONDAY, 4 M MAY 2009.

This was a bad idea.

Cynthia the nurse lived in a small apartment without a roommate, which meant the collections of teddy bears and Hummel figures and look-a Hummel figure teddy bear-were all hers.

What was she, ten? No, apparently not. There was a mult.i.tude of birthday cards artfully arranged on an end table that sat between a matching sofa and chair-both perkily, neatly floral-printed. Big Three-Oh Big Three-Oh one of the cards said in a cartoon bubble coming out of the mouth of a...wait for it...teddy bear. Yeah. The others were more Hallmarkie. one of the cards said in a cartoon bubble coming out of the mouth of a...wait for it...teddy bear. Yeah. The others were more Hallmarkie. Love and affection for my darling daughter on this special day Love and affection for my darling daughter on this special day kind of stuff. kind of stuff.

There were a dozen of them. Two from her mother, one from her father and stepmother, the rest from aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. It was pretty impressive-the size of her support team. Impressive and nice. A lot of military personnel, himself included, didn't get even one card on their birthdays.

The apartment itself was impeccably clean and neat, and looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. Everything had a place where it belonged, and the artwork on the walls was in perfect harmony with the beflowered furniture.

Of course, maybe she'd rented the place furnished and none of this was hers.

But the tidiness was all Cynthia-no doubt about that. There was no clutter anywhere. Not even a small pile of mail or a book out and open, spine up, on the coffee table. No sneakers kicked off while she watched TV and...Come to think of it, there was no TV.

She'd gotten a phone call right after unlocking the door and letting him in and he'd given her privacy by hanging here in her little living room while she bustled into the kitchen to start cooking dinner.

Izzy now wandered over to a small collection of DVDs and CDs that sat on a shelf beneath the bears. Her music was limited to cla.s.sical. She had a lot of Wagner operas, which was alarming since it was just about the the only form of music that would make him bleed from the ears while going blind. But the Wagner wasn't half as alarming as her DVDs. She had only seven-probably to watch on her laptop-and all were foreign art films, with a heavy emphasis on dramas about suicidal Scandinavians, shot in the dark of a northern winter. only form of music that would make him bleed from the ears while going blind. But the Wagner wasn't half as alarming as her DVDs. She had only seven-probably to watch on her laptop-and all were foreign art films, with a heavy emphasis on dramas about suicidal Scandinavians, shot in the dark of a northern winter.

”Why don't you...um. Do you want to take a shower?” She poked her head out of the kitchen, finally off the phone.

”Oh. Thanks,” Izzy said as he moved toward the kitchen, where something was smelling very, very good as it cooked. ”But no, I'm good.” He stopped short. ”At least I think I'm good.” He did a quick pit check, but then realized...”Unless it's a thing, like you need me to shower...?”

”No,” she said far too quickly, which made him know it was was a thing-she definitely liked men to shower before she had s.e.x with them. a thing-she definitely liked men to shower before she had s.e.x with them.

But that was okay. Clean was fine. It was good.

”How about we both take one after dinner?” he said, and her relief was nearly palpable.

The kitchen was all a maddeningly cheery yellow-and again, everything freaking matched. The only thing missing was a sign saying ZANELLA, LEAVE NOW, BEFORE YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE ZANELLA, LEAVE NOW, BEFORE YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

”That sounds...nice,” she said.

Nice? Was she kidding? But no, she was just nervous. That made two of them.

”So,” he said, searching for something to say. ”You collect bears.”

She smiled. ”It's silly, I know, but my cousin's kids started sending them to me and...They get me one wherever they go.”

”That's nice,” he said, and G.o.d, now he was doing it, too. But it was true. It was was nice. This apartment was nice. Cynthia was nice. Her family was nice. Nice, nice, nice. nice. This apartment was nice. Cynthia was nice. Her family was nice. Nice, nice, nice.

”Have you lived here long?” he tried.

”Four-no, five years now,” she told him as she handed him a gla.s.s of wine that she'd poured for him. She was was lovely, with a body that filled the T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans she had on in a very satisfying way. ”I was here for two years before I finally got my things out of storage. Thank G.o.d. That was hard, living out of suitcases...” lovely, with a body that filled the T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans she had on in a very satisfying way. ”I was here for two years before I finally got my things out of storage. Thank G.o.d. That was hard, living out of suitcases...”

”For me a suitcase is a luxury,” Izzy said, taking a sip. d.a.m.n, it was so sweet he nearly gagged.

”That's terrible,” she said. ”You must get so tired of it.”

”No, actually,” he said. ”It's the way I...like to roll.” Seriously? Had he just said like to roll like to roll?

But she was giving him hero-wors.h.i.+p eyes again, and he knew that the shower-after-dinner thing was optional. She was ready and willing to do him right here on the kitchen table.

Of course the wine she was chugging was probably adding to her super-friendly do me even if you're grubby do me even if you're grubby factor. She poured herself another healthy gla.s.s and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sauteing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system. factor. She poured herself another healthy gla.s.s and drank about half of it in one fortifying gulp as she turned to stir what looked like a mix of onions and mushrooms that were sauteing in a pan on the stove. The chicken was cooking on one of those little George Foreman grills, plugged into a power adapter to make it compatible with the German electrical system.

Lettuce and other vegetables for a salad were out on the counter and Izzy said, ”Oh, good, let me help,” mostly in an effort to put down that G.o.d-awful gla.s.s of wine.

”Oh, thanks,” she said. ”The knives are-”

”I got it,” he said, already finding one-it had a yellow handle, natch-and reaching to take a cutting board from where it hung on the wall. He started to cut up a pepper.

”Whenever the teddy bear count gets to ten,” she told him, ”I take them over to the soldiers at the hospital. The kids send me about one a week, so it doesn't take long.”

”That's nice,” Izzy said, mentally wincing at his word choice as they fell back into an awkward silence. It was then that he noticed a framed photo of what had to be Cynthia, pre-kindergarten, with her parents. ”Are you an only child?”