Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  "I shouldn’t have told you."

  "You should have," she said, forcing the whispery words past her dry, tight throat.

  "It’s true, I wasn’t with them when it happened," Tom said when she fell silent again. "I had gone out for dinner with some people from the math faculty out there. Networking. I hadn’t finished my doctoral thesis yet, but I was figuring it wouldn’t help to cultivate some contacts to ease my way into a faculty slot somewhere."

  Stop it! Bonnie protested silently. Don’t tell me about your wonderful career. Tell me this is another lie. Tell me it’s all a sick joke. Remind me that I can’t believe anything you say, anyway .

  "Gary and Marcie went back to the motel for a while. Then they went out for a drink. On their way back to their room—that was when Gary got hit."

  Back to the hotel for a while. To their room. Bonnie felt queasy; her eyes refused to focus. Their room. She could believe this, even though Tom was the one telling her. She didn’t want to believe it, but she could.

  No. Gary loved her. He’d sworn his love, just as she’d sworn hers. They were married, they’d had a child—

  "Marcie begged me not to tell you," Tom went on. "Out of respect for Gary—and out of respect for you too. She didn’t want you to have to know. He was dead. Why trouble you about it?"

  "Why trouble me?" Bonnie rasped. Her breath came in spasmodic gulps and her eyes continued to swim in their sockets. "What was it, a fling? Two lonely friends far from home with nothing better to do?"

  Tom looked sympathetic, but Bonnie sensed something phony in his expression, uncannily reminiscent of his smirk in the photograph she’d destroyed last week. "It started when you were pregnant," he informed her, measuring each word before he spoke it. "At least, that was when Gary first mentioned it to me. You couldn’t travel with him, and Marcie could. And of course, once you had Shane you were so involved with him—"

  "Involved with him? He was a baby, for God’s sake! How could I not be involved with him?"

  "I’m not criticizing you," Tom hastened to assure her, although coming from him the assurance was hollow. "You were a mother. You did what you had to do."

  "I was doing it for Gary, too!" she thundered. "He was busy being a father to his causes. I was the only real parent Shane had."

  "For which you should be commended," Tom said with a patronizing nod.

  "I don’t want to be commended! I want you to tell me—" She fought back a sob. Bad enough that she was shouting at Tom. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him.

  "Tell you what?" he prompted her.

  "That you’ve made this up," she said brokenly. "That Gary was faithful to me."

  Tom drummed his fingers on the chair again. "I could tell you—and this is the truth, Bonnie—I could tell you that he loved you. He really did. When he told me he was going to marry you, I told him I thought marriage was too straight a thing to do, too establishment. But he said, ‘I love her, Tom, and that’s all that matters.’"

  "It isn’t all that matters," Bonnie argued, struggling to swallow a fresh lump of tears. "If he really loved me he would never have had an affair with Marcie."

  "Maybe there was a limit to how establishment he could be," Tom suggested. "Maybe, as much as he loved you, marriage was too confining politically. Maybe he thought that by having an affair he was making an important statement about the sociological implications of monogamy."

  "It has nothing to do with politics," Bonnie snapped. "It has to do with making promises and then breaking them. It has to do with being dishonest." A tear slid down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away. "He cheated on me, pure and simple," she lamented, despising the tremulousness in her voice. "He betrayed me."

  "Cut the guy some slack," Tom cajoled her. "He was a great leader—"

  "He was a bastard." She hoisted herself to her feet and glowered down at Tom, no longer bothering to conceal her tears. "And you’re a bastard, too. You probably rationalized it for him at the time, you probably told him that sleeping with Marcie was good politics and made an important statement. You’ve covered for him all these years—and you’re still covering for him, still justifying what he did. You’re a son of a bitch, Tom. And so was he."

  With that, she stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her. Sagging against the corridor wall, her fury spent for the moment, she let out a long-suppressed sob. It occurred to her that, as shocked as she was by Tom’s revelation, some part of her couldn’t refute the inherent truth in what he’d told her. He was hardly a trustworthy person, and even when Gary had been alive she’d never thought of Tom as her friend, but he hadn’t been lying about Gary right now. She didn’t want to believe him, but she knew she had to.

  Marcie—Bonnie’s best friend at Radcliffe, the talented cook, the giggling nineteen-year-old who’d journeyed all the way to New York City in order to obtain birth control pills when they weren’t available to single women in Massachusetts... Marcie, whose greatest joy in college had been defying her straitlaced parents, whose idealism generally seemed to extend only as far as her infatuation with various good-looking rabble-rousers... Marcie, the ultimate radical groupie, had been having an affair with Gary, the ultimate radical.

  "Dear God." Bonnie’s knees trembled beneath her, and she hurried down the hall in the hope that her forward momentum would keep her from collapsing. She reached the stairwell and started down, not stopping until she arrived at the landing between the first and second floors. There she dropped down to sit on a step, wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in her lap.

  For a long time she remained there, shivering, weeping, wishing she could wake up and find herself somewhere else, living some other, happier life. When her uncontrollable shaking finally abated and she lifted her head, she discovered herself facing a yellow cinder-block wall in an academic building at Boston University.

  It wasn’t a dream. Her husband, the man to whom she’d devoted herself, body and soul, even after death had parted them...her husband had had an affair. The man whose fine, noble principles Bonnie had revered had in fact been a two-timing rat. She had loved him for his wisdom, his moral vision, his dedication to peace—and all the while, he had been committing the ultimate act of violence on their relationship. The four years of her marriage and the ten years of her widowhood were nothing but a fraud.

  Paul would never have deceived her like that.

  Startled, she straightened up and shook her head clear. Her world had just been undermined, her past rewritten. She no longer knew who she was. Why should she be thinking about Paul Tremaine, of all people?

  No matter what he’d done in his life, she could trust him. She might not agree with what he stood for, but at least she knew where he stood. She could trust Paul.

  She remembered the afternoon of the storm, when her tree had swayed and tilted as the ground melted into mud beneath it. Paul had come and braced the tree. He’d propped it up, kept it stable, given it the support it needed to survive.

  If ever she needed someone to prop her up, if ever she needed support as the once-solid earth shifted and heaved beneath her, it was now. But the one man she trusted wouldn’t let her near him. He had told her quite clearly that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her.

  Her own husband hadn’t found her worthy of his love; obviously Paul didn’t, either. The last time she’d reached for him, he’d run away.

  If she reached for him now, he’d run away again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  "SO WHAT’S THE DEAL with the memorial?" John asked. "How’s that thing coming along?"

  Paul shrugged. He and John Slinger were seated in one of the scarred wooden booths lining the outer walls of Max’s. The pool table had been occupied when they’d arrived at the bar a few minutes ago, but Paul didn’t mind. Sitting in the shadows and sipping a beer suited him well enough.

  He traced his fingertip along the label of the beer bottle. "I don’t know," he admitted. "As far as
town hall’s concerned, it’s all systems go."

  "And?"

  Paul lifted his gaze to his friend. John was four years his senior but looked much older. His face was weathered, his reddish hair thinning on top, his fingers bony and nicotine-stained. He stared at Paul with an intensity that would have made him self-conscious if he and John hadn’t known each other so long and so well.

  "I’m not so sure it’s such a hot idea," he said.

  "The memorial? What are you talking about? You’ve been living and breathing that thing for years, man. You’ve got to build it."

  "Why? Why have I got to build it?" His words were directed more to himself than to John. For days, now, he’d been asking himself the same question. Would building the memorial truly make him happy? Would it make his life any easier? Would it change what had happened one rainy night in a forest in Southeast Asia twenty-odd years ago? Would it free him from his past?

  "It’s been your whole purpose for living," John reminded him. "It’s kept you going. When times were bad, you always had that to cling to."

  "I know." The trouble was, Paul was beginning to suspect that a war memorial was an absurd thing to live for. His attachment to the idea had given him strength during some rough periods—but maybe there were better sources of strength. Maybe he’d clung to the concept of a memorial because he’d had nothing better to cling to.

  "So," John said, snubbing out his cigarette and then shaking another from the pack, "other than the memorial, what’ve you been up to?"

  "Nothing."

  "You’ve been like a hermit, Tremaine. What’s going on?"

  "Hey, look." Paul attempted a smile. "If I’d known you were going to interrogate me I wouldn’t have come here."

  "You knew exactly what I was going to do," John claimed as he struck a match. He lit his cigarette and shook the flame out. "What is it, money trouble? Problems at the nursery?"

  "No."

  "What? A woman?"

  Although the question wasn’t exactly unexpected, Paul flinched. "Yeah," he grunted.

  "The one up in Lowell?"

  Paul shook his head, then smiled grimly. "Damn it, John—I think I’m in love."

  It was the first time he’d actually spoken the word, the first time he’d allowed himself to consider Bonnie in such terms. Recently his dreams hadn’t been about the war; they’d been about the taste of her lips, the sweet warmth of her breath filling him, the exhilarating strength of her arms wrapped around him and the luminescence of her eyes as she gazed at him in desire—and in pain, and hatred.

  Ever since he’d walked away from her that evening on her porch, he’d found himself dwelling obsessively not on his memorial but on her. She was his new devastation, the victim of his most recent defeat. Perhaps he ought to build a memorial to her instead of the others.

  "Who’s the lucky lady?" John asked, clearly fascinated.

  "You don’t know her, and she isn’t lucky."

  "Why? What’s the hang-up?"

  "The hang-up is, I hurt her. I don’t...I don’t know if I can not hurt her. And I love her, John. I can’t bear hurting her, so I’ve got to stay away from her."

  John digested Paul’s explanation and issued a sympathetic sigh. "How does she feel about it?"

  "She’s in love with someone else," said Paul.

  "Sounds like a friggin’ soap opera." John contemplated Paul’s situation as he puffed on his cigarette. Finally he asked, "How come you’re so sure you’re going to hurt her?"

  "We’re coming from two different places," Paul explained. "Her husband—he’s dead now, but she’s still hung up on him. He used to be this hot-shot antiwar activist. Founder of something called the Cambridge Manifesto."

  "Oh, geez." John pulled a face. "Not those loonies."

  "You’ve heard of them?"

  "Yeah. They were pretty active in these parts while you were still overseas, and then when you were living out on the West Coast." He dragged deeply on his cigarette. "They were a bunch of self-righteous eggheads who staged peace rallies all around the region. As I recall, they did a big sit-in out at Westover Air Force Base, and one down at the naval base in New London. They threw chicken blood at a submarine or something. Yeah, the Cambridge Manifesto made quite a name for themselves in these parts."

  Paul cursed inwardly. More than a saint, Gary Hudson had been a celebrity, a media star. Paul could never compete with that.

  Not that it mattered. Even if Bonnie’s husband hadn’t been the renowned leader of a peace movement, the guy would undoubtedly have been more gentlemanly than Paul. Given the way Paul had treated her, any man dead or alive would shine in comparison.

  "It’s no big deal," he heard himself say. "I’ll get over her sooner or later. But you can’t blame me for laying low for a while. I just need some time to work it out."

  "I guess," John said dubiously.

  "I’ve survived worse things."

  "Yeah." John’s skeptical look implied that Paul’s bravado wasn’t totally convincing, but Paul appreciated his friend’s willingness to pretend it was.

  He raised his beer to his lips and froze at the sight of Bonnie entering the barroom. Dressed in a casual skirt and blouse, she looked neat and composed—until he focused on her face. Her complexion appeared ashen in the tinted glow from the neon signs hanging in the front windows. Her cheeks were drawn, her eyes marble hard and cold, her lips pinched. Her hands were hidden in the pockets of her skirt, but Paul could tell from the way the fabric draped that her fingers were balled into fists. He lifted his gaze to her face again, taking heart in the glinting gold of her hoop earrings beneath her hair. They looked normal and familiar, unlike her terrified expression.

  John must have noticed Paul’s sudden reaction, because he twisted in his seat to view the bar’s latest arrival. "Who’s that?" he asked, giving Bonnie a cursory assessment before he turned back to Paul.

  Paul didn’t have a chance to answer. Bonnie’s eyes had found his, and he felt a visceral jolt at the anguish in her gaze. Her attempt at a smile was so forlorn it hurt him to see it.

  She started toward the table. Paul realized John was awaiting a reply. "A friend of mine," he mumbled evasively. "Her son works for me."

  "She’s a real looker," John appraised her. "If I wasn’t married, I’d..." He trailed off at Paul’s murderous glare. "She’s the one you’re in love with?" he whispered.

  Once more Paul couldn’t answer. Bonnie had reached their table, and he stood and presented a smile as artificial as hers. "Hi," he said. "I didn’t know you hung out at Max’s."

  "I don’t," she said, eyeing John.

  Paul made the appropriate introductions. "Bonnie, this is John Slinger. John, Bonnie Hudson."

  "Gary Hudson," John blurted out, wagging a finger at her. He shot Paul a triumphant grin. "That’s the guy, right? The looney from the Cambridge Manifesto? I remember him!"

  Paul ignored John’s self-congratulatory cheer. He was too distracted by the way Bonnie seemed to recoil at the mere mention of her husband’s name. "John’s a veteran like me," he apologized for his companion’s lack of diplomacy. "He didn’t really mean your husband was a lunatic. He only meant—"

  "That’s all right," Bonnie said tersely, looking, if possible, even more uncomfortable. "I’m sorry to chase you down like this, Paul, but..." She drew in a deep, bracing breath. "I stopped by the nursery but you’d already left, and Claire Collins told me you sometimes hang out here, and when I saw the truck parked outside..." She inhaled again, desperately, like a drowning person snatching her last bit of oxygen before she went under for good. "Shane won’t be coming to work on Saturday. He’s staying with my parents in Newton for a few days."

  Paul remained silent, certain she had something more to say. That Shane was visiting his grandparents wasn’t exactly a crisis worth reporting on in person. Bonnie could have telephoned Paul at home later in the evening, or stopped by the nursery the following day.

  "Did something happen?" he asked careful
ly. "Are your folks all right?"

  "They’re fine." She shaped another sickly smile. "Well," she said, "I just wanted to let you know he’ll be missing work this weekend. Nice meeting you," she added to John before pivoting from the table.

  "Wait." Paul closed his hand around her shoulder, preventing her departure. Simply touching her forced him to confront the truth he’d just admitted to his friend: he loved Bonnie. He ought to let her go, but he couldn’t—not when she was so troubled and not when she’d gone to so much effort to find him. She had more to tell him and, despite the risk to his emotional well-being, he wanted to hear what she had to say.

  She kept her back to him. "I’m sorry I bothered you here, Paul. It’s really not important—"

  "Of course it’s important," Paul argued, aware that they weren’t discussing Shane’s upcoming absence from work.

  Perhaps to make up for his indiscreet remark about Bonnie’s late husband, John exercised uncommon tact by sliding out of the booth. "I gotta split, Paul," he said. "The old lady’s burning my dinner right now. Take it easy. Nice meeting you, too," he returned Bonnie’s farewell before making a smooth getaway.

  Alone with Bonnie, Paul eased her around to face him. "What is it?" he asked, growing increasingly worried as he absorbed her stricken appearance. "Is Shane in trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "No," she said quietly, struggling to tame the ragged edges of her voice. "He’s not in trouble. He’s staying in Newton for a couple of days, that’s all."

  "What is it, then?" he asked gently. "Is the birch tree dying or something?"

  "No—I mean, not that I know of. I haven’t been home, yet. I can’t go home, Paul..." She shuddered, and he raised his free hand to her other shoulder to steady her. "I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, Paul—I shouldn’t have come here. It’s really nothing..." A lone tear skittered down her cheek, belying her claim. "I just wanted to let you know that Shane..." Her voice cracked.

  Paul slid one hand to her elbow and guided her through the gloomy, smoke-filled room to the door. Outside the sun was low but the sky was bright, the air mild and bracing. He drew Bonnie to a halt on the sidewalk, giving her the opportunity to pull herself together. Even though she showed no further signs of weepiness, he could feel her shivering. "Why can’t you go home?" he asked.