Free Casualties by Elizabeth Marro

“I’m just trying to h—”
    â€œPlease, Neal, don’t . . . can’t we give Robbie some time to—”
    â€œHey.”
    They both stumbled to their feet and turned toward the voice behind them.
    Robbie filled the gap in the sliders, shirtless above and shoeless below the fatigues that clung to his hips.
    â€œWhoa, Neal. Towel.” He croaked out a laugh while Neal caught and resecured the towel around his waist. Ruth knew she was blushing, and knowing it made her cheeks even hotter. She looked at Neal and knew she was scowling. Had he heard them talking about him?
    â€œGeez. Kidding. Just kidding. It’s your house.” Robbie did not look at her or at Neal when he said it. He drove his hands into his pockets and walked past Ruth to the rail. A dog’s bark, the laugh of a couple of surfers floated up from the base of the cliffs.
    â€œBig change from the old place.”
    â€œYour mother’s a big wheel, you know,” Neal said. “She’s got generals eating out of her hand.”
    After they’ve taken their cut
, Ruth thought, amused by Neal’s attempt to impress Robbie with her accomplishments. Neal used his ex-military network to make money as a consultant. He brought Ruth lots of business and he got a piece of the pie. She caught Robbie’s eye and smiled.
    â€œWay to go, Mom,” Robbie said.
    For a few seconds, no one spoke.
    â€œYou want some coffee, Rob, or is Coke still the drink of choice?” Neal cinched the towel tighter and grabbed his mug.
    â€œCoke’d be good.”
    â€œDone.”
    Ruth joined Robbie at the rail, her shoulder nearly touching his. His head, still glistening with water from his shower, was razored nearly bald on each side; a small patch of black bristles did its best to cover the top. His jawline was still a surprise to her after four years, clean bones rising from what had once been a double chin. He was too thin, though. The circles under his eyes worried her.
    â€œYou look exhausted, honey.”
    â€œJust jet lag. Mind if I smoke up here?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
    â€œAs long as you don’t do it in the house.” Ruth wanted the words back as soon as she said them. Still she was glad when he shoved the cigarettes back in his pocket.
    He leaned forward on the railing. A tattoo appeared on his rib cage, just under his armpit. His name, followed by the letters
APOS
, a string of numbers,
USMC
,
No Religion
.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œLike dog tags, only permanent.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œLot of guys were getting ’em. You get . . . sometimes dog tags disappear. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
    At first Ruth still didn’t understand. Then she did. She grabbed his arm and pulled it to her the way she used to do when he was little and darting ahead of her near a busy street. More ink crawled up the underside of his forearm. A shield with the words
Semper Fidelis
. There were names: Hanny, Garcia, a couple of more she couldn’t make out before Robbie pulled his arm back. Overhead, a flock of parrots shrieked. They swooped past in a blur of green.
    â€œDamn, those guys are loud, huh?” Robbie watched the birds, descendants of escaped pets, now louder and more aggressive than the biggest crows. He rubbed the tattooed names, but now Ruth was looking at his hand. There was a tremor she hadn’t noticed before.
    She pretended to watch the parrots but wanted to pull Robbie to her and hold him until the tremor stopped. She settled for resting her palm against his shoulder, white where his T-shirt sleeve had shielded it from the sun. His shoulder stiffened under her palm. He breathed in through his teeth, the inward whistle he used to make when he was nervous. Ruth patted his shoulder and then let her hand drop. He glanced at her sideways.
    â€œYou look good, Mom. Still working