For All Their Lives (46 page)

Everything was taken care of.

It was day one of Casey's new life as Mary Ashley.

V
ALENTINE'S
D
AY
. H
ER
real
birthday.

Casey looked around her jungle-circus-television habitat with watery eyes. She was almost used to the huge room now, after six weeks. She wished she had somebody to share the day with, somebody to talk to. Somebody besides Izzy, who perched on her desk with a fat red crayon and colored in his Maggie and Jiggs coloring book. Or Gertie, looking on with sharp eyes.

Izzy was coloring within the lines now, thanks to her patience. He'd calmed down a lot since she moved in, bringing her Coca-Colas from the small refrigerator, depositing his banana peels in the trash instead of on the floor, and remaining always close to her. Together they watched the noon news so she could observe Matthew Cassidy. It was mandatory, Steve said, for her to familiarize herself with the on-camera show.

Izzy didn't like the dapper, slick newsman. The monkey hopped about, yanked at his ears, hid his eyes when the camera moved in for a close shot, and spit angrily when the effeminate-looking face smiled into the camera. Casey herself was reminded of a young shark with too many teeth. Whenever Casey grimaced or laughed at something the newsman did on camera, Izzy would hop on her desk, scratch his hairy belly, and screech. Then he would throw both long, hairy arms around her neck and kiss her wetly on the cheek.

Izzy was her friend, her only friend. She would have taken him home with her at the end of the day, but Steve forbade it. Secretly, Casey suspected the producer might be jealous of her affection for the chimp.

Casey looked at her watch. Five minutes to airtime, time to turn on the television. She pointed to the set and waited for Izzy to go through his usual routine. First he put the red crayon back in the coffee can, closed his coloring book, buttoned his tartan vest, then made his way to the set in the corner. He showed his teeth in displeasure when Cassidy appeared on the screen. Casey lowered her head to hide her smile. She raised her head when she heard Cassidy say, “Today over twelve thousand South Vietnamese troops who had gathered in the northern province of Quangtri crossed into Laos. Some were transported in the early phases of the attack by United States helicopters.”

She hated to hear him discuss Vietnam. She knew his off-the-air views. She continued to listen, her eyes filling with tears. “Supported by American planes and artillery, thousands of South Vietnamese troops crossed into Laos in an attempt to cripple the line down the Ho Chi Minh trail.” His words were like a slap in the face, reminding Casey of all the letters and notes Mac had sent her from the trail.

Cassidy's voice droned on, and Casey's tears dried. He did an update on the Los Angeles earthquake that killed fifty-one persons. From the quake he swung into a short bio of J. C. Penney and the effect his death would have on the sixteen hundred retail stores he'd founded. Before he signed off on the weather, he smirked into the camera and invited his listeners to Alexander's on the sixteenth of the month, when he would judge a “hot pants” contest. Casey gagged. Izzy kicked the television before he turned it off.

“The guy's a jerk,” Casey muttered as she opened the brown paper bag she carried her lunch in. She set out a ham sandwich, an apple, two cupcakes, and candles. Izzy would get half the sandwich, half the apple, and a whole cupcake. Today was special. Normally, she didn't share her lunch with Izzy, because he'd discovered the licorice sticks she kept in her drawer, and now he always refused other food until she handed one over. He was company; it was that simple.

She felt relieved now that the television set was off. She'd view it again later, right before she left work, and make notes. Now it was time for her lonely birthday party. She was lighting the candles on the two small cakes when Steve walked in. A flood of guilt raced through Casey as she wondered how she was going to explain the cake and candles.

“Your birthday is today, Valentine's Day?” Steve asked, his jaw dropping.

“No.” The lie came to her lips so easily, she felt guilty all over again. “I stopped by the bakery this morning and they were giving them away. I thought . . . Izzy would enjoy the candle. . .”

“I always thought it would be neat to have a birthday on a holiday,” Steve said boyishly. “Imagine being born on Christmas. Do you suppose you'd get double the presents or get left out?” he asked, his face full of concern.

Casey laughed. Izzy blew out both candles. They watched as he peeled the wax paper from the cupcake. He stuffed the entire cupcake in his mouth, then clapped his hands. “Probably double. I'd want all of mine wrapped in Christmas paper though.” Casey smiled. “Red and green, silver and gold paper,” she said with a catch in her voice, remembering the past Christmas. “How about you, Steve?” They were friends now, on a first-name basis.

“I'd want my birthday presents wrapped in blue paper, with sailboats, and maybe red with trains on it. I'd want to know the difference. Just in case the relatives cheated me. Terrible, huh?”

Casey shrugged. She liked this boyish side of the big man. She always felt good when she was around him, and over the past few weeks she'd been gravitating toward him at every chance she got. There was something warm and wonderful, safe and secure about Steve Harper. For days now she'd been diddling with the idea of inviting him to her apartment for dinner, but so far she hadn't gotten up the nerve to actually ask him.

“How'd Cassidy do today?” he asked curiously. He asked every day, and paid careful attention to her response. Izzy belched loudly and then preened much the way the anchorman did. “Duly noted,” Steve said, rubbing the chimp's head.

“Is he really going to judge a ‘hot pants' contest?” Casey asked, trying not to giggle.

“It was his idea. He said his viewers need to see the . . . human side of him.” He guffawed then, so loud Izzy leaped into one of the banana trees, chittering a mile a minute. “It's a piece of fluff and the women will eat it up. We're giving him two minutes. Look, the guy can be a charmer. Personally I think he looks like he's embalmed, but women like his type of looks for some reason. As you must have noticed, we go by the sure thing around here. By the way, how'ya doing, Mary? Is it getting any easier? Is this place big enough for you? You don't mind Izzy, do you?” Steve asked anxiously.

Casey cut her cake in half. Someone was sharing her birthday, even if he didn't know it. “Fine. Yes. Yes. No.”

“Jeez, now I can't remember what I asked you. In other words, everything is okay?”

“Everything is fine, Steve. I hope you're satisfied with my work?”

“Satisfied! You work like a Trojan. I don't know what I did before you got here. Listen, are you busy for dinner? There's something I'd like to run by you. It's probably a cockamamie idea, but I like to think I hit on something good once in a while. Cassidy hates my ideas,” he said forlornly. “I'm just the boss around here.”

Busy for dinner? She thought about Campbell's soup and tuna sandwiches, her usual dinner. Tonight she'd planned on washing her hair and giving herself a manicure, the single girl's idea of a fun evening in New York City. “I'm not busy. I'd love to have dinner with you.”

“Great!” Steve said, smacking his huge hands together. “Let's leave from here. I won't keep you out too late, and I'll put you in a cab to go home. I know this great Mexican restaurant not far from the studio. They put beer in their chili. Meet me in the lobby at seven, okay?”

Casey nodded. She had a date. She smiled. “Okay.”

She was nice, Steve thought, but then he'd thought her nice the first day he'd met her. She was a hard worker, something he required in all his employees. Mary worked harder than most, and she was usually the last one to leave. She always tidied up and made sure Izzy was secure for the night. He hadn't realized until just a few days ago how much he had come to depend upon her. He made a mental note to drop Alan a note to thank him for sending such a fine person.

He'd wanted to ask Mary out for a long time, but every time he was about to approach her, he had changed his mind. There was something in her eyes, something he wasn't ready to deal with. It was stupid, he knew, but he felt Mary Ashley was nursing a broken heart, and he had his own bruised and battered heart to deal with. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to ask a woman out and then commiserate all evening about past loves.

He'd almost married Julia last spring, and he would have if she hadn't called it off at the eleventh hour. Julia had called him at three in the morning on their wedding day to tell him she'd decided she couldn't spend the rest of her life with a man who was so
totally
boring that she wanted to scream.
And,
she didn't want to have hairy children. Boring he could handle. Hairy children he couldn't.

The day of the wedding, he'd gone to a pet store and bought Izzy and had then driven to Julia's house. Like a fool he'd demanded his ring back and said a whole bunch of stupid, asinine, sophomoric things, all the while holding Izzy in his arms. She'd gasped and gargled and spit and snarled at him. Finally, she threw his ring in the bushes. Izzy found it and handed it to him. He'd looked at the chimp and said woefully, “You don't ever judge a book by its cover.” Julia was a jerk, and he was a jerk for going with her and tying up three long years of his life.

Since then he hadn't been able to get back into the dating pattern. Girls were and always had been a mystery to him. Mary Ashley seemed different. At least she hadn't turned him down for dinner. Of course it wasn't a
real
date, but more of a business meeting.

She liked Izzy too, and Izzy liked her. Right there was half the battle. He felt good until he caught sight of himself in one of the glass partitions. He was too big, too ugly, too . . .
hairy.
“Shit!” he said succinctly. Jesus Christ, it was just a business meeting and getting a bite to eat. If it was a
real
date, he'd take her someplace fancy like the Russian Tea Room, not some dumb Mexican restaurant where they put beer in the chili.

God, he hated working on Sundays. But news was news, and it didn't matter what day of the week it was. He had to remember to ask Mary how she felt about working on Sundays. He wasn't sure, but he thought she worked seven days a week just the way he did, the way they all did. Jesus, had he told her she was supposed to rotate her days, to take time off during the week? For the life of him, he couldn't remember. No damn wonder Julia what's-her-name had dumped him. What the hell kind of husband would he have made? He would never be home to see his hairy children, much less get to know them.

Steve sat down and reached for his eleventh cup of coffee. It tasted like the eleventh cup in the pot too. He grimaced and pushed it away.

“Matt, would it do any good for me to kick your ass right now? How many times do I have to tell you not to smirk on camera? You look like a real asshole when you do it. Your timing was off. Your tie was crooked, and your goddamn nose was shiny. I don't want to hear any of this crap about today being Sunday. You have a fucking contract, and it's all spelled out. And your voice wasn't serious enough when you reported on the Vietnam situation,” Steve exploded.

“No one watches Sunday noon news,” Cassidy whined. “They're either out to brunch or reading the Sunday paper. Every Sunday you pick on me, and I'm getting fed up with it.”

“Really,”
Harper said, leaning across the table. “Why don't we take a vote here and see if the others agree with my assessment of today's newscast. Am I on the money or not?” There was a chorus of ayes. Cassidy tried to shrink into his seat. “We're a team here. Just because you're in front of the camera means diddly to the rest of us. There are thousands of pretty faces out there who would kill for your job. This is the last time I'm telling you, Matt. Get with it. We do it my way, or I take my marbles and go home.”

“The ratings,” Matthew Cassidy bleated.

“Fuck the ratings,” Steve muttered. “So we fall off, lose some money until we build up a new face. You are expendable, Matt. You're too much of a prima donna. The papers are taking jabs at you, in case you haven't noticed. Now, let's get down to business. I have an idea . . .”

 

I
T WAS
A
cellar restaurant. It smelled delicious, Casey thought, as Steve helped her off with her coat.

In a voice that was as big as himself, Steve whispered, “The owner of this place looks like Pancho Villa. Great cook. It's small, but cozy. You can't beat the food, and they give you so much you can't eat it all. I come here every couple of weeks. It takes that long for my insides to heal after a meal.”

Casey sat down on a spindly chair at a table covered in red-checkered oilcloth. She giggled when Steve set the plastic rose covered with dust under the table. “What's that smell?” Casey asked.

“Frying chili peppers. Great, eh? Makes my mouth water . . . Two bottles of beer,” he called across the room to no one in particular.

A pretty waitress with an off-the-shoulder white blouse and a flowered skirt sashayed over to their table. Her skin was the color of honey, her teeth pearl-white, her eyes dark and inviting. “Ah, señor, you bring a guest . . . finally, to my father's restaurant. It is an honor for us. Is it some special event? My father says your newsman today looked like the back end of his grandfather's horse.” She laughed gaily, her white teeth showing off her bronzed skin to perfection.

“Tell your father he's right. No, this is not a special occasion, but while we're on the subject, when are you going to get engaged?” To Casey he whispered, “She takes liberties with our friendship. She's pretty, but no man would want her. She's too fresh.”