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Cassie
Dads and I do not mix. Never had one, didn’t want one, didn’t need one. Didn’t like them when they verbally abused my fourth-grade rec-league soccer refs, didn’t like when they got too drunk at quinceañeras, didn’t like how they rolled their eyes at my college friends’ majors from their La-Z-Boys.
Dads and I especially did not mix when I was running off no sleep, three bites of tikka masala, and a joint with my landlady. I rumbled down the main drag of Buda, gas tank low, past the mom-and-pop stores and trucks parked in front almost as big as the buildings themselves, fast food trash skittering near the curbs. I scanned the buildings for the red-and-white sign I’d seen on the website.
When I found it, I got out, ready to knock on the door and see Luke’s brother. A brother, I’d imagined, who would be a nicer version of Luke. A younger, jumpsuited guy looking like an ensemble member of Grease, with a cherubic toddler hanging on his pant leg, who’d usher me into an office with leather chairs next to a sorority girl wife with moist eyes. They’d all listen and tell me what to do.
Instead, the garage was closed. Back in five. If it’s an emergency I’m at Morts getting coffee, a handwritten sign had read.
So I waited. I waited for five, then five more. I called the number that had called me last night in hopes there would be an update on Luke’s condition, but I couldn’t get through. I gathered my dress and sat in the middle of a cement square bordered with weeds, watching the tricked-out cars pass at fifteen to twenty miles an hour. Mothers pushed kids in strollers, blowing smoke from their cigarettes away from their babies’ lungs as they complained into their phones about someone who had done them wrong. I sent a text to Toby, telling him sorry, and that I’d call him soon.
Then Luke’s dad came up the walk with a Styrofoam take-out coffee in hand. Legs up to the chest, triangle jaw, but with ghost-white hair and a stooped back. Unmistakable.
I thought about getting up and walking away. Luke had talked about his brother working for the garage, so I figured I’d see him first. I figured the dad would be puttering about in the back somewhere, running the books.
It occurred to me that Luke had given me his brother’s number. That Luke had told me to contact him first.
“How can I help, ma’am?” he asked, pulling out his keys. His hands were thick and strong with gray, wiry hairs.
How could he help?“Uh. Well.” I stood, brushing gravel. “So,” I began.
He pressed a lever to the side of the door, creaking open the wide garage.
“Is that your car?” he said, pointing to my Subaru in a long line of cars parked on the street.
I tilted my head. “How did you know that?”
“Buda’s a small town,” he said, turning around and striding toward my car.
“Sir,” I began again, following him. “Sir, I’m not here for car trouble.”
“Is that so?” he answered, unhooking the hood, propping it on its metal stand. “Then why are you waiting outside my garage?”
I recognized his casual stride from the way Luke walked back and forth through a room, as if no one were there, as if he were alone in the woods. But he meant no harm. He was aggressive without the anger. Just matter-of-fact, grabbing on to something he could play with, like a kid goes for a toy left out on the table.
I let him unscrew something or other, making contemplative noises to himself. And then I took a deep breath.
“Sir, I’m married to your son Luke,” I began.
He bolted upward, banging his head on the edge of the hood.
“Ma’am?” he said, holding a purple-veined arm to the back of his head, scowling.
“My name is Cassie Salazar and I’m your son’s wife and he’s been injured overseas.” It came out as three facts. Another great thing about not having a dad is not really being afraid of dads.
He dropped his hand and the how can I help you? demeanor, taking a step toward me. “Overseas as in serving in the military? Luke Morrow?”
I was suddenly aware of my tattoos and tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes. I put my hands on my hips. “Yes, sir. His kneecap was shattered by bullets in Afghanistan.”
For a second, he said nothing. I thought I saw his jaw twitch, but I couldn’t be sure. “Is he coming home?”
“Tomorrow.”
He looked back at the garage, void of customers, and pulled out an old brick-style Nokia cell phone, spitting on the ground. “That son of a bitch.”
