“Hey,” she said, going to the sink, grabbing a couple of sheets of paper towel, wetting them, wiping down her face and neck.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “Good run?”
“Pretty good.”
“Hunh,” he said, raising his coffee mug. “Saw the mail on the dining room table. Looks like it’s not sorted yet.”
Heart thumped again. “I’ll... I’ll get right to it.”
He stayed silent, but she felt the tension in the air, a faint crackling, like a far-off thunderstorm was heading this way. She strolled out to the living room, saw the pile of mail, berated herself for not having sorted it before the run. Something easy to do, just a minute or two, and then Casey wouldn’t have gotten angry, Casey wouldn’t be in a bad mood, Casey wouldn’t be tempted to raise his fist.
Catalogue, catalogue, PSNH bill, flyer advertising used cars, and another flyer, and—
This one, a light blue.
Something she had never seen before.
From the Have a Seat diner.
BLUE PLATE SPECIAL, it announced on top.
Then it listed its times of operation, some menu items, breakfast and lunch, and on the bottom, in bold: HUSBANDS EAT FOR FREE IF THIS FLYER PRESENTED.
Her heart started thumping hard again. She reread the flyer, to make sure.
Could it be?
But hadn’t he turned her down?
Looked at the flyer again.
Hold on. He had said something else... something else that day.
What had it been?
“Hey, hon!” she called out, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling. “Be there in a sec. Want to check something in my office.”
Casey grumbled something back and now she was in her office, going through the notebook. That last thing he had said. What had it been?
Pages flipping; fingers shaking.
Hoping Casey would stay in the kitchen.
There.
“We happy few do more than what you think.”
That’s what he had said.
What did he mean by that?
Her computer was up and after a few minutes of Internet searching, she sat back in the chair, arms hugging tight against her chest. She had found an obscure article about the CIA and its special field agents, the ones who killed people, and one team member — speaking anonymously, of course — had quoted Shakespeare’s famous lines in Henry V, about “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.” The CIA operative had said that we happy few do more than what you think. We observe. We learn. We do reconnaissance. We don’t go off half-cocked, and we don’t target someone unless he deserves it.
“We happy few do more than what you think.”
She hugged herself even tighter. The unlocked doors that should have been locked. The odd bits of trash in the corner of the house. The odd feeling that she was being watched. Someone had been in her house while she was out. Someone had set something up here, some sort of surveillance equipment, for Jason—
Was careful. Was cautious. Wasn’t going to do anything based on one meeting with one battered wife. He was going to do reconnaissance. Was going to find out for himself.
Tears formed in her eyes. She wiped them away.
Got up.
Went to the dining room table.
Picked up the flyer.
Waited for just a second before going into the kitchen.
Casey was there. She said, “Mail’s been sorted, Casey. And look.”
She passed over the flyer. He looked at it, grunted, handed it back.
She took a breath. “How about lunch today? Do you have plans?”
He rubbed at his chin. “Client meeting at two. Other than that... you sure? Lunch at some greasy diner?”
She gave her husband her best, most engaging smile. “Why not? It’d be fun. And it’s a free meal.”
Casey looked at her. She looked back at him, suddenly feeling despair at the thought that he might be looking straight through her, reading her, figuring out what she was doing, and—
He shrugged. “Why not. You sure you want to do this?”
She nodded, smiling, suddenly feeling as light as air. “Absolutely.”
© 2008 by Brendan DuBois