CHAPTER FIVE
Sunday was Chester's day.
During the week, Al didn't have much time to spare for his little guy, and on Saturdays Sharon usually monopolized his attention. On Sundays, however, the new Mrs. Calavicci drove to Phoenix to visit her father, and Al was free to spend the whole day with his dog.
Their routine never varied. After seeing Sharon off in the Van from the Sixth Dimension, Al would wash the dishes while Chester patrolled the house, securing the perimeter. These necessary chores complete, dog and Master would head out for a nice, invigorating walk around the trailer park, which was quiet as the grave at least until noon on Sundays. After that they'd make for the vacant field beyond the bluffs, where they could play fetch, or run, or lie in the sun.
When they tired of that, it was back home to eat—some kind of light lunch for Al and a dog-treat for Chester. Then a nap together on the sofa. Then they would go for a drive in the desert, Chester on Al's lap with his tiny forepaws on the edge of the 'Vette. After that it was time for Chester's bath, which Al had discovered the hard way could not be accomplished when Sharon was around. He didn't see what her problem was. Chester was a clean little guy—and in order for him to stay that way he needed regular baths. These couldn't be done in the shower, and the sink in the bathroom was far too small even for the dog's tiny body. That made the kitchen the best option. Besides, Al always took care to rinse the sink and wipe it and the counters down with bleach afterwards. He didn't want dog fur in his food, either!
After Chester's bath they'd settle in front of the television to watch whatever game happened to be on while Al brushed the dog's fur. Then a moonlight jog or a session of fetch in the tiny back yard rounded out the evening until Sharon came home, when Master's attention would be diverted again.
Today, though, they only got as far as heading back home for lunch. Coming back across the field past the bluffs, Al stopped when he heard a low-pitched sob followed by laughter. Chester, ever obedient, halted despite his lack of leash, and trotted back to stand near Al's shoes.
Another sob, vulgar and tortured, sounded out. Then Al heard the chanting, and his blood ran with fire.
"Cry-baby, cry-baby, monkey-face and cry-baby!"
"Sit," Al ordered Chester. With a look of imploring that would have melted his heart under any other circumstances, the terrier sat, doubtless bewildered by the fury in his master's voice. Al took two steps towards the knot of bushes and poplars.
"Cry, you stupid chimp! Cry!"
They were the voices of little boys, the most thoughtlessly cruel creatures on the planet. Al quickened his pace, forgetting the dog that he was leaving behind, forgetting that he was an adult who should be above such hot surges of wrath, forgetting everything but the spiteful voices and the broken sobs. The sounds were bitterly familiar, and that familiarity closed a fist of rage upon his heart.
In the clearing near the brook that ran through the bluffs a circle of boys from the trailer park were gathered, laughing and taunting. On his knees in their midst, small hands covering his face, was Stevie, sobbing desolately as the cruelty continued.
"Retard! Cry-baby!" a boy taunted. The others took up the chant again. "Cry-baby! Retard! Cry-baby!"
Al wasn't thinking. Afterwards he thanked whatever satyr looked out for disillusioned ex-astronauts that he didn't hit any of the little punks. He charged into their midst.
"Get the hell out of here!" he roared, swatting the air in a fit of uncontrollable choler. "Go on, get! You little brats, get the hell out of here and leave him alone! Leave him alone!"
He fell to his knees and gathered Stevie into his arms, dimly aware that the child wasn't the only one with tears of hurt and indignation streaming down his cheeks. Al hugged the little boy as tightly as he could, rocking him back and forth. Gradually they both calmed down, Stevie out of his desolation and Al out of his fury. The thumb somehow found its way back into the little boy's mouth, but Al left it, stroking the round little cheeks and brushing the tears away from each epicanthus, the characteristic fold on the inside of the eye that marked Stevie and all others like him. Branded them and left them open to the kind of ridicule this child had just suffered.
"I guess kids never change, huh, sport?" Al murmured softly. Stevie didn't answer. He just cuddled closer to the adult's chest. Al hugged him again and hid his grieving heart in the firmness of his next question. "Did they hurt you?"
"Yellin'," Stevie said in a tiny voice. "I not a cry-baby."
"Of course not," Al said fiercely. "You're one of the bravest people I know. They're just jealous."
Stevie made a snorting noise that Al initially thought heralded another bout of crying. Instead, the boy sat up, smiling broadly, and held out his hand. "Chethter!" he exclaimed, his hurt forgotten in the joy of the moment.
Sure enough, there was Chester, wagging his tail and lapping eagerly at Stevie's fingers. Al smiled, his heart eased by the perky little face and adoring black eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Chester and me were just headed home for some lunch. You want to come?"
Stevie looked up at Al with dark eyes that could've melted the polar glaciers. "Lunch?" he said. "Yeth, pleathe, Mithta Al! Yeth, pleathe!"
Grinning, Al got to his feet. He wished he could lift the boy onto his shoulders, but small though he was for his age Stevie was seven, almost eight, and far too heavy for the long-ago weakened sockets that would've had to bear his weight. Instead, Al picked up Chester.
"You wanna carry him?" he asked Stevie.
"Oh, yeth! I carry Chethter! Good boy!" Stevie cried, clapping his hands in excitement.
Al curled the short arms around the dog's tiny body. Chester stayed still like the well-behaved canine he was and let Stevie get a nice firm hold before licking the child's cheek. Stevie laughed, his eyes now dancing with delight.
They walked back to the trailer park together: the man and the little boy and the tiny dog. Inside the tiny kitchen of Al's trailer, Stevie sat on the floor putting Chester through his full repertoire of tricks while Al whipped up some tuna fish sandwiches. Focusing on the task at hand drove back some of the anger and the hurt. It didn't seem like so long ago that he was Stevie's age, bloodying his fists in squabbles with little snots like the ones he had chase away, thoughtless monsters calling Trudy the very same names Al had heard today.
With a little sigh, he set down two plates, a sandwich on each. He had cut his in half and Stevie's into triangular quarters. He poured a glass of milk for Stevie. For himself, a tumbler of gin. He needed something to settle his nerves and drive away the ghosts.
"Stevie?" Al said. "Lunch is ready!"
Stevie tried to climb onto the offered chair so quickly that his leg fell back and his face contorted with pain. Al scooped him up and seated him. Not even pausing for breath, Stevie fell upon the food, taking large, noisy bites.
Al grinned, momentarily entertained. Then it occurred to him that the child was eating with ravenous abandon. He sat down, bending so that he could look the boy in the eye.
"Stevie," he said; "didn't you have any breakfast?"
"No," Stevie said through a mouthful of bread and tuna. "No breakfatht. Thunday."
Of course. Celestina, devout Catholic that she was, observed the Eucharistic fast. Still, it wasn't like her to make her child go without.
"What about supper?" Al pressed. "Did you have any supper last night?"
Stevie shook his head.
"You didn't have an supper last night?" Al clarified.
Again, Stevie shook his head.
Most people would have interpreted this as a lapse in memory, or a lack of understanding. Al knew that Stevie was as truthful as he was selfless. He got to his feet.
"Stevie, I'm just going to go and see your mama," he said. "You stay here with Chester, okay?"
"Yup, yup," Stevie said, taking the milk in both hands and gulping it down.
Al left the trailer and strode as quickly as he could to the end of the street. The door to Celestina's trailer hung open, and he thumped once on the wall before opening the screen door and stepping inside.
She was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. As he entered she looked up with a gasp of fright that changed to an expression of profound worry.
"Esteban?" she cried. "He is hurt? He is lost?"
"No, no," Al soothed, taking one step forward to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He's at my place. I was coming home with Chester when I heard—when I bumped into Stevie. He's having lunch with me, but—"
Celestina slumped in her chair, and tears began to fall. "Gracias, señor," she breathed. "Gracias."
Al knelt down. "Celestina, what's wrong?" he asked gently, looking up into her eyes.
"Nothing," she tried. "There is nothing—"
He shook his head. "No, tell me what's wrong."
"I have lost the job," she said despairingly. "The job at the bakery. Now we have no job, no money, no bread. Poor little baby…"
She started to cry in earnest now. Al gathered her into his arms much as he had her son.
"You don't need to worry about money," he said. "Come on, Celestina, don't cry. Everything will be fine. You don't need to worry."
"I try—I try—" she stammered. "I go to dry cleaner's. Sign say 'help wanted'. But they give me form to fill out. How can I get a job if I do not read English so much? How do I feed my baby?"
Al looked at the table, where a job application form lay beneath a stubby pencil. In large block letters, Celestina had written her name and address, but the rest was blank.
"Okay," Al said. "Okay, I'll tell you what. You come over to my place and join Stevie and I for lunch. Then he can play with Chester and you and I can work on that form. Okay?"
She raised her head, wiping the liquid from her eyes. "Sí, sí, okay," she said. "Muchos gracias, Señor Calavicci. Usted es un ángel."
Al laughed. "Not likely," he said.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM"What is ref-er-rance?" Celestina asked, looking over Al's shoulder as he filled in the application.
He leaned towards her a little. "That's me," he said.
She frowned in confusion. "You?" she asked.
"Yeah," Al said. "See, a reference is somebody who knows you. Someone you've worked for. When a guy looks to hire you he wants to know how you've done on other jobs. Wants to get an idea of what kind of a worker you are."
"I a good worker," she said. "I work hard, always work hard."
"Yes, of course you do," Al said. "And that's exactly what I'll tell them when they call."
"But… but I have not worked for you," Celestina protested.
"Sure you have," Al said, starting in on his personal information. "I hired you to look after my dog for a whole week while I was gone on my honeymoon. Don't worry about it: I'll give 'em a reference you won't believe!"
"I… gracias, I think," Celestina said.
"Shucks, it's nothin'," Al told her. Having finished with his home number he added the outside line that fed to his office up at the Project—though strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to give that out to anyone.
"Gracias," Celestina repeated, getting to her feet.
"What're you doing?" Al asked.
"I clean the dishes," she told him.
Al laughed. "No, no," he said. "You're my guest, and—"
Celestina shook her head. "You feed me, feed Esteban, give food for tonight, money to buy more tomorrow. I clean the dishes."
Abruptly Al recognized the quiet pride in her eyes; the refusal to be treated as a charity case. He knew exactly how she felt.
"Okay," he said. "The soap's under the sink. I'll finish this up."
By the time Al had completed the application Celestina had long since dispensed with the dishes and wandered into the bedroom after Stevie. Al followed, stopping on the threshold at the sight before him.
Curled on top of the coverlet in a pool of sunlight was Chester, resting against Stevie's stomach as the little boy slumbered in his mother's arms. Celestina, too, was asleep, the lines of worry erased from her face.
As Al watched Chester raised his head, ears perked. Seeing his master, he got to his feet and hopped to the floor, trotting over and putting his forepaws on Al's calves and wagging his tail eagerly. Al bent a little to pet his head.
"C'mon, fella," he murmured. "Bath-time."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM
Al drifted towards consciousness. The dull roar of a Cougar was moving overhead. He turned his face so that the sun beat down upon it, shielding his eyes with his hand. A Cougar.
A key in the door. Lisa. He grinned. Lisa Sherman, his Amazon princess.
Then he heard Chester's bark of greeting and awoke with a start. Sharon!
The room was dark, and night had fallen, but in the glow of the television Al could see his wife making her way down the hallway, towards the bedroom. He scrambled to his feet.
"Sharon, hang on!" he hissed, trying desperately to sort out his thoughts and decide how to deal with this. She was going to misinterpret what was going on.
He caught up to her, and grabbed her elbow, but not before she switched on the light. Al stared in wide-eyed amazement, then laughed a little in sheer relief. Celestina must have left, not wanting to wake him. She had even straightened the bedclothes. There would be no need to defend his actions tonight. No cause for Sharon to be jealous.
She was, however, glaring at him suspiciously. "What?" she demanded.
Al grinned. "Welcome home," he said, improvising like a pro. "I was just going to take Chester for a walk in the moonlight, if you want to come."
"Ooh, a moonlit walk through Hooverville, how romantic," Sharon mocked.
"There are good people in Hooverville," Al told her. A walk past the Penjas' trailer would reassure him that everything was going to work out. "And it's still the same moon, here or on the Rue de la Paix."
Sharon laughed her rollicking laugh. "Who can resist a line like that?" she asked. "Just give me a minute to powder my nose."
She slipped away and into the bathroom. Al looked down at Chester, who had heard the word "walk" in close conjunction with his name, and had his nylon leash between his teeth, eyes bright with expectation and tail whipping madly from side to side.
"You know," Al said, listening to the sounds coming from behind the flimsy door and thin wall; "I don't think she's actually powdering her nose."
Chester's tail wagged all the harder.