CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stevie was discharged as promised on the evening of the thirtieth, ferried home like a triumphant prince in the Corvette. He sat on Celestina's lap, clutching his stuffed Chester in his hands and laughing as the wind ruffled his hair. Sharon and Juan followed in the station wagon. All five of them went to the Calaviccis' trailer for a spaghetti supper, which the adults relished while Stevie ate as quickly as possible before running off to play with Chester and introduce him to his plush doppelganger. Celestina fairly glowed with delight as she watched her child display more energy than he had had in months.
"See!" she exclaimed, again and again. "He is well! He is healed! The doctors have made him well!"
Al wanted to believe the same thing. Wouldn't it be nice if Stevie's chronic weariness had been no more than a symptom of an inflamed appendix? From everything Al had ever heard, though, appendicitis was a rapid illness: appearing suddenly, climaxing quickly and healing almost immediately after surgery. It didn't make sense that it would have kept Stevie tired and lethargic for months before necessitating hospitalization.
That he had been sent home had to be a good sign, though. Surely if anything had turned up seriously wrong in the tests, they wouldn't have let the boy go. Still, Al couldn't help seeing the thinness of the little body and the unusually wan quality of the round cheeks. The words power of attorney kept playing themselves in his mind, eating away at his confidence that, after all, the child was probably fine.
When the meal was done and the women had done the dishes—Celestina insisted on helping and Sharon, not to be outdone, had granted Al (not about to discourage any signs of domestication) what she called "Chef's Amnesty"—the party moved into the little back yard. Stevie and Chester played fetch while the adults observed from plastic-and-aluminum lawn chairs. Al offered Juan a cigar, which was graciously accepted. Somewhere on the far side of the trailer park, some teenager was hosting a rave, and the distant but still heavy bass rhythms of King Thunder provided an interesting ambiance.
Al took the opportunity, now that nothing important needed saying, to ply his Spanish on Celestina while Sharon and Juan laughed over their own frivolous small talk. Presently Stevie came toddling up to Al, his hands full of pebbles gleaned from the pitiful lawn. Al drew the boy onto his lap and admired the simple treasures with the grave intent of one who knew first hand what value such things had to a child not inundated with the lavish toys most took for granted. The patio lamp—a glorified title for the bare bulb affixed to the back of the Calaviccis' trailer—illuminated the simple scene.
After a few minutes of talking, Stevie's contented eulogy faded and died away as he curled into Al's lap and fell asleep with his head pillowed on the adult's chest. Sharon went into the house and returned with the afghan, which she draped around the child. After half an hour more, Celestina rose and said goodnight. Juan carried Stevie as the small family processed back towards their own humble shelter. Al stood on the sidewalk, his arms around Sharon and his chin resting on her shoulder as he watched them depart.
Sharon let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God that that's over," she said, pirouetting in Al's arms and twining her fingers in his short hair. "Poor little guy."
"Not such a monster after all?" Al said.
"All little boys are monsters, Calavicci," Sharon said firmly. "I'll bet even you were, and don't even try to deny it!"
"Deny it?" Al laughed. "I was a curly-haired demon from the seventh circle of Hell! Did I ever tell you about the time I ran off and joined the circus?"
Sharon laughed. "Nice try," she said. "No one really runs off to join the circus."
"I did," Al told her.
"Did not!"
"I did so!"
"You did not!"
"I did!" he argued with indignation. "How do you think I became such a gifted animal trainer?"
Sharon guffawed. "So now you're an animal trainer?"
"Sure! I've taught Chester all kinds of tricks!" Al bragged.
Bickering amicably, they went back inside, shutting out the desert night.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMWMMWAl had no idea how he managed it, but by noon the next day he was able to pick himself up from his desk and sit down at Eulalie's vacant one. There, he faxed two hundred and seventy-nine pages to Washington. A quick phone call confirmed that the report had arrived in its entirety, and then Al was able to head home for a well-earned nap.
Having celebrated Christmas with his friends, Sharon was adamant that Al should ring in the new year with hers. Al didn't especially like the idea of squandering one of the premier party nights of the year in the company of aging painters and defunct musicians, but Sharon had made plenty of compromises this month. After all, fair was fair.
Therefore, he allowed himself the luxury of donning some of his most bizarre and colorful clothes. Over the Navy-issue undergarments, which were infinitely more comfortable than the gimmicky numbers his wife had given him for Christmas, he put on a pair of lemon-colored dress pants and the wilder of his two new shirts. A gloriously black necktie and a silver belt with matching suspenders accented the ensemble nicely. Since Sharon assured him this wasn't a suit kind of affair, he opted to forgo vest and jacket. A man's shoes should match his belt, which meant buffing up the chrome-colored disco twisters. His favorite topaz cufflinks provided the finishing touch.
He fingered the jeweled roses adorning each disc pensively, sparing a thought for the woman who had given them to him. Two years ago he'd been heading to a party in Manhattan, accompanied by his then-not-yet third wife Ruthie. Long dark hair, an enormous family, silk slips, and incredible gift in the kitchen, and moods as unpredictable as the winds in the Sea of Japan. Ruthie, Ruthie.
Al chuckled to himself and looked at Chester, who was watching him from the bed.
"Sometimes I miss her, you know," he confided. "Ruthie, she was a good kid. Makes great gefilte fish. And hair right down her back…"
"Who's got a hairy back?" Sharon asked, coming around the corner from the bathroom.
Al whistled softly. "Not you," he said. "You got a hair anywhere on that beautiful body of yours?"
Sharon was wearing one of the slinkiest dresses Al had ever seen. It showed more than it covered, and clung so tightly to what it did conceal that it left almost nothing to the imagination. In fact, it bordered on indecent. Maybe this evening wasn't going to be the drag Al took it for after all.
"Oh, one or two," she said sweetly, tossing her head so that her teased curls flew madly about. "You like it?"
"I hate it!" Al cried. "Way too many men are going to see way too much of you!"
"Not the parts you've seen," Sharon promised. "And at the end of the day that's all that matters, isn't it?"
MWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMThat seemed to be the general atitude in the upscale split-level where the gathering was hosted. Al had never seen so many adults acting like a bunch of oversexed teens. Being an oversexed teen at heart himself, he loved every minute of it. The music shook the very foundations of the building, the men were friendly, the women were very friendly, and there was food and drink enough to supply a small ocean liner. It wasn't at all what Al had expected as he bobbed and gyrated with Sharon's acquaintances, getting closer than it was politic to get with the staff at Starbright. Meanwhile his underdressed wife was getting very comfortable with a wide assortment of men. The rule seemed to be that the party could continue with as much intimacy as consenting parties wanted, as long as no actual adultery took place. Since Sharon seemed comfortable with it, Al let himself relax and enjoy the kind of party he hadn't had had since getting hitched again.
Nothing about the early part of the evening served to prepare him for the fight.
At midnight, everyone grabbed the nearest person (in some cases of the same gender; an idiosyncrasy Al tried against his every instinct to overlook) and gave them a deep, passionate, involved kiss—the kind of kiss you could only give a total stranger, and only after a night of very, very heavy drinking. Al's partner for this particular event happened to be a tiny, sylph-like seminude girl who was at the extreme youthful end of the age spectrum. He tilted her backwards as they kissed, and his lips and tongue gained additional force as her weight sent pain spidaring out of his left shoulder. Then suddenly she was yanked out of his arms and he was looking up into Sharon's flushed, drunken and livid face.
"What the hell are you doing?" she roared, slapping him full across the face.
Al stared at her stupidly. "Kissing—"
"Bastard!" she cried, and again his head jerked to the side. "You slimy, lecherous bastard!"
"Me?" Al bellowed indignantly. "I wasn't doing anything you weren't d—"
"You stupid man! She's half your age!"
"No, sugar," Al said meanly. "I'd say she's more like half your age!"
The girl in question was in the arms of another man now, and the drunken revelers continued oblivious to the row brewing in the middle of the room. Sharon let out a ululation of inarticulate rage and swung at him with a fist. Al ducked, and the blow went wild. Sharon struck a man in the back of the head. He roared like a musk ox and spun around, sending his partner careening into the table full of snacks. She snatched up a tray full of hors d'oeuvres and flung them at him.
Within seconds the whole room was embroiled in an altercation, part food fight, part pillow fight, and part barroom brawl. Laughter, shouts of anger, and the occasional indecent remark rang out. In the end the room was full of exhausted, inebriated and adults who, one by one, picked themselves up and found their way home.
Al was too drunk to drive, but Sharon was drunker. He practically had to drag her down the walk and fold her into the Corvette. He sat in the cold, dry desert night, rubbing his face with his hands and trying to sober up enough to make the wheel stop fluctuating. He came away with fingers smeared with whipping cream and salsa, and spared a thought of pity for the owners of the house. Sharon was now asleep, snoring quietly, her makeup running and her bosom adorned with an assortment of sticky foodstuffs. Al grinned goofily. He loved a good food fight, and that had been a good food fight!
Finally he had enough control over his vision to find and turn the key, and the Corvette peeled away. They hadn't gone more than four blocks, however, before the road started dancing in a very unsettling manner. Al found a parking lot full of blurry neon lights, and parked in an out-of-the-way corner. Telling himself that he was just going to lie back for a couple of minutes until he sobered up a little, he reclined his seat and drifted off to sleep, his arm snaking over Sharon's torso.
MWWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMAfter waking up shivering in the predawn darkness on the first day of 1982 to find himself in a parking lot under a sign proclaiming the presence of "Bob's Discount Pizzeria and Shoe Emporium", Al found the rest of the week to be unusually normal. Though worries about Stevie and the inevitable day of reckoning when his test results would be revealed ate at the back of his mind, he filled his days with work and his nights with Sharon. Then came the endless packing, the necessaries of preparing dress blues for transport, the polishing of boots, the trip to the stylist to lop off the excess curls, and finally the passionate—the very passionate farewell on the morning of his departure.
Captain Calavicci was bound for Washington, there to sing for his supper.