CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Al executed his morning routine as quickly as he could. Out of bed and straight into the shower. The daily struggle to tame his hair. Teeth, a shave with the electric razor, a nip from the bottle under the sink. Two drops of Visine in each eye to disguise the redness. He smiled at himself as he straightened his brightly-colored tie. His mouth obeyed, but his eyes did not. He knew he looked like he had it together: a man with all of his ducks in a row, not a worry in the world… but it wasn't the truth. The truth was that he was a man with a rapidly failing grip on reality. A man who had been up half the night trying to avoid the nightmares. A man who couldn't keep his hands steady, his heartbeat even, or his mind focused without a little help from a bottle.
'You're pathetic, Calavicci,' the cruel, nagging voice taunted.
The smile vanished from the mask in the mirror. Al ran a shaking hand over his head, accidentally rousing several curls from their careful conformation. He sighed softly and went for the vodka again. It was getting low. He'd have to find an excuse to go into town and stock up. Easier said than done, now that Max insisted on accompanying him on his weekly pilgrimages to visit Stevie. Funny: Al really had hoped she would learn to like the little guy as much as he did. Now it was turning out to be a nuisance.
Al sighed wearily, and tried the false smile again. It was good enough to fool anyone, he decided. He could make it through another day. Another day. Another season. Another year.
Whatever it took.
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Maxine paced the apartment. She had spent most of the evening in her office, working on Civics. At ten o'clock she had left, afraid that Al would return to the suite before she did and wonder what was going on. It was now almost midnight, and there was still no sign of him. He had been putting in even longer hours than usual the last few days—ever since he had awakened in a panic and tried to hide under the bed. Max really wanted to believe that he had had that nightmare simply because he was hungry, but she couldn't quite swallow the lie. He had been lost in a memory, a time when someone had hurt him—frightened him so badly that now, maybe decades later, he still couldn't cope with it.
She wished she didn't know what that felt like. She wondered what had happened to Al, but she knew better than to ask. Instead, she fretted about it, agonizing over it whenever she had too much time to think. Her mind kept going back to Congressman Davies, and his allegations of torture. She didn't want to believe that, either, but she was starting to wonder…
A more pressing issue, and one that she really did try to focus on, was her high school equivalency studies. She was finding it much more difficult than she had expected to. Civics was easy, and so was Biology. She loved History—always had. The complicated concepts of Math, Chemistry and Physics, however, had her so overwrought with frustration that already she was contemplating accepting defeat. Her lofty idea of getting help seemed much more difficult now that she actually needed it. How on earth was she supposed to walk up to Doctor Eleese, a woman with a diploma, a Bachelor's of Science, a Masters and two doctorates, and confess that she was having trouble with the contents of a book entitled Physics for High School Equivalency? It would be like telling Rona Rocket, the best jammer in the history of the roller derby, that you didn't know how to roller-skate! Max couldn't quite swallow her pride and do that.
If she didn't, though, she'd fail the exams and she'd never get a diploma. There had to be some way to get help without having to make the humiliating admission of why she wanted it.
The phone rang, and Max hurried to answer it. Al, probably. Maybe to apologize and tell her not to wait up. Maybe to ask her to come down and visit him. She caught up the receiver.
"Hello?"
Nothing but the intra-Project dial tone. Again, the phone rang, and Max realized that it was the outside line in the other corner of the room—the telephone that Al had told her she should never, ever touch. Of course, he had said that in the context of making calls only. He had never told her what she should do if it chance to ring.
Instinct was stronger than logic, and she moved to answer it.
"Hello?" she tried again.
"Hello?" It was a woman's voice, tense and wary. "Who is this?"
"Maxine," she replied, then realized that this probably didn't mean anything to the caller. Why was a strange woman phoning Al at midnight? "Maxine Calavicci," she said pointedly.
"Calavicci?" the woman said. For a single, horrible moment, Max thought that Al was having an affair, and that this was his mistress calling. This theory was dispelled when, instead of hanging up, the person on the other end of the line said, "I'm Sharon. Your predecessor. Is Al in, please?"
Max almost laughed. Her predecessor. Al's ex-wife, the forty-something who had taken him for all she could in the divorce, and then had the nerve to sue for custody of Al's dog—and win. "Uh, no, no, he's not," she managed. "He's not in right now."
"Where is he, then?" Sharon asked. There was a strange hint of stress in her voice, as if she were afraid of something. She probably hadn't expected anyone but Al to answer, Max thought unkindly as she tried to extrapolate an image of the woman from her voice. Short, she decided. A little dumpy. Probably dyed her hair. Al never talked much about her, but Max had met him in Jersey in the middle of the war over the dog, and she knew that Sharon had broken his heart. He loved Chester, the little Yorkshire terrier who was now living in Rhode Island with his ex-nephew, and Sharon had taken him away. For that, alone, Maxine was ready to resent this woman.
"I don't think that's any of your business," she said coolly. Celestina didn't like Sharon, either. She had said as much one Saturday when Al and Stevie had gone walking in the bluffs near the trailer park.
A bitter laugh sounded on the other end of the phone. "Relax, honey. I don't want him back," Sharon said. "Tell me where I can get ahold of him. Assuming you know."
Maxine stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"He doesn't go off without telling you where he's going?" Sharon asked meanly. "Did it to me all the time. He'd disappear for days, and come up with some lie about a breakthrough at the Project, or shoulder surgery…"
"Al wouldn't do that!" Max protested indignantly. "He wouldn't lie."
Sharon chuckled ruefully. "You've never caught him in a lie? Fibbing about what he ate, or how much he drank—"
"Al doesn't drink anymore," Maxine announced proudly. "He decided it wasn't good for his health."
"Oh, he did, did he?" Sharon asked, and Max though she could hear a little hint of sarcasm in the other woman's voice. "That's quite the makeover you've pulled. How long have you been together?"
"Almost five months," Max told her. "And we dated for a long time before."
"Can't have been that long, unless he was cheating on me with you," Sharon observed.
"Al never cheated on you!" Maxine said defensively. Because if Al hadn't cheated on Sharon, he certainly wouldn't cheat on her. "You're the one who ran off with a bricklayer!"
Another laugh. "I see he's told you all about me," said Sharon, and again there was a tint of cruelty in her words and Max felt her stomach wrench. "How is he?"
"Fine!" Maxine snapped. "Fine! We're very happy!"
"Are you?" Sharon whispered. "Are you really?"
"Of course!" Common sense told Maxine that she should hang up the phone and end this conversation right now, but she felt compelled to listen to whatever this other woman had to say.
"How're the nightmares?"
Max almost dropped the phone. "You… you know about those?"
Sharon laughed again, hollowly. "You think it's easy to sleep through thrashing and screaming?" she asked.
But then it wasn't something new. It wasn't a recent thing, for Al to have these dreams. That meant, Maxine realized abruptly, that maybe it wasn't her fault that the memories of whatever had damaged him so badly were coming back!
Her silence stretched out, and finally Sharon went on. "Does he still get up for a drink afterwards?" she asked. "Oh, that's right. He doesn't drink anymore."
"He doesn't!" Max cried. "Just a little wine sometimes when he makes pasta."
There was a pause on the other end. "How old are you?" Sharon asked.
"Twenty-two," Max said proudly, hoping spitefully that that made the other woman feel like the dried-up old witch that she was. Calling here, in the middle of the night, to call Al a liar, insinuate that he was sleeping around, make allegations about his drinking, and talk about the nightmares that he couldn't stand to deal with.
Instead, she heard a rueful chuckle. "Right," Sharon said. "When you're twenty-two you think you can fix the world. You don't want to believe that there are things so seriously screwed up that they can't be mended. Give him a kiss and a little hot sex and it all goes away. Right. Believe me, men like Al don't stop drinking overnight."
"Shut up!" Max said between clenched teeth. "Just shut up. I'm not the one who cheated on him. I'm not the one who divorced him. And I'm certainly not the one who took his dog away."
"You will," Sharon promised. She seemed to be taking some kind of perverse glee in the words. "Not take the dog, 'cause I doubt he bought another one. But you're going to cheat and you're going to divorce him. You'll see."
"No!" Max shouted. "No, I won't!"
"Sure," Sharon said. "I'll bet you love it when he spends half an hour in a cold shower. Or when he swears in his sleep. Scars aren't so sexy when he won't let you touch them."
"Stop it!" Max shrieked. "I love him!"
There was silence. She thought, maybe, that Sharon was satisfied and had hung up. She drew deep, bracing breaths, trying not to give into the emotions warring within her, and fighting not to believe the lies.
Then a low, defeated voice whispered another question in her ear. "Does he love you?"
Max slammed the receiver down. She stared at it, shuddering on its cradle. Then she ran into the bedroom and began to cry, sobbing so violently that her convulsions shook the mattress.
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Al pinched the bridge of his nose and took another snort of whiskey, trying fruitlessly to focus on the typewriter. Had to get a computer in here. Every department at the Project had computers, except Administration. Prysock loved his Smith-Corona, and Eulie was a whiz. Admiral MacArthur, Al's predecessor, had never been one for the bells and whistles of technology. But there was definitely something to be said about not having to type the same page six times just because you were overtired and kept hitting the wrong keys.
He glanced at the clock. Almost twelve-thirty. Maybe he should give it up for the night and go home. Except for the weekly inspection of the particle physics labs he hadn't left this room all day. The smile he had so carefully put on had carried him through his occasional brushes with his secretary, but there was almost no one else who had even seen him today. Make that yesterday, he corrected.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed. Yeah, he was dog tired. Time to go home. He didn't know if he'd be up to fun and games with Max, but at least they could curl around each other and he could feel the soothing presence of another body, maybe find a little peace. A little forgetfulness.
That was what the last fifteen years had been all about. Forgetfulness. Forgetting what Charlie had done to you yesterday, and what you knew he was going to do tomorrow. Forgetting how you'd thought the war would end in six months, tops, when you'd been in this damned jungle now for four years and counting. Forgetting Beth because you knew she was gone. Forgetting everything about your second wife because… because it was just easier that way. Forgetting the previous night's terrors, forgetting why you were in bed with some woman you hardly knew. Forgetting about the time you'd come home early and found Ruthie in the bedroom with Phenobarbital and a glass of your whiskey. Forgetting how much you loved Chester, forgetting the moment you'd opened the bedroom door to find Sharon shacked up with Juan Penja, forgetting how much stress you were under, the pressure the Committee was putting on you, the chance that Starbright might fold… forgetting… forgetting… forgetting…
An eternal quest for forgetfulness that somehow never succeeded. He couldn't forget anything.
'Except the Hungarian!' Al thought with a tiny, drunken titter. At least he'd managed to forget her. He sighed. What had she done to deserve to be forgotten, anyway? Probably nothing. He didn't know. He couldn't remember.He took another mouthful of liquor. Yeah, time to go to bed. Maxine. Maxine, Maxine, Maxine. He was determined not to forget about her.
The telephone rang. Al stared at it in horror. The outside line. Probably Les Davies, seized by a midnight need to reminisce. He toyed with the idea of letting it ring itself into oblivion, but he knew he shouldn't do that. If it was Les, and he didn't answer, the Congressman would try the suite, and he sure as hell didn't want that man talking to Max again.
"Calavicci," he said, then cleared his throat as he heard how badly his voice was slurring. "Calavicci."
"Al?"
The voice was timid, female… and because it was familiar he could tell that he wasn't the only one who had been at the sauce tonight. He straightened in his chair.
"Sharon?" he said gently.
A broken sob answered him as some sort of dam broke. His brow furled as concern suddenly coursed through him. Why was his ex-wife calling him at one in the morning? And crying.
"Sharon, what's wrong?"
