CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"Where's Captain Calavicci?" Dan Penvenen demanded.

The pert young secretary sitting behind the desk looked up, her smile suddenly dissolving. "I'm not sure," she said.

Dan cast her a cold look. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"

"He didn't come in this morning," Ms. Pharris said. "He isn't usually in Friday mornings anymore."

"I've noticed that," Penvenen said. "Why?"

"He hasn't said," Eulalie told him. "I'm worried about him. I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong at home."

"You mean that the Captain is allowing his personal life to interfere with his duties?" Dan asked, moving towards the frosted glass window set in Calavicci's door.

"Oh, no, he's always on top of things," the woman said. "It's just… well, he seems to be pushing himself awfully hard."

"Not showing up until five at night most days, yes, I can see how hard he's pushing himself," Penvenen murmured. "I understand he wasn't in at all this week."

"He was out of state for medical reasons," Eulalie said.

This was news to Dan. "Was he?"

"That's what he said," Ms Pharris intoned. "He said he'd be gone until Thursday, and—"

"Thursday?"

"Yes…"

"Today is Friday."

"Yes, I… I realize that…" She looked flustered. Dan tried to pull back a bit. He was supposed to be an ally to the staff. If he started playing hardball with Calavicci's secretary he would alienate a potentially very valuable collaborator. He put on a friendly smile.

"I'm only concerned about how these absences are affecting your ability to do your job," he said, stroking the petals of the African violet on her desk. "It can't be very easy to work for a man who's never around."

"Well, I… Mr. Prysock's very capable, and Captain Calavicci is here on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Not this week."

She pursed her lips a little. "No," she admitted.

"I'm surprised that he didn't see fit to inform Human Resources of his absence," Dan observed. "Is he this chronically disorganized in other areas as well?"

"Not at all!" the secretary protested. "No, he's very efficient."

He was also, Dan reflected, absent without leave.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWWMMWMWMWWMWMWM

It had been a horrible week. On Tuesday Sharon had taken Celestina and Esteban up to the hospital to discuss the results of his latest series of tests. The doctor had been very friendly and optimistic, but the message rang through loud and clear despite her kind smile. Remission wasn't expected after only six weeks, and Esteban hadn't broken the rule. He would have to go back for another session starting in a fortnight.

Celestina was devastated. She had been so certain her baby would be cured by the medicines that had made him so sick. Sharon had tried to explain that there was still a very good chance that he would get better, but that it was going to take a while, that was all. The younger woman said all the right things about how she understood that the doctors would help, and how it was God's will, and how thankful she was for all that had already been done, but Sharon could tell that the news had dealt a grievous blow to her confidence, and perhaps even to her faith.

Esteban didn't know the difference. Al would have argued the point, but Sharon knew better. He was a sweet little boy, but he was hardly more than an overgrown baby, and he had no perception of his situation. Illness or wellness was to him a daily concern, even hourly. When he felt sick, the world was ending. If five minutes later the nausea or the pain was gone, he was as happy and optimistic as it was possible to be. At least he wasn't dreading the resumption of therapy. When Doctor Ananda told him he would have to come back, he had just said how much he loved "Jeth" and how "Mithta Al" would bring him to get his medicine. He didn't seem to make any connection between the treatments and his rapid deterioration this spring.

It was going to break Al's heart when he found out the child was still sick. Sharon knew that he was expecting the worst and preparing himself for the boy of whom he was so fond to wither and die. Still, she suspected he harbored a secret hope that he would pull through and that the miracle of modern medicine wouldn't disappoint. It would be hard on him to hear the news, and even harder to continue the grueling pace he had set for himself.

Added to these anxieties, now, was the fact that her husband was twenty-four hours overdo.

By now, Sharon was worried sick. Al had said he would be back from his Navy physical on Thursday night. It was now Friday evening, and there was no sign of him. No phone call, nothing. He could be lying dead in the mountains for all she knew, having been run off the road, unable to compensate with his injured arm!

She had tried, fruitlessly, to remember where he had gone. San Francisco or San Diego? She couldn't even remember whether it was a hospital or a clinic. And of course, being the thoughtless, absent-minded idiot that he was, he hadn't left her a number or any way to reach him. So here she'd sat at home all weekend, hovering near the phone for fear the state police would call and have her come and identify his body.

The one pleasant aspect of the week had, surprisingly, been Juan Penja. The muscular Mexican wasn't at all the burdensome houseguest she had expected him to be. Over the last few weeks she had hardly even noticed his presence. He ate at Celestina's, worked all day, and came in around eleven at night to turn in on their sofa. Since Al had departed for California (Where in California? If only she could remember where!), though, he'd been around more, keeping her company. He'd even stayed for supper yesterday. Sharon had been feeling very lonely and depressed, and had really hoped Al would come home before Juan headed off to sleep, so that she wouldn't have to be the one to break the news about Esteban. Al, of course, hadn't shown, but the unwanted houseguest made wonderful company. He was funny and charming, and he seemed to have a never-ending stream of compliments for her. It was just the kind of attention she needed to distract her from the intolerable weight of worry, and if she had paused to think about it, she would have realized how eager she was for him to come back from the building site.

The phone rang, and Sharon fairly dived for it. "Hello?" she cried.

"Captain Calavicci, please," said the voice on the other end. It belonged to a cool, businesslike male.

Sharon scowled. Not only was the voice not Al's, but the question twisted the knife in the wound of her anxiety. "He's not here," She said coldly. "Who's calling?"

"Daniel Penvenen," the man on the other end of the line informed her. "I work with the captain. When are you expecting him home?"

In her present state, almost frantic and imagining thousands of horrible reasons why Al hadn't returned, that query was too much for Sharon to bear. "Your guess is as good as mine!" she cried, slamming down the receiver. Tears of anger and anxiety burned in her eyes. Where was he? Why hadn't he called?

The thought invaded her mind that he was out with another woman. A younger woman. A thinner, more beautiful woman. One who didn't leave her clothes lying around or abandon dishes unwashed in the sink. One he'd never seen coloring her hair, or cleaning up the dog drips in the backyard, or holding a mixing bowl for a kid to puke into. A woman with long, shapely legs and a fancy car. One who didn't hang around the house in a paint smock and sweat pants. A woman who wasn't Sharon Quinn.

The thought of Al sleeping around was horrible. Who was he to say she wasn't good enough? A litany of his many faults began to percolate.

"Mrs Calavicci?"

Sharon whirled around. Juan was just coming into the house. He smiled, but his expression grew grave when he saw her face.

"Something wrong?" he asked, kicking off his dusty work boots and leaving them outside, next to the cinderblock stoop. He came into the kitchen in stocking feet.

"No, Juan," Sharon said. "No. Nothing's wrong."

"But you're worried," he said. " 'Cause Al's not back."

"A little," Sharon said. She tried to sound casual, but failed miserably as her voice broke.

"He's okay," Juan said. "Those guys at the hospital probably had to do stuff for his shoulder."

It was a chance to let go of some of the doubt and anxiety that was gnawing away at her soul. Sharon let her worries bubble up to the surface. "But why didn't he call? Why didn't he let me know?" she fretted, gesticulating wildly. "Where is he? What's happened? Who is he with? Is he okay?"

Her hands flew wildly, groping in much the way that Al's were wont to do, as if they could communicate frustrations that her throat couldn't articulate. Juan watched them while she spoke, then reached out and caught her wrists with his fingers. His hold was strangely delicate, at odds with the size of his muscular appendages. He cradled her hands gently and looked deep into her eyes. "Don't worry," he said, his voice low and resounding and amazingly reassuring.

Sharon couldn't stand it. The unrelenting worry—about Dad, about Esteban, and now about Al—was too much. She had been on red alert for too long. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't handle it. She was tired of fretting alone. She was tired of trying to be strong for everybody, trying to bear everyone's problems. She couldn't stand the endless anxiety, never sure if Daddy was going to hurt himself, wondering whether that poor little kid would catch a cold in that unheated trailer and die in agony, asking herself whether Al was roadkill in the mountains, or shacking up in the arms of another woman, or God only knew what! She didn't want her life to be like this. She hadn't had a worry-free night in ages. She didn't have any help. She didn't have any support. She wanted someone to look out for her, for once, instead of always having to be there for everyone else! She wanted a big shoulder to cry on.

And here he was, ready-made. With a little sob, Sharon fell forward and Juan wrapped his strong arms around her. He held her while the tears came, and she buried her face against his chest. His hands patted her back and stroked her hair.

"I can't keep going on like this!" Sharon sobbed, finally vocalizing the cumulative pain of months—no, of years. It had begun when Daddy first started to get sick, even before Mom died. She couldn't stand it anymore. "What am I supposed to do with him? What am I supposed to do with that man?"

"Ssh, it's okay," Juan murmured, massaging her neck gently. "It's okay."

"It's not!" Sharon protested, shuddering with the force of her weeping and laying her head against his shoulder. She inhaled deeply and took comfort in the musky smell of sweat and sunshine. "It's not okay! You don't understand!"

"Tell me," Juan offered kindly.

Why the hell not? She had to get this off her chest. She just couldn't stand it anymore. She had to talk to someone! "He's impossible!" she cried. "He thinks he's fine, but he isn't! He's not okay! He has these nightmares… these terrible nightmares… and he can't get to sleep without a drink! He doesn't eat, and he's never home, and he wouldn't even have got to see a doctor about that shoulder that's killing him, if the Navy hadn't made him do it!"

Her sobs redoubled. He wasn't taking care of himself, and nothing she could say or do would make him start. He would end up just like Dad, weak and confused and sick. His mind was going already: you could tell just from the dreams. She couldn't cope, not with another one!

Juan wrapped his arms tightly around her and led her into the living room, where he seated them both on the sofa, still holding her. Sharon curled her legs up underneath her body and laid her head on the man's broad chest while he petted her back. She continued her agonized soliloquy.

"He tries so hard," she said. "He tries so hard to do everything for everybody. He looks after Esteban, watches out for Celestina… and you… and the secret project. He's good to Dad and I know he sent Luke a birthday present, and he writes to his last wife to make sure she's okay. But he doesn't even think about himself. All he does is work, and go to the hospital, and work and work and work. And he's spending so much money, and we're running out, and I don't know what to do! I just don't know what to do anymore!"

"Have you tried talking to Al about it?" Juan asked gently, adjusting his hold a little and stroking her cheek.

"What good would that do?" Sharon wailed. "He doesn't listen! He never listens! He doesn't give a damn about what I think, and—"

The telephone rang, ripping the air apart. With a little cry, Sharon sprung to her feet and flew into the kitchen, snatching the receiver from the wall. "Hello!" she shrieked.

"Ow!" a familiar voice barked. Then it continued, irate and hollow as if the speaker was holding the phone at arm's length and shouting into it. "You mind turning that squeeze-box of yours down a little?" he demanded.

"Al!" Sharon exclaimed. "God—where have you been? Why the hell haven't you called? What's wrong? Do I have to—"

He laughed. It was an infuriating sound. "Why, Sharon," he said; "I didn't know you cared!"

"You lousy b—" Out of the corner of her eye, Sharon caught sight of Juan watching her. For some reason, she didn't want to use bad language in front of him, despite the fact that Al deserved it. "Where are you?" she said instead.

"Still at the hospital," Al said. "They put me in for surgery last nig—"

"Surgery?" she exclaimed in dismay.

"The shoulder, remember?" Al said.

God, she had almost forgotten! "What's wrong with it?" she asked. The truncated banter was soothing her nerves a little.

"Nothing now, I hope," he said. "Otherwise I'm suing these quacks for malfeasance."

"You mean malpractice," Sharon said. "Malfeasance is something you charge cops with."

"Whatever," Al said. "Anyway, it was some kind of muscle thing. They think they've fixed it, but they aren't going to let me out of here until Monday, and they're going to farm me out to the orthopedist in town for monitoring."

"You make it sound serious," she said.

"Naw!" Al told her. "I just won't be doing any cartwheels for a while. How's my little guy?"

Sharon's throat closed. She couldn't tell him about Esteban like this, not over the phone.

"Well? Can I talk to him?" Al said.

"Talk to… no, he's not here," Sharon said, confused.

"Not there?" Al cried. "I'm gone for five days and you lose the dog?"

He meant Chester! Sharon had to restrain herself before she laughed in relief. "No, of course not," she said. "I mean he's in the bedroom. Just a second." She whistled for the dog. "Chester! Chester, come and talk to Daddy!"

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not his daddy?" Al asked. Sharon was irritated by the playful lilt to his voice. Where did he get off being so happy, when she had been worried sick?

"Here he is," she snapped, lowering the receiver. Chester stared at it, puzzled, and then began to lick the mouthpiece.

Al must have said something, because the dog barked, his feathery little tail whipping from side to side. As Sharon lifted the phone back up, wiping Yorkie spit off of it with her sleeve, she caught a delighted, "Attaboy!"

"Someone named Daniel phoned here looking for you," she said coolly.

"Who?" Al said blankly.

"Daniel."

"I don't know any Daniel," said Al. "You sure it wasn't a wrong number?"

What did he think she was, stupid? "How many wrong numbers can pronounce Calavicci? He said he works with you."

"Daniel…" Al muttered. "He give you a last name?"

"Nevin or Pendragon or something stupid like that," Sharon said.

"Oh, Penvenen!" Al exclaimed, laughing. "That's just Human Resources. They probably want to repaint the mess hall or something. If Prysock can't deal with it I'll take care of it when I get back."

"Which is when?" Sharon asked.

"I'll be home Monday, I told you—did I tell you?"

There was something strange about his voice. "Are you drunk?" Sharon asked in disbelief. What kind of hospital was this?

Al chortled. "No such luck, babe," he said. "They've got me on some meds for the shoulder, and I think they're making me a little loopy. G'night."

"Hey, wait—" she exclaimed, but he had already hung up. Sharon glowered. Not only had she neglected to ask him which hospital he was at, he hadn't even apologized for forgetting to call!

She stormed into the living room, having forgotten Juan's presence entirely. She almost jumped when he said, "So he's okay?"

"Oh, fine!" she snarled. "Fine. Went in for surgery and didn't even tell me! You see what I mean?"

"He's a good man," Juan said mildly.

"And a terrible husband!" Sharon cried, flinging herself down on the sofa and leaning against him. "I don't know what I'm going to do!"

Juan put his arms around her again. "Don't worry," he said. "You have to learn not to worry."

"Oh, I suppose you never worry?" Sharon said.

"Never," he told her. "I have my wagon, and I go around wherever I want. The States. Mexico. I even went up to Alberta once. I don't need to worry about money. I don't need to worry about work. I take things the way they come. It's a good life."

"What about Esteban?" queried Sharon.

"What about him?"

"Don't you worry about Esteban?" It seemed like the little boy was at the top of everyone's worry list.

"No," Juan said. "No. If he gets better, that's good. If he doesn't he'll go straight to Heaven and the Madonna will sit him on her lap."

Sharon was momentarily silenced by this image. She had never been really close to her faith. It was just something she'd inherited from her father and taken for granted. She supposed she was a "lapsed" Catholic, whatever that meant. Certainly she didn't go to Mass with any regularity. Yet Al's lack of faith had always troubled her. And Juan's abundance of it was strangely attractive.

Almost as attractive, she reflected with a naughty thrill of delight, as his large and muscular body, long curling dark hair, and sloe-black eyes.