CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Maxine had never visited the District of Columbia before. This revelation had scandalized Al to no end.

"You've lived in half the states in the Union!" he had exclaimed. "You've never been to Washington?"

That had settled the matter. Paperwork was set in motion by Dan Penvenen, requisition forms were filed, the pilot of the little four-seater in which they would fly out was informed, and bags were packed. Mrs Calavicci was going to visit the Capitol.

The fog was thick when they touched down on a Pentagon tarmac. Two Naval Petty Officers were waiting with a car when they arrived, and they were whisked off to a luxury hotel within walking distance of the National Mall. Maxine wanted to explore the city, but Al had to get his papers in order for the morning's funding hearings. She spent most of the next day in the hotel's pool with its en suite gym. The day after that was Saturday, and the Committee had the weekend off. There was, however, no rest for the wicked.

By the time Maxine awoke, Al was already bent over some other file, his shoulders rounded with unmistakable habit: he was used to stooping. Maxine cleared her throat. He didn't even move, much less turn or speak to her. Pursing her lips a little, Maxine wriggled out of bed and moved into the luxurious bathroom. She fixed herself a hot tub and luxuriated in the water, wiggling her toes against the faucet as she thought about the last few weeks.

Christmas had been largely a nonevent in the Calavicci household. Al had spent most of the holiday sequestered in his office doing exactly what he was doing now. He had emerged once in a while with red eyes and an unsteady gait. After organizing a dance, a special lunch and a couple of caroling events in the week leading up to Christmas, Maxine had had very little to do in the week before New Year's. Opting to take a break from her studies, she had used the free time to work on her cooking, and to practice her skating. The former garnered little comment from Al, who when he ate at all these days did so with a strange, almost mechanical, indifference. The latter was decidedly more difficult without her husband to spot for her, and Maxine had the bruises to prove it.

All things considered, it had been a good holiday. The last ten years had taught Max to expect little of Christmas. A yuletide free from seasonal hangovers, pot headaches, squabbling neighbors and constant fretting about the January bills and how on earth she was going to pay the next month's rent were the only things she had hoped for. For all his aloofness and his obsessive dedication to his work, Al had delivered all of that. He had also furnished her with an assortment of pretty presents: a spandex cover for her roller-skating helmet, the latest Star Trek novel, a box of costly French truffles, a little plastic Chewbacca figurine, and a ruby-studded tennis bracelet that Al probably couldn't quite afford.

With lodging and utilities provided by the Project, Max couldn't see where all the money went, but Al didn't have nearly as much disposable income as she did. His account always hovered near empty, and every month there were deductions. Eight hundred went to his second wife, four hundred and fifty to Sharon. He always tried to send a check to Ruthie, which Maxine really didn't understand. Then there were the never-ending payments onto his VISA card, which Max had hardly ever seen him use. How he had acquired a debt load like the one he was carrying, she simply could not imagine, but as long as he was handling it, it was really none of her business. She herself had more extra cash now than she had ever had, and she was more than happy to pay for the groceries and keep the Buick supplied with fuel—virtually their only living expenses.

She smirked a little, wryly, and slid back so that the water covered her lips. A slow exhale produced a lively crop of bubbles above her breastbone. Even in the newfound security born of her government paycheck, she just couldn't get through January without wondering about money. Old habits…

Al didn't look up from the table that was serving as a desk, even when Maxine closed thee bathroom door with a pointed bang. He was showing all the signs of spending the balance of the day with his folios and budget summaries. Max dressed quickly in a pair of skin-tight blue jeans and her lime green sweater, the one with the fancy cable knit. She loved it, but hadn't had much occasion to wear it in Arizona. The necessity of finding coordinating jewelry brought her close to Al. He didn't seem to notice her as she slipped electric-blue hoops into her ears and fastened a string of chunky beads about her throat. She put on her shoes and dug out her coat, and still he didn't look up. She had her hand on the doorknob when he turned in his chair.

"Are you ready?" he asked abruptly.

Max balked a little in sheer surprise. "Ready?" she echoed.

"We're going shopping," Al said, throwing down his pen and going for his leather jacket.

"Why?" Max queried, now beyond confused. He was changing gears too quickly: she had been resigned to a day of exploring the National Mall, wandering from monument to monument by herself. Now Al wanted to go shopping instead?

"Reception tonight," he said obliquely. At her blank look he paused to elucidate. "I've got my dress blues—gives the civilians something to gawk at—but you don't have anything appropriate. You need an evening gown.

She laughed. "For one night? Al, that's silly…"

"Of course it's silly," he said, hustling her unceremoniously into the corridor and locking the door behind them as if he were afraid that the paperwork would reach out and grab him if he didn't make a quick escape. "It's absurd. It's ridiculous. It's politics."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Why the hell did he put women he liked through crap like this? Al wondered as he watched Max take in the details of the foyer. Her shoulders were squared with an affected confidence belied by her wide-eyed and anxious expression. Her long-legged, slender figure was set off to perfection by the blue gown with its fashionably elongated waist festooned with an equally en mode satin flower. The sleeves were enormous puffs of gathered finery, and the full, flaring skirt—despite the modernity of the rest of the ensemble—reminded Al of the bell-shaped frocks that Beth had loved to wear…

An unpleasant pang of discontentment rippled beneath the bars of military accolades, and Al forced himself, almost angrily, to focus on Maxine again. She wore long opera gloves one shade lighter than her dress and the look was completed by a string of freshwater pearls and sprigs of babies' breath in her teased and carefully coiled hair. She certainly looked the part: there was nothing in her bearing and appearance that differentiated her from the senators' wives and daughters, the fiancées of young congressman, the beautiful aides and lawyers and political analysts, and the rest of the women who turned out at these events. Al knew better than to stop at appearances, thought. His Max wasn't the wife of a statesman, seasoned by years of attending such functions. She wasn't a socialite, trained from babyhood to excel at the rituals of refined small-talk. She wasn't a university-educated woman, confident in her own intelligence and comfortable in any crowd. Maxine was a girl from Michigan, a product of a public school, who had grown up in a rough neighborhood. Max was one of those kids who knew what it was like to worry about money, one of those people who needed the comfort of knowing the fridge was full, because there had been too many times in the past when it had been utterly bare. She didn't know the first thing about the cocktail-and-concert culture into which he was throwing her tonight.

Al reached out and took her arm, drawing her nearer to him. He was at once gratified and guilt-stricken by the fact that she moved as close to him as she could without imperiling either of their outfits.

"You look gorgeous, you know that?" he murmured.

Max smiled a little. "The uniform's sexy," she offered in return.

Al puffed out his chest a little more and winked playfully at her, hoping to put her back at ease. He navigated carefully towards a waiter with a tray of champagne, skillfully snagging two flutes. Maxine took hers, giggling a little nervously as the bubbles tickled her nose. Al took a draught as long as he dared, and smiled with more substance.

"Stay on my wing," he told her. "You'll protect me from the nastier questions."

He meant the nastier questions about budgets and the nature of Starbright. He was pretty sure that Maxine's presence wouldn't stop the nasty questions of another sort—the questions that sprung from a national curiosity that even more than a decade after the war was still ravenous, insatiable and utterly without mercy.

Congressman Lester Davies, Colorado, zeroed in on the Calaviccis like a precision missile. "Al!" he exclaimed. "And the lovely, young Maxine!" He took her wrist and swooped in to peck her cheek. Max colored awkward, pulling closer to Al. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but it didn't seem like the time," Davies went on. "Congratulations!"

Al frowned. "I don't follow you," he said blankly. "Listen, Les, have you seen Colonel Ambrose yet tonight? He promised me a few minutes of his—"

"The book!" Les exclaimed. "Congratulations about the book!"

Al smiled tightly. Now he knew what his friend was getting at… or at least, he knew what book he was talking about. "I'd love to chat," he mumbled; "but I promised Maxine I'd introduce her to Caspar—you seen him anywhere?"

"Yeah, he's over by the patio doors," Davies said; "but I really wanted to talk to you about—"

Al was gone before his fellow repatriate could finish that thought. As he strode across the room, Maxine tugged at his arm.

"Caspar? Caspar Weinberger?" she gasped anxiously. "The Secretary of Defense?"

"No, the Friendly Ghost," Al hissed in annoyance. "Of course the Secretary of Defense. Who else?"

Maxine stopped walking, forcing Al to turn and look at her. Her eyes were enormous with anxiety. "I couldn't… please, I wouldn't know what to say to him…"

Al grinned. "Star-struck, are you?" he teased. "You think he's a bigwig, the vice-president is right over there." He pointed at the tall, tuxedoed Republican who was conversing animatedly with a pair of Mississippi senators.

Maxine's jaw slackened. "Oh, you wouldn't…"

Al scanned the room for more ammunition. "There she is! In the green dress." He waited for the moment of recognition.

"Nancy Reagan?" Max gasped. "But that means…"

"Ronald should be around here somewhere, yeah," Al agreed. "We could find him if you like…"

"No, Al, please!" she cried, clinging desperately to his arm.

Realizing abruptly that this anxiety was all too real, Al hushed her, stroking her satin waist. "Ssh, I'm just teasing," he soothed. "I won't even introduce you to Caspar if you don't want me to. But you don't have to worry so much, you know. He's a great guy. They're all great guys."

Max gave him a skeptical look.

"Well, except the First Lady, of course," Al amended. "Sure you don't want to meet Caspar?"

"I'm sure," Max told him. "I wouldn't know what to say."

"Same things you'd say to Les. Compliment him on his tie, tell him how much you like Washington—"

"I haven't seen Washington!" she protested.

"So tell him how much you hate it. Tell him you're a beautiful desert flower wilting in his swamp. It's just like any small talk." Al grinned reassuringly. "I just wanted to get away from Les," he said. "You don't need to meet the Secretary of Defense."

Maxine fixed him with a frighteningly intelligent look. "Why did you want to get away from Congressman Davies?" she asked. "I thought you two were friends. I thought you were in Vietnam together."

A cloud passed over Al's heart. "We were," he murmured softly. "That's the problem."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

In the end, it wasn't from Les that Al heard the news. At twenty minutes to midnight, Al left Maxine chatting happily with a couple of young women who had also been forced to attend—congressmen's daughters, probably—and slipped out onto the patio for a cigar. As the evening had progressed and his wife had grown more at ease with her surroundings, Al had found himself becoming progressively tenser. Under the pristine, precise lines of his dress coat, he was sheathed in a thin sheen of cold sweat. His head hurt, and his stomach felt strange, and he could hardly wait until he could make an exit.

At least he didn't need to worry about sneaking drinks. If there was one place you didn't stand out if you had a glass in your hand, it was a Washington schmooze festival. He plucked the cigar from his lips just long enough to knock back half the martini in his hand. Al let his tired eyes rest on the garden of the DC mansion hosting the night's event. Above the hydrangea hedge and the glittering of the city, the waxing moon glowed. It was almost full: three or four days to go.

"Bright tonight, isn't she?" a twanging Texan voice inquired. Knowing that the comment wasn't meant for him, Al drew in a lungful of fragrant smoke and exhaled slowly. "I said bright tonight, isn't she, Commander?"

There was something familiar in the pitch and cadence of the voice. Against his better judgment, Al turned. A man in Air Force dress stood ten feet away, his face crinkled into a warm smile.

"Clem?" Al exclaimed. "Clem, how've you been?"

He set down the martini on one of the tables, and a moment later they were thumping each other on the back. It had been almost seven years since they had last seen each other. Eight-five months since they had circled that satellite together on the last of the Apollo missions. Al had been the Mission Commander. Clem Jacobs had piloted the Command Module.

As they pulled out of the embrace of camaraderie, Clem shrugged. "Good, I guess," he said. "I'm a Colonel now. See you've made Captain."

Al shrugged. "Guess that's as far as I'll go," he said. "How's the wife?"

"Fine, just fine," said Clem. There was a brief, awkward pause. "I hear you married again."

Clem had known Al back when he had been married to… to… what's-her-name. The Hungarian. The Naval officer shrugged a little. "Coupla times," he mumbled, fidgeting with his cigarette. "Maxine, she's a great kid. She's…"

"I saw you come in with her," Clem said mildly, letting him off the hook. "She's a beauty. In there talking to Winona right now."

"Winona?" Al said haltingly. "Oh, your daughter. Right." It was weird to think of an old friend with grown-up children. "She'll be in college now, huh?"

Clem smiled proudly. "Wants to be an engineer," he said. "Smart as a whip. Takes after her mother."

Another pause. What did you say to someone who had saved your life in space—and who you hadn't had contact with for half a decade? Al went with the obvious. "Are you still with NASA?" he asked.

"Yeah. Research and Development. We've got quite the team. I'm in town to meet with applicants for our quantum physics department. Turns out qualified scientists are mighty thin on the ground. Only have two on the whole eastern seaboard." He fumbled with the wings above his breast pocket. "Say, Al, I wanted to congratulate you," he ventured.

Al frowned. Davies had said the same thing. "Congratulate me for what?" he asked in confusion.

"Well, the book, of course!" Jacobs said. "I know it wasn't something we ever talked about—I think it made a lot of us uncomfortable that you had that kind of service record—but I want you to know I'm proud to know you."

The laugh was uncomfortable and strained. "Look, Clem, that book's a load of—"

"You haven't heard?" Jacobs exclaimed. "I would've expected the press to be all over you. They certainly played it up while you were on Apollo."

Al stopped. "What the hell?"

"It's up for a Pulitzer. Didn't you hear?"

There was a moment of blissful numbness before this statement sunk in, and Al's innards contracted into a writhing mass of anxiety. "You're kidding," he managed to choke out.

"Nope. General Non-Fiction, I think." Clem studied his one-time comrade's expression in the light filtering through the French doors. "It's great news—isn't it?"

"I didn't write that book," Al said, slowly and carefully. He reached for the martini and drained it, then focused on his cigar. "I had nothing to do with that book."

He didn't want to think that Bobby, the man he had escaped Hell with, would have sold the story of their years in the depths of the jungles of Vietnam to some reporter, but that seemed to be exactly what had happened. The damned book, cursed with the melodramatic title The Men Left Behind, had first been sprung on him two years ago in the cafeteria at Wickenburg General Hospital, while Stevie was under the knife for the appendectomy that had led to his cancer diagnosis. Since then, it had stalwartly refused to go away. Now it was up for a Pulitzer?"

Hang on… "I thought books were only eligible in the year they were published," Al said.

"I think you're thinking of the Oscars," Jacobs said. "Anyway, it's definitely been nominated."

Al closed his eyes, and opened them again almost immediately, because on the inside of his eyelids was etched a memory of a blisteringly hot summer day, when the tigers were sleeping and the flies were prowling, and the sadistic VC guerilla who loved to play with fire had Lieutenant Calavicci and Captain White staked out for a little one-on-one attention in the clearing outside the village…

"How 'bout that," Al rasped. "Been nice talking to you, Clem. I'd better… you know… call it a night…"

And he walked away, anxious to find a waiter with a convenient tray full of potables, only dimly aware that he was leaving yet another alienated friend in his wake.