This story deals with child sexual abuse, a topic that is a great concern of mine. This story, like Street Kid, is based on actual events and real people. As the proverbial "they" used to say, "The names have been changed to protect the innocent." There is one scene of moderately graphic abuse late in the story and for that reason, Macy is rated M.

I thank the owners of Quantum Leap for allowing me to use their possessions in my stories.

Macy - Chapter Two

Al and Verbena continued talking for another two hours. The time went by fast as they spoke of all sorts of things from the Project, to cars, to past school experiences, to nonsense. Finally Al's favorite subject was opened. "I will never understand what I did right to have Beth in my life. She saved my sorry ass more times than she knows."

"How did she do that?"

It was pretty much one kind of incident, but played over and over again for eight long years. He hated the agonizing memories of his terror-filled days in captivity. Just the mention of them brought back a recollection of some incident or another where he was brought to the edge of death. "Beth was the reason I decided to stay alive in Vietnam."

"You could decide to stay alive?"

He knew Verbena was playing shrink games now. "Yes, Dr. Beeks. Each time I saw her face and heard her voice in my head, I would decide to stay alive. Beth gave me a chance to come home instead of die." A deep breath was audibly exhaled. "I guess I was lucky that the Cong wanted to torture me instead of just execute me."

She noticed the Admiral's right hand quietly run along the edge of a ridged scar on his left wrist. It was an unconscious movement he made virtually every time the subject of Vietnam came up. The scar was only one of dozens that still marked his body. She wanted him to talk to her about his experiences. It wasn't voyeurism. Verbena just wanted to help control his PTSS, a situation that had recently become more difficult. Trying to get him to open up she said, "That's the kind of luck no one should have to be grateful for."

But the Admiral wasn't ready to open up and with Sam in a leap, even if he was ready, the priority was Sam. His psychological crap wasn't going anywhere. It could wait. "Nice try, Beans. No shrink stuff tonight. I was just telling you how much I loved my wife. Take that for what it is."

She blushed a bit. "You always catch me when I try to get into that . . ." She paused to find the right word. "Peculiar brain of yours."

His heavy eyebrows rose. "Peculiar?"

More blood rushed to her cheeks. "Particular maybe?"

He'd had his fun. Time to get Verbena off the hook. "Peculiar is probably closer to the truth."

There was no reason for her to pursue the subject. She had shoved her dainty foot far beyond her front teeth. "Anyhow, when is Beth coming home from her mother's?"

"She and Allie are staying are staying at Mom's an extra night and flying home in the morning. I can't wait to see them."

"It must be lonely with Beth and Allie both away."

"But they're coming home." A smile crossed his face. It was pure contentment and bliss. "Now tell me, do you know anyone who has more perfect daughters than I?"

Laughing and shaking her head, Verbena had to agree. "You got four of the most perfect children on the face of the earth. God knows, you tell us that often enough."

"Children need to be the most perfect in their parents' eyes. Don't have them if you don't think so. Same thing with grandchildren. You know my boys are perfect too, right?"

Verbena knew the three grandchildren were lovely young boys. She delighted in Al's characterization of them as perfect. One of the twins was born with cerebral palsy and had problems walking. That disability didn't make the boy any less perfect to his Gramps. "Yes, Admiral, your grandsons are just as perfect as their mothers."

"Damn straight."

While Al was just having a nice time bragging on his kids Verbena suggested that it was time for both of them to get some sleep. "You need to make sure to get good rest. Hypoglycemia is controllable. Sleep is a big part of it."

"Yes, doctor." Al rolled it up the maintenance report he was reading earlier and stashed it in his pocket with the lemon drops. They walked to down the Project's residential wing. When they reached Verbena's rooms, Al gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, "Thanks. Not too many people care the way you do."

She knew he meant that not many had cared for him, but it wasn't the time to tell him how wrong he was. She smiled and silently entered her quarters. Al continued down to the end of the hall. He was feeling well, but tired, the kind of tired that meant he would be getting a good night's rest. All in all the day wasn't bad. Then he remembered Ziggy and the handlink. Before he went to sleep, he had to check on the status of the diagnostics. If he knew Lillian and Gooshie, they were still at work. When he got to his rooms, he went directly to the computer and patched into the Computer Control Room, "Anyone there?"

Lillian answered, "We're here."

"Give me a status report."

"There's not much to tell you. The handlink architecture is fine. Gooshie is working on the programming, but Ziggy isn't being cooperative. She's acting very weird."

"What does that mean?"

This time Gooshie chimed in, "Don't know yet, sir. She's programming herself to keep me out of her programming. Every time I think I have a lead, she closes it up with a new security lock. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Al let out a sigh of exasperation, "Do you need help? I can come down if you want me to."

Gooshie hesitated, "Well, sir, I don't know. I don't think it's necessary," and actually, the idea of Al hanging around made the programmer nervous.

While he didn't really believe Gooshie, he was relieved to be off the hook. He had no desire to go down to the Computer Control Room. Other things were on his mind. "Okay. If you want me for anything, I'm in my quarters." He terminated his contact with the Control Room, but kept Ziggy on line. "Okay, you useless hunk of silicon, tell me about hypoglycemia."

The computer's voice was unusually distant and formal. "Hypoglycemia is a metabolic disturbance inhibiting the proper manufacture and use of glycogen in the human body. It is a potentially life-threatening condition, but can be controlled with attention to diet and elimination of the underlying cause if such cause is known.

"It is a condition suffered by Admiral Albert Calavicci, Administrative Director of Project Quantum Leap. His current medical status is bordering on dangerous levels indicating that neurological difficulties are eminent if medical attention is not sought."

Al grimaced, "Have you been talking to Beeks?" He added a growl to the scowl when Ziggy used the word "suffered."

Ziggy continued uncaringly, "Ramifications of hypoglycemia include stupor, seizures, "

Interrupting the computer Al said, "I know, I know. Beeks already told me." He didn't want to ask the next question, but figured if he could ask anyone, it was Ziggy, "Am I in trouble, here?"

"Considering your dislike of medicine and medical procedures, I predict a 78.4 probability that you will not attend to your health needs and you will succumb to at least one manifestation of hypoglycemia within 96 hours."

Shaking his head, Al disagreed, "I may not like doctors, but I'm not stupid."

"It will not be a matter of stupidity. It is a matter of human error - in judgment and planning."

"What the hell does that mean?"

It took a long time for Ziggy to answer and Al was getting ticked, "Insufficient data to answer that query."

Without any ceremony at all, Al clicked off the computer monitor and decided all he needed for the time being was a little sleep. He changed out of his glen plaid suit and crawled into bed without bothering to dress. For good reason, he felt uncomfortable with the problems Ziggy was having. Things weren't hanging right with the hybrid computer. But even with all that on his mind, it didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

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Sam found himself at a desk in a small dark office. Off to the side was a stack of files. A name plate faced the chair across from him. A quick check told him he was Lucian Haller. From the look of the old typewriter and the clothes he was wearing, he figured he was back in the 50's. The files were all labeled "Chicago Metropolitan Tuberculosis Sanatorium." From the notes he gleaned that he was some kind of vocational counselor. "Oh, good, another career I have no knowledge of." He hoped that Lucian kept a calendar so he started going through the desk. Doing things like that always made him a bit voyeuristic, but it was essential that he learn as much as he could as quickly as he could.

Lucian was a methodical man. His calendar was readily available and the notations neatly printed. Things would be easy with this guy. All he needed was some idea on how to counsel people with tuberculosis about vocations. A look at his watch told him it was 4 o'clock. No appointments left in the day. He sighed relief at his good fortune. If he was lucky, no one would come by and he'd have an hour to figure out where he lived, with whom, how he got to work and all the little things that went into making the first awkward hours of each leap. If he was really lucky, Al would even show up.

Sam took Lucian' wallet from his back pocket and found a driver's license. He lived in Chicago, on Ashland Boulevard. From the pictures he found, he had a wife - a pretty brunette with dark piercing eyes, and two children. If the pictures were recent, his son Mike was about eight or nine and his daughter Macy was four or five. The boy was a dead ringer for his mother, but the little girl was a different story. She had wild curly red hair and eyes that somehow seemed very grown up for such a small child. Sam smiled at the photos. Lucian seemed like the kind of man Sam would like. It made Sam wonder what was wrong in this piece of Americana. It was time for Al.

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As per her programming, Ziggy woke Al with the news that a new inhabitant was in Sam's body. Al was needed ASAP in the Waiting Room. It was three o'clock in the morning and Al had to force himself to leave his bed, but duty called and he took another shower. He had often considered showering the second best rush a man could have. He went into his closet and pulled out a rather flamboyant outfit. He had to hide his fatigue from Verbena. He knew how he dressed was a messenger of his mood. Red leather slacks, a yellow shirt, and a red vest with thin yellow stripes found their way onto his body. He pulled a narrow red leather tie from the rack and placed the knot slightly off center. Yep, this was prime Calavicci at his most bright and happy. Now he had to figure out a way to make his face reflect the clothes.

Making his way to the Control Room, he caught himself yawning a lot. At a water fountain in the hall he splashed cold water onto his face and he continued to his destination. He damned himself for forgetting the lemon drops. Maybe a little sugar now would help.

When he entered the command station, Verbena was coming out of the Waiting Room. "You're going to like this guy, Admiral. His name is Lucian Haller. The date is July 19, 1957. He's married and has two kids. His daughter is four, so be careful. She'll able to see you."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Yeah. He's a nice man, bright, ambitious and full of ethics. Sounds like someone we know."

The reference to Sam was obvious. "Yeah, that's Sam. Where's this guy from?"

"Chicago."

Al smiled. "I like Chicago. Let's see 1957. That's the beginning of the Daley years. This could be fun. What does this guy do?"

"He's a vocational counselor at a tuberculosis sanatorium."

"Tuberculosis?"

Verbena knew Al's squeamishness, "There's nothing to worry about. He's not contagious. Go talk to him, then go see Sam."

The Waiting Room door was opened and Al ventured in to meet Lucian. A gentle smile greeted him. Al returned the smile. "Hi. Good to meet you, Lucian. I'm Al."

The visitor extended his hand, "Hello, Al. No one calls me Lucian. It's Luke."

"I know the feeling. No one calls me Albert, either."

"My best friend is named Albert, Al Romano."

"Really? I'm Italian, too. Small world." Maybe not so small, Al thought to himself. "So, you live in Chicago, huh?"

Luke started to fidget a little, "Listen, I'd love to go on talking with you, but there are some questions I have. Where the hell am I? Who the hell are you people? And you seem like a nice guy, but why are you dressed like that?"

Verbena was right. Al liked the guy and he laughed, "Sorry, Luke, but I can't answer any of those questions, especially the one about my clothes. Even I don't know the answer to that one."

Luke sat back on the elevated bed. "Well, I don't believe in extraterrestrials. Since 1940 I've either been in the Air Force or the Reserves and I haven't seen anything in the air that didn't belong there. In that case, I must be dreaming."

It was a typical response of logical people and Al never fought their willingness to believe it was all a dream. If Luke was a military man, he had a military man's mind set. Let him think he was dreaming. "Yeah, it's a dream. Time to go back to sleep. You'll wake up soon, bud. I promise you." He put his hand on the man's shoulder and then exited.

A smile was on his face. Verbena was right. He did like Luke. Back in the Command Room, Al confronted his computer geniuses, "So, is the handlink ready?"

Lillian and Gooshie glanced at each other as his twins did then they were caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Lillian got an embarrassed look on her face, "Al, we put it back together, but I don't trust it. In fact, I don't trust Ziggy."

The impact of her statement hit Al like a strong right hook. Ziggy wasn't right? Sam's life depended on Ziggy. His good mood was destroyed and replaced by a growing anxiety. He stared into them, "You don't trust her? What does that mean?"

Ziggy herself then got into the picture, "They are concerned that my new security measures are too sophisticated for them to program correctly."

"Are they right?"

"I cannot make that supposition."

The anger in his voice was obvious, "Ziggy, tell me. Are you going to screw things up for Sam? I got to know."

"That information is classified to all human personnel."

"Human personnel?" Al's hand ran through his hair. It was a typical gesture that everyone knew meant he was frustrated beyond words. He exhaled with a grunt, "Do I have Ziggy here or HAL?" The blank look on the faces of the people around him confirmed his suspicion that they had never seen 2001. "Okay, Ziggy? Any hypotheses about what Sam is supposed to do?"

"I haven't calculated out the probabilities. At present time, Mr. Haller and his family appear to be living a life very close to the American ideal. He will eventually end up heading the Illinois Division of Alcoholism and then the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation and contributing greatly to the careers of many prominent people in the field of rehabilitation. Mrs. Haller teaches piano and will continue to do so until 1988. Their son Michael becomes a Vice President of a transportation company. Their daughter Macy commits suicide in 1980 after being falsely accused of molesting a woman with mental retardation."

"Just your average family? The daughter commits suicide? You said the accusations are false. Why would she commit suicide?"

"That information is undetermined at this time."

Al motioned Verbena into her office. Once there he said, "Turn off all your monitors." Verbena followed orders. "Okay, what's your perspective on this?"

With a face as straight and honest as anyone could have she answered, "That computer is scaring the ever-loving shit out of me."

Al was surprised at her phrasing, but glad that they were in agreement. "Well put, doctor. Got any suggestions?" He was not surprised when she sadly shook her head. "Alright, then there's nothing to do, but do what we normally do and hope the geniuses can figure out the problem before we lose Sam."

Verbena looked him in the eyes, "Or you."

It was a thought Al hadn't considered. Then he decided it was a thought he couldn't consider. With a shrug he got up, "I better let Sam know what's happening."

"Al," Verbena walked over to him and took his hands in hers, "Please be careful. I don't want us to lose either of you."

With false bravado, Al smiled, "Hey, I survived eight years in hell. One hour in the Imaging Chamber is a piece of cake." He retreated into his own thoughts for a moment and said, "You know where all the legal stuff is, right? Not that anything will happen, but Beth might need a hand and Gooshie's not capable of running this place."

She didn't know what to say. The Admiral had never said good-bye before. He had a second sense about things and there was sufficient proof to that, but his referral to Beth needing a hand chilled her blood. Nothing was coming into her mind to say so they left Verbena's office and went back to the Command Center. Al crossed the room, grabbed the handlink and started up the ramp to the Imaging Chamber. Without a look back, he punched in the code for entry and left his safe world for the unknown world where Sam lived.

Inside the chamber he gave the voice command that ordinarily came second nature to him, but tonight, this early morning actually, the words were harder to spit out than ever before, "Ziggy, center me on Sam."

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Sam was finishing up in his office, going through as much as he could to acquaint himself with Lucian Haller. No one had bothered to come in and he had only snuck a short peek into the hallway to give him some bearings. He finished out his time reading some of the files on his clients. Lucian was thorough and expected the patients at the sanatorium to live up to their abilities and not use their illness as an excuse. There was also compassion in his assessments though. Sam felt comfortable in Lucian, very comfortable. Even so, he was grateful to hear the sound that accompanied Al's arrival. Looking off to the right he saw the hologram enter. "Hey, Al, good to see you. I was getting lonesome in here."

Al was disturbed by his last encounter with Ziggy and in situations like this, he didn't hide his feelings well. "Yeah, hi, Sam. You figure out who you are yet?"

Sam could see the discomfort in Al's stance and hear it in his clipped words, "Everything alright? Or are you going to tell me there's a problem again?"

Al hated bad news and even more than that, he hated being the bearer of bad news. Of course, he wasn't sure this was bad news. It was simply news. Who was he to judge? But then why continue this inner dialogue? He'd have to start talking soon. "We don't know if we got a problem or not. I might have more information on my next visit. You know who you are?"

"Yeah, Lucian Haller."

Remembering his conversation with the host in the Waiting Room, "He goes by Luke. And you know what? His best friend is named Al, Al Romano, a paysanne."

Sam ignored the comment, "Any idea why I'm here? He seems to be a pretty steady character."

Al walked around the small office and looked at the diplomas on the wall. "This guy liked school, didn't he?" Punching a few buttons on the handlink, Al hoped he could access basic information for Sam. "Let's see, it's June 1957. Luke is happily married to a nice Italian girl, the former Julia Fortunato. They have two kids, one of each kind. The older one is a boy name Mike. The younger one is a girl named Macy." He looked up at Sam, "What the hell kind of name is Macy? It's got to be a nickname. Anyhow, Mike is nine and Macy is four." The handlink squealed, "Oh, her real name is Marcia. I like Macy better. The only thing we've come up with is that Macy commits suicide in 23 years. Not much, huh?"

Sam gave him a look that answered the question. "It's very little, Al. Leaping in 23 years before the catastrophe seemed a little premature. There's nothing going on here now?"

"Your kid is going to commit suicide, isn't that enough?" Sam threw a few sarcastic daggers Al's way. "Well, give us a chance. We only started inputting the data."

Sam walked over to Al, "Okay, how about some practical information. How do I get home? It's five o'clock, time to leave."

"Where the hell is this place and where are you going?"

Sam checked a piece of stationery. "I'm at 3600 North Narragansett and I have to go to 902 South Ashland Boulevard. Do I have a car?"

A few more punches into the link and Al came up with his answer, "Yeah, '53 Buick." He tried dto lighten the moment. "There's a babe magnet for you." It didn't work. "Going home is a piece of cake. You live southeast of here. Chicago is easy to get around. The streets are numbered as well as named and it's all a grid system. Did you know you live in an Italian neighborhood?"

Al never ceased to amaze Sam. "How do you know Chicago?"

He patted down his pockets for a cigar and cursed himself for forgetting to bring one, "Damn. Oh well. Uh, I played here the summer of . . . 1957. That's right we open the road company of West Side Story in July. Ain't that a kick in the butt. If you got a chance, come down and see the show. It was great. I was a Jet and I understudied Riff. Got to play him about half the run. Boy that was fun. Eric broke a bone in his foot after the show one night and I took over. Had this great death scene, a huge knife fight." Al began bouncing around on the balls of his feet remembering the choreography ingrained in his brain 40 years earlier. "Thank God I didn't have any of those pretty songs to sing. Just had that one and it was comic, so it worked." Then his eyes lit up more. "Hey, I played a Jet then I flew a jet!"

Shaking his head Sam looked at his friend, "You don't know how hard it is for me to believe you were an actor and now you tell me you were a singer and a dancer, too?"

Al didn't want Sam to know the full extent of his concern over Ziggy, so he kept up the banter, "Yes, and I was good. It took years of cigar smoking to make my voice this bad. I loved the rumble. It ended with this great death scene for me. Man, that was a terrific show. Just think, I got paid to be a smart mouthed street kid."

Sam smiled wickedly, "I guess you didn't have to stretch for that role, did you?"

A knock on the door interrupted them and a man poked his head inside, "Hey, Luke, can you pick me up in the morning?"

Sam looked at Al who shook his head knowingly, "Sure, just tell me where you live."

The stranger was perplexed and made it known through the look on his face, "Where I live? You usually just pick me up at the Ridgeland 'L' stop. Eight o'clock, is that okay?" Sam smiled and nodded and his associate left.

The hologram and the host looked at each other Al spoke first, "No, I don't know who he is. Give me a minute to find out it Ziggy has any information." He punched the buttons on the handlink with a speed only steady practice could attain. Al was surprised that the nervousness he felt wasn't manifesting itself in shaking hands. "He's Dennis Wojcik. You're both Vocational Rehabilitation counselors. Listen, pal, let's get you home. You got a pretty wife and two kids to meet. Your license number is EB 9695. The car is a blue LeSabre," and he began to punch out.

Sam stopped him, "Wait. How do I get home?"

"The easiest way is to take Narragansett. Oh, Narragansett changes names around North Avenue. It turns into Ridgeland. Take it south to Roosevelt Road. Take Roosevelt east to Ashland and then go back north three blocks. It's a three flat, so the garage is in the alley. You live on the second floor. Your mother-in-law lives upstairs and your brother-in-law and his family live downstairs. Geez, how Italian can you get. We can be a clannish bunch." Al managed to escape without alarming Sam with the difficulty with Ziggy.

He decided to try and get out of the cold room, pick up a few cigars and his sugar supply. He couldn't determine if he was queasy with uneasiness about Ziggy, or if he was having some of those wonderful symptoms Verbena reported to him. A definite lightheaded feeling came over him. He stood there trying sequence after sequence of egress codes and nothing worked. He started swearing at the computer, "Damn it, Ziggy, get me out of here."

"The proper code sequence is demanded for me to open the Imaging Chamber door. Please enter the code correctly."

"I did. Don't give me any of your crap, now. It's cold in here and I'm tired."

Ziggy repeated, "The proper code sequence is demanded for me to open the Imaging Chamber door. Please enter the code correctly."

Al tried to do an end run, "Gooshie, can you hear me?"

The programmer's voice carried into the chamber, but it was full of static and barely recognizable, "Admiral, we're having big trouble. Ziggy has locked us out of almost all functions. I don't even know if you're hearing me. We can't get you out, right now. Give us a little time."

He didn't like being trapped. Too many years were spent confined and even though the Imaging Chamber was the four square acres of empty, he couldn't leave. This was confinement just as much as the cages in Nam that didn't leave him room to stand up. Then he remembered Verbena wanted to stock the cabinet in the washroom with juice. Maybe she had. He walked the 20 yards over to the small washroom he insisted on placing in the chamber. Sam thought it wasn't essential, but Al knew better. He figured he'd be spending a lot of time in the close quarters and having a bathroom available just made life easier. There were three boxes of juice and three packages of peanut butter crackers stacked in the cabinet above the sink. An attached note read, "Admiral, I thought I'd take on this administrative task, so I picked up the fruit punch for you. It's pretty awful stuff, but it's high in sugar content. I know you hate peanut butter (without the bananas - you and Elvis!), but these are good for you. Enjoy! Verbena" Al smiled. Verbena was a nice woman, a very nice woman. He'd have to let her know how much he appreciated her - when he got out of his sterile white prison.

He pulled out one of the boxes and poked a hole in the top with the plastic straw. As he drank the stuff, he had to agree - it was awful, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. After swilling down the rest of the warm sugar water, he tried Ziggy again, "You there, Zigs?"

"Being a non-ambulatory organism, I can be nowhere other than where you have positioned me."

Playing with the handlink Al mumbled, "You can be such a putz. How long until Sam gets to Haller's home and I can get some time with him?"

"Calibrated in your time, Admiral, it will be one hour and 13 minutes."

"You going to let me out of here?" He punched in his regular egress code without any results, "I guess not. So I'm stuck in this refrigerator?"

"To exit the Imaging Chamber, you only need to input your code."

It was insane to angry at a machine. His own patience could wear thin in a matter of seconds. Ziggy was infinitely patient and managed to get the best of anyone she wanted to. It was time to rethink a strategy. An hour without worrying about Sam gave Al time to design a plan for dealing with the fussy computer. He sat down on the floor, crossed his legs, buried his head in his hands, and sighed, "What is going on?"

Al was used to being in tight places both literally and figuratively, but his instinctive management style was based on careful planning. When he was in the space program, if a major problem arose, all work stopped until the problem was fixed, but at Quantum Leap, work had to continue no matter what monkey wrench was thrown in.

Lillian had said, "About six weeks ago, we discovered that Ziggy was programming herself. The last upgrade gave her more fuzzy logic properties than she was initially designed to handle and now we're having trouble reining her in." Then Gooshie's comment, "Ziggy has locked us out of almost all functions." The problem was simple enough to identify. It was incompatibility. This time the incompatibility was internal to a single unit, a multi-billion gigabyte hybrid computer that incorporated neurological qualities of two very disparate men. Al whispered, "Which part is acting up, Ziggy? You, Sam, or me?"

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. In a few minutes, he was sleeping. It wasn't what he wanted to have happen, but some things come without warning.

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