CHAPTER TEN
The chill of the stethoscope on his back prompted Al to take in a sharp breath. Doctor Wagner chuckled at the dirty look the Naval man shot over his shoulder.
"I told you so," he said. "Now, take a deep breath." Al complied, still bristling. "And hold it." The practiced right thumb rolled and probed between the still-too-prominent ribs while Wagner's left hand held the disc in place. "Let her out."
He moved the stethoscope to the other side. "Deep breath. Doctor Mortmain mentioned you'd been in to see him." Holding his breath, Al could only glare at him out of the corner of his eye. Wagner laughed again. "And let it out," he said. Al exhaled.
"For all of ten minutes," he said crossly.
"You should make it a regular thing," Wagner said. "He can help you work through your fear. You can overcome claustrophobia, you know."
"Yeah, so I've heard," Al muttered. "Easier said than done."
"Easier with a little trained support," Wagner pointed out. "You can beat this, Calavicci. You don't need to wash out of the program."
"I'm not going to wash out!" Al snapped. "I'm working on it. I don't need any headshrinker to help me. Look at me: I'm a good boy. I've been eating and everything."
Wagner frowned. "Two pounds in three weeks isn't exactly what we had in mind, Mister. You're still lighter than you were when you arrived. I don't think claustrophobia is the only problem you're dealing with right now, is it?"
"Who has problems?" Al demanded, brushing off the older man's concern with a derisive wave of his hand. "I've just got an energetic lifestyle. If you saw the kind of nighttime action I do you'd be skinny too."
Wagner laughed, ruefully patting his slightly paunchy stomach. "You've got me there," he said. "So you're finding the ladies in Florida to be to your liking, then?"
"Delicious," Al said, his defensive attitude put suddenly on hold for a shameless smirk.
"Yeah, there are some real darlings around here," Wagner said. Then he winked. "Don't tell my wife I said that!"
"Hmm," Al mused. "Always nice to have something on your physician."
Wagner clicked his tongue as he moved to the other side of the examination table and put a fresh tip on the scope, tilting Al's head to one side to look into his ear.
"You have plans for the holidays?" he asked.
Damn. Al had forgotten that. "Nothing special," he said, as levelly as he could. "You?"
"Jane and I are heading out to Boston tonight," Wagner said. "Grandson's first Christmas."
"Congratulations. He a big kid?"
Wagner grinned proudly. "Biggest three-month-old I ever saw. Of course, that was in August. I expect he'll be walking any day now."
"I expect he will," Al said generously. He didn't know much about babies, but he didn't think they usually started walking at seven months.
"You have any family in Florida?" Wagner asked.
Al shook his head. "Nope. No family."
"Mm-hmm." Wagner made a couple of quick notes on his chart. As Al had hoped, he took the answer in the narrow rather than the broader sense: no family in Florida. That was good. He didn't want pity.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMIt was noon, so Al made his way down towards the simulator hangar. None of the astronauts should be there. Maybe a couple of technicians.
And Elsa Orsós, he realized abruptly as he entered the vaulted room. She was bent over her console, removing a panel with a screwdriver.
Al tried to retreat, not looking forward to having another heart-to-heart with the diminutive Amazon, but Elsa turned.
"Calvichy!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing in here?"
The two guys oiling the pistons that shook the module during takeoff and landing looked up briefly, but then returned to their work. Elsa, however, set down the screwdriver and strode across the room, wiping her dusty hands on her lab coat. Al tried to retreat, but she caught his arm.
"Don't leave just because the company in here is too intelligent for you," she said. "I asked you a question."
"Never mind," Al said sourly. If she was bent on fighting, he wasn't in the mood. "I was just leaving."
"Hah! Sure." She tossed her head. "You wanted to come in here to face your devils, and you're frightened of doing it while there's somebody to watch!"
Maybe he was in the mood after all. Al shrugged her grip off of his arm. "Look, dragon-breath, I don't know where you get this idea that I care what you think—"
"Strange how easy it is to get an idea when it's true!" Elsa retorted. "If you want to use the simulator you will have to come back later. The gyros are malfunctioning."
"What happened?" Al asked. "You look at them?"
Elsa's eyes narrowed. "In fact, yes," she said. "Now be quiet before I turn my Gorgon's eye on you."
Because he knew it would drive her up the wall, Al leaned in seductively. "I've got a mirrored shield," he murmured suavely. "I think I can take it." The tips of his fingers felt for her hip.
"You can take it and launch it into orbit!" she snapped, taking three firm steps away from him.
"What happened to the sweet little Elsa who was telling bedtime stories by the runway the other day?" Al asked, following her.
"What happened to 'astronaut and programmer'?" Elsa rejoined. She stepped away again
Al smirked. "So I'm an astronaut now?"
"Nobody seems to think so," Elsa said coldly. She turned her back and strode back to the console she was repairing.
That cut to the bone. Indignation, rage and shame clouded Al's reason. "I am going into space!" he avowed, marching up to her and grabbing her shoulder.
"Sure," she sneered, curling her lip. "And are you doing any better?"
His arm was starting to shake at the thought of this morning's session in the closet, when he had melted down even before closing the door all the way. He released her with a violent thrusting motion. "Leave me alone, you cold-hearted bitch," he snarled. "No wonder you don't know how to handle men. Nobody's ever been stupid enough to get near you!"
She stared at him, too astounded to reply. Then Al's ears processed what had come out of his mouth and the sense of his dishonor burned in his chest. Women were meant to be cherished and admired, not maligned. What had he done?
Ashamed of himself in too many ways to count, Al hurried from the hangar, blinking indignantly against the reaction his eyes wanted to make. What he didn't see as he fled was how Elsa dabbed at her own eyes and the traitorous tears of hurt that glistened there.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe family in the next apartment was singing carols. Through the thin dividing wall, the sounds floated clearly: a father's rich baritone; the mother in a tremulous alto; and the loud, lusty and off-key super-sopranos of two little kids.
Al tried not to remember his last Christmas Eve with his parents. He had toiled all through Advent, trying to teach Trudy the words to "Silent Night". She was not quite three, and she could hardly talk, but in the end the careful coaching had caught on. Poppa had been so proud when his children had performed the simple song for him. Momma had burst into tears and hastened from the room, shouting that when Al had been Trudy's age, he had been making up his own songs. Al had tried to follow her, to comfort her while Poppa applauded Trudy, but she had locked herself in the bedroom and couldn't seem to hear him calling to her. Then Poppa had bundled up his two little ones and taken them out for a walk by the rich people's houses, where brightly lit trees shimmered in the windows and cast little diamond reflections on the wet snow. Another world.
The sounds coming through the living room wall wouldn't let him forget, so he went into the kitchen. He had picked up a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch on his way home from the base yesterday, after the ugly argument with Elsa, and now he was going to enjoy some of it. He dug out a glass and rummaged in the freezer for ice. He watched the amber fluid wash over the transparent slivers. It was beautiful. He hadn't had a good stiff drink for… well, for too long.
Unwilling to fight the memories of that long-ago night, Al headed for the bedroom. There weren't many options, unless he wanted to go and enjoy his drink in the head. Besides, the bedroom was cozy enough, the bed was soft, and if he kept the closet door closed he wouldn't be tormented by his problems.
It was cruelly ironic, he reflected as he took off his shoes and tucked them under the bed next to his combat boots and his dress leathers. In trying to conquer his fear he had not only made it worse, but he had also created a new one. He shuddered as he glanced at the door separating his sleeping space from his self-made prison. Then he sighed heavily and took a fiery sip of whiskey. Maybe it was hopeless. Maybe he should just give up.
If he did give up, it would be the end of his NASA career. He couldn't go running to Mortmain, or any other shrink. He couldn't deal with that kind of humiliation. Not now. Not when he was just starting to feel human again. No, if he gave up he would have to head back to the Navy. Maybe they could find a use for him in an office somewhere. If not, at least they'd be obliged to help him find something. He had obtained this handicap through loyal service, after all.
He leaned back against the pillows, hugging his abdomen with one arm. He was lonely tonight. There weren't many girls looking for a good time on Christmas Eve. He had even driven through Orlando's red light district, but it seemed that even the hookers were staying in for the holidays.
He wondered what Beth was doing right now. Probably having a beautiful, candlelit dinner with her new lawyer husband. Only he wasn't her new husband. They'd be celebrating their fifth anniversary this summer, right when Al was marking his forty-second birthday. He hoped to God the nozzle was taking care of her. Damn it, he had better be treating her like a goddess.
A child's voice filtered through from the next apartment, unintelligible but unmistakable. Anguish seized Al's chest. What if they had kids? He'd had a nightmare like that once, over there. He remembered. He had just spent a week in the tiger cage. He was crippled, his muscles shrunken and atrophied from crouching for so long, and half out of his head with exhaustion, because Quon had given orders that the guards weren't to let him sleep. They had dragged him back at last to that tiny, stinking, miserable hooch, and he had slipped into a heavy, enervated slumber, wedged against Jeff with his head on Fred's shrunken stomach. He had dreamed. Beth was laughing, so happy… and surrounded by mousy-haired Anglo kids, each one of them calling her "Mommy"…
Al realized he was crying, hot tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. He scrubbed them viciously away, and took another mouthful of the Scotch. The moment of weakness stiffened his resolve. If it killed him, he was going to go to the moon, and it was going to start tomorrow, Christmas or no Christmas.
He didn't feel like celebrating this year, anyway.