CHAPTER TWELVE
The first two weeks in January passed uneventfully, at least for Al. For Roosa, Glenwood and Winters it was a fortnight of never-ending action: medical work-ups and press conferences and briefings. In the chaos of preparing for a launch now less than five months away, Calavicci and his little problem were overlooked. This was just as well, because Al was in turmoil. His struggle and ultimate success in the simulator had done nothing to ease the terror that overtook him when he tried to confine himself in his closet. He was still having unexpected attacks—in the shower or in his car, and once even in the back corner of the laundromat. Furthermore, he couldn't even confirm by repeat performance that he had succeeded on Christmas Day. The simulators were off line for the present, while upgrades were added to reflect the minor changes being made to the capsule and the LEM for the Apollo 19 mission.
These upgrades meant that Elsa Orsós was very busy reprogramming the boards. Al was grateful for this, because he really didn't want to face up to what had happened between them over the holidays. The more he thought about it, the more ashamed of himself he became. He had regressed into hell right there in front of her, screaming and crying and begging wretchedly for release. Their battle history heightened his mortification at this show of weakness. It had been the same in Vietnam. As shameful and degrading as it had been when he had pleaded for mercy in the Hanoi camps, nothing equalled the abasement of begging Quon for respite. Their practiced antagonism and endless animosity magnified the bitterness of each defeat. The malicious glitter in the Major's black eyes as he refused once again to ask any questions that might bring some meaning or dignity to Al's anguish and humiliation still came back to haunt him when he awoke in the night.
A lot of things were coming back to haunt him at night, which was another good reason to seek out female company each evening. Waking up alone with the darkness and the memories was unbearable. Waking up next to a slumbering goddess of love who wasn't averse to being roused by probing kisses for a repeat of the evening's performance? That was heavenly, or at least as close to heaven as Calavicci was ever going to get.
Al reported for duty at the beginning of the third week of January after driving one of these divine nymphs home. Her name was Chloë, and she was a costumier at the Magic Kingdom. They had met on Friday night at a little fifties-themed bar just off the main drag to Talahassee, and they had spent the whole weekend getting to know each other intimately. That morning they had reiterated their mutual desire to forgo anything like a long-term relationship, and he had taken her home, never to be seen again.
After that very recreational weekend Al was feeling refreshed and optimistic. Maybe today would be an all-around good day.
So when the J.G. at the sign-in desk told him Yardley wanted to see him, he didn't bat an eyelash. It could be good news: you just never knew!
The secretary ushered him right through, but he halted on the threshold when he realized that the administrator wasn't alone in his office. A dark-haired man in Naval khakis was seated across from Yardley, who adjusted his glasses and looked up.
"Calavicci!" he said. "Come in."
The other man turned, grinning broadly. Then the smile faltered into a puzzled frown. "Bingo?" he said, his voice low and querulous with uncertainty.
Something clicked into place, and Al laughed aloud in wonder. "Stacker!" he exclaimed. "Stacker Carpenter! God, it's been so long!"
It was Mark "Stacker" Carpenter from the old squadron, the one who had given him his all-too-descriptive nickname. Stacker, best card cheat on the base, partner in crime to Ferguson and Calavicci. As old a friend as any Al had. And God knew he didn't have many anymore.
The other pilot got to his feet. "Bingo! It is you! I never thought I'd see you again!"
He threw out his arms and the two old friends were suddenly embracing, clapping one another on the back and laughing, oblivious to the civilian watching them in bemusement.
"God, look at you!" Stacker cried, gripping Al's shoulders and shaking him. "I never thought I'd—I should have known if anybody could make it out of there it'd be you! Bingo—damn, it's good to see you!"
"It's good to see you, too," Al said. "Man, you've changed!"
And he had. His hair was pulling back from his forehead and greying at the temples, his face was more lined than Al remembered, and he had laugh lines next to his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Though still fit enough for active service, his body was rounder and softened at the edges. The Bingo that Stacker had known probably would have made fun of him and laughed about it. The Al Calavicci of the present, however, was all too aware of his own shortcomings, and regretted speaking even before Carpenter replied.
"So have you!" he enthused, still caught up in the joy of the reunion and not really thinking about what he was saying. "You look like a good north wind would blow you to Cuba!"
Al pulled away self-consciously. He hated his thin, traitorous body almost as much as he hated his weak, cowardly mind. They were both stopping him from going into space. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to fix that."
Stacker seemed to realize that he had hurt his friend, because he laughed a little too loudly and clapped Al on the back.
"Aw, you always were a skinny son of a bitch," he teased. "You Italians have all the luck! Meg's been harping on me to loose a little of my excess tonnage." He patted his stomach.
"How is Meg?" Al asked, his mind flying back to the gorgeous young Information operator who had run a Pensacola switchboard through the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis.
"Great. Just great," Stacker said. "Still makes the best damned peach cobbler this side of the Mississippi."
"And Carla and little—oh—" Al groped for the name of the blond two-year-old boy he remembered.
"Darcy," Stacker supplied. "And he's not so little anymore. As for Carla, her mother took her out to buy her first mascara just the other week."
Al whistled. "You don't say!"
"Yeah—there's another one too, going on five," Stacker added. "I hope you don't mind—we named him after you and Chip…"
"You mean there's some poor kid out there about to start school under the name of Bingo Chip Carpenter?" Al asked.
"No, Albert Charles," Carpenter said. "Bert for short."
Al wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Bert?"
"Yeah, well. There'll only ever be one Al in our books," Stack said. "I would have asked for permission, but—" He seemed unable to say it. His hand flew up to grip Al's arm as if to confirm that he was really there.
"But you thought I was dead," Al finished for him.
Stacker looked away, guilt in his eyes.
Al laughed. "Don't worry about it! Everyone thought I was dead—hell, there were times when I thought so!"
He was proud of how nonchalantly the incredibly painful words had skipped out. Carpenter, on the other hand, wasn't cheering up. Al hated it when friends dwelled on what had happened to him in 'Nam. It was bad enough that he couldn't stop reliving it himself, without other people having to. That had been one more reason to leave San Diego.
"So this Bert—good kid?" he asked brightly.
"Nope. A real troublemaker," Stacker said, his grin creeping back. "Meg blames me."
"For your destructive influence?" Al said.
Stack shook his head. "For naming him after the two biggest hell-raisers in the squadron!"
Al laughed, shaking his head. The motion brought Yardley into view and reminded Al that he was in here for a reason. He turned to the administrator.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "We flew together in the war."
"And before," Carpenter added, almost as if he was trying to remind Al that there had been times before the war.
"It's fine: pay no attention to me," Yardley said. "As a matter of fact, Captain Carpenter's the reason I wanted you down here."
Al turned back to his friend. It hadn't even occurred to him to check the insignia on the collar. As surely as Stack had, until a minute ago, been eternally thirty-four, so he had also been the strident, mischievous lieutenant Al had flown up with on that last day in early 'sixty-seven.
"Captain!" he exclaimed. "Not too shabby!"
Carpenter smiled proudly. "Made 'er last spring," he said. "You're not doing so bad yourself: ten years ago I'd have sworn you'd get yourself busted back down to ensign by your thirty-third birthday! You keep going like this, Mister, and you'll make Admiral by the time you're ninety!"
Al didn't have time to remind him that this was just a thoughtless jibe, because Yardley spoke again.
"Captain Carpenter is here to talk to you, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "Please give him your full cooperation."
"Cooperation?" Al said, frowning first at the older man, then at his friend. "What is this?"
"I'm a personnel advisor now," Carpenter said. "I'm here to talk about your future."
Al stared at him in disbelief. "You're a job shrink?" he said.
"No. I'm just here to give you somebody to talk to. Somebody who has some kind of idea where you're coming from. Not these space cadets—no offence," he added, glancing at Yardley.
Al shook his head. "I talked to one of you guys in San Diego. That's what got me here. I'm fine where I am."
"Bingo, come on! Just be glad the Navy sent someone you can have a little fun with! Come on, you can show me around." Carpenter gestured that Al should precede him from the room.
"Oh, after you," Al said unctuously. Carpenter exited and Al followed, shooting one last appraising glance at Yardley, who seemed to have moved on to the next problem of the day without a second thought.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMKnowing that Carpenter was trying to psychoanalyse him put a damper on ship-to-ship communications for the first few minutes, but soon Al forgot all about the man's mission. They were Bingo and Stacker again, laughing and joking together as if no time had passed since the innocent days at Pensacola. Stacker didn't try to bring up the past, and Al wasn't going to volunteer anything. He took his friend around the base, showing him the newly upgraded simulators and the training apparatuses, and even commandeering a jeep and taking off towards the launch site. They sat on the bleachers, leaning back against the seat behind them as they stared out over the flat expanse that would be housing a rocket in a couple of months. It was fantastic to sit like this with an old buddy, bathed in the cool sunlight, enjoying each other's company and just being happy.
Then Stacker had to go and ruin it.
"So how's Beth?" he asked, after an affable pause that followed yet another story about his kids.
Al knew he was going white, but he couldn't help it. "I have no idea," he said tersely, trying to control himself.
"I mean in general, not this second," Stack laughed.
"I have. No idea."
Stacker sat up, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. "Aw, man!" he said. "You mean you broke up?"
Al shook his head. "Didn't have to," he said. "I was dead, remember?"
"You were M.I.A.," the other man protested. "That's not the same thing!"
"All it takes is a good lawyer to change that to M.P.D.—helps if you're sleeping with him—and from that you go to…"
Al couldn't continue, but he didn't have to. Carpenter was staring at the ground, shaking his head between dangling hands. "Man? She left you for another guy—while you were M.I.A.? Damn it, damn it!"
No one had reacted quite this way before. Some of his friends had been angry on his behalf. Some had just told him to buck up and pulled the line about the other fish in the sea. Some had apologized for Beth. But Stacker looked absolutely miserable, almost guilty. He scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Oh, God, Bingo, I'm sorry! God!"
"Stop it," Al said hollowly. "Stop it. It happens. It was nobody's fault. We're both better off this way."
Stacker stared at him, his expression wretchedly stricken. "Better off? You loved her! She was the one! Oh, God, Bingo, I'm so sorry."
"I said stop it." Al hardened his voice. "You didn't make her do it."
"But I did!" Stacker said miserably. "I did. It was just after I got rotated home in '67. She asked me—she said the brass weren't being straight with her, and since I was in that firefight with you maybe I could tell her, did I think there was any chance you'd made it? And I told her… I told her…"
"Stop," Al whispered. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to know that the last friend he had left had given up on him, too. Had betrayed him. "Please, don't."
Stacker didn't hear him, or maybe he couldn't stop. His voice cracked as he went on. "I told her I didn't think there was a chance in hell," he said.
Al's desolation mutated into anger. "You told Beth that I was dead?" he snarled.
"Y—no! No! I told her that I thought you were dead. Bingo, your plane went down in flames, in all of fifteen seconds. You would have had to be superhuman to eject that fast! Everyone thought you were dead. The M.I.A. tag was just a formality, because we couldn't find your body—"
"You couldn't find my body because it was en route to Hoa Lo!" Al cried, with hurt he'd thought he was done with.
"I didn't know that!" Stacker protested, and Al noted with choleric dispassion that there were tears in the ex-pilot's eyes. "How could I have known that? I would have stormed that prison myself if I'd known, Bingo. I—"
"Al," he said harshly, getting to his feet. "Al. Bingo died a long time ago."
He dug the key to the jeep out of his pocket and threw it down on the ground.
"I trust you can find your own way back, Captain? There's only one road out. Permission to march?"
Carpenter stared at him, anguish in his eyes. His mouth worked horribly, but no sounds came out.
"Permission to march, sir?" Al snapped.
The look of agony on his old friend's face was going to haunt him, but for now he didn't care. He was too angry, too tormented, and too broken to care.
"Permission… permission granted…" Carpenter choked.
Al turned crisply on his heels and began the long walk back to the base proper. As he went he didn't want to notice how Stacker crumpled in on himself in sorrow and remorse.