CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Elsa turned from her stomach to her back for the third time. His door was closed and so was hers. She was in the master bedroom overlooking the back yard. He was two levels below her, near the front of the house. Yet still, absurdly, she could hear him coughing. She could hear, too, the abysmal silences during which she knew he was fighting for air.
In those silences, when she might have been drifting off to sleep, she worried. He didn't sound well at all. Was it bronchitis? Pneumonia? It could be aspiration pneumonia. He had fallen into the sea: he could easily have inhaled some water, fostering the perfect environment for infection. Even before, in space, Jacobs had reported Al had vomited into his helmet. If he had breathed in the acid and had that rattling around, scorching his delicate respiratory tissues, he could be desperately ill, not merely uncomfortable.
Another cough tore through her peace of mind. He was certainly more than merely uncomfortable. She knew enough about the pathology of respiratory disease to know that.
Still she hesitated. It seemed too much like the duty of a good little wife, to fuss over and fondle her lord and husband. They had warned her against it, the girls in California. First they bed you, then they wed you, and then you are their slave. If she got up from her bed to tend to him as a dutiful woman should, would she not perpetuate this destructive stereotype? She was not Al Calavicci's humble handmaiden, to wait upon him whenever he called. It hurt her credibility. It meant loss of the respect she had worked so hard to earn. Who knew what his attorney might make of it during the divorce proceedings?
She fought to banish the worry. He was no concern of hers. If NASA had not mandated that they keep up an illusion of marriage he would not even be in the house now. He would be in some apartment, alone while he coughed and muttered in his sleep. Or shacked up in a seedy motel with the mistress of the hour, with her to tend him and to breathe in the bacteria breeding in his airways.
Elsa shuddered, thinking of Andrew. She had been too lost in herself to help Andrew: why should she give of herself now to aid Al? It was too much to ask, that she should do for this traitorous deceiver what she could not do for her own sweet boy.
Again she heard the cough, and this time it was followed by strange, barking wheezes that were audible even over the distance. It was that sound that at last reached her. Elsa sprung from her bed and hastened down the stairs, pausing at the linen cupboard to retrieve the thermometer from the first aid kit. She flicked on the light in the front hallway and hurried into the den.
Al was writhing, arching his back as he fought for breath. Coughs erupted from his throat and he tossed his head fitfully from side to side. His eyes were closed, but his face was lined with pain. Elsa knelt by the sofa and put her arm behind his bony shoulder blades. He moaned as she sat him up, his head falling back.
Elsa pressed her hand against his forehead. He was burning with fever and shivering convulsively, shallow gasps sounding in his throat and wheezing in his lungs. She forced the thermometer between his clicking teeth and clapped her hand over his mouth, holding it closed against the force of his next cough. Uncoordinated hands batted at her arms, but still he did not awake.
When she judged it had been long enough, she withdrew the thermometer and frowned. Surely that could not be right. One hundred and five degrees? She felt his head again, hot enough to cook an egg upon. Perhaps it was not so impossible.
Struck with fear, she went to the coffee table, on which he kept his pajamas. She snatched up the first pair that came to hand and returned to the sofa. She spoke as she lifted his limp legs into the pants.
"You have to wake up," she said. "Al, wake up!"
She slapped his crimson-spotted cheek thrice in rapid succession. He stiffened and tried to strike back, but his blow went wild and bounced off of the back of the couch.
"Du mai!" he snarled. "Va fangul, Charlie!"
"Al! Al, wake up!" Elsa commanded. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. This time he whimpered and tried to shrink away, his hands flying up to shield his head. "Wake up!"
Dark, glassy eyes roamed feverishly over her face. A bewildered frown visited his pallid lips.
"Farrah Fawcett?" he rasped.
Elsa wanted to be angry, but she had deliberately gone out in search of Robert Redford this evening, so she had to laugh a little instead. "Not quite," she said. "Al, you are ill."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but a fit of coughing left him breathless. As he tried to gasp for air he coughed all the harder. Soon he was sitting up against Elsa's arms, curing forward and whimpering in agony between laborious wheezes. "It hurts," he moaned, leaning heavily against her.
"I know. You're sick," she said, picking up the pajama shirt and trying to get him into it. He wasn't cooperating, which made matters difficult. She wasn't even sure that he knew where he was, or who she was, or what was happening. "I'm going to take you to the hospital."
"Hosp—ho—hosp—" He dissolved into agonized coughing. Elsa thumped his back, trying to break up some of the mass of phlegm that she could hear popping within his lungs. It seemed to work, for he brought up a large quantity of foul-smelling sputum that seemed to clog his mouth, further impairing his attempts to breathe. Elsa snatched up the discarded polyester shirt that lay near his jacket, and used that as a barrier for her hand as she dug the pus-thickened mucous out of his mouth. Al choked a little as she did so, but his next breath was not quite so laborious as its predecessor. "Hosp'tal?" he managed thickly.
"Yes," Elsa said firmly. "You need to go to the hospital." She rose and tried to pull him to his feet.
"No! No!" he cried, sounding for all the world like a frightened child. "No!"
"Don't be silly," she scolded. "You need a doctor. Come on!" She dragged harder on his wrists.
He pulled back, trying to writhe out of her grip. "Leave me alone!" he sobbed. "Please, please, just leave me alone! What do you want now? Why me? I don't know anything! I don't know anything! Please, please, leave me alone!"
"But Al, you need to go to the hospital," Elsa reasoned.
She couldn't break through the delirium. "No, no, don't take me away… don't… not again, not again. I don't know anything! Oh, God, oh, God… I don't know! Why don't you believe me?" The shaking now was not all due to the fever. He was terrified. His wildly roving eyes were lost in some terrible nightmare that Elsa was certain was not entirely the product of his imagination.
"Al, I'm not trying to—"
"Beth! Beth, help me! Help me!" he wailed.
Elsa let go of his wrists and he fell back, cowering wretchedly. Beth again. Elsa wondered what his whores thought of his penchant for crying out to his first wife. She knelt down next to the sofa and stroked his forehead.
"Al, you're sick," she said. "You need to see a doctor."
"No, no," he said frantically. The pleading in his disoriented brown eyes was heartrending. "No doctor… no hosp'tal… no… no…"
"But Al—"
The trembling worsened. "No, no," he repeated in desperation, coughing with such force that he sounded as if he was going to vomit.
She couldn't bear his agitation any longer. He was going to hurt himself. She petted his damp hair. "Shh, no hospital, then," she soothed. "I'll look after you myself."
"Beth, Beth," he whispered, reaching feebly up to stroke her face. "I love you…"
"Just lie here quietly," Elsa said, drawing the blankets back over him. "Lie here quietly while I get what I need."
The instructions were unnecessary. He was unconscious again, coughing shallowly now and again, and breathing shallow, whistling breaths.
Elsa hurried from the room. From the medicine cabinet she brought a jar of eucalyptus and menthol ointment and a vial of aspirin. In the kitchen she filled a mixing bowl with cool water, found some tea towels, and poured a glass of water. Thus armed, she returned to the den.
She wet a cloth, folding it into a manageable size and placing it over Al's forehead. He made a soft, startled sound as the cold compress made contact, and then began to shiver again. Elsa worked his other arm into the vacant sleeve of the pajama shirt, but did not button it up. Al began to cough again, fretfully, each spasm bringing a fresh struggle to inhale. Carefully, she warmed the ointment in her hands, then took two fingerfulls and began to massage it into his chest. The ridges of his ribs were prominent between her working phalanges. She had had so little physical contact with him of late that she could not be sure, but it seemed to her that he had lost weight since that night in the White House.
The motion or the scent or both seemed to ease his breathing a little, and Al's slumber became less fitful. Elsa turned the cloth, which was already hot. With the other she began to bathe his cheeks and his neck. He mumbled something, leaning into her touch.
So the night passed. After one particularly bad coughing fit Al woke briefly, long enough to swallow a tablet of aspirin. After that the fever backed off marginally, but not nearly enough. By the time dawn began to light the hallway and the house beyond he was still running near one hundred and four, but at least he was resting more quietly now.
Tending to him filled Elsa with a strange peace. This was what it should have been, she and Andrew together, her simple actions easing his suffering and allowing him the peace he so desperately needed. Al's painful, bubbling coughs were so easily soothed by a firm hand and the caress of the cool cloth. When he ranted indistinctly in his delirium, a soft word in his ear was all that was needed to ease him back into restfulness. He was not hideous now, nor deceptive, nor wicked. He was simply a very ill man in need of a little kindness. The tenderness she had not been able to show Andrew she could now lavish on this poor wraith.
At eight o'clock she left him briefly, to call up to the Cape and tell Doctor Wagner what was happening. The physician was most understanding, and promised to get out there for a house call as soon as he could. Satisfied that Al's medical needs would not be neglected, Elsa returned to the den and resumed her nursing.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMIt hurt. They'd broken six damned ribs this time… no, no, it was the cough that was doing it… whooping cough…mustn't make Baby sick… Beth…God damn it, his chest…
Al tried to swim towards consciousness, but the pain was holding him back, forcing him to resist, because the pain was always worse when you were awake.
A cough shook him, and the anguish was too much to bear. He cried out. He would tell them what they wanted to hear, anything they wanted to hear, if only they would leave him alone for a little while. Just a little while…
He was thirsty, so thirsty. He could see her over there, her back to the cage as she oiled her 'forty-five. She had used to be the one you could count on to sneak you a little water when you needed it. Maybe, just maybe she would remember that long enough to ease his torment now?
He called out to her in her own language. "Nuoc, nuoc, dông tù. Titi, dông tù nuoc, dông tù nuoc, dông tù nuoc." Water, water, please. Titi, please water, please water, please water.
She ignored him. He knew he deserved it. He knew it was only just. That knowledge made the suffering no easier to bear.
A hand was closing around the back of his neck, pulling him up, forward. Al tried to fight it, but he was far too weak. All that fighting did was bring on another bout of coughing. Something was being forced between his teeth, something hard and smooth. He tried to spit it out, but deft fingers pushed it back. Then a miracle. Cold water lapped against his lips. He sucked at it frantically, swallowing with such desperation that he didn't even realize the hard object was washed down his throat by the blessed fluid. The water washed away the foul taste in his mouth, and the painful dryness was forgotten. He coughed again and the cup was withdrawn.
"No!" he protested. "Water…"
A firm hand with dragon-talon nails pressed against the side of his face. His eyes opened and searched the dimly-lit cell.
It wasn't a cell. It was his room, his makeshift lodgings in the house he had paid for. And the hand belonged to Elsa. It all came back in a rush, four years overtaking him in a matter of seconds. The war was over… repatriation… a hot shower at a base in the Philippines… Beth had left him… Balboa the hellhole… the empty house… NASA… claustrophobia… that damned feminist programmer… Washington… the moon…
Overwhelmed by the deluge of recollections, Al fell back against his damp pillow. It was so cold in here…
"Al, can you hear me?" Elsa asked.
He tried to answer, but he didn't know what to say. Instead he nodded.
"The doctor is here to see you," she said. "Do you think, if I help you, that you can walk to the kitchen?"
Al frowned. "Doctor?" he asked hoarsely. The world was still strangely fuzzy around the edges, and a tiny voice in the back of his head told him that his brain wasn't working properly.
"You're ill," Elsa said. Then she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and sat him up. "Come now, he is waiting."
Al didn't know how he did it, but somehow he was on his feet, leaning heavily against Elsa as she led him through to the kitchen. A chair was pulled out, waiting for him, and he collapsed into it gratefully. His head was heavy and so sore…
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMElsa watched as Doctor Wagner pressed his stethoscope to Al's back, listening to the laborious breathing. Al had his arms crossed on the table, and was leaning forward with his head upon them. He didn't seem to be entirely aware of his surroundings, but he was at least obedient, which made matters much simpler. Wagner was talking, and Elsa made herself listen.
"These lungs are in a lot of distress, Commander," he said. "You ought to be in hospital."
"No!" Al protested, a note of panic tingeing his voice. "No, I'm not going to any hospital."
"That's what your wife told me," Wagner intoned. "Now, I'm not adverse to leaving you here in her capable hands if you agree to a couple of conditions. One: complete bed rest. I don't want you running around and wearing yourself out."
"Too tired to run around," Al mumbled thickly.
"Two: I'm going to prescribe you a course of antibiotics. Take them exactly as directed. Take them religiously. And if you don't complete the treatment, I'll have you in hospital for a month." Wagner helped Al sit up and eased him backwards in the chair. Al coughed again and raised a shaking hand to massage away the pain.
"Three: I'll be back in two days to check on you. No arguments."
Al nodded his assent. Wagner returned the stethoscope to his bag. "Mrs. Calavicci, if I could have a word?"
He placed a paternal hand on her elbow and steered her into the dining room. Elsa followed, too concerned with the physician's verdict to feel indignation at the belittling gesture.
"Is it serious?" she asked.
"It's serious. He's running a fever of a hundred and three. I don't think he's thinking straight. He should have chest x-rays, and be on IV antibiotics," Wagner told her.
"He doesn't want to go to a hospital," Elsa said firmly, surprising herself by taking Al's side so quickly. "I will take care of him."
"I know you will, honey," the doctor said. He started scrawling on a prescription pad. "Now, I want him to take two of these every six hours—and I mean every six hours. It's a ten-day regimen. I'm afraid if he sees any improvement at all in the next couple of days it'll be his immune system, not the drugs, but by the end of the week things should start clearing up. He's probably going to have that cough for a while, but we'll see what we can do about the critters causing it. Just keep him in bed, keep him quiet, and do what you can for that fever."
Elsa nodded gravely. "I will take care of him," she vowed.
"Good. He's lucky to have a woman like you," Wagner said.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMBy the time Elsa had changed the bedding on his sofa, Al was so cold that reflected it was a miracle his feet hadn't turned into hunks of ice. Yet finally she came to help him back to bed, and he was able to curl up in the warmth of the blankets, coughing petulantly.
Elsa settled him with assertive hands. "Stay here," she said. "I am going to the pharmacy to pick up your medicine. Stay in bed and try to get some rest."
Shivering miserably, Al wouldn't have had the spirit to argue with her even if he had wanted to. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, and left him there in the semi-darkness. Distantly, as if the sounds were coming from another world, he could hear her straightening up the kitchen and gathering up her purse. Then there was a purr of a costly engine as the Ferrari peeled away.
He lay still for a long time, periodically sent into throes of agony by another cough. As he lay there he reflected on Elsa's behavior. She was so good to him, much kinder than he deserved. He knew that he had her to thank for keeping him out of the hospital—he hated hospitals, he hated them. They were glorified, sterile prisons where you were as much a the mercy of the physicians and the nurses and the sadistic orderlies as you had ever been at the mercy of the V.C. Elsa was so good to him. He owed it to her to do as she said, and lie here trying to rest.
Presently, he realized that he had to go to the head.
It took more strength that he could have imagined just to get into a sitting position. Standing was even worse. A cough nearly sent him right back down, but he grabbed the back of the sofa to brace himself, and made it to the door on unsteady feet. When he was finished his business in the bathroom, he began the difficult journey back.
He made it as far as the door to the den when his trembling knees gave out and he fell. He lay there for a minute, stupid with pain, then got onto his hands and knees. He didn't think he could make it back to his feet, so he crawled towards the sofa.
He was just about to pull himself back up when his hand lit upon a stiff bundle of papers. Puzzled, he looked down. A broad manila envelope lay on the floor. He seemed to remember having seen it before. Frowning, he leaned against the sofa with a wet, hacking cough, and opened the envelope.
Legalese was not his area of expertise. He had never seen such a document before. But Al wasn't stupid. Even his fever-muddled mind could understand what he was holding, what he was reading, and the vitriol behind the formal phrasing was plain. He didn't know what Elsa was up to now with her façade of gentleness, but anger closed upon his chest more tightly than pneumonia could. He had the truth in his hands, and her affected concern could not deny it.
Divorce papers.