CHAPTER ONE
Captain Al Calavicci looked at the still-vibrating screen door set above the makeshift cinderblock steps, and sighed. Then he shook out the felt-lined tarp and began to ease it over the body of his blue Corvette. That wasn't fair. It wasn't as if she hadn't known where he was living when she'd married him.
It wasn't, either, as if he was stinting her. For crying out loud, they had just got home after a week in Hawaii, the kind of no-holds-barred, no-expenses-spared honeymoon he hadn't even given his first wife, and all she could do was make derisive comments about the house!
About the trailer, he corrected himself. About the trailer.
He straightened up and surveyed the current Casa Calavicci. It certainly didn't look like much: a rectangular box covered in battered brown siding and set on low concrete pillars. It had four aluminum-frame windows , and the door was still in need of that new coat of paint he had been meaning to give it since taking the lease last September. The little yard was neat but plain, the flowerbeds empty and the gravel of the driveway oddly depressing against the sparse grass. Looking up and down the street, the neighbor's yards differed only cursorily: some marigolds here, a pink plastic flamingo there, a rusty tricycle, a red wagon with only three wheels. Above the low-slung huddle of ambulatory housing, the wide Arizona sky vaulted enormously, mocking the desert dwellings of the urban nomads Al called neighbors.
Finished with the needs of the car, Al picked up the luggage that Sharon had abandoned by the path to the door, and ascended the steps. It took some dexterity and a lot of determination to manage the catch on the screen door with his arms so laden, and then he was inside.
The tiny entryway would have been difficult for a larger man to maneuver. Al moved quickly through to the minute kitchen with its counters of yellowing melamine and the drab brown cupboards. Past that was the living room, so called because it was the one room in the trailer that was actually large enough for a person to do some living in. Here Al deposited the bags, because there was no way that he could manage the narrow hallway with such a burden.
The first door led to the spare room, which served primarily as storage for the overflow from Al's wardrobe. He took pride in his clothing, and kept everything that was fit to be worn. His one stipulation was that no garment have holes or patches or threadbare places. Otherwise, it was fair game, but he did tend to run out of closet space.
The next door was the small bathroom, and this one was closed. Al could hear the rush of water that told him his new bride was in the shower. He moved on to the door at the end of the hallway: the master bedroom that occupied the front tip of the trailer. The room was scarcely large enough for the massive bed (an absolute necessity for a devilishly handsome bachelor, and a definite advantage to a newly-married man) and the wicker laundry hamper. Al availed himself of the latter, stripping off his sweaty clothing. He would've liked to have showered before putting on fresh garments, but the mood Sharon was in he wasn't quite sure she'd be amenable to the idea of a tandem wash… and anyway, he had something more important to do, and couldn't afford to get sidetracked by his wife's seductive curves and boundless energy.
So, he dressed quickly and put on his tennis shoes. Then he left the trailer, pausing briefly in the living room to fish out two small articles out of his garment bag, and started up the street. It was a Thursday afternoon like any other, and the heat of the impending summer was rising from the ground. As Al walked he kept a sharp lookout for people, though there weren't likely to be many about. The tenants here were mostly the working poor, immigrants and Crackers and members of the indigenous community trying to make a life in the city. There was also a generous sprinkling of senior citizens, unable to afford any better on their fixed incomes and unwilling to surrender their independence. And there were two or three trailers let to tenants whose business, Al suspected, was not entirely above-board.
At this time of the day that last breed of person was likely still in bed. The old folks were holed up inside their darkened rooms, hiding from the heat. Most of the adults would be at work—it was a rare household that could survive on one laborer's wages. The littlest kids would be taking a leaf from their extreme elders' book, and were probably sleeping under the supervision of older siblings. The teenagers would be out haunting the strip malls and fast food joints of the nearby commercial zones, living a life at once dictated by and oblivious to poverty—Al remembered such a time from his own childhood. All the school-aged children would be down in the bluffs at the very outskirts of the park that was itself on the extreme fringe of Wickenburg, reveling in their first days of freedom.
All the school-aged children but one, Al reflected, as a deep, thick and lisping voice reached his ears.
"Thit," it said. "Thit down. Good boy! Thake my hand. Thake… good boy! Good boy!"
A smile blossomed on Al's face, and his grim reflections on his neighborhood dissolved into delight. He started off at a trot towards the tiny, domed trailer at the end of the street.
Unlike his, this one was surrounded by a beautifully kept yard. The flowers were not exotic, but they were bountiful and flourishing. The sunken bricks that formed the path to the door were swept free of dust. The rusty trailer had window-boxes made from the wood of orange crates, filled with pansies and snowdrops, and behind the age-stained glass faded but neatly-pressed calico curtains gave the poor dwelling a cheerful look. On the wilting grass beneath the hitch, a boy was playing with a little ruddy-colored dog.
As Al approached the dog raised his tiny head, pointed ears perking eagerly. With a joyous bark, the animal bounded towards its master.
"Chester!" Al exclaimed, dropping to his knees as the eager canine approached, jumping up to put his miniscule paws on the man's thighs. The feathery tail worked furiously as Al fondled the dog's head. "How've you been, buddy?"
With a keenly intelligent look that always made Al believe that Chester could understand every word he was saying, the dog sprung into Al's lap, turned around three times, and curled up against his master's stomach. Grinning enormously, Al continued to pet the tiny body, running his hand over the Yorkshire Terrier's silky fur. Chester's rough pink tongue worked lovingly against his wrist.
Meanwhile the child, who had been frozen momentarily, his face startled and desolated at the defection of his comrade, got clumsily to his feet. The distress vanished, to be replaced with a radiant smile. "Mithta Al! Mithta Al!" he exclaimed, tottering over with arms outstretched for a hug. Al grabbed him one-handed, still cuddling his puppy, and pulled the little boy into a fond embrace. The child reciprocated with a fierce grip that started up a familiar pang of memory.
"Hey, Stevie, kid, how you been?" Al asked.
"Been good, been good," the boy said. "Taked good care of Chethter. Him a good dog."
"Yeah, he is a good dog, isn't he?" Al said. "Where's your Mama?"
Stevie pointed at the trailer, his thumb creeping up towards his mouth. Al gently curled his fingers around the sneaky little hand and rubbed his nose against the little button in the middle of the boy's round face. "Whaddaya know, Stevie," he said, briefly relinquishing his hold on Chester to dig into his breast pocket. "I brought you a present."
"Prethent? Prethent?" Stevie said, clapping his chubby little hands together.
"Sure did," Al said, handing the child the little parcel. He'd made sure the woman at the mall in Honolulu had used the brightest, shiniest paper she had. Stevie didn't get many presents, and when he did they were almost always practical and almost never wrapped.
Expecting the boy to tear into the wrapping, Al was surprised when the child plunked himself down in the grass and began to pick carefully at the tape. Chester's tongue was becoming more insistent, so Al began to fondle the dog's tiny head again as he watched Stevie's meticulous operation. The child circumspectly unfolded first one shimmery foil flap, then the other, and then pinched the corner of the last piece of tape and peeled it away.
His labors complete, Stevie now freed the gift from its wrapping. He turned it over in his hands, frowning pensively, and then let out a barking laugh of delight.
It was a narrow sandalwood box, polished to a soft sheen and smooth as marble. On one of the square sides, there was a Plexiglas window looking in on a diorama of a hula dancer holding a ukulele. When you rocked the box from side to side, her torso and skirt swayed, and her bare brown feet remained stationary. It took Stevie longer than it would have taken most children his age to figure that out, but once he did he crooned in delight. Al smiled in satisfaction. It was exactly the sort of thing Trudy would have spent hours playing with, if anyone had given her the chance.
"I'm going to go talk to your mama, okay, sport?" Al asked, ruffling the child's black curls. Stevie nodded, too absorbed in the toy to form a more verbal answer.
Gathering Chester into the crook of his arm, Al got to his feet. He rapped on the screen door of the trailer.
"Ah… come in!" a woman's thickly accented voice called. Al opened the door and stepped into the tiny dwelling.
"Buenos dias, Señora Penja," Al said, approaching the kitchenette, where a handsome but weary-looking woman in a shabby housedress was shaking a colander full of lentils. "Como son usted hoy?"
She turned, a smile softening the lines of fatigue, and set down the colander to clap her hands before her lips. "Ah! Señor Calavicci!" she said. "Good, I am well. And you? The journey? Your wife?"
"Dandy," Al said, taking her elbow and kissing each corner of her mouth. "I'd give you a hug, but this little guy's got a monopoly."
She laughed a little and caressed the dog's head. Chester relished the attention, lapping at her hand.
"He so good. Make friend for Esteban."
Al nodded. "I can see Stevie's been taking good care of him," he said. "I really appreciate this, Celestina."
"Oh, it is no trouble," she said, gesturing dismissively. "Chester such a good boy. Esteban loves him."
"He loves Esteban," Al said, jiggling the tiny bundle of fur and affection. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
Seeing it, Celestina shook her head. "No, no, Chester no trouble," she said. "No need for money."
"Don't be silly," Al said. "We agreed you'd dog-sit and I'd pay you. If you hadn't taken Chester I would've had to leave him in a kennel."
"But we are neighbors," Celestina protested. "We help each other."
"And you've helped me more than you know," Al assured her. He pulled out two crisp new c-notes—more than he could really afford to shell out, but still less than the peace-of-mind that had come from leaving Chester in the care of these good people was worth.
He pressed them into Celestina's hand. She shook her head in disbelief. "No, no, señor, it is too much," she said. "Such a little dog, a friend for Esteban. We not want your money, we not need it. Proud to help a good neighbor."
"You take it," Al said firmly. "Dog-sitters get paid. Besides," he added with a grin; "if I don't spend it before Sharon gets her mitts on it I'll never see it again."
Celestina laughed politely, though Al could tell she hadn't quite caught everything he'd just said. "Señora Calavicci, when can I meet her?"
"Soon's I've got her settled in," Al promised. "She's quite a woman."
The door opened and Stevie came toddling in, his short legs scarcely a match for the height of the metal step. "Mama! Mama!" he cried. "Prethent!"
Celestina shot Al a brief look of disbelief before kneeling down in front of her son. "Esteban!" she said, taking the box he held out. "Such a beautiful present!"
Al didn't understand why, but she insisted that the child learn only English. In his experience kids like Stevie were smarter than anyone thought. Admitedly, he still had something of a big brother's bias, but he had no doubt that the little boy would've been able to tackle two languages. In any case, he'd had a terrible time with English, because his mother couldn't speak it well herself. Over the last six months, under Al's patient tutelage, the child's powers of elocution had improved by leaps and bounds.
Celestina was rocking the little box now herself, smiling so that she looked more like a young girl than a world-weary mama struggling against poverty and loneliness. Stevie gurgled excitedly.
"Mama, look! More prethent!" he said, holding up the sheet of wrapping paper, which he had folded into a neat square.
Celestina laughed a little, and a tear stood out in her eye. She petted Stevie's cheek, and got to her feet.
"Gracias, señor," she said. "You are very kind."
"Naw," Al said, smirking. "I'm just trying to keep my dog-sitter happy!" He shifted Chester's negligible weight into the crook of his arm and withdrew another small parcel from his pocket. "This one's for you," he said.
Celestina shook her head. "No, no," she murmured as he put it in her hands. "No, it is too much."
"Humor me," Al said. "If you don't take it I'll be heartbroken."
She opened the box and lifted out a necklace: a shell carved from pink coral suspended from a gold chain. Celestina stared at it in mute wonder.
Al bent and set Chester down on the floor. The dog scampered off into the forequarter of the trailer, springing up onto the shelf bearing the mattress that Celestina and Stevie shared. Freed of his furry burden, Al took the necklace and slipped behind Celestina. He opened the clasp and wrapped the chain around her neck, fastening it beneath her dark knot of hair. For an instant he was reminded of Ruthie. Then the moment passed and he spun Celestina around, admiring the final effect.
"Perfect!" he said. "Absolutely perfect! You're beautiful!"
"Beautiful," she murmured, stroking the bauble with the tip of one finger. "Sí, sí, so beautiful."
Chester, jealous of his master's attention, began to bark from his perch on the bed.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl returned home feeling much better about the world in general. Chester, who was perched with his front paws on Al's shoulder, fondly licking his ear, was a major contributor to the current sense of optimism. Al ruffled the fur between the dog's ears.
When he had left Lakehurst to join Starbright, Al come with two intentions. The first had been to set himself up in some kind of lodgings separate from the institutional setting he had expected (as it turned out rightly so) to find at the Project compound. He had achieved that, though admittedly with less flair and panache than he liked. The second intention had been to purchase a great big dog to flesh out his new life. He'd spent the better part of two months looking for such an animal: border collies, glorious black labs, greyhounds, and even a two-hundred-pound bull mastiff, every square inch hardened muscle. None of them had seemed quite right.
He had been just about ready to give up when, on an excursion to downtown Flagstaff, he had happened to pass a pet store, in the window of which was an adorable, ruddy little puppy with tiny paws and perky little ears, and the most absolutely lovable face you ever saw.
It was love at first sight.
Of course, upon inquiring after the dog he was told that it wasn't a puppy at all, but in fact a four-year-old Yorkshire terrier who wasn't likely ever to get any bigger. Al didn't care. He'd seen his share of big dogs, but this little fella had melted his heart. He bought him on the spot, despite a price that seemed outrageously high for five pounds of fur and affection.
Since then, Chester had become his best friend, hands down. He was energetic, affectionate, and personable. Not to mention the fact that he made it very easy to meet attractive young ladies!
Best of all, however, was the way that the dog would come running to greet you after a long, weary day at the Project, leaping and yelping joyously and reminding you that, however hairy things got, you were still loved and wanted by the most unselfish heart in the state of Arizona.
Upon reaching the trailer, Al found the bathroom vacated, and the door to the darkened bedroom left seductively ajar. He patted Chester on the head, murmuring that he was a good boy, then slipped into the room, shutting the dog out.
Draped over the headboard of the mammoth bed was a vision of beauty. Plump, shapely legs curled over the coverlet, from the pink-enameled toenails to the dimpled knees to the age-defying smoothness of the thighs. The lower ruffle of a powder-pink baby doll nightie clung to the generous curve of the hip. The diaphanous garment floated around the soft contour of the midriff, and spread smoothly over the soft expanse of the woman's bosom. Above the neckline was skin like polished ivory and an absolutely exquisite neck. The round, smiling face with the rosy cheeks and the unmistakably "come hither" green eyes was surrounded by a cloud of enormous, well-teased auburn-brown curls that spoke of an energetic session with the blow-dryer.
Sharon smiled, and the laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. She was forty-three and by far the sexiest woman Al had met since coming out here.
"Hey, sailor," she said, in a low, sultry voice. "No port like the home port."
Al let loose a throaty chuckle. "You said it, beautiful," he replied.