CHAPTER ELEVEN
With an exhausted moan of pleasure, Al rolled onto his own pillow. He shuddered a little, and then began to snore softly.
"Well, that's romantic," Sharon said aloud. Leaning out of bed to retrieve her nightie from the floor. She wriggled into it and stroked the damp curls from her husband's forehead. "I guess I should be grateful you didn't fall asleep on me, huh, tiger?"
He didn't answer, of course. She twisted a little, draping her arm around his head and bending to study his face. He looked so pale and helpless lying beside her, not at all the confident, egotistical and energetic man of the daylight hours. The dark shadows that had been growing under his eyes these last weeks seemed more pronounced now that the flush of passion was fading from his cheeks. Slumber did, however, ease the sharpness of the lines showing beneath his cheekbones—a gauntness as new as the shadows. He had been working too hard lately. Much too hard, and now it was starting to take its toll. He wasn't as young as either of them wanted to think he was, and he couldn't keep up this pace forever. Besides, it wasn't fair to her, either. He was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was too tired to do anything but make love. In that respect, at least, he seemed to possess boundless energy, but when the moment of passion was past he would slip into a near-comatose slumber that struck Sharon as a sign of absolute weariness.
Spending the better part of her days alone in this miserable trailer was beginning to wear Sharon's patience thin. All very well for Al, who did little more than eat and sleep here (and eat only rarely, now that he was working sixteen hour days), but she had to put up with this drab little box day after day. She had tried to brighten it up, hanging some of her most uplifting paintings and replacing some of the thrift store furnishings with newer, brighter stuff, but it wasn't enough. The fact was that it was a small, old, wretched trailer in a park full of small, old, wretched trailers.
Consequently, Sharon had taken to spending as much time as she could in the city. She had a large circle of friends who shared her interests or her outlook or her style, and when there was no company to be found she could see a movie or go shopping or something. She had her three classes, which ate up six hours of the week, and she spent more time painting at the community center than she did in her home studio. She had recently discovered another pleasant pastime: taking Chester downtown and walking with him. He was actually a very good boy, and much better company than no one. By nature a social creature, Sharon did not take well to solitude.
Still, all this was a poor substitute for having a full-time partner, as she had grown accustomed to. Prior to Al there had been a string of artists, actors and musicians, all of whom were available through most of the day, working seldom and certainly not excessively. Sharon was finding it difficult to curb her impulses and train them towards almost exclusively nocturnal encounters with an exhausted sailor. She was not actually unhappy, but she couldn't say that she was perfectly content, either.
Al stirred a little, his lips moving soundlessly. Sharon turned her attention back onto him. He said the most fascinating things in his sleep. Most of his dreams seemed to be bizarre and pleasant fantasies, many of them featuring celebrities or fictional characters, most involving women whose names she didn't recognize, a handful with Saint Ruth his third wife, and even the occasional one featuring her. Sharon liked the last sort best. There was something very alluring about a man you knew dreamed about you, even if he did also dream about half the female population of the States. It was fun, too, to spend the day working out how to bring last night's fantasy (in as much as it could be gathered from his words) to life. If Al realized she was doing it he said nothing, but he always seemed to enjoy those games.
Occasionally he would have nightmares. Some featured mythical monsters: the Minotaur was a favorite, and living mummies, and even Dracula. Often it seemed that he was running from something, or looking for something. He would call out to Beth, whom Sharon was fairly sure he'd once been intimately involved with. He'd alluded once to a Naval nurse who had died in a car accident. Maybe that was Beth. Trudy was another favorite, and she must've been a schooldays sweetheart, because Al was always telling her to do things like wash her hands and eat up all her rice. The very worst nightmares didn't seem to be articulated at all, except in hoarse, desperate screams and sudden, gasping awakenings, wide-eyed and drenched in sweat.
Just now, though, Al didn't seem to be ready to talk. His hand groped the coverlet, and then he lay still again, tired eyes veiled with black lashes. Sharon leaned forward and kissed him. He stirred and muttered something unintelligible. She slipped down so that her head lay on the pillow, and switched off the bedside light. The small room was plunged into darkness.
It was a signal for their nocturnal visitor. There was a jingling of tags and the soft padding of tiny feet on the carpet, and then Chester sprung up onto Al's feet. As far as Sharon was concerned animals didn't belong on the bed, but that didn't seem to influence either the dog or his master. There was no arguing with either. Al would override her with the timeless "love me, love my dog" cliché, and Chester would just keep coming back until she grew too drowsy to kick him off anymore.
Tonight, though, she didn't really mind. It was kind of nice that she wasn't the only one in the house still awake. She clicked her tongue and patted the indent between her hip and Al's. Curious, Chester picked his way daintily toward her hand. She stroked his silky fur, and he turned around three times before dropping down with his head on Al's abdomen and his tail flailing against Sharon's hip.
She petted him for a while, the feel of his warm little body beneath her fingers strangely pleasant. Gradually, she drifted towards unconsciousness.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMA forsaken howl woke Sharon abruptly. She opened her eyes but met only darkness. Something shook the bed, like the first tectonic rumblings of an earthquake. The howl sounded again, high and mournful.
Chester was sitting up, still between her body and Al's. As the dog howled again, Sharon reached out to feel his furry back. He was trembling violently, as if with terror. The bed shook again, a convulsive tremor that made the springs creak. Chester whimpered and scrambled onto Sharon's lap, huddling against her as he usually liked to huddle against Al.
That thought made Sharon grope for her husband, her hand touching his shoulder just as another seizure-like shudder ripped through him. He moaned and shrank away from her hand.
"Albert Calavicci," he mumbled. "Lieutenant. Born 15th June, 1934."
Sharon frowned. He wasn't a lieutenant, he was a captain. They wouldn't leave a lieutenant in charge of a top-secret government project.
"Ser—" He gasped with such force that it sounded as if his lungs were imploding. "Serial number!" he cried. "B-933-852! Albert—"
His limbs jerked against the mattress and a scream tore from his lips. "ALBERT!" he cried. "Albert Calavicci! Albert Calavicci, Lieutenant. Born 15th June, 1934. B-933-852. Albert Calavicci…"
He screamed again, thrashing violently this time. Chester huddled closer to Sharon, whimpering and shaking with fright. Sharon felt her own heart pounding. What the heck was going on?
"No—no—Albert Calavicci! Lieut—eutenant. June… June '34… oh, God, not my feet, not my feet! GOD! NO!"
His legs spasmed, but did not withdraw. It was as if they were bolted to the mattress and could not be moved. Al's howl of anguish brought Sharon's stomach into her throat. She curled both arms around Chester, holding him close. Another scream ripped from Al's throat and he began to hyperventilate.
"No, no, no. I don't know. Dammit, I don't know. Ah! Calavicci. Lieutenant. B-9—STOP! Oh, God, stop it! Please, no, not—" His pelvis arched off of the mattress, falling back heavily. Another scream, then a feeble whimper. "It burns… it hurts…"
He sucked in a sharp breath that came out in another screamed utterance of his name. He seemed to struggle against invisible restraints, trying to swallow the sounds of pain that escaped from his lips regardless. Then he went very still, and a terrified whisper welled up. "No… no… not… no, not my eyes… no… NO! NO! No, I'll talk. I'll talk." He sobbed brokenly. "I'll talk. They… they're six miles west of Saigon. I don't know how many. Seventy, maybe eighty. Commander's name is… is Gable. Commander Gable. First name Clark. One suave bastard. Six—six miles west of Saigon. Now in the name of God, please—"
He flinched, and then exhaled as if in relief. A muffled moan followed, as his chest bounced against the mattress. Then after a long silence, he curled rapidly into a ball of anguish, and began to cry, rubbing his hands up and down his sides and sobbing wretchedly.
Sharon sat, unable to move, her pulse racing. Chester squirmed against her arms, and wriggled free, springing down onto the mattress. He moved towards Al's face and began to lick it, keening softly as if mourning the nightmare. The sobs stopped abruptly and Al began to shiver. Slowly one hand crept away from his body and found the dog. With a ragged hitching inhalation, Al murmured, "Hey, boy." Chester continued to lap at his tearstained cheeks. Sharon lay down slowly, not sure if Al was really awake, or even if she wanted him to know she'd overheard his nightmare. Al sighed as the dog plunked himself down next to his head.
"Good boy," he whispered. "I wake you up?"
Chester whined a little, almost as if he could understand what was being said. Al groaned softly. "Sorry," he murmured.
Then his hand crept across to feel Sharon's arm. She closed her eyes and lay as still as she could. His fingers scarcely touched her skin before they were withdrawn convulsively, as if she disgusted him. Slowly, Al got up and left the room. Chester sprung up and ran after him. Presently the kitchen light came on, a glow filtering down through the hallway. She could hear him rummaging in the cupboards. Then there was a long silence. At last, the light went out and Al came back into the room. With an almost inaudible moan, he rolled into bed, pulling the covers over his shoulder. Sharon waited for his hand to find her again, so that she could pretend to awaken and they could make love, but he didn't touch her. After a minute, he started to snore quietly again.
Thick on his breath was the smell of whiskey.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWhen Al awoke in an empty bed, his first response was to panic. A look at the alarm clock reassured him that he hadn't overslept, but then where was Sharon?
He groaned softly. His head hurt. He dimly recalled getting up in the night. A drink to drive away the dreams. It had been so long—almost a year—since his sleeping mind had taken him back to Vietnam that he'd almost forgot what it felt like to wake up covered in sweat and cold with terror. He tried to remember what specific horror he had been reliving, but then recalled that the whole point of the nocturnal refreshment was not having to remember.
He got up and put on his bathrobe, then shuffled out into the kitchen. Al scrubbed his eyes as he realized that Sharon was standing at the stove.
"What the…"
She turned and smiled, the hem of her nightgown swinging about her thighs. "Good morning!" she said.
Al frowned in bemusement. "What're you doin' up?" he said slurredly. His mouth felt fuzzy and his head ached.
"Making breakfast," Sharon announced cheerfully. "It's the most important meal of the day."
"I'm not hungry," Al said, stumbling to the cutlery drawer and digging out the bottle of aspirin.
"Headache?" Sharon asked, putting her hand to his head. "Maybe you should stay home today."
Al shook his head. "Too much work to do." He moved to the cupboard where they kept the alcohol, and poured out some whiskey. With it he washed down a couple of the tablets, then he hung his head over the sink and bathed his face with cool water. Sharon's skilled hands kneaded his tense shoulders.
"Well, at least you have to have breakfast," she said. "I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage an omelet."
The whiskey eased his stomach and the analgesic was starting to work its magic on his head. Al inhaled the savory smell of Sharon's cooking. "All right," he said. "On one condition."
"What's that?" she asked.
"You'll join me."
She laughed merrily, almost artificially.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe Corvette pulled away into the predawn darkness and vanished up the street. Sharon went back inside, closing the door behind him. At least she knew he had some food in shi stomach. He had almost stopped eating at home, and she suspected he didn't always make time for food when he was at work. It didn't seem fair that he should have to put in such long hours. There had to be a law against it or something.
It was obviously having some kind of negative impact on his mental health as well as his physical. First his haggard appearance and obvious exhaustion, now bizarre, tormented dreams about Clark Gable. He needed more sleep. Too little rest caused insomnia as surely as too much did. If Al got back to having full nights of sleep, he wouldn't have to use alcohol as a sedative.
Chester stood in the corner of the kitchen, looking at her with his head cocked to one side. Sharon frowned at him.
"And why will he let you comfort him, but doesn't even try to wake me up?" she demanded. "Which one of us is he married to, anyway?"
The dog didn't answer. Disgusted, though she wasn't sure why, Sharon turned out the light and went back to bed.