CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, after snatching a couple hours' sleep, Al climbed into the passenger seat of the Quinn family station wagon, accompanying Rich on the mission to pick up Sharon's father from the nursing home.

"What you have to understand about Dad is he's not all there," Rich explained as they drove. "You know, senile dementia and stuff. He knows Deb and Sharon and me, and most of the time the kids, but he's not always sure of stuff like what year it is, or who's president. Almost like he thinks the whole family's living together in the 'forties or something. It's weird, but I guess you have to put up with stuff like that from old people, right?"

"I guess," Al said noncommittally. He didn't know the first thing about it. The oldest person he knew was Doctor Thorgard at the Project, who was certainly not out of touch with reality—at least no more than most scientists.

"Oh, and he usually thinks Mom's still alive, so just play along, okay?" Rich added as they pulled into the scenic parking lot of the handsome seniors' lodge.

"Absolutely," Al promised.

They entered a moodily lit foyer where a woman in flowered scrubs sat behind a large, circular desk. Rich approached.

"I'm here to pick up Patrick Quinn for the weekend," he said.

The woman made a stock reply and started Rich on the proper paperwork. As he picked up the pen, Rich turned to Al, who had paused to admire the curves of a young lady reading to a very, very old one in a corner of the adjoining common room. "You can head down and see him if you want," Rich said. "Room 134, just at the end of that hall."

"Oh. Sure." Al followed his brother-in-law's finger, and set out in the appropriate direction. It wasn't very difficult to find the right room: they all had nameplates. Al knocked lightly.

" 'Oosere?" a muffled voice demanded.

"It's Al Calavicci, Mr. Quinn. I'm Sharon's husband," Al called through the door.

"Husband, bah! My girl's too young to catch herself a husband. Go home and play with your marbles!"

This could be more difficult than originally suggested, Al reflected. He tried a different tack. "Can I please come in, sir? It's hard to visit like this."

"Visit? Visit?" the voice parroted. "You here to visit? My Sharon visits. Every Sunday. That's tomorrow, you know. My Sharon's going to visit me tomorrow."

"I'm here to visit today," Al said. "Can I come in?"

"What are you standing out there for? Come in so I can see you!"

Confused and a little annoyed, Al opened the door. The room was small. There was a narrow twin bed with an aluminum frame tucked against one wall. A side table, a dresser, a chair and, inexplicably, a gorgeous mahogany coat rack rounded out the furnishings. Through a door to the right of the entrance was a bathroom with a shallow tub and handicap-equipped fixtures.

In a wheelchair in the center of the room sat a wizened old man, thin and wrinkled with a full head of wispy white hair. His shoulders were stooped and his head thrust forward. A keen light flashed in the gray eyes—eyes Al recognized at once as being the deep, rich green of Virginia creeper. Sharon's eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Quinn," he said politely.

"Close the door before we catch our death!" the old man ordered. "And don't you 'Mister Quinn' me! Introduce yourself properly!"

"I'm Al Calavicci. I'm Sharon's husband," Al said, holding out his hand to shake. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Don't you talk to me about Sharon's husband! She's too young. Shouldn't be married at her age. No good rich boy. Son of a Kraut and an Englishman. No good." He shook his venerable head, clicking his tongue against his dentures. "She should have married herself a soldier, not some spoiled Texan brat. Al, you say?"

"That's right, sir." Al dragged the chair forward so that he could sit near his father-in-law, who smelled strongly of Aqua Velva.

"Knew an Al once. Albert, but no one called him that. Pilot. Most fearless man I ever knew. They shot him down, they did. Never heard from him again." Mr. Quinn shook his head. "Never. Terrible thing, war. Al."

"Isn't that funny, sir. I'm a pilot, too. Captain Calavicci, United States Navy." Al smiled, hoping to take the man's mind off of his lost friend.

"Never had much use for the Navy," the old man said. "Not much need for 'em in mainland France. Off fighting the Japs, the Navy."

"You fought in the war, sir?" Al said.

"War. I tell you, come home and you don't recognize your own little girl. Grown up into a little lady, my Sharon has. Don't you go off to war, son."

Al's eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly while he tried to glaze over the irony. "A bit late for that… Dad. Can I call you Dad?"

"Dad? Why would you call me that?" he demanded.

"I'm married to Sharon. I'm her new husband."

The keen eyes that belied the confusion evident in the man's speech were turned upon Al. "New husband?" he said. "You're not Heinrich."

"No, she divorced Heinrich," Al said, not bothering to point out that she had done so more than twenty years ago. "Now she's married to me."

"You," Mr. Quinn said slowly. "What do you do?"

"I'm a captain in the Navy," Al said.

"Navy? What's your ship?"

"I actually… uh… she's the S. S. Starbright," Al said, seeing no need to be over-literal. He was, after all, at the helm of the Project.

"Sounds like a fine ship."

"She is," Al said. "One of the finest."

A silence elapsed.

"So… can I call you Dad?" Al repeated.

"No! You're not my son!" Mr. Quinn began to grow agitated. "My son… my son… his name is Richard. Little Rich. Let me tell you, Sharon wasn't happy about the baby. She'd just got her daddy back from the war, and along comes a little bundle stealing away his attention. My little girl… when is she coming to visit?"

"Actually, Dad, you're going to visit her," Richard said, coming into the room without bothering to knock. "Thanksgiving weekend, remember?"

"Thanksgiving… Thanksgiving… I love Thanksgiving," the old man mused. "Mary will bake one of her pies. Mary makes the best apple pie, Al. You have to try Mary's pie."

"Actually, Dad, Debra's taking over the piemaking this year," Rich said. "Now, is your bag all packed? Where's your coat?"

"On the coat rack where it belongs!" Mr. Quinn snapped. "And my bag's been packed for days! About time you showed up: one day you'll come by and I'll be dead of waiting! And get my hat! I want the blue one today."

"Aw, Dad, you know Debbie hates those stupid hats," Rich complained.

"I don't care what your thin rake of a wife likes!" the old man exclaimed. "I like my hats, and Sharon likes my hats, and Mary likes my hats. Mary says you can always tell a gentleman by his hats. You should listen to your mother, Richard. She's a wise woman. Al, you be a good lad and bring me the blue hat," he wheedled.

"Absolutely," Al vowed. "Where is it?"

"In the closet on a peg, right next to the red one! Oh, but you wouldn't know that," he added generously. "Just in the closet, that's a good boy."

Al opened the closet and plucked a blue fedora off the wall. There were several others, all in bright colors: red and yellow and green and purple. He grinned. Fantastic hats!

He dusted the brim with a flourish and held it out for Mr. Quinn to take. He grinned and gripped it with withered fingers, then set it carefully on his head, cocking it just so.

"Always tell a gentleman by his hat," he repeated with satisfaction. "Now, you can push the chair for me, and Rich can open the doors. Pat."

"Pat?" Al repeated.

"Pat. You can call me Pat," Mr. Quinn said. "I like you."

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Al spent most of the afternoon sitting at the dining room table and talking to Pat. As it turned out he was a very personable man, once you accustomed yourself to his rambling mind. He loved to talk about books—an interest the other members of his family did not share. Al had read many of the classics that the old man loved, and being timeless these works could be discussed without either of the speakers worrying about the other's perception of the world. Sharon would drift in and out of the conversation, fussing over her father like a mother hen and occasionally pecking Al on the cheek as befitted a modest newlywed. The others, however, had nothing to say to their sire, father-in-law and grandpa. Clara announced, loudly enough that even the old gentleman had to have heard her, that "old fogies" were "gross". Luke came downstairs long enough to pay his respects, then vanished again. Rich spent most of the day working in the yard. Debra never spoke to her father-in-law except to upbraid him for dribbling, or for spilling some of his water, or for any one of a dozen other imagined misdemeanors.

After supper Rich announced that it was time to go swimming. Sharon had warned Al that this, too, was a family tradition. He had been determined to beg off, even though he let her pack his trunks, but as soon as the excursion was announced Pat's face lit up enormously.

"Al can come, too," he said graciously. "They teach 'em how to swim properly in the Navy!" He batted Luke's arm. "He can show you a trick or two, boy!"

After that, of course, Al couldn't refuse. The two vehicles were loaded and the entire family removed to the local sports complex.

Getting Pat into the water was an adventure, but once there his dexterity and control was amazing. His legs, too weak to carry him on land, were still strong enough to manage a flutter kick, and his arms were far more powerful than one would have thought looking at them. He started contentedly to swim laps with Rich, while Sharon and Clara played in the shallows, splashing one another and laughing as other bathers were caught in the crossfire. Debra sat fastidiously on one of the plastic lawn chairs on the deck, watching the fracas with disinterest. Al gathered that it wasn't her favorite part of the Thanksgiving rituals.

Luke was near the deep end, clinging to the wall and eyeing the darker water nervously. Al floated in his direction.

"Don't like swimming?" he asked, coming up alongside his nephew.

Luke shook his head. "I don't know what people expect," he said. "I was born in the desert, for crying out loud. But I'm not scared!" he added viscously.

"Of course not," Al agreed. "Little bit of water never scared anyone. Except the Wicked Witch of the West!"

Luke laughed, then frowned. "The Wizard of Oz is for kids," he said. "Silver slippers and talking lions."

"Hah! You've read it!" Al said. "In the movie it's ruby slippers."

"That always bugged me," Luke confessed, then flushed.

Al grinned. "Me too. But that Judy Garland. I was so in love with her the first time I saw that movie…"

"Really? I was in love with Glinda. Of course," Luke said hastily; "I was six."

"I was fourteen. You have a point, though. Those sparkles…" Al laughed and smacked the boy's upper arm affectionately. "So what about now? Any girls?"

"Naw," Luke said. "Not many girls interested in… you know. A guy like me. Besides, Mom'd probably kill me if I brought home a girlfriend."

"Yeah, she looks like a killer, all right," Al agreed. "So you don't like swimming… what do you like?"

"I dunno. I hate sports."

Suddenly they were deluged by a wall of water as Sharon and Clara came up, splashing furiously. Luke cried out in alarm and buried his head in one arm. Al laughed and hopped onto the side of the pool, kicking energetically.

"We give up! We surrender!" Sharon cried, giggling wildly. Al let his legs float back to rest against the side of the pool. Luke coughed and pulled himself out of the water.

"Fraidy-cat," Clara taunted. "Luke the lamebrain's scared of water!"

Luke colored deeply. "Am not," he muttered, getting to his feet and stalking away towards a pile of lifejackets. Sharon sighed and clamored out of the water to follow him.

Al turned an imperious gaze on the girl. "Clara, come here," he said firmly. "Come up here. I want to talk to you."

To his amazement, she obeyed, dragging herself onto the edge and letting her toes skim the surface of the water. "So knock me out," she intoned boredly.

"Clara, isn't there anything you don't like to do?" Al began.

"Yeah: talking to creepy old guys who married my aunt," she said.

Al fought the urge to lash out. "You're a real charmer, you know that?" he said.

"And you're cutting into my swimming time," she said.

"Yeah, well, I just want you to know that your brother doesn't like swimming, but that doesn't mean he's scared of it. I'll bet he's better than your grandpa!"

"Grandpa's old, and he's crazy," Clara said. "He thinks Grandma's still alive and everything."

"You miss your grandma a lot, don't you?" Al asked, trying yet again to make some kind of personal contact with this belligerent and unattractive child.

"No." Despite the firm denial in his voice, the girl cast her eyes down, focusing intently on the water. Al reached out and touched her arm. She looked up with a little gasp, and a tiny smile visited her lips, morphing suddenly into a look of absolute revulsion.

"Ew!" she exclaimed. "Ew, what's wrong with your chest? Ew, ew, ewww!

Al looked down, following her eyes to the pale white scars standing out against his wet skin. A self conscious hand spread across his ribs, feeling the all-too-familiar ridges.

"Yuck!" Clara cried. "Yuck, there's more on your back. Ew!" She got to her feet. "Ew. Just, like, stay away from me and stuff, okay?"

So saying, she trotted away, down the length of the pool, to where her mother was sitting. Al slipped into the water again, hugging his chest and hiding the marks beneath the surface. What a fabulous weekend. What an absolutely peachy way to spend the holiday.