CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"And one, two, three, lift!"

On his own count, Rich straightened his legs, and Sharon got to her feet in the water, her shoulder supporting her father's thighs. Rich had his elbows locked in the old man's ampits, and he lifted. As Sharon's hands caught Pat's feet, Al slipped one arm behind his knees, using the other to brace his back. Together the two men carried him to the transport chair that Luke held in place. Sharon clamored out of the pool and went to fetch the towel they had brought out on deck. She started to dry Pat off, beginning with his legs.

"Where's Mary?" the old man demanded. "Did she see that crawl? Did you see it, Mary? Beautiful! I've still got it, old girl! I've still got it!"

Sharon felt a lump bobbing in her throat, and it angered her. There had been no love lost between her and her mother, two women both too headstrong for their own good. Yet the Mary Quinn her father remembered was a different woman entirely. The phantom wife was tender, patient and supportive: what the real one should have been. Or perhaps what she could have been, if only one had looked at her in a different way. It was so strange that someone who had driven everyone crazy every day of her life was missed so terribly now that she was gone.

"Mom's not here, Daddy," she said, drying his torso and arms. "She couldn't come, remember?"

"Couldn't come… no, she isn't well," Pat mumbled. "Caught the chicken pox from your brother, my girl. Don't you fret. She'll be all better in no time. You and me, we can keep house together—will you leave me alone, you little hussy?" he cried suddenly as she tried to dry his hair. "I'm your father, not your damned baby!"

He snatched the towel from her hands and threw it into the pool.

"Dad!" Sharon cried, swooping to recover it. Her haste was in vain, of course, for the damage was done. With an exasperated sigh she tossed it at Al, who caught it with a soggy splat. "Just look what you did!"

"Tsk, tsk. No dessert for the naughty boy," Pat mocked. Then his sneer morphed into a nasty glare. "Stop mollycoddling me, girl! Richard, get me away from your fool of a sister! I want my shower."

Rich sighed, looking apologetically at Sharon. She scowled at him. She didn't need his pity just because Dad had flown into a temper. If Richard ever bothered to spend time with the old man he'd realize that such outbursts were absolutely normal. There was no point in taking them personally. She watched Rich wheel the chair towards the men's change-room, Luke following obediently if not willingly. Then she turned with a sigh towards her husband.

"Poor Dad," she sighed. "He misses her so much. Don't understand why, really. I—Al?"

He had wrapped the sodden towel around his shoulders and was holding it close to his body like a cloak, covering his shoulders, his back and his chest. His lips were blue and he was shivering, staring blankly at the rivulets of water running towards the drain on the deck. Sharon drew closer.

"Al, baby?" she said softly, extending her hand to touch his shoulder. He shrank away.

"Don't," he said flatly. "Just don't. I'd better go help with your father."

So saying, he moved off, still shaking a little as he went and resolutely clutching the towel to his body. Sharon shook her head and went to join Clara in the ladies' change-room.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

The girls were ready to leave first, of course, since the men had to deal with Pat's particular needs. Debra seemed uncommonly possessive of her daughter, holding her shoulder and petting her hair.

"So, my dear," she said, turning to Sharon; "where on earth did you find this one?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Sharon asked sweetly. It was a well known fact that they hated each other, loathing from behind great bastions of civility and mutual flattery. They waged war in honeyed small talk and did battle with swords hidden in sheaths of politeness.

"Well, I've seen some worn-down dogs in my time, but this one… well, I thought you liked your pets less…patched together."

"I'm afraid I'm not following you, Debbie, dear. Pets?"

Before Debra could rejoin, the men came around the corner from the change-rooms. Al was pushing Pat's chair, and Luke was laden with the duffel full of wet towels and used suits. Together the family made their way to the parking lot, where Rich and Al got Pat into the front seat of the station wagon with very little trouble at all.

"I want to ride in your car," Clara announced, addressing Sharon.

"Well, dear, I'm sure I don't mind," Sharon said. However much she loathed the girl's mother, she positively adored her niece. She adored her nephew, too. They were perfect children, not at all like their father, who had been flawed in so many ways that even decades later Sharon couldn't tally them. "You wouldn't mind if I went with Rich, would you, Al?"

He looked up from fastening Pat's seat belt, and from the look on his face Sharon could tell he hadn't really been listening to the dialogue around him.

"Would you mind if Clara rode with you?" Sharon clarified.

A cloud crossed Al's face, clearly communicating that he did, in fact, mind very much, but before he could school his features or refuse, Clara piped up. "Not him, Aunt Sharon!" she cried. "He's creepy and I don't like him. I want you to drive me."

Sharon tried to deal diplomatically with the girl's faux pas. "Oh, no, honey, Uncle Al's the only one who drives the Corv—"

"Here. Go ahead." His voice flat and deadened, Al extended the keys with thumb and forefinger. "I'll ride with Rich."

As she took the keys Sharon noticed Al glancing at Clara, something like shame and regret in his eyes. She had no time to scrutinize the expression, however, because Al swung into the seat behind Pat and closed the door with a bang.

"I guess I can drive you after all," Sharon said to Clara. "How 'bout that!"

"Bodacious!" Clara exclaimed, her adorable face lighting up with her smile. She ran around to the other side of the Corvette, bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet. "Can we ride with the top down, Auntie Sharon? Can we? Can we?"

Sharon's concerns about Al vanished in the delight of catering to the girl's whims. "Absolutely!" she said. "Only way to ride in a Corvette!"

They made quick work of the top, and got in together. By this time Rich was gone, and Sharon revved the engine in a very satisfying way, not having to worry what Al would think of or say about the sound.

They took off at a leisurely pace, Sharon determined to prolong the treat as much as she could. They rode quietly for a minute or two before Clara spoke.

"Why'd you marry him? He's a creep," she said.

"Oh, he's not a creep. He's actually all right, for a guy," Sharon said.

"He's a creep. He's mean and creepy and gross. I hate him."

Sharon frowned, a suspicion percolating in her heart. Al had expressed his dislike of her little angel the previous night. Had he said something rude or hurtful? "Clara, what did Uncle Al want to talk about?"

"I dunno. He was trying to boss me and stuff," Clara said. "He's a jerk. And he's nasty."

"What do you mean, nasty?"

"All wrinkly and gross, like moldy cheese or something." Clara shuddered convulsively. "Why'd you marry a moldy, gross, nasty, mean jerk, Aunt Sharon? You're young. You're pretty. You could've got a normal husband. You coulda married Andre. I liked Andre. He said he was going to paint my portrait."

Sharon smiled fondly at the child, marveling at her innocence. Over the years Sharon had brought a wide assortment of beaux home for holiday celebrations. The Andre to whom Clara was referring had been the guest over Christmas of '77. Their relationship had lasted a whopping six weeks, until Sharon had discovered what he painted his child models wearing—or rather, not wearing. He was a creep if there ever was one, despite his charming ways that had clearly won over Sharon's niece. She just thanked her lucky stars that he hadn't got around to those portrait sessions!

"Andre wasn't the right guy," Sharon equivocated.

"Ew! And this one is? I mean, sure, he's got a hot car, but you've got to look under the surface, Aunt Sharon. You can't just judge him by the superficial stuff, you know."

"Aw, hon," Sharon said; "I know that. And don't worry. He won't get away with trying to boss you around."

"Promise?" Clara asked.

"Promise," Sharon said.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Though the task of physically getting Pat into bed was dispensed with by Rich, the actual business of settling him in for the night was Sharon's duty—one that had evolved into a ritual in the six years since Mary's death had necessitated her husband's move to the care home. First she drew the curtains. Then she switched on the nightlight and turned off the overheads. Then Pat pushed himself up onto his arms so that she could plump the pillows just so. Finally, he lay back and she tucked the covers around him, bending to kiss his cheek. They would pray together, something Sharon never bothered with except when she was with her father, and then they would say goodnight.

This time, when the prayers were said and Sharon moved to get up, Pat gripped her hand and held her back. His eyes that always gave such a pretext of lucidity fixed themselves intently on her face.

"Sharon, my girl," he said. "Sharon, dear."

Choking up a little at the tender affection in his voice, Sharon managed a smile. "Yes, Daddy?"

"You did much better this time."

Sharon frowned, not sure what he meant. "I'm glad…" she said warily.

"Your husband," Pat clarified. "You did much better with your husband."

She grinned. He had hated Heinrich almost as much as Mom had hated the very fact that her daughter had got married so young. "I'm glad you like him," she said.

"He's a gentleman," Pat murmured drowsily. "A gentleman, but…" Bewilderment creased his brow. "But you can always tell a gentleman by his hat?"

"Yes, you can," Sharon agreed, kissing him. "Goodnight, Daddy."

"Goodnight, my girl," he sighed, his eyes already drifting closed.

Sharon got to her feet and left the room, crossing the hall to the other guest bedroom. She was torn between grief and joy, a muddled mixture of emotions warring deep in her chest. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to run screaming in circles… and most of all she wanted a strong, confident pair of arms around her.

Al was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet apart and his arms resting on his thighs so that his hands dangled between the spread knees. His back was curled and his head hung low as he stared numbly at the backs of his hands.

"Hey, sailor," Sharon intoned seductively, closing the door. Al gave no sign that he could hear her. She climbed onto the bed and crawled up behind him, her hands each finding a tensed shoulder. He was trembling beneath her fingers: a strange, bone-deep shivering that was at once overpowering and almost unnoticeable. "Hey, Al," Sharon whispered, her tongue flicking his earlobe; "how 'bout you and I make a little whoopee?"

He still didn't respond. Her hands worked around his arms and found the buttons on the front of his shirt. She undid the top one, then the next, then the next. One hand slipped inside, running over the slight ripple of his ribs and the faint traces of the scars he never talked about.

Al shuddered convulsively and his fist closed on her wrist, thrusting her hand away. "Don't," he said flatly, pushing her off. He got to his feet and took two halting steps away from her. His arms were crossed tightly over his abdomen, and he was bent over on himself as if he was contorted with pain or shame.

Sharon brought her legs around from under her body, setting her feet on the carpet. "Aw, Al, I know this isn't the Thanksgiving that you had in mind—" she began.

"Damned right it isn't!" he snapped. "Three and a half days off and how do I have to spend it? Playing nice with a woman with all the charm of an extra-large dental drill bit and keeping your monster of a niece off her brother's back!"

Mention of Clara sparked Sharon's temper. "She said you were trying to boss her around. She's not your kid, Al!"

"Lucky for her! If any child of mine behaved the way she does I'd spank her into next week!" he snarled, uncoiling a little out of his stance of mortification and into the fight. "She has absolutely no respect for anyone! The way she talks to your father—"

"He scares her, being so sick!" Sharon cried. "If you'd lost your grandma when you were seven years old—"

A horrible, harsh and barking laugh tore the air. "Grandma? By the time I was seven I was living in an orphanage because my mother ran off with a damned encyclopedia salesman! My father died when I was ten! And you know what? Never in my life did I walk up to a sick old man and announce that old people are 'gross'!" Al snapped. "She's a monster, and I don't see why none of you can see that! The only person in this house who hasn't got blinders where sweet little Clara is concerned is her brother!"

"Will you keep your voice down?" Sharon cried. "I don't care what you think of them: they're my family and they're more important to me than any man, especially a stiff-necked Naval officer completely oblivious to his own faults!"

"Oh, well, if Debbie and that little mouse-haired fiend are more important, why did you marry me?" Al snapped.

"I don't know!" Sharon cried. "I wish I hadn't! You're more trouble than you could ever be worth! You're disgusting, Calavicci! You make me sick!"

"Well, then you needn't be bothered with my company! I'll sleep on the sofa in the basement!" Al growled, yanking the coverlet off the bed and wrapping it defiantly around his shoulders. "And you and Debbie can just click your tongues about that all you want to!"

Then the door slammed and he was gone. Sharon stood there, her chest heaving with the aftermath of her rage. She hadn't meant half of what she had said. And after all, Al had a point. Clara was awfully hard on Luke. She did make life difficult for him. Luke was a sweet, quiet and fundamentally insecure boy, and there was no denying that he took his sister's teasing far more to heart than he should have. But she wasn't really a monster: she was just going through a difficult phase. She was really a very sweet little girl.

Yet the fact that she had said some hurtful things, and the fact that Al wasn't completely wrong held no weight when compared to Sharon's pride. She wasn't ready to eat her words. She wasn't ready to apologize. After all, the fault was not hers alone.

Resolutely, she climbed into bed and turned out the light.