CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Al closed his eyes and let his fingers do the thinking. There was a knack to tying a bowtie, and a really experienced man didn't need a mirror to do it. There was only one mirror in the trailer, and Sharon had claimed it (and the bathroom) as her territory for the evening. At least she'd let him in long enough to shower.
It had seemed silly to drive all the way home just to spend an hour dressing before heading back out, but there had been no other way. Maps to the compound were strictly prohibited, and there was no way Sharon would be able to remember verbal directions.
Al finished with the tie and turned to Chester, who was lying in the armchair with his head on his forepaws, watching the scene with removed interest. "Whaddaya think, boy?" Al asked, tugging at his lapels and spinning with the finesse he had perfected on the disco floor.
Chester seemed to consider the question, doubtless taking in the hunter green trousers and matching silk shirt, the red vest with the gold threads, the green jacket and the gold lamé bowtie. The finishing touch was the red shoes, also a hangover from his post-NASA dancing years. The dog looked at his master's expectant face, and sat up, barking once and thumping his tail against the chair.
"That's my boy!" Al chortled. "Hey, Sharon! You almost ready to go?"
"God, you're as bad as my first husband!" Sharon shouted back from inside the bathroom.
"That's my goal in life, baby," Al told her. "So hurry up before I fossilize out here, okay?"
"Keep your pants on!" she exclaimed.
"I will 'til you wanna get 'em off, baby," Al promised lascivaciously.
"Mmh. Maybe we should have our own little party, huh?"
"Naw, honey, can't do that," Al said. "There's a whole Project full of ladies waiting to dance with their devilishly handsome Administrator tonight, and I can't disappoint them, now can I?"
"Oh, so you're taking me to a party so that you can desert me!" Sharon said, raising her voice over the sound of the sink. "How noble!"
"Don't you try that one on me!" Al said sternly. "We both know you can't wait to flirt with all those Marines!"
"Mm. Marines," Sharon mused. "Like the army, but tougher."
Al chuckled. "Babe, you don't know the half of it!"
"Close your eyes," said Sharon.
"Huh?"
"Close your eyes. I'm coming out."
Al grinned, arching his eyebrows at Chester. Then he closed his eyes. "Okay. I'm not peeking. Come on out!"
He heard the bathroom door open, and the creaking of the floor under Sharon's weight. Then a sultry voice said, "Well? What do you think?"
Al opened his eyes, panning them over his wife's luscious form the way a camera pans over a glowing starlet. Sharon was wearing a shimmering red mermaid-cut evening gown that rippled around her ankles and clung to her knees, hugging every curve from there on up. Her waist seemed impossibly sylph-like above her beautiful hips and almost-flat abdomen. The white bosom peeking out through the low neckline was smooth and perfect. Her arms held a golden wrap around her shoulders. She had done her hair up, for once, abandoning its usual tousled curls for an elegant coiffe. Her makeup artfully disguised many of the signs of her age, but she had done her eyes in such a way that the laugh-lines seemed almost accented.
"Well?" she said again.
Words were inadequate. Al stepped forward and slipped his arm around her waist, kissing her smooth, scarlet lips. "Whaddaya know," he murmured. "We match."
"That wasn't hard," Sharon told him. "You've only had that outfit laid out for a week an a half. So do you like the dress?"
"It's fantastic!"
Sharon's smile broadened. "Good. 'Cause you paid for it."
"You gold-digging minx!" Al exclaimed, smacking her playfully on the rump.
"Would you rather I wear the kind of tacky thing I can afford on my own?" Sharon demanded.
"I'd rather you wear your jogging sweats and your paintshirt, with a smudge of orange next to your nose," Al said. "That way no other guy would look twice, and I could have you all to myself!"
"Well," Sharon said, walking her fingers up his chest and brushing his lips; "if that's the way you feel we really could just stay home and have our… own little party."
"Sorry, doll," Al said. "Duty calls. Now let's go already! It's a long drive out to the corner of Nothing and Nowhere!"
MWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe SSAC had done their job well. The large gymnasium on Sub-Level One had been transformed into a ballroom, all traces of its original purpose hidden under the lavish decorations. By the time Al and Sharon arrived, the room was almost full of the Project employees and their families. Civilian and military alike, they were milling around, decked out in holiday garb, laughing and talking and nursing cocktails. Al maneuvered Sharon straight towards the bar, where he dragged out his wallet and bought them each a martini. He took a generous swig of his, and offered his wife his arm.
They had about fifteen minutes in which to make the rounds of the room before everyone was called to the tables for supper. Al and Sharon sat at the head table, separated by Doctor Thorgard and Demeter's daughter, who was her father's escort for the evening. The rest of the department heads and their partners occupied seats to either side. Doctor Eleese was the only one without an escort, which struck Al as an absolute absurdity. She was cold and usually condescending but she was also absolutely gorgeous. Mind you, everyone knew the story of the poor schmuck she'd strung along a couple years back, getting to the point where they'd set a date and booked the church before she decided that marriage wasn't where she wanted to go and jilted him. You'd have to be a real sucker to fall for her.
After the meal everyone gathered around the makeshift stage, where a couple of the girls from the Particle Accelerator struck up on the piano and the violin. There was a good half-hour of carol singing while the tables were cleared away and the dance floor set up. Then the real fun of the evening began.
Everyone knew you had to give the first dance to your wife, and Al dispensed this duty with pleasure, proud of his gilded goddess and revelling in the impressed looks so many of his colleagues were wearing. Most of them had only seen Sharon once or twice—some not at all—and she was an absolutely gorgeous specimen tonight. After the first dance, Al started to do the rounds of the Projects many young lovelies, and Sharon wandered off to amuse herself. After an hour or so Al had to admit that she was almost as adept at the art of flirting as he was. She had a never-ending supply of admirers, and never lacked a dance partner.
Being similarly looked after, Al tried to be wholeheartedly glad that she wasn't a wallflower needing constant attention from him, but when he saw men half his age clamouring for a dance with his wife, he couldn't help but feel a little jealous. There was Matt Dion, tall enough that Sharon could gaze docilely up at him instead of looking him square in the eyes, dancing a very close waltz. Or that kid McDufferin from Programming, the one with smooth blond hair and bright blue eyes, who hadn't so much as an appendectomy scar on his well-muscled body, pulling off a rumba that Jim Croce would've envied. Even old Doctor Kostky the philosopher seemed to have a particular charm, for when she danced with him their foreheads almost touched.
When Jeffrey Selensky, the head of Legal Affairs and Legislation, started to tango with his girl, though, Al couldn't stand it any more. He sent the pretty young thing from Human Resources spinning into Tony's arms, and when Jeff sent Sharon away from him Al caught her with a flourish, tipping her backwards and kissing her passionately.
She gasped a little in surprise, then smiled and straightened, ready to resume the dance with her new partner. Instead, Al pulled her off the floor, causing a minor furor that quickly ended as Selensky grabbed another girl and kept going.
"What are you doing?" Sharon hissed as Al strode past a group of kids bouncing happily to the music.
"Buying you a drink," Al answered, approaching the bar and slapping down a handful of dollar bills.
"I don't want a drink: I want to dance!" she protested.
"I don't care," Al said. "I want a drink and I want you to join me. Scotch and soda," he told the guy behind the bar.
"Mrs. Calavicci?" the man asked.
"A small martini, no olive," she said absently, turning her glare on her husband. "What are you so mad about?" she asked. "Two minutes ago you were having a great time."
"I don't care if you spend the whole night putting the make on snot-nosed science whizzes and the little baby Marines," Al hissed; "but you stay away from the lawyers, do you hear me?"
"I beg your pardon?" Sharon exclaimed indignantly. "As if you're being selective!"
"I told you, I don't care who you dance with, but you stay away from the lawyers," Al repeated. "Stay away from them, you hear me?" He slammed down his empty glass and dug out more money. "I don't want any wife of mine dancing with any goddamned lawyer."
It didn't make sense, even to him. Jeff was a great guy. He had a pretty young wife and two little kids. But something about seeing Sharon in his arms, knowing what the man did for a living… it wasn't to be borne.
Sharon, of course, had no inkling of the black associations her dance had triggered, and she was glaring at him. "Fine," she said coldly. "You mind pointing out which ones are lawyers, Don Juan?"
Al scowled back at her and took another long swallow of the scotch. "Just stay away from them," he ordered, slamming down the empty glass.
"Don't you walk away from me, Albert Calavicci!" she cried, but Al was already donning his most charming smile as he strode up to a lovely young thing whom he thought was a secretary in some department or other. He didn't see Sharon stomp her foot in disgust, much less the predatory way she zeroed in on the youngest, most handsome man within striking distance.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWhen the party wound down to a crawl the two Calaviccis, both tipsy and giddy with exhaustion, made their way to the surface and across the parking lot to the Corvette. There was a bitter silence between them: shreds of the unfinished argument and deep, unacknowledged resentment of the fact that their mate had had no shortage of merry and attractive dance partners. Al started to batten down the top.
"Leave it up," Sharon said. "The wind will mess up my hair."
"I left it up all the way here out of deference to your sainted hair," Al said, his voice slurring a little. He was dimly aware that he'd had too much to drink and for some reason it wasn't really making him feel as good as it ought to. "If I hafta drive back in a closed car I'll go stir crazy."
"I'm not riding in an open car!"
"Fine!" Al barked. "Then get the guys from the motor pool to drive you!" Recognizing the vitriol in his voice, he eased off a little. "C'mon. Nobody'll see you. Besides, I don't care how you look."
"I'll bet you don't!" Sharon snapped. "You spent the whole night checking out other women and criticizing my dance partners!"
Al didn't want to go back to that argument. He especially didn't want to apologize. He knew he'd been unreasonable, and he didn't want to admit it. Instead he glowered blackly and got into the driver's seat, leaning over to open the passenger door with such force that it whacked Sharon's legs. Meeting him glare for glare, she got in and threw her skirt over her knees, slamming the door with a vengeance.
They rode in silence, speeding down the deserted back roads on their way back to Wickenburg. Al parked crookedly in the driveway in front of the trailer, and Sharon hopped out. Her hair was indeed the worse for the wind, falling down her back and over her shoulders like the tresses of a beauty queen from a Jane Austen novel. She slammed the door again and marched towards the door. One of her heels caught in the sod, and the shoe came off her foot. She bent and pulled it from the earth with a soft pop, then wrathfully removed the other and went the rest of the way in stocking feet. She dropped the key on the stoop, and had to rummage under the trailer for it, by which time she was so obviously livid that only the fact that it was half past one in the morning was all that was keeping her from shouting her frustrations to the moon.
At last she stormed inside, leaving the screen door swinging in her wake. Al turned his back on the sight and began to spread the tarp over the 'Vette, his jaw working with mounting rage. She was the most ridiculous, inreasonable, promiscuous woman he had ever met! She was worse than Ruthie's oldest sister! She was worse than his second wife!
When the car was covered, Al went inside, hoping she'd be showering or something. She wasn't. She was standing in the middle of the living room, bare feet planted far apart, shoes in one corner, sheer nylon stockings draping over the television, and hands on her curvaceous hips. Al spared her one grim glance, then went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Now safely home, he could finish what he'd started at the bar, and maybe in the morning he'd find he'd forgotten the whole thing.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sharon demanded. "You put that bottle down and get in here! We need to talk about this."
"You need to talk about it," Al said. "No point me talking, 'cause you won't listen to a word I say. Women never do." He got down a glass and poured.
"Oh, so women never listen? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe that's 'cause men don't make reasonable demands? Why the hell shouldn't I dance with that guy? He's a nice guy, and you'll notice his wife had no problem with it!"
Al drained the glass and poured another. He was wrong, and he knew it, but that didn't mean that he was going to back down. No way in hell. Pride was stronger than truth. "I don't care what his wife had a problem with; I don't want you dancing with lawyers."
"Why?" Sharon taunted. "Don't want me running off and divorcing you like the asshole you are?"
Al stomped into the next room, glass in hand. "You wanna run off and divorce me, go ahead! Just remember it's the philandering spouse who gets dinged in court!"
"Philandering? Me? You were the one eying up every female in the room! God! That girl you were sitting next to at supper couldn't have been more than sixteen!"
"For your information, Jessica Demeter's seventeen!" Al snapped. "And the only reason you're jealous of her is she's more beautiful than you ever were, even twenty-five years ago when you were actually somewhere close to her age!"
Sharon shrieked with rage, plucking the glass from his hand and throwing its contents full in his face. Al's eyes closed against the stinging alcohol, but only momentarily. Ignoring the discomfort, he lunged forward, grabbing Sharon's shoulders and shaking her. She gasped, shocked by the assault, and her head tilted back a little. Suddenly he was staring into her deep, beautiful green eyes.
The passions shifted, and suddenly they were groping for one another's clothing. The gown slithered to the ground, and Al thrust his arms backwards, out of his sleeves. He worked his hands up and down Sharon's smooth back before undoing the catch of her bra. It flew into a corner, landing right on Chester's head. With a tiny, indignant yelp the terrier danced out from under it and removed to the safer neighborhood of the kitchen. Al kicked off his shoes and the pants that had wound up around his ankles, and then he had Sharon's last garment off as she started to work his undershirt over his head.
A frantic knocking at the door did not quite penetrate the fog created by the ravenous kiss they were locked into. Al ran one hand up Sharon's side, cupping it around one soft casaba. She was still trying to get him to let go long enough for her to get the undershirt off, but her left leg was already crooking around his knee and the effort grew ever more frantic and ever less coordinated.
Then a panicked voice, sobbing in Spanish, finally registered in Al's brain. He let go of Sharon, forcing his undershirt back down around his middle and straightening the waistband of his shorts. With a little cry of indignation Sharon fell to earth amid the ruin of her frock. Al didn't even notice as he ran to the door, beyond which the familiar voice of his neighbor was begging him desperately to open the door.
When he did, Celestina Penja fell forward into his arms, shaking and sobbing. "Oh, Señor Calavicci!" she cried. "You are home, you are back!"
Al patted her back, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. "Ssh. Celestina, what's wrong?"
"All night I watch, I wait! Oh, you are back! Oh!" She straightened a little, still remaining within the protective circle of his arms, and dabbed at her eyes. "It is Esteban, señor! He is hurt, he is sick! I have no medicine. He cries and he cries that he is hurting, and when I touch him his skin burns! Oh, señor, please you have medicine for my baby?"
Al felt a cold band of terror closing on his heart.