CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Al closed his eyes against the desire to panic. "Stevie's sick?" he said as levelly as he could.
"Sí, yes, and he is hurt. He cries and he cries," Celestina exclaimed, her voice rising with anxiety. "Please, I have no medicine. Please you have medicine! Please you have medicine!"
It was more like a prayer than a question. Al took her hand and drew her into the house. "Okay, tell me what happened," he said.
"Last night he wakes, saying his stomach is hurting. I sing him to sleep. But this morning he is sick; all his breakfast comes up. And still he is sore. By night he cries and cries that he is hurting, and his head is hot. Oh, my baby, my baby." Celestina hid her head in her hands.
"I've got some aspirin. Do you think he'll take it?" Al asked, striding into the kitchen. "I'd better come over and take a look."
"Oh, please, please, yes!" Celestina cried, clinging gratefully to Al's arm as he hurried into the living room.
"Hey!" Sharon shrieked, snatching up her gown and trying to cover herself with the skirt. Al didn't spare his wife's state of undress a second thought as he pulled on his pants.
"I'm gonna go take a look at Stevie," he said, hurrying back into the kitchen and snatching the bottle of aspirin from the cutlery drawer. As he hastened from the house, he had just the presence of mind to force on one left shoe and one right shoe.
Celestina hurrying after him, Al ran up the street to the tiny trailer. The door hung wide, and the sound of weak, miserable whimpers floated out into the cold desert night. Al sprung up the step and into the single little room.
The candle Celestina used for evening illumination flickered on the table. In the shelf-bed lay Stevie, his forehead slick with sweat and his innocent eyes glazed with pain. Al threw the aspirin down on the table and knelt next to him.
"Hey, Stevie," he said gently, taking one chubby little hand in his and running his other index finger over a clammy cheek. "Stevie, buddy, can you hear me?"
"Mithta Al," the boy moaned thickly. "Mithta Al. Owie."
"It hurts, buddy?" Al asked, drawing back the covers and lifting up the ragged t-shirt that served the little boy as pyjamas. Stevie whimpered, and a fat tear trickled out of his eye. He nodded. "Okay. You're a brave boy. I just need you to tell me where it hurts, okay?"
He pressed the left side of the child's belly gently. Stevie looked up at him, his dark eyes as trusting as if Al had been some kind authority on the subject of illness. The fingers moved across, and suddenly Stevie cried out in pain. Al pressed the swollen place again, and as he released the child started to cry.
"Hurts me, hurts me," he sobbed.
"Okay, sport. Hang in there," Al said. Celestina came up behind him.
"See, Esteban, Señor Calavicci has brought medicine," she said, holding out a tablet and a glass of water.
Al shook his head. "We gotta get him to the hospital," he said. "He needs a doctor."
"Why? What is wrong?" Celestina cried.
"I think…" Al palpitated the child's abdomen again. Stevie whimpered again. "I think it's his appendix. Hey, Stevie, how 'bout we go for a little car ride?" He sat the child up and started to wrap him in the quilt.
"Car ride?" Stevie asked.
"But Señor—" Celestina began.
"We can't waste time," Al said. "He's got to get to a doctor." With a small grunt of effort he lifted the child and left the trailer. Celestina blew out the candle and followed.
A minute later Al was struggling to drag the tarp off of the Corvette. Celestina hurried to help him. She got into the passenger seat, and Al settled the boy on her lap. He ran into the house and caught up his keys and wallet. Sharon came running out of the bedroom, wrapped in her housecoat.
"Do you mind telling me what on earth you were thinking, letting a stranger into the house while I was lying there naked?" she roared. "I've never been so humiliated in—"
Al didn't have time to hear it. "I'm taking Stevie and Celestina up to the hospital," he said. "He's really sick."
"What? What's wrong?" Sharon exclaimed.
"What am I, a doctor? He's sick," Al repeated. "I've gotta go."
He sped from the house, and Sharon ran after him. "Hang on! You've been drinking!" she cried. Deaf to the protestation, Al flung himself into the driver's seat and took off as fast as he dared.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThe emergency room was surprisingly crowded. Al strode through, quilt-swathed child in his arms and anxious mother on his heels. The receptionist looked up.
"Name?" she said.
"Calavicci. He needs to see a doctor," Al said briskly. "I think it's his appendix."
"How do you spell that, please?"
"Damn it, we can fill the forms out later. He's been in pain since last night!"
"Name, please."
"Esteban," Celestina said. "Esteban Penja."
"That's P-E-N-J-A," Al said. "He's seven years old, and—" Stevie moaned a little, and a small hand worked its way free of the wrapping to touch Al's cheek. Al jiggled the child gently. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay. You're gonna be fine."
"Hurts me," the boy repeated.
"I know, sport. Just hang in there," Al choked out. He squared his shoulders as best he could, sending a pang of pain through the muscles of his left. "Look, could we hurry it up, please?"
"Just have a seat and fill out this form," the woman said, handing Celestina a clipboard. "Then we'll get you into the queue."
Fresh panic visited the distressed mother's eyes. Al tried to smile bracingly. "Let's sit down," he said. "You can hold Stevie: I'll fill out the form."
"Sí, gracias," Celestina whispered, moving towards the nearest pair of vacant plastic chairs.
With Stevie settled in his mother's lap, Al began to fill in the form, getting the details from Celestina. He noted with pride that his hand was steady as a rock and that the semi-inebriated fog that had clouded his mind earlier in the evening was gone now. He raked a hand through his tousled hair and returned to the desk.
"Here. Can we please see a doctor?" he said.
"You'll be triaged and put in line," the woman promised.
"Look, he's really sick! He's running a fever and everything!"
"As soon as we can put you through, Mr. Penja, we'll put you through," the woman said, kindness in her eyes but no nonsense in her voice. "Just have a seat and try not to worry."
"Calavicci," Al said softly, but he knew when he was defeated, and he moved off.
For what seemed like years he sat, his arm wrapped around Celestina and his leg bearing part of Stevie's weight. The child sobbed quietly now and then, calling out to Al or his mother. Still no one seemed to be admitted, and the line, wherever they had been placed in it, did not seem to move at all.
At last a nurse in clinical white called out, "Esteban Penja?", and Al took Stevie from Celestina, his tired arms protesting. He carried him through to the ward full of gurneys, and laid him down on a vacant bed.
"I'm just going to take a quick blood sample," the nurse said, feeling the child's head. "You're running a temperature, aren't you, honey?"
"How soon can the doctor see him?" Al asked, unwrapping the boy and lifting the sheets up over his small body. Celestina petted her child's cheek, tears streaming down her face.
"As soon as she has a minute," the nurse promised. "Don't worry. He's going to be fine."
"No, he hasn't been himself for months," Al said hastily. "Please, I'm sure it's his appendix!"
"If it is, the blood test will show it," she said, swabbing the boy's arm. "Papa's going to hold your hand, Esteban. This will hurt a little, but remember Papa's right here. Hold his hand," she prompted when Al didn't quite understand her view of the matter.
"Sure, right," he said, obeying. He bent over the small, fevered face. "Hey, sport. I'm right here. Your mama and me, we're right here."
"Mama? Mama?" Stevie echoed.
"Here, Esteban. Mama is here," Celestina promised, kissing his forehead and smoothing his chair.
"Here we go," the nurse said. "Hold Papa's hand tight."
Al didn't bother to correct her. Stevie was the important one, and to hell with what anyone else thought. "Hold my hand tight, Stevie," he said. "It's going to hurt a little."
The needle broke the skin and Stevie cried out in fear. Al gripped his hand and rubbed his arm as the nurse skilfully drew two vials of blood. "That's a brave boy," she said, removing the offending metal and wiping up the trail of red with a cotton swab, which she then taped over the puncture. "You get some rest. The doctor will be along soon."
She moved off, and Celestina began to cry in earnest. "My baby, my poor baby," she sobbed. "I pray, I pray to the Madonna." Her voice grew stronger, more determined, as she drew a worn wooden Rosary from her pocket. Crossing herself and kissing the medallion, she began to murmur the Apostles' Creed in Spanish.
Al knew that prayers were pointless, but he wasn't going to snatch away her only comfort. Instead he set about trying to keep Stevie happy. "Hey, sport," he said. "You want to play 'I Spy'?"
Stevie tried to nod bravely. "What do you thpy?" he asked.
"I spy with my little eye… something that is… blue," Al said, looking at the curtain dividing this bed from the next.
"Mama's dreth?" Stevie asked, eying the worn calico.
"Nnnnope!" Al said brightly. "Try again."
Stevie's brow furrowed with concentration. "The round thing?" he tried, pointing at an ear syringe lying on a tray of instruments.
"Nope!" Al repeated.
Stevie's face screwed itself into a mask of intense thought. He whimpered a little. "The thky?" he tried.
"That's right!" Al applauded. "The sky's blue, isn't it, Stevie?"
The child nodded, his lower lip trembling. Al stroked his cheek.
"It hurts a lot, doesn't it, sport?" he asked quietly.
"Hurts, Mithta Al," Stevie moaned. He started to cry. "I brave," he said, trying valiantly to deny the pain. "I not cry. I brave."
"Hey, that's no way to talk," Al said. "Even the bravest people are allowed to cry when they've got a hurt tummy. It's okay to cry then."
"Yeth?" Stevie whispered.
"Yes!" Al said. "I'll bet George Washington cried when his tummy hurt."
Stevie smiled. He loved the story of George Washington. One of the aides at school had told it to him, and it had captured his imagination entirely. "George, George," he said.
"Yeah, sport. George. You know, one time him and Jefferson, they went to a party and they ate ten of Mama's tortillas! They had really bad stomach aches, and they cried a bit, but the doctors came and made them all better," Al said.
This time Stevie's response was softer, almost drowsy. "Yeth?"
"Yes," Al whispered, smoothing the damp curls clinging to the child's forehead.
Time crawled by. The emergency ward bustled around them, but in their little space the Penjas and Al remained still and almost silent. Celestina's beads clicked, and her voice continued, low and rapid, reciting the same prayers over and over. The same empty prayers, Al thought bitterly as he tried in some small way to alleviate Stevie's suffering. He wished with all his heart that he could take the child's agony on himself. What had to be soul-killing, mind-numbing anguish to the sick little boy would be nothing to him. If only he could steal away Stevie's pain. If only he could spare him this misery.
If only the doctor would come. It must have been hours now since they'd come in, and still there was no sign of a white coat and stethoscope. The nurse came back with a pitcher of water—plastic cup for Stevie and a couple of paper ones for Al and Celestina—but all she did was reiterate that the doctor would be here as soon as she could be. After a while she returned and they had to coax a urine sample out of the pain-wracked child, but still the doctor did not come.
The greatest if only of all was the worst. If only, Al thought miserably as he watched Stevie doze fretfully, the fever still smouldering and the pain still furrowing his face, he could forget for a minute about Douglas Kennedy.
Doug was a pilot. Air Force. Twenty-two years old, shot down on his fourth goddamned mission. Charlie liked to beat him, 'cause the kid had the tenacity of a hero. He'd always come out with a smart remark or some kind of retort. He was the best liar under torture that Al had ever seen. That kid gave him the strength he needed to fight through another day. That was the kind of guy Doug was.
It was in the summer of '69 that he got sick. Started with a stomach ache, and then he tossed his rice—in itself not an uncommon occurrence even among the healthy, but Doug couldn't even keep boiled water down, which was another thing altogether. By sunset the pain was worse, bad enough that he was actually complaining. Before midnight he was gasping and moaning. His appendix, Macalchuk had said, and medic that he was he ought to know. Then suddenly the pain stopped, and the hard stone of swelling in his right side was gone. He died before morning, and the V.C. didn't care.
Stevie wasn't going to die, Al told himself. The doctor would come, and find out what was wrong. Maybe it wasn't even his appendix. If it was, they'd just take it out. Al had had it done himself when he was a couple years older than Stevie. It wasn't such a big deal. As long as you got medical attention right away, you'd be fine.
Right away, a nasty voice hissed. But Stevie hadn't got help right away. He'd been in pain last night. More than twenty-four hours now since the first pain. By this time, Doug Kennedy had been dead.
But Doug had been starved, worn down by months of torture and deprivation, with no hope for a future any different from the recent past. Stevie was well fed, cared for, with a Mama who loved him and a beautiful, full life ahead of him. Stevie wouldn't die. Not now that they'd got him to the hospital.
"Mr. Penja? Mrs. Penja?"
A young woman with feathery brown hair peered around the curtain. She smiled kindly as she stepped into the enclosure. "I'm Lenore Ivers. I'm one of the residents here. Now, I understand that Esteban's been having some stomach pains…"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMMWMThe physical examination was concluded quickly, and Lenore took her leave to check on the blood test results. Celestina resumed her Rosary where she had left it. From what little Al remembered of the childhood ritual she was on her third cycle, now praying the Glorious Mysteries. The real not-so-glorious mystery, as far as Calavicci was concerned, was why a God who said He was good and loving let the kids like Stevie and Trudy be the kids who got sick. Like they didn't have troubles enough.
Stevie had slipped into a restless sleep when Doctor Ivers came back. She lifted the boy's ratty night garment and palpitated his abdomen again. Stevie whimpered but did not awake. Celestina's Rosary dropped to her lap as she petted his poor little face.
The resident frowned. "It looks like appendicitis," she said.
"But?" Al said, his voice coming out more harshly than he intended.
She looked up at him where he stood defensively by the head of Stevie's gurney. "But the white cell counts are off," she said. "Too few functioning cells for it to be an infection."
She turned back to the child as if she expected Al to fall silent at this answer. Not a chance.
"It's appendicitis," he said. "I've seen it before."
"We can't just cut him open without more conclusive evidence, Mr. Penja. I'm sorry," she said. "We can hold him for observation today, but—"
"Damn it, he needs to get that thing out before it bursts!" Al cried. "You think it's his appendix, don't you?"
"I'm telling you, he hasn't got an infection," she said. "The blood work just doesn't support it."
"Maybe the blood work is wrong," Al said.
Lenore shook her head. "We have an excellent pathology staff. They're certain there's no infection there. Without an ultrasound there's no way that we can confirm it's his appendix until he develops more specific symptoms."
"And if he doesn't?" Al snapped. She turned helpless eyes on him. He frowned. "Why can't he get an ultrasound?"
Lenore sighed. "Mr. Penja, this visit is already costing you upwards of a thousand dollars. If we do wind up operating, you're looking at considerably more. Now, I want to help Esteban, but the hospital can't afford to be saddled with any additional charges in the event that you default—"
"Default?" Al roared, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. "You listen to me!"
"Mr. Penja, I'm sorry, but for people of your economic background it's a calculated risk, and that risk doesn't include ultraso—"
"First of all!" Al exclaimed, releasing her wrathfully. "My name isn't Penja. It's Calavicci. Second, I'm a captain in the United States Navy. Here—" He dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his identification, which he thrust into her hands. "And here's my goddamn credit card! You'll get your money. Whatever tests Stevie needs I'll pay for: just damned well hurry up!"
Celestina got to her feet. "No, señor, it is too much!" she exclaimed.
"Sit down!" Al ordered. "I'm not going to let Stevie die!" He turned back to the frightened resident. "If an ultrasound's what he needs you book him in for one right now, you hear? We're not going to sit here and wait till it gets worse!"
"I'm sorry," Ivers stammered, staring at Al's ID. "I didn't realize—"
She raked her eyes over his body and Al looked down. His once immaculately pressed dress pants were rumpled from hours in the waiting room. He was without a shirt, only his undershirt covering his chest. Scars showed on his bare arms and shoulders. He was wearing one yellow shoe and one brown, neither of which was tied properly. And, he realized ruefully, he reeked of liquor from the bourbon face-wash Sharon had given him. "Yeah," he said, running a hand through his disordered hair. "I guess I don't blame you there. Maybe we've both learned a little lesson about appearances, huh?"
"I'm sorry," she repeated, and there were tears in her eyes when she looked at him. "It isn't that I don't want to do my best for every child who comes through here, but…"
She cast her eyes away in shame. Al smiled gently and cupped his hand on her cheek.
"But you have your orders," he said, his voice wry and kind. "I know what it's like. Ultrasound?"
She nodded. "I'll just alert them."
She left swiftly. Al turned back to the bed. As he did, Celestina rose again, panic born anew in her eyes. "Esteban!" she cried. "He could die?"
Al ran around the gurney and enfolded her in his arms, stroking her hair soothingly. "No, no. He's not going to die," he promised. "That's just me being stupid and dramatic. You hear me? I was just being stupid. They're going to give him another test, and they'll take him in for a little surgery, and he'll be fine. Just fine. Don't worry."
"Gracias, Señor Calavicci," Celestina whispered, clinging to him. "Muchos, muchos gracias. Usted es un angel. Usted es un angel."
"Naw," Al said softly, rocking her from side to side. "I'm just a stubborn idiot."