CHAPTER TWENTY
Sharon flung her brushes into the turpentine and stomped into the living room. Chester trotted after her, and she began to rant as if the dog could actually do something about the situation.
"One minute he's ready to shack up with a vengeance, the next thing I know I'm in a heap on the floor while he's got his arms around his little Mexican doll!" she railed furiously, peeling off the paint shirt and undoing the top two buttons of her blouse. "If that's not enough, he brings her in here while I'm sitting there with what the good Lord gave me hanging out for all to see! Then he takes off at two in the morning—drunk!—to drive that woman's kid to the hospital, and I don't even hear from him 'til noon! And after that? Not a word, not a phone call. For all I know the kid's dead, or he's been arrested for running around half-naked, or abducted by the mob 'cause they think he works for a rival Family!"
She glared at Chester, who yelped and stood up on his hind legs, doing the trick Al called "dancing". He overbalanced and fell back down on all fours, but a moment later he was jumping against her leg, returning for more each time he bounced off. Sharon began to pace wrathfully.
"Christmas Eve, and what am I doing? Bouncing off the walls of this miserable little trailer, waiting for that man to come home from spending the day at the hospital with a couple of strangers!" she cried. "Oh! And how, exactly, do I know he's really at the hospital? For all I know that's just an excuse, and he's halfway to Mexico with that woman already!"
The roar of the Corvette made Sharon instantly repentant of those thoughts. Al had torn through here like the Devil was after him, and he wouldn't have done that if his intention had been to take off on her. He would have planned things more carefully. He would have, at the very least, put on a shirt.
She heard him fumbling with the lock, and smoothed her wild hair, trying to look as desirable as possible so as not to derail any attempts to pick up where they had left off the night before. Then the door opened and Al trudged into the house. When he came around the corner from the kitchen, Sharon stared in disbelief.
He hardly looked human. His skin was a horrible, sallow color. The shadows under his eyes were as black as fresh bruises. Every one of the fine lines on his face, all but invisible at other times, stood out like a crevice. It was as if ten years of tireless labor had fallen on his shoulders overnight. He stooped, his pale arms limp, and his step was heavy. His hair was tousled and disordered, standing in every direction. His corneas were red and bloodshot with weariness. The gauntness of his features could not be denied. In his rumpled and sweat-soaked clothes, he showed no trace of her handsome, energetic and dapper husband.
"Al?" she whispered.
"Sher," he mumbled, trudging past her and into the bedroom. Sharon followed.
"Is Esteban… is he…"
"He's fine, he's sleeping," Al said. "He's gonna be fine. Just came to grab a shirt. Everyone's looking at me like I came down the mountain with Jed Clampett."
"Y-you mean you're going back?" Sharon asked. "I don't think—"
"Yeah," he said. "Just going to pick up some stuff for Celestina. She'll stay the night, but they won't let me. Nozzles."
Sharon moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. She didn't think he realized how heavily he leaned into her embrace as he pulled a shirt off of its hanger. "You shouldn't go back, baby," she said.
Al shook his head intractably. "Promised Celestina," he said. "And I wanna check on Stevie."
He pulled loose of her hold and moved towards the door, stumbling and catching himself against the bed. With a heavy sigh, he sank down onto the mattress, drawing his hand across his head as if trying to physically push the exhaustion into the deepest recesses of his mind. Sharon came to him and pulled his head against her stomach, petting his hair.
"Al, you can hardly walk," she said. "You tell me what Celestina needs, and I'll take it up to the hospital. Besides, that way she'll know you're not her only support."
"She'd like that," Al allowed. "Be good for her to know she has someone else to count on. Someone who…"
His voice trailed off and he shook his head. "Needs a nightgown, change of clothes. Toothbrush. Told her I'd pick up some supper."
"Anything else?" Sharon asked. Al shook his head.
"Gotta hurry," he said. "Visiting hours end at eight. Pediatrics on the fourth floor."
"I'll find it," Sharon said. She made it as far as the door when she paused. "What's her address?"
Al laughed hollowly. "It's number 39," he said. "Don't need a key: locks been broken for a year and a half."
Sharon didn't like that, but she left the room. The last thing she saw as she went was Al falling backwards onto the bed with an almost inaudible moan.
In the gathering dusk, Sharon made her way to the end of their street, where a tiny trailer, the kind that well-to-do suburban couples took on cross-country jaunts—or from the look of this one, had taken on cross-country jaunts some time in the 'fifties—huddled in a lovingly kept yard. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly as she opened the door and entered the humble dwelling.
She found the light switch, but nothing happened when she switched it on. She groped for the light in the kitchen area, but that, too, didn't work. Then she tried the stove. Nothing. There wasn't any electricity.
Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she spotted a book of matches and a candle on the little table. She lit the latter with the former, and a suffused glow filled the small space. She looked from the shelf made up as a bed to the tiny kitchenette with its peeling cupboards, then peered into the closet-like space housing the toilet. She went to the sink in the kitchen and turned the tap. It gurgled, and a jet of yellowish water spurted out. At least they had plumbing, she reflected.
The room, though tiny and poverty-stricken, was immaculately clean. Even the worn carpet looked as if it had been lovingly shampooed. Under the bed there were drawers. Sharon knelt and opened one. Inside was a Spanish Bible, a velvet jewellery box that she recognized as one Al had picked up on their honeymoon, a porcelain figurine of the Virgin Mary, a worn wooden hairbrush with a beautifully carved handle, a photograph of Celestina and a young man in one another's arms, and another of a chubby baby swaddled in colourful shawls. That had to be Esteban, Sharon reflected. In the very bottom of the drawer was an old leather sleeve, inside of which were two birth certificates: Celestina's, from California, and Esteban's, from Arizona; and a notice of deportation for a man named Carlos Emilio Penja. Celestina's husband.
Feeling like an intruder, Sharon took the hairbrush, closed that drawer and opened the next. It held a battered sewing kit, scissors, a whetstone, and a box of ornate tin cookie-cutters, which with the kerosene hotplate on the kitchen counter serving as the only source of cooking heat, Celestina would not have much use for. The next drawer had a little knapsack in it, and three simple English books that Sharon was almost certain neither occupant of this trailer could read. The fourth and final drawer held the Penjas' meager supply of clothing.
Sharon picked out the least shabby of the two ragged nightgowns, and the prettiest dress, which was cheap but practically new. She found a couple pairs of well-darned undergarments and a threadbare chemise as well. These she folded carefully into a bundle. Celestina's toothbrush was by the sink, but there was only a ceramic box of baking soda in place of toothpaste. Sharon left it, deciding that she'd swing by a drugstore and pick up a tube of the real stuff.
Taking a last look around the wretched little room, Sharon snuffed the candle and left, closing the door firmly behind her. There was no need for a lock, she reflected unhappily. They had nothing—and she meant nothing—worth stealing.
She returned to her own trailer, which was in comparison a palace of luxury, and got a canvas tote bag from her studio. Into it she placed Celestina's clothes. She peered into the bedroom, where Al was lying curled on his side, rubbing Chester's belly while the terrier thumped the mattress with his hind leg, eyes closed in bliss. Sharon caught up her purse and the keys to the Corvette, and took off.
There was a strip mall a quarter of a mile from the trailer park, and she stopped there to grab some toothpaste. On impulse, she picked up a new toothbrush too, recalling the splayed bristles of the one in the car. At the till there was a display of children's toothbrushes, too, with fairies or race cars or jungle animals moulded into the handles. She grabbed one of the latter as well, and a box of Chiclets.
She was on her way back to the car when she caught sight of the small Sears outlet at the other end of the building. Thinking of the ragged nightie, she strode off in that direction.
She didn't know Celestina's size, but she could guess, and anyway most women liked their sleepwear loose. She found an ankle-length cotton garment in a pattern of blue roses. It wasn't her kind of thing, but it looked like what Celestina's once had been before years of wear and hand-laundering had turned them into patches and tatters. Besides, the color was gorgeous and would suit the other woman's complexion perfectly. A quick inspection of the shelf of sundries turned up a matching pair of terrycloth mules. Sharon then stopped by the underwear to pick up a two packs of half-a-dozen panties, one small and one medium.
She had to pass through the children's section on her way to the front, and it occurred to her that the boy would probably be in the hospital for a few days, and it wouldn't hurt to bring him some pyjamas either. She had to consult the sales clerk about the size, but settled on a pair covered in space ships. Luke had liked space ships when he was about Stevie's age. She remembered watching the Apollo 20 moon landing with him at the tail end of his obsession. When it occurred to her abruptly that that had been Al's mission, five years ago to the day, the question was settled.
Forty dollars poorer but filled with the smug happiness that spending money always gave her, Sharon hurried back to the parking lot. It was only quarter after seven, and anyway, everybody knew you could always charm a few more minutes' visiting time out of harried hospital staff.
Not until she reached the hospital did Sharon remember Al's mandate about supper, so she went to the cafeteria for a Styrofoam bowl of vegetable soup and a couple of dinner rolls. Now heavy-laden with offerings of all sorts, she made her way up to Pediatrics.
The woman at the nurses' station directed her to a private room (odd, because she didn't think Celestina was in any position to afford a private room…) where Esteban lay fast asleep in a whimsically dressed bed. Sharon knocked lightly on the open door, and Celestina turned expectantly.
A brief frown was replaced by a smile. "Senora Calavicci!" she whispered, getting to her feet. "Your husband, he said he would come with things."
"I came instead," Sharon said, coming into the room and setting her burdens on the wheeled table near the wall. She approached the bed. "How is he?"
"Well. The doctors say that he is well," Celestina said, her voice strained with joy and nervous relief. "He sleeps now."
"I see that," Sharon said, returning to her purchases. "I brought you some supper," she said. "And I picked up the things Al said, but there are some presents in the other bags."
Celestina frowned. "Presents?" she said.
"Gifts," Sharon repeated. "Merry Christmas."
Still puzzled, Celestina opened the bag from Sears. She drew out the pyjamas first, smiling in delight. "To wear to school?" she asked, nodding at Esteban.
Sharon laughed. "No! They're pyjamas! To wear at the hospital, and in bed."
"Oh!" Celestina said. "But they are so handsome."
"Don't let him wear them to school!" Sharon instructed firmly. "The other kids will laugh."
Celestina's face fell. "They already laugh," she said in a fragile whisper. "My poor baby."
Impulsively, Sharon gripped the other woman's arm. "I'm sorry," she said.
Celestina smiled. "But Senor Calavicci is his friend, and Chester. Now he is not so lonely." She reached into the bag again and drew out the nightgown. She stared at it. "No, no," she said. "I do not need it. No. I wear my old one. Already Senor Calavicci has done too much."
"It's not from Senor Calavicci: it's from me," Sharon said firmly. "And you can't wear your old one around the hospital: it's got more love and luck holding it together than anything."
Celestina was staring at the slippers and the underwear now, too. "It is too much," she repeated.
"No, it's Christmas!" Sharon said. "You give your friends presents at Christmas!"
Celestina looked at her desolately. "But for you I have no present," she said.
Sharon laughed. "Tell you what," she said. "When Esteban's all better you can make me up another batch of those churros things, and that can be my present. Better yet, maybe you can teach me how to make them. But I gotta warn you, I'm not much of a cook."
An enormous smile spread across Celestina's face. "Sí," she said. "Sí, yes, that I can do! I teach you to make churros. It is very easy: anyone can learn it!"
She exclaimed over the toothbrushes and toothpaste, too, with such enthusiasm that Sharon was almost embarrassed. It was mind-boggling that such everyday things could be hailed like costly luxuries. Then she sat by the sleeping boy while his mother ate, and by that time visiting hours were over. Sharon took her leave, but not before Celestina lavished more thanks on her and on Al.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMIt was twenty after eight when Sharon got home, and Al was in the shower. She could hear soft grunts of pleasure or pain under the roar of the water. She bent to pat Chester's head, where he lay with his nose under the door, then went back to the kitchen and dug out a can of soup.
By the time Al emerged, wearing only pyjama pants and rubbing his hair vigorously with a towel, she had supper on the table: soup, cheese, salami and hot buttered toast. Al went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey.
"Supper's ready," Sharon said.
" 'M not hungry," Al said.
"When did you last eat?" Sharon challenged.
"Lunch. Late lunch. Three o'clock," Al said. "I had lasagne."
"Well, it's almost nine, and I think you should eat," Sharon informed him firmly.
Al knocked back half the whiskey and shook his head. "I'm not hungry."
"Well, at least sit down and keep me company," Sharon said. Al shrugged and sat. "I picked up some pyjamas for Celestina and Esteban," she told him. "Her stuff is really disgraceful."
"That was good of you," Al said flatly. His eyelids hung leadenly at half-mast. Sharon heard a gurgling noise that brought a frown to her lips.
"What did you have for lunch again?" she asked conversationally.
"Turkey sandwich," Al mumbled, sipping at his whiskey.
"I knew it! You didn't eat!" Sharon exclaimed, filling a bowl with soup. "Here. Cream of mushroom. I made it just for you."
Al stared dumbly at the soup and dragged his spoon through it. "You made this?" he asked.
"Scooped it out of the can and added a cup of milk all by myself!" Sharon said proudly.
Al blinked, looking more and more like a half-conscious calf. "My second wife," he said. "She used to make this potato soup, right from scratch. Best potato soup I ever had."
"You want a helpmeet or you want an appetizer chef?" Sharon asked. "Now eat some toast."
Al shook his head and took a spoonful of the soup. "Don't need toast."
"Yes you do," contradicted Sharon, ripping a piece in half and forcing it into his other hand. "Eat it!" He didn't obey. "Eat it!"
He lifted the bread to his lips and chewed methodically, letting it drop to the table.
Sharon replaced it with a piece of salami. "Try that," she ordered. "Now more soup."
In this way she managed to get Al through a halfway decent meal. By the time his bowl was empty, though, he was almost unconscious where he sat, so Sharon helped him to his feet and led him to the bedroom. He fell heavily onto the mattress. She was tempted to climb right in and join him, but then it occurred to her that it drove him crazy when she left the house a mess.
Tucking him carefully in and smoothing his curls, she went back into the kitchen and started on the dishes.