CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Christmas Eve there were few people present on the Starbright premises. Only a handful, the most solitary of a naturally secretive bunch, remained. They were the ones without family, without friends to turn to in the holiday season. Without even the desire to drive into town and see a movie. These were the disillusioned, the lonely, the embittered, and the pathologically dedicated. The kind of people who, tonight of all nights, were especially vulnerable to the charms of a charismatic young Human Resources specialist. Through the day Dan Penvenen had worked his H.R. magic on every member of the staff still on site, but one. It was that one he sought now as he made his way down towards the chem labs, but his mind was not on her or on the search. He was thinking about Captain Albert Calavicci.
He didn't understand what Congressman Davies had against the Project Administrator. As far as Dan could see, they were remarkably similar, considering that one was a half-Italian street urchin from the seediest part of New York City, and the other the scion of a wealthy family of old Southern blood. Both were glaringly informal and dazzlingly charismatic. They shared the same basically hedonistic approach to life. Both were dirty-minded middle-aged stagnants, too fond of wine and women, their days as valiant Naval fliers forgotten by all but themselves and whatever unfortunate officer in the Quartermaster's department had to keep them supplied with fresh-looking chest adornments. They had both done time in Vietnam and both (Dan prided himself on having noticed) wore white bracelets of scar tissue around each wrist. Indeed, the only difference that he could see was Calavicci's string of failed marriages, and the fact that, as far as he could tell, the captain had not cheated on his wife, the glitzy but aging painter who had successfully railroaded the Christmas party. Davies had been married to the same woman for thirty years, and to the best of Dan's knowledge, slept with her only under extreme duress, when there was absolutely no cocktail waitress, floozy, bimbo or prostitute to be found.
Yet despite their similar outlook on life and the shared suffering of the war, Davies hated Calavicci. It wasn't something he had exactly kept secret. He hadn't broadcast it, either, but one of Dan Penvenen's greatest assets was his ability to read people's feeling to such a degree that explicit instructions were unnecessary. Nevertheless, he didn't see what problem his lecherous, pleasure-loving contact had with this lecherous, pleasure-loving officer.
His own problems with Calavicci were far more self-evident… as were Doctor Eleese's.
To Dan's surprise she was in the lab, bent low over a distillation apparatus, her dark curls heaped haphazardly on her head. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, he reflected dispassionately. More appealing than her beauty, however, was her grave demeanor and her refusal to tolerate the sort of nonsense that seemed endemic wherever Calavicci passed.
"Doctor?" Dan said, waiting circumspectly for permission to come further into her workspace.
She raised her head. "Who are you?"
"Dan Penvenen, Human Resources," he said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your work…"
"It's not work; I'm just playing around," Eleese demurred. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm concerned about recent relations between the scientists—the heart of Starbright, as it were—and the administrative staff. I was wondering what your thoughts were on the matter."
Eleese cocked her head to one side. "The administrative staff is tolerable. I've found Prysock to be most helpful since his promotion."
"And Calavicci?" Penvenen asked.
Her eyes took on a guarded look. "Everyone loves Calavicci, now don't they?"
Penvenen affected mild surprise. "Do they?" he said. Then he met her frown with a warm smile. "May I have a seat?" he asked, indicating one of the stools at her workbench.
MWMWMWMWMWMMWWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl knew that he wasn't in Vietnam because he couldn't smell the jungle. Because he could feel the pain, though, he knew he wasn't free. The pain… this agony that was at once dull and stabbing, bone-deep smoldering and fire on the surface. His arms, heavy as the iron bars they would hobble you with, yet not numb. Wrapped in anguish, each muscle protesting. His back and his neck, tormented and twisted, distracted him not at all from the anguish in his shoulders. His shoulders. The left one was out of its socket again. Al wondered frantically if they would ever be normal…
The joint ground against the adjacent bones, and Al awoke with a gasp of pain, his body scissoring involuntarily as he sat up, right hand moving spastically to clutch his shoulder, trying to arrest the convulsion tearing through it. Coming as it did from the depths of slumber, the agony caught him with his guard at its lowest, and he couldn't suppress the sobbing gasp that articulated his suffering.
A second later, Sharon was awake. "What's wrong?" she exclaimed. "Al! Al!"
He tried to answer, to tell her that he was okay, but the spasm continued and his legs twitched against the mattress, kicking in desperation as he tried to wake up enough to control the pain. Another arrow of agony shot into the joint and he choked on the scream.
Sharon seized him just above the elbows. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" she exclaimed.
"Nothing, nothing," Al wheezed through grinding teeth. His fingers worked, massaging the shoulder and struggling to force the pain into it and away. Sharon tried to stroke his face, but he jerked away, desperate to control, or at least to hide, his distress. His chest heaved and shuddered. He locked his jaw over the sounds of anguish.
At last it was over. The piercing darts of torment were gone, replaced by a terrible, penetrating ache. Even the tiniest motion threatened to bring back the spasms, but if he stayed still, very, very still, it wasn't so bad.
"Baby, are you okay?" Sharon whispered, smoothing his cheek. "Al? Honey?"
"Fine," he gasped. "Just fine."
She flicked on the light and he was momentarily blinded. Then a hand touched his tortured joint and he jerked back with a sharp exclamation.
"Don't!" he growled.
"But Al—"
"I said don't!" he snapped, getting out of bed and stumbling to the door. He whacked himself on the post, and cried out. Ashamed of his lack of control, he fled to the kitchen. Lights weren't necessary for what he was doing, though the effort of holding the bottle still with his left hand almost brought tears to his eyes. The first jolt of whiskey calmed him, however, and his mind started to come back into its own, compartmentalizing and denying and finally minimizing the pain. Finally he worked up the courage to prod his shoulder, feeling to reassure himself that everything was in the right place.
There was a sound of bare feet on the old carpet, and Sharon came into the room, hugging her bathrobe to her body. "Al?" she whispered. "Was it another nightmare?"
Al flinched at her words, and took another mouthful of whiskey. "No. Muscle spasms, that's all."
She came up behind him and tried to massage some of the tension out of his back. Al shrugged her off. "I said it's nothing," he told her harshly.
"Al, would you please—"
"I said it's nothing," he snarled. "My arms are just sore from toting Stevie around. Now leave me alone."
He shuffled past her and into the living room, picking up the afghan from the sofa and wrapping himself in it. He sat down in his armchair, tucking his feet under his body and hugging the blanket close. Sharon came near in the gloom and tried to pet his hair, but he tossed his head to shake her off.
"Al, if you're hurt—"
"I'm not hurt! Go back to bed!" Al snapped.
Sharon stood still for a moment, peering at him. Then she sighed and shook her head in disgust. "Fine," she said. "If you want to sit here and feel sorry for yourself, go ahead. If, on the other hand, you want some holiday cheer… I'll be in bed."
She strode away, and a moment later the light went out. Al sat in the dark, shivering and grinding his teeth against the persistent ache in his shoulder. Presently, he heard the jingle of collar tabs, and the padding of tiny feet. He patted his knee with his right hand. Chester sprung first onto the chair, and then onto Al's legs, trotting forward and nestling within the cocoon of the blanket. With the warm weight of the furry body on his chest, the rough tongue lapping fondly at his arm, and the afghan around him to limit his universe, Al soon drifted off to sleep, curled in the chair like a child awaiting Christmas morning.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl awoke to the sunlight and the unpleasant memory of yesterday. Stevie was in the hospital after an appendectomy. His arms ached, left shoulder worst of all. He had to get up to the hospital and see how Celestina was holding up.
Sharon was asleep, his pillow hugged to her abdomen. Al gathered up some clothes from the closet, and then went to shower. Neatly clad and clean-shaven, he admired his reflection and noted with some smugness that they weren't going to take him for a charity case today!
He fed Chester, who had been stiffing at the all-but-forgotten presents under the little tree that Al had insisted on procuring and decorating. Sharon thought two adults ought to be past such juvenile rituals, but for Al, who had never had a proper Christmas as a child (and for that matter few enough as an adult), a tree was an important part of the ambiance. Besides, Chester liked it.
Having taken care of the dog, Al helped himself to a little liquid courage to ease the trembling in his hands, and left the trailer. Noting with annoyance that Sharon had neglected to cover the Corvette, he got into the car and started down the street. At the turn he braked, navigating instead towards the Penjas' trailer.
An ancient station wagon was parked on the curb in front of it, and the door to the trailer hung wide. Al got out of his own vehicle, livid with indignation. Squatters? After one damned night?
The protective instinct overrode common sense, and he made no pretense of caution as he strode up the walk and into the trailer. As he did so, the man bending over Celestina's hot plate whirled, instantly on the defensive. Al, startled by the sudden motion, raised his fists into a fighting stance.
It didn't come to blows, which was fortunate, because Golden Gloves regional championship title aside, Al was twenty-five years older, nine inches shorter, and at least a hundred pounds lighter than the mass of humanity he was faced with. Broad, sinewy shoulders occupied a grimy T-shirt, strong, well-muscled arms raised in preparation for combat. The man's skin was deeply tanned, and his dark eyes were almost black. His hair was dark and curling, and he wore it long, bound back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. There was something about the hair or the shape of his eyebrows that reminded Al instantly of Stevie. He relaxed marginally as he realized who this must be.
"You're Celestina's brother-in-law!" he said, still keeping his fists at the ready, just in case.
"And who are you?" the man demanded. His English was much better than Celestina's, though there was something ineffably Mexican about his cadence and his attitude.
"Al Calavicci. I'm a neighbor."
The man paused, scrutinizing Al dubiously. "You're Calavicci?" he said. "Celestina said you were some kind of… well…"
"Some kind of what?" Al challenged. While they stood like this, both prepared at a moment's notice to try to tear one another's heads off, there was a feeling to the encounter that necessitated wariness.
"Some kind of big hero. Not a goofy little guy in red pants."
Al glanced down at his clothing and scowled. "And she didn't tell me you were a human gorilla, either," he retorted. "What's your name, anyway, and why are you in the house?"
"I'm Juan Penja, and I'm in the house because I always spend Christmas with Celestina and Esteban. They weren't here, so I just came in. The lock's been broken for a year and a half, you know."
Al lowered his fists and stood at ease. "I know," he said. But nobody else did.
"So where are they?" Juan demanded.
Al scratched the back of his neck. "Stevie had his appendix removed yesterday. They're up at the hospital."
"Hospital? Who's paying for that?" cried the young Mexican.
"Me," Al said. "Why? That a problem?"
"I don't know: you a loan shark?" Juan retorted fiercely.
Al laughed. "No. I'm a captain in the Navy and I happen to be really fond of your nephew, that's all."
Juan's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh, yeah?" he said.
Al nodded. "Well, yeah," he answered.
Suddenly Juan had one mighty hand clamped around each of Al's arms below the shoulder and was lifting him onto his toes. Only the whiskey ballast in his stomach and years of practice hiding his pain kept Al from crying out at the agony this caused in his shoulder.
"You some kind of pervert?" Juan rumbled. "You doin' things to Esteban?"
Al felt a sudden wave of nausea. "What?" he gasped.
" 'Cause I know he's a little retarded, and his mama don't speak English so great, but I'm not stupid, man, and if I find out you've been doing stuff to my brother's son, I'll kill you. Understand me?"
Juan released Al abruptly and he stumbled back against the shelf-bed, unable to keep from clutching his left shoulder as he fought the gorge rising in his throat. He couldn't even rouse himself to anger. The intimation that he would do anything to hurt Stevie, that he would do any such unthinkable thing to any child filled him with a crippling shame.
"I wouldn't hurt Stevie," he whispered, tears prickling in his eyes and heightening the sense of mortification that was sweeping over him. "I would never hurt him."
Juan frowned. "Hey, hang on…" he started.
The tone of standoffish apology woke the rage that Al had been unable to feel a moment ago. He sprung to his feet and surged forward to grab the front of the bigger man's shirt. "You listen to me, you nozzle," he said, choler overriding all inhibitions. "I had a sister like Stevie. I'd never hurt him or anybody like him. Celestina's having a hard time making it on her own, and I'm trying to help. How's the kid supposed to learn how to talk properly if he hasn't got someone to teach him? Who's going to keep the bullies away? I'm trying to help, and I don't appreciate you implying that I'm molesting him! I would never—God! I would never…"
His knees began to shake, and he released his hold. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, as if he could force back the thoughts of anyone doing… doing that to Stevie.
"Hey, man, I didn't mean to upset you," Juan said. "I just… he's my brother's kid, you know? I promised Carlos I'd look out for him when I could, and I don't get much chance or anything, but, you know, I try." He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and brought out a stainless steel flash. He held it out to Al. "Friends?" he asked.
Imprudently, Al uncapped the flask and knocked back a good long swallow of the contents. Gin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then gave the flask back to its owner, who also quaffed from it.
"So, listen," he said; "you want to tell me what ward they're on or something, so I can visit?"
Al let a guarded smile creep over his face. "Sure," he said. "You had breakfast?"
Juan shook his head. "Naw," he said. "I was trying to fix somethin', but it looks like maybe Celestina forgot to get the Christmas groceries."
MWWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMSharon awoke to the unexpected smell of omelet à la Calavicci. She would have expected Al to go charging off to the hospital first thing. She got out of bed, wrapping herself in her robe, and shuffled into the kitchen. Al was at the stove, busy with the frying pan. At the table, feeding bits of toast crust to Chester, was a muscular young man with long, dark hair. Sharon stared.
"What's this?" she asked.
Al turned from the stove, smiling broadly. "Sharon, this is Juan Penja, Stevie's uncle. Juan, my wife Sharon." He skillfully tipped the contents of the pan onto a plate and set it in front of the unexpected guest with a flourish. The other omelet, waiting on the counter, he gave to Sharon, then kissed her quickly. "I've got to get going," he said. "When you two are done eating come up to the hospital, okay?"
"O-okay," Sharon said, a bit taken aback. He was leaving her alone with a complete stranger?
"That's my girl," Al said, patting her on one buttock. He bent and gave Chester a quick pat on the head, then clapped Juan on the shoulder. "You take good care of my wife, okay?"
"Sure, Al," the man said. "You tell Celestina I'm coming, okay?"
Al nodded and hurried from the house. A moment later the Corvette peeled away.
Sharon put her hands on her hips. "I'll bet he didn't eat, did he?" she said.
"I dunno. Before he left the first time, probably," Juan said, methodically demolishing the omelet. "Pleased to meet you, by the way."
"Oh… yeah… pleased to meet you," Sharon said, closing her robe more tightly around her body and taking a seat uneasily. "So… uh… you're Esteban's uncle?"
"The one and only."
"You… live in Mexico?"
Juan shook his head. "I live in my wagon," he said. "Go where there's work. You know construction."
"Oh. You're a builder," Sharon said awkwardly.
"Bricklayer," Juan informed her. "Best in the business." He poured himself another glass of milk. "Listen, I kind of said some stuff to your husband that I didn't really think about. I hope he understands I'm just looking out for the kid, you know?'
"I'm sure he does," said Sharon, a nervous smile twitching on his lips.
"Celestina thinks he's a great guy," Juan added.
"Oh," said Sharon. "Good."
"I thought maybe he was, you know, fooling around with her and Stevie. But now I see that he can't be."
"Why is that?" Sharon asked.
" 'Cause with a babe like you at home, why would he need to go elsewhere, huh?" he said.
Sharon flushed with pleasure, smoothing her uncombed hair.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMStevie was awake when Al arrived, propped up on pillows and watching his mother's face listlessly as she stroked his hair and petted his hands. Al entered the room quietly, and approached the bed.
"Hey, sport," he said. "Merry Christmas!"
Stevie turned and his wan face lit up in a radiant smile. "Mithta Al! Mithta Al!" he exclaimed, then whimpered a little as he tried to sit himself further up. Al was at his side in an instant.
"Hey, buddy, you gotta take it easy," he said, rubbing Stevie's arm to distract him from the pain in his abdomen. "You've got some healing to do before you can start charging around like a cannonball." He turned to Celestina. "How's he doing?"
She smiled. "The doctors tell me he is well," she said. "The kind nurse changed the bandage, did she not, Esteban?"
Stevie nodded. "Leetha," he said. "I like Leetha."
"How 'bout that!" Al said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to the bed. "I knew a nurse named Lisa once, too.
"I eated my porridge," Stevie said proudly. "Not all of it: my tummy hurt-th."
"I know, buddy. It'll probably be sore for a while," Al sympathized. "Stevie, what do you know!" he said. "They've got a playroom up the hall, with toys and books and stuff, and I borrowed some stories for us to read while Mama goes to have her breakfast and lie down for a little while."
"Thtory!" Stevie exclaimed.
Al turned to Celestina. "You go ahead, honey," he said. "Juan's at our house. He and Sharon are going to come up in a while."
Celestina's eyes widened. "Juan! I forgot! Oh—"
Al caught her gesticulating hands. "It's okay; it's fine. He's at our place having breakfast right now. You go downstairs and get yourself something to eat. I'll stay here with Stevie." He pressed a ten-dollar bill into her hand. She tried to protest, but he shook his head. "Go and get some breakfast," he said firmly. "I'll take care of Stevie."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMBy noon all four adults were assembled in Stevie's room. Al was reading animatedly to the child, who was leaning happily in his uncle's arms. Celestina sat in the corner, weeping quietly over the letters from her husband. Sharon stood alone on the fringe of the room, observing in silence.
At two o'clock a physician came in and asked to speak to the boy's representative. Al passed the book he was busy with to Sharon, and went out into the corridor with the doctor.
"Are you Mr. Penja?" the man asked.
Al shook his head. "Captain Calavicci. Mr. Penja is out of the country. I'm taking care of Celestina and Stevie."
"Doctor Smithfield, Captain. Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise. What's this about?"
"Well, Esteban's surgery proceeded normally, and the incision is already healing," Smithfield began. Then his voice trailed off and he swallowed hard. Al's heart began to beat harder.
"The doctor we talked to yesterday said they were running some blood tests. Is that what you need to talk about?" Al asked uneasily.
Smithfield pursed his lips briefly and nodded. "There are some… unusual features," he said. "We would like to keep Esteban on antibiotics for a couple more days. Doctor Ananda will be back on the twenty-ninth. She's one of our foremost pediatricians, and she has a lot of clinical experience with Down's Syndrome children. She'll be able to check for any special complications of the surgery. I wouldn't be surprised if Esteban was discharged and back home by New Year's."
"So what's the problem?" Al said.
"Nothing, Captain. Nothing at all," Smithfield said, examining the chart in his hand with care. "I understand that you are standing as surety for the bill?"
"That's right," Al confirmed, eyeing him suspiciously. "Is there a problem with that?"
"Certainly not. It's a credit to the United States military that you're going out of your way for the boy. I understand he's no relation?"
"That's right. He's just my neighbor."
"That's extraordinarily generous," the physician observed.
"That's me: Mister Altruistic. Is there a point here?" asked Al.
"To be frank, Captain, we'd like to do a bone marrow scan, if—"
"If I'm willing to foot the bill," Al finished. "Of course I am. Go ahead and do it: I promise I'm good for the money. But why do you want to do a bone marrow scan?"
Smithfield shrugged. "Just to cover all of our bases, see if we can explain some of the anomalies in the blood tests. It's probably nothing to worry about."
"Probably?" Al said.
"Captain, really. Nothing's absolutely certain. Let's just be thankful that Esteban's surgery went so well. We'll see about booking him for a scan in a couple of days. Now, there's a little paperwork that will need to be done with regards to billing…"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWWMMWWMMAfter a good twenty minutes of filling out forms and signing his soul away, Al was able to return to the room. Stevie was asleep under his uncle's watchful eye. There was no sign of Celestina and Sharon.
"Where're the girls?" Al whispered.
"Your wife took Celestina to the parents' room to shower and catch some sleep," Juan answered. "You're both so good. I'm sorry about what I said before."
Al smiled and shrugged. "Forget it," he said. "I'm glad to know they've got someone looking out for them like that." He touched Stevie's round little cheek. "It's a hard world. Kids need all the help they can get."
Juan chuckled. "You sound like you know what you're talking about," he said. "Most of you rich Americans don't know nothin'."
"I wasn't always well off," Al said. "Spent half my childhood on the streets and the other half in a New York orphanage. But there were people who made a real difference in my life, so here I am. Captain in the Navy, beautiful wife, best little friend a man could have." He nodded at the boy.
"You've certainly got a beautiful wife," Juan said.
Al snickered a little. "Hands off, mister. Sharon's mine!" He sat down. "I'll bet you've got yourself a cute little Chiquita back home in Mexico, huh?"
Juan smiled smugly. "One or two," he said. "Or six."
"Man after my own heart," Al joked. They both laughed quietly, mindful of the sleeping child.