CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Visiting hours didn't last long enough for Al's taste, and far too soon he and Sharon were banished from the hospital. After producing a California driver's license Juan was allowed to stay, probably because the hospital staff assumed he was Stevie's father. It irked Al that he wasn't the one sitting a vigil at the child's side, but he was nonetheless grateful that Celestina had someone to fall back on.
He drove home in a silence that Sharon didn't even try to break. The high-rises gave way to suburbia, then to slums, and from there to the industrial fringes and decaying commercial strips. At last the mobile homes—Hooverville, as Sharon so cynically called the area—moved in around them. Weary and sore and inexplicably lonely, Al found the drab neighborhood disheartening.
To his surprise, Sharon helped him lift the tarp over the car. He was grateful for her aid, because his shoulder was once again throbbing dully. Finally, he trudged up the cinderblock steps and into the trailer, his wife behind him.
"You wanna fix supper, or shall I?" Sharon asked.
"You do what you like: I'm not hungry," Al said.
"I don't care if you're hungry: you have to eat your Christmas dinner."
Al groaned. "I forgot about Christmas!"
"Yeah, well, you've been busy," Sharon pointed out, opening the cupboard they used as a pantry. "Let's see… you want tomato soup, instant oriental noodles, or just-add-water potato flakes?"
Al shuddered. "What is this, Space: 1999? Get out of my kitchen, woman: you're a menace!"
"As if you can do better!" Sharon taunted, dancing out of his way as he swatted at her.
"I could do better with both hands tied behind my back!" Al said, digging out the flour and a stick of butter. "Make yourself useful and plug in the tree. I'll fix you a Christmas dinner you're not gonna forget!"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM"You're right," Sharon said slurredly, pouring herself yet another glass of wine. They were on their third bottle. "I won't be forgetting this in a hurry."
Al gave her a sloppy kiss and tossed a piece of biscuit at Chester. He had whipped up a batch in the oven and served them with bacon fried almost too long, the kind that melted in your mouth. He had done a quick olive-oil stir-fry: peppers and celery and thin slivers of potato. A flaming fruit salad had rounded out the meal, which they had eaten, picnic-style, under the Christmas tree.
"Extemporaneous cooking's an art, baby," he said, mooching shamelessly from her glass. "And one, by the way, that people who buy just-add-water potato flakes will never understand."
Sharon giggled drunkenly. "But you used up the brandy!" she protested.
"I did," Al said thickly. "No wife of wine—no mife of mine is gonna eat brandy like an old Virginian grandmother."
"I'll eat what I—drink what I want and you can't stop me!" Sharon exclaimed, knocking back the rest of her wine as if to prove it. "Sharon shall ship six sherries some Sunday!"
Al chuckled and let himself fall backwards into a supine position. "Say that five times fast!" he challenged.
"Thatthatthatthatthat!" Sharon gibbered. She giggled again. "Wine's gone," she said mournfully, then she laughed. "Sorry you burnt the brandy?"
"Brandy's for burning, stunts are for learning, girls are for kissing, tequila's for—"
Sharon clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shh," she hissed. "Shh, no dirty rhymes in front of Baby."
"Baby?" Al grunted.
"Widdel baby bumpkin, Mommy's bitty-widdy Chessie-poo," Sharon gushed, reaching out and picking up Chester, who had been licking the empty dishes. She nuzzled his face as she continued in her undeniably yucky baby voice. "Mommy's widdel oopsie! Fuzzy-wuzzy Chester-wester. Daddy shuddunt talk wike dat when Chessie can hear, should he, my widdel fuwwy baby boy?"
Al wagged a finger in her face. "I'm not 'is daddy," he said. "You can't blame him on me!"
"Sure you are his daddy, iddent he, widdel Chessie? Iddent dat your daddy?"
Chester snorted a little, licking his lips. Sharon set him down and patted his head. Al chuckled. "Never spent the night with a bitch in my life," he said, inebriation overriding his inhibitions. "Whole lotta ladies, one angel—my angel!—a coupla women, more girls'n any kid in that orphanage, no bitches. Knew a bitch once. Black-eyed bitch. She knew how to use a whip! Saw her kill a crow once without scaring the one sittin' next to it. Bitch. She could use a whip…"
Al heard his words and they horrified him. He knew he had to be wasted to be spilling such secrets, but the fact that the thoughts were there at all meant that he wasn't wasted enough. He pinched Sharon's side fondly.
"You get the bourbon, we'll play a game," he proposed.
Sharon grinned eagerly. "Game?" she laughed excessively. "Yes! Let's play a game!"
She tried to get up, but Al caught her by the wrist, pulling her down on top of him. He kissed her several times in rapid succession before releasing her. "Now go get that bourbon!" he cried.
She giggled and scampered off into the kitchen. Al tilted his head back and reached under the sofa, drawing out an oblong box.
There were some rather alarming bangs and crashes from the kitchen as he set up the board, but he was feeling less pain by the second and didn't really give a damn. Finally Sharon came back, tottering unsteadily. When she saw what Al had set out, she let out a whoop of disgusted disbelief.
"Scrabble?" she squealed, dropping down next to him. "You want to play Scrabble?"
"Yeah, I do," Al said, taking the bottle from her and helping himself. "You'll like it."
"I do like it, but I play it with Dad on Sunday afternoons," she said, flopping down onto the floor. "It's not exactly erotic."
"It is the way I play it," Al promised, holding out the bag of tiles. "Ladies first," he said generously.
Rolling his eyes, Sharon pulled seven tiles from the bag and set them on her rack. Al drew his while she sorted. Sharon rolled her eyes and set down her first word. "J-E-R-K," she said. "Are you keeping score, or am I?"
Al shook his head. "We don't need to keep score," he said, carefully removing his left shoe.
"Oh, this is thrilling," Sharon groaned, dripping sarcasm. "We're tipsy, we're playing Scrabble, and we're not even keeping sc—"
"One syllable," Al said, holding up the shoe before tossing it pointedly away.
"Oh, you're bad!" Sharon squeaked, writhing with anticipatory pleasure. "You're evil! Your turn! Your turn!"
Al grinned wickedly. "W-H-A-L-E-R," he said, fishing out fresh tiles. Sharon artfully removed her earrings.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMThree turns a piece later, the bourbon was gone and the tile placement was getting very, very sloppy, but neither player cared. Things were getting interesting. Sharon had a more accessorized ensemble, but Al's vocabulary suffered less under the influence of alcohol. He smirked triumphantly as he laid out his next word. Sharon's "ACTOR", which had cost him his belt and his undershirt, was quickly embellished with "O", "L", "F" and "Y".
"Olfactory," he said. "On a triple word score. That's twelve."
"I can count," Sharon said seductively. "But who'll pick up my deficit? I haven't got twelve pieces left."
She sure didn't, Al thought, eyeing the lacy edge of her brassiere where it spilled its powder-blue line across the soft whiteness of her bosom. "I hear that Captain Calavicci's a generous guy," he mumbled, chewing his lower lip as she began to unbutton her jeans.
An enormously loud hiccough tore the air, dispersing the ambience. Al and Sharon exchanged confused glances. Neither of them had made the sound.
Another hiccough rang out, followed by a little yelp as Chester came walking towards them, weaving wildly. His little legs trembled and his forepaws crossed, then bounced back.
"What the hell…" Al began.
Chester hiccoughed again, stumbling to the left, his tail whipping madly. There was something about his gait…
Sharon saw it first, and her eyes grew enormous. "The brandy on the dishes!" she exclaimed. "He's drunk!"
Al blanched, looking at the dog in dismay. "Oh, God," he gasped.
Chester's tail began to thump more lazily as he looked from one face to the other. His ears weren't as perky as usual, and his neck seemed unusually loose. He licked Al's bare arm awkwardly. Then he took one more step forward, wobbled, and fell down, right in the middle of the Scrabble board, sending tiles flying in every direction. Al stared in horror. Then an inebriated snore emerged from the dog's throat.
Sharon began to giggle, a thin nasal wheeze that bubbled over into a riotous belly laugh. A glance at Al's dismayed expression worsened the fit. She clutched at her side and rolled on the rug. Al looked at her in consternation. Then another hiccough shook Chester's furry little body, followed closely by another snore, and Al's face cracked into an enormous smile as he, too, fell laughing onto the ground.
At last, breathless and sore, they subsisted into silence. Al picked himself up first, returning to a seated position. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Sharon followed suit. They stared at each other, seized by a drunken gravity more powerful than the laughter. After a minute of absolute silence, Al spoke, slowly and clearly, enunciating each word with exquisite care.
"Olfactory," he said. "Triple word score."