CHAPTER THIRTY
Some romantic weekend, Al thought morosely, clutching his left arm tight against his chest. It helped the pain in his shoulder. Always had. As soon as you could get close enough to another American that he could snap the ball into the socket again, the makeshift splint of your corrugated ribs became your best friend.
All the way back from the restaurant to the room, Sharon had nagged him about his arm. She was furious, apparently convinced that his pain was the result of some flesh-eating disease or something. She had even threatened to hog-tie him with the drapery cords from the room and haul him forcibly to the nearest hospital—a menace she couldn't possibly understand the horrifically negative connotations of. Al, still suffering pangs of agony from the joint, had been too nauseated with mortification and reminders of the months of helplessness at the hands of paternalistic and sometimes domineering nurses to do more than mutter at her to stop it. Back in the room, romance was out of the question. For the first time in years Al hadn't felt physically capable of the act of making love: his shoulder just wasn't up to any kind of strenuous physical activity. They might have indulged in other, less energetic means of showing affection, but Sharon was still railing angrily, and Al was too tired and heartsick to calm her. She had stormed off to have another bath, and Al had wearily undressed and crawled into bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow he was lost to the world.
Morning had brought yet another bath. Al was starting to wonder if he'd married a mermaid or something. Then they checked out, and found a Denny's for breakfast. Al had ordered an omelet, not because it was something he wanted or something, like waffles, that he couldn't get at home, but because he could cut it with the side of his fork. Sharon had watched every bite like a hawk, even going so far as to nag him into forcing down the last two forkfuls of cold hashbrowns.
Now, at one in the afternoon, Al was standing near an adobe fountain, supporting his hurting limb as casually as he could. He watched Sharon fussing over someone who, for once, wasn't him.
"Daddy, are you getting cold? It's chilly out here today," she said, adjusting the old man's scarf.
Pat looked around. "Summertime," he said. "No snow anywhere."
"It's Arizona, Dad," Sharon said, her voice breaking a little. "There's never snow here."
The old man shook his head. "Snow," he repeated.
Al looked around, seeking a more cheerful scene. Over by a rose bush, and old woman was struggling with her walker, each step excruciatingly slow. She looked like one good wind would shatter her like a china doll. A nurse was wheeling another patron out into the sunlight. A girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen sat on a bench next to a white-haired lady who had to be her grandmother. The older woman was chattering happily to a plump baby boy perched on the child's knee. The kid holding the kid looked worn and exhausted, and her clothes had an undeniably second-hand caste. Al realized the baby was probably hers. All-in-all, he reflected as he looked back at Sharon, maybe theirs was the happiest party.
After a while Sharon decided that it was too cold for her father outside, and they returned to the building. Al had to endure the same humiliating parade that had marked their exit: Sharon forcefully pushing the wheelchair, upbraiding him for his offer to take over that duty and demanding to know when he was going to see a doctor.
Al ignored her, and tried to strike up a conversation with Pat. It wasn't easy. Sharon had alluded to bad days in the past, and Al realized that this had to be one. The old man's words rambled aimlessly, drifting in and out of subjects ranging from books to the weather to the color of the woolen lap-robe tucked around his legs.
Back in the room, Sharon wheeled Pat close to the bed and tried to set up a game of rummy, Al in the armchair and herself on the mattress. It was useless. No sooner had the hand been dealt than Pat set down his cards so that their identities could be seen. He picked up three of his face cards.
"The Queen of Hearts," he said; "She made some tarts, All on a summer's day." He picked up the jack. "The Knave of Hearts, He took those tarts, And stole them clean away." The King wasn't of the same suit, but that didn't phase Mr. Quinn. "The King of Spades Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore. The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more."
"Daddy," Sharon chided softly, "spades doesn't rhyme with tarts."
"I know that, you silly girl!" Pat snapped. "I haven't got the King of Hearts, have I? No! I've got Spades! So there!"
Sharon managed a tiny smile. "Okay, Daddy," she whispered.
Pat turned to his son-in-law. "Who are you?" he asked. "Where's that no-good Kraut?"
"I divorced Heinrich, Daddy, remember?" Sharon said.
"Of course I remember!" he bit back. "I'm not stupid! And I'm talking to this young fellow. Go see if your mother needs any help."
Sharon's throat palpitated and she got to her feet, rubbing her hand along her father's shoulder. "I'm just… just going to go talk to the nurses, okay, Al?" she murmured.
"Sure thing," Al said. Suddenly he wasn't feeling quite so angry at her. She fled the room, closing the door carefully behind her. Al smiled at the old man. "I'm Al," he said.
"Al?" Pat echoed. "I knew an Al once. Pilot. They shot him down. Never heard from him again. Al…"
"Yes, sir," Al confirmed.
"Mary said… Mary said…" Pat looked around in confusion. "Where's Mary?" he asked.
Al paused, thinking carefully about his answer. Sharon and the rest of the family seemed to prefer to pretend that Mary was alive. This went against his instincts, but was it really his choice to make?
"She's… she's not here," he said.
"I know," Pat said softly. "I know. She's gone away, hasn't she?"
Al nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, she's gone away."
Pat was silent for a long minute. "Sometimes…" he began, then trailed off again.
"Sometimes?" Al prompted gently.
"Sometimes, Al," Pat said.
Again silence elapsed.
"Sometimes…"
He seemed to be struggling very hard to say something. Instinctively, Al reached out and took the withered hand in his own. Pat looked up, and there were tears in his eyes.
"Sometimes I think… I think she's never… never coming back," he whispered.
Al swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He couldn't help it. He thought of Beth.
"I know," he breathed. "I know. It hurts."
Pat nodded, gripping Al's hand with all his strength. His lips pressed together, vanishing briefly as he blinked away the moisture threatening to fall.
He leaned forward. "Al," he hissed. "Al, don't tell Sharon."
"No," Al choked out. "No. I won't tell Sharon."
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMNeither of them spoke during the long ride home. Al didn't even have the spirit to sing along with the tape. He drove one-handed, but Sharon didn't seem to notice. She was staring at her reflection in the passenger side mirror.
She went inside without a word, and Al covered the car before making his way up the street to collect Chester. There was a battered station wagon parked in front of the Penjas' trailer. Looked like Uncle Juan was back in town.
The screen door was open, and Celestina saw Al even before he drew near enough to knock. She was sitting on one of her rickety aluminum chairs next to the shelf-bed, the candlelight imparting an almost angelic glow on her face. Al opened the door and entered the small room.
The massive bricklayer was sitting at the table, nursing a mug of vegetable soup, but Al hardly noticed him. His attention was focused on the bed.
Stevie lay curled up against the wall of the trailer, the blankets gathered around him like a soft, warm nest. He was wearing the space ship pajamas that Sharon had bought him during his first stay in the hospital. He was fast asleep, his pale little face free from pain and exhaustion, the dark shadows beneath his eyes scarcely visible. Only the bony collarbone showing through the neck-hole of the pajama top betrayed the weight he had lost over the last month. He looked like an angel, but an angel with clipped wings and a close-cropped head of hair interspersed with bald patches. Chester, a little ball of ruddy fur, was lying within the circle of one matchstick arm, slumbering as peacefully as the boy.
Celestina looked up, her eyes moist and her lips curled into a smile. Al felt his throat constricting. There was so much love in those eyes: love for the child, for the dog, for the serenity of the night. Just for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe he was the recipient of some small part of that abundance of love.
Then he came back to reality and squatted next to the bed, observing Stevie from another angle. "How's he been?" he asked, his voice low.
"Well," Celestina said. "Today he eat all of his soup, play for an hour in the yard. He feels better, I think. He will be well."
"I hope so," Al said.
Celestina turned and reached out a hand to grip her brother-in-law's arm. "And see," she said. "Juan has found work here, in the city! He will stay with us until they are finished! They are building a big building."
"Yeah?" Al said. "That's great!"
"New branch for the library," Juan said. "I'll be around for a couple months, at least."
"It is good," Celestina said. "It is very good."
"Yeah, it is," Al agreed. He looked around the tiny trailer. "Where are you sleeping?" he queried delicately.
"Back of the wagon," Juan said. "Always do."
Al thought about the vehicle, crowded with all the man's worldly possessions. He shook his head. "No need for that," he said. "You can stay at our place; crash on the sofa."
Juan chuckled. "Naw, that ain't necessary."
"I insist," Al said. "It's been chilly lately. He should stay at our place, right, Celestina?"
"Sí, yes," Celestina affirmed. "Senor Calavicci good friend, Juan."
"Yeah, I know that," the Mexican laborer said. "But he's already done a lot, you know. Paying for Stevie's operation and stuff. I don't wanna make more work."
"It's not work," Al laughed. "I'm offering you a bed—er, a sofa—not a full-service, five-star hotel! C'mon!"
Juan frowned. "Shouldn't you talk it over with your wife?" he asked.
"Naw, she won't mind!" Al said blithely.
MWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAs a matter of fact, Sharon did mind, very much. She didn't let on right away, but welcomed Juan warmly, offering him a drink and making him comfortable in the living room. She seemed a bit on the frosty side that night, but Al was too sore and tired for sex anyway, and fell swiftly asleep. It wasn't until the following afternoon, when Al came back from the hospital, that she erupted.
Even then she waited while Al coaxed the dizzy and nauseated child onto his feet and induced him to walk from the 'Vette to the bed. Al didn't think he could manage to carry him: his arm was still sore, and movement of any kind was starting to be a harbinger of agony. Sharon waited while Al helped Stevie out of his clothes and into his pajamas, and settled him in for his nap. She leaned on the doorjamb while Al sang the child to sleep. It wasn't until he was about to undress himself and try to snatch a nap before he had to head off to Starbright that she cleared her throat.
"Can I have a word?" she asked unctuously when Al turned to look at her.
"Shoot," he whispered back, starting on his shirt buttons.
"In the kitchen," Sharon mouthed. Al shrugged and slipped past her. She drew the bedroom door carefully closed.
"How long is he staying?" she demanded as they moved past the table and as physically far from the sleeping child as they could get without actually climbing into the washing machine.
"Till Celestina's home from work, same as always," Al said, not catching it.
"Not Esteban!" Sharon snapped. "His uncle!"
"Juan? As long as he needs to," Al said. "He found work in town so he could be close for Celestina and Stevi—"
"So let him stay with her!" Sharon cried. "Why is he sleeping on my sofa?"
"Celestina hasn't got room for a houseguest!" Al exclaimed. "He was gonna sleep in the back of his car!"
"So? Why can't he do that?"
Al shuddered. Obviously Sharon had never had to live in a tiny, cramped space without temperature control. "Because he shouldn't have to! He's not hurting anything: he won't be any trouble."
"Sure, maybe not for you!" Sharon shouted. "You're never home! But I'm going to be the one feeding him, accommodating him and cleaning up after him—"
Al let out a loud, barking laugh at that one. "Cleaning up after him?" he mocked. "You haven't even learned the fine art of putting your underwear in the washing machine! You can't clean up after yourself, let alone—"
"You're missing the point, Al! I don't want that Mexican gorilla staying in my house!"
"Your house?" Al shrieked. "Who pays the rent, that's what I want to know!"
"VISA does!" Sharon cried.
That stopped the argument dead. Al gaped, his jaw working soundlessly. He had had no idea she'd been following his finances, his progressively more creative triaging of the bills, like his second wife's alimony, that had to be paid out-of-pocket; those like Stevie's hospital charges that should come from the bank; those that could go on credit, like rent, utilities and groceries; and those like the two hundred bucks a month he had been habitually sending Ruthie, that didn't actually have to be paid.
"Uh-huh," Sharon said, after a minute or two of his guppy-like silence. "Exactly."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Al wailed in frustration, recovering his wits. "It's my credit, too, and anyway, what was I supposed to do? Let the man sleep in his car?"
"He didn't seem to have any problem with it before!" Sharon cried. "Anyway, it's not the point! You should have consulted me! We should have discussed it! You don't just come home with a permanent houseguest without talking to your wife first! If you're going to act like my father, what's the point of me being your wife?"
"Oh, look who's talking!" Al exclaimed. "Who's been mothering me?"
"I have not!" Sharon protested.
"Yes, you have! Nagging me about when I sleep and what I eat, pestering me to go to the doctor—damn it, you cut my food!"
"You couldn't cut it yourself!" Sharon cried.
"You didn't let me try!" Al bit back lamely. He wasn't sure what he was thinking or feeling anymore, but the room felt cold and desolate, and he wondered if there would ever be any comfort in the world again.
Sharon made a sound of disgust. "I give up," she said. "Just don't expect me to turn into this man's housefrau!"
She began to stomp away towards her studio, and then turned around and stomped back.
"I almost forgot!" she snarled, picking up a large manila envelope from the table and thrusting it at Al's chest. "That came in the mail this morning. It looks important!"
So saying, she disappeared into her sanctum, slamming the door so hard that the whole trailer shook.
Al stood for a moment, immobilized and shell-shocked. Then he drew his hand away from his ribs, letting the envelope fall into it. He looked down at the prepaid postage imprint overlaid with the postmark, and his eyes moved to the typed address line proclaiming the parcel to be the rightful property and lawful burden of A.M. Calavicci, Captain, USN. Then his gaze drifted up to the return address corner and the official-looking crest embossed there.
His stomach fell down towards his knees and his throat went dry with dread. He knew what it was. Closing his eyes against the waves of nausea churning up his thighs and into his ribcage, Al set the envelope face down next to the coffee maker. Later. He couldn't stand to open it now.
"Chester!" he called, trying to make his hoarse voice pleasant and inviting. "Chester, c'mere boy! Let's go for a walk!"
The perky little dog sprung off of the armchair and trotted towards him, tail wagging wildly and eyes glittering with delirious delight.