CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
She had tasted the forbidden fruit, and now she found she couldn't stop partaking of it.
Perhaps if she had felt any moral obligation to be faithful to Al, Sharon might have tried a little harder. The truth was, though, that she had never really seen the point of monogamy. Though she had managed to graduate high school without losing her virginity—mostly because immediately afterwards she would have lost her life in a gristly case of filicide at the hands of her mother—her early experiments in fidelity had failed miserably. Heinrich had never cheated on her, but he had mighty repressive ideas about how a household should be run: ideas completely at odds with her own notions. That marriage had lasted all of two years. After that, there had been a string of wild flings in college: boyfriends who cheated on her as often as she cheated on them. Then into adulthood with partner after partner, none staying too long. Some she left, some left her. She moved on when she got tired of any one man. Why should this be different, just 'cause she had a wedding band and a licence? After the initial period of guilt, Sharon had settled almost completely into her duplicitous role, and the prickings of her conscience grew ever more innocuous.
It would certainly have been different if Al had been around more. At least then it would have been harder to cheat. As it was, he was out of the house so much that she and Juan found it absurdly easy to find peace for their trysts. Esteban finished his detox period and went in for more chemotherapy, so three nights a week Al was sleeping at the Project. The only thing holding the amorous couple back was Sharon's occasional burst of guilt.
Then, three days before the first anniversary of their wedding, Al came down with a cold.
He'd been going through life at his usual breakneck pace, and so Sharon hadn't noticed the growing exhaustion or the heaviness of his voice until he called on Thursday morning. She had Esteban on the kitchen counter, bony feet in the sink while she gave him a sponge bath. Usually Celestina saw to the boy's hygiene, but today he'd had the inclination to eat, and everything had come back up while he was sleeping, so he needed the wash badly. The phone rang, and Sharon let the child take another ice cube from the bowl they were snacking from together. His little mouth was full of sores now, and the ice seemed to soothe them.
"Hello?" she answered, picking up the receiver and making her way back towards the child.
The voice on the other end of the line was thick and nasal. "Sharon? I'm sick."
"What?" she exclaimed in alarm. "How sick?"
"It's just a cold," Al said; "but I can't come home."
She frowned. "Why not?" She moved back towards the counter and wet a fresh washcloth, with which she rubbed Esteban's stomach.
"Because if Stevie catches it he might not be able to shake it!" Al cried, as if this was painfully self-evident or something. "Now, here's what you gotta do—I know you're gonna hate it, but it's important, and you have to do it, you hear me?"
"Of course I hear you," Sharon said crossly. "Do you think I'm deaf?"
"No, I don't think you're deaf!" Al said in annoyance. "Just listen. It's very important."
"Okay, okay," Sharon said. "So tell me this earth-shatteringly important thing that I'm supposed to do."
"I need you to clean the house—I know you don't want to!" he continued hastily, before she could tell him where to stick his suggestion. "I know that, but this is important. I need you to wash everything I might have touched the last couple days. Put a cup of bleach in a gallon pail full of warm water—"
"Where the hell am I supposed to get a gallon pail?" she demanded.
"I keep one on the shelf in the laundry room—"
"Laundry closet," Sharon corrected snarkily.
"Laundry closet," Al said between clenched teeth. "On the shelf in the laundry closet. You know. The one I use when I'm scrubbing the floor?"
"Okay, okay. Half a cup of bleach—"
"A whole cup of bleach," he snapped. "It's under the sink in the kitchen. A whole cup of bleach in a gallon pail of warm water. Wipe down the table, the doorknobs, the T.V., anything you think I would've touched. The handle on the toilet. The sinks. I mean everything, Sharon, okay?"
"That's ridiculous," she said. "You think if he catches your cold he's going to get it off a doorknob? For crying out loud, Calavicci, you were running around the world with the kid yesterday! You sat right next to him at the hospital, you drove him home, and then you went to lie down for a nap with him!"
Al's voice was suddenly low and tremulous with terror. "Don't you think I know that?" he whispered.
Sharon's heart melted. He was worried sick about the kid. "All right," she said. "I'll clean everything I can think of—"
"The phone! Wash the phone" Al added. "The steering wheel and the door handles and the seatbelts in the van. The toaster… I had toast for breakfast yesterday morning…"
"Relax," Sharon said. "I've got an imagination. I'll take care of it."
An earthshaking sneeze fizzled across the phone lines. "And the bedding. Put the bedding in the wash, hot water—"
"It's already in," Sharon said. "For God's sake, take a minute to blow your nose!"
There was a muffled honking sound. Al's voice came back, thicker than before, but no less astute. "What do you mean it's already in?" he demanded.
"Breakfast didn't agree with Esteban. It came back up all over the bed," Sharon said, not bothering to hide her resentment of her unpaid position as a damned nanny.
"Is he okay?" Al asked. "What's he doing now?"
"Chewing an ice cube," Sharon said, looking at the little boy in front of her.
"Uh?"
"I gave him some ice to chew on," she said. "He likes it."
"Can I talk to him—no, wait, don't get the phone anywhere near him until you wash it."
Sharon couldn't quite believe she was hearing this. "You want me to leave you on the line while I wash the phone?" she asked incredulously.
He sneezed again. "No, no. Just take care of it, okay?"
"I will," she promised. Then something occurred to her. "How long will you be staying at the Project?"
"I dunno," Al said. "Probably just a couple days. I'll talk to one of the doctors on staff, see what they think. I'll be back Sunday night if I can… you'll have to take Stevie in for chemo tomorrow. It's easy. The nurse at the front desk will help you find the right place. They're really great: just tell 'em you don't know what you're doing. He likes it if you read to him for the first hour or so, but after that it's too hard for him to focus, so it's better if you just sing or something. He loves 'Inchworm', and 'Volare' and 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand'. If he throws up—"
"Okay, okay, I can handle it," Sharon promised. "I just want you to know that this is ridiculous. You're overreacting. I don't think it's necessary to disinfect the whole house, and I certainly don't think that quarantining yourself is going to serve any purpose at—"
"You disinfect that house!" Al barked frantically. Sharon almost laughed.
"I will, I will," she said. "I just think that it's a waste of time, that's all. But I'll do it!" she repeated before he could argue. "I'll do it right now."
"Okay. Thanks. You're a good sport." There was one more tectonic sneeze, and the line went dead.
Sharon hung up the phone and turned back to Esteban, who was paddling the water in the sink with is toes. She didn't have to wash down the house. It was absurd. If the boy got sick it would be from sleeping next to Al, not from touching day-old germs on surfaces around the trailer. She could always just say she'd done it.
The second the boy was dried and dressed in his spare set of shabby play clothes, though, Sharon found herself fetching the gallon pail from the shelf above the washing machine and digging out the bleach. It was ridiculous and somehow ironic. Here she was carrying on a torrid extramarital affair under the man's very nose, and the thought about lying to him over a bit of scrubbing turned her stomach.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl hung up the phone and took a decongesting swallow from the silver flask that Sharon had given him for Christmas. He tried to exhale, but it felt as if someone had rammed three or four ounces of cotton up each nostril and into his sinuses. He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief and took another gulp of vodka. Sharon's parting words rang in his ears. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was overreacting. He hoped to God he was, because if Stevie caught his cold it could be disastrous. There were no antibiotics that would help him. His depressed immune system would be left to fend off the virius alone.
And it was a nasty virus. Al rubbed his puffy eyes and coughed. Time to get back to work. It had been weeks since he'd visited Sub-Level Omega, and if he put it off any longer he might go down there to discover that Doctor Eleese had eloped with a technician or something. Despite having had almost six hours' sleep he was already exhausted. That was the fun of a head cold. Another nip from his flask gave him the energy to hoist himself out of the padded desk chair. He paused to snatch up a couple of Starbright buttons. They were still merrily glowing. In fact, the only time they seemed to stop was in bright sunlight, when the color leeched away—returning promptly if you went indoors or passed into the shade. Al looked at his little toys and grinned. He bet he knew who wasn't wearing one on her lab coat!
He shivered during the elevator ride to Sub-Level Six, and by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the top secret synchrotron lab, he was in serious discomfort. He didn't let it show, however, as he breezed into the control room, where the department head was poring over a readout with two of her best young minds flanking her. In another corner, Doctor Gushman was bent low over a computer, merrily clicking away.
"Hello, hello, hello!" Al said brightly, smiling for the scientists. "How are things down hear today?"
"Fine," Eleese said absently. "And they were fine yesterday, too, and last week, and for the whole previous month. Not that you bothered to check."
"Yes, well, fortunately you're more or less capable of continuing production without being babysat by me, aren't you?" Al asked sweetly.
This had precisely the result he had hoped for: she actually raised her eyes from the charts for a fraction of a second to glare at him. He grinned expansively.
"Well, I'm here now," he said. "Is there anything you want to report? Anything that you need? Anything at all that I can do for the most beautiful department head on the Project?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Eleese said, once again focused wholeheartedly on her papers. "You can take your libido and get it out of my lab."
Al laughed. "Is that any way to talk to a guy who risked life and limb to bring you a present?"" he demanded.
"Life and limb?" she parroted sarcastically.
"Absolutely!" Al said. Gushman and the two young scientists were watching him as one would watch a comic at work, and he flourished as always before the audience. "Those stairs are a health hazard, and I had to get by legions of marines to reach the bottom! They could have turned me into a devilishly handsome block of Swiss cheese!"
Eleese gave him an exasperated look. "Captain, I don't have unlimited leisure time. I would appreciate it if you would desist. If you have anything important to say, say it. Then go away."
"All right!" Al agreed. "Here: I brought some official Project buttons for everyone!" He held them out. "The star's made from a new polymer that Thorgard and company discovered. Wear them in good health!"
The four scientists stared at the black buttons. Gushman was the first to take one.
"Fascinating!" he said happily. "Absolutely fascinating!"
Al beamed with pleasure as the foul-breathed programmer donned the adornment. The two young physicists each took one as well. Eleese did not.
"C'mon," Al coaxed. "You know you want it."
"I assure you I don't," she said.
"Come on! Sure you do! Everyone has to wear one! It's good for morale!"
"You're not," she observed.
Al looked down at his chest full of ribbons. "Yeah, well, I don't have the luxury of wearing civilian clothes, do I?" he said.
"Hmph." Eleese turned back to her charts. As she went, though, she took the button and slipped it into her lab coat pocket. Al smiled, pleased with himself. She wanted it, even if she didn't want to admit to it.
After talking to Gushman—to Gooshie—for a while, Al took his leave. The ascent was ten times worse than the descent. By the time he reached the sixth level, Al was drenched in perspiration and shivering so violently that his teeth were rattling in his head. His breathing was labored and his stuffy head ached. He took the lift up to the residential floor. From the safety of his suite, his mind and body steadied some by a glass of whiskey, he called his own office.
"Eulie," he said; "Hold all calls for me, okay, gorgeous? I gotta lie down."
"You should see the doctor," Eulalie said mildly. "Doctor Cartwright's very good."
"Later," Al said, sniffling miserably. "I just gotta lie down. I think maybe I'm running a fever."
"Okay," his gem of a secretary said. "Don't worry, Captain. I can run this office better than you can!"
"Oh, yeah, now I feel great about my job security," Al grumbled. Eulalie laughed. She was a great girl. A great girl.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMThey were everywhere. Dan Penvenen couldn't round a corner without seeing one of them. They grated on his nerves. Absurd. It was absurd. And this was where the Department of Defense money entrusted to that defunct Naviator was going? Buttons? For God's sake, this was a top secret project, not a high school carnival!
It annoyed him that Calavicci was once more incommunicado. He couldn't see how the staff could be expected to function without the Administrator maintaining a regular presence. It was too much to ask. Again, Dan found himself harkening back to his discussion with Eulalie Pharris, the captain's secretary. She had alluded to some kind of marital troubles. Something wrong at home was the exact phrase she had used. That might be worth investigating. One of these days, when the captain was gone on one of his frequent unscheduled absences, it wouldn't hurt to drive into town and drop by for a casual visit. You could learn a lot from a half-hour chat with a man in his wife's presence.
No, that was no good, Dan realized. He wasn't in Calavicci's circle. It might make the man suspicious. It wouldn't do to have him go to ground. The information wasn't incriminating yet. As things stood, it was scarcely more than annoying. The Committee wouldn't take a second glance at it as it stood now, much less any higher federal authority.
Clearly the matter required more thought.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMWMWMBy Friday night, Al was so stuffed up that he couldn't breathe at all unless his mouth was open. This was exacerbating his sore throat, and his lips were dry and cracking. He hated that feeling. It was familiar. Far too familiar.
Fortunately, he had his pocket-sized dosette, from which he took his medicine as needed. It had been bourbon through most of the day, and now as the clock crept towards ten it was gin. He was beginning to feel very lonely and unhappy. He needed a little intensive care, but Sharon was at home, where he couldn't go lest he should infect Stevie.
Then the thought occurred to him. It was Friday. Barring any acts of God, Stevie wouldn't be in the house again until Monday, by which time Al had planned to be home anyway. It wouldn't hurt to head home. He could certainly do with a night in his own bed. He missed Chester's company, and though he hated to admit it, it would be nice to be fussed over. He knew Sharon would fuss, too. Probably fix him a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup, massage Vicks Vapo-Rub into his chest, kiss his still-feverish head. Yeah, it would be wonderful to spend the night at home.
Of course, by the time he got there Sharon would probably be in bed… but that was where he wanted her to end up anyway, so he shouldn't let that stop him.
Filled with fresh resolve, he locked up his office and went up to his suite to don his gear. As he made his way out he happened upon the guy from Human Resources—the one with an iron rod instead of a backbone and all the charisma of a trout.
"Captain! What a surprise."
Al forced a smile. "Oh, hi, Pendr—Penvenen," he said. "How are you?"
"Well. Where are you going?" the man asked mildly.
"Home," Al said. "Why?"
Penvenen shrugged. "When will you be back?"
"Monday night. How come?"
"Drive carefully," Penvenen said, then walked away. Al looked after him and reflected that he had to be feverish yet, 'cause that conversation had had all the hallmarks of a hallucination. Oh, well. He could let Sharon nurse his fever, too. That would be a fun thing to turn into a little passion game.
He took the lift to the surface, fired up his bike and made his way to the gate. The marines on night duty let him out, and he roared away into the desert darkness.
The nondescript black Chevrolet waited ten judicious minutes before leaving the compound and setting out on the road to Wickenburg.