CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

In the corner office on the pediatrics floor of the Wickenburg hospital, five people waited for Doctor Ananda. Sharon occupied a chair near the physician's desk, looking studiously at the Bachelor's of Pharmacy degree mounted between the windows as if it was the most fascinating thing she had seen in months. Juan stood next to her, his hand placed protectively on her shoulder.

Celestina was sitting as far from them as she could, her knees pressed together beneath the shabby skirt. She was bowed over her rosary beads, and the murmured supplications she was offering provided an undertone that safeguarded the room from silence.

Al was cross-legged on the colorful rug. A Fisher Price schoolhouse was residing near his left knee, the little plastic students scattered around it. Stevie had been putting them through their lessons, but after only fifteen minutes, still under the effects of the sedative they had given him before his eighth bone marrow biopsy this year, he had climbed into his playmate's lap and fallen asleep.

The unspoken apprehension that hung in the air was almost as smothering as the chasm that separated the four adults into two parties. After almost a month of division, they had set aside their differences for one day. It was time for Stevie's third post-chemo review, and not one of them could bear to miss it.

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Celestina had found out. It was impossible that she should not, really, as integrated as her household was with Al's. What had tipped her off, Al suspected, was coming home from work on the Monday after the weekend from hell to find the Calavicci trailer locked, and Al in her own dwelling instead, watching over the sleeping child. On Tuesday she had learned from Sharon that divorce proceedings were in the works and that Al had taken up permanent residence "at work". The truth about the catalyst for the break-up hadn't come out immediately.

Because the needs of the desperately ill child had to take precedence over personal differences, Al still had the use of Sharon's van on chemo days. He would be out of bed at four on those mornings, and would take the bike into Wickenburg, usually arriving around seven. He would take over from Celestina, who had to leave for work at half-past. Stevie was due up at the hospital at eight, so Al would get the keys from Sharon and take him. When his mother got home, Al would head back up to the Project. There were advantages to this. He was getting a lot of work done. God knew there was nothing else to do in the Starbright compound.

After the first week he had almost accepted the situation. It wasn't so bad. He was sleeping better now that he wasn't in a different bed every other day. The food left something to be desired, coming as it did from the surface restaurant or the fifth level mess, but he had more time for cooking now that he wasn't spending so much of his life on the road. He could still keep an eye on his little guy, and by some miracle Stevie hadn't caught his cold. He was still sick from the chemo, and getting weaker with each passing day, but, by some fluke of fate, he wasn't hooked up to a respirator dying of Calavicci's virus.

Chester had settled into the new digs happily. Al wasn't sure whether pets were allowed on site—probably not, but hell, he was the Project administrator, and if he wanted his furry companion to live with him, it was going to happen! The little terrier was invaluable. When Al awoke in the middle of the night, the dog was there to remind him that he wasn't alone. There were times when the preventative whiskey wasn't enough and the nightmares came, and the next best thing to having a beautiful woman handy was feeling the warm weight of a loving little animal settle on your abdomen, blissfully happy to be near you.

The matter of the divorce was a pain in the neck, but it wasn't anything Al hadn't been through before. He knew the drill, and found himself a good lawyer. At least, Gavin Prendergast had all the markings of a good lawyer: swanky office, leggy secretary, and the air of a man who was born with a whole damned silver dinner service in his mouth. He was certainly expensive enough.

Things at Starbright had taken a turn for the better since the Night of the Neon Polymer. The Committee was for the time being placated, and down on Sub-Level Omega some very real progress was being made. It wasn't anything spectacular, but to scientists accustomed to looking for differences at the point one inch per second level it was heartening. Eleese was going around the project with a smile lingering just below the surface, and she had civil words for everyone. It was almost a sign of the Apocalypse.

If Al could have stopped agonizing over his collapsing marriage, everything would have been perfect. He was torn between confusion, anger, relief and shame. The last break-up had been much easier. The decay of his third marriage had been so obviously no one's fault. There hadn't been any hurt feelings. No suggestions that either party was inadequate. No boyfriend looking over Ruthie's shoulder.

Al didn't know how to relate to Juan now. He saw him three mornings a week when he got the van key from Sharon. They hadn't spoken. There was, really, no reason that they should speak—except that Al wanted to tell him that he should damned well treat Sharon better than her soon-to-be-ex-husband had.

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Sharon couldn't see the improvement. She had a different bedfellow—and one who was actually home seven nights a week—but otherwise there was no difference. She was still looking after Esteban two mornings a week. Every Sunday she still drove in to Phoenix, there to struggle with Daddy's growing confusion. At least she didn't need to keep the trailer ship-shape now, the obsessive-compulsive sailor having weighed anchor for a new port. But just because they weren't under the same roof didn't mean she could stop worrying about him.

And did she worry! Was he eating, was he sleeping, was he screwing around? Why did she care if he was screwing around? For God's sake, she was divorcing him! What difference did it make if he dropped dead tomorrow?

Except it did make a difference. She obviously still felt something for him. In her younger days she might have seen this revelation as grounds for trying to patch things up. She knew better now. She could analyse her feelings to a point. She wanted to take care of him, not to coexist in wedded harmony. She wanted to make sure he ate all his vegetables, to see that he was driving carefully on that stupid bike of his, to tell him that drinking was bad for his liver, and to order him to get more sleep. Al hated attention like that. He probably even hated it more than he hated the idea of her and Juan.

Juan's offer to pack up and take off still stood, but Sharon couldn't do it. She just couldn't. Who would take care of Esteban on Tuesdays and Thursdays if she hit the road? It was so tempting to just leave everything behind, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to. She would carry the worries with her to the ends of the earth, and while she was no practical help to Dad or to Al, she was of concrete assistance to Esteban and Celestina. She was making a real difference there, however minor. If she robbed them of that help she wouldn't be able to live with the guilt and the anxieties.

So she stayed and Juan, because he went with the flow on principle, stayed with her. There was still a good three weeks' work to do on the library building. Sharon suspected he really did want to be close just in case something happened with Esteban, but she didn't broach the subject. She didn't want to send him into a fit of denial and resentment.

In any case, she was busy compiling her annual application for the city's Artist in Residence, a post that turned over every September. She had tried for it every year for as long as she could remember, but without success. This year, though, she had an assortment of new work that she knew was great. There was the painting of the man, the woman and the child, as well as three others she thought stood a good chance of impressing the committee in charge of reviewing the portfolios of the hopefuls. Whatever else the last year had been, it certainly hadn't hurt her creativity.

The worst part about the whole mess was the rift between herself and Celestina. The truth about Juan had taken its time to come out, but it was inevitable that it eventually would.

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It had happened in the midst of the third week since Al had caught them in bed. Sharon and Juan had seen no need to hide their relationship from Esteban. After all, he was just a little kid, and he wasn't very smart, and he had no perception of what was going on. As far as the boy was concerned, the world went on as it always had.

On that Wednesday afternoon, though, Celestina had come storming up the street with murder in her eyes.

Sharon had been making supper (canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches), and Juan was emerging from the bedroom, having showered after work. Neither of them expected to see the angel of vengeance striding up the walk. Sharon opened the door, puzzled and mildly taken aback.

"You betray him!" Celestina cried. "That is why he is gone! You not fight about drink: you betray him!"

Sharon stiffened. This black-haired incarnation of her conscience derailed her utterly.

"He is a good man! A kind man, a great man, and you betray him!" Celestina cried, hurt and fury evident in her soulful eyes.

Sharon found herself groping for some kind of reply. Before she could say anything, Celestina had spied Juan, and flew past the other woman to attack her brother-in-law. Angry maledictions poured from her lips. Sharon watched, amazed. She had never imagined that this timid, quiet woman was capable of making so much noise—or of showing such rage. Celestina was livid. She could scarcely breathe, so busy was she upbraiding Juan. Sharon was glad she couldn't understand the words. It didn't look like a fun chewing-out at all. The vitriol in Celestina's voice ripped through the air, and once or twice as she slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other, the muscular bricklayer actually flinched. It was a strange and disturbing sight: the tall, broad-shouldered man cowering before this tiny, birdlike woman.

At last, Celestina let out one last wrathful exclamation, and struck Juan full across the face and with such force that he reeled against the kitchen table. Sharon cried out in alarm, and Celestina, tears now streaming down her cheeks, spun to look at her.

"He is a good man!" she repeated once more. Then she fled the trailer.

The next morning, Esteban did not appear as expected. Sharon had left Juan, whose cheekbone was swollen and purple from Celestina's blow, to eat his breakfast, and made her way up the street. Celestina was just leaving her little trailer. She closed the door with care and bent to lift Esteban onto her hip. As thin as he was, he was still too much of a burden for his little mother.

"Where are you going?" Sharon asked, looking at the boy, whose head was resting on his mother's shoulder.

"To work," Celestina said coldly.

"And Esteban?"

"He come with me. Senor Andriuk will let him stay."

"You can't do that," Sharon reasoned. "He can spend the day with me, same as always."

"With you?" Celestina snapped. "With you and his no good uncle? No. No. He come to work."

"Look, we weren't trying to hurt Al—"

"You do! You do hurt him!" the younger woman had cried. "He not say so, but I know. I see. You hurt him. Why? Why do you do it?"

Sharon had felt a burst of indignation. Who was Celestina to pass judgement on them? The answer of course, was that she was a deeply devout, loving woman who for some reason worshiped Al Calavicci. Her motives were pure and caring. She really was so pained by Al's hurt that she could not abide the sight of those who had caused it.

It wasn't fair, though, that Esteban should suffer because of Sharon's transgression. She had tried to reason with Celestina.

"I know I hurt him," she said softly. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry it had to happen like this, but it isn't going to change anything now. Please. Let me take Esteban. He needs to lie down and rest. He needs peace and quiet so that he can stay strong for his treatments. Please, Celestina."

She had yielded the child, but not without reluctance. It had been much more a question about what was best for Esteban than what was morally palatable to Celestina. Despite acknowledging the importance of rest for her son, she was not yielding. It was clear the deed had sickened her beyond telling.

The following Tuesday, the anger was, astoundingly, forgotten, at least where Sharon was concerned. Juan was not forgiven: that was plainly evident in Celestina's eyes. What he had done was beyond forgiveness.

Sharon suspected that Al had had something to do with smoothing things over between herself and Celestina, but she couldn't imagine what he had possibly said.

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Al watched Celestina, still praying as if she could obtain an eleventh-hour miracle. Any minute now, Jess D. Ananda, Pediatric Oncologist, would come through that door and tell them there was no improvement.

Al rocked Stevie's sleeping body a little. He wasn't sure how much longer they could all keep this up. Here they were: two warring factions held together only by a mutual dedication to this child.

On Friday of the previous week, he had shown up at the Penjas' trailer at the usual hour to find Stevie trying to comfort Celestina, who was sitting dejectedly on one of her flimsy aluminum chairs. Al watched for a moment, listening to the worried lispings of "Don't be thad, Momma. Pleathe don't be thad." before he opened the screen door and entered the trailer, kneeling swiftly in front of the distressed woman.

"What is it?" he had asked gently. "What's wrong?"

She looked up at him with such anguish in her dark eyes that he immediately scanned the room for a telegram, fearing that word had come of her husband's death. "Why?" Celestina whispered. "Why?"

"Why what, honey?" Al prompted, taking her hand in his. She had gripped it frantically.

"Why?" she repeated. "Why you no tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"She betray you!" Celestina cried. "She betray you, sleep with Juan!"

Al had felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. He hadn't wanted her to find out. "Where'd you hear that?" he asked as mildly as he could, on the off chance that she didn't really know. That was ridiculous. She had to have heard it somewhere. She was too good, too pure of heart to leap to conclusions like that on her own. She didn't have a gossip's mind.

"Esteban!" Celestina said fiercely. The boy had looked up from poking his stuffed dog's nose, anxious and unaware of what he had done to earn such a stern address. Celestina saw his distress in spite of her own, and stroked his cheek. "Good boy," she soothed, kissing the crown of his bald head. "You go wash hands now. Like Mama show you."

"Yup, yup," Stevie agreed, happy again.

"You heard it from Stevie?" Al had clarified, puzzled beyond hope of resolving this alone.

"Sí," Celestina had told him wrathfully. "Sí. He tell me he see them, Senora Calavicci and Juan, el Diablo, kissing in the trailer. He say Juan kiss her. Esteban not lie to me. She betray you, this is why you fight. Why she lock you out, cold and hurt."

"Naw, it wasn't like that—"

Suddenly, Celestina had burst into tears and thrown herself into his arms. "Forgive me!" she had wailed. "Please, please, I am so sorry! What I have done! What I have done to you, mi guardia, mi angel!"

"Shh, Celestina, stop," Al had cried in dismay, stroking her hair. "Shh, honey, you didn't do anything to me. Celestina, honey, don't cry…"

"I have! I bring him! I bring him here, wicked man!" she had continued, stroking his cheek frantically as if he had been mortally wounded at her hand. "So kind, you take him into your home so he does not have to sleep in the cold. So generous, pay for Esteban's medicines, his operations, his tests. So good. And he, wicked, wicked man, he deceive you, seduce Senora Calavicci, she betray you! Oh, what, what I have done!"

"Hey, honey…" Al had stammered shallowly, unable to rouse the right words. "No. Celestina… no, it's not your fault. He didn't seduce her. Believe me, hon, she didn't need any seducing. Come on, honey, don't… don't cry…"

"I hate him! I will kill him!" she had cried. "Wicked, wicked man! Betrayer, adulterer! Oh, él es el Diablo!"

She had continued for a while, alternating between tears and rage, remorse and wrath. Al had tried to talk her 'round to a different point of view, but no matter how many excuses he made for Juan (the irony of making excuses for your wife's lover!) Celestina wasn't about to forgive him. Al had managed to patch things up between Celestina and Sharon, at least so that there weren't any ridiculous suggestions of taking Stevie to the dry cleaner's anymore. The rift between Celestina and her brother-in-law wasn't going to be healed any time soon.

Al felt sick with guilt when he thought about that. The tiny, fractured family that had been struggling so hard to survive together had been shattered beyond repair. That was the crowning contribution of the great Calavicci to these people he had grown so attached to. He had to learn. Some day he had to learn how to stop caring. The punishment for being someone Albert Calavicci cared about was too horrific to afflict on anyone.

They were all about to get another grim lesson in that universal truth, he reflected as he glanced at the exit. He could hear footsteps approaching outside. The missives of failure of therapy were drawing near to the castle walls.

The door opened, and the kind-eyed pediatrician came into the room. Al looked up frantically, but he was pinned beneath the sick child and couldn't rise. Celestina crossed herself and kissed the central gaud of her rosary before tucking it into her pocket. Sharon and Juan avoided her eyes as Doctor Ananda rounded her desk.

"Well," she said. Then she paused and removed her lab coat, draping it over the back of her chair. "These interviews are one of the most painful parts of my work. After the ordeal of chemotherapy, especially if it has not been the first such ordeal, everyone wants good news. Too often, there isn't any to give. I know that Esteban has had a difficult time. He's racked up every ADR on the books. I understand how hard it has been, Mrs. Penja, to watch him suffer this way."

The expression on Celestina's face was heartbreaking. Al looked down at the pale little face resting against his shoulder, because watching his mother at this time was too painful. Another bitter disappointment. Another session when her prayers had not been heard. Al remembered the sting of such disillusionment. God would come through… until you actually needed him. Then? Tough luck.

"It's a difficult decision to put your child through these miseries," Ananda continued.

Here it comes, Al thought, bracing himself for the bad news. More chemo. More poisons. More danger of infections. From the side glances he stole at Sharon, Juan and Celestina, they knew the truth too.

"However, it was the right decision, and Esteban's last series of tests has borne that out." A radiant smile spread across the doctor's face. "Esteban is in full remission."

Even Celestina did not need to ask what that meant. It was the dream, the citadel of hope on which they had all fixed their eyes. In the flood of joy and relief that followed these unexpected tidings, the barriers thrust up by the impending divorce dissolved, at least for an instant.