Note: Excerpts from King Lear by William Shakespeare, III,iv; IV,I and V,iii.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Sharon, Quinn once more, pushed her armchair two inches to the left and surveyed the result. She smiled contentedly and slid into the seat from the side, so that her knees crooked over the armrest. She felt younger than she had in years. After seven weeks on the road with Juan, she was ready to settle down again into an adult life. Those had been great weeks: no worries, no responsibility. They had lived with total spontaneity, eating when they wanted, stopping where they wished, and making love in the back of her van every time the mood took them. It had been marvelous… for a little while. Then one morning she had awakened in a parking lot somewhere in the Ozarks, and realized that this wasn't what she wanted, either.

That day she had had it out with Juan. Sharon had gone into the conversation expecting a fierce squabble. She had even been a little anxious going up against the burly laborer. To her surprise, Juan had shrugged. "Do what's right for you," he had said. At least he was consistent.

Now she was back in Wickenburg. She had gotten her stuff out of storage and moved it into her new four-room apartment in the suburb where she taught her classes during the year. She was busy drawing up proposals for her classes in the fall, and gradually settling into the new pad. Two months of rambling had been great: a re-enactment of the carefree summers of her college years and her experiences with the artistic set in the 'sixties. She had reveled in the chance to release her anxieties and live for the moment. She had cut loose and followed her urge to be a kid again. Now, looking around her living room studio, she felt like a girl who, having left home for the first time and taken off on a wild adventure, was now taking possession of her first apartment and settling into a life of maturity and responsibility for the very first time. It was an almost magical sensation.

She glanced at her easel, where she had placed the envelope full of payroll forms and union agreements. She wanted to laugh out loud. She had done it. After all these years, Sharon Quinn had finally done it. Within forty-eight hours of coming back, that envelope had arrived at Nancy's house. It contained a letter of salutations and congratulations, and all the prework she would require before going in for her first day as the Artist in Residence of the Wickenburg municipality. It was a great post. It meant visits to schools, mentoring of aspiring artists, offering seminars, and similar activities. It also meant forty hours a week on union pay—the closest thing to a "real" job that Sharon had ever had, and with all the creative liberty she needed! It would be nothing but blue skies this year.

Blue skies and affluence, she reflected happily. While she had never been dead broke, the years of having just enough had left her wishing for better times. Now they were here. Divorce was usually to a woman's advantage, and this one had been no exception. She had been astonished at Al's foolishness: running off right after the arraignment to get laid. It had proved to her advantage, but she hoped he wasn't hurting too much for money. That wasn't the point. As nice as it was to know her monthly income—between interest on Heinrich's lump settlement, the interest that Rich could get her on Al's, the regular spousal support payments he owed her, and her impending salary—would amount to more than four thousand dollars, she didn't like to think that Al had to go hungry because of it.

Not that he would, of course. The divorce laws were carefully formulated so as to provide fair and equitable settlements. That was how her lawyer had explained it. She didn't need to panic over Al.

She wondered how he was doing. She had wanted to call him, but hadn't quite worked up the courage to do so. What excuse did she have for phoning her ex-husband? Oh, hi, Al. Just wondering if you're eating properly. Getting enough sleep? What about work: you aren't letting work get to you, are you? Yeah, right. He'd hang up.

She already had someone to take care of: she didn't need Al. The clock was showing a quarter to ten, which meant if she wanted to be up at Daddy's at the usual time she had to leave now. Instinctively, she whistled for the dog, remembering with a pang that Al had him. Well, he had been Al's dog from the start, now hadn't he?

She collected her purse and keys and left the apartment.

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Sharon drew a deep breath before heading down the corridor to Pat's room. She was anxious about what she would find. When she had last seen him nine weeks ago, he had been going through a rough time. Would he be worse? She had a feeling… she was afraid that he would be. Angry, hurting, confused…

She opened the door and had to pause at the sight that greeted her.

Pat was in his wheelchair as usual, but in his lap was Chester, grooming his forepaws contentedly. Al occupied the visitor's chair, and seated on the edge of the bed was Luke. Luke! Who never showed an interest in anything! They each held a battered script.

"He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold;" Al was saying. "Bid her alight, and her troth plight, and, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!"

"How fares your grace?" Luke asked, leaning in towards his grandfather with concern in his eyes.

Pat pointed an unsteady finger at Al. "What's he?" he demanded.

"Who's there? What is't you seek?" Luke asked. Then his voice grew deeper and gravelly, as if he was now portraying a different character.

"Poor Tom," Al answered, lolling his head to one side like a madman; "that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the… old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green—gr—green mantle of the standing pool; who is… who is whipped from tithing to tithing, a—and stock-punished, and imprisoned—"

He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat. He cast his eyes away from his script. "Shit," he muttered, coloring deeply.

Luke looked up from his book. "Is something wrong, Uncle Al—oh!" he exclaimed, seeing the intruder. "Aunt Sharon!"

Al whirled so quickly that he almost fell off the chair. "Sharon!" he cried as if seizing the distraction with both hands. "What… what are you doing here?"

The retort that she always came here on Sundays died on Sharon's lips. "I'm back," she said. "I had a great holiday."

"Holid—right," Al said, looking at her oddly. "So… uh…"

"Hi, Daddy," Sharon said, raising her voice so that he could hear her. "How are you?"

"Where have you been?" Pat demanded. "Your mother's been worried sick—and don't tell me you've run off and got married! I don't want to hear it!"

Sharon froze. It was a bad day. "Daddy…" she breathed.

His face softened and he held out his hand for her to take. "That's my girl; I'm not angry," he said. "We're reading King Lear. I'm Lear. You sit down and join us. You can be… which don't you want, boy? Kent or Gloucester?"

"Aunt Sharon can read Kent," Luke said generously. "I like Gloucester better."

"That's okay, really," Sharon demurred. "I'm not much of an actress—"

"Come on!" Pat commanded. "Sit down and share the script with Luke. We'll give you parts as we go. You can be all the women—"

"Oh, no, really—"

"There are only three of them, and I say you can be them!" her father said. "Now, Al. Where were you?"

Al skimmed the page. "Uh…peace, thou fiend!"

"That's not it at all!" Pat exclaimed. "You skipped half that speech! Go back to who is whipped."

Al smiled thinly and cleared his throat. "Who is whipped from tithing to tithing," he said, and his eyes began to take on a haunted look. "And stock-punished." He shuddered convulsively, though he tried to hide it. "And imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear; But mice and rats, and such small deer, Have been Tom's food for six long year—"

"Seven," Luke corrected. "Seven long year."

"Right," Al breathed. He looked suddenly rather old and careworn "For seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!"

"What, hath your grace no better company?" Luke asked his grandfather.

Al cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "The prince of darkness is a gentleman!" he howled. Pat applauded appreciatively. Al turned wide, crazed eyes on him, once more absorbed in the character. "Modo he's call'd, and Mahu."

Luke shook his head. "Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord, that it doth hate what gets it," he said mournfully.

Al hugged himself. "Poor Tom's a-cold," he chattered.

They read through the whole play. It was actually a lot more fun than Sharon had expected it would be, and Al almost made her cry when he came to "Bless thy sweet eyes: they bleed." Finally he looked up, moving his captivating brown-eyed gaze from one face to the next.

"The weight of this sad time," Al said, his voice so full of emotion that one almost believed that he was Edgar, the future King of England; "we must obey: speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long."

There was a silence, and then Pat clapped his hands and whooped with delight. "How 'bout that!" he said. "Great performance everyone! We otta be on Broadway!"

After that they went outside. Luke pushed Dad's chair, and Al and Sharon slowly fell behind, until they couldn't be heard by either the man or the boy.

"How are you?" Al asked.

"Great."

"Are you and Juan…" He gestured suggestively.

She shook her head. "Naw. I dumped him."

"Really?" He cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Really," she said. "You didn't think—you did! You dirty rat! You think he left me for a younger woman!"

"I didn't say that," Al growled, and she could see the armor going back up.

"How are you?" she asked.

The one-word response came flat and unreadable. "Peachy."

She considered this. He didn't look as weary as he had the last time she had seen him, but he was still too thin and there was something in his eyes that wasn't right. "Really?" she asked.

"Really."

"Are you eating properly?"

"All my green beans and everything," he answered.

She laughed a little. Her fault for asking. "What about the dreams?" she asked softly. "Are you still having nightmares?"

He turned on her, glaring ferociously. "What kind of a question is that?" he demanded.

Sharon backed up a little, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "I was just asking," she said meekly.

"Well, don't!" Al snapped. "This Mommy act was bad enough when we were married. Coming from a wife I could maybe put up with it, but from a casual acquaintance—just leave it alone, Sharon!"

"Fine!" she said. "Fine! I was just trying to be nice. You think I actually give a damn? Think again, Calavicci!"

"I don't want you to give a damn!" Al cried. "I want you to go away and leave me in peace!"

"Leave you in peace? You're the one stalking my family!" The fighting instinct was as strong as ever. They still drove each other crazy.

"I'm not stalking them! You're the one who took off on your little mid-life vision quest and left the old guy alone!" Al shouted. "Someone had to come and visit him!"

"Oh, yeah?" Sharon retorted. "And what about Luke? How'd you rope him into this?"

"I didn't rope him into anything!" Al snarled. "He came by himself. He's a good kid."

He gave her one more look of disgust and marched away. She was glad, because if he hadn't she would have grabbed him and tried to kiss him.

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Al wasn't at the nursing home the next Sunday, nor did he appear the Sunday after that. Sharon knew he didn't want to see her, but she wanted to see him. She wasn't convinced that everything was okay with him, and she couldn't seem to stop worrying. Added to that was their last parting. In hot blood as it had been, it had left her without the usual closure to their fights. As twisted as it sounded, she wouldn't mind a fling with her ex-husband. After two months' separation she kind of missed him—not the arguments or the daily aggravations, but the passionate nights… those she missed! But she didn't want to admit it, least of all to Al.

If only she had an excuse to see him, she thought, raking her brush across the canvas. She couldn't very well just turn up at the gates of his secret project. It was too bad the court battle had turned out to be so straightforward. When Nancy and Harold had got their divorce they had fought for months over the kids. That had been terrible, of course, but they had had all kinds of chances to see each other...

A wicked grin spread itself over her face. She knew what to do! It would be great. The perfect pretext for a reunion with her dashing Italian ex. She set down her palette and picked up the phone.

"Bradfield, Hilliard and Busby, Attorneys-at-Law," the Texan secretary drawled.

"Busby, please," Sharon said. The line rang through again.

"Busby." The cool voice of her attorney came up on the other end.

"Nancy!" Sharon cried eagerly. "Nancy, remember how you said if I wanted custody of the dog…"