CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Maxine was an excellent girlfriend, but the long-distance thing wasn't working. It was a twelve-hour round trip commute just to see her, and Al only had the one day a week in which to do so. She offered to move to Phoenix, but she was locked into a six-month lease and had no job lined up in Arizona. Had Al been sure their relationship was serious, he might have tried to set something up for her at Starbright, but if she was going to turn into a transient girlfriend like so many others that could prove to be a decision he would regret. Instead, he had told her to stay in Santa Fe and sit out her lease, and they'd reassess things later. To ease the ravages of the distance, they took to meeting at a seedy little Motel Six hallway between her place and the Project. Every Sunday afternoon they got together for a little recreation. They were getting to know each other very well in one respect, while in the more philosophical ways they were almost perfect strangers. The occasional post-coital chat didn't really give them deep insight into each other's souls. Al didn't mind. She had a great body and an adventurous approach to life, and the weekly excursions left him free to pursue other prospects at Starbright. None of those women had Maxine's flair or the unadulterated energy that was a natural by-product of her youth, but they were all nice ladies.
To Al's amazement, Gina from Typesetting had come back for more after all. She didn't seem in the least put off by his nightmares, though they certainly weren't improving. One weird thing about her was her morbid fixation with his scars. She was also always rummaging in his liquor cupboard, though she never drank, and once he had caught her going through his wallet. She had made such a joke of that incident that he had forgotten it almost at once.
Chester was still in Sharon's clutches. The hearing had been pushed back two weeks because of a bailiffs' strike, and then had to be further delayed, as Al had to head out to Washington for the annual funding review. That, at least, went well. By the middle of February life at Starbright was back to normal, and Al was still waiting to go to court and try to get his dog back.
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They had been at it for eight months now, Sharon reflected glumly, and they'd only got it on once.
She reached out and ran her hand up John's back. He was her current boyfriend: a beefy clerk from the county records office. He had broad shoulders, a deep voice, and an undeniably romantic streak that she found strangely enjoyable. He was a nice guy, and pretty good in bed, but now and then she found herself hankering after Al. When it came to unadulterated sex appeal, he was number one in her books. Even this simple contact with John just wasn't the same as it would have been had she been touching her ex instead. Was it possible that she was missing Al's scars? That was ridiculous… or was it?
There was a clicking of tags as a little weight landed on her feet. She sighed in exasperation and kicked at it. Al's penchant for snuggling with the dog had bred a very bad habit. When Sharon was in bed with a man, she didn't want anyone cutting in on her action, and that included pets! Chester didn't seem to get it. He thought that once the bed stopped rocking people wanted to cuddle indiscriminately. Maybe Al had been like that, but most guys saw the dog as an annoyance, and Sharon was starting to share that view.
It wasn't that she didn't like Chester. She definitely did. It was just that she wished he understood her needs a little better. When she came home after a long day conducting a seminar for middle school kids who had only taken art because it was an easier elective than calculus—then she wanted to put up her feet and pet the dog. When, on the other hand, she was lying next to one man and fantasizing about another, she just wanted a little peace!
Sharon hadn't really realized how much work a dog was. Chester was turning into yet another responsibility. She had to remember to keep him fed and watered, and also had to keep his food stocked, which was a chore unto itself. Then there were the "walks" three times a day, during which she had to collect and dispose of his messes. He was starting to smell, too, which Sharon knew was her own fault for neglecting to bathe him. He was so difficult to wash, though! She seemed to recall he had always stayed still for Al, but when she had tried to clean him, he had squirmed and wriggled, and finally escaped her grasp, sprung out of the bathtub, and tracked soap all through the apartment. She just didn't understand that dog!
It was one more reason that the rash of delays to Al's appeal was so infuriating. It was his turn to win, which would probably put him in a good mood and make him more eager to fool around than he seemed to be when he lost. It would also mean that he'd take the dog off of her hands for a while. She could hardly wait. All very well for Nancy, who was monopolizing on the unexpected delay, contacting experts and building the custody case of the century. Sharon was the one left holding the pooch.
She sighed and booted Chester off the bed again. Then she wrapped her arm around John's waist. As she drifted back to sleep, she was dimly aware of a hot, furry body settling on her feet again.
Damned dog.
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Al paced anxiously, bouncing off first one wall of the Wickenburg County Courthouse men's room, and then the other. His palms were clammy and shivers of apprehension course d up and down his spine. It was a disaster. An absolute disaster. As he paced, he talked through his anxieties, railing like a madman at Gavin. Like all good divorce attorneys, the taller man was leaning against the sink and taking it in stride, waiting for the storm to blow itself out.
"An animal shrink!" Al cried. "She brought in a pet psychologist all the way from Los Angeles! Why the hell didn't you think of that?"
Gavin didn't answer, and Al didn't really need him to. He just needed to blow his stack a little. "Chester respecting Sharon as the alpha female of his pack: what kind of hooey is that? That shrink made it sound like Chester sees me as a playmate—and that's a bad thing? Who's he gonna play with if he winds up with her? Only thing she knows how to play is 'Here We Get Under the Mulberry Bush'! She doesn't want him! She can't want him! Not as much as I do! Damn her, he's my dog! He's my dog!"
Al slammed both hands against the brick wall so that his splayed palms stung. He needed his anger. It was hiding his pain and the crippling terror that came with the thought of losing Chester. At best he would have to do without his Yorkie until another appeal could be forced through. At worst… at worst…
"Damn you, I thought you were the best!" Al cried, turning on Gavin again. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
He paused long enough that Prendergast, guessing incorrectly that the fit was passing, had a chance to speak. "Captain, this is a very unusual case," he chided gently. "Most custody arguments center around a child—"
Al kicked the other wall, sending a jolt of cathartic pain into his leg. "I don't give a damn about that!" he howled. "I want to know how she can take Chester away! And don't give me that line about Arizona civil law! It's not right! He's mine and it just isn't right that she can do this!"
"Maybe not, Captain, but it's lega—"
"Damn you, don't tell me it's legal!" This time, Al attacked a stall door, kicking it with such force that it bounced back and clipped him on the shoulder. He smacked it and marched across the room. "Don't tell me it's legal!" he roared again, choler overcoming his inhibitions. Legal and right were very, very different! It was legal to declare a man dead after a "reasonable period" M.I.A., but it sure as hell wasn't right! Legal, but not right, that a man should come back, broken and twisted after shedding six years' blood and tears in the name of his country to find his wife gone, his reason for living vanished with some damned attorney! Legal. All exquisitely legal.
Gavin straightened and patted Al's arm in an infuriatingly condescending manner. "I'll wait outside," he said. "You take your time and pull yourself together."
A snarl of fury bubbled up in Al's throat, and he was about to bite back when the lawyer shook his head. "Let's try to maintain a little dignity, please," he said dispassionately. "Remember: it isn't just your reputation on the line."
Then he was gone. Left alone with his mask of righteous anger, Al dove into the nearest stall, locking it behind him before he could give in to the tremors in his limbs. He lowered the lid of the toilet. Without concern for his trousers, he sat down upon it, pressing his knees together and rubbing his face with quivering hands.
He couldn't believe he was reacting like this. Once upon a time he'd had more self-control, more dignity that this. Gavin was right: he and Sharon were behaving like a couple of kids squabbling over something that from a larger perspective seemed so miserably insignificant. What difference did it make that the dog in question was Albert Calavicci's one touchstone, the only thing besides the women and the whiskey that was keeping him sane? Sharon didn't see it that way. The lawyers didn't either, nor did the judge, nor would the media… nor would the Navy. Al couldn't blame them for the scorn they'd shed on his actions. In a way, the ridicule was preferable to what he was beginning to dread was the truth: that his grip on reality was starting to slip. That he was beginning to go crazy after all.
Al's hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped his flask as he drew it from his pocket. He fumbled with the cap, and then knocked back a generous dose of the vodka within. It soothed him. The trembling abated a little. Two more slugs, and it was gone.
He emerged and washed his face. Time to go out there and brazen it out.
Dignity, he thought as he stared at his reflection. Or at least the illusion of dignity.
He'd left the real thing in the jungle, alongside his courage.
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By a horrible stroke of ill-fortune, the judge who had sat through the testimony of the animal psychologist, and Al's shocked rebuttals, was none other than George Goldman, the nozzle who had awarded Chester to Sharon in the first place. Al sat in horror as he listened to the ruling.
"After due consideration of all aspects of the case," Goldman declaimed pompously; "I award the custody and ownership of the creature in question, one Chester Calavicci, in perpetuity to the defendant, Sharon Marie Quinn. The plaintiff is denied all visitation rights. Captain Calavicci, I do not know whom you think you are serving by squandering public moneys in this childish dispute, but it will no longer be tolerated. If you pursue the matter, I will hold you in contempt."
Al was about to stand up and shout that he wasn't the one worthy of contempt here, but then he remembered that he was going to see this through with an illusion of dignity. Instead he flared his nostrils coldly. Then the other shoe fell.
"I am furthermore issuing a restraining order to prevent you from seeing your former wife—"
"NO!" Sharon cried, springing to her feet. She blushed when she saw all eyes in the courtroom upon her. "I mean… uh… I request that you reconsider that, your honor. It's… really not necessary."
Goldman's eyes narrowed, but he turned to the clerk. "Strike that from the record," he instructed. "On appeal from the defendant, I will not issue a restraining order at this time." He glared very sternly at Al. "Should any complaints reach my ears, Captain, I will not hesitate to recant. Case dismissed!"
The gavel came down, shattering Al's hopes. Then the judge exited, and the court began to disperse.
Sharon came over, Chester still in her arms as he had been at the start of the day's proceedings. Al focused very hard on the pencil in his hands, rolling it between his fingers with such determination that the grain of the wood was probably affecting permanent changes to his prints.
"Hey, sailor," she cooed. "No hard feelings?"
"I'm going to appeal," Al croaked.
Gavin leaned over. "Captain! Didn't you hear what Goldman just said?" he demanded.
"I'll take it to the state court," Al said numbly. "The Supreme Court if I have to…"
"The Supreme Court won't hear a dispute over a—"
"You shut up!" Al snapped tersely. "I've had it with your comments and your useless suggestions. From now on, we're doing this my way."
"Oh, no, we aren't!" Prendergast said. "We most certainly aren't. I'm done with this. This case was ridiculous from the start. If you're going to try to appeal to the state, I'm finished. I wash my hands of this absurd dispute, Captain, and I wash my hands of you. I thought a war hero and national icon such as yourself was worthy of a little assistance despite the bizarre nature of the case. I was willing to go on with this farce out of deference to your record and the services you've done your country. Now I'm starting to think you're not of sound mind! For God's sake, man, it's a dog! I know men who wouldn't act this way about their sons!"
He got to his feet, closing his briefcase with a resounding slam.
"Good day," he said. "You can send my cheque in the mail. I never want to see you again."
He strode away.
Sharon laughed. "You sure told him," she applauded. "I'll have to remember that one the next time Nancy loses me a case—"
Sham dignity be damned. Al snatched up his helmet and fled. Not until he was safe within Starbright's walls and numbing his despair in the only way he knew how did he realize he had left the balance of his protective gear in the cloakroom of the courthouse.