Chapter Seven
Tony rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. Then he looked at it again. Then, a third time, just to be safe. 7:25? That couldn't be right! He'd debated whether or not to reset the alarm and sleep in an extra half hour, since the nurse in the hospital had forbidden him his usual morning run until he'd had a few days to rehydrate. But in the end, he'd specifically decided to leave it at 5:45am because he had reading to do.
Heart pounding, he threw off the covers and threw on the first clean articles of clothing he found in his closet, which turned out to be jeans and a sweatshirt. As he was tying his shoes, he noticed the shirt was on backwards, and had to multitask by pulling in his arms and twisting it to rights as he ran downstairs to start breakfast. Lacking the time for his usual morning greetings, he pounded wordlessly on Samantha's door, then Jonathan's, and finally, Angela's.
To his surprise, he found breakfast already in full swing, down in the kitchen. Samantha was frying bacon, Mona brewing coffee, and Jonathan cracking eggs into a hot skillet. "Hey, guys, check it out. My brain's on drugs again," the boy giggled.
"Jonathan, quit telling that joke! It wasn't funny the first time, and it hasn't gotten any funnier in the last ten minutes," Samantha snapped, sponging grease off the stove.
"What's all this?" asked Tony, his borderline-dangerous heartrate starting to slow.
"It's breakfast," said Mona. "You know, that meal that comes before lunch and after a night of hot, sexy fun?"
"Grandma, please!" Jonathan groaned. "Can we have one family meal that doesn't end with me wanting to poke out my eyes like that guy from Greek mythology?"
"Dad, you can drop the act. We saw you drooling all over your school books after dinner last night," Sam all but accused him. "You and Angela both need to slow down, or you're going end up in the back of another ambulance."
"Since you're both too pigheaded to admit you need help, we had to make a conspiracy of it," said Jonathan. "We made breakfast, and Sam started the laundry, and I did your algebra homework."
"Jonathan!" Tony shouted. "That's cheating!" Although it was tempting to just turn in the work as his own. Jonathan was tops at math, and Tony knew he could count on an A.
Jonathan heaved the longsuffering sigh of a man surrounded by idiots. "If it makes you feel better, you can redo it, but I saved my scratch paper with all my work shown so that you'll be able to see exactly where you went wrong if your answers don't match up with mine." The boy gave him a fatherly punch on the arm. "Don't worry. You know this stuff, champ. I'm just giving you a little push in the right direction."
"And I took the liberty of sneaking into your room and turning off your alarm. We made a great team," said Mona, touching each of the kids' heads in turn. "Nobody cooks like an Italian, nobody solves equations like a geek, and nobody sneaks into a handsome man's bedroom like Mona Robinson."
"I'm not a geek!" Jonathan protested hotly.
"Jonathan, you're going to have to come to terms with who you are one of these days," Sam advised him condescendingly. "Mona's just trying to help."
"Yeah. It doesn't have to be a negative thing. A lot of women are into geeks," said Mona, squeezing her grandson's shoulders encouragingly. "Brains and money make an attractive combination, you know."
"Leave the kid alone, you two," Tony scolded halfheartedly. He put an arm around his daughter. "I've got to tell you, I'm impressed. You three kids have done a terrific job. That bacon looks…it looks…" His stomach started to churn, his throat clenched, and his spit glands spasmed painfully. "Oh, marone a mi!" He tried to make a break for the sink, but realized halfway that he wasn't going to make it, and reached for the garbage can instead.
Angela made her way down the stairs, feeling slightly refreshed by the extra half hour of sleep Tony had thoughtfully allowed her before waking her this morning. As she walked into the bustling kitchen, she was greeted by a strong odor. "Do I smell bacon…" she sniffed the air experimentally. "…And vomit?" Before her family could confirm or deny her suspicions, last night's dinner was already on its way back up her esophagus, and she bolted for the sink. She nearly tripped over Tony, huddled into a ball over the trash can, on her way over. Well, that explains the smell, she thought. Then her nostrils filled with something so vile it eradicated her sense of smell entirely, and she wasn't sure whether to be thankful or disgusted.
The next thing she knew, she was on the living room couch; Tony's head resting on hers, her own head on his shoulder. "I think they're finally out of ammo," she heard Samantha say.
"That was gross!" said Jonathan, his voice more enthusiastic than disgusted. "It just kept coming and coming! I think I saw one of the Christmas cookies that you made last December mixed up in there, Tony."
A gentle hand stroked her hair, and a cool cloth pressed against her forehead, a familiar voice softly humming Brahams' Lullaby. "Angela, dear, are you all right?" For a moment, she was eight years old and bedridden with chicken pox; her mother cuddling her while she, in turn, cuddled her favorite teddy bear.
Then the flashback retreated, and Angela realized it was Tony, not Mister Fluffy, she was squeezing the life out of. He grunted in pain, and she released him, though she lacked the physical or emotional strength to lift her head from his shoulder.
"Oh, why am I even bothering to ask?" Mona griped. "I know you. You could literally be on fire and you'd still tell me you were feeling fine and dandy." She pointed an accusing finger at Tony. "And you're no better, mister!"
"Here you go, Mona." Samantha appeared out of the shadows with two bottles of Gatorade. Their ugly yellow-green color reminded Angela of what had just spilled out of her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
She could feel Tony's cheek moving against her scalp, as though he was shaking his head. "Nooo!" he moaned as if being tortured.
"Stop whining! And both of you, open your eyes and look at me so that I know you're paying attention!" Mona barked like an angry drill sergeant. It had been so long since she'd heard her mother take that tone, Angela instinctively had to obey, opening her eyes and raising them to her mother's face. "That's more like it. Now, I know you're both miserable, and I'm not unsympathetic, but you've got to follow doctor's orders if we're ever going to get back to normal around here. I mean, just look at this place! The parents look like something the Grim Reaper himself would toss back, the kids are voluntarily doing chores, and I'm talking like some sort of…mother." Mona sounded absolutely disgusted with herself.
"It really is pretty scary," Samantha confessed.
"Yeah, I feel like I'm in that weird parallel universe in Back to the Future or something." Jonathan shuddered. "Don't marry any evil casino tycoons, okay Mom?"
"She can't, she's already married," said Tony, his cheek bending against her head as if in a smile, this time. Angela opened her mouth to tell him to shut up before he blew their cover. What came out instead was a giddy giggling fit.
"I don't do this very often, but I'm going to have to pull rank. Angela, as your mother, I'm forbidding you to go to work today."
"I was going to take a half-day," Angela tried to compromise.
"No deal," said Mona. "I've hidden the keys to your office, and the only people with a spare are me and the janitor. And I'm the only employee you have who knows any Spanish, so you can't get it from him."
Damn the evil genius who bore me, Angela seethed.
Sam came into view again. "And Dad, as your daughter, you're staying home from school today."
"You can't tell me what to do," Tony croaked. "I may be a little out of it, but I'm still your father, young lady!"
"Dad, I'd hope it wouldn't come to this, but I have a trump card." She held up a manila folder. "Here in this folder is the most embarrassing baby picture of all time." She glanced at Angela. "My late Grandma Micelli snapped it of Dad when he was potty training." She turned back to her father. "You know the one I mean, right?"
She felt, more than heard, Tony's sharp intake of breath. "You don't mean…?"
"Yep. You fall in line and start taking care of yourself, or Angela gets a look."
"No," Tony whispered in horror, as if the Devil himself was menacing him with a red-hot pitchfork.
"You're staying home from school today, Dad!" Samantha commanded. "And we don't want you doing any housework, either."
"I'm picking up a pizza for dinner—" Mona began.
"Urk…" Tony and Angela gagged in unison.
"And we're all going to pitch in with the housework for the next couple of days," she continued brusquely. "I can run interference for you at work for that long, Angela. I'm not completely inept, and neither are the rest of your employees."
"No one's saying—" She'd no sooner opened her mouth to protest than Jonathan had placed one of the bottles of thirst quencher in it.
"Don't disobey your mom," Jonathan instructed. "You might set a bad example for your impressionable young son."
Angela took a couple of gulps and then turned her head away from the bottle, toward Tony. She was tired of fighting it. "Tony, they're right," she caved.
"Aw," Tony moaned. "I really hate it when they're right."
"Tony has an urgent meeting with the Dean of Student Affairs this morning at ten," Angela negotiated. "I promised I'd go with him. If you'll let us have that, we'll concede on all of your other terms."
Mona looked at Samantha, then at Jonathan. They both nodded. "Deal," her mother finally agreed. But you'd better keep your part of that bargain, or so help me God, I'm calling Carmella to come over and babysit."
Tony and Angela clung to each other in terror. "We'll be good," Angela blurted.
"We promise!" Tony echoed.
A bottle of Gatorade and an extra antiemetic each had them up, if not at 'em, in time to meet Dean Brown. Though, as the nausea pills caused drowsiness, neither of them felt confident enough in their faculties to drive. They had to call for a cab, and given their weakened state, had to stop at a bench in the quad to catch their breath when Angela had a dizzy spell. Under the less-than-ideal circumstances, they arrived five minutes after ten. As they entered Dean Brown's office, the small, bald man eyed them like a pair of filth-caked dung beetles that had eluded the stomp of his shoe for far too long. "Mr. Micelli. You're late."
"Sorry, Dean Brown. I ain't been feeling well," Tony apologized sincerely. Angela grasped his arm in support, and gave the dean a cold look. Between his pale face and sunken, bloodshot eyes, that much should have been obvious. Was a little understanding too much to ask for?
The dean curled a lip at her. "Oh, marvelous. I see you brought your…"
He sounded like he was trying to come up with a non-profane word for what he really wanted to call her. "His wife," Angela shot back at him. That ought to prevent him from kicking her out. And if he wanted to call her out on it, they had written proof back home.
The dean turned to Tony quizzically. "You two are married?"
"You heard the lady." Tony squared his shoulders proudly.
"Well, I certainly wasn't going to let any husband of mine go to one of those wild parties alone!" said Angela. This could actually be useful. Being a married father of two could help establish Tony as a responsible person, whose drunken behavior that night had been completely out-of-character. "Not that I don't trust him, of course. But a handsome man like him would have had to waste the entire evening fighting off the coeds, if I'd left him to fly solo." Though she still felt horrible, she managed to give Tony an affectionate smile for the old man's benefit.
Dean Brown gestured to a couple of chairs in front of his desk. "Sit down, Mr. and Mrs. Micelli."
They obeyed. Angela's heart ached for Tony when his knee started bouncing nervously the moment he was seated. She took his hand, and it was sweating as badly as it had on the long-ago night when they'd shared their first kiss. "Now, then. Do you know why you're here?"
Tony ventured a shaky smile. "I guess it'd be too much to hope that you want to notify me I've won a Fulbright scholarship?"
"This hardly the time for levity, Mr. Micelli." He frowned at Tony, then at Angela. "Do either of you even remember our last meeting?"
"I know that's probably a rhetorical question, but we don't, and honestly, it would really help us out if you could catch us up," said Angela truthfully. This was good, she tried to tell herself. They had found an eyewitness, just as Jay had recommended. Maybe he could provide a statement, or at least point them in the direction of someone who could.
Then again, he didn't look like he was in any mood to be helpful. "If you insist, though it's a memory I don't particularly care to relive. I went to Gamma House on Thursday night, following up on a noise complaint, and found Mrs. Micelli singing and dancing on a table."
"Oh, dear God," Angela moaned.
"Aw, come on, it ain't so bad," Tony soothed her. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. You're a great dancer."
"Perhaps under normal circumstances, but the kind of drunken flailing I witnessed was certainly nothing to take pride in. When I asked you to descend from your perch, you proceeded to rub my head while making unflattering comments about my bald spot."
"I'm so sorry!" Angela cried. "For the record, male-pattern baldness is nothing to be ashamed of. It's a simple matter of genetics and age—"
"Angela, quit helping me," Tony hissed, putting a hand over her mouth.
The dean advanced on Tony, an accusing finger aimed at his head like a gun. "Then this one emerges from a couch he had evidently been stuffed into at some point—"
"I knew it!" Tony snapped his fingers triumphantly. "That Mike kid's gonna pay when I get my hands on him."
"You were shirtless and wearing an empty punch bowl—"
"Empty? Oh no, you were right, Tony. We drank it all!" Angela groaned in dismay.
Dean Brown continued as if he hadn't heard. "Which you then placed on my head when you could not locate a suitable hat rack. When I requested you put your shirt back on, you eventually obliged." Then he rounded on Angela, his angry finger shaking with rage. "At which point, you attempted to remove your shirt."
"You said 'attempted.' I didn't succeed?" Angela permitted herself a small sigh of relief.
"No. When I advised you I was going to call security, you ran off giggling like a pair of middle schoolers who had just succeeded in spray-painting their names on the bathroom wall." The dean's frown had evolved into a death glare, and he pointed it back at Tony. "I hope you realize the seriousness of the situation, Mr. Micelli. Public intoxication is a crime. And here at Ridgemont, we do not take on-campus crime lightly. You are in grave danger of expulsion. Your fraternity's charter has already been revoked—"
Tony's head had been hanging throughout the dean's recounting, and had gotten progressively lower with every sentence out of his mouth. If it got any lower, he was going to end up on the floor. It would have been a pitiful sight on anyone, but this was Tony. He was normally so proud, so confident. Seeing him bowed in shame was disturbing and heartbreaking, like watching a clown cry. Angela couldn't endure another minute of it. Without letting go of her temporary husband's hand, she rose to her feet. "I think you've said enough, Dean Brown. Now you're going to listen."
The dean blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon, young lady?"
Being referred to as "young lady" very nearly mollified her, and she had to look back at poor, beaten-down Tony to angry up her blood again. "Do you have any idea what we've been through? This man that you're berating is a hardworking father of two, who has been running himself into the ground in an effort to better himself through education and set a good example for his children. All while coaching Little League, running the local Parents' Association, and giving free fitness classes for the neighborhood housekeepers."
The dean did not appear impressed. "That's all well and good, but—"
"I'm not finished yet!" she persisted. "This man hasn't had five seconds to call his own since he started school, and last week, I finally succeeded in convincing him to take a night off and unwind." It was ironic how the tables had been turned since their vacation to Mexico two years ago. If only she'd had the strength to carry him out the front door like he'd had to do to her. "All evening, we took care to remain sober because it was a weeknight and we had responsibilities at work and at home. And what happens?" The dean opened his mouth. Whether to answer or object, she wasn't sure, but she cut him off just in case. "I'll tell you what happens! Some hoodlum spikes the punch with enough alcohol to knock out Mike Tyson!"
The rage written all over the dean's face ebbed ever-so-slightly. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me! I don't know what was in there, but we woke up two days later, eight hours from home, with severe damage to our stomach lining!" She fought the urge to grab him by his stupid bow tie and shake him repeatedly. "Our family was worried sick! Then we got home, so ill they had to call an ambulance to haul us off to the hospital! It took more anti-nausea pills than I even want to think about to get us into your office without spewing right in your smug little face! And as if all that wasn't enough, you have the nerve to talk to my husband like he's some neighborhood punk who stole your hood ornament!"
Dean Brown backed away from her uneasily, eventually slamming into his own desk. "Well, it seems that there's more to this story than I knew."
"You're damned right, there is!" Angela thundered. "And if you're not careful, it's going to end with us suing you for damages! We could have been killed! If we'd been able to find our car and drive home, we could have killed someone else! Not to mention the mental anguish, on several counts!" She was running out of breath, but the thought of Samantha and Jonathan's frightened faces that day in the hospital kept her mouth running. "As I said, we have two children. Are you a father, Dean Brown?"
Dean Brown seemed thrown off by the question. "Um, yes. Three daughters." He reached for one of the frames on his desk and held up an old black-and white picture of three teenaged blondes in matching dresses and ringlets.
All girls. That was good, Angela reflected briefly. No chance to pass on that gene for male-pattern baldness. "Then you know what kids are like during their teen years. Well, we have a son who's twelve and a daughter who's sixteen. For the past few days, they've been doing chores without being asked."
"And hugging us in front of other people," Tony added.
The dean's eyes widened with alarm. "Oh dear. That's not good. That's not good at all."
Now that she had his attention, she backed off, going over to Tony's chair to place a hand on his shoulder. "And despite all this, my husband drags himself off of his deathbed the day after being released from the hospital to come to class, because school is important to him, and what does he get? He gets insults from his professors, and is denied the chance to make up an important test he missed while incapacitated."
"I'm so sorry," said Dean Brown. The moment she'd mentioned legal action, all the fight had gone out of him. "I'll speak with your teachers, Mr. Micelli, and make sure, under the circumstances, your absences are excused and you're afforded the opportunity to make up any missed work."
Tony was reeling, though Angela wasn't sure whether it was from shock, relief, or dehydration. "Th-thank you, sir," he stammered. "That means a lot to me. I really do take my education very seriously."
Encouraged by her success, she decided to press her advantage. There was something that had been weighing on her conscience since their first phone call home from Niagara Falls. "I hope that you'll also consider reinstating Gamma House's charter."
A muted version of the dean's lemon-sucking frown fleetingly returned to his face. "Mrs. Micelli, with all due respect, this isn't the first altercation I've had with Gamma House."
"But it's not fair that those nice boys be punished for our behavior! Tony isn't even a member of Gamma House."
"And we can't be sure that the creep who spiked the punch is, either," Tony chimed in, giving her a warm smile of approval.
"And even if he is, wouldn't it be more appropriate to penalize the responsible party, rather than throwing the entire organization out with the bathwater?" Angela persisted. "From the way you spoke to my husband, it's clear that you're a firm believer in personal responsibility."
Dean Brown considered this. "I suppose I am." He gave her a grateful look. "I'm not accustomed to people actually listening when I talk."
"Angela's a great listener," said Tony, placing a supportive arm around her waist. "She always pays attention to the kids and me when we need to unload."
"And I'll concede that she has a point," the dean went on, taking a seat behind his desk. "As I said, we do not take on-campus crime lightly here at Ridgemont. And administering a noxious substance is a felony. The campus police will need to conduct an investigation. Provided the fraternity's members fully cooperate in helping us find and punish the culprit, I will consider reinstating their charter." The dean tapped his chin thoughtfully with two fingers. "In fact, that may actually be helpful in solving this mystery. An incentive for those young ruffians to work with us."
"I've always found the carrot to be a far more effective method of leadership than the stick," Angela agreed. "Will you keep us posted on your findings? We need as much information about how this happened as possible. For health reasons," she lied.
"Of course, Mrs. Micelli. And my sincerest apologies to you both for everything you've been through."
By the end of the meeting, Angela had done such a thorough job of alternately charming and frightening Dean Brown that he insisted on personally driving them home. Angela passed out on Tony's shoulder in the backseat of the dean's Bentley on the way home. "The poor dear," the dean clucked as he pulled into their driveway. "Do you need any help getting her inside?"
"No, I've got her," Tony replied, placing a protective arm around the sleeping woman. "Of the two of us, I think she's the worse off. I pulled through with two dramamines, but she had to take three." The last of them had finally kicked in, and between her low blood volume and high medication volume, she was out cold. Tony indulged in the opportunity to stroke her hair while she was out.
The dean nodded. "If it was, in fact, some manner of very strong alcoholic beverage as your physician suspected, that's not surprising. Women do tend to have a lower tolerance for such things than men. Something I've unfortunately seen often, dealing with these rowdy frat boys." The dean's eyes darkened. "I'm very glad that if this had to happen to her, it at least happened on a night when she was accompanied by a large, physically imposing male."
Tony thought of the hungry look he'd glimpsed in that Mike punk's eyes, and his skin crawled. "Yeah. I guess it could have been worse." He dragged his own unusually-heavy body out of the car and tried to go back for Angela, but couldn't quite manage it.
"Allow me." Dean Brown unbuckled his seatbelt and came around to help. "I'm not the athlete you clearly are, but I'll do what I can." He picked up Angela's legs, while Tony hefted the rest of her, and between the two of them, they managed to get her upstairs to bed.
It was embarrassing for Tony, not having the strength to do it himself, but at least Mona and the kids weren't around to point and laugh. "Thanks for your help, Dean Brown. And for the lift home, and everything else."
The dean nodded and gave him a fatherly pat on the back. "You're a good boy, Mr. Micelli. Let me offer you a little free advice. Stay away from Gamma House. When you wallow with pigs, you can't help getting dirty."
Tony knew it wasn't in his best interest to argue, now that Angela had gotten him onto Brown's good side, but he couldn't let that kind of thinking go unchallenged, either. "Now, that ain't entirely fair, Dean Brown. Maybe the pigs would notice how nice you smelled and decide to try taking a bath for themselves."
The dean shook his head. "You remind me of my oldest girl. You young people, going to change the world singlehandedly. Well, don't let me stop you, son. But in the meantime, try to get some rest. I don't want to see you on campus until Monday. Be sure to bring the hospital bills for yourself and Mrs. Micelli to my office as soon as they reach you. I'll have my assistant gather your classwork for the past few and next few days, and drop it off tomorrow, along with your wife's vehicle."
"Oh, that's right. Angela was gonna give you the keys." Tony reached into the purse still slung over Angela's shoulder as she lay unresponsive on the bed and withdrew the set of keys. "Here, the little one's for the door, big one's for the ignition."
The dean gave him a bemused look. "You two have been together a long time, haven't you?"
"Four years," Tony replied semi-truthfully. Not the way he was implying, but in every other way that mattered. Living together, laughing together, crying together. Sharing each other's fears and hopes. Encouraging one another to grow and expand their horizons. Building a home and a family.
Brown smiled. "You're a brave man, son. My wife didn't let me have access to her purse until the seventh or eighth year. It's the ultimate degree of intimacy in a relationship, she says."
"Well, you know, that's where they keep their makeup. And their cash. And their planners with all their evil schemes in them. And their…really, really female stuff." The two men shuddered together. "Thanks again for all your help, but I'm sure you're needed back at work. Let me walk you to the door."
"Unthinkable." The dean folded his arms and stood his ground. "You're supposed to be at rest, young man. I'll show myself out, but first I want to see for myself that you're safely in bed, looking after yourself."
Tony's heart began to pound in terror and/or excitement. "Oh. You mean, in this bed right here? With my…uh, wife?"
"Well…yes." The dean studied his face. "Are you quite certain you only took two of those pills, Mr. Micelli?"
"It's all kind of fuzzy, to be honest." Since he couldn't think of an excuse, and part of him really didn't want to, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed next to Angela. "There, are you satisfied? Or did you want to kiss me goodnight, too?"
That actually got a laugh out of the old man. "No, that will do. Get well soon, both of you."
And with that, the old man left them. The house was so quiet he could hear every footfall on the stairs, and the soft click of Brown gently closing the front door behind him. It was downright creepy. He'd never known the house to be so quiet. Even when he was alone, there was the noise of the vacuum humming, the water running, him singing as he worked or listening to sportscasts on the radio. His arm found its way around Angela, clinging to her like a kid with a security blanket. Marone a mi, this is pathetic. He was man enough to at least admit it to himself. But no one's here to see, so what's the harm?
"Angela, can you hear me?" No answer. "Didn't think so." Emboldened, he pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're amazing, do you know that? I walked into that man's office on the verge of expulsion. Now he's tucking me into bed, paying my bills, getting me my homework. If you'd stayed awake a little longer, he'd probably be spoon-feeding us chicken soup as we speak." He rested his head, which some hateful person seemed to have crammed full of rocks, on the pillow beside her, just for a minute. "I haven't been so impressed since you won that fistfight with Teresa all those years ago."
He allowed himself a sappy grin at the memory, since he knew she couldn't see it. "It was beautiful, babe. You know, I've never understood guys who say women are beautiful when they're angry. I usually prefer to see my lady smiling. But boy, after seeing you in action today, I finally get it."
He was half asleep now, dreamily nuzzling her hair. She'd been too far gone to spray it this morning, and it made a wonderfully soft pillow. "Nobody's gone to bat for me like that since…well, you." She snuffled in her sleep, and it was so adorable he barely recognized the spitfire she'd been an hour ago. "Sticking up for me to the entire Parents' Association, those damn stiffs at the Fergusons' wedding, that babe I picked up at the supermarket that one time. You're always on my side. 'Cept when we're playing tug-of-war, of course."
He opened his mouth to laugh, and another yawn came out. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he didn't have the strength to open them again once the yawn had passed. I'll just rest my eyes a while. It couldn't be much past noon. The kids wouldn't be home for a good three hours, Mona for around six. And Angela wasn't waking up any time soon, that much was certain. He had time to catch his breath. And time to enjoy the moment.