Date: Mon, 10 Feb 1997 21:57:45 -0600
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From: "J. Rowland" <tigger@popalex1.linknet.net>
Subject: Because I Love You, Goodbye; Ch. 4

Because I Love You, Goodbye; Ch. 4
by Jennifer L. Rowland


        Mr. Calavicci rubbed his hands vigorously against his arms and
stamped his feet to warm himself.  His breath clouded before his face in the
misty early morning air.  That last construction site had been in a much
warmer climate, and it was taking his body a while to adjust back to the
chill of the city.  He blew on his fingers before reaching into his pocket
for his house key.  It felt wonderful to be home.  He couldn't wait to see
his wife and children.
        The key turned in the lock as silently as he could manage.  He
didn't want to startle or wake them since he was there even before the
milkman.  The door creaked on its hinges and slowly swung inward.
        Mr. Calavicci turned to close the door quietly.  As he latched it
again, he realized his house didn't smell right.  The living room reeked of
alcohol and it mingled with a more sour smell emanating from the kitchen.
He turned around and stopped short to find his children snuggled against
each other on the sofa.  Al had his arm wrapped tightly around Trudy.  The
boy's limbs shivered, though Trudy seemed comfortable.  Mr. Calavicci
quickly removed his coat and draped it across his son's body.
        Trudy woke up and looked around, searching for the familiarity of
her room.  Her face lit up with excitement and relief when she caught sight
of her father.  "Poppy!" she shouted.  She wiggled from Al's hold and threw
her arms out.  "Poppy!"
        Mr. Calavicci put a finger to his lips to caution Trudy to be quiet
and not to disturb her sleeping brother, but Al didn't stir.  His arm fell
limply to the couch when Mr. Calavicci lifted Trudy into his arms.  Trudy
grabbed hold tightly and buried her face in his neck.  "Poppy home, he's
home," she cried.
        "I'm home, Trudy, that's right.  I'm home," he smiled.  He hugged
her close.  "I missed you, Trudy.  You and your brother both.  And your
momma, too."
        Trudy stiffened in his arms.  "Mommy go bye-bye," she said with a
frown.  "Al not know when she come back."
        "Went bye-bye?  And left you kids here alone?  Are you sure, Trudy?"
        Trudy's lower lip stuck out and she nodded somberly.
        Mr. Calavicci stood up with Trudy in his arms and headed to the
hall.  Broken glass crunched beneath his workshoes as he passed behind the
couch.  He looked up to see the stain of a liquid running down the wall.  He
called out his wife's name several times, but no answer.  He pushed down the
fear of an adrenaline rush as he opened every door in search of his wife.
She was nowhere to be found.
        Trudy's cheeks glistened with shed tears.  "No Mommy?"
        Mr. Calavicci shook his head sadly.  "No, Trudy.  She's not here."
He hugged his daughter again and noticed the stains covering the back of her
dress.
        "Oh, Trudy, you're all dirty, honey.  Let's change your dress, okay?"
        "No bath," Trudy protested.
        Mr. Calavicci carried Trudy her into her bedroom.  "No, you don't
have to take a bath yet, Trudy."  He opened her closet and pulled out a red
dress.  Trudy smiled and nodded at his selection.  She stuck her arms in the
air and sat very still as he pulled the soiled dress over her head and
slipped the clean one on her.  "My, my, look how beautiful," he smiled.
        Trudy beamed at her father.  "Show Al?" she asked.
        "Of course we will, Trudy," smiled Mr. Calavicci.  He picked her up
again and returned to the living room.
        Al still hadn't moved an inch.  Mr. Calavicci set Trudy on the floor
and sat on the couch next to his son.  "Al, wake up," he said in a gentle
voice.  Al didn't move, nor did he make a sound.  Mr. Calavicci softly shook
his son's shoulder.  "Al," he said, louder this time.  "Albert, wake up, son."
        Al groaned, but didn't move.  Trudy stood on tiptoe and poked her
brother through the coat.  "Al!  Wake up!" she shouted.
        Mr. Calavicci pushed Trudy's arms to her sides.  "Don't poke your
brother again, Trudy.  I don't think he feels good."
        She nodded.  "He got sick.  Al hurted."
        "Hurted?"  Mr. Calavicci turned his full attention to his daughter
in alarm.  "How is he hurted, Trudy?"
        "Al's gots red all over him," she answered.
        Confused and frightened, Mr. Calavicci pulled the coat off his son
and turned him on his back.  Al's right arm was covered with drying blood,
and blood was spread all over his shirt.  His face was bruised purple and
blue, and was marked with the black trickles of dried blood on his cheek.
Mr. Calavicci yanked his son's shirt open to check for open wounds.  He only
found bruises, which alleviated his fear that Al's chest had been bleeding
in addition to his arm.
        "Trudy, what happened?  Did Al get in a fight?"
        Trudy shrugged.  "He went nite-nite."
        Mr. Calavicci struggled to make sense of Trudy's cryptic answers.
"Has he been sleeping the whole time, Trudy?"
        She shook her head.  "No, he woke up, and then he got sick."  She
wrinkled her nose.  "Smell bad, too."
        "Where did he get sick, Trudy?" he pressed, trying to put all the
pieces together.
        She pointed to the kitchen.
        Mr. Calavicci stepped into the kitchen and immediately noticed the
broken window and the pile of vomit in the corner.  He hurried back to his
son's side.
        Mr. Calavicci pressed the back of his hand against Al's forehead,
checking for a fever.  Al felt cold, not hot.  He lifted his son into his
lap and pressed his body against Al's to warm his child.
        "What happened to make Al go nite-nite?" he asked.
        Trudy frowned.  "I don't know, Poppy."
        Al moaned and rolled his head from side to side.  Mr. Calavicci
caught his breath and prayed silently as he waited.  Al's eyes slitted open
and he winced at the light.
        "Al?" Mr. Calavicci asked.
        Al's head moved toward the sound, but his eyes remained slits.  Mr.
Calavicci repeated his name over and over again until his son opened his
eyes all the way.
        Al stared dumbfoundedly at his father's face for several minutes.
"Papa?" he asked hoarsely.  He tried to raise his limp arms to hug his
father, but he began crying as the movement caused his right arm to begin
throbbing.
        Mr. Calavicci drew his son close.  "Shhh, it's all right now, Al.
I'm here."  He hugged him tenderly, not wanting to inflict pain on the
bruises covering his son's body.  "How do you feel, son?"
        "M-my head h-hurts," Al stammered.  "I-I hurt ev-every-w-where."  He
cried harder than before.  Mr. Calavicci couldn't remember seeing Al so
scared.  Even as a baby Al had never cried so hard.  And the stammering was
something new.  Al never stuttered.  Something was seriously wrong with his son.
        "How did you get hurt, Al?" he asked.
        "I-I d-don't know."  Al tried to raise his head to look around the
room.  "W-where's M-Momma?"
        Trudy looked curiously at her brother.  "Mommy go bye-bye, Al," she
said sadly.
        Al shook his head despairingly.  "No. Nooooo," he wailed.  He gagged
on his tears and the bile the sudden movement of his head brought up.
        Mr. Calavicci gently propped his son into a sitting position and ran
his hand up and down Al's trembling back.  "Shhh," he whispered.  He kissed
his son's forehead.  Al shivered from the cold and his sobbing.
        "Trudy.  Honey, run next door to the boarding house and get Mrs.
Lorenzo to come over, okay?"
        Trudy nodded and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
The sound of her shoes clattering on the pavement grew fainter as she left
the yard.
        Al's breathing was growing labored and harsh.  His eyes widened in
panic and he clutched his father's shirt.  "I d-don't f-feel good, Papa."
        Mr. Calavicci grabbed a glass bowl and dumped the wilting flower
arrangement and water on the floor.  He held the bowl for his son as Al
emptied his stomach.  If it were possible, Al began crying even harder.  He
seemed to be hyperventilating.  Mr. Calavicci forced Al to lie on his back
and gently rubbed his chest to calm him.  As the boy's breathing settled
down, Mr. Calavicci reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at the corners
of Al's mouth.
        The door slammed open and a panting Trudy ran in, followed by the
plump form of Mrs. Lorenzo.
        "Oh, Lord!" Mrs. Lorenzo exclaimed as she caught sight of Al's face.
"What happened?"
        "I don't know, Mrs. Lorenzo.  I came home to find him like this.
Apparently my wife has left, I don't know where or why," he explained.
"Will you please sit with Al while I use your phone to call a doctor?"
        Mrs. Lorenzo nodded.  "Go!  Go!" she gestured at the door.  She sat
on the couch and put Al's head in her lap.
        Mr. Calavicci hesitated for one moment and then ran out of the
house.  The door slammed behind him.
        Al's gaze wandered about the room aimlessly.  Mrs. Lorenzo ran her
hand across his forehead and murmured soothingly to him in Italian.
        "So, Trudy," she said to the little girl, "your Momma went away."
        Trudy nodded and blinked tears away.  "Mommy go bye-bye."
        "And your father doesn't know where?"
        Trudy shook her head.  Al moaned and quietly called for his mother.
        Mrs. Lorenzo cursed in Italian.  "I know where she went.  And with
who."  She caressed Al's forehead again.  "I can't believe she would leave
her own family for that good-for-nothing salesman!  Thinks he knows
everything because he sells knowledge.  Encyclopedia salesman, pah!"  She
spat on the floor.  She continued talking to herself.  "I saw how he looked
at her.  Even when he was at my door he kept looking back over here.  And
she was on the porch looking back.  That's where she went, mark my words."
        Al's mind brought back a picture of the man with the books who had
been at the door the other day.  He looked like one of the movie stars.  Was
that really where his mother had gone?  Had she left to be with the salesman?
        Al rolled his head to the side in distress.  "Come back, M-Momma!
I'll b-be good!" he cried.
        Mrs. Lorenzo looked helplessly at the despondent child in her lap.
She smoothed his hair as she spoke.  "Al, you are a good boy.  You're a very
good boy.  And you take such good care of your little sister."  She stopped
to smile at Trudy.
        Trudy stared at her brother.  Her brow creased as she tried to think
of a way to help him.  She slowly walked to his side and kissed his cheek.
"I love you, Al.  Don't be hurted."
        Mr. Calavicci hurried back into the house.  "Thank you, Mrs.
Lorenzo.  The ambulance is on its way."  He supported Al's head as they
exchanged places.  "Thank you very much," he repeated.
        Mrs. Lorenzo looked down at Trudy thoughtfully.  "Do you think
seeing her brother in an ambulance will scare her?"
        "You're right, it might do that," he realized.  "Would you...?"
        Mrs. Lorenzo held her hand up and spoke to Trudy.  "Are you hungry,
sweetie?  Would you like some breakfast?"
        Trudy nodded and looked at her father for permission.  He nodded
with relief and smiled as Mrs. Lorenzo led her to the boarding house.
        Al tried to look at his father, but his eyes kept trailing off.  Mr.
Calavicci quickly racked his brain for a way to keep his son's attention.
The doctor he had spoken to had told him not to let Al fall asleep.
        "Al, I'm very proud of you, son," he said.  Al's drooping eyelids
rose at the praise.  "You did such a wonderful job of taking care of Trudy
while I was gone.  Such a big boy."
        Al smiled weakly and parted his lips to speak.  "N-not that b-big."
        "Oh, I don't know about that," his father broke in.  "I've seen how
you look after her.  I've even seen how you defend her."
        A sob broke into Al's words.  "M-Momma don't l-like it when I f-fight."
        Mr. Calavicci hesitated before he spoke again.  "Perhaps not, but
you look out for your sister.  You took care of her last night, didn't you?"
        Al struggled to remember.  He did seem to remember trying to do
something for Trudy.  What was it?  "I g-guess s-so."
        Mr. Calavicci decided to try and change the subject before Al became
distraught again.  "I got a letter from Uncle Jack," he said.
        Al's face brightened at the mention of his favorite uncle.  "Is h-he
gonna come v-v-visit?" he asked.
        "He's gonna try," Mr. Calavicci promised.  "And he's going to bring
your new aunt, too."
        Al looked confused.  "N-new aunt?"
        Mr. Calavicci smiled at his son, relieved that he had caught his
interest.  "Uncle Jack just got married," he explained.  "To a lady named
Clarissa.  So that makes her your Aunt Clarissa.  And you'll get to meet her
when they come visit."
        "Aunt C-C-Cla-r-r-r-isssss-a," Al struggled to force the syllables
out.  He looked exhausted when he finished.
        His father looked out the window in hopes of seeing the ambulance.
He threw another topic out before Al could fall asleep.
        "So, Al, what movie would you like to see with Uncle Jack?  He said
he wants to take you during his visit."
        Al perked up again.  "O-one with a M-Mickey M-Mouse c-cartoon.  A
W-Western, p-please."
        "A Western?  You still like watching those?"
        Al smiled at his father.  "Y-yes, s-sir.  I l-like 'em a l-lot."
        Mr. Calavicci relaxed at the sound of the sirens outside.  Al tensed
in fear at the unexpected noise.  "W-what's th-that, P-Papa?" he asked.
        "That's an ambulance, son.  It's going to take you to the hospital
so you can feel better."
        "H-hos-p-pital?"  Al's eyes widened.  His body jerked when the
paramedics knocked on the door.
        "It's open," Mr. Calavicci called.  He held Al's hand.  "It's okay,
Al.  I'm right beside you."
        Al squeezed his father's hand tightly when the paramedic approached.
He shrank back from the stranger dressed in white.
        The paramedic lightly ran his hands across Al's face and head,
checking for bumps.  Al jerked his eyes toward his father pleadingly.  He
cried out when the paramedic's fingers grazed the back of his head.
        "There it is," the paramedic nodded.  "Probably a concussion."  He
noticed Al's terror and stuck a hand out in greeting.  "Hi there.  My name's
Bob, what's yours?"
        Al looked at his father.  When Mr. Calavicci nodded, he answered
Bob, "A-A-Al."
        "Well, Al, you've got a nasty bunch of cuts and bruises here.  We
need to take you to the hospital to get you all fixed up so you can run
around again.  My friend Nelson here is going to help you onto this nifty
bed.  It's got wheels on it, like a car."
        Nelson came near and smiled at Al.  "Nelson, be careful of the right
arm, okay?" instructed Bob.  He held the bed steady as Nelson lifted Al from
Mr. Calavicci's lap and laid him on the bed, stretching belts across Al's
body without a word.  Al began to scream and cry.
        "Al, Al, buddy," Bob soothed, casting a nasty glare at Nelson.  "We
don't want you falling out of the bed.  Those are just to keep you safe."
        "P-Papa," Al wept, "I w-want my P-Papa!"
        Mr. Calavicci rushed to his side and took hold of his fingers.  "I'm
right here, Al.  I'm right beside you, son."
        The paramedics pushed the bed out of the house and carried it down
the steps of the porch.  Al cried out in terror when his father had to let
go of his fingers.  Mr. Calavicci spoke in a loud voice so Al would know he
was still there.  He climbed into the back of the ambulance and held his
son's fingers all the way to the hospital.  Al sobbed for the entire trip.
        When they arrived at the hospital, the paramedics instructed Mr.
Calavicci to wait in the lobby and whisked Al to the emergency area.  Al's
terrified screams echoed down the hallway.
        "Sir," a nurse spoke behind him.  "I need you to fill out some forms
for you son, please."  She led the way to a nearby desk and handed him a
stack of papers.
        Mr. Calavicci looked down the hallway again and set about filling
out the forms.  He thought he had never seen so many blank lines to be
filled in.  He felt as relieved as one could feel in a hospital when he
reached the final form requiring his signature.  The nurse thanked him, took
the forms, and led him to a waiting area.
        "Wait here," she said.
        "Can't I see my son?"
        She shook her head.  "No, I'm sorry, it isn't allowed.  Someone will
come get you when you can see him."
        Mr. Calavicci sighed and rested his head in his hands.  He was
worried about his son and there was nothing he could do.  Nothing at all.
Except....
        He looked up and caught the attention of another nurse.  "Nurse, is
there a chapel?" he asked.
        "Yes, sir," she answered.  "Follow me."  She walked briskly down the
hallway and opened a heavy wooden door.  "Right in there," she pointed.
        Mr. Calavicci thanked her and stepped inside.
        He reached into the bowl of holy water at the entrance and crossed
himself before entering the sanctuary.  As he reached a pew near the front,
he knelt before the great crucifix on the wall and crossed himself again
before slipping in.  He lowered the prayer rail and knelt, resting his
elbows on the pew in front of him.
        He began by praying to the Virgin Mary.  "Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.  Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the
fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for our sins," he
prayed aloud.  He recited every prayer he knew, and when he had exhausted
those, he began speaking his thoughts.
        "Lord, there's nothing I can do to help my son right now.  He's
scared and alone and he's hurting.  I know You can help him.  Help him to
stop hurting and be with him so he's not scared.  His mother is gone, I
don't know where, though I'm sure You do.  I don't know why she left, but
You do.  Please be with her, too.  Bring her home."
        He stopped when he heard the door creak open behind him.  He turned
around to see a young nurse walking down the aisle.  She stopped uncertainly
by his pew.
        "Mr. Calavicci?" she asked.  When he nodded, she continued.  "Dr.
Whitman sent me to find you.  You can see your son now."
        Mr. Calavicci leapt from the pew and barely stopped to cross himself
again.  "How is he?" he demanded.
        "I'm not allowed to deliver prognoses," she said, as if reciting a
script.  "You'll have to talk with Dr. Whitman.  Follow me, please."
        He expected to be led to the hallway Al had been wheeled down upon
his arrival, but she brought him up to the second floor.  She paused at the
nurses' station and spoke briefly with the nurse behind the desk before
leading Mr. Calavicci to a room.
        He stepped inside and saw a nurse winding a bandage around Al's
right arm, which was covered with stitches.  Al's head was swathed in a
bandage, with only a few dark curls peeking out from the front.  Butterfly
bandages sealed the puncture wounds on his brow and cheek.  Surrounded by
the white of the bandages and the bed linens, the bruises on Al's face stood
out more sharply than they had at home.
        The nurse finished winding the bandage, taped it down, and smiled at
Mr. Calavicci as she left.  He looked at his son's face and sighed.  Al's
closed lids were tinged blue, from bruises, Mr. Calavicci guessed with anger.
        He carefully edged his hip on Al's bed and took his son's hand.  The
small fingers tightened reflexively around his big hand.  "You're not going
to be hurt again, Al," he promised.  His thumb covered his son's fingers
protectively.
        He heard a throat being cleared behind him and turned to see a tall
man in a white coat enter the room.  The man extended a hand and introduced
himself as Dr. Whitman.  Mr. Calavicci shook his hand and introduced himself
as well.
        "Your, uh, son was in pretty bad shape," said the doctor.
        Mr. Calavicci nodded.  "I was out of town on business.  I found him
like that when I got home this morning.  I don't know how it happened."
        "Yes, well, uh, your son couldn't remember anything to help us,
either," Dr. Whitman said.  "But, it, uh, it looks like he was, uh, beaten."
He looked uncomfortable.  "You, uh, you wouldn't happen to know anything
about that, would you?"
        Mr. Calavicci shook his head.  "No, doctor.  I've had to spank him
before, but that's strictly on his rump.  He does get into fights over his
little sister.  She's retarded and the neighborhood children make fun of
her."  He smiled down at his son.  "Al doesn't like that, and he defends her."
        Dr. Whitman nodded.  "Yes, some of the bruises look like they came
from a fight, but, uh, others are very recent, and they look like he was
beaten by someone much bigger than him."  He pointed to the bandaged arm.
"Those lacerations were very deep, too.  Do you know where they came from?"
        "The kitchen window was broken.  That's the only place I can think
where he could have gotten cut.  Although I did find some broken glass on
the floor this morning, too," Mr. Calavicci said, thinking back.  He
pictured the kitchen.  "He threw up several times, does that mean anything?"
        "Yes, uh, it confirms what I suspected.  Your son suffered a
concussion.  It appears his head came into violent contact with a solid
surface," said Dr. Whitman.  "Did your wife have any clue as to how this had
happened?"
        Mr. Calavicci frowned.  "No, she wasn't there.  My daughter said she
had left the day before, but Al couldn't remember his mother leaving or how
he got hurt."
        "He may remember, he may never remember.  Head injuries are tricky
things.  Well, I appreciate your help, Mr. Calavicci.  I'd like to keep your
son here for twenty-four hours just to be safe."
        Mr. Calavicci nodded and shook the doctor's hand in thanks.  When he
was alone with his son again, he picked up Al's hand.  Once again, the
child's fingers tightened around his hand.  Mr. Calavicci smiled and traced
his son's jawline.
        "That's my strong, strong son.  You're going to be fine."
        Al's eyelids fluttered open and he tried to adjust to his
surroundings.  He visibly relaxed when he saw his father.  "P-Papa," he
smiled.  The stutter was still there, but it wasn't as severe as it had been
when the ambulance arrived.  "Where am I?"
        "You're in the hospital, Al.  The doctors fixed you all up, and you
can come home tomorrow."
        "Tomorrow?  W-why can't I come home now?"  His eyes filled with tears.
        Mr. Calavicci patted Al's hand.  "Dr. Whitman wants you to spend the
night here to be sure everything's fixed inside your head."
        "Inside my head?" Al asked.  He pulled his hand from beneath his
father's and touched his head.  His eyes widened when his fingers
encountered the gauze.  "Am I b-broken forever?"
        His father chuckled. "No, no.  You're going to be fine.  Have I ever
lied to you?"
        Al shook his head, smiling when he didn't immediately feel sick.  He
raised his arm for a hug, snuggling his head against his father's chest and
holding on tightly.  "Can you stay here with me, P-Papa?"
        "No, Al, I'm afraid I can't.  I'm sorry, son, but I can't leave
Trudy alone."
        Al's face fell.  Mr. Calavicci hurried with a solution.
        "But I will come back this afternoon and bring Trudy to visit you,
how's that?"
        "Okay," Al smiled.  He still looked disappointed.
        "Hey, I'm not leaving *now*.  I can stay with you for a little while
longer," Mr. Calavicci tried.  It worked.  Al relaxed and beamed at his
father.  He reached up and slipped his small hand inside his father's giant,
strong one.
        "C-Can you tell me a story?" asked Al.
        "Of course.  What do you want to hear?"
        Al shrugged and grinned.  "I don't care.  You pick one.  I'll l-listen."
        "Fair enough.  How about Jack and the Beanstalk?"
        Al nodded and snuggled against his pillows as his father began
telling the story.  He giggled and imitated the giant's chant with Mr.
Calavicci.  "Fe f-fi fo f-fum," he stammered with a huge grin on his face.
Al fell asleep moments before the beanstalk toppled to the ground.
        "The End," whispered Mr. Calavicci.  He leaned over and kissed his
son.  "I'll be back later.  Sleep well."