From: eah4@po.CWRU.Edu (Elizabeth A. Hlabse) Newsgroups: alt.ql.creative Subject: BOOKENDS, part 2 Date: 2 Jan 1995 22:19:35 GMT Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA) Message-Id: <3e9u5n$8m8@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> BOOKENDS, part 2 by Terri Librande I would crush him, but not break him. It was nearly dark, and eight hours had passed since Al's call. Sam held vigil at his window, watching for his friend, almost willing for him to show up at any moment, drunk, half-dead, he didn't care, as long as he was alive and whole. The sight he hungered for finally appeared. The flame red car pulled in front of the building. The small man, looking unsteady, and disarrayed, stumbled from the car, slamming the drivers door loudly. The dark head tilted back, eyes peering directly up at Sam's vantage point, as if to verify, yes, he was there. Sam hurried to the door of his apartment, not knowing what to expect. Was Al drunk? Sick? Apprehension tensed him up again, worried that it was something much worse than a drinking binge that made Al so unsteady. Waiting by the open apartment door, Sam could hear Al's tread on the stairs. His first sight of the man made him almost gasp. The dark eyes were shaded, his whole face haunted and distant. Somehow, he looked thinner and more frail, like an old man. "Come in," Sam said, trying hard not to allow the fear to enter his voice or expression. Appear normal, he thought, like nothing is wrong. For the first time in the day Sam had known this man, he was silent. Frighteningly so. Sam closed the door behind him and watched as Al staggered over to the couch and fell on it, his feet hitting one end the same time as his head fell to the other. He was still dressed in full military dress whites, and he smelled like a distillery. Sam sat down on the coffee table next to the couch and watched his friend with concern. The dark eyes were barely cracked open, staring at nothing. Drinking wasn't the least of Al's problems. There was something else, and Sam couldn't pin it down until he noticed the dark red stain marring the white left cuff of the dress jacket. In an instant, Sam was moving, forcing Al to sit up, taking off the jacket so he could examine him. The arm was sliced from wrist to elbow, not done with a razor, but something sharp. The wound wasn't deep, but still bleeding, seeping blood. Al remained silent, his eyes meeting Sam's horrified gaze for a moment, before turning away. He swallowed, eyes shifting to gaze at the ceiling. Working on instinct, and shoving his emotions to the side for a moment, Sam rushed to his medical bag, and brought it over to the couch. The cut was shallow, as if done half-heartedly. Nevertheless, it would need stitches. Should he call the hospital? He held the limp hand in his own, feeling the rapid pulse under his fingers. He made his decision. If anyone else found out about this, Al would lose more than whatever he lost today. His chances with NASA and the Navy would be shot to hell. No one would want an ex-POW with a botched suicide attempt on his record. If that was, in fact, what it was. "I have to stitch this, Al. You only need a few." Sam pressed his lips together to form a thin line. He couldn't tell if Al could comprehend anything he was saying. "Do you understand?" he asked, placing a gentle hand on his friend's chest. Finally, the glassiness lifted from Al's eyes as he turned to face Sam. He couldn't even remember arriving here, or how he'd driven the car across town. All he knew was that someone -- Sam -- was touching him, concerned and scared. "Kid . . ." "Great." Sam sighed in relief. "Now, I need to stitch up your arm ..." "My arm." Al frowned, glancing down at the cut as if it were someone else's wound. "How'd that happen?" "You tell me." Sam bent to pick up his medical bag and set it on the coffee table. Everything he needed was in there. "Why are you doing this for me?" "Because I give a damn, okay?" Sam got up and went to the kitchen, washing his hands with hot water and lots of soap. Returning to the living room, he wiped off on a white tea towel he'd grabbed and knelt by the sofa. Al watched distantly as Sam cleaned the wound and prepared it for the stitches. It should hurt; the alcohol stung his nose as Sam dabbed it on the wound. He felt nothing. Maybe it was the booze he'd consumed earlier, or just that nothing could permeate the numb feeling that cocooned him. Before Sam began the stitching, he looked up. "I want to give you something, but I don't know how much you drank or how long ago. It's going to hurt like hell." "Just do it, okay?" Al turned his head away, trying not to see the slash of pain that crossed Sam's face at his words. "I can't feel a thing." The wound was neatly bandaged. The only emotion Al had expressed during the entire operation was indifference. Sam removed the jacket and white shirt, leaving Al in a scoop neck t-shirt. The wrapping that encircled the lower part of his right arm was bright against his dark skin. As Sam hung the jacket over a chair, he noticed the envelope sticking out of the inside pocket, unopened. The dark eyes glanced at Sam for a moment, then, shrugging, he turned away. "I, uh, can't open this." Sam took the letter and tossed it on the coffee table, landing directly on the space between the two men. "Can you tell me what happened?" "You're repeating yourself, pal." Al tossed his bandaged arm over his eyes. "She left me for another guy. Had me declared dead so she could get married." Sam lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged near Al. "Do you know why?" "No." The word was said tightly, as if even the effort of speaking was painful. "Is this the letter she wrote you?" The envelope rested on the bare coffee table, a silent witness to the conversation. "Don't you think if she was the woman you said she was that she'd try to explain herself? Or at least make an attempt?" Silence hung over them, heavy and uncomfortable. Al laid there like stone, unmoving and uncaring. Damn her, Sam thought, and damn that unopened letter. Sam wanted to touch the other man, hold him close so the pain would go away, like his brother had held him many times. Something was forcing him to keep his distance, freezing him out. After many long minutes, Al turned to look at the younger man. Sam seemed so concerned, protecting his ass. He should've called Bethesda and let them take care of the problem, not risked losing his internship by treating him here. And what if he had called? I'd lose my commission, he thought, and my chances for what future I've got left. Sam looked at the older man expectantly. "Thanks, Sam." Al said. He lowered his bandaged arm, his eyes gazing at the wrapping as if seeing it for the first time. "You'll be a good doctor someday." "Quantum physicist, remember?" A mischievous glint appeared in his green eyes. "Ah, Sam, I blew it, okay?" Al pushed his upper body up onto the pillows that had been piled behind him. Some of the apathy was leaving his face. "Feel like talking about it or . . . " "Or wallow in self pity?" "She kept you alive." "Five years in 'Nam. I set my expectations for her too high. Lived in a fantasy world, thinking her and I would be a fifties sitcom, with kids and a white picket fence." Sam reached over and picked up the letter, touching the sealed envelope with his fingers. It was cream colored, small, like an invitation to a party. "Read it to me, Sam." He could handle it if the kid read the words, his voice would mellow what Al already knew in his heart. With his nail, he gently ripped open the letter. The note fell into his hand. There wasn't much to it, Sam discovered. The handwriting was written with a delicate hand and he caught just the faintest touch of perfume. His head came up sharply, looking at his friend in concern. Al had gasped as if in pain, but now his face had eased into the same expressionless lines. "Dear Al," Sam began, keeping his eyes on Al. Like stone, the dark eyes staring at nothing. "I don't know where to begin. You were gone for five years, with no word, no hope. I held out, waiting for word. Really, I did. "I met a man, April first, 1970. That week I'd lost another kid and I think that was the last straw. I couldn't keep my hopes up for you. Dirk stayed with me through the weekend. He was so compassionate, and caring. You'd like him, Al." "Fat chance." Sam felt his worries lighten somewhat. Al's words were bitter, but the fight was coming back. "I couldn't wait, Al," Sam continued. "I had to let you go so I could marry Dirk. I love you, always will. The waiting was too much -- I had a chance to have a life, with someone who cares. Please don't hate me too long, Al. Remember the good times. Love, Beth." "'Dirk' is a name people give their bulldogs." Sam grinned, slipping the note into it's envelope. "You sound better." "Yeah." Al frowned, readjusting his hurt arm for the umpteenth time. It was beginning to throb. Frowning, Sam got up and returned with a full, unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's and two tumblers. Pouring the whiskey into the glasses, he handed one to Al. "I didn't think I could convince you to eat something and this will cut the pain. You don't seem like the 'pill' type, and I think I'm fresh out of painkillers." Sitting back in the rocking chair opposite the couch, Sam took a cautious sip of the alcohol. It burned a trail down his throat and hit his stomach with a bounce. "It shows in your eyes." Al grimaced as he sipped the whiskey. "You won't be able to work tomorrow." "I took the next three days off.' Sam took another sip, smiling. It didn't burn quite as bad this time. 'I had some days accumulated. Something told me I was needed at home." "Oh yeah, for me. Mr. Stupid." Al downed the glass, making Sam's eyes widen. "I put my arm through a plate glass window. Pissed off. The owner of the bar wasn't amused, but let it pass because I was an officer." He refilled his glass and eased back on the couch. "But no gentleman." Sam wasn't convinced by the story, mainly because if that had happened the sleeve would've been torn to shreds, but he let it pass. The little alcohol he'd had was having a mellowing effect on him. He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but couldn't wipe the silly expression off his face. Al gave him an odd expression. "Why do you care about what happens to me? For Christ's sake, we only met last night, and not under the best of circumstances. I've been more trouble than I'm worth." "You are worthy!" Sam's voice slurred on the 'worthy', but he could see the amusement on the older man's face. "You don't treat me like I'm different." He leaned forward, gesturing with the half full glass, as if trying to make a point. "Do you know how many friends I have right now?" "None." "Wrong! "_None_." Sam slammed back into the rocker, nearly dumping drink and himself on the floor. His chin came up at the snicker that Al half- stifled. "They treat me like a leper at the hospital. Like I'm some kind of weird nerd or something. A museum piece." He drained the glass, nearly choking. "Easy, kid." Al quickly refilled Sam's and his own glass. Sam might be a minor, but tonight they both needed a good drunk. "No fun, huh?" "I'm only here to get my degree and get out." Sam eyed the glass as if trying to decide to drink or not. "You'll be a damn good doctor." Too good, he added privately, taking another drink of the whiskey. "I'm good at everything, but you . . ." He jabbed his finger at the man on the couch. "You! Letting her mess your mind up like this, making you crazy, doing crazy stuff. You've got a good life, a job, going to Space. I'd kill to do that." "You can, you know. I could fix it up and we'd work together down there." "Not now." Sam waved the suggestion off. "I've got plans, like you do. You know, time travel." "Okay, kid, okay." Al's gaze softened. He was beginning to feel human again. It was the company, the light conversation, the way the kid seemed to need him around, to keep him on track. "You hit M.I.T. in a few months, like I told you. Buckle down, get your degrees, get your smarts in gear, and we'll work on the rest." "Together?" "At your side, kid." Al pushed himself up from the couch and took the glass from Sam's hand. "You keep in touch, and I won't be far away. I'll be at your commencement, and Christmas, if you want me." His own voice took on a lost quality. "If you'll have me." "Wanna go to Hawaii?" Sam leaned forward, laugh lines forming around his eyes. "Meet my Mom?" "I don't think . . ." "Hey, she'll like you a lot. And Katie. You and Jim, that's her husband, can trade stories. He's in the Navy, too. My mother makes this peach cobbler, with this crust, and sauce. It melts in your mouth. I'm going in December. Well, what's your answer?" The kid's tumbled together words made Al smile. "I don't know, kid. I've got this thing about crashing family parties, and . . ." Sam's face fell. "My family would love you." The struggle to fight for the right words in his fuddled brain was clearly shown on his face. "They have to meet you because I think you'll be a part of my life from here on. It sounds soppy, and sentimental, to be sure, but it's the truth. Don't ask me how I know. Mom says I have this sixth sense. I can tell the future. Katie says it just proves my brain is swiss-cheesed, I think." Al felt his eyes fill, and brushed the wetness away rapidly, hoping Sam hadn't noticed. "If it's that important to you, I'd like to go to Hawaii." "You'll get leave for Christmas, right?" "Christmas. It'll be my first one since . . ." Sam's face instantly sobered, realizing. "Since your last one with Beth." Al squared his shoulders, clearing his throat. "I hope you understand this." He glanced uneasily at the serious look the kid was giving him. "We don't discuss her again, not ever. I'm declaring Beth Calavicci dead. It's all behind me now, the Camp, her. I'm a free man, now, and every nurse, WAVE, and barmaid in the D.C. area is going to know I'm available in the next 72 hours. Beth, as a subject, is closed." Firmly, Al shut that door in his mind. Finito. "Now," he said, sitting up. "What and when? I need dates, times, pal. Pull yourself together and let's get this trip straight." "Right." Sam lit up like a million, zillion light bulbs. Suddenly, Al's face held an expression that he was beginning to know well. Expectation and worry. "What's wrong?" Sam asked. "You." Al slumped against the pillows. "You got to watch it, kid. You're so ... 'golly, gee, whiz' about everything. I'm afraid someone is going to take advantage of you, like the government, or some company, and wipe that enthusiasm right out of you." Sam, eternally confident, shook his head. "Won't happen. I've already promised myself to be my own boss." "It doesn't work that way, Sam, not with the work you want to do. You'll need Grants, loans, government issued finances. You've got to learn to grab the money and not let them own you." "Well, I think I can stand my own ground." Al didn't sound so confident. "It's guaranteed -- with that attitude, kid, I'll be right behind you, watching your ass." In the next three days Al gave the younger man several 'how to pick up a girl' lessons, much to Sam's chagrin. It made the intern's head spin to see how fast Al recovered from Beth. Or seemed to recover. You could never tell, with Al. It seemed that he was good at covering up the pain that lay within him. Al, in turn, learned how to care again. He felt personally responsible for Sam, and teaching him how to have 'fun' instead of spending the best years of his life buried in an Ivory Tower. It was like pulling teeth to get the kid to take a night on the town and enjoy it without cracking a book or two when they got home. Al secretly promised the younger man that he'd always be there to remind him that there was a world outside of studying and research, no matter the circumstances. NASA decided that they wanted Captain Calavicci immediately, and his week leave was rescinded. The staff psychiatrist had questions about the bandage on Al's arm, but some easy maneuvering around the awkward questions passed him with flying colors. (With Sam's help, of course. The kid was learning.) ***** Airports. Al didn't usually hate them. Their separation was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. What made it worse was the look on the kid's face; a mixture of concern and sadness. It occurred to the older man, quite correctly, that Sam had to say goodbye to his brother and father under similar circumstances. After the stupid stunt he'd pulled after hearing about Beth, and the desperation of the moments after he'd arrived at Sam's apartment, he knew his friend still worried about his state of mind. As Al climbed the stairs to the plane, he looked back. The kid was standing out on the tarmac, wind blowing his thick, brown hair to one side, still as stone. There was family there, Al realized, watching him leave. Not even Beth, damn her, had ever seen him off on whatever assignments he'd gone on. Or Viet Nam. Dumping his bags in the plane, Al motioned to the pilot to wait. He dashed down the stairs and ran to Sam. They stood face to face for a few moments, just eyeing each other. "I'll miss you," Sam said. Pure sentimentality, but from the heart. "I'm not gone for good." Al tipped the brim of his mess hat from his face, gazing up at the man that he knew would always be taller than he was. "I'm going to make you a promise that I've never made before, with any sincerity, anyway." "Which is?" Sam cocked his head to one side. "I'll write you." Al said it as if he were promising the moon. "Now, I don't guarantee you'll be able to read my handwriting, but you'll need the practice for later, when we're working together. That's the goal, right?" Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He was having trouble keeping his emotions in check. "It seems a long time from now." "Yeah, if you waste your time. First of all, you are not obligated to write me back, but I want regular reports. That is, phone calls, as much as you call your Mom. Got it?" "Yes, sir." Sam's voice caught, his smile wavering. "I'm no stinking sir to you, understood, Sam?" Leaning over, Sam wrapped Al in a huge bear hug. Gingerly, not used to the gesture from anyone, he pulled Sam close. There was not enough time to say everything, and the engines of the plane were starting up. Reluctantly, Al pulled away from the embrace. Tears were coursing freely down the other man's face, and Al was hard pressed to keep himself from doing the same. "You'd better call me, kid, or I'll kick your butt -- hear me??" "Every week." He grasped Al's shoulder as he turned to leave. "You call me when you arrive in Texas, okay?" Something told Al that it was very important, that he call when he landed. "No problem." Easing out of Sam's grasp, he headed towards the waiting airplane. As the craft left the ground, Al looked out the window. The kid was still in the spot he'd left him, his eyes glued to his. Al waved and wasn't surprised when the gesture was returned. ****** Dear Sam, God, it's hot down here. I hope you're not blowing your brains out at Bethesda. I remember those D.C. summers -- killers, all of them. We have to relearn everything down here, and, not bragging, but, hey, I'm the best. My first shot is next year. Were you serious when you said your Mom really wanted me to come to Hawaii? I mean, wouldn't I be some kind of crasher at the family Christmas or something? Yeah, right, you're probably kicking me mentally, so I'll go along, just to make you happy. I've got that whole week off, and you'll be back at M.I.T. just a month or two after that, right? Listen kid, and read this good -- I'm making some good contacts down here, senators and stuff. Feds. I don't want you messing with these snakes, and I'll be the one that makes these nozzles realize what a good risk your project is, when the time comes. Get that degree, Sam. Were you kidding, or is it for real that you are going on some kind of archaeological dig next summer? Where? Why? I thought that stuff was like messing around in graveyards and dirt and stuff. You into that, too? Yuck. I'm closing this because the sweat is dripping down my back and some buddies and I are going into town to pick up chicks. For Real, pal. These Texas women . . . Well, you know they are pretty damn generous, and the hospitality . . . Take care, Your pal, Al. ***** December came like a respite from prison. Sam never felt so free in his life. A week to rest, to be with his family, to eat his mother's cooking instead of his own, and to discuss the Project with Al. 'The Project' had been something he'd only dreamed of, the practical 'Beckett' part of his mind thinking it something out of his reach, until Al had adopted it with him, and made it real. The idea was barely in the planning stages, with at least another twenty years to make it real and the 'nozzles', as Al called them, were already voicing interest. The two men met in L.A. It was far from a boring flight to Honolulu, from the scene Al caused at LAX with two women reluctant to let him go, (which got violent) to his escapades on board with a buxom stewardess and her equally endowed partner. In between sexual innuendo, they managed to play catch up on the last two days they hadn't communicated in some way, either letter or phone. Al was relieved to discover that Sam didn't notice his nervousness as the plane landed. It would be odd to meet Sam's mother and Kate, even after the letters they had sent him. All the words they'd said, how they were looking forward to seeing him. Maybe he wouldn't fulfill their expectations. They had no idea what Sam had gotten him through, and he wasn't about to express it. Mrs. Beckett and Kate were fairly jumping all over Sam the moment he left the ramp. Al hung back, feeling awkward and out of place, but only for a moment. With a scream, Katie hurled herself at him, almost knocking him off his feet. A delighted grin spread across his face as he met gazes with Sam, who was being firmly held by his mother. Sam winked, giving him one of those famous wraparound smiles. It appeared that he was a member of the family, reaffirmed by Mrs. Beckett, releasing Sam, and gripping his hands like a long lost son. Katie and Jim's home was lovely, and the holidays were spent decorating trees, not fir, but potted palm, and baking cookies -- something Al found he had no skill at, but loved the experience. It seemed, too, that the Becketts and the Bonnics were used to eccentricity, and gamefully looked on as Sam and Al played with equations and problems far into the night. The vacation ended far too soon, and Al returned to Texas, Sam to D.C., with M.I.T. around the corner. There was one thing Al seemed to insist on and Sam followed his advice. "Don't take unnecessary courses, but have fun with what you do." By June, Sam had completed half of his degree at M.I.T. and was determined to finish the rest in a year. He spent the summer with the head of the physics department, Professor LoNigro, working on the string theory, fishing, and generally enjoying the great outdoors. LoNigro owned a cabin and they could work, undisturbed, to their hearts content. Al was busy that summer planning the final stages of his first space flight in September. He was too busy to miss Sam very much, or even think past the next day. Fall arrived, and with it, school. Advanced chemistry was one of Sam's 'fun' classes and a requirement for his degree. Some of the students beneath him, most of them seniors, seemed a little jealous of the twenty year old that could surpass them with little or no effort. The course, which usually took two semesters, he was completing in less than one. Maybe it was an accident, or something set up on purpose by one of the students. The explosion shattered windows for buildings around and left Sam broken and unconscious. Al received the news after splash down. It seemed that Sam had made him his primary guardian in case something unforeseen should happen. The school was careful to say that Sam requested that his mother and sister _not_ be informed. When Al entered the hospital, after a harried and seemingly unending flight, he could see why. The doctor told him Sam was blind. That he was scared. Al, angry and demanding, insisted on an investigation into the cause of the explosion and was reassured by Dr. LoNigro that it was already underway. It was going to be hard to face Sam now. And he hated hospitals. Shoving that to the side, he entered Sam's room. He had to be here, he decided, like he'd been there for him. "Al?" Sam's face came up, burns and bruises evident, except where his eyes were bandaged. A forelock of snow white hair among the brown strayed over his forehead. "Now how in the hell did you know it was me?" "The smell -- like cigars and High Karate." "I forgot about that memory of yours." Al sat down in the chair near the bed. "Your mother is going to kill you, if I don't do it myself." "She doesn't know, does she???" Alarm filled Sam's voice. "It's too much for her right now, and with the baby coming . . ." "As a doctor, I'm sure you know, that your sister is as strong as a horse. Sam, my friend, you are too old fashioned in your thinking about women. They are not delicate little Dresden figurines. Wrong, bucko." He placed a cigar in his mouth, but didn't light it. He needed something for his shaking hands to toy with. "Take Sonya, for instance. Tough as nails. Only problem was . . " "Al." Sam's voice was strong, but scared. "What are the doctors saying? I'm one of their own and they won't talk to me." "Physician, heal thyself." "I'm not kidding." Sam was breathing hard, scared because he knew his friend would tell him the truth. Shit, honesty time. Al leaned on the bed and took Sam's unbandaged hand in his. "I don't know, kid. The doctor says . . . maybe." "That's better than no chance at all." "Right." Al kept his grip on the hand that was clinging to his like a lifeline. "Okay," he said brightly. "Two scenarios. One, you're blind for life and you end up playing piano like Stevie Wonder, making more money than Midas. Or, then, there's number two; you get your sight back, we get up, finish school, and on to the Project. Hell, you can do that either way, standing on your head, too. Satisfied?" "I feel better, if that's what you mean. Why did it take you so long to come? I've been here for days." "Hey, you had LoNigro here, your friends. Buddy, I was up in Skylab. The Shot, doofus, remember?" Al grinned. "You know, it's kinda hard to send a telegram into orbit." "What was it like, Al?" Sam wanted to talk about that now, the space shot, anything to distract him from the problem at hand, and the blindness that made him shake inside. "Dark, kid, except for the Earth. It was huge, and so bright it hurt to look at it. God, Sam. The blueness, all the clouds -- it made you feel puny. I felt like I could walk out and trot across it, because it looked so real. It was home, but you couldn't touch it." Sam let his friend talk, the images filling his mind. He could see it all, and it comforted him to know that his mind could paint the pictures he couldn't see -- for now. Al continued to talk, distraction seeming the best route. He couldn't help but get a lump in his throat when he paused and saw, again, that line of white in Sam's hair. It'd been bad, and he hadn't been here to stop it. The hand under his relaxed, and he knew the kid was asleep by his slow, even breathing. The doctor -- he hadn't caught the name -- entered the room as Al leaned back in the chair. His eyebrows went up as he glanced at his patient. He gave Al the same surprised look. "How did you manage that??" "Manage what?" Al rubbed his eyes. He was getting tired, too. "He's been awake except for when we brought him in. We've tried a few things, but he just wouldn't sleep." Turning to leave, he hesitated as Al cleared his throat. "Listen, Doc." Al pulled the unlit cigar out of his mouth, holding it like a prop in his hands. "Is he going to be okay?" "He had some internal damage, broken ribs. They seem to be knitting. He's in a lot of pain. We'll know about his eyes in a week. He suffered a flash burn to his face and we have no way of knowing yet how it affected his vision." After the doctor left, Al kept his vigil at Sam's bedside, insisting that a cot be set up and he stay with him. Sam's fear grew in the next days, and, soon, no amount of Calavicci distractions, from pizza, to attractive, shanghaied nurses, kept him from worrying. As Al pointed out to him, over and over again, he hadn't lost his brain, or his hands. It was possible for them to carry on with the Project, but how could he, Sam, leap through time without seeing anything. The idea of an Observer was born, something to do with holography that Sam scribbled down on a pad that Al held for him. Of course, Al would be the Observer, making sure the Rules were followed. What rules, Sam wasn't quite sure of yet. A week later, Al watched anxiously as the doctor pulled the bandages off. He sighed in relief as an absolutely ethereal expression came over Sam's face. It was just color and light, and the doctor reassured him that would pass. His first sight was Al, and some kind of garish tie dye shirt he was wearing. A beautiful sight. After completing a few tests, the doctors were convinced that Sam's eyes would completely recover in a month or two. Without consulting his friend, Al contacted Mrs. Beckett and made sure his friend was in her reliable care before he left. Duty called, and NASA was insisting on his presence immediately. In the next months, time together became sparse. Letters from Al were few and far between, as were the phone calls from Sam. Between School and Space, neither man had a free period to nurture their friendship to the degree that they would've liked to. Snow fell outside of Sam's dorm window as he studied, poring over the typewritten pages Professor LoNigro had asked him to memorize. Just as he reached the end of the first page, the phone rang. It was Al, had to be Al. "Sam, I'm getting married." Feeling as if he'd just been hit in the face with a pie, Sam gulped out, "When??" "I'm in Vegas now. Kid, she's terrific!" Enthusiasm oozed out of the voice on the other end. "Pretty, smart . . . It's for good this time, no doubt about it!! Can you get down here?" "I asked 'when', Al. When, as in when are you getting married?" Sam tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. "I'm in the middle of first semester finals, it's snowing like mad outside -- what, two weeks???" "No . . ." Al was giggling. Giggling?? "Actually, it's day after tomorrow." Sam had all kinds of questions, but knew the more personal ones had to wait. Al sounded happy, and that, it seemed, was all that mattered. "Hey, kid, you're my best man. Don't talk me out of it -- you were first choice. As for those finals -- you can breeze through them, no problem. Right?" "I guess so, and I wouldn't miss your wedding, Al." Sam felt odd, as if he were speaking to a stranger. They made all the arrangements, or Al told Sam what he'd arranged -- his flight, his tux size, where, when. Finally, Sam said goodbye and hung the phone up, wondering why he didn't share his friend's enthusiasm. Something felt _wrong_. Eva was all Al said she was, and more. The ceremony was held in a small chapel off the Strip and Al put the entire wedding party up at the Sahara. Sam hadn't actually seen his friend for a few months and was startled how thin he'd become in such a short time. Another alarming development was his alcohol intake. He was drinking far more than would be considered healthy. Sam sat back and watched things objectively. He had to. If he nagged Al now, it just wouldn't be appropriate or appreciated. Al and Eva appeared blissful, toasting each other with champagne for the tenth or fifteenth time. Once again, Sam thought, I'm the only "Baptist" at the party, sipping his Sprite and trying not to look disapproving. The bride vanished not long after the toast, and Sam watched Al as he told dirty stories in a loud voice at the bar. The bride's family seemed to think her new husband was wonderful. Sam was getting mildly annoyed. Other than a few words at the airport, and a brief conversation prior to the ceremony, Al had hardly given him the time of day. There was no friendly camaraderie, but marriage and commitment would do that. "And there's Sam Beckett -- the original Boy Scout." Al turned on the barstool as Sam leaned over the counter to order another soft drink. Sam felt himself redden as he glanced over at his friends face. Al's eyes were red and bloodshot and he looked as if he were in the mood for a fight. "What the hell is wrong with you? Sam kept his voice low and even, trying to keep Al's 'audience' out of listening level. "You've treated me like a stranger since I arrived." Al frowned and reached for his glass, recently filled. Before he could put his hand around it, Sam grasped his wrist tightly. "You've had enough." "Not nearly, and mind your own business." Al's voice was dangerously level. He moved to break Sam's grasp and felt the hand tighten a fraction. The group around them looked very interested in the exchange, and Sam tightened his expression, releasing his hold on Al. "Congratulations," he muttered, turning away. "You think this wedding is a big joke, don't you buddy?" Al's eyes blazed. Getting up from the stool he ran at Sam's retreating form. to be continued...... -- Beth Hlabse eah4@po.CWRU.Edu Assistant Sysop The Science Fiction and Fantasy Sig (GO SCIFI) __________________________________________________________________________ Al's Place: Where Leapers can be themselves!