Stardust

by:  Jennifer Rowland 

Finally taking Al up on his earlier invitation to discuss Sam’s theories, Sam stops by the captain’s quarters to find Al having made an attempt to silence the voices--permanently.  As Sam rushes to save the captain’s life, he begins to gain some small insight into what brought Al to such a point of despair.  But can he help to lift Al back up?

Chapter Three

 

 

Friday, April 19, 1985

 

Sam rapped sharply on the door to Al’s quarters.  “Al?” he called out.  There was no response.  Sam bounced impatiently on his toes and tucked the sheaf of papers beneath his arm.  He knocked again, louder.  “Al?  Captain Calavicci?”  A faint groan sounded through the door.  “Oh, no,” Sam whispered.  He only hoped the captain would be sober enough to comprehend the new theories he’d come up with since their last conversation.  He knocked again and tried the knob, surprised to feel no resistance.

 

“Say, Al,” he began excitedly as he flung the unlocked door open and strode inside.  The papers fell unheeded to the floor, the door swinging closed, unnoticed as Sam beheld the sight awaiting him.

 

Al Calavicci was sprawled in a chair at his desk.  His head lolled alarmingly to one side as he stared at his wrists--his wrists, which were dripping blood down the arms of his chair.  A blood-stained knife at the captain’s feet caught the light.

 

It took Sam a moment to recover from the shock.  Then he flew into action.  “Al!”  The other man did not react.  Sam placed a hand on either side of Al’s face and turned it toward him.  Al’s skin was clammy and covered with a faint sheen of sweat.  The brown eyes drifted back down to stare at the red flow making its way through his fingers.  Sam quickly slid his fingers down Al’s neck to check a pulse.  It was thready and erratic.

 

Sam eased Al out of the chair onto the floor.  The dazed captain flopped over Sam’s shoulder like a rag doll, offering no resistance.  As Sam laid Al on his back, he noted the extreme shallowness in breathing.  He frantically unbuttoned Al’s shirt.  “Hang on, Al.”

 

Al’s eyes fluttered closed as Sam surveyed the wounds.  The captain was losing a lot of blood and Sam had to act quickly.  He knew he ought to call for assistance, but he couldn’t risk Al’s career.  The man obviously felt he didn’t have anything to live for.  How could Sam strip him of the one thing he had left?

 

The slash to the right wrist was deeper, so Sam decided to staunch this flow first.  He raised Al’s arm vertically, pressing the brachial artery.  A bandage.  He glanced to his left and right for anything he could use.  Al’s bed was right behind him.  He snagged a pillow from where it had been haphazardly tossed at the foot of the bed.  Holding Al’s arm in the air with one hand, Sam flipped the pillow out of the case and hurriedly ripped and folded the pillowcase, using his teeth and his free hand.  He wrapped the ragged fabric tightly around Al’s wrist, pulling it taut with each rotation.

 

Al drifted back into awareness as Sam began applying pressure to his left arm.  He stared deeply into the younger man’s eyes, shame furrowed in his brows.  Sam didn’t know what to say.  With what he hoped was an understanding look, he bandaged Al’s left wrist.

 

Sam knew he needed to get Al to the infirmary for stitches.  But he needed to do it in such a way as to avoid notice.  He jumped up and crossed to Al’s closet, grabbed a black shirt, and returned to kneel by the semi-conscious naval officer’s side.

 

Sam slipped a hand beneath Al’s neck to support his head as he raised the limp body to a half-sitting position.  He anchored his leg and leaned Al against his thigh.

 

“Al?  We’re going to go for a little walk in a minute, Al,” said Sam as he pushed the blood-stained shirt off of Al’s body.  He quickly slipped the black shirt on the unresisting form, accidentally bumping Al’s wrist as he maneuvered the cuffs to cover the makeshift bandages.  The captain’s eyes opened with a sharp moan of pain.  Sam took advantage of the momentary coherence.

 

“Al?  Listen, buddy, I’ve got to take you to the infirmary.  But I need you to help me right now.  Where are your keys?”  Al stared thickly at him.  “Keys, Al.  Where are your keys?”

 

Al swallowed.  “Dresser,” he mumbled.

 

Sam draped Al’s arm around his neck as he slipped an arm under the man’s armpit.  “Okay, Al.  I need you to stand with me, pal.  Ready?  1-2-3.”

 

He dragged Al to his feet.  The Navy man stumbled, falling heavily on Sam.

 

“That’s okay, Al.  I’ve gotcha.  Just hang on.”  Sam glanced at the ashen face as they slowly moved toward the dresser.  “Stay with me, Al.  Come on, buddy,” he said; Al’s head dipped toward Sam’s shoulder.

 

“No, no--stay here, Al,” Sam raised his voice.  He lightly slapped a wan cheek.  Al slowly opened his eyes and stared dully at Sam.  “That’s better.  Just a short walk.  You can do it, Al.”  Sam kept a steady chatter going, prodding Al step by step to the door.  He locked the door behind them so no one would walk in on the remnants of the suicide attempt before Sam could clean up the blood.

 

Because of the late hour, everyone was either asleep or out at a bar.  Sam gratefully hurried Al down the halls to the infirmary.  The guard at the door stared questioningly and disapprovingly at Sam’s burden.  Sam giggled and attempted to slur his voice.  “Went out, gonna need a hangover remedy.”  He flashed his I.D.  The guard rolled his eyes and thumbed them inside.

 

Once the door closed, Sam swung Al into his arms to save time as he made his way to the farthest exam room.  Al was so dazed he didn’t offer any protest.

 

Sam staggered slightly as he carried Al to the bed.  He set the captain down and quickly rolled up his cuffs.  The makeshift bandages were marred by dark red stains.  The door.  Sam locked the door to the exam room.  It wouldn’t do to have anyone walk in, unlikely as it was.  As he returned to Al’s side, Sam’s photographic memory recalled the empty vodka bottles on the desk.  Vodka, of course.  Hardly any smell.  But Sam couldn’t give him an anesthetic with so much alcohol in his system.

 

“I’m sorry to do this, Al.”  Sam held a basin in one hand and a small dosage cup of ipecac syrup in the other.

 

Al just stared at the ceiling with drooping lids as Sam set the basin in his lap.  He was rather a dead weight as Sam raised him to a sitting position and slid behind him.  Sam balanced Al’s head on his shoulder and carefully brought the ipecac to his lips.

 

“Come on, Al, drink it,” Sam urged, tilting the small cup.  The dry lips parted slightly and he carefully poured the syrup into Al’s mouth.

 

Al retched.  Sam grabbed the basin and held it below the captain’s chin before the vomiting began in earnest, supporting his forehead with his free hand.

 

When the regurgitating surge came to an end, Al sagged back.  Sam eased him down to the bed and laid the basin aside, wishing that he had some assistance.  He needed to start an IV and was losing precious time, especially considering Al had just lost more fluid from Sam’s attempt to purge his system.

 

He pushed the right sleeve up past Al’s elbow and cleaned the site with a swatch of alcohol.  As the liquid evaporated, Sam retrieved an IV line from the supply closet.  Realizing the examining room wasn’t stocked with the lactated Ringer’s solution he needed, he reluctantly left to get two bags of it as well as a vial of painkillers from the storage area.  He returned to find Al paler than before.

 

As quickly as he could, Sam rigged the IV to one of the bags and carefully slipped the needle into Al’s arm.  He taped the needle down and hung the bag on a pole near the bed so that the fluids would enter Al’s body as quickly as possible.

 

Now that Al was getting the fluid he so desperately needed, it was time for Sam to begin sealing the wounds.  He tried to get Al’s attention as he neared the bed with the suture kit.

 

“Al.  You need stitches, Al,” Sam said.

 

He unwound the bandage on the right arm as gently as he could, but it still caused a great deal of pain.  The captain visibly winced.  He cried out softly when Sam cleaned the wound.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.  He lifted a syringe and injected local anesthetic in the captain’s wrist.  Sam kept talking and using Al’s name as often as possible.  With the combination of blood loss, shock, and alcohol abuse, there was a very real danger he could slip into a coma.

 

Sam examined the self-inflicted wound.  While it was deep and had damaged tissue, the tendons and arteries hadn’t been severed.  ‘Small favors,’ Sam thought.  The tendons were slightly cut, but Al had managed to miss the arteries completely.  He grunted and moaned as Sam began stitching.  When he sealed the skin, Sam looked up to find Al watching him sew.  A tear made its way down the captain’s cheek.

 

“Al?  Does it hurt?”

 

It took a moment for the words to register.  Al shook his head.  He swallowed hard in an attempt to loosen the lump in his throat as the young doctor began working on the left wrist.  A second tear followed the first, and then a third.  Al closed his eyes in humiliation.

 

Sam expertly tied off the final stitch.  He covered his work with gauze pads and taped them in place.  With any luck the scarring would be negligible.

 

Sam gazed on Al’s face again.  Tears were streaming down the man’s cheeks, despite Al’s valiant attempts to keep them back.  Sam wondered when anyone had last shown compassion to him.  Judging from Al’s surprised expression when Sam had intervened at the vending machine, he was willing to guess it had been a very long time indeed.

 

“Al, it’s all right,” he began, not really knowing what to say.  Al slowly opened his eyes.  Sam felt the penetrating stare through his whole being.  As Al continued to stare at him, Sam took a damp cloth and gently wiped his mouth and chin.  “I remember you saying you hated to puke,” he spoke in a light tone, trying to ease the embarrassment for the captain as he cleaned away the tears and traces of vomiting.  “Sorry I had to do that.”

 

Al’s lips moved around silent syllables as he tried to speak.  “Why?”  His normally gravelly voice sounded rougher than usual.  “Why’d you . . . help me?”

 

“I couldn’t let you die, Al.”

 

“That’s . . . not what I mean.”  Al paused for a breath.  Speaking was very difficult and he was tempted to just go to sleep.  The sound of his name being repeatedly called pulled him back to a dull awareness.

 

“Al.  Look, I know you want to rest--and you need to.  But not right now, Al.  We can’t stay here.”  Sam balled up the bloody bandages and sheets and hurried to the back to stash them in his locker.  He’d dispose of them tomorrow.  Meanwhile, he grabbed his white lab coat and a hanger.  Al was unconscious when he returned.

 

There was no way Al could retrace the entire route on foot, especially with the IV and pole.  Sam doubted that he could even be pulled back to awareness.  Besides, they needed to remain fairly incognito on their return to the room, even though Al obviously required a wheelchair to get back.  Laying the coat and hanger on a nearby counter, Sam headed into the equipment room to retrieve a wheelchair.  Returning to the examination room, Sam parked the wheelchair near the bed and turned his attention to the unconscious man.

 

He pulled Al up to a sitting position, supported the limp body, and tapped his cheeks.  “Al!  Wake up, buddy.  You can sleep when we get back to your room.  Come on now.”  Al groaned as Sam stood with him.  “Come on.  Just to the chair.  We need to make it past the guard.”

 

“Guard?  Guard!”  Al tensed in his sleep.  The words seemed to have registered at the edge of his consciousness.  “Too weak . . . to try to escape.  Beth!”

 

“Escape?  Beth?  Al, what are you talking about?”

 

But Al had passed out again, leaving Sam with unanswered questions.  Confused, Sam eased the form into the chair.  He contemplated the IV pole, unhooked the bag and hung it from the hanger along with the extra one, then hung the coat up and covered the IV line by draping the coat over Al’s right arm.  Sam pushed the chair out of the infirmary, steeling himself for the encounter with the guard.

 

The guard looked questioningly at the pair that emerged.  “Is he all right?” he asked, looking with concern at the pale face slumped against a shoulder, the arm dangling weakly.

 

Remembering to slur his voice, Sam answered, “Oh, yeah, he just . . . hee-hee-hee . . . he just passed out.”

 

“You were in there quite a while,” the guard said.

 

Sam jiggled the hanger.  “Forgot my coat.  See you in the morning.”  He nodded at the guard and bustled Al through the corridors, praying for empty hallways.  They arrived at Al’s quarters without incident.

 

He unlocked the door and wheeled Al into the room.  Sam locked the door behind him, Al’s privacy foremost on his mind.  Before he began cleaning the blood, Sam wanted to be sure Al was as comfortable as possible.  He wanted to keep him warm to counter the shock, too.  Sam hung the coat hanger on a handle of the wheelchair and searched the dresser, finding a pair of flannel pajamas.  He carefully removed the tubing from Al’s arm and hung the rigged IV “pole” from a cup hook above and to the left of the bed, probably intended for hanging plants.   Slipping his arms under Al’s and locking his hands behind the other man’s back, Sam hefted him up and got him onto the bed.  Al didn’t stir as Sam stripped him to his boxers and slowly dressed the dead weight in the pajamas.  He pushed a sleeve up and reattached the IV tubing to the needle, checking the flow of the solution to make sure it was fast enough.  Arranging the unconscious man’s body as comfortably as he could, Sam pulled the blankets under Al’s chin and tucked them snugly around him, keeping the right arm from becoming entangled.  Al looked more like a little boy on Christmas Eve than a bitter man who had just attempted suicide, he thought.  Then Sam turned around and came face to face with just how troubled Al Calavicci was.

 

The arms of the wooden chair were covered with blood.  The knife continued to lay where Al had dropped it after slashing his wrists.  Sam grabbed the knife and brought it into the bathroom.

 

“Why, Al, why?” Sam asked aloud as he rinsed the blood from the stainless steel blade.  The reflective surface bounced the unanswered question back at him.  Sam thought back to the question Al had asked of him in the infirmary.  “Why’d you help me?”  Sam reached for a towel and dampened it.

 

As he wiped blood off of the chair arms, Sam recalled the tears streaming down Al’s face before he’d posed the question.  He glanced back at the sleeping form.  ‘Is that what your tears were for, Al?  Is it that hard to believe someone cares?’ Sam bent to wipe the blood from the chair leg and found a legal envelope that had been tossed under the desk.  He loosened the string and pulled out a stack of legal papers, all signed and notarized.  He looked closer and realized that they were divorce proceedings dated over the last ten years.  The most recent was three months ago--and the papers all included the name Albert M. Calavicci.  Obviously, it was indeed hard for Al to believe he was worthy of being loved.  Sam noticed that all of Al’s ex-wives had taken the initiative to sue for divorce--they’d all left him.

 

Sam silently replaced the papers and tied the string.  He picked the envelope up and put it on the desk, feeling like a snoop.

 

Sam returned his attention to cleaning the blood.  Fortunately, it hadn’t landed on the nearby rug, just the bare tile floor.  He scrubbed efficiently and returned to the bathroom to soak the bloody towel in the sink.

 

Sam came back into the room to straighten Al’s desk.  He tossed the vodka bottles in the trash and moved the glass to the side when he noticed something gleaming out the corner of his eye.  Sam turned to the right and found Al’s dogtags in a crumpled pile.  He picked them up by the chain and watched them spin in the light.  The sight reminded him of his older brother, Tom.  When Tom had been killed, they’d sent his body home with personal effects.  The dogtags had been among them, and Sam had stared at his brother’s name for hours, alone in his room.  He closed his hand around Al’s dogtags and returned them to the desk.

 

Sam rested his head in his hands and let his mind race through the memories of his brother:  basketball games, farm chores, pheasant hunting expeditions.  Soon he was thinking of his father, too.  Before long, he felt hot tears splashing down his cheeks.

 

When he heard the whimper, Sam’s first thought was that it had come from his own throat.  But it began escalating in volume and panic until it became a cry of anguish.  Sam wiped away his tears and flew to Al’s bedside.

 

Al was curled into a tight ball.  His body jerked as though he were trying to avoid a blow.  “Albert Calavicci, lieutenant, United States Navy,” he mumbled.  His body jerked again.  Al wrapped his hands around his head.  “I don’t know any attack plan,” he wailed.  He ducked his head and began to cry a woman’s name over and over again until it became a shout.  “Beth!”

 

Al woke himself up.  He shrank back from Sam, who stood next to the bed with an unsure hand hesitantly extended.

 

Sam dropped his hand and patiently waited for Al’s breathing to return to normal.  Al turned away, shivering beneath the covers.  Sam didn’t know what to do.  Seven degrees, and not a single one in psychology.  He risked sitting on the edge of the bed.  Al ignored him.

 

“Al, I know you’re in a lot of pain.”

 

“You don’t know squat!” came the vicious reply.

 

“Want to talk about it?” offered Sam.

 

Al pulled the sheets tighter around his shoulder and continued to stare at the wall.  He began to laugh without emotion.  “Boy, you sure are dumb!” he said, the vehemence coming through despite the weakness of his voice.  He grimaced as he pulled himself up to lean against the headboard.  Sam moved as if to place a pillow behind Al, but the captain’s fierce glare froze him in place.  “Do I want to talk about it?  Would I have done this if I felt like talking?”  He thrust a bandaged wrist below Sam’s nose.  The movement of the IV line caught his attention and Al stared at the tubing.  “Man, I need a cigar.”  Al let his head fall against the headboard, ignoring Sam’s alarmed jolt at the thud of his skull against the wood.

 

“I’m not so sure that’s . . .”  The flashing stare silenced Sam.  He obediently passed a cigar and lighter to Al, who lit the cigar and returned the lighter with shaking hands.

 

“Damn,” he whispered around the cigar.  He dropped his hands into his lap and stared at them, twisting his wrists to examine the bandages.  Al shook his head and spoke bitterly, the words slightly slurred, “Geez, Calavicci, you can’t even kill yourself right.”  He removed the cigar from his mouth and dropped his head against the headboard again.

 

“You came pretty close to succeeding.  If I hadn’t come in when I did . . .”

 

“And who the hell asked you to come in?!” Al flared.  He tore the bandage from his right wrist and flung his arm out with the shiny black stitches in full view.  “This was my choice!  Can you understand that?”  Tears began to spill down his cheeks, and he blindly stabbed the cigar in a nearby ashtray.  The energy expended by the outburst exhausted him and he slumped back.

 

Sam took Al’s hand in both of his and reapplied the bandage to the wrist.  “No, Al.  I can’t understand it, and I can’t accept it.  Why would you try to end your life?”

 

Al yanked his hand away and wiped his eyes.  “It wouldn’t make sense to you,” he said with a tone of finality.

 

Sam was not to be deterred.  “But I’d like to try.”

 

Al looked away, as if escape resided in the minute cracks in the wall.  “Why are you doing this?”

 

“What?”  Sam was caught off guard.

 

Al stared deeply into Sam’s eyes.  The defensive, irate man was gone.  The searching gaze unnerved Sam, but he returned it.  “Why are you doing this?” Al repeated.  He lifted his wrists, staring pointedly at them.  “I asked you before.  Why’d you help me?”  He gestured at the desk area.  “You’re covering it all up for me.  Why?”

 

“To protect your career,” Sam awkwardly answered the last question first.

 

“Pah!  You think a suicide cares about a career?”

 

“I think you still care too much period to be a suicide,” Sam ventured.

 

Al didn’t respond.  He averted his eyes and plucked at a loose thread on the comforter.  He wound it tightly around his index finger and unwound it again, feigning fascination with the ridges it made in his skin.  “Why would you think that?” he finally asked without raising his head.

 

“Just a feeling.  Besides, you didn’t fight me when I tried to help you.”  Sam touched Al’s shoulder, half-expecting the captain to pull away and shut him out.  Instead, Al closed his eyes in resignation and shook his head.

 

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted, his physical weakness evident in his voice.  He looked up at Sam.  “I guess . . . I guess I want to live more than I thought.”

 

“Then why did you try to kill yourself?”

 

“Because I’m a failure.”  The words fell shortly and bitterly from Al’s tongue.

 

Sam hesitated before continuing.  Al was very vulnerable right now, and Sam didn’t want to drive him away, not when the captain had opened a tiny crack.  Maybe it was from exhaustion, but Sam would take what he could.  “A failure?”

 

Al laughed bitterly.  “I guess you hadn’t heard.  Al Calavicci, the project drunk.  A washed-up star jockey with five failed marriages.  And now a botched suicide attempt.  A real winner, huh?”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Oh, the Committee’ll love this.  I can kiss this project goodbye.”

 

“What does the Committee have to do with anything?  No one has to know, Al.”

 

“Boy, you really don’t pay much attention to the Project grapevine, do you?  I thought everyone knew.”  Al started to get up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back down.  He waved at the desk.  “Bring me that paper from the corner.”

 

Sam complied and handed the memo to Al.  The captain shook his head.  “You read it.”  Al reached for his cigar so he wouldn’t have to look at Sam.  “I know what it says.”

 

Sam absorbed the note which formally informed Captain Albert M. Calavicci of a Committee hearing to determine his future status with Project Starbright.  It cited Al’s alcoholism and volatile behavior as evidence of his “questionable actions.”  He just stared at Al.

 

Al puffed on his cigar for several seconds.  Removing it from his mouth to jab it in the general direction of the paper, he said, “If that doesn’t define me as a failure, I don’t know what does.”

 

“You are not a failure, Al.  You . . . you just have a problem.”

 

Al laughed.  It sounded like the kind of laugh that covers an urge to break into tears.  “A problem.”  He shook his head.  “I can’t make it through a day without a drink.  If I don’t have one I start to remember . . . things.”

 

“Were you remembering ‘things’ when you slashed your wrists?”

 

Al drew heavily on the cigar and closed his eyes.  “Vividly.”

 

“You were a POW, weren’t you?”

 

Al’s eyes flew open.  “How did you know that?  I never talk about it.”

 

“Before you woke up you were talking in your sleep.  It, uh, it sounded like an interrogation session.”

 

“That’s a mild term for it.”  Al rubbed his forehead.  “A very mild term.”

 

“How long were you held?”

 

“Too long.”

 

“And Beth?”  At Al’s annoyed and incredulous stare Sam quickly amended, “You called for her at the infirmary and then right before you woke up.”

 

Al shrugged with a callousness that didn’t match the pain in his eyes.  “I came home a single man.”  He ground the cigar out in the ashtray, pressing so hard the tobacco ruptured.

 

Sam was speechless.  He actually found himself amazed that the man had never attempted suicide before.  “Al, I . . .”

 

“No.  Don’t say it.  I don’t want your pity.”  Al sighed uncomfortably.  “I just . . . I just want . . .”

 

Sam leaned forward.  “A friend?”

 

Al looked down and nodded.

 

Sam smiled.  “I thought we were.”

 

Al returned the smile until the emotional roller coaster he’d been on proved too much for the physically drained Captain to control any longer.  As the first tear began to run down his cheek, he slid under the covers and turned on his side to face the wall.

 

“Goodnight, Al.”  Sam got up from the edge of Al’s bed.  He bent to gather the papers that had fallen from his grasp hours before and stacked them on the desk.  Glancing around the room, Sam spied a battered leather easy chair that looked as if it dated back to the Forties.  He settled in it and tossed a Navy blanket over himself.  He watched Al until the quivering shoulders settled into the steady rhythm of sleep.  Then Sam entered the land of dreams himself.

 

 

Saturday, April 20, 1985

 

“Ohhh,” Al groaned as consciousness smacked him in the face.  He felt as if someone had dumped a pile of bricks on his head.  Rather, he amended, like someone had strapped him to the wrecking ball that demolished the wall of bricks.  He opened his eyes.

 

The bright light breaking through the cracks in the blinds stung his red eyes and stabbed through the center of his head like a master swordsman.  Al looked up at the ceiling.  The globe covering the light bulbs served as the pivot upon which the entire room spun madly.  He closed his eyes with a moan, but the spinning continued inside his head.

 

‘God, what a hangover.  I certainly hope the party was worth it.’  Once again, Al’s hangover had taken the place of whatever memories he might have accrued of the previous night.  He blindly patted the bed around him, unwilling to open his eyes again.  He let out a sigh of relief that he was alone.  With this hangover he was in no shape, not to mention in no mindset, to deal with a one-night stand.

 

‘How much did I drink last night?’ he wondered.  He hadn’t had a hangover this bad since he had graduated from Annapolis.  ‘Liar,’ his mind shot back.  ’What about when you found out Beth was gone?’

 

‘Shut up!  Just shut up!’ he mentally screamed.  Lying in the bed was no way to battle his roaming thoughts.  He’d have to overcome the hangover and get up.

 

Al split his eyes open as slowly and as marginally as he could.  Ignoring the protests of his head and his stomach, he pushed himself up against the headboard.  He bit his lip, drawing blood, at the sharp stinging he felt in his wrists from the pressure.

 

Al shoved the sleeves of his pajama top up to his elbow and examined his arms.  At the sight of the white bandages taped to his wrists, the memories of the previous evening came flooding back.  He stared at the IV line taped to his arm and followed it up to a spot above his head, where two empty IV bags hung from a coat hanger.  Al tugged the needle from his arm, cringing at the sensation.  He flushed with anger and shame.  Now that kid would probably spread the story all over the project.  His fury and embarrassment were so strong that he nearly ignored his own part in the matter, including how he’d opened up, practically bared his soul.  He remembered sharing things with Sam Beckett he’d wanted to keep secret, and he flushed deeper.

 

With a muffled curse, Al swung his legs out of bed and started toward his desk.  And promptly fell to the floor with a thud.  He stayed where he fell, gagging back a surge of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.  He slowly lifted his head from the crush of the rug and pushed himself to his knees.  Not trusting his legs to carry him again, Al crawled to his desk and reached up to grab the bottle of vodka he’d left there.  It was gone.

 

‘No.  I don’t want to think about everything.  Where’s that bottle?’  That kid must have thrown it out, Al realized with a curse.  He spun as quickly as his pounding head would allow and thrust his hand within the wastebasket.  One by one, he lifted the empty bottles from the crumpled papers.

 

“Damn!” he muttered, throwing the wastebasket aside.  It crashed loudly against the desk.  Oblivious to the muffled snort as Sam started awake, Al dragged himself to his dresser and began searching for the bottle of bourbon he’d hidden there.

 

Sam’s head popped up in search of the source of the noise.  He glanced at the bed and jumped up when he saw it was empty.  A red sock flew past his nose and Sam turned to find Al on his knees in front of his dresser, flinging socks and underwear over his shoulders.  The stiff shoulders suddenly relaxed and Al tenderly reached into the drawer with both hands, caressing his treasure as he lifted it.  It was half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

 

“Al, no,” Sam groaned.  He dropped to his knees beside the captain and grabbed his arm.  It was a mistake.

 

Al immediately yanked his arm away with a curse.  The dark eyes which had filled with emotion the night before were burning with hatred.  Clutching the bottle to his chest, Al backed into the corner.

 

“What are you doing here?” he snarled.  “Spying on me for the Committee?  Well, I hope you’ve got a good story for them.  They’ll just eat this up.”

 

“Do you want to help them build their case against you?”  Sam stretched his hand out.  “You don’t need that, Al.”

 

Al hugged the bottle closer.  “You don’t know what I need!  Get away from me!  Get out of here!”  He weakly waved his hand, the gesture lacking the fierceness of his words.

 

Sam edged closer, moving slowly, but Al still backed up against the wall as closely as he could, shrinking into himself.

 

“Get away!”  The rough voice rose by octaves, hysteria working its way in.

 

“Al, this is no answer.  No more than last night was.  Please.”

 

At the mention of the previous night, Al dropped his head in shame.  Until Sam actually spoke the words, he could still pretend it was a dream, despite the bandages on his wrists.  Now even that fantasy was ripped away.  And so was his bottle.  With a curse he snapped his head up to see Sam shove the bottle deep within the drawer it had come from.

 

Al narrowed his eyes and spoke in a menacing whisper, “Damn you.”

 

Sam cringed.  He drew upon his medical expertise to deal with the angry man quivering in the corner.

 

“Come on, let me help you back into bed.  You’ve got to be feeling awful, and with the blood you lost, you really shouldn’t be moving around.”  He took hold of Al’s arm again.

 

Al stiffened beneath his hands, his muscles tensing into hard rocks.  A stubborn glare seared Sam’s face.

 

“I’m fine where I am,” the captain spoke through gritted teeth.  He dropped his gaze from Sam’s face to the hand gripping his arm.  “Just leave.”

 

Sam didn’t budge.  “I’m not leaving, so you might as well get used to the idea.”

 

Al sat motionless for a few moments before he began clawing at Sam’s hand.  “I said leave me alone!” he bellowed.

 

Sam hissed through his teeth at the sight of the tiny lines oozing blood on the back of his hand, but he refused to let go.  He held on as Al began swinging fists at him.  He held on while Al kicked his feet.  He held on while Al cursed him.

 

Al’s vituperations were interrupted by a foreboding gurgle from deep in his throat.  “Oh, God,” he moaned, his face suddenly drained of color.  He concentrated his efforts on yanking his arm loose and fled for the bathroom.

 

Sam blew lightly across the scratches on his hand while the sounds of Al’s sickness filled the room.  Low moans intermittently broke the retching noises.  Sam hesitantly got to his feet and moved to the bathroom doorway.

 

Al slumped against the bathroom wall, his sweaty forehead resting against the soiled porcelain.  His face was ghostly pale, his eyes unnaturally ringed with red and streaming water.  He panted and ran his hands across his chest, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them.  He didn’t notice Sam.

 

“Oh, God,” he moaned over and over again.  The mantra became panicked as the gurgling rose in his throat again.  “No, no.”  The voice was filled with dread.  Al barely lifted himself over the bowl before he was sick once more.

 

He jumped when he felt hands on his back.  Weakly, he waved a hand behind him in a leave-me gesture.  But when he finished throwing up, Al realized he needed the support.  If the hands hadn’t been there to help ease him down, he would have smashed his head against the metal base of the shower enclosure.

 

Al cocked his head.  “You don’t give up, do you?” he asked the earnest face before him.

 

“No, I don’t,” Sam replied.  He rose and flushed the toilet as he moved to the sink.

 

Al groaned as the sound of the rushing water beat against his throbbing head like waves against a cliff.  He watched Sam wring out a blood-stained towel from the sink and lay it next to a shining knife.  ‘The knife.’  Al limply raised his arms and looked at his bandaged wrists.

 

Sam was running a washcloth under the tap now.  Al looked at the bloodied towel on the counter.  His thoughts ran disjointedly.  ‘Blood.  My blood.  From the knife.  Oh, God, I slashed my wrists.’  He realized exactly what he had done for the first time.  Al was breathing hard now.  He clumsily pulled the bandage from one of his wrists and stared in disbelief at the line of the wound, sealed by the stitches.

 

“I did that,” he mumbled.  He stared down at his own wrist, oblivious to the fact that Sam had dropped to his knees beside him.  “I did that.”  His heart began racing.  If it hadn’t been for Sam, he would be dead.

 

Al looked up at the knife, never hearing Sam’s request for permission to apply the washcloth to his face.  He barely felt the cool wetness moving across his forehead and the back of his neck.  He only became aware of Sam when the sensation of the cloth on his mouth interfered with his words.

 

“I’m a mess.”

 

“It’s all right, Al, I’m cleaning it up.”

       

Al shook his head, fighting a lump in his throat.  “No, not this,” he weakly gestured toward the toilet.  “I’m a mess,” he repeated, nodding toward the knife.  This time his voice did break.

 

“Al, why don’t we get you back in bed so you can rest,” Sam suggested, retreating to medicine as a safe interaction.  He was relieved at Al’s imperceptible nod, though he would have put the captain to bed without acquiescence.  It was easier this way, Sam acknowledged.

 

They rose together, Al leaning heavily on Sam.  As he draped Al’s arm around his neck, Sam felt the absence of the bandage.

 

“Will you let me change your bandages?” Sam asked.

 

Drained, Al grunted an affirmative.  He was more dragged than walked back to the bed.  He sank into the pillows Sam stacked behind him to keep him upright.

 

“Don’t move,” Sam cautioned.  “I’ve got to go to my quarters to get the gauze.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Al nodded with a wry smile.  “Don’t worry, I’m in no hurry to eat carpet again.”

 

Sam chuckled, gratified by the hope in Al’s humor, and slipped out the door.

 

Al’s mind wandered as he waited.  He confronted the demons in his head, the demons who had been building in power over the last fifteen years.  The demons who had tried to take control last night.

 

‘Well, you won’t anymore, do you hear?  Not again.’  Al looked down at his wrists.  ‘You almost won last night, but not again.’

 

He was not surprised when the demons refused to silently slink off in defeat.  ’Try to get through the Committee hearing by yourself.  You can’t win, Al Calavicci, no matter how hard you try.’

 

Al had almost forgotten about the Committee hearing.  There was so much to keep track of.  He felt a wave of depression wash over him again.  The demons laughed triumphantly, taunting him to take a drink to silence them.

 

He was on the verge of trying to sit up under his own power when Sam came back in with a small first aid kit in his hands.  Al settled back with intense relief.

 

Sam looked puzzled by Al’s relieved sighs, but he didn’t ask any questions.  He sat on the bed and opened the kit in his lap.  Regretfully, he lifted a packet and ripped it open to reveal a swatch soaked in betadine.

 

“I’ve got to clean them, Al.  It’s gonna sting like anything.”

 

Al nodded and offered the exposed wrist to Sam first.  As gently and as quickly as he could, Sam swabbed the area around the wound.  Al ground his teeth and tried his best not to jerk his hand.  Sam allowed the medicine to evaporate while he removed the bandage and cleaned the other wrist.  Al sucked his breath in and bit down on his lip, breaking through in the same spot he’d bitten earlier.

 

Sam next applied a light coating of an antibiotic ointment.  Gently, but firmly, he pressed gauze pads over the wounds and taped them in place.  Done, he gathered up the old bandage and the wastepaper from the gauze and betadine swatch and threw them away.  Neither man had spoken a word in all that time.

 

He went into the bathroom and Al heard water running in the tap and cabinets being opened and closed.  Sam emerged with a tall glass of water in one hand.  He sat on the bed again and handed Al the water.

 

“You need to drink some fluids,” Sam explained.  After Al had taken a few sips, he offered the glass to Sam, but the young doctor insisted he drain it first.  Al grumbled at the mother hen tendency, but complied all the same.

 

“Oh, man, how am I going to explain this away?” he groaned, raising his bandaged wrists.

 

Sam didn’t know what to say.  An attempted suicide was the last thing Al needed on his record.  “You don’t,” he said lamely.

 

“I don’t,” Al snorted.  “I don’t explain it.  You’re right.  They probably know anyway.  Better to just pack up and go.”

 

“Maybe you’re right.”  A sudden idea had struck Sam.

 

Al laughed bitterly.  “That hopeless, huh?”

 

Sam realized what he’d just said.  “No!” he quickly amended.  “Not like that.  What I mean is, take some time off, a vacation.”

 

“A vacation?  Sam, the Committee will never authorize a vacation, especially at the last-minute.”  He shook his head.  “They’d probably insist on a medical exam and then I’m back to square one.  Besides, they want to be sure I don’t skip out before the hearing.  Though, come to think of it, if I left it would solve their problem for them.”

 

“The hearing is in a week and a half.  The stitches will be gone by then.”

 

“Yeah, but hiding the bandages for almost two weeks.  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the duty uniform is short-sleeved.”

 

“I have noticed you don’t concern yourself with being in uniform all the time,” Sam countered.

 

“Yeah, well, if I want to get past this hearing I better start.”

 

Sam frowned.  “There was not a word in there about the way you dress, Al.  Your behavior and your alcoholism, that’s what was in there.  They’re not asking you to change who you are.”

 

“No, they just want me to change most of who I am!”

 

“Can you sit there and tell me you’re honestly happy surviving from drink to drink, throwing your life up in the mornings?  Can you tell me that you feel good when you destroy something?  That you get a lasting satisfaction from propositioning every female on the property?”

 

“Shut up!” Al shouted.  He immediately laid his head back and moaned from the pain his own shout had intensified.

 

“I think the answer is no,” Sam quietly finished.  “And I think you know it, too.”

 

Al turned his head and stared at the wall.  “I don’t know what to do anymore,” he said in a small voice.

 

“That’s a start, isn’t it?”

 

“Some start.  Rock bottom.”

 

“I can’t think of a better place.  But you don’t have to start alone.”

 

Al started laughing.  “And just who do you think is going to help me?”

 

Sam wasn’t smiling.  “I will.”

 

Al sobered.  “You?  Why would you want to waste your time on a washed-up has-been like me?”

 

“Because it’s not a waste of time.  Because I believe Al Calavicci has a lot to offer, and I want to help him find it out for himself.”

 

Al’s mouth twisted, trying to decide if it wanted to frown or smile.  He rubbed the back of his neck and regarded Sam, searching for confirmation of the sincerity of his words in the young face.  He found it and didn’t know how to react to it.  He just stared.

 

Sam rubbed his temples as his mind raced.  “The thing is to get you away from the project until we can get you back on your feet.”

 

Al released a grateful breath that the intense moment was past.  “I told you already, there’s no way they’ll grant a vacation request.”

 

“A vacation request, no.  But a business trip, yes.”  Sam’s face brightened.

 

Al scanned the physicist’s face, trying to decipher the secret.

 

“Don’t you see, Al?  I’ll conjure up a reason why I need to leave town for a week or so.  We’ll head up to MIT.  I’ve got some friends up there who will let us use their apartment.  Or, better yet, there’s this cabin where Professor LoNigro and I would retreat to be sure we wouldn’t be disturbed while we were working on our theories.  That’s it!”

 

“I hate to burst your bubble, but how do you plan on getting me on this so-called business trip?  I’m not exactly high on the good list.  Hell,” he laughed, “I’m not even on the good list!”

 

“Leave that to me.  I’ll say you demand on coming as part of your administrative duties, to be sure I’m not violating procedure.”

 

Al tossed his head back and laughed.  Sam didn’t see what was so funny, and said so.

 

“Right, like they’ll believe that!  They think I’m a drunken slob who can’t tell which way is up.”  He lowered his eyes.  “And they’re right.”

 

Sam touched Al’s ankle through the sheets to get his attention.  “We’re going to change that, Al.”

 

Al nodded toward the disaster spread across the room from his desperate raid.  “It won’t be pretty.”

 

“I know that.  I can handle it if you can.”

 

Al sighed.  He covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths.  Dropping his hands, he looked Sam in the eye.  “Commence Operation Bootstraps.”

  To Be Continued

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