When the Phoenix Sings ~ 4

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          "I can't be certain without x-rays, but I think it's very possible he's  broken  his  hip again."  Dr. Peter Alcott sat back on the floor, watching Father carefully.  The old man  was  conscious  and  in  great pain.  "There's no indication of displacement." He spoke to Vincent who was beside him on the floor.  "You were absolutely right  not  to  move him."
          "Vincent...,"  Father gasped as his fingers dug into his son's arm while  he  struggled to maintain control over the throbbing pain in his hip and leg.
          "I'm here, Father.  Don't move."  Vincent clasped his own  fingers over his father's hand.
          Peter continued,  "We're going to have to be very careful when  we lift him.  I want to get him off this cold floor as soon as we can."
          "And the wound on his head?" The question came from Mary who stood above them with Catherine.
          Peter looked up. "I suspect a concussion, but he seems to be alert and  responsive."  He  reached  into his bag,  removing a syringe and a small vial. "Vincent, push up his sleeve." Peter bent closer to his old friend's ear.  "Jacob,  I'm going to give you something for  the  pain.
     Can you hear me?"
          Father nodded once, gasping with each breath.
          "Good.  This  will  work fast and you should feel better in just a few minutes."
          As Vincent and Peter bent over Father,  Catherine quietly  stepped away,  signaling Mary to follow.  Speaking softly,  she gestured toward the nearby empty chair. "Mary, was Mouse here when you arrived?"
          Nodding,  the older woman answered,  "For just a little  bit.  I'm not even sure when he left."
          Catherine frowned.  "I think we better find him."

                                   *  *  *
 
          "Where was he, Catherine?" Vincent had welcomed Catherine's report that  Mouse had been found and was safely waiting in the quarters which
     housed the older boys.
          "Kipper and I found him in his own chamber,  hidden behind a  pile of  old  machine  parts."  She  and  Vincent  stood  in the entrance of Father's sleeping chamber watching while Peter checked  Father's  blood pressure under Mary's watchful eye.
          The old man slept in his own  bed,  his  body  supported  on  both sides by firm pillows.
          Catherine  continued softly,  "We finally got Mouse to talk to us. He's very worried about Father, and he keeps rambling something about a book."
          "A book?"  Vincent frowned slightly.
          "Yes", she nodded.  "Evidently he did something to one of Father's  books, and Father caught him in the act...and that's why Father fell."
          "That  would  explain many things.  Before he fell asleep,  Father was very upset...trying to tell me something about Kipling."
          Peter removed the cuff from Father's arm and stood, turning to the couple in the doorway.
          "How is he?" Catherine asked.
          Coming to stand beside them,  Peter answered softly,  "His hip  is broken, but the shock is wearing off, and his vital signs are strong."
          Vincent sighed heavily, remembering  the previous  time  this  had happened. "The same hip as before?"
          Peter nodded,  "I don't envy you,  Vincent.  Jacob can be  a  very difficult  patient,  and  he's going to be in that bed for a long time. You and Mary are going to have your hands full."
          Taking  off  his glasses,  Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked  into  the study.  "I heard there was some hot coffee out here."
     The doctor rested his hand on Vincent's shoulder,  "Mary's going to sit with him.  Come tell me how this happened."
          Vincent  took  Catherine's  hand,  and  together they followed the doctor into the outer chamber.
 
          In  spite of Vincent's objections,  Catherine insisted on spending the night Below,  planning to leave early  enough  in  the  morning  to report  for work.  Peter and Mary went to bed   with the assurance that Vincent and Catherine would sit with Father until early morning.
          After the two older people left,  Catherine made tea and returned, bringing a cup to Vincent.
          He  looked up,  taking the cup from her.  "Thank you,  Catherine."  Watching her as she settled into the chair at his  side,  he  waited  a long  moment,  then  he  sighed  and reached for her hand.  Running his  fingers gently across the back  of  her  wrist,  he  spoke  in  a  near whisper.  "I'm glad you stayed."
          She put her cup down on a nearby table and smiled,  biting her lip lightly.  After a long moment,  she stroked his arm with her free hand. "I need to be here...for you.  But,  Vincent...It's not  just  that..."
     Her  hand  turned under his touch and one by one her fingers interlaced with his.  She whispered, "I love him, too."
          Vincent cocked his head,  gazing at her and savoring the truth  of her statement.  In spite of all the conflicts which had flared  between the  woman he loved and his father in the first year...or maybe because  of them...something warm and beautiful had been spun between them since the day when Father had vowed to pray for Vincent and  Catherine  both, to be a father to them both.  The old man had accepted Catherine like a daughter,  enjoying  her  presence,  confiding  in  her,  and  --  most
important of all -- placing his full trust in the love she shared  with his son.
          Vincent's gaze turned toward the man  who slept soundly a few feet away.  With an involuntary shudder,  he remembered sensing Father's cry and  the frightening uncertainty which had pounded through his heart as he had raced through the  tunnels  in  response.  Vincent  had  watched   Catherine  lose  her father,  and the possibility of losing his own had  been almost more than he could bear.
          He  thought  of Mouse,  clinging to the unconscious form.  And the numbing fear that Mouse was going to drag  Father  away.  Reliving  the terror  of  that  moment,  Vincent looked again at Catherine with a new surge of gratitude for the calming influence she had been.  If not  for her...  His  hand  squeezed hers,  affirming the indispensable role she played in his life,  in the lives of all those Below who had  grown  to love her.
          His  gentle  voice  broke  the  silence.  "You  saved  Father this evening.  Mouse could have done irreparable damage if you  hadn't  been there."
          "No, he would have listened to you."
          With a sigh,  Vincent shook his head.  "He was too frightened.  He had lost himself,  and your gentleness gave him something to cling to."
          Suddenly the golden head lay  back  against  his  chair  as  those particular  words  recalled the memories of the many times when Vincent himself had clung to Catherine's gentleness, when he also had been lost to himself.
          As  if  she  could  read his thoughts,  she smiled and touched his face.  "It's over, and everything's going to be all right." Her fingers traced the contour of his high cheekbone.  "...as long as we have  each other to cling to."
          Turning toward her,  Vincent's eyes settled upon Catherine, and as he gave himself to the warmth of her touch,  he was certain  that  they were  both thinking of other times and other places.  Slowly he nodded, and then he pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
 
 
          After  midnight,  Vincent brought a cot to the study and convinced Catherine to sleep.  Later he sat alone sipping tea  and  watching  his father's chest rise and fall with a comforting regularity.  The chamber was quiet.  Even the pipes, which had vibrated earlier with the news of Father's accident, were finally at rest.
          Taking his gaze from  his  father,  he  looked  through  the  open entrance of the chamber  into the darkened study where he could see the sleeping  figure of the woman who was everything to him.  Rarely did he permit her to spend a night Below, but on this night he needed her.  He remembered the gentle confidence in her voice.  Taking that  confidence for  his own,  he repeated her words in a whisper.  "As long as we have each other to cling to."

          Vincent must have dozed for a while,  because he was startled into alertness  by  a  noise  in  the  shadows beyond the  chamber entrance.
          "Mouse, is that you?"  he whispered as he rose to his feet.
          "Mouse."  The boy stepped  from  the  shadows,  nervously  holding something  between his hands as he came into Father's chamber.  After a silent moment, he ventured, "Vincent mad at Mouse?"
          "No, Mouse," Vincent sat back down with a sigh.  "I'm not mad." He paused,  "Whatever  happened  between  you and Father,  I'm certain you never meant for him to be hurt."
          "Father okay?"
          "He will be...yes." He paused, "Can you remember when he broke his hip years ago?"
          "Broke it,"  the boy nodded.  "Hurt bad.  Had to stay in bed."
          "He has broken it again."
          Mouse frowned  in  understanding.  "That's  bad.  Father  couldn't walk." He stepped closer. "Can he walk now?"
          "No."
          "That's badder than bad."  After a long pause, the boy lifted  the object in his hands.  "Brought Father something."
          "What did you bring?"
          "Book." He hesitated, adding very quietly, "Wrecked Father's book. Brought him another one."
          Vincent  took  the book from him and read the title silently,  "The Encyclopedia of Electronic Circuits".   He flipped  through  the  pages, revealing  dozens  of complex diagrams and equations.  Inside the front cover  he  found  an  inscription  in   Mouse's   childlike   oversized
     handwriting.

                                TO FATHER'S FATHER.
                                     FROM MOUSE.

          The boy watched him read,  then  added  cautiously,  "Supposed  to write  the  day, too."  He  hunched his shoulders forward and shrugged.
     "Don't know the day."
          Vincent  frowned,  trying to comprehend Mouse's erratic logic.  He recalled Father's ravings about Kipling,  and now Mouse had referred to "Father's father".  And a book had been "wrecked".  Suddenly the pieces slipped into place.
          "Mouse,  the book that was ruined...was it Father's first  edition 'Captains  Courageous'?"  Vincent  had  admired that volume since his own childhood.  More  than  once  he  had fingered Kipling's signature with awestruck reverence.
          "Accident." Mouse nodded reluctantly. "Was going to fix it..." His voice  broke,  and  when he lifted his face a single tear slid down his dusty cheek.  His chin trembled slightly as he added,  "Mouse  can  fix anything."
          At  that  moment,  both  Vincent and Mouse turned at a sound which came from the direction of Father's bed.  Father  lay staring  at  them through eyes glazed with pain and morphine.  His breath was  no  longer quiet as he gasped, "My book...where...is my book?"
          Mouse glanced  once  at  Vincent,  then  answered  feebly,  "Mouse sorry."  Taking a deep breath, he added hopefully, "Book gone.  Brought Father another one.  Just  as  good...not  all  old  and  dirty..."  He extended his gift toward Father, putting it into his hands.
          With  effort,  the  old man lifted his head,  searching the book's cover.  Suddenly,  with a strength born of  frustration  and  rage,  he slapped the book away,  flinging it across the chamber where it slammed  to the floor.  His voice rasped,  "Damn."  He  gasped  again,  "It  was Kipling, Mouse...do you think your damned book could replace Kipling?"
          Mouse  jerked back from the bed,  shaking his head.  "Mouse sorry. Sorry."  Staring for an  instant  at  the rejected  crumpled  book,  he glanced quickly into Vincent's eyes,  and then the boy cried once more, "...sorry..." And he raced from the chamber.

          Catherine had awakened at Mouse's outcry,  and she was leaving her cot just as he fled through the study.  She entered the bed chamber  in time to see Vincent's attempts to calm his father.
          "What's happened?"  She came to Vincent's side.
          "Mouse  was  here." Vincent pushed the old man's shoulders down to rest against the pillows. "Father, lie back.  You must be still."
          Father's  breath came in heaves,  his face distorted  as he looked into his son's eyes. "I told him...I told him...my book..."
          "I know.  It's done, Father.  Lie still before you hurt yourself."
          "My father, Vincent. Edward..."  The old man sobbed, "It was all I had left of him..."
          "I know...I'm sorry..."  Vincent massaged the quivering shoulders, whispering comforting words until at last Father lay calm and quiet.
          Catherine stood in the doorway silently watching until the old man was finally asleep, and then she waited until Vincent came to her.
          Gently he guided her into the outer study  and  quietly  explained what  he  had  learned  and the significance of the missing volume.  He moved toward Father's desk searching  for  evidence  of  the  accident.
     "Apparently Mouse did something which destroyed the book."
          "What did he do?"  she asked.
          "I'm not sure..." He paused, examining the desk.  Pieces of broken glass  lay  scattered across a small cloth which had been spread across the desktop.  "Here, look at this."  In the center of the cloth  was  a  hole,  rimmed  with  a  foul smelling residue and bits of disintegrated paper.
          Catherine frowned.  "If this was Father's  book,  it's  completely dissolved...but what could do this?"
          "A  chemical spill...some  sort  of  acid."  Vincent straightened. "Only Mouse could tell us,  and I doubt if even he could  tell  us  the scientific name."
          "And this is all that's left of  Rudyard  Kipling's  gift  to  Mr. Wells.  It's a terrible loss to Father.  I can only imagine how much he must  have valued  that  book."  After a moment,  she continued softly, "Mouse was terrified last night when Kipper and I found  him,  and  now this  is  even worse."  She paused,  "Do you want us to try to find him again? I could wake Kipper up."
          "No.  I think this is between Mouse and me."
          With a nod,  she came closer to embrace him,  and he sighed as she leaned  her  head against his chest.  As his fingers caressed her hair, he murmured quietly,  "It must be close to dawn,  and you  need  to  go Above.  Would you bring Peter here?  Then I'll walk you home."
          She nodded, hugging him briefly before she left the room.
 

          After Vincent left Catherine's  threshold,  he  went  straight  to Mouse's  chambers.  There  was no evidence that the boy had been there. Several other possible retreats came to mind,  but Mouse was in none of them.  Reluctantly,  Vincent  sent  a  message  on  the pipes to Pascal requesting a general search.  Then he returned to Father's study.
          He found Peter sitting with Father while the old man slept.  For a while Vincent visited quietly with Peter and Mary, and then he napped.
          By mid-morning,  Peter felt that his  patient  was  no  longer  in danger.  Assured  that Father would be safe in Vincent and Mary's care, Peter examined Father one last time and left,  promising to return  the next day.
          At  noon,  a  message  for Vincent came on the pipes,  saying that Mouse had been seen by one of the  children  in  the  Serpentine,  and, strangely,  the  child  insisted  that  he  had  heard Mouse talking to somebody.
 
          Vincent  was  half-way  to  the  winding staircase when he heard a sound in the tunnels ahead.  He called softly.
          "Mouse?"
          "What?"  The answer came from the  darkness several  yards  ahead. The  boy's  tone  was  conversational,  as  if  they  had been casually visiting.
          Vincent sighed,  closing  the  distance between  them.  Mouse  was strolling  toward  him  carrying  a leather helmet with two flashlights firmly attached to its ear flaps.  The boy had fashioned  the  creation years ago as his unique lighting system.
           Relieved to have found Mouse safe and in  high  spirits,  Vincent came  to  a stop,  leaning against the tunnel wall,  watching his young friend. "Mouse, I've had everyone hunting for you."
          "Why?"
           "I was concerned about you when you left  Father's  chamber  last night."
          The boy shrugged. "Have to hunt for lost people.  Mouse never gets lost."  He  held  the  helmet  up  for  Vincent  to  see.   "Need  more flashlights.  Another helmet.  Good for trading."  He paused,  flicking one of the flashlights off and on.  "Said he'd trade.  Helmet for cap."
     He looked up with a begrudging grin.  "Can't see in dark with cap,  but Mouse sees anyway."
          Vincent frowned.  Usually he could follow  the  logic  of  Mouse's thoughts,  but  this  cryptic  rambling was indecipherable.  He put his hand on the boy's shoulder,  squeezing gently.  "Mouse,  I need to talk with you about Father."
          The boy glanced down at his feet.  "Father can't walk."
          "No", Vincent replied. "But he will when he gets well.  He's going to need our help."
          "Tried  to  help."  The young voice was very quiet.  "Tried to fix Father's book.  Father just got mad."
          "Mouse,  you  ruined  something that was very important to him.  I know you had good intentions,  but what you did  was  very  wrong.  You destroyed something that didn't belong to you."
          The boy let out a snort.  "Vincent worries too  much.  You'll  see when Mouse gets book back.  Fixed good...better  than  good."  The  boy lifted the helmet over his head and pulled it on.  Nodding as if he had just made an important decision, Mouse stated, "Father yelled at Mouse. Vincent never yells at Mouse.  When Mouse gets book back,  maybe  won't give it to Father.  Maybe Vincent gets Father's father's book."
          With a shake of his head,  Vincent sought a way to  make  the  boy accept reality.  "Look at me,  Mouse."  Bringing the boy around to face him,  Vincent  put  both hands on his shoulders.  Slowly the young blue eyes came up as Vincent continued.  "No one can have the book now.  The book is gone."
          With  an  exaggerated  sigh,  the boy gave Vincent a condescending frown. "Vincent isn't listening." He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if his large friend were a small child.  "Mouse said,  book is better than good.  Just have to wait."  With a positive nod, he grinned. "Mouse's new friend said so."
          "New friend?" Vincent tilted his head in concerned surprise. "What new friend, Mouse?"
          "Uh oh."  The boy grinned guilefully.  "Mouse promised he wouldn't tell.  Down in Serpentine."  He backed away from Vincent's grip  with a swagger.  "A  promise  is a promise." Resting one hand on his head,  he continued. "Said we trade hats if Mouse doesn't tell."
          Suddenly  afraid  that Mouse was not just rambling,  Vincent asked sternly,  "Who  told you this,  Mouse?  What new friend are you talking about?"   Not wishing to alarm the boy,  he softened  his  voice.  "Has someone new come to the tunnels?"
          "Not new.  Not old.  Didn't come." He grinned even more widely and attempted to snap his fingers.  "Just 'poof' he's  there..."  When  the snap didn't happen, Mouse's attention immediately was redirected toward trying  to  force  his fingers into a satisfactory snap,  and his voice continued lamely, "...'poof' he's gone."
          Watching him closely for a moment,  Vincent was finally  convinced that  Mouse's  whole tale was nothing more than an elaborate attempt to escape responsibility.
          Together they returned to Mouse's  quarters,  and  a  few  minutes later,  the  boy  watched his friend leave.  Arthur,  the raccoon,  had settled on a shelf at Mouse's side,  enjoying the gentle scratching  of his  owner's  fingers.  The boy nuzzled the animal and then pulled back to look into Arthur's eyes.
          "Book's fine, Arthur.  You'll see.  Just have to wait."
          The raccoon returned the  nuzzle,  hunting  for  the  raisin  that always waited for him in Mouse's pocket.
          Rubbing the animal's ears,  the boy  sighed.  "They'll  see...when Mouse fixes everything okay, good.  Okay, fine."
 

          That evening when Vincent met Catherine at her basement  threshold he  greeted her warmly,  but the concern in his eyes cautioned her that he was uncomfortable leaving Father even for  a  few  minutes.  Sharing his  concern,  she moved with him quickly toward the home chambers.
          They  passed  through  the  study  and  paused  in the entrance to Father's bedroom,  finding  that  Father  wasn't  alone.
          Peter Alcott looked up from his  chair.  "Good  evening."  He  was removing a blood pressure cuff from Father's arm.
          Bringing Catherine into the room with him, Vincent nodded, "Peter. I'm glad you're here."
          The doctor put the apparatus into a bag at his feet. "I can't stay long, but I wanted to come down and see how our patient is doing."
          Catherine  moved  around so that Father could see her more easily. She smiled as the watery gray  eyes  met  hers.  "Hello,  Father."  She rested a hand on his arm.  Looking up at Peter, she asked, "How is he?"
           " 'He' is...just  fine," the old man answered for himself,  but a sleepy slur in his speech betrayed the medication and analgesics in his system.
          Peter nodded. "It could have been much worse.  Actually, right now I'm  more  concerned  about  his head than I am about his hip.  The hip will mend,  but with a concussion you have to worry about the chance of swelling  and  blood clots.  I've given him something to prevent that." He paused, "He's going to be down with total bedrest for a long time."
          "How long?"  Vincent asked.
          Fastening his bag shut, Alcott shook his head. "Five or six weeks, I imagine.  Maybe longer.  He's not young anymore.  Then, of course, at his age when you spend that long flat on your  back,  you  have  to  be cautious about pneumonia.  There are things that can be done to prevent that, too.  I don't want to alarm anybody...But, Vincent, I want you to be aware of the situation."
          Vincent frowned, and Catherine reached to take his hand.
          Standing,  the doctor continued, "I told Mary a while ago that you and she will need to work out some sort of schedule.  I don't want  him left alone for the next few days."
          Vincent  nodded.  "We  still have the cot that Catherine used last night in the study.  Mary and I will see to it."
          "Vincent,"  Catherine watched Father's face as he closed his eyes, unable to stay awake any longer. "Let me help. I can take time off from my job and move down for a few days to help."
          "No."
          "Vincent, please."
          "Catherine."  Something in his voice was too sharp.  Too final.
          The great head  shook  without  hesitation.  Then  he  added  more gently,  "Thank  you,  Catherine,  but  no.  Mary and I will be able to handle the situation between the two  of  us."
          Then,  as if he were unwilling to allow  her  the  opportunity  to argue, he asked Peter, "Show me what I can do to keep his lungs clear."
          As they talked quietly,  Catherine watched in silence,  aware that even after all this time,  Vincent still required that she be a visitor from Above...when she wanted desperately to be at his side as a part of his world.