"Pick, I'm calling from Walter Reed. Your dad's in here."
"Jesus, now what?"
"He's going to be all right. I waited until they gave him a... Colonel Rickabee just got the word from the doctors."
"Who's he?"
"He works for your father."
"So what's going on?"
"Your father has malaria. I went to his room in the hotel this morning and found him too weak to even sit up. He's been treating himself with scotch and aspirin. But he's going to be all right. He made me promise to call your mother and see what I could do to calm her down. I called all over, and finally somebody at your house-Talbot, something like that-gave me this number."
"Mother's butler," Pick said. "It's my grandfather's number. That was him on the phone before."
"OK. So what I know is this: He has malaria. There's two kinds, intestinal, and-I forget what they call it, in the brain.
That's really bad news. He has intestinal. That's not as bad.
What it does is give you chills and fever, and you lose control of your bowels, and you throw up a lot."
"That's not bad, huh?"
"It dehydrates you. He was in pretty bad shape when we found him. But we got him in the hospital, and they're giving him stuff to kill the malaria, and they're putting fluid in him.
He's going to be all right."
"Define `all right,' " Pick said.
"He's sick. He's weak, and embarrassed."
"What do you mean, embarrassed? What the hell's he got to be embarrassed about?"
"He... shit his bed. We had to wash him like a baby."
"God!"
"He said I was to tell your mother there was no need for her to do anything foolish, like come to Washington."
"Which means she will be on the next plane. We will be on the first plane."
"You better think about that," McCoy said. "You're supposed to be at Mare Island on the thirteenth."
"How do you know that?"
"I checked. Actually, you're supposed to be in Pensacola. What was that all about?"
"I had originally... " Pick said, and stopped. "What the hell does it matter?"
"I called all over Pensacola for you. I finally got some Admiral's wife on the phone, and she told me you were on your way to San Francisco." The Admiral's wife was Mrs. Richard B. Sayre, mother Mrs. Martha Sayre Culhane. Upon learning that Lieutenant Pickering was headed for the Pacific, Martha had been even more determined than ever not to marry him. Martha had said it so often he had no choice but to believe her.
She could not go through again what she'd already gone through. She couldn't wait around for the inevitable telegram from the Secretary of the Navy expressing his deep regret that her husband had been lost in aerial combat against the forces of the Empire of Japan.
"There's no way you could come here and get back out there by the thirteenth," McCoy said.
"I could get an emergency leave," Pick said.
"Yeah, you probably could," McCoy said. There was a hint of disgust in his voice.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're a Marine officer, and you have your orders. There's nothing you could do for your father here except embarrass him by showing up."
"Fuck you, Ken!" Pick flared, but then immediately: "Shit. I'm sorry. You're right, of course."
"Look, he's sick, but in a couple of weeks, a month, he's going to be all right, OK?"
"That's the straight poop?"
"That's straight."
"You going to see him?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Tell him... You know what to tell him."
"Yeah. Sure. You'll tell your mother?"
"I'll tell her and she'll come."
"He won't like that."
"Yes, he will, and besides, there's nothing he can do about "OK."
"Thanks for... everything, I guess, Ken."
"Take care of yourself, pal."
"You, too." The line went dead.
Pick held the phone in his hand for a long moment before dropping it into the cradle. Then he raised his eyes and found his grandfather's eyes on him.
"That was Ken McCoy. We went to OCS at Quantico together." The old man nodded.
"You understood what that was all about?"