Station Five

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

In 1964, Charles “Chuck” Tate was an unemployed bricklayer with few prospects. A fondness for liquor had led him through a haphazard morass of self-destructive debauchery, culminating in a brutal bar fight that nearly killed him. He recovered everything but the use of his right thumb and index finger, an insurmountable handicap for any tradesman, and for a man like Chuck it was another excuse to drink.

One night, Chuck’s wife Danielle found him at a local bar and issued the ultimatum that would change his life: He could be sober and married or drunk and single. She had made the same ultimatum before, but this time there was something in her eyes, a certain resolute poise that convinced Chuck he had truly run out of second chances. He wisely put away the bottle and remained sober the rest of his life, but it would be several years until Chuck and Danielle had pulled out of their tailspin and righted their lives.

Danielle finished her nursing program and got a job on the night shift at St. Mary’s. The two chipped away at their debts and bought a modest ranch style home in Tucson. Chuck studied in earnest for his contractor’s license, but he was a poor reader and struggled with the material. By 1966, he had given up in frustration. He told Danielle he was driving to Phoenix to take the exam, but instead drove to the border town of Bisbee, Arizona to surprise his grandmother with a visit. She was living in a tiny retirement home there since the death of her husband. Finding the front door locked, Chuck rang the bell repeatedly until the obese, unkempt owner came to the door and shouted that visiting hours were over. Undeterred, Chuck circled the perimeter of the ramshackle structure, calling his grandmother’s name. At one window, he found the curtains didn’t meet and stepped up to look inside.

An hour later, Chuck Tate was in jail.

* * *

Abby had cried herself to sleep again, with Mia at her side.  Mia didn’t really hear the rhythmic hiss-whoosh of Abby’s ventilator any more, but it still drowned out any sounds from outside her room like plastic waves on a stainless steel beach.  She struggled to keep her eyes open, but with each drowsy bob of her head, she jerked to full wakefulness for another minute or so.

She missed Mr. Tate, too.  Not Justin Tate, Abby’s father, but Chuck Tate, Abby’s grandfather.  Mr. Tate had always been so kind and caring, treating employees and patients like an extended family.  Even when Mrs. Tate died, he continued to help everyone in any way he could, as if giving of himself were an involuntary reflex like breathing that even the loss of his wife couldn’t disrupt.  The bounce in his step and the sparkle in his eyes were gone, but his burning desire to do good simply couldn’t be extinguished.

Mia began to doze off again.  I miss you, too, Mr. Tate. 

Francisco came into Abby’s room and whispered, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”  He was smiling, but Francisco was almost always smiling.

Mia stretched and stifled a yawn.  “I wasn’t sleeping.  I was just—”

“Your relief is here, Mia, he said.  “Chick from registry.”

“What if Abby doesn’t like her?”

Francisco ran his hand gently over his bald head.  “You gotta get some sleep, mija.  Let us worry about Abby.”

Francisco and Mia both looked at Abby, who was staring back at them.

“Abby,” said Francisco, “Mia has to go home and get some sleep.  You kept her here way past her bedtime, girl.”

Abby blinked twice.

“C’mon, Abby, we got you the best aide in Tucson—”  He glanced at Mia.  “Well. okay, the second best aide in Tucson.  She floated here on an umbrella just to take good care of you, and she brought chocolate ice cream and lipstick and nail polish and all six seasons of Sex and the City on DVD.”