Mikael Pacioli

July 27: Blessed Antonio Lucci

Breakfast, on Mikael’s first day after the pasty, gruel-colored meal drinks, consisted of juice, a mug of warm red tea, and some sort of gelatin mold that Father Pacioli had picked out in the dining facility. The older man arrived just after Mikael’s bath at 8, bearing a tray full of food items, and drew a chair close to his recovering son’s bedside.

“Now,” F. Pacioli said, making a grandiose gesture that reminded Mikael of his childhood and feeling warm and enveloped and at home, “We eat, we eat, we eat. Bless the food, Mikael. Then mangia.”

Mikael spared a glance for the on-duty nurse, who had paused in the doorway of his room to observe. Father Pacioli was dividing their plates.

“Eggs for me. The eggs here are very good, Mikael. If you like, you can try some of mine, although I know they’ve said to keep you on simple foods for now. Nothing salty. No cured meats. Although….” Father Pacioli leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Mikael, “I’ve snuck you in some salmon jerky. Father Wakimoto’s. Homemade.”

Surprisingly, the treat actually appealed to Mikael. His gaze flickered up, interested, then back down again immediately. He reached for the gelatin and took a spoonful. The assigned nurse, still observing from the doorway, watched him swallow it down, then left.

Father Pacioli talked a bit more, then - about the summer crops, and about the rain at home, and about how the old shed had finally collapsed, and that George and Brother Simon would be working together to rebuild it. Mikael’s gaze flickered up again, involuntarily, at the mention of his old friend, and Father Pacioli did not let this pass him by.

“George is well, as well - he sends his regards and of course, his love. He tells me he’s making you something - carving it, so I suppose it will be some kind of token. He’s been carving a lot of animals lately, so I hope you’ve room in your heart for another of his little wooden birds.”

Mikael gave a faltering smile.

“One of the barn dogs was sick a few weeks ago, you know.” F. Pacioli went on, “The little brown one with the short leg. Lima, I think you called her. But George got her all fixed up down the road - in exchange for half a bushel of blueberries, of course.” Father Pacioli chuckled to himself. “Although I don’t see what that doctor sees in our blueberries; he’s always - “

Becoming suddenly aware that something beyond his left shoulder had captured Mikael’s attention, Father Pacioli cut himself off, and turned.

There was a man in the door; one with dark eyes, greying hair, and an inscrutable expression. He wore summer grays and the shoulder boards of a rear admiral. He seemed out of place where he stood, and neither Mikael nor Father Pacioli himself seemed to recall the exact moment of his appearance. He looked intensely at Mikael for another long moment, then inclined his head politely at Father Pacioli with a simple acknowledgement (“Father.”) and then was gone.

Mikael blinked after him, but said nothing. Father Pacioli also looked after him for a moment, cautious, but after a few minutes of nothing interesting, moved on.

~

“That carrier. Who was he?”

The two nurses and the young emissary who had been charged with guiding the admiral around rushed forward to form a trailing half-circle around the man, struggling to keep up with the quickening pace as he moved farther down the hall.

“Mikael Pacioli, sir.”

“He’s beautiful. Got a noble look about him, too.”

The nurses exchanged looks.

“He’s damaged, sir.”

“Damaged? Damaged how?”

The admiral made a sharp right through the other hall of visiting rooms, peeking quickly into each, but not stopping as he had at Mikael’s.

“Mentally, sir. Tried to off himself about a week ago. Still in recovery.”

The admiral made a sound that indicated that he didn’t think much of that particular fact.

“Just have to rehabilitate him, then. Get him back in working order. The man’s not damaged, he’s sick.”

The emissary glanced, with some embarrassment, at the two nurses.

“The carrier, you mean, sir.”

The admiral halted, then turned slowly to face the younger man.

“What’s your rank, son?” he asked, with deceptive mildness. The emissary, obviously realizing his error he’d made, began to stutter.

“I’m - uh - it’s - I’m Hospital Corpsman Third Class, sir.”

The admiral stared for long, quiet moments at the younger man. The two nurses edged back a step or two.

“The man’s not damaged, he’s sick.” the admiral repeated.

“Yes, sir.” the emissary responded immediately, ducking his head. The admiral lingered one moment longer, then was on the move again, speaking as he went.

“As I said, let’s get him back in working order. He’d be a beautiful waste otherwise. He’s pretty enough for the Dura Corps, truth told.”

The Admiral looked thoughtful for a moment. “Look into that.” he instructed the first nurse, before moving onward through the juvenile ward. “I want to see him at the next arrangement event."

~:~