Dum Spiro Spero

BYERS:

Juliet is, as expected, researching potential employers when I arrive. She is feeling a bit despondent over her loss of income.

Income is not a problem for me. I have a trust fund. I seldom touch it. I say seldom because I have tapped into it, such as when we have needed to purchase equipment that is way over what TMB's budget allows (which includes nearly everything we own).

I don't use that fund for every day expenses. I make an adequate, if not opulent, salary at my teaching job.

But Juliet need not worry about her finances. Regardless of what should happen, I will assist her.

What do I want to happen?

She is a wonderful woman. Strong, spirited, entertaining, and devoted. In her presence, I feel a peace and completeness I haven't encountered in a long while.

That long while being since I was married to my first wife, Susanne Modeski Byers.

Susanne. I still think of her, and I feel guilty for having such thoughts.

Somehow, though, they creep in, like mosquitoes through a screen, to lodge under my skin and force me to recognize their presence.

I feel guilty for having such pleasure in my current life, knowing that Susanne is not capable of the same.

She was killed eleven years ago, in our apartment in Baltimore. Upon her death, I vowed to her that I would remain faithful to her for as long as I lived, just as I promised her on the day I married her.

I have not lived up to that promise, and I hate myself for needing so much what Juliet brings me. This is not to be mistaken for hating what it is she brings. That is what keeps my life sane and purposeful. Her love is like a tremendous gift that I did not ask for, yet, once received, could not imagine doing without.

And I cannot imagine my life without her. Yet, I cannot rid myself of the memory of Susanne, and as insane as it may sound, I feel that I am trivializing my promises to her.

I need to push myself forward into the world of the present, where I belong. Where Juliet is.

Juliet is my hope. And someone such as myself always needs hope.

Our Tonkinese cat, Tivoli, rubs herself against my legs as I embrace Juliet. I pick her up and both Juliet and I stroke her silky fur, listening to her purr-motor slide into fourth gear with minimal coaxing. Tivoli was my Christmas present to Juliet this past year. I knew full well when I gave her the cat that pets were not permitted in the complex she resided in, and it was my way of asking her to live with me, to try to integrate herself into my life.

That has not been the problem. My problem is integrating myself into my own life.

I've spoken of this with Frohike, and, to a lesser extent, with Langly. Frohike understands the dilemma of past versus present, principles and promises versus needs and desires. Langly, more visceral than either of us, doesn't, in a phrase, get it.

And Langly has not been married before, whereas Frohike has. While his situation is very different from my own, I find his counsel on the subject invaluable and, in some circuitous fashion, applicable. Of course, being a professor, one tends to be able to form connections between the most tenuous and obscure links out there. You learn this when you put together your
master's thesis, and perfect it when you complete your dissertation.

I have spoken only once to Ally regarding the subject of Susanne. She understands, having loved someone and been married to them, but, unlike Susanne and myself, her love had the opportunity to come to fruition. She and her first husband had many years together. She understands missing someone while loving someone else, but Ally is not a woman inclined to look back. She has often compared herself to a shark in the sense that if she stops swimming, she will die.

I need to start swimming if I am going to avoid any kind of waking death.

Juliet undoes my necktie, a gesture that is extremely intimate and more than slightly possessive, and she begins to unbutton my shirt. This is a ritual we have established, one that I have come to cherish. It is the same every time, and yet it never ceases to make me shiver with delight, for I know what is coming.

She lowers my jacket off my shoulders, and begins to stroke my neck with her first two fingers. She has perfect nails, and she knows how to employ them for maximum benefit.

She'll continue with buttons and zippers and all other manners of clothing fasteners until there is nothing left. Then I'll begin the ritual with her, mapping each inch of skin as I work the pieces away.

Finally, there is nothing left but us. Two fragile, flesh and blood humans seeking each other, and themselves in each other.

Lovemaking with Susanne was always intense, urgent, fraught with furious need. The need with Juliet is very much there, but it takes on a different form. She is, in terms of absolute technique, far more masterful in the art of loving than Susanne ever was.

Then again, Susanne and I were very much younger, and if I think about it realistically, driven almost solely by hormonal rages.

Thinking about it realistically somehow does not drive away the fact that I still see myself as having betrayed her.

I need to get beyond this. I need to be here, totally in this moment, nothing to distract me from the sheer joy of loving this incredible woman who is in my arms, in my heart, and will soon be in my body.

I need to be one with Juliet. As long as I keep letting a third person climb into our bed, all attempts to do so will be frustrated.

I've got to find a way to do this. I've almost been tempted to ask Mulder, a licensed psychologist, what he might recommend, but I feel foolish bringing this up. Only Frohike and Langly have any knowledge, and I'm not absolutely convinced Mulder would be sympathetic. Or approach it from any angle other than that of my being a very fascinating lab rat.

Because I am cheating Juliet, and in the process, I am cheating myself.

Another thing I view as wrong.

If we are reincarnated into another human being after death-a possibility I very highly doubt-then I'd like to come back as someone more akin to Langly or Michael. A person who just takes whatever emotion happens to be grabbing at their guts and swinging by it. Someone who makes choices and lives with them, as opposed to agonizing over them.

Someone who finds perfection in imperfection, as opposed to simply seeking perfection.

I don't wish to seek perfection anymore.

I prefer to seek life.
 

FROHIKE:

He'd better not get any ideas about falling asleep in Kelly's bed, or I'll smack him.

I know what they did on vacation. And I'm certain these activities have continued, although I suspect, considering what frame of mind Michael is in, they have been somewhat curtailed.

I still can't bring myself to be comfortable, knowing this is going on right under my nose.

I don't know why. I came of age in the 60s, but somehow, free love just passed me by.

Face it. I'm just a traditional old fool in spite of my abandoned faith. I'm hopelessly old-fashioned in l'affaires des coueurs. Which is the only French I know, by the way. I knew some from being in 'Nam, which at one time was a French colony, but that, too, was pushed back with God knows how much other garbage I collected from the experience.

Garbage that constantly threatens to surface, and sometimes does, in the forms of nightmares and strange habits.

I need to tell my son about my experiences...but I fear reliving them through the telling. I began to leak small drops of it to him when we were at the shore. I'll concede it was healing to do so, but I have not let out some of the greater abominations, and, in spite of Jo's recommendation that I do, I am reluctant.

I am such a coward.

I hear keys in the door. He either went for an extreme quickie, or the young lady was busy studying and booted him out. I'm guessing it was the latter. He's not wearing the luminescence that veils him whenever he and Kelly have joined.

"Nice of you to make it," I tell him as he drops his backpack by the front door and throws his windbreaker over the chair. The child never puts anything away, but then again, at least he comes by it honestly. The place has not been tidy since his mother took care of him after he had surgery in March.

"Hey, I only left a few minutes after you." There is an irritating defensiveness in his voice, but when I listen closely, I mostly hear exhaustion.

Perhaps I am pushing him too hard, and in turn, he is forcing himself beyond his limits.

But he needs this. He needs to know how well he can do. And if he has to endure some discomfort along the way, well, so be it.

Just so long as he stays healthy. I don't think I can nurse another sick child right now. I had a winter full of it. I would do it as many times as necessary, but that doesn't mean it didn't wear me down.

It isn't even so much the work. It's the worry.

Why I worry over him so much, it even eludes me. He is 25. A good student, a hard worker. In love.

And temperamental, and stubborn, and moody, and intensely emotional, and vulnerable, and after a winter of poor health, low on resistance.

Sometimes after he is asleep, I will open his door and listen to him breathing. Most nights he's fine. But more and more lately, I hear the ragged, choked sounds that I recall from his childhood asthma, and I question my techniques for dealing with him. Yet I don't back down.

Perhaps I sense he would be disappointed if I did.

He says he's getting ready for bed, he's had it for today. A few minutes later, I hear him shout goodnight to me, and the bedroom door clicks shut.

I check my e-mail and see that there are some new downloads to peruse. These tend to be time-consuming, so after responding to my e-mails and beginning the download of the Oriental twin contortionists, I check on my boy.

He's got a corner of his pillow in his mouth, as always, and he snores lightly. I hope that doesn't worsen for him as he ages, as it did for me.

He looks so small and helpless when he's asleep. All the bombast that is him disappears when he's tucked under the covers.

I sneak a kiss on the forehead, fix the covers over his shoulders, and creep back out.

The Oriental twins should be up by now.
 

BYERS:

Juliet's fingers travel down my back with a light, seductive motion. This alone could get me to stand up and salute her in typical male fashion, but she has many other tricks to complement this. I have a hard time speaking of them; I'm afraid my WASPish upbringing does not make it easy for me to talk about that which happens between a man and a woman in the privacy of their own bed.

I am a conventional man, not given to odd behaviors, at least not in that sphere, so what occurs with us is probably what happens with most couples.

But Juliet makes it very special. I dissolve under her touch.

I am able to forget about me for a while, and be part of us. Her fingers carry with them a thousand messages, all of them about care and tenderness. And I will use my hands and my mouth and whatever else I need to to carry her to a place where she feels an amazing sense of love and bliss.

She is a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, sleek dark hair, dark intense eyes that crackle with intelligence and humor. In her smile I find acceptance and invitation to do more, and I do.

I need her so much that I fear for myself, and yet, only in her, do I find anything resembling salvation. An odd paradox, to be sure.

At this moment, I gratefully lose myself in her ministrations and endow her with my own. We are magic together, but she is capable of being magical all by herself, whereas I am not.

We are finally coming to where all the colors come together in a massive white hot light. I beckon to enter her, and she separates herself so that I may.

And we stop for a time. Just to get the sense of one another being part of ourselves. It is a feast for the senses, and I want to gorge myself at the table until there would be no way for me to consume so much as one more small fruit.

She wraps herself around me, her ecstasy mounting, and I join her as she tumbles over the edges of the commonplace. She calls for me, she hangs to my mouth, she will not let me go as I feel the same pressure in my belly finally give way to release.

We are quiet for a time, then some soft conversation, until I feel myself giving way to the exhaustion that is part of the experience. I know that on nights like this I will sleep well. I do sleep better since I have been residing with Juliet. Mulder is not the only one in this crowd who has been up close and personal with the insomniac experience.

It's only when I wake up in the middle of the night, thirsty for a drink of water, do I realize we were missing something.

I don't recall that we took out a condom this evening.

I think I may be insomniac tonight after all.
 

LANGLY:

April 29, 2001

I HATE my boss. He's an idiot and he's a prick.

If he was an idiot but he was nice, I could handle that a little. If he was brilliant but a prick, well, I could deal.

But he's both, and he doesn't deserve to live. Sorry.

Ally always says to me, Langly, tell me what you really feel!

God, I miss Sheridan.

I don't wanna think about Sheridan.

I mean, I do. I wanna see what really happened to him. Maybe give him something that sort of looks like justice.

But I can't do it here. I mean, it's like these days, you say Sheridan's name around here, you're lucky you don't get shot.

Plus I got so much other stuff to think about. Sorry dude. I will get to you, one of these days. I'm not gonna let you fall into oblivion, no matter how much anybody around here wants you to.

We need more staff, but it's like there's this hiring freeze, and we get told every day we're real lucky we still got our jobs.

That is such bullshit. We got something they need, and that's skills. I think some people might even be aware that if you count on morons like Nathanson, my boss, then nothing's gonna get done.

So we stay, the four of us down here. It's Bryce Boyd, and Luke Castellanata, and Goldie Myers, and me. They're all cool dudes. We're all real different, but with one thing in common: Once upon a time, we were bad boys and we got caught. It's like a job requirement in cryptology/cryptography, I think. Goldie did time in Lompoc Country Club, like me, but not the same time, and Bryce and Luke are graduates of Club Fed, where Frohike's an alumnus.

If it weren't for the dudes, this job would be so totally unbearable. But they make it sort of amusing, even when Nathanson is being a total dickhead.

Goldie grew up in Brooklyn, a nice Jewish boy, and he hassles me all the time about how he's gonna steal Ally away from me and show her that Jewish men really are better in the sack. Since she's had both-she married a Jew the first time around-she could probably do a pretty good comparison study, but I haven't asked her, and even if I did, she'd probably never admit to a damn thing.

Just as well. I'd hate to find out I was second best. Bad enough being the second husband. And I got a tough act to follow, from all indications.

Luke's real quiet, Italian dude from Connecticut, but he's totally wacked when you get him going. He'll say stuff like he's being serious, and about a minute later you realize how totally off the wall it was. It's sort of like having something sneaky spicy in your chow mein. You don't think it's anything, about a minute later your mouth's scorching.

Bryce is most like me, middle class WASPy kid from a military family. Well, not strictly military, my dad was a civilian employee at Fort Detrick, which is about as military as you can get, so I know the drill. And like me, he's from a family that's, well, like, I guess they call it dysfunctional in the pop lit.

I'm not sure that even begins to cover it where I come from. I think I'm just from an insane bloodline.

So why I want a kid of my own, I have no idea. All I know is, this is like a compulsion now.

I go to get some more diskettes-Christ, you gotta sign for DISKETTES these days! I mean, are we going to fix the federal deficit by making every moron in the place sign for diskettes? Somehow I don't think so. I try to get enough for me and all the guys, but forget it, they gotta get their own according to the anal-retentive moronic civil service drone who keeps sentry
over the supply area.

God, what some people have to do to feel important.

"Langly!" Bryce is at my desk. "It's your wife!"

Make a fucking public service announcement, why don't you?

I mean, it's not like nobody knows what Ally and me are up to. EVERYBODY fucking knows. I mean, I have to get time off sometimes, so I had to tell Nathanson, who made some crack about my parts not working, the fucker.

Hey, mine are fine. Ally's don't work so good. But it's not fair to say that. It's not like she asked for it to be like this.

Took a little longer this month, but Dr. Shalad, our reproductive endocrinologist-infertility specialist-witch doctor, managed to get seven viables as opposed to the four she got last time. I guess she used some different technique this time, which I read about but the more I read, the less I want to know.

I just want to have my kid and get on with my life. Is that too much to ask? I mean, this sucks, folks. If we didn't want this kid so bad, you got to believe we'd have said, forget it, we're outta here.

So Ally's gonna get implanted, do I want to go?

I do and I don't, but it's sort of an academic question. Nathanson let me get off for the first visit, the workup, and I get to come in a little late on the days when I have to make a 'donation' to the cause, but that's it. He's like, let her deal with it. What do you need to be there for?

I'm not sure myself. I ask Ally if she's okay doing it alone, she says yeah but she sounds kind of shaky. I tell her I'll tell Nathanson I got to leave, but she's like, don't do it, I'll be fine, I can do this.

Besides, one of us better be working when the kid comes around. And I think it's gonna have to be me. I mean, she's planning to breastfeed the kid, and I'm not quite sure how you jump the time-space continuum for that if you're not in the immediate vicinity. Somehow I don't think babies recognize virtual nursing.

So for now, I'm gonna put up with this shit and deal with it.

Maybe someday it'll get better. I mean, it'll never be like when Sheridan was here, when it was just such a totally cool place to be. But it couldn't get worse.

Could it?
 

END OF PART 2