Mors Ultima Linea Rerum Est
 

FROHIKE:

It's odd, to say the least, to be having a conference with a lawyer while sitting on a knoll outside, but then again, we've been in stranger situations.

But not sadder ones, I don't think.

I'm not sure that having this conference is a good idea right now, but Flaherty, with the determination that makes lawyers the bane of the universe, insists. Langly hasn't even grasped all that's happening around him. He looks like a zombie, and this will be strictly going through the motions, I'm sure. He'll probably have to do it again.

I ask him if he'd like for us to leave, and I'm surprised at his adamance that we stay.

I'd prefer my son to more or less make himself scarce in this moment, but there's nowhere for him to go, and Langly seems to want him here, anyway.

Well, all right. He's old enough.

Listening to this person, I hear a definite Baltimore accent. Like my own.

I ask him if he grew up there-I'd like to make certain we are in control of him, not the other way around. Nothing like being neighborly to break down the barriers.

Surprisingly, this chap is of a friendly nature. He says he was a classmate of Jo's.

"From college?" Byers asks him.

"Further back."

"High school," I venture.

"Try grade school. Jo and I grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same parish school, and brother and sister high schools."

"I went to St. Brigit's," I inform him. I know that Jo attended St. Angela's. "Lumen Cordium for high school."

"Ah, crosstown rival! I went to Hoban Dominican." He smiles. "All right, Mr. Langly, the reason-"

"It's just Langly," he corrects morosely.

"All right. There will be a reading of the will after the funeral, but I want to read you some documents that your sister specifically stated were to be read to you only."

This gets his attention, and ours.

"As you know, Leroy Renshaw has contested the divorce action initiated by Joan Langly Renshaw, and her status at the time of death was that she was married to him but legally separated. I wanted to make that distinction clear to you, so that you don't misunderstand anything."

Langly just nods, miserably.

"Fortunately, in this case, Virginia is not a community property state, in which case her share would automatically pass to the surviving spouse. Joan had a new will drawn up three weeks ago, when she knew she wouldn't survive."

I feel a prick of guilt here. Jo and I witnessed the will. Langly will know that I knew of this before he did. I hope he will forgive me for it.

"She speaks of certain property which she states is imperative is not located by her husband or children...she designated you as custodian."

"What kind of property?" Langly's very suspicious, as am I. I have been since this was drawn up.

I was there for it.

He shakes his carrot-colored hair, which looks ridiculous on him, but it's real, and at least he's got his hair. Which is more than I can say.

"She gives several safe deposit box locations...some of which are local, some not."

Maybe she buried some of her assets so that her husband couldn't get hold of them. Perhaps she'd been doing this since her...affair. Apparently she'd been unfaithful to her husband.

Not that I blame her. He deserves everything he gets in that way.

"She wouldn't name the contents of these. Only that they were to go to you, or if anything were to happen to you, she named a-" he riffles through the papers- "Walter S. Skinner. Do any of you know anyone by this name?"

Skinner? As in our Skinner?

"Yes," is all I say. Langly nods. He not only looks miserable, but totally puzzled as well.

"Joan also designated what she wished her funeral arrangements to be...she wants a private graveside service. Family, coworkers from her school, and close friends only. She specifically excludes her husband, although not her children. Unfortunately, it's not enforceable..." he rolls his eyes. "Best we can hope for is that her husband and kids will honor her wishes."

Fat fucking chance of that. I don't think her ex-husband-and I don't care what the legal status is, he IS her former husband-and children have any intention of honoring her wishes. I don't think her needs and wishes were ever important in life; why in death would that be any different?

"So you got no idea what she left me?" Langly looks troubled.

"Nope. All I know, she insisted that it be you, not the husband or kids, who deal with it."

"You know if it's anything related to financials, her husband could contest," Byers pops in. Leave it to our most anal-retentive member to more than likely know more law than the lawyer.

"That's why I'm telling you privately," Flaherty looks at Langly. "I think that's all I have for now-wait, here are the keys for those boxes." He hands Langly a ring with five keys on it, which Langly at first fingers gingerly, then slips on to the ring he has with his house, car, and office keys on it.

"Is it possible that this is separate property, and wouldn't even have to come into question?" Byers inquires.

Flaherty shrugs. "Look...I've already bent a few ethical considerations here...let's keep it quiet, shall we?"

He stands up, shakes hands with all of us, and says we'll see him after the funeral.

God help us. The funeral.
 

We file back inside, and Jo greets us helplessly while Roy Renshaw monopolizes her phone.

"In the kitchen," she whispers to all of us.

Jo's kitchen has a door which closes, and I'm grateful for that right now. She opens the fridge and pulls out five beers.

"Irish tradition. Drink that they lived." She sounds weak and tired right now. This has been a lot for her to go through; she went on indefinite leave of absence three weeks ago, and I think she worked harder at home with Joan than she ever would have on the job. She raises her bottle up. "Slante."

"Sounds as if they're putting a funeral together out there," Byers observes, not without irony in his voice.

Jo looks miserable. I place a hand on her back. It's not a sexual gesture. It's meant in friendship and support. And right now, she needs it.

She's about to break. I feel it.

And Michael knows it, too, and he stays close to her, takes her free arm in his and leans his head on her shoulder. Michael became close to Jo at the shore.

He's barely said ten words all afternoon. I don't think he knows what to say.

"No, they're putting Circus Maximus together. This is not what Joan wanted. We talked about it." I can see her eyes watering over. Jo, the most unruffleable of women, is stretched so taut she's going to pull apart. "We even wrote it down...Tim showed you, didn't he, Langly?"

Langly sips a beer as if in a trance. "Uh-huh."

"Mr. Flaherty says he's known you since grammar school," Byers seemed to be very uneasy with the redheaded lawyer.

"Tim? 47 years now. Since we were 7." She's got wet eyes, and her voice shakes, but she still manages to laugh. "He was always kind of a screw-up...but so funny...and he's not even a very good lawyer...but he is my friend...and he has enough charm that people around him make certain he doesn't screw up fatally." Then she looks serious. "And from one of the few law firms that has no connections to anyone in Washington, the Republican party, the evangelical and Pentecostal churches, or Roy Renshaw. And believe me, that's getting harder and harder to do. Tim may not be much of a lawyer, but Tim is shrewd and charming and he knows lots of people. And everyone thinks him less intelligent than he is, so they're comfortable confiding in him. As a result, he gets a lot of information out of people."

"And Joanie used him?" Langly looks shocked. Of course, I think he's in shock...but Joan was married to a lawyer for many years...that she would agree to be assisted by one not notable for his competency is also to me something of a surprise.

Jo manages a thin laugh. "If it's not too complicated, and you get someone to look it over, Tim's okay. And he listens. A rare quality in people, and lawyers as well."

A small jab that Mr. Flaherty was just as well not around to hear.

"So what do we do about the funeral arrangements?" Byers, ever practical, addresses Jo.

Jo sighs. "I explained to them that Joan had arranged everything...but they're not having it." She sadly looks at Langly. "I'm sorry, dear. I don't know what to do. I can't tell them not to have their funeral of the millenium...they are her family, too, you know..."

Byers sits up, clear-eyed and direct. "I think we should have our own funeral. Like we did for the dog."

I confess to being startled by this comparison, but Byers holds up one hand as if to silence us. "Look, we know what they've got planned. A huge wailing diatribe planned in Roy's church...thousands of mourners...pretentious scriptural readings...and Langly, don't be surprised if your sister is held up as an example of what happens when you stray from the path of righteousness."

This shocks Langly back to reality for a moment. "Swear to God, they say anything-"

I take his arm, gently. "Langly, you might as well prepare yourself for it. It may well happen. But it doesn't mean you have to go along with it."

"So what the fuck are we supposed to do?" A rough mix of anger and sadness clogs his voice.

This is where Byers shines. "Syrus once said 'Paratae lacrimae insidias non fletum indicant.' Translated, that is, 'ready tears are a sign of treachery, not grief.'"

And oh, how ready the crowds will be to weep and wail when Joan is buried.

And her infant brother will stand there in silent grief, and anger, and be chastised for clinging to his Jewish wife and waiting until he is home alone with her to shed his misery.

There will be no love for him in a crowd that claims it's God's will that men love one another.

But only if they are like you. Only if they think like you, act like you, dress like you, believe like you...

I cringe at the idea of attending funerals in general, but this one in particular is making me uncomfortable. And it's not because it's not a Catholic service. That has nothing to do it. I've buried people of every color and creed there is. And my only discomfort was that which is natural in said situation.

A funeral should be a way to say goodbye.

I have a sense that this one will be something far different.
 

LANGLY:

I don't wanna be here anymore. I wanna go home. I need Ally. I need to get out of here.

Now would work.

I tell Jo I got to go, and she nods and gives me a hug.

"Uh, Jo...I appreciate how good you were to Joanie..." I really am lousy at this stuff.

She smiles. "Langly, I like living alone. I never wanted for a roommate...but Joan was my friend. I loved having her here. She was no burden on me."

I feel my face getting hot and my eyes getting wet.

I gotta go.
 

Driving home, it's like being in a foreign country, even though I drive these roads all the time...

I'm in this major fog.

Dammit, Ally's got no cigarettes in the house...
 

I expect to find Ally on the sofa, but she's not there...

She's in the bedroom, got her feet up on the pillows...she's not looking too good.

I ask her how she is, she says she's fine, she holds her arms out to me.

And I fall into them.

Finally, the tenth wave. The big one. Breaking right over me.
 

BYERS:

How ironic that on the day I find the ring I want to give to Juliet, has changed from a day of light to one of shadow.

The ring is beautiful, and perfect. Three diamonds-a perfect quarter-carat emerald cut in the center, two tiny baguettes on each side. Platinum.

Now I have another problem.

I need to come up with the right proposal, at the right time, in the right place. I want the moment to be perfect for her.

Somehow, I don't think tonight will be the night...in spite of the fact that I'm aching to slip it on her finger right here, right now.

But before our lives can move forward, we have to close Joan's first.

The next days will be difficult for Langly. He's had his sister for such a short time...and once again, like invisible soap in imperceptible water, she's slipped away from him...again.

He won't even be able to say goodbye to her in a way that will comfort him.

I would like to do something for him...I don't know what it could be, though.

All I know is that I would take the funeral we had for the dog over what will transpire in a few days for Joan.

And so would she.

Juliet will be here soon.

I don't think this is the weekend either of us had in mind.
 

I'm waiting at our apartment when Juliet arrives.

Her smile is so bright, her face so alive, her embrace so tender...

I'm going to have to spoil the mood in a moment.
 

MICHAEL:

This has been the weirdest day. Weird as in bad.

I don't know Joan all that well, but she's nice to me. Was nice to me.

I feel bad for Jo. She's had it real hard. Tell the truth, I feel more bad for her than I do for Joan in a way.

And she's so cool.

And I got to tell Kelly still. She's been at work. I didn't want to tell her on the phone. Just seemed rude.

I came here with Dad. I think Jo wants him to stick around. She's had a real bad day. I ask him if I can go talk to Kelly, I promise I'll come back for him, he says that's fine.

Wish there was something I could do for Jo. She's been so cool...to all of us.

I ask her, and she just shakes her head.

Dad tells me to go get Kelly, he'll see us soon.
 

FROHIKE:

June 5, 2001

And on the third day He rose from the dead...

It's been three days since Joan passed on, and it's the day of her funeral.

I'm dreading this. I'm dreading it mostly for Langly.

A funeral should heal and help one move on.

I fear this will not be the case this morning.

The funeral will, of course, be held in Roy Renshaw's church, the Church of the Bountiful Harvest in Leesburg.

Bountiful harvest, my ass. The only bountiful harvest is for the criminals that run the church and bilk poor people out of their life savings so that they can live like sultans in oil nations.

And worse, since all services from this church are broadcast worldwide, it will be televised on the NOS (Network of Salvation). A more inappropriately named network I cannot think of.

This will be another opportunity to politicize their cause. They never fail in this regard.

They are a terrifying bunch of people.

What is most terrifying is, we don't know who the 'they' are. The elders and officers of the church appear to be little more than figureheads.

Who's really running this empire?

I hope to God that Allison is feeling poorly enough that she will not attend. Granted, she should be there for her husband. And she will probably insist upon being so regardless of how she is.

There is a good chance she will be one of the few Jews in the audience, and the anti-Semitic diatribe is unlikely to abate, even for the burial of a woman whose major crime appears to be a desire to have a relationship with her younger brother.

Mulder and Scully will attend, sans children.

Actually, I wish they would bring the kids. The kids might be the only element of humanity in the whole damn thing. I remember one time, with Scully, telling Mulder about the 'cry boxes' in Catholic churches, where parents of unruly infants and children can listen to the mass while not disturbing the other parishioners.

Mulder laughed and said in temple, we just let them run around. Allison confirmed this. Jewish services tend to be lengthy, and there is an expectation that the youngsters will become bored and restless.

I don't think there will be any unruly children racing around the sanctuary today. The façade of propriety and righteousness will be truly nauseating.

I hear Michael bashing around, looking for something to wear. I told him that his Chazz Cats T-shirt and cutoffs wouldn't hit it.

And whether he likes it or not, he's putting on a tie. I have a few; I don't think he owns one.

I wonder if he even knows how to tie one. I never taught him. Which was something my father taught me.

He appears, in a faded pair of black Levis and a baggy white shirt.

"Tuck it in," I order him.

"No fucking way!"

"Watch your mouth!" I get tired of the way he talks sometimes. I'd like to think I can do better than this.

"I'm not tucking this in, the tails are too damn long!"

"Fine. Go get a tie."

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me."

"I don't have one."

"Then get one of mine."

This causes him to break out in hysterical laughter. "You gotta be kidding, Dad. One of yours? I don't think so!"

"I'm letting you choose. Be grateful for that."

"Dad, I'm sorry...I've seen your ties...and they suck."

"At least I own a few, and you're wearing one! And you didn't get your hair trimmed like you said you would."

"Miranda was busy this weekend."

"You could've had it done somewhere else."

"What, like where YOU get it done? No thanks. I'll wait for my hairdresser to have an opening."

"Michael Frohike, you're wearing a tie."

"Fine. But I'm borrowing one of the prof's. At least he's got ones they won't shoot you for wearing in public." He starts plowing through the sofa cushions in search of the cordless phone, which we seem to keep everywhere but in its charging cradle.
 

BYERS:

This has been a weird morning, to say the least. Mondays are hardly my favorite day of the week, but I don't usually hate them with a passion.

Today I do. I hate funerals.

I will be seeing a lot of my ties at this funeral. Langly called this morning and asked if he could borrow one, and now Michael wants to borrow one.

At least Frohike has his own, even if his taste is, putting it mildly, highly questionable.

Juliet suggests skipping the ties as neckwear and having a bondage party instead of a funeral gathering.

This almost sounds more appealing. But only if she can be the bonder and me the bondee.

I own one black suit, and I haven't worn it in ages.

Suburban life has made this suit a bit more snug than is comfortable, but I get an appreciative growl from Juliet regarding the tight pants.

Let's see, would I prefer to attend a funeral full of self-promoting, self-righteous, politicized morons, or stay home and seduce Juliet?

Hard choice.

But you have to do what you have to do, and this morning, what we have to do is attend a funeral.

I'm going to wear the most obnoxious tie I own.

I may even be able to outdo Mulder this morning in this way.

That would be a first.
 

"John, you're not really going to wear that?" Juliet looks appalled upon seeing my selection of neckwear for the occasion.

I have plenty of tastefully done ties, all 100 percent silk-polyester just doesn't hang right.

With a few notable exceptions.

This one is not simply polyester, but cheap polyester, and it looks like a fish. It was a gift from Mulder for my birthday God knows how many years back.

Juliet should be grateful I didn't select the one with the blinking Christmas lights.

Before we leave, I transfer the small velvet bag with her ring in it to my jacket that I'm wearing today.

Just in case the right moment should come up...and I can find the right words.

It won't happen today...but I feel better having it with me.
 

"Jesus fuck, when I asked for a tie, I thought you were gonna bring me something decent!" Langly is groaning over the garish neon-colored paisley I brought for him. "What'd you do, Byers, dig through your collection and find the most fucking ugly ones you could?!"

As if it's going to make a difference here. Both he and Michael are wearing jeans, with their shirt tails out. Ally's holding his jacket, but it's a warm day, and I suspect it will never see his shoulders during this event.

Michael winces when I hand him one in bright red with a large, grinning yellow sun on it. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Well, it's my version of a sick joke, anyway.

I know it's not appropriate to laugh on occasions like this...

I have to turn away so no one can see me snickering.
 

FROHIKE:

My son approaches me, holding a long ribbon of a tie that makes my collection look positively tame.

"Uh, Dad? I got no idea what you do with this thing..." he looks helpless.

I show him how to do a double Windsor knot, and he does a pretty terrible job the first time, but I correct him, and finally, he does a presentable enough job.

Finally, a male ritual I can show him. Small, but something I probably should have taught him years ago.

Kelly tells him he looks good in a tie, and I almost die laughing when I see the expression on his face. Sheer horror.

Sheer horror is inside, people.

And now it's time to go in.

END OF PART 26