Silent Leges Enim Inter Arma
 

BYERS:

Fairfax may be a more upscale neighborhood in terms of economics than East Baltimore ever will be...but you wouldn't know from their holding cells.

At least I haven't got roommates this time. Yes, the last time I spent a time out in a holding cell, it was with Frohike and Langly, but at the time, I didn't know them...and none of us were too certain we liked the other.

That took time. In the beginning, there was commonality of purpose and a deeply shared paranoia, partly due to our own experiences, otherwise due to our common experience in the Baltimore Convention Center. Our paranoia extended to one another; there was no instant friendship or trust. Our first year was spent regarding one another with a mutual, if ill-disguised,
suspicion.

And then, Susanne was murdered...

And they were there. Frohike especially. I had an opportunity to look at, in full view, the fundamental decency of the man. I've never looked back.

Langly, in spite of the fact that we are very much age-mates and peers, took longer. He was sympathetic to my agony over losing Susanne, but at the time, unbeknownst to us, had developed a drug and alcohol problem of monstrous proportions...and it was not until he had been arrested for driving under the influence and nearly killing a pedestrian that it began to fall into place.

He needed us, and I had the opportunity to see that he was in fact a very tenderhearted, sensitive individual. Frohike treated him with the same love and patience he had in dealing with me.

We were so childlike in those early years-so starved for guidance and affection and contact. Frohike provided that for us. Slowly, we began to return the favor.

And hopefully we began to grow up in the process. I think we have...

So what's my excuse for what I did today?

I am not given ordinarily to fits of temper. In spite of my red-headed status, I actually keep myself well in check. I have a long fuse. My nature, and my training, inspire me to be careful, analytical, critical.

How did I end up with my fist in another person's face?

Granted, it's not the first time I've done it-I did go to prep school, and if you think that's a civilized environment, well, obviously you're not acquainted with what happens when you put a group of wealthy, horny, bored boys in a small area. Change the setting of 'Lord of the Flies' and you have prep school. And yes, I've slugged Mulder a couple times, but as I said, he was drunker than I was, and he deserved it, and he knows he deserved it.

What happened here was that someone, for no reason that I can conceive of-and one thing academia will teach you is how to think of reasons for everything and then some-harmed a woman, and not just any woman. My woman. The woman I love. And for what?

I did not make a rational decision to attack the 'person' in question. It was primal.

Am I sorry I did it?

No, I'm not.

I'm only sorry that I'm currently a guest of Fairfax's finest.

How low have I sunk?

Where the hell is Frohike Junior?
 

You know, my dad would know what to do.

Mulder, you would think, being a Fibbie all these years, would know what to do. He seems like he does, but it's not working. He doesn't have the authority of his old job anymore, so it's not like he can shove his weight around. I think right now he's sinking to the lowest common denominator and trying to charm the lady on the desk, who looks like she couldn't hope to be charmed by all the diamonds in Africa.

I've seen Mulder charm the shit out of people, and see it work-guy is a total snake in some ways.

Wish he'd be a little more charming a whole lot faster. It's getting late and I want out of here. Almost as much as the kiddies do. The kidlets have gone through every snack, diaper and toy in the backpack now. I don't know how long we can hold out without provisions. Becca wants me to hold her, and she whines for me to pick her up, but then when I do, she isn't happy.
Sarah's on Mulder's shoulder while he's attempting to persuade the desk clerk to let him have it our way; if she keeps up screaming like she does, we stand a good chance. Meantime, Juliet's looking like she's in lots of pain, and she needs to get the hell out of here, now. Course, no way will she leave without him.

What is taking so fucking long?
 

BYERS:

"You're free to go pending arraignment. You'll get the details at the desk."

Finally, someone has come to bail me out...which I am grateful for, and at the same time terribly ashamed.

Being a WASP, and a traditional male to boot, I've always felt that primality was something best avoided, or, in the worst case, disciplined and controlled.

I seem to be getting a lot more primal and a lot less controlled lately. I'm pretty certain this is not a positive trend.

First thing I notice is Juliet. At least she appears, from a superficial inspection, to have no additional injuries, but she looks worried-and exhausted. I need to get her home in a hurry. She makes as much speed as possible and embraces me.

The touch of another person was never so welcome. Although shaky, she is warm and I find myself springing back to life under her skin.

Michael, as requested, has come out, and I am grateful-although I think he might make a better impression in a police department if he didn't come sporting his various and sundry body piercings (at least he gave up the eyebrows, but it looks as if the nose is here to stay, as well as the ears), baggy skater shorts and a T-shirt that screams 'Fuck You Fucking Fuck.' His father must not be in the office today; I notice his more profane shirts tend to be worn on the days when the watchful eyes of Dad are not within visual range.

And he should probably wear shoes. I notice he's barefoot. Talk about living dangerously. And the two ankle tattoos, I am certain, are not endearing himself to the staff here. They're actually reasonably well-done tattoos-one is of a pair of dolphins jumping out of the water, the other is of a very attractive tiger-but the fact that he has them, and not only that, is flaunting them, is not an example of his better judgment.

Not that I have any room to judge at this point; the fact is, he is still on the correct side of the law, and I am not.

I want to get out of here now, but I need to get my belongings (shoelaces, wallet, glasses), and the details of my arraignment.

And then I notice we have another member of the party.

It's Mulder, with children in tow.

I am never, never, never going to hear the end of this. Michael can actually be counted on for a measure of mercy and discretion.

Mulder? Forget it.

I am grateful he's here. Mulder, having spent many years in law enforcement, is far better equipped to deal with the machinations of the system than is Michael, and he is probably the reason I'm almost ready to go home at this time as opposed to tomorrow morning...or worse...

However, Mulder never forgets anything...and this is likely to provide him with ample material for months, if not years, to come.

In short, I'm screwed.

I thank him for coming out-I have no idea how long they've been there, but he's got two whining, obviously displeased children in tow, and this cannot have been easy. Michael carries the older child, who is by now complaining about everything; nothing in her world is likely to be right until she's with both of her parents in her own home.

I can empathize.

We luck out. The middle seat of the Mulders' Plymouth Voyager (who'd have thought?) is occupied with two child seats, so Juliet and I maneuver awkwardly into the far rear seat. This will make it harder for Mulder to keep a running commentary going.

I'm expecting a smartass remark from Michael, but to my surprise, he simply asks if we're all right, and leaves it at that.

He might grow up after all.

It's mostly quiet on the trip back. The children fall asleep; it really must be well past their bedtimes. Michael isn't in a loquacious mood, surprisingly; tonight he reflects the taciturn nature of his father. And even Mulder plays it low key.

This worries me far more than if they were bantering and chiding and hazing me.

We're the first stop, and Mulder obliges Juliet by pulling up and parking illegally as to minimize her walk, for which I am grateful. I thank him again as we exit the vehicle and prepare to attempt to put this day behind us.

"You got off easy today, Byers," Mulder comments as we're leaving, and I notice he's grinning.

I'm not sure about that...

He flashes his grin again and waggles his eyebrows. "Hey, you owe me."

"Mulder, I promise-"

"Not the money, Byers! Details! I want details!"

This man seriously needs a life.
 

FROHIKE:

We were waiting for the magic words today, Jo and I.

The magic words were 'clear tissue margins.'

We didn't get them. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

Jo took the news with her usual equanimity, but her words and gestures betray her throughout the day.

She is facing a total mastectomy now. How utterly threatening that must be for a woman.

I hate to say it, but this further makes me glad we were never sexually involved. I am not sure what my feelings would be in that situation...I think it would be difficult for me, and right now, she doesn't need my feelings. She needs a friend. I am determined to be one for her.

Most of her reaction is anger. Well-controlled, modulated anger that she defines more and more as we discuss why and how this possibly could have occurred.

Jo has been running support groups for nurses and other women who served in 'Nam for years. One of the trends she has noticed-and attempted to write on, with no acknowledgment from any professional publications-is the high incidence of breast cancer in these women. And this is a major source of her fury.

"The national incidence in this country is one woman in 9, Melvin. The incidence in the population of women who served in country is 1 in 3. I noticed this trend long ago...but has this been acknowledged? Or dealt with? Or even admitted to? Absolutely not. The VA would just as soon forget we are even there. Any possibility that it could be tied to the defoliants used in country, as I have suggested, is ignored or belittled."

"Can you prove the link?" This is always problematic.

She sighs. "I'm a nurse and disabilities director, not a physician or pharmacologist or chemist...so I'm a bit lacking in the credentials area."

"Did you ever try talking to any of your physician friends about it?"

"Many of them. They claim that there is no way to prove a definitive link."

"I think that's a cop-out."

"Of course it's a cop-out. We have empirical evidence...I've collected data on these women for years, Melvin. Length and location of service, follow-up symptomatology, all of that.

"And do you know what's worse?" She laughs, a short, hard laugh, so unlike her. "I always thought...I'd be one of the lucky ones. How's that for self-deception?"

"I think I prefer to think of it as a survival skill." And it is. One can't live in a constant state of hyperanxiety over any possible impending crisis. The brain won't allow it. One has to get on with the business of living, and that much adrenaline in the system precludes it.

It took me years after coming home to be able to get on with the business of living. I craved normal life so badly. I know now this is why I married Jan. Yes, I loved her...but more than that, I needed to feel like a memberof the human race again. I figured that surrounding myself with the accoutrements of it would integrate itself into my psyche.

Obviously not.

But at least I have my kids...well, one of them, anyway. I realize now it's a bonus. If someone had to ask me what the center of my universe is, it would be my kids...all of them. Before Michael came back to me, I centered myself on Byers and Langly. And they're still my kids, too.

I've gotten greedy. I desperately want my own daughter back.

I wonder how it is for Jo not to have this. She does not ever mention wishing she had children. I suspect had she been able to marry her man from in country, that would be different, but she seems to be centered elsewhere. She has her brother, her niece and nephew, her faith...

She has so much more courage than I could ever have. I comment on this to her.

She shakes her head. "That's a lie, Melvin. It has nothing to do with courage. I just do what I need to do."

She is so wrong, but I don't argue with her.

"So what's the next step?" Jo and I are both people that believe in systematic approaches.

She looks saddened. "Next step? More surgery...and hopefully, that will do the trick."

"Do you want me there?"

"Yes, please." For the first time I can remember, she looks vaguely pleading.

"I'll be there."

"And Melvin? One other thing."

"Sure."

She sighs and closes her eyes. "This is going to sound silly and very teenager-ish...but one thing I want to do before my surgery...I want to put on a strapless gown and go someplace formal, like we did on New Year's Eve. I want that sensation one more time."

Seems like such a small favor. "Consider it done."

"Thank you."

For the first time that day, I'm treated to her smile.
 

I need a drink. Badly.

Walking out into the night air, it's heavier and even more still than it's been, even in this heat...it's as if the air currents have stopped flowing. Suffocating.

Wonder if we're getting a storm...but wouldn't the wind have whipped up?

Whatever. J&B is my friend tonight.

There's a message on the answering machine. I hate that goddamned squawk box, but Michael insists on having one. It's probably for him, anyway.

I'm surprised as hell when I listen to the message.

"Melvin, this is Martha Small...and I wanted to thank you for getting me in touch with Jo Gilfillan. She's been very helpful...unfortunately, Daniel is getting worse, but she seems to have a line on lots of resources. It's been particularly hard because Daniel is Jewish, and for some reason, a lot of agencies are turning us down, but she's been able to get me some assistance...if you would ever like to talk, my number is..."

Hell, I already know her number. Have it memorized.

I need a drink. Now.
 

Michael finally walks in. He looks exhausted. I know he was working at the magazine today, but he looks even more tired than usual...I hope he's not getting sick. I can't deal with that right now.

He grabs a Sam's from the fridge and sits down next to me. "Fucking lousy day."

"Michael, can't you watch your mouth?" His language distresses me at times. As does the T-shirt I see him sporting. He better not have appeared in any place public today.

"Just calling it like it was." He takes a long pull. "Byers got arrested."

"BYERS? GOT ARRESTED?" Langly I could understand...but Byers, my almost-perfect child?

Almost I guess is the operative word here.

"Yeah. In Victoria's Secret, in the Fairfax Mall."

Victoria's Secret?! Was he shoplifting a thong or something?!

This is too much, and involuntarily, I begin to laugh.

This annoys my son greatly. "Dad, c'mon, it's not funny!"

"I know it's not...but do tell."

I stop laughing when I see his expression. Michael has the most expressive face in the world. He definitely wears his heart on his sleeve.

Although the sleeves of this shirt...well, first chance I get, it goes in the trash. No son of mine will be seen wearing that in public.

"He and J, they went to go buy some...girlie stuff. I guess J wanted some new undies. And while they were there, this crazy group starts trashing the place...like Victoria's Secret is some sort of corrupt place or something, and somebody starts bashing on J, and he belts the guy back, right in the face...so he's got like this assault and battery charge on him now."

Oh Christ.

This is insane.

Actually, I hate to say it, but I'm proud of the boy. No one should ever lay a hand on a woman, for any reason...and I think in view of the circumstances, his response was totally justified.

Yeah, tell it to the judge.

Still, the idea of Byers in Victoria's Secret...I can only imagine his embarrassment...and I've had just enough Scotch that I start laughing again.

"Dad!" Michael is in terrible mood, and he needs a little comfort...but I can't get the image out of my mind...

"I'm not laughing about the arrest. I'm just thinking of Byers in a women's lingerie store...can you picture it?"

All of a sudden, the corners of his mouth turn up, and he bursts into a gale of laughter. There is never anything subtle-or slow-about Michael's emotional responses.

"God, I didn't even think of that...oh Christ, he must've been dying!"

"Would've liked to have been a fly on the wall for that one," I comment.

"Yeah, Mulder said the same thing," Michael says, still giggling.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, he and me, he had some stuff on Skinner and he and Ellen...didn't pan out, but we were just hanging, and we get this phone call, and Byers, he's in lockup, and we got to get him out...and we had the kiddies with us-"

"That must've been delightful."

"Oh, yeah. Not! We get J out of the hospital, she's okay, by the way, she's not anymore hurt, and we head over, and it's like, I got no idea what to do, Mulder does, but I think they got tired there of listening to the kiddies yowling."

I hate to say it, but it sounds like a bad situation comedy. I laugh again. This is totally inappropriate, but I can't help it.

He gulps down some more beer. I notice he drinks less these days, but tonight he's making an exception.

He can do that. I suspect he's entitled.

"So what'd you do today, Dad?"

What did I do today?

Oh, nothing much...just learned that a dear friend has a potentially fatal illness...

I know Jo had initially told me not to say anything...but now she has a diagnosis...and pretty soon, it will be obvious to all...

"I spent the day with Jo."

He looks annoyed. "We were dicking around for hours in the Fairfax police station, and you were out having fun?"

"Well...not exactly. Michael...Jo is very ill."

He looks at me uncomprehendingly. "Say what?"

"Jo is sick."

"How sick?" Now he looks worried.

"Very. Jo has been diagnosed with breast cancer...and her pathology reports were not good. She's looking at a total mastectomy now."

"What's that?"

"Removal of the breast."

He blinks again. "You're joking."

"Wish I was."

He sinks back into the sofa. "No way. Not Jo. She's like too cool...no. Can't be."

I wish. Oh God, do I wish.

He gives me a pleading, childlike look. "You don't die from that, do you?"

"Hopefully not...with any luck, the mastectomy will remove all the cancerous tissue, and she'll be fine."

"But she could." Leave it to Michael-and me-to imagine the worst in any situation.

"Yes, she could."

He looks dazed. "Man, no! Not Jo! She is like so great to me...and to Kelly...no..."

He gets up and wanders to his room, grabbing another Sam's on the way.

I'm not sure, but I think I hear him sniffling.
 

I think the first thing he did was call Kelly. The phone is tied up for hours.

Finally, I hear no more voices.

The night air is stifling, still, dead.

I walk to my son's room.

He's sprawled on the bed, barely dressed, trying to beat the heat. He's not crying now, but his sniffles betray an earlier incident.

I flip him over on his stomach and begin rubbing his back. This seems to comfort him, and soon he's asleep.

Tonight, this is for my own comfort, as much as for his.

It's daylight when I finally leave his side.

END OF PART 80