Terror Domesticus
 

BYERS:

"We probably should try and get a hotel room, as soon as possible," I say to Juliet, as she gently strokes a loudly purring Tivvy.

She shakes her head. "We can't take the cat."

"Maybe Michael will take the cat."

She shakes her head vigorously. "I'm not going anywhere I can't take my kitty."

She is visibly shaken, and in no small degree of pain.

I'm trying to be practical here. We cannot remain here. The entire structure may be compromised; we need to exit, and soon.

"We've got to leave," I say gently. "And Michael will take excellent care of Tivvy." Excellent care? I thought we spoiled the cat. We don't even come close to Michael's capabilities in that regard.

"John, if I can't take Tivvy with me, I'm not going." She's resolute.

"Do you need a Vicodin?" I ask her gently. She doesn't look good. I think she's in a lot of pain.

"What I need is to have my cat with me!" She's almost in tears now. Juliet is not a person given over to tears easily. This worries me greatly.

We have to leave. "What clothes do you want to take?"

She clutches Tivvy to her breast. "I don't give a fuck, John! Just get me the cat carrier."

I'll pack.

At least I can pick out the things I like for her to wear.
 

Finding the cat carrier is a challenge. The closet where it resides is on the wall that was damaged. The whole closet is in disarray. I notice that my Burberry is coated with mud.

Replaceable commodity, Byers. Never mind that you've had it since college. And you can still get into it, although I have let the belt notches slide over a bit.

The stairs are in a horrible condition, and maneuvering with a cat carrier and an injured fiancee is not a simple trick. Juliet is calmer, if in no less pain.

I look over at the parking structure-and it's collapsed. Oh Christ. My car.

"Stay here," I tell Juliet, seating her on a step that is still intact.

I check the parking structure. The roof is lying across the hoods of the cars that were parked in its confines. Mine included.

But in spite of it all, I am the luckiest man in the universe, for at that moment, a short, badly dressed, unshaven guardian angel comes my way.

Frohike. I could kiss him.

I don't, of course.

"We were worried," he says simply. "Oh. My. God. That's your end of the building."

"Yes," I nod sadly. "We've got to find a place to stay."

"No, you don't," he says shortly. "You come to my house. With me."

"Frohike, we can't impose on you that way-"

"Yes, you can. And you will."

He is such a little man. Gentle. Soft spoken and taciturn. Lecherous in the extreme.

Yet, when he speaks, we have a habit of not arguing with him.

This time is no exception.
 

"We do, of course, have to bring the cat," I say to Frohike.

Frohike is not intrinsically averse to cats, but I think some of their furtive mannerisms make him uneasy. Nonetheless, he consents.

I help Juliet into the back seat-God knows when this car was last cleaned out. I wonder what vintage some of the fast food wrappers and coffee cups are.

Still, a filthy chariot containing your guardian angel is far preferable to no chariot, and no guardian angel.

I am a very lucky man.
 

Thank God Frohike and Michael live on the first floor. This simplifies the trip somewhat for Juliet, but she still looks exhausted and agonized.

"You can stay in Michael's room. It won't be the first time he's slept on the sofa," Frohike offers.

Michael's room, of course, looks as if the tornado hit it. This is, of course, not the case, but simply the way the Frohikes live. They do clean, periodically. Frohike once commented that he considered cleaning to be a seasonal thing.

Looking over the bedroom, I wonder which season Michael last cleaned in.

Perhaps he wouldn't object if we were to do a little bit of summer cleaning.
 

Juliet desperately needs to rest. I need to get this place in some semblance of order.

And not hurt our host's feelings in the process. Frohike, appearances to the contrary, is very thin-skinned.

I gently suggest he go back to the Langlys and check out the offices, and to my relief, he accepts.

I clear the sofa-how does Michael ever stretch out, even though he is only around 5 and a half feet tall? I lay Juliet down gently, settling Tivvy on her chest. The cat is spooked in the unfamiliar surroundings, but being placed in one of her standard positions induces a fresh round of purring.

Juliet suddenly bursts into tears. It's been a long, long day.

And I have miles to clean before I sleep.

I cuddle her for a while. She calms, and after I administer a Vicodin and a glass of water (I washed it first), she lapses into sleep.

Now to make this place liveable.
 

LANGLY:

Ally helped me wash my hair, which was good, because the lidocaine they put in my arm wore off-and it hurts way worse than I thought. Turns off I dragged her in the shower for doing something other than the nasty. But we did that, too. A quickie, but a fun one. Ally says it'll make me feel better.

Bryce is on the sofa bitching; he's not allowed to have anything other than Tylenol till tomorrow morning. Ally groans.

"Not the quietest houseguest we've ever had," she says as she lights up and grabs a beer.

"But not as obnoxious as Junior."

"That remains to be seen." She pops the top from a Corona, slips a lime slice in, and hands it to me. "C'mon, let's go out on the balcony. Drink a beer, watch the sun set."

Ally's a Cali girl. She misses the sunsets she used to know on the west coast. We're about to head out when Miranda brings Patrick up from the dungeon. He's crying.

"So much for a peaceful cocktail hour." Ally rolls her eyes. "Tell you what. You deal with him, I'll see what I can do for Bryce."

I pick up the little guy, which is hard with only one arm. I could use some pain drugs myself. I think beer counts as anesthetic.

Ally grabs a facecloth and sits down near Bryce on the sofa. She's kind of cleaning him off and being real gentle with him.

"Hey, Ally?" He's looking pretty dazed right now. "Can you call my girlfriend?"

"Sure," she says. "Give me her name and number."

"Julie. And her number's 863-"

"4589." I finish it off. He's dating my niece.

I don't know who's more sick here, her or him.

And as for seeing my niece...be nice to know which team she was playing for right now.
 

Patrick and me sit in my chair. I'm tired. I didn't realize it before.

Not that I'll get much sleep tonight. Patrick's little body is hot and twitchy. His little heart's going so damn fast, and he's miserable.

He starts pulling on my T-shirt, hiking it up.

"Like Daddy," he whines.

"Huh?"

"Take it off!"

I think he means my T-shirt. Kid has something against Naked Aggression?

It's hot, anyway, and having a feverish kid on me isn't going to make things any cooler. So I pull it over my head, and he snuggles up against my heart.

Which seems to work like magic for him. Ten minutes later, he's breathing a lot slower, his heart's not pounding so hard and fast, and he seems a little more comfortable. Maybe this is what Scott used to do when the little guy wasn't feeling so hot.

I just stroke his hair. It's just like mine, real fine and straight and just as white as mine was when I was a little guy.

Kid has my nose, which is Scott's nose, too. You can't win 'em all.

He looks at me with those real light blue eyes-the Langly eyes-and I just melt into a small puddle.

He's so awesome. I love him so much.

Scott, I'm sorry for what happened to you...but thanks for the kid.

And we both fall asleep.
 

FROHIKE:

Michael did well. He was able to turn off all the critical equipment, and the offices were not in the path of the tornadoes, so there is no damage. I find that my stomach is calmer than it's been all day.

I should try to do some work...but I'm exhausted.

And worried about my son. Perhaps they came back and left again. I'll ask Allison.

She's in the kitchen with her daughter and Shelby, the three of them chatting companionably, laughing in the secret language of girls.

"Allison, my dear. Have Michael and Kelly been back?"

She looks up, suddenly not laughing anymore. "No. They haven't. They took my car, quite some time ago. They were going out to Warrenton to check on Kelly's family."

"They haven't phoned, have they?"

"I don't think so...Miranda, can you check your voice mail?"

Miranda has her own voice mail?

Allison is far too indulgent with her.

Allison checks her and Langly's voice mail. Nothing.

"My brothers called me, when they heard the news, but that was a while ago...and as you can see, the noise level is down. Somewhat, anyway." She gives a wry smile as the girls come back from the dungeon.

"Nothing on mine," Miranda says. "Sorry, Frohike."

"It is quieter. Where're all the boys?"

"Bryce is watching 'Dr. Strangelove,' and Langly and Patrick are asleep in the chair. Are you hungry?"

Not really. "I'll eat when I get home, my dear."

She eyes me suspiciously; she is, after all, a Jewish mother. "You're certain?"

"I'm positive. I will, however, be happy to take a beer."

"Frohike, don't be silly, you're always welcome to a beer." I know this, consciously. The Langlys don't care who raids the beer shelf in the fridge, provided you're over 21. They're quite free with their hospitality, even if it means abiding with a certain degree of chaos.

"I'm hungry." Bryce trudges out to the kitchen. "You couldn't raise Julie?"

"Left her a message," Allison shakes her head. "Here's the phone. You can try her if you like."

"Got anything to eat?" Bryce indicates his primary urges right now, again.

"You've got to be kidding. This is my mom you're talking about," Miranda gives him her classic are-you-stupid look. Which, by the way, I find irritating in the extreme, and utterly inappropriate on a child of her age, regardless of whom it's directed towards.

At least she's learned not to cuss around me. I appreciate that she respects me enough to accept my distaste for that.

Allison prepares a plate for Bryce. She is an excellent cook, and she piles his plate with ricotta and spinach pie, cucumber salad (one of her California carryovers), and rosemary bread.

My stomach is definitely on the poor side. I find this meal ordinarily too tantalizing to pass up.

I wander quietly into the living room, and I'm touched by what I see.

Sitting in the recliner, two blonde boys. Fast asleep. One big, the other small, the small one curled into the big one's chest. The big one has one of those endless arms wrapped around the small one. I hear two sets of soft little breathing sounds.

Who'd have thought?

I always had a hard time picturing Langly being a father. When he became a stepfather, he seemed ill at ease in the role-and understandably so. It's a difficult task to take on a teenaged child. Even when that child has affection for you. He and Miranda love each other, but it's a relationship that is still fraught with tension, and probably will be until she reaches adulthood. I suspect by that point, they will be affectionate friends and much more comfortable with one another.

This, though. I was terribly concerned when Allison became pregnant. I was of course worried that she would not be able to carry it to term-which, obviously, she could not-- But in another sense, I was concerned about what would happen should the
blessed event take place. How they would deal with the changes that would happen in their lives, their relationship.

I worried over that one for nothing. They seem to be doing fine.

Patrick is still a child under stress, to be sure, and he probably will continue to be for a while. But I can see that he will be fine. He has people that love him dearly and will do whatever they have to do to take care of him...

And they'll never walk out on him.

Not like some fathers I know.
 

It's getting to be quite late. Allison finally insists that I have to eat.

I want to. Her food is delicious. Yet I have no appetite.

Hearing from my son would improve it significantly.

I call over to the apartment, asking Byers if he's heard from my son. No, he has not.

I can feel my guts clenching.

"Frohike, are you okay?"

"Turn on the news, would you, my dear?"

"You sure you want to do that? Personally, I'm on sensory overload here."

"I'd appreciate it."

She is an obliging hostess. And an accommodating spouse and an indulgent mother.

Her family damn better appreciate her.

I grab the second recliner. Bryce has fallen asleep-finally, thank God-and I thought Langly whined heavily-and Langly and Patrick are still occupying the other recliner.

They look so peaceful. Brings back memories of when my little boy was that age.

They grow fast, Langly. Look out. Even when you're not looking.

God, I wish my daughter would notify me. I remember cuddling her, too. And how much she loved me...how she thought I was the best daddy in the world...

Of course the news is about the tornadoes. What else would it be today?

I'm waiting for a shot of the trailer park in Warrenton where Kelly's family lives. To hear something, anything.

Fifteen minutes into the broadcast, the shot comes on. I scan for Michael and Kelly. I don't see them anywhere, and I'm positive I would be able to pick them out.

Where the hell are those kids? And why haven't they called?
 

MICHAEL:

After hours of waiting, we're directed to the sheriff's office. This is county, Warrenton doesn't have its own police force.

Kelly's in tears. She knows what's coming.

Her mom's trailer was burned to the ground. And they didn't find one body in there. They found two. One of them six months pregnant.

Her mom and Tracy. I feel nauseous.

Kelly's already been hysterical; she's just numb now.

She has to make identification.

And as sick as this is going to make me, I'm gonna be there with her. She asked me not to make her do this alone.

Like I would. Hey, I'm a Frohike. Meaning, no way would I make her do this herself.

She's like too calm right now. She's been like totally deadened. Her pretty blue eyes are red and puffy, her ponytail's all fruzzy and hanging around her face in strands.

One thing I know for certain: I know I can't leave her alone tonight.

Screw what my dad says. I'm staying with her.

All night.
 

FROHIKE:

Allison picks her nephew-son from Langly's lap and carries him off. The little boy still looks flushed with fever, but he's breathing gently, and he stirs only a little when she picks him up and kisses him on his hair. He's still sleeping in the alcove off the living room.

Having put her youngest child to bed, she then wakes her oldest one, whom she can't exactly pick up and carry off. He's resistant to the idea of moving.

"My arm hurts."

"I know. Get in bed and I'll bring you some Tylenols." She kisses him as she wraps her arms around his shoulders.

"Can't move."

"No, you don't want to move is more like it," she smooths the beaded strands of hair. "C'mon babe. Let's go." After several more attempts, and him dozing back off a couple times, she wraps her arm around his waist and leads him off to bed.

Still no Michael. Still no Kelly.

I am growing frantic.

Having tucked Langly in bed, she comes out and feels Bryce's forehead.

"He's okay," she says softly. She covers him with one of the million or so blankets that litter the place. You'll never be cold at the Langly household. Not that you could even hope to be cold tonight. The house is not air-conditioned, and the heat has returned with a vengeance.

I'm sweating, and not just from being warm.

The 10 o'clock news finishes. Thank God. The goddamn talking heads that populate the desk, they set my teeth on edge.

Finally, as the 11 o'clock news is about to douse us with more of what we already know, I hear a familiar engine. Allison's car. Which she apparently lent to Michael and Kelly.

I run out to them, tempted to scream at them for not having a little bit of consideration and phoning...

And then I see their faces.

Any disciplinary action can wait.

END OF PART 86