"This fellow
Took me in completely with his schemes,
And led me with him to Phoinikia,
Where he had houses and land."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 14, Lines 336-339. Used without permission.
 

BYERS:

August 31, 2001
 

A knock on the door.

"John? It's already 6:15."

And it's Saturday, Dad.

Of course, in the grand Puritan tradition, my father believes that lying abed is a waste of time and productivity, thus, a waste of money.

I want nothing more than to waste time this morning, lying in bed with Juliet curled up against me, sweating slightly, her cheeks rosy with afterglow. I'd like to be as unproductive as humanly possible, thank you very much.

"I'm coming."

What is it about our parents that, no matter how old we are, we are instantly regressed in their presence?

I was hoping that jet lag would induce him into having a leisurely morning, but of course, no such luck. Not when your father is a WASP captain of industry.

I locate my glasses-I've noticed as of late, my eyes seem to be getting worse. I used to be able to function somewhat without them, but not anymore. I'm getting as bad as Langly and Frohike and Michael, all of whom are powerless without visual prosthetics. Juliet, with her near-perfect vision, is a rarity in our circle. Ally can't see to save her life, Mulder is also nearly bat-blind, and Jo seems to rely on her glasses more and more. I haven't seen much of Martha, but when I have, it's never without glasses.

"Do you have any coffee?" My father demands by way of greeting in person.

Well, I don't think I should have expected a 'good morning' or anything quite so frivolous.

"Of course."

"Perhaps you could make some."

It then occurs to me...he has no idea how to make coffee. He's nearly 70 years old, and he has no clue as to how it's done.

I guess when you've never had to do it...

I measure it out, pour in the water, and hit the switch. A simple operation, but one that utterly eludes my father, who is one of the ten wealthiest men in America, but has never made a pot of coffee...ironed a shirt...fixed a car...

Okay, I only fix cars under extreme duress. I have a clue as to how it's done-things mechanical are fairly universal-but I can't say I have any particular affection for the task. And the last time I had to do it, with Langly, it was a debacle. Generally, if we require a quick fix, we can convince Michael to do it, provided he can find the time. Now that school has started up again, I doubt he'll have much availability for such things.

"Where are the newspapers?"

"Outside the door." He's probably never even fetched his own newspaper, either...

This seems so odd.

"Well?" He looks up at me, as if to say, aren't you going to bring them in?

I hand him the Washington Post and the New York Times. Of course, he turns to the business section first. I tend to gravitate towards the Op-Ed pages.

"Don't you get the Wall Street Journal?"

"At work."

He groans, a slight expression of distaste covering his mouth.

"You can check it on line."

"My secretary does that, normally."

Translation: I have no idea how to use a computer.

"I can log you in."

"Thank you."

Juliet's computer is easier to use than mine, so I sit him down at hers, and log him into the WSJ website. I figure he's good to go-it's simply a series of mouseclicks to find what you want...

"What do I do now?"

I want to laugh out loud here, but I know what kind of response that will yield.

"Take the mouse, move the cursor to where you want to go, and click on the left button with the first finger of your right hand."

"You mean this." He points to Juliet's mouse. With the Star Wars mouse pad underneath.

"Yes."

It takes him a while to get the feel of the mouse. I am trying so hard not to laugh...

My father, multimillionaire, head of several multinational corporations, struggling with a computer mouse.

"Can't you print this on paper?"

"Sure. Just go up to the task bar-"

"I'm not in the mood for a tutorial. Just print out the results, please."

He's so at ease telling us all what to do.

Why did I want him here?

He seems surprised when I click the mouse twice and paper begins spitting out of the printer. "That was it?"

"That was it." Not much to it.

It occurs to me that he is such an anachronism. He's like the old Roman emperors who had no need for hot and cold running indoor plumbing because they had hot and cold running slaves.

It'd be humorous if it wasn't so pathetic.

"So Dad? Why'd you have to go to Malaysia?"

He looks up at me sharply. Of course, he never looks at me any other way, so why should this be a surprise?

"There were some...difficulties in one of the plants."

Probably labor difficulties...nothing new in my father's manufacturing outfits. Of course, when you're using slave or near-slave labor, this is not surprising.

"The new vice president I installed was demanding that the workers attend daily prayer services. Most of these workers in this part of Malaysia are Muslim, and he's Christian-" he spits out the word as though it had a foul taste-"and there was a near-riot in the plant."

"Did you know this about this person?" I ask.

He snorts. "I don't care what the personal beliefs of my workers are, as long as they believe in making money for the stockholders. I've never involved myself in the lives of workers, and I'm not about to start now."

Well, Dad, for that matter, you never much involved yourself in the lives of your children...

But he is here. I keep reminding myself of that.

Keep your eyes on what's important.

"But when it comes to where my investments are about to go down the tubes, well, then it's personal."

"So what did you do?"

"Fired the stupid bastard, of course. I don't care how good a track record he has...he's going to create insurrection at my plants and kill profits, no way is he sticking around."

"So...things are back under control?" I didn't read about this anywhere, or even catch a rumor on the web.
 
He looks at me harshly. "You have no idea what it cost me to keep this out of the information system. And the other little incidents that have cropped up in some of the other divisions."

"There've been others?"

"Quite a few now. And I've just about had it with the lot of them. I supported this administration because I wanted to get rid of the debilitating effects that the Democratic White House had on commerce-"

I hate to tell him this, but they were some of the best years of working we'd had in decades. For the workers, that is.

My father is one of the people who believes that full employment is bad for the economy, because it drives up wages and benefits. And he's dead set against any kind of corporate taxation.

"-but I can't stomach their intrusions on personal freedoms anymore. This is not what I asked for, what I paid for, and I'm not getting my money's worth."

Nothing like not getting his money's worth to upset my father.

He goes to the phone to contact his financial advisers. In the meantime, I pour him some coffee and settle myself into reading the papers.

Nothing is suggested such as my father has indicated is going on out in the trenches. The press has never been 'free,' as people would like to believe, but has always reflected the specific interests of those that are in control of it.

I learn more from the daily news by what it doesn't say than what it does. And that bothers me.

He haggles over what stocks and bonds to buy and sell, hangs up without saying goodbye, and joins me on the sofa.

"Sometimes I think I'd be better off keeping my money in a sock," he snarls. "Market's going straight to hell. I'd watch your investments carefully."

"I do."

"Good. Nice to know that academic life hasn't completely killed off whatever brain functions you have left."

Thanks, Dad.

That was a compliment. I think.

"So what's the date for you and the young lady?"

I do believe I told him our wedding date, but if he doesn't have his Day Planner and calendar in front of him, he'd be unlikely to remember it.

"18th of October."

"Seven weeks away. Not very far."

"We're supposed to close on our house next Friday."

"So you did buy a home."

"We did."

"I hope you chose well."

"I think we did. Nice area, good schools."

"Good resale value?"

"Seems to be, based on the history of the property."

"Finally making decent use of your grandfather's money."

"Actually, Dad, we didn't use any of his money...we bought it with our own."

He looks at me as though I've lost my mind.

"Your salary? As a college professor? You're kidding."

"No."

"What did you get, a chicken coop?"

"It's a very nice house. Very...middle class."

This causes him to laugh. "You are unbelievable. Heir to a small fortune, and you settle for life among the peasantry?"

"Juliet and I were very comfortable with the property."

He shakes his head. "You never do learn, do you?"

"Learn what?"

"Who you are, where you came from, what you're supposed to be."

I beg to disagree on all counts.

Normally, I'd decline to debate him.

"I'm happy."

He looks at me as if I spoke Greek to him-which I can speak, but he cannot.

"You're happy."

"Yes."

He shakes his head, disbelieving. "You always were a different child, John Fitzgerald Byers."

He truly has no idea how different I really am.

And as for total self-revelation, I'm not ready for that. I don't think he is, either.

"What time will this nurse be in to be with your friend?"

"She gets off at 7 a.m., but she lives in Baltimore...I'm not certain if she'll be going home first, or coming straight from DC."

"I would think she should be there by 9." Almost as if by willing her to be there, she will be.

When you've spent your adult life in this way, I suppose it becomes a habit.

"She seems to spend most of her time away from her regular duties with him." Which she does.

"Don't you think you should wake your young lady?" He demands. "And you're hardly ready for anything."

"She tends to be more tired than usual, what with her injuries-"

"Bah. It's not going to do her any good to lie in bed. Get her up."

"She's tired."

"Didn't you two sleep last night?"

Instead of a witty retort, I find myself blushing crimson.

"If we don't have to be there until nine, we have quite a bit of time for her to sleep yet."

"Not if we're to make it to breakfast."

Who said anything about breakfast? Juliet and I usually have breakfast at home on Saturdays...in bed...with dessert...

"Go. Get ready. You're wasting time."

Another of the cardinal sins according to the gospel of James Arthur Byers.
 

She is sleeping so peacefully, I hate to wake her.

Her face is quietly radiant, her lips just gently parted, her breathing soft and steady. Her dark sleek hair forms a cascade on the white pillow. One arm is spread over the top of the comforter, allowing me to view a lovely, well-formed shoulder and the top of one breast.

And I am unbelievably horny.

You would think, after last night's rather rigorous outing, I'd be spent, but all I want to do right now is crawl back into bed and climb into her body again.

I lean over to kiss her on the forehead. This causes her a small frown at first, but then she smiles a little. A soft, sleepy smile, eyes closed.

"Juliet. We have to wake up. My father is taking us to breakfast."

She murmurs "I'd rather have breakfast in bed."

"I know, but he insists-"

She pulls me down on top of her, hard, and begins pushing my robe away. I push my arousal against her, and she begins to sigh, pulling me closer to her.

"John. I'm really horny."

I noticed.

I begin the journey over her body, and she over mine-familiar territory, but each time, new features on the landscape present themselves-a new nerve ending of pleasure, a spot of softness we'd not known about previously. And this is a trip I never tire of. I take each curve, drinking in the familiarity and perpetually in search of the novel.

"John...come in me again?"

I don't think I need to be asked twice.

And we come together...a white-hot flash, calling for each other, breath intermingled.

We're a warm, sticky mass when we're done.

"Want me to wash your back?" She winks at me.

I would, but...

Oh, screw it.

My father may be here. But it's my house.

And I say she can wash my back.

Among other things.
 

Juliet is still horny in the shower. I'm past where I could perform for a few hours right now, but I can still pleasure her orally...and I do. She is insatiable right now. The more I can bring her to pleasure, the more she begs for.

"Don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop." She's nearly out of breath, and standing in the shower for very long is taxing for her, but she wants more.

And I'm only too happy to oblige her.

To my surprise, after several orally-induced orgasms, she has brought me back to arousal...and this time, I can insert myself in her, carefully, and I hold her up, pressing her hard into me.

"Juliet, oh God!" It's so intense, as if I can feel every cell spurting out of me.

I love her so much. I want one of my cells to find one of hers, and penetrate it...

And start a new Byers.

Maybe it's happened, and we just don't know it yet.

Doesn't hurt to have insurance, though. Another attempt just might be necessary.
 

Of course, breakfast with my father does not involve anything related to the phrase 'fast food.' I have to admit I to enjoying the cuisine immensely. Not that it could rival Genie's, but fresh melons and Eggs Benedict in a fine hotel don't make for bad eating.

I've not eaten in a place like this in years and years and years. Even with my trust fund, I consider it a frivolous waste of money to spend $40 a head on breakfast. And the only reason that total came out was because we skipped the mimosas. I ordinarily enjoy mimosas, but I didn't think getting drunk in front of my father before noon was likely to improve his opinion of me. And I know how champagne affects me. I told Juliet she was welcome to have them if she chose, but she declined as well.

Probably a good idea, if we're trying to get pregnant. Which it appears we are. I'm not sure why, but last night was different, as was this morning. In the beginning, it was something to be avoided at all costs. Then it became, whatever happens, happens.

Now it's, we want this, actively and profoundly.

She is so lovely this morning. I'm not sure if I'm being influenced by her apparent insatiability-more than once she slid her hand under the table and on to my upper thigh as she conversed amicably with my father. She was bearing up under his version of the Spanish Inquisitor quite nicely.

What really bothered me was that when she would administer this gesture, I would blush. No doubt my father was aware that something was going on. This did not increase my comfort level with him, as was the case also in his inquiries to Juliet.

I kept praying that she wouldn't change her mind after being interrogated by him.

He probed every inch of her background-probably trying to make certain that she wasn't in the relationship in order to get her hands on the family fortune.

The family fortune, that which he controls, isn't mine to have, anyway. I've been written out of his will, to the best of my knowledge, and I suspect the same might be true for Kat.

I gather her answers satisfied him, and she was even able to charm him a little. Juliet is warm and kind, her Italian background from her mother shining through her every gesture and word.

The clincher was when he asked if we planned to have children.

I felt myself reddening from the chest up, but Juliet just smiled, took my hand, and assured him that yes, we did. And hopefully soon.

He didn't say anything. I'd hoped the prospect of grandchildren might soften him.

Then again, the way we're going, the bride will be pregnant at the altar, and that's unlikely to please him.

My worries that he would desire a long, languid conversation with us were fortunately short-circuited. He completed his meal, requested the check-which he graciously paid-and announced that we would be off now.

I'm still following orders.

END OF PART 34