"We know the good, we apprehend it clearly.
But we cannot bring it to achievement."

Euripides, "Hippolytus," Lines 380-381. Translation by Ralph Gladstone. Used without permission.
 

BYERS:

The semester is beginning to fall into place, now that we're in third week. I should only have to cope with the normal number of crises today, as opposed to the overruns that occur routinely in the first couple of weeks.

Other things are beginning to fall neatly into place. We moved into our new home, and yesterday managed to unpack a good number of boxes. It's beginning to look more like the way we want it to. Juliet had some wild bursts of energy, coupled with some extreme need for sleep; I worked more evenly, more steadily.

And to my delight, the house has a wonderful yard. I'm already planning what I'll plant next spring. Yes, I love gardening. That probably sounds odd, seeing as I never did it growing up, but one of my jobs at Georgetown as an undergrad was working in facilities. I only took the job because I was desperate and it was available.

To my astonishment, I actually enjoyed planting, weeding, watering, pruning. Watching things grow. There is something so primally satisfying about it. And I notice that to this day, many of the things I planted are alive and thriving still.

A small accomplishment, to be sure, but one that brings an inordinate amount of satisfaction to my soul.

I wonder if this is why people desire to raise children. Not that raising children is a small achievement-to do it well seems almost insurmountably difficult. But there must be that satisfaction at seeing something you created and nurtured come to fruition.

Yesterday, while Juliet was napping, I went on the web. Checking what happens to women when they become pregnant.

Obviously, it's different for every woman...but apparently, bursts of energy coupled with sleepiness are not uncommon in early pregnancy.

It did not, however, say why Juliet could look so incredibly sexy.

I have no idea if she is or is not. It would be too soon to say. I just have that feeling...

Maybe it's how radiant she looks. She looks and seems so positively alive, so bursting with life, that I really think she is.

We'll have to wait and see.

And to my surprise, I managed to finish a paper that I had been working on for some time, and it's now in academic advisory review. Meaning, my fellow professors at AU are examining it. Then it will be submitted to an academic journal, where it will undergo further peer review by their editorial board, and a decision will be made as to whether or not to accept it for
publication. If you think the wheels of business grind slowly, you have seen nothing compared to academia. The pipes are long and sluggish. The whole process is a virtual anachronism in this digital age.

Yet there is something comforting in the whole ritual for me. It's reassuring in a world where if you don't respond to someone's e-mail in 30 minutes or less, they call you and complain, that there are still things that require time and patience. The intellectual process is one of those things. Digitizing information makes it more accessible, and there is probably some impact on the mental process, but it still has to mature in its own time, develop slowly, almost organically. Many times in research, you'd like to speed up the clock-and God knows in most companies the shareholders demand it-but you have to let it take its course.

And I have to say, I'm proud of the paper. I took information from numerous sources and took my time analyzing it and synthesizing it. I subjected my hypothesis and my data to rigorous testing, and it held its own, no matter how badly I stressed it.

And in my own small way, I'd like to think it's an important paper.

The subject matter is on health maintenance organizations and how their policies have not only bankrupted many of them, but made many patients critically ill. It's openly critical of current public policy, but it also makes suggestions for remedy, which I feel is very important in doing a critical analysis.

And there was a wealth of information to support my hypothesis. Thank God I have the skills I do and the friends. There is no way I would have been able to get much of the data through conventional channels.

I have cited my sources, but I confess that if there will be a quibble with this paper-and there always is-it will be in that area. I have been somewhat obscure in some references, and this has been deliberate on my part.

Tell the truth, but be careful where you got it from.

Actually, this would not be a minor quibble. Source data can be a major focus of contention in published work-where it was gotten and how it was interpreted.

There are many reasons for this, but the real reason is this: Academics have such small lives that these details take on an inordinate degree of importance. Major battles have broken out over minutiae that most people would consider beneath their notice.

And this is what you pay $20K a year for when you send your children to college. Now you know.

I checked Langly's e-mail-the one he saw fit to wake me up prior to the alarm for. At first glance, I was like, what the hell was he getting me out of bed for, but then I read past the first 3 lines.

Langly doesn't make a lot of requests, but when he makes them...they're heavy-duty.

I'm figuring I can take part of the afternoon to do some of his research, but it's going to take me longer than that to pull everything together he needs. I'll probably have to slip into the offices to do it.

Juliet would be very helpful in doing this, but I am undecided as to whether or not I should even tell her what's going on.

I'm hoping Langly knows what he's doing, because from initial indications, he is stepping out on a very narrow and shaky limb.

I'm confident of his technical skills. His ability to perceive implications beyond the immediate, however, is at times lacking. Insight is not Langly's strong suit. He deals well with abstraction, but transferring it to the concrete, well, there's a gap there.

And involving Juliet in this might be risky. Particularly if she is in, to use a quaint phrase, a delicate condition.

I know I sound like a hopelessly antiquated male chauvinist, unfit for life in the 21st century.

As Langly would say, shoot me.

She has work to do for Luanne Russell, which, thankfully, does not involve field work at this point-or probably ever will again. I think Luanne feels very guilty about what happened to Juliet, even though we have not been able to form a positive connection. Strong correlation, yes. Proof, no.

I don't grudge Luanne. She is a decent woman, a woman of strong principles. There was no way she could have anticipated what occurred.

No, I won't bring Juliet into this, I decide. While her technical expertise would be welcome, I think she has other things to concern herself with at this time.

Such as being healthy and strong enough to bring a new life into the world.

I have only one scheduled meeting with faculty today, and it should be short and sweet. It's the weekly status meeting, which I run like television news-starts on time, everyone stands up, and at the end, one page of notes gets typed up and distributed. I borrowed the concept from Robert Townsend, one of my father's heroes. While Mr. Townsend and I disagree on many, if
not most, points, I think that was one of his better ideas.

I called to thank my father for his payment for the wedding...but he has been out of the country practically since he was here to visit with us.

I hope he'll contact me when he returns.

More importantly, I hope he'll be at my wedding.

I follow the same routine every day-first thing is to get my coffee and then check my e-mail (work e-mail). I get a lot of them; I could spend all my working hours on e-mail and never be caught up. I try to quickly discern what most requires attention, decide what can be dealt with later, and delete what appears to be superfluous or redundant or both.

There is a lot in academia that is both superfluous and redundant, ergo, I can delete much of my mail.

I notice there's one from my immediate supervisor, the vice chancellor. This is not unusual, but this one is marked URGENT-IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUESTED.

I open it. He's requesting a meeting with me at my earliest convenience, in his office, and to notify him as soon as I arrive.

I'm afraid I can't do that. I've already been here 15 minutes.
 

I know of people that when their boss calls them to his or her office, they look forward to it. It means an increase in responsibility, a raise, or some other token of recognition for a job well done.

I, on the other hand, feel a horrible knot of dread forming in the pit of my stomach. I'm more of the orientation, what did I do now?

That's me, always accentuating the negative.

And entry to his office does nothing to reassure me.

The entire academic advisory committee is there-along with the chancellor of the university.

Oh shit.

I'm about to be fired.

"John, have a seat." Seeing as my boss gave the instructions, I comply. I'm bred that way.

He attempts to inject a note of friendliness into his voice, but this gathering is anything but collegial. The atmosphere is rife with tension.

I can feel the sword on my neck.

"What...can I do for you?" I'm trying to keep my voice steady, even as I feel my nerves disintegrate and my skin grow hot.

"We're here to discuss your latest...submission for publication."

"Is there something you need clarification on?"

He looks at me, cold gray eyes direct, unrevealing.

"You're not to publish this paper."

I try to come up with a dignified response, but all that escapes me is a disbelieving, slightly squeaky "What?!"

"I said, this paper is not suitable for publication."

I'm confused.

"Is there a problem with methodology?"

He doesn't answer me. "I'm sorry, John, but you'll have to come up with something else for publication."

"Could you please at least tell me why?"

"Is there a glaring discrepancy in the analysis or conclusion that I overlooked?" As thorough as I attempt to be, it's always possible that something has been glaringly left out.

"Dr. Byers." One of the women on my committee speaks my name.

I recognize her. She's not only a member of my department...

She's the woman I interviewed during the summer that I was averse to hiring, but she was hired on, anyway.

She's a junior member of the faculty. She's not even eligible for tenure yet, and generally, academic advisory appointees have to at least be tenure-tracked. This is not a privilege extended to new employees as a rule, at least not ones with as little experience as she has.

What in the hell is she doing here?

"Yes?" I ask her.

The haltingness of my voice embarrasses me. This is a junior employee. I am her superior, at least in the hierarchy. What right does she have to put me in this position?

"We feel...your paper does not properly represent the position of the University."

I'm really confused now. And angry.

"Since when does the University take a position with regards to the publications of its tenured professors?" This has never been the case in the past. Granted, all universities have their particular character and politics, but the purpose of the university-at least in my understanding-is a place where free exchange of ideas can take place, where dialogue is more
important than polemic.

Apparently, I have been utterly naïve.

"John." The vice chancellor, a fundamentally decent man, is attempting to placate me. "Is there a possibility...of another topic within the data?"

Certainly, there always is, but admittedly the scope of the research is somewhat specific.

And why should it be changed? And what? Nobody has given me any specifics. Give me specific sections, examples, explain where my reasoning has lapsed. Tell me!

But they don't.

I look at the chancellor and vice chancellor. "And if I do decide to pursue publication, in spite of your recommendations?" For me, this is a pretty ballsy challenge.

The vice chancellor looks at me gravely. "Immediate termination."

The chancellor nods in assent.

"I see."

I'm tempted to quit right now. To say, forget it. I don't need this. I have enough money and then some to live on the rest of my existence. I can comfortably support a family for eternity.

But I don't. Something holds me back.

Something that says, play their game, but don't let them know they're losing.

Obviously, I did learn something from my father, if only by osmosis.

I decide, I'm going to stick it out.

Make them lose.

"I'm assuming we have made our position clear," the vice chancellor reiterates, almost apologetically.

"Oh, you have."

I walk out quietly, pretending to have surrendered.

Not a chance.

I'm going to win this one.

I'm just not sure how.

Yet.
 

LANGLY:

I managed to smuggle in one bug sweeper, a miniature one. Not as good as I'd like, but all I can get through the metal detectors with. And tell the truth, I was nervous about that.

And who's to say it'll work here?

First things first. I got to disable the visual camera that's lurking in the overhead light, but not fully. Just for a while, and not so that it can't come back on.

I'm like, on one hand, I'm like so hyped. I love the idea that I can beat the bastards.

This is, of course, assuming I don't fuck up, and that's where the nerves come in.

I got Frohike, Byers and Mulder all working on stuff. I could use some help from Junior, he's pretty clever (and if you tell him I said that, I'll deny everything), but I haven't. And I'm not gonna unless I get desperate. Papa Frohike'll shoot me if I do.

Let's just hope Papa Frohike never finds about our little field trip to NJ.

Then again, since it was Mulder's trip, might be kind of fun to watch Fro kick Mulder's ass.

Problem is, he'd probably kick mine, too. Not quite so much fun.

I'm not gonna try to build Rome in one morning. I'm gonna take it slow, little bit at a time.

And I'm gonna win.

What, and how, I'm not sure. But I will.

My only worry?

I need to make sure nothing happens to my family.

This could be the real trick in this.
 

ALLY:

Time to head up and see Crazy Jaleel.

Langly, Byers and Frohike all think Jaleel is pretty cool.

I think he's a jerk.

But I promised I'd go, so I'm going.

Miranda's in school, so Patrick's going to have to tag along with me. He's totally involved in his computer right now, and my beckoning to him to get ready is not having the desired effect.

"Don't wanna!"

By now a familiar refrain-from both of my boys.

"Patrick. We have to go. We have to do something for Langly."

"Don't wanna!" He doesn't look up, he's intent on what's in front of him on the screen.

I don't need this shit, thank you very much.

"You're going." I come over and pick him up out of the chair, which causes him to arch and scream.

I'm still bigger than he is, and stronger. Might as well take advantage of it now-he's not going to stay small for long.

He's grown since he's come to us. He's going to be tall, like Langly.

And stubborn. Christ.

What a shock that is.
 

Jaleel is located on the outskirts of Silver Springs, where Dana and Mulder have gone even more suburban than we have. Most of Silver Springs is upper middle class, but when you get to the fringes, there's the usual assortment of body shops, gun sellers and used car dealers. Jaleel falls into the latter category.

Interestingly enough, no one is ever on the lot, at least the few times I've come here. And from the outside, the place is as low rent in appearance as anything on the block. Yet you step into the office, and the equipment is state of the art, and the place hums with activity. Most of the help is related to Jaleel-the man has enough relatives to populate the state of New Mexico, with leftovers.

I'm greeted by what is probably a nephew of some sort-not the one I recognize from CU, who works there from time to time, but as I mentioned, Jaleel has no shortage of kin.

"I'm here to see Jaleel," I tell him.

This creates suspicion in the young man. Apparently not many people get to have an audience with the Pope himself.

"Your name?"

"Allison Langly."

"Oh, oh, Langly. Let me tell him you're here." He vanishes into the back offices. I'm glad I took his last name-Langly's a friend, and he rates.

Patrick fell asleep in the car-habit of his-and I'm carrying him. Right now he's leaning sleepily on my shoulder. And he's heavy.

When he's sleepy, he looks just like Langly.

Jaleel comes out, all good will and bonhomie, dressed in a suit that probably cost as much as the car I bought from him. Which, to my surprise, still runs well.

"And who have we here?" He likes kids, so it would seem.

"This is Patrick. He's Langly's nephew, and now he's ours." I usually don't even give this much detail. When I have him in public and people tell me what a cute little son I have-and they do-I just smile and say, thank you.

In my heart, he is my son, and that's all that matters to me.

But we are going to have to do something regarding his legal status. This is something that's bothering me. In the past, I would have insisted that we do it through the channels that exist within the Commonwealth of Virginia, done a legitimate adoption.

I'm not certain I care to go that route anymore. In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't.

Jews and other minorities are being fired from jobs and not being granted educational opportunities-and I have a feeling the same holds true for adopting children. Granted, Patrick is Langly's blood kin-this can be proved via DNA, and Dana Scully did that. For Langly, piece of cake-except that he married a Jewish woman.

No, I think we're going to employ some of Frohike's talents, once he's somewhat recovered. Frohike is an expert on documents. I think this should be a fairly easy assignment for him.

I just hope he's well enough to do it soon. It sounds crazy and paranoid, but I have visions of someone just snatching the child away from us. I've had this dream nearly every night for a month in some form-and it's really rattling my nerves.

And I'm off the sauce right now, which is only going to make it worse.

Jaleel knows what my errand is, but of course I'm not permitted to just cut and run-Jaleel is Ethiopian, and you don't just do your business and scram. Apparently much of doing business where he comes from relates to the social, so I'm obligated to stay for that godawful tarlike brew he calls coffee.

But at least you can smoke at Jaleel's. We shouldn't, not with Patrick there, but we do it, anyway.

In the presence of strangers, Patrick is shy and suspicious. He watches Jaleel warily for some time.

I need to get that kid out to play with other children more.

I tell this to Jaleel for some reason, and he's like, why don't you take him to my aunt's house? Lots of kids there.

If Jaleel says there are a lot of kids there, I'm envisioning a mob scene of rock concert proportions. His and my definition of a lot don't necessarily match.

I'm not sure. Patrick is comfortable and sophisticated with the adults he knows, but he's definitely low on the social skills end. He'd get pretty overwhelmed.

Still, he needs some interaction with other kids. Desperately. I don't think it's healthy for him to rely on adults for all of his amusement.

Jaleel, after several cigarettes, and my pretense at drinking his foul coffee (I accept one refill-Langly says it's rude to refuse in their culture, and he's the one that took anthro courses, not me), hands me two large sealed manila envelopes, with instructions not to open them, they're for Langly. This is what irritates me about Jaleel. He has a habit of treating me as if I don't have the intelligence of my four-year-old boy.

And without even asking me, he calls his aunt, speaking to her in rapid fire Ethiopian, and tells me they're expecting me, and prints me out Mapquest directions.

"Langly, he was so sad when there was no baby," Jaleel says to me. I wince. I don't like being reminded of my miscarriage. It's still raw and painful. And probably always will be.

My failure as a woman. As a wife. It stings.

"But you see, Allah provided." He smiles. "Smart boy. He likes computers, no?"

"Loves them."

Jaleel smiles. "I knew that. Now, take him to my aunt's, you'll have a wonderful time, and come and see me again."

"I'll do that." Not soon, Jaleel, if I can help it.

Still, in his own weird way, Jaleel is good people. Salt of the earth. I just wish I could get more respect from him-he talks to me as if I were a child, and if Langly is with me, he completely ignores me and addresses the conversation strictly to him.

"Oh, and Miss Allison? You be very careful."

Seems a strange comment...and one that makes me uneasy.

What the hell are he and Langly up to?
 

I follow the directions Jaleel has given me, and I feel a knot growing in my stomach.

Patrick is not the only one uncomfortable with strangers. I'm not too good with them myself.

I'm fine if I'm one on one meeting someone new. I can deal with a small group, even, but the idea of stepping into a mob scene unnerves me. I nearly fainted walking down the aisle at my wedding. Frohike just kept telling me to look straight ahead at Langly, which is how I managed not to make a complete idiot of myself on the way up. I saved that for when I got to the altar and burst out giggling in the middle of the ceremony.

The directions lead me into a very, very exclusive section of Silver Springs, one that makes the Mulder residence look like the Frohike apartment by comparison.

The house I've been given the address for is massive. Whatever Jaleel does-and I don't think used cars is his real occupation-it pays well.

Patrick's like, where we going? I say, to see some friends.

I'm acutely uncomfortable now, in spite of my reassurances to my little guy. This is a Muslim family, and I'm Jewish, and I've chosen to raise Patrick in that tradition as well. I'm not even sure Jaleel knows what my religious persuasion is.

All this collapses when the door is answered by a dark woman with grey hair, a bit of a limp-but the sharpest brown eyes I've ever seen.

"Are you Mahoodi?" I ask softly.

"Oh, Jaleel said you were coming, come in, come in!" She embraces me as though I were long lost kin.

This is really weird.

And the place is wild. There has to be 50 people here-kids of all ages, and a number of women, sitting, drinking coffee, cooking, and yelling. My family where I grew up had nothing on volume compared to these people.

And Patrick, as I expected, clings to me for several minutes, not willing to venture out into the great maw of social competition.

Until one of the younger boys asks him if he wants to play Playstation.

Patrick debates this, but not for long. Playstation is manna from heaven where he's concerned.

And the women here are loud, friendly, and everyone talks at once, about everything. There's cooperation and competition and interruption and tons of laughter.

Sort of like a Jewish family.
 

I end up staying the afternoon, getting to know everyone, and it's surprisingly pleasant and fun.

One thing that surprises me greatly is how educated the women are. I figured that with a patriarch like Jaleel, the women would definitely be barefoot, pregnant, and three steps behind. They're anything but.

And the food. I thought we had a nonstop pantry.

I think about an Arab proverb I learned once. It says, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

How much of that is true in this day and age?

END OF PART 53