"Some things
A man may tell, some he should cover up."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 11, Lines 516-517. Used without permission.
 

FROHIKE:

It's not the first time she's seen my son and I disagree, but it's certainly one of the more embarrassing ones.

While Martha is aware of the failings I've had in my past love lives, it's all the more painful to have it pointed out by my loud, sharp-tongued son. And he didn't hold back on the volume this time. I'm sure she heard every word.

I'm so glad to see her, although I feel somewhat awkward, knowing that she walked in on this exchange. I have no idea when she arrived. She may have heard the entire harangue, for all I know.

This is not the image I want to present to her. I don't like it when she sees things in my home getting out of control.

She doesn't say anything at first, but wraps her arms around me, touches her lips to mine. I'm sure I'm tense-arguing with my son has a way of doing that to me-and she massages my back as she holds me. I return the gesture, and she murmurs something not very distinct except in its approval.

"Bad day?" I ask her.

"Really bad," she says simply. "One of the worst ones I've had in a while."

We move over to the sofa. "What happened?" I want to know, true, but I also don't want any inquiries into what's going on with Michael and me.

She leans back, pulls her glasses off and closes her eyes. "We've got a full house, and then some."

"You frequently do."

"This was really ugly, Mel. There was a Marilyn Manson concert last night."

"A what?"

She laughs slightly. "Better ask your son. I only found out because Gizzie asked her nephew who the hell it was. I understand that his stage act-yes, it's a he-is somewhat of the gender-bending variety."

"So what went down?"

"Well, the concert started with no more than the usual rowdiness you expect in a large crowd of young ones-a few scrapes, a few cuts, some arguments, some drunkenness, but really, according to concert security, the crowd on the whole was well-behaved. The concert went well in the first act. They called intermission, and the crowds began to disperse to get in line for the washrooms, grab a snack, get a beer.

"During intermission, the doors were overrun by a gang-like group known as the Straight Edge. Have you heard of them?"

I have. I cringe.

"Started in Utah in the early 90s. Evangelical Christian youths, well-organized, spread throughout the Rocky Mountain states first, then began to move into the Southwest and on to the Eastern part of the US. Anti-alcohol, anti-drug, anti-smoking, anti-sex-and very violent."

She nods. "That's what I learned from the police last night. Actually, from Gizzie, who talked to them. Poor girl. She'd gone on shift when I went off, and she was just leaving before me. She's been on her feet a full 24 hours, no breaks."

"Are you hungry?" I ask her. She must be. I doubt she's had a break, either.

"Not really. Not after this."

"How bad was it?" I only paid cursory attention to the news early this morning-and I think I was in the bathroom when this item came on. Or fighting with my son. Take your choice.

"Basically, every ER and ICU in DC is filled; some were airlifted to Baltimore because we ran out of facilities and personnel. Nine kids were DOA; we lost seven others, and we've got three on life support, and it doesn't look good. We have six in critical condition, and about 40 in serious condition or better, not to mention that we treated and released close to 60 others. And that was just at Georgetown."

"Shit. What'd they have, a goddamn army?"

"Pretty close to it. At first it was skirmishes, just fists and feet, but then the weapons came out. And that's when it got really nasty." She winces. "I'm an expert marksman. I've been around weapons all my life. I know how to use them, and when. But I respect what they can do. That's the difference. Mel, these are babies! A lot of these kids don't even have driver's licenses!"

She looks utterly dejected. Being a nurse, she sees a fair amount of carnage, but not on this scale as a rule. And not in so many so young.

"Nothing worse than a righteous fool," I affirm.

"Except en masse."

"Definitely. I'm sorry you had such a terrible day. Can I do anything for you?"

She shakes her head in the negative. "Tell me about your day."

Oh Christ. My day sounds so...trite, compared to what she's been through.

"My day started out by arguing with my darling boy."

"Mel, you argue with him all the time. I hate to say it, but there's nothing new in that one."

"It went a little deeper this time." I turn to her. "I can't believe it. He asked her to marry him, and she said yes!"

"I think that's wonderful," she says simply.

She said what?!

"What, you think it's wonderful that two kids who are far too young and don't have a clue as to what they're doing have made the most significant decision two people can make?"

"Yes, I do."

She's holding fast here.

I was hoping she'd be on my side on this one.

"Martha, you don't know these kids like I do."

"No, I don't. But from what I've seen, they're not so clueless as you make them out to be."

"My son doesn't even know what he wants to major in, for Christ's sake!"

"I think he's getting there."

"Oh, sure he's getting there! Now Kelly and my ex-wife and her new husband are trying to convince him he's premed material-and he's starting to believe it!"

"I don't see why he couldn't. He's a bright boy, Mel."

"For a bright boy, sometimes he acts as if he doesn't have the brains God gave an ant!"

This makes her laugh. But at me, not at what I said. That hurts.

"Mel, why don't you think he could do it? Just out of curiosity."

Why don't I think he could?

"He's...Michael is very suggestible. He does pretty much whatever he's told."

"Mel, he's going to marry this girl, in spite of what you tell him to do. I don't think that's very suggestible."

"He's a follower. I think Kelly would always be in charge."

"So he realizes he's designed to be a follower. Not a problem there. At least he's not trying to overcompensate by being a brute."

"And he's immature, and doesn't put things away, and doesn't listen to me-"

"Ah-ha! The heart of the matter!"

For a quiet woman, she certainly pulls no punches.

"Mel, you're scared of him growing up, that's what I'm hearing in all this."

"I am not. I wish he would."

"No, you don't."

"Martha, I'd like to point out that he's my son-"

"I'm well aware of whose son he is. Now hear me out." She raises her hand. "Mel, from what I've observed, Michael's a good kid. A little surly at times, and sulky, and moody-"

"You don't know the half of it."

"Probably not. Now listen to me." Her dark eyes meet mine, steadily, firmly.

I resign myself to this. Only because it's her.

Even if she is wrong.

"Those two kids are working their butts off. They go to school, take care of their jobs, take care of each other. I hardly consider that a sign of immaturity."

"They've got no money, he has no direction-"

"I don't think that's true, Mel. Not having a major and not having direction are two different things, if I might say so."

"I don't think so."

"I'm talking right now. Let me finish." She puts her hand down on top of her other one. "Yes, they're broke, but they're not going to be forever, not with the way they apply themselves. Now, I know Michael is your son, and I have no business  interfering in the way you raise your children, but I have observed that you're very critical with him, and you know what? He's starving for your approval, Mel."

"I don't think he gives a rat's ass about what I think."

"You're wrong, dear man. You are so wrong. Michael cares more about what you think than anyone save for Kelly. He's trying so hard to please you-"

"You could've fooled me."

She shakes her head. "You are the most stubborn man I have ever met, Mel. And I know from stubborn men, believe me."

"I doubt that."

"What, that you're the most stubborn man I've ever met or that I know from stubborn?"

"The former."

"Mel, I hate to say this, it's so Freudian, but the only person I know as stubborn as you is my dad. And I was never afraid to say what I thought to him, either."

No, I guess that's not one of her problems, speaking her mind.

"You don't want him to grow up. You're afraid he won't care for you anymore."

"It's his job to grow up."

"Exactly! So let him."

"I'm trying to make him grow up, in case you didn't notice."

"Mel, you can't make him do anything!"

"He lives under my roof, I sure as hell can."

"You can make him live with your rules, but you can't make him feel what he feels. Or not feel."

Her eyes have kept mine, her gaze intense, steady.

This woman has had a lot of practice.

"What if it doesn't work out for them, Martha? I mean, he'll be devastated!"

"And you'll be there for him."

"I don't know that I could go through that."

"Mel, he's your son, you can, you will. And you know something? It's my instinct you won't have to do that. So why are you wasting your energy and breath on being all upset because your son is behaving like a normal 25-year-old young man, which, by the way, is what he is!"

"He's so young. She's so young-"

"We were all young, Mel. We lived to tell about it."

"I don't want him to make the same mistakes I did."

"I'm sure Michael is creative enough that he'll come up with his own."

That did not reassure me.

"You can't keep him from himself, Mel. You can't do it. My father tried with me. Tried everything. When I fell in love with Daniel, he was furious. When I decided to marry Daniel, he was beyond livid. He still thinks I was crazy to do it. But regardless of what he thinks, he's been there for me, without fail."

"What would he say about us?"

She throws back her head and laughs. "He'd say I was out of my mind."

I suspected as much.

"And he'll still love me, and he'll still want me to be happy. You do want your son to be happy, don't you, Mel?"

"More than anything."

"Only he can determine what makes him happy. Not you. Not even Kelly. Give him a little breathing space, Mel."

I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to sleep well tonight.

"Oh, and Mel? You might start by congratulating him."
 

LANGLY:

October 6, 2001

Oh Christ. What the fuck time is it?

Where're my glasses? I can't see a thing.

And I'm cold. Where's my shirt?

Oh yeah, that's right.

I look down and remember. I broke my arm. It's in a sling right now. They asked me if I wanted red, white, navy or black.

I went with the black. Clashes less with my wardrobe.

It hurts like hell.

Mostly what it does is feel like a lead weight on my chest, which also hurts like hell.

And I hurt on each side. Two injections, one in each hip. Ouch.

Actually, it'd be quicker to catalog what doesn't hurt.

I'm searching for something that doesn't right now.

Where's Ally? She must be up.

I got to get in the shower. I need to get to work.

I try to call her, but soon as I try to talk, I start coughing again.

Worked. Got her attention.

"Hey." She sits down on the bed next to me. Carefully, so she doesn't make it hurt worse. I appreciate this.

"Hey. What time's it?"

"About one in the afternoon."

"Jesus fuck, Ally, I was supposed to be at work at 9!" I can barely get this out.

"My ass. I called your division."

"Who'd you talk to?"

"The bitch on the desk. Said she'd get the message to Zupancic."

"Oh fuck. Ally, I got stuff to do!"

"Sure you do, babe. Like get better. I think that's your job right now."

"Ally, I'm gonna be so snowed when I get back-"

"Yeah, and if you go back now, you'll be dead, and then you'll really have
trouble catching up!"

"How much you wanna bet they got somebody who's gonna check up on me and see if I'm lying?"

She tosses back those red curls and laughs. "Langly, I think pneumonia and a broken arm are sufficient reasons to stay home for a few days."

"I can't."

"You will. Langly, you're being paranoid. Must be the codeine. Gonna have to cut you off."

"Oh God no." I could use another hit right about now, in fact. "Anything but that."

She studies me. I grope around and finally find my glasses and pop them on.

She's smiling this tiny evil smile.

"You said something about being well enough to work?"

"Didn't say I was well enough. Said I had to."

"Uh-huh. You'd be really useful in a codeine haze."

"I need a shower."

She studies my face. She's got this look of amusement and tenderness all mixed up on hers.

"You're gonna have to wash my hair for me, Ally."

Now she smiles. "I think I can manage that. But only on one condition."

"Which is?"

"You're going back to bed when you're done."

Okay, whatever.
 

ALLY:

I appreciate now the effort Langly had to make for me when I broke my arm two years ago. Just wrapping the cast takes time, and then there's having to get in with him, since he needs me to do his hair.

Such a hardship.

Yes, it was such a sacrifice to climb in the shower with him and scrub him and his hair and snuggle up to him (okay, so part of it was so he wouldn't fall over-he's not too sturdy on his feet today-but holding a wet naked Langly is never a problem for me).

I was worried that once he was up, he'd really be pissy, but the shower seemed enough to wear him out, and I stuffed him back in bed, with only minimal protesting on his part. I think he would have gone right to sleep had Patrick not decided that jumping on the bed to show his affection to Langly was just the ticket right then and there. This was punctuated with a very loud groan of pain.

But they both settled in, and Langly's now sound asleep and Patrick's lying next to him, channel surfing just the way Langly does. It's the quietest I've ever witnessed Patrick in a conscious state.

I tried to get him to come on out, even offered to go outside and play some soccer with him, but he doesn't want to leave Langly. So I hooked up my laptop and set him up on-line, in hopes that he can stay close to Langly but not disturb him.

Of course, Langly's got enough codeine in him to kill a horse. For the next four to six hours, anyway.

I've got piles of e-mails to answer, I'm back to writing, and Miranda will be home soon, plus dinner and the usual household maintenance. I'm going to take advantage of the quiet.

The house is unusually peaceful right now. Normally, our home is screeching with noise and activity and people.

I'm answering my last e-mail when I hear the buzzer.

I wasn't expecting anyone. And I'm not the sort of person you just drop in on. I like to be notified first.

At least then I can throw some of the mess into the closets.

"Yes?" I speak quietly into the intercom so as not to disturb the bedroom dwellers.

"Is this the home of R.P. Langly?"

"Who's calling, please?"

"We'd like to come in."

Not a chance. I decide to walk out and see who it is...

I really miss my dog at times like this. She was the sweetest dog in the world-and she was also huge. And if she sensed you were bad news, she'd bark.

Two men, clad in suits, driving a dark Taurus. Government issue plates.

I am not feeling very at ease at this moment.

"May I help you?" I ask, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice.

"We're here about R.P. Langly. Is this his home? This is the address we have for him, 3826 Sanbourne Road?"

"And you are?"

"From his workplace."

"I know where he works. Now show me some ID."

They do, which makes me breathe a little easier.

Of course, I have no way of knowing if it's falsified or not...

These guys have definitely rubbed off on me.

But whether they have or not isn't the question right now. These bozos are checking up on us. And I'm pissed.

"He has a fractured arm and pneumonia. I think that's sufficient for him to be home."

"We'd like to confirm that."

"I don't think so. This is my house. And you're not welcome here."

"You're making this difficult, Mrs. Langly."

I'm so pissed. I don't want to get Langly into trouble. But I also don't want these jokers around. And I definitely am not letting them in my house.

"Hey Ally?" A sleepy voice, emanating from a tall, mussed figure in a sling and sweatpants is standing on the porch. "What's going on?"

This is emphasized by a loud series of hacking coughs from my half-dressed, half-drugged husband.

"Langly, get back inside, you're going to die out here!" The cold is beginning to settle in with a vengeance, after so many months of sultry heat.

I turn to the two men, who are still on the other side of the gate. "There. You got what you came for. Now get the fuck off my property, and don't show your faces around here ever again."

One looks almost apologetic. "Sorry, ma'am...we just have to be...careful, you know."

"So be careful now and get the hell out of here."

I am so pissed I can't see straight.

I'm even more pissed because I gave up drinking on weeknights.

Aargh!
 

"Who was that?" Langly asks me when I come back in. He's in the living room, shivering.

"C'mon, get back in bed, you're freezing."

"Who was it?" He's like Patrick in his persistence.

I take a deep breath. "Your employer."

"What?" He's still in a druggish haze.

"I said, the people you work for."

"Oh fuck." Now he's pissed as well.

I'm having enough trouble with me being pissed. I'm not sure I can do both of us.

"Let me tell you, babe, I haven't felt this violated since...since..."

"Since when?"

"Since the night Walter Skinner called me. Almost three years ago."

"Hey, it's the NSA. Shouldn't surprise you."

"You're taking this calmly enough." I don't like the edge in my voice, but I'm having trouble keeping it out.

"Didn't say I liked it. Just said I'm not surprised."

"You'd think you could call in sick and not be hassled."

"You'd think. But don't bet on it."

I tuck the covers up over him. "Get some sleep, baby."

I kiss the sweet face, which lapses into almost instant repose.

God, do I need a drink.
 

I'm totally riled up now. I'm pacing about, smoking like a fiend, and barely notice when Miranda makes her entrance.

"What's with you?" She looks at me suspiciously.

"Uh-nothing."

"Looks pretty bad for nothing."

"Just been a long day, that's all."

"Uh-huh. Sure, Mom. Anything you say."

She vanishes into the dungeon, into the world of homework and telephone calls to friends and the afternoon news and deciding what to wear the next day.

I'm still really nervous. Something about those people coming to my home, violating our privacy...

It makes me really uneasy.

Particularly on the subject of Patrick, whose legal status is still highly questionable.

I decide, that's it. I'm not going to take any chances anymore. Frohike, from what I gather, is feeling better...and I sure as hell could use his help. We're going to put the matter of Patrick's guardianship to bed once and for all. And I don't care how it's done, as long as it's done.

And after that, I have another chore, and I make up my mind that I'm going to just do it. Langly needs to rest tonight, but I need to know.

I need to know what the hell Scott was up to all these years.

END OF PART 63