DUM SPIRO, SPERO
Part 64
 

"All that I shy away from is a scrutiny
of cottagers just now. The time for that
comes later-if in truth you have a sign
from Zeus the Stormking."

"The Odyssey," Book 16,` Lines 380-383. Fitzgerald Translation. Used without permission.
 

FROHIKE:

I'm not looking forward to this evening. Martha has to be in Baltimore tonight. Well, she does live there. At least right now.

She's talking about getting an apartment closer in to work, provided she can sell her house in Baltimore.

I'm of two minds here. I want to ask her to come and stay with me. I would like nothing better than to have her in the same home as me, under one roof, to know that sleeping alone is not an option.

At the same time, I am reluctant to ask her. Everything is so new. And I suspect if I did ask her, she would decline, and it would be awkward for both of us.

And there is the issue that my son still lives here. And seeing as his financial resources are severely limited, he'll probably continue to do so for some time.

He's going to be here for a while, Frohike.

Least you could do is try to get along with him. I'm growing weary of being at each other's throats. He, on the other hand, seems to have an insatiable appetite for it, from what I can tell.

He's impossible to talk to. I'd really like to talk to him about Kelly, about why I think they're making a mistake to commit so early on...

Forget it. He's not about to listen to that. I don't think he's willing to listen to much these days.

This is Monday, meaning he'll probably be home around 7:30; Kelly works late on Monday nights and studies when she gets home, meaning they don't normally see one another on Mondays. Every other night, though, he's not here until late, frequently coming in after he thinks I'm asleep.

Little does he know that I am aware of what time he comes in every single night. Parent genes are constitutive operators-once turned on, they're never turned off. He doesn't understand that.

And I worry. They say they're going to wait until their bachelors' degrees are completed.

So many things could go so wrong in between now and then. What happens if she doesn't get into medical school? It could happen. It gets harder to get in every year. Will this drive her to urge him into starting a family sooner, or he pressuring her? What would she do as an alternate? She has no backup plans. She seems to naively, and stubbornly, believe that this will happen for her.

I hope it does. I think she'd do well, provided it's not a particularly social specialty. Her primary interest, at least right now, is surgery, probably a good choice for her.

She has a lot of hurdles to jump over before she gets there. She needs to keep up her average-probably not that hard at junior college, but once she gets into upper division, the amount and complexity of the work has a way of increasing geometrically. She has to get good scores on her MCATs. And she needs funding galore. She has even fewer resources than my darling boy, if that's possible. All that's keeping her off the streets are the good graces of Allison and Langly.

It seems to work out. She's not there much, and when she is, she gets along with the children and the landlords. I've not heard any grumbling about her presence. I suspect she is generally quiet-except perhaps when she's with my son...

And that worries me. I know they're sexually active. This is the age of raging hormones for both of them. And Michael is not aware of it, but I know that he has been getting some of his 'supplies' from Byers.

Don't get to used to it, dear boy. The pipes are likely to dry up after the birth of baby Byers. I somehow don't see them repeating the pattern of Mulder and the scrumptious Dana Scully. I swear, get a little liquor in them, they have no restraint whatsoever. I don't think baby Byers is an accident, unlike the latest baby Mulder. I think this child was planned and desired, even if much of it was unconscious.

I hope Dana has informed her husband of her condition. Somehow I suspect he knows and is simply waiting for her to confess. Perhaps his attitude is what is preventing her from talking to him about it. I haven't spoken with him in days, so I can't tell, and not that Mulder is particularly self-revelatory anyway.

Maybe it's good that Martha is not here tonight.

I keep feeling horribly guilty when I think of the things she said to me in relation to my son.

I know she's right. I know this. Intellectually and consciously, she is correct.

My instincts are overtaking me here. My worry, my fear, my uncertainty.

And it makes me wonder: are you thinking of your boy, or of yourself?

I said there was nothing worse than a righteous fool.

Particularly when that fool is yourself.

I'm interrupted by a rap on the door. It's not a harsh one. I move to the spyhole-movement is really laborious these days-and notice it's Allison standing in my hallway.

Oh Christ. I hope she and the Blonde Boy haven't gotten into it again.

"Allison, come in."

"Thanks." She sounds fine. No shaking in her voice, no nervous gestures with her hands. "How're you doing, Frohike?" She leans over to plant a kiss on my cheek.

Ah, how I love it when the girls do that.

"Fine, fine. How's your boy?"

"I'm assuming you mean the putative adult."

"Yes, that one."

"Home with a fractured arm and pneumonia. Other than that, he's just peachy."

"Fractured arm?"

"Michael didn't tell you?"

"Michael doesn't tell me much of anything these days." I try to keep the rancor out of my voice, and I'm not totally successful.

"He took Patrick skating yesterday."

"Oh, Christ. I remember one job we did for Mulder, it was at Capitol Ice, and Langly damn near killed himself and everyone else there."

"Well, Patrick thought he saw somebody he knew and was afraid of, and took off like a bat out of hell, and Langly had to pour it on to catch him.  Which he was able to do, but regrettably, he wasn't able to stop. At least not in any fashion recommended."

I can't help but laugh a little. "I know it's not funny, my dear, but it is, in a way."

She smiles. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?" She looks positively evil.

"You have my sympathy."

"Ah, he's knocked out on mega-quantities of codeine. And yes, I asked if we could have a permanent supply, and no, they wouldn't give me one!"

"Ah, you knew my next question. I'm not surprised about the pneumonia. He's horrible about taking care of himself."

"Uh-huh." She passes me a look like, and you're one to talk, aren't you?

Oh, yeah.

"How long do you think he'll be incarcerated for?"

"He supposedly can go back to work next week. Assuming I don't murder him first."

"You said he's on drugs."

"Right now. As soon as he starts feeling better, he's the biggest brat in the world."

"Only when he's feeling better?"

She laughs. "He claims he's going to work tomorrow."

"And have you exercised your proper spousal prerogatives?"

She laughs, very loudly this time. "Oh yeah, like anything I'd say would stop him if he's got it in his mind. Let's just say I'm not going to set the alarm or wake him up in the morning. Passive resistance, if you will."

She smiles wickedly again. "And if that fails, I just won't wash his hair."

"You're a very cruel woman, Allison."

"Thank you, I try to be. Frohike, do you feel like doing a little paperwork? You don't have to, but-"

"Not a problem. What's the deal?"

"Patrick."

"Ah, seeking to legitimize your parental rights."

"Yes. And I'm not interested in going through normal channels."

I'm a bit surprised, but I don't express that.

"How do you want to do this?"

"I'm not sure. I thought I'd ask you what you thought was best." She reaches into her purse-how women locate anything in their purses is one of life's great mysteries to me-and grabs one sheet of paper, and hands it to me.

A certificate of live birth, British Virgin Gorda Sound. Nice real estate if you can afford it.

What the hell were his parents doing in BVGS?

The certificate shows a live birth of 12 July 1997, male child, single birth, name of Patrick Christopher Soona. Father's name listed as Kenneth Soona, which I've since learned was one of Scott's many aliases. The mother is listed as Kyle Soona, but I suspect this isn't her name at all.

"The only name I've ever heard his mother called is Tricky," she says.

"Tricky? The Trickturner? That's his mother?"

"Was. Deceased."

"I wondered what happened to Tricky. Used to talk with her on line once in a while."

"Tricky died after Black Hat."

"Shit."

"That's when Scott received custody of him."

"Any paperwork for that?"

"Didn't find anything in his stuff, but I just went through it quickly."

"They weren't married?"

"Weren't even still together apparently when Patrick was born, although they stayed friends, from what I can gather."

"Weirdness."

"Tell me about it." She looks momentarily distressed. "Frohike, something kind of bizarre happened a little while ago."

"What was that?" I feel my nerves prick up uncomfortably.

"Well, I called Langly in this morning, needless to say, and I left the message for his superior. Heard nothing throughout most of the day. Then we get these two men in black out in front of our house, hammering on the buzzer and asking to come in. Wanting to confirm that Langly was where he said he was."

"What'd you tell them?"

"I basically told them not to show their ugly mugs around my property ever again." Now her small face is contorted with irritation. "Really, I mean, what is the problem that you can't even call in sick and you have people coming and checking up on you!"

"He's NSA, my dear. Things like that will happen."

"That's what Langly said. But this is our home, Frohike, this is our private life-"

"Allison, I think you realize how little of your life is really private."

"I like to cling to the illusion that it is."

"And that's all it is, an illusion."

"It's an illusion that lets me relax and enjoy my family and my life. You take that from me, you're taking something that in my mind does not belong to you, and you're going to make me very, very unhappy. This is my family, and I don't appreciate these incidents."

Allison is a pussycat by nature, but threaten her family in any way, real or perceived, and her transformation into a fierce tigress is palpable. Right now the claws and teeth are bared with a vengeance.

And she's a redhead. I'm well acquainted with the peccadilloes of redheads.

"How would you like to do this, my dear?"

"Whatever way you think is best."

"Do you want this to appear as your own live birth, adoption through public resources, or private adoption?"

"What do you think?"

"I think private adoption would arouse the least suspicion. It's going to look odd to the IRS that you haven't declared a second dependent for the last four years, then all of a sudden you've added him in. And that's an agency I personally prefer to avoid any personal entanglements with. I happen to know your husband feels the same way."

"No kidding. Anyway, I don't care how you do it. I just don't want...anything to happen to Patrick." This causes her a grimace of pain.

I set about to work my kung fu. This is a very basic job, really. Admittedly, I haven't done adoptions, but I'm familiar with most official docs, and this job should be a piece of cake.

And it is, until I get to the box where it says 'Religion.'

"Leave it blank," Allison instructs.

"That's what I was going to do, but it locks up if you don't fill it in."

"Well, don't put Jewish in, whatever you do."

"You think Zen Buddhist would work?"

"Doubtful. Langly's family was nominally Protestant. We'll go with that."

That entry allows passage. I'm actually somewhat curious as to what would occur if you made a different entry, but I remind myself, this might be a basic hack, but it's a hack nonetheless. And the first commandment of hacking is: Don't fuck around. Get in there, do what you need to do, and don't play with it. The quicker you move, and the more direct you are, the fewest number of footprints you leave behind. Admittedly, on some hacks, you're in for several hours, and you do have a number of tasks to perform, but you really have to cover your tracks carefully in that case.

After approximately 20 minutes, Patrick has been legally adopted by Ringo and Allison Langly, who have all rights of guardianship according to the Commonwealth of Virginia.

"You need to get him a social security number," I remind her.

"You're aware that kids have to have them by the age of two now...this might cause some problems..."

"He's legally yours, my dear. At least as far as the state is concerned."

"True, true, and he is an adoptee...I think I should be able to pass without suspicion."

"Less so than if I try going into Social Security. That system's a bitch." It is. Not so much due to the protections-which should be a lot better than they are-but due to the ancient, convoluted and kluge-like nature of the programming that has created and mutated it over the years.

Your tax dollars at work.

"By the way, I didn't say congratulations." She smiles at me.

"For what?"

"Frohike, about Michael and Kelly!"

"Oh, that."

She frowns slightly. "Hmm...do I sense someone in this room is less than happy about the whole thing?"

"Let's just say I think they're young and clueless and insane."

She laughs, a warm, hearty laugh, but it is still directed at me.

"Frohike, weren't you ever young and clueless and insane?"

"Yes, which is why I think they should really think more about this."

"In what way?" She looks genuinely puzzled, and I'm amazed-I usually give Allison credit for more brains than this.

"They have so little experience."

"They'll get experience."

"They have so much schooling left."

"They talked about at least getting their BA's."

"They don't have two nickels between them."

"So?"

I'm not getting through to this woman. She's normally a level-headed, practical person.

Of course, that goes out the window when it's her boy in question. Then she's all starry-eyed and melts into a puddle of mush.

"Frohike, get over it, okay? You can't stop it."

"That's what Martha says."

"So? Listen to the lady. She seems like she's pretty dead on about things."

"She is."

"I also wanted to invite you two over for post-Yom Kippur. It's the day after tomorrow, and we always pig out after the fast."

"You fasting this year?"

"Yeah, I think so. Hey, I'm a pretty good High Holy Days Jew." She laughs.

"I don't know...I'm supposed to watching what I eat..."

"Frohike, you haven't been out of the house since you were released. C'mon. It's only dinner."

"I'm not sure what time Martha gets off work."

"It's after sundown, at any rate. The fast doesn't end till the sun goes down. I think you should get out more."

She looks eager, pleading.

"All right."

"Cool."

"What're you going to do with the boy being sick?"

"He should be feeling better by then-provided he lays low and does what he's supposed to do."

"That's a mighty big proviso with him."

"Tell me about it." She smiles tenderly-ah, she's so in love with him. "I think Patrick's upset about him being sick. He's been sticking close to him all day."

"I suspect in view of losing his father, he would be anxious."

"I know. Every time Langly comes down with something, we go through the whole thing of, don't worry, he'll get better. And Patrick just hovers like a bee near nectar."

"I doubt your man minds much."

"I don't think so, except maybe when Patrick's energy gets the best of him and he tears up the bed."

I have to laugh. "They're two peas in a pod, aren't they?"

"It's almost spooky sometimes."

"I expect that right now he feels a little guilty that Langly got hurt."

She shakes her head adamantly. "No, I don't think so. Patrick insists he saw someone who he says used to visit his dad, and he was quite specific about it not being a friend."

"Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"I think he saw somebody that possibly reminded him of someone he doesn't like."

"Was he able to describe the person?"

"Dark hair. Talk about narrowing it down." She gives a harsh laugh.

"Height, description of the face?"

"Patrick's four. We all look like giants to him. Even me. Though at the rate he's growing, that won't last long." She sighs.

"He's probably going to be tall."

"Scott was slightly taller than Langly. The gods of genetics are on his side. I don't know, Frohike. I still think he's awfully young to make positive ID."

"I wouldn't discount somebody's judgment just because they're young, my dear."

"Oh, you wouldn't, would you?"

She's smiling...but she's aiming directly at my gut.

Bullseye.
 

My son finally shows up. I've made dinner, the first time in weeks I've cooked. Nothing much, but it's edible.

"Hi," he mutters, not looking at me. "I got to study."

"Eat something first."

He thinks about that, for roughly ten seconds. "Where's Martha?"

"In Baltimore."

"So you're soloing tonight."

"Looks that way."

"I am starved," he concedes.

God, he looks tired. He's been so busy...and I don't think that aspect of his life is going to improve any time soon.

"Kelly's working late?" I'm sure she is, but I'm trying to be polite and not set him off.

"Yeah, it's Monday, she always stays late. Hate Mondays."

"They can be harsh."

"Yeah."

I serve him some tomato soup and grilled cheese-comfort food for us both.

"How're your classes going?"

He blinks his eyes-I hope he can stay awake. "They're going. Too much work. And I got to take four classes next semester so I can transfer out in the fall. I'm gonna have to cut my tutoring hours, this is killing me."

"It's a lot of work."

"No kidding." He bites into his sandwich, and I think I hear an appreciative sigh. "Grilled cheese. My favorite."

"Michael, if you're my son, and I think you are, then food is your favorite."

"That, too." He smiles a tiny bit. "Man, I was hoping to get some pool time in, we have an indoor at school, but it's like I can barely keep my head above water as is. Not to use a bad metaphor."

I chuckle. "I remember going to grad school when you kids were tiny. It was a bitch, but it was a good time, too. We were always so tired and so busy...but the memories I have are happy ones."

"So you were in school still when I was born?"

"Uh-huh. And working full time. And so was your mother."

"Yeah, I think I remember when Mom'd go to work after we all went to bed and she'd get home when we were getting up. And you used to be gone some nights, but not every night."

"That's right. I used to try and study while I was watching you guys so your mother could take a nap before her shift. I'm amazed I got anything done."

"You did, though."

"I did. It's true."

"And then sometimes we used to go like to the beach in the summer. Used to like that."

"Somehow, we always found the time for that."

He's quiet. "So Dad? You did all this. And you were okay. That was when things were good. So why're you so afraid that I couldn't do it?"

Why am I?

"I don't know...I think being so tired right now, it brings back memories of being bone-tired 24 hours a day, seven days a week...now that part I don't miss."

"Dad, I'm already tired all the time. I know what it's like."

"It can get worse."

"It is worse. I'm still sick. I think I'm gonna die with this cold. It won't kill me. I'll just die with it."

"You need to take it easy."

He smiles a little, a twisted little grin. "Dad, you are so full of shit sometimes. You're the last person in the world to tell me to take it easy, you know."

"Probably true."

"It is true. Y'know, I love her, Dad."

He's said it. Calmly. Rationally, Not defensively. As a statement of fact, but one deeply colored by very strong emotion.

"I'm gonna marry her when we finish undergrad."

I'm silent.

"I'd really like it if you could be happy for us."

"I'm just worried, that's all."

"Dad, swear to God, you're not happy unless you've got something to worry about. And speaking of worrying, you feel up to doing some TMB stuff? Langly's sick, prof gets married in a week and a half, and I'm swamped. So you could either do a little bit of stuff, or you could at least worry about it."

"How about if I do both?"

He laughs. "Dad, I really gotta study."
 

I check in his room later, after doing some preliminary research that I'm taking from the databases of the lovely Dana Scully. I managed a full two hours of work before I felt myself fading.

I know I'm putting off going to bed because tonight I have to do it solo, and it's not something I ever want to become accustomed to again.

So I wander into my son's room, cracking the door quietly to see what he's up to.

He's sprawled on the bed, fully dressed, a chemistry textbook over his face and notes thrown all over the bed. Snoring lightly and looking about ten years old, with the corner of the pillow stuffed in his mouth.

He still does that.

He's still my baby boy.

But maybe I've underestimated him.

A little.

END OF PART 64