"Lift the man up; give him a seat of honor,
a silver-studded chair. Then tell the stewards
we'll have another wine bowl for libation..."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 7, Lines 174-176. Used without permission.
 

BYERS:

October 18, 2001

This is the day.

I wake with my insides all working against each other in a rough mix of joy, anticipation, sheer nervousness, and some sorrow.

I did promise Susanne that I would be faithful to her even in death.

I've broken that promise.

I lie in bed, alone, and wish that I had the capacity to converse with the dead. To explain to her why I've done what I've done. How I need this in order to continue. How I never expected it to happen. How I almost didn't, but how in some ways my survival instincts have superseded my vows. And ultimately, while I regret having broken my word to her, I am grateful for
the second chance that Juliet's being in my world has provided me.

I want to tell her all of this.

It's early, and I was up late, and I find myself drifting back into the light, dreamlike state one is in during the morning hours.

And I hear her.

"John, while you breathe, you hope."

It's as if no other explanation is required.

I remember the phrase from my Latin class. Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope.

And today, if nothing else, signifies that I am indeed alive, and that I hope-always.

I think it's time to get out of bed.
 

Surprisingly, I slept well. This may have been a combination of being drained from the late hour at which I arrived home and from the excitement and exhaustion that has been an essential element in these last few weeks.

Having my father there didn't hurt, either.

I fully expected him to return to his hotel, but he asked if he might stay in our guest room. This makes me grateful that we purchased a day bed. We figured on Caroline being more or less a regular visitor in this room. Never did I anticipate that my father might become a fixture as well.

Well, one visit does not a fixture make. But it's a start.

Of course, I had to make up the bed-I don't think my father has ever done a domestic chore in his entire life. And we don't have hired help. The guards don't count. They will be here even in our absence. Juliet got the bright idea that instead of kenneling Tivvy, or having Michael make the daily trek out here, that the guards should look after her. I was of the opinion that they would at the very least mock her request, at the most, inform us coldly that this was not a part of their responsibilities.

All of them agreed gleefully and without hesitation to cat-sit. Tivvy is a friendly cat and has managed to endear herself to our otherwise unwanted extra cast members. I can't fault their discretion-they do manage to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. But they do adore the cat. And Tivvy is always grateful for additional love slaves. However, I somehow doubt she could win over my father; I don't recall that he even likes cats. I'm not sure. We had dogs growing up.

I head down the stairs and make the well-worn path to the kitchen to serve Her Highness breakfast. I'm rather surprised that I've not heard her clamor to be served yet, as it is past the time I customarily feed her.

The reason becomes obvious when I enter the kitchen.

My father has fed the cat. There is a huge bowl of heavy cream on the floor where we keep her feeding mat-we keep it for her, and a bowl with at least two cans of Friskies, and a mixing bowl full of dry food.

My father doesn't quite understand that you don't feed a cat in the same quantities that you feed a dog, but the cat is not complaining.

"Thank you," I tell him, feeling somewhat shocked that he would perform this gesture.

"I wondered when you planned to wake up, so I went ahead and fed her. Poor thing was starving."

Not even close, Dad. Tivvy is about as far from starving as I am from being bald. Granted, I've got a lot more gray than I used to, but it can go as gray as it wants so long as I get to keep it. So far, I've managed to avoid the fates that have befallen Frohike and Langly.

"You could, however, put on some coffee."

That's right-he's never made his own coffee. I grind up the beans-we have some wonderful beans from the Celebes, both in regular and decaf (for Juliet), and they're wonderfully aromatic as they grind down into a fine powder.

"We're going to breakfast with your sister and her family," he announces.

I chafe a little-not at the idea of going out with Kat and Craig and the girls, of course-that sounds wonderful. But once again, he's giving me orders.

Maybe it's the only way he knows how to communicate. It's your wedding day, Byers. Give the man the benefit of the doubt.

And he is paying for it. Cash is, in my opinion, not a license for abuse of power. But I don't know that he'd share my opinion.

And taking us to breakfast, that hardly constitutes an abuse of power.

I just hope I can eat. My stomach is playing cruel tricks on me right now. How does Frohike live like this, I wonder.

I'm going to find out more about some of his experiences, on my own. Soon.
 

One never need worry about making conversation when Kat is present.

One would never know about her falling-out with our father. She is full of life and laughter and bonhomie, as is her nature. I think spiritually she is closer to Juliet's family than to ours.

She converses with Dad as though there has never been ill will between them. I know there has been plenty of it, even in times when they had no apparent disputes. But one of Kat's most sterling qualities is her forgiving nature.

And there is the inbred Byers tendency to stand on ceremony. This is a wedding, and there will be no arguments, no cruelties. It's not necessarily a bad thing to be able to employ such self-restraint, I decide.

Small talk does not come easily to my father, but Craig manages to engage him in discussions regarding their golf games. The difference is that while my father sees it as a necessary element of doing business, Craig plays simply because he enjoys the game.

"And because sometimes I have Wednesday afternoons off," he adds, smiling.

I need to talk to Craig about many things.

But not today.

My nieces keep me engaged-as much as possible in my distracted state. They can't wait to show off their new dresses-Kat says that they wanted to wear them this morning, an idea she vetoed, but not without resistance on the part of the young ladies.

The restaurant my father has selected is lovely, and the brunch is elaborate and delicious...

"John, are you all right? You've hardly eaten a thing!" Kat laughs at me.

"How can he be all right? He's getting married in a few hours," Craig teases, but it's gentle, playful-and Kat punches him lightly in the arm. This is behavior that I never saw between my own parents, who always seemed so formal, so distant in some ways...

My father has been quiet while we discuss the girls' school, their new teachers, their friends.

When Kat's family heads off for the washrooms, only then does he make his contribution.

"I wish your mother was here."

I feel my stomach sink, for a variety of reasons.

"I loved her very much, you know."

I wish my mother were here, too. She would have enjoyed this day. I think she would have been proud of me-well, I hope she would have been. Things might have been so different had she not died...

I simply nod in acknowledgment.
 

Kat and crew return to the table, debating heavily the merits of trying to consume another round from the scrumptious buffet tables that are laden with all kinds of treats.

"I'm stuffed, but everything's so good," Kat moans.

"Save your appetite. We have an incredible caterer," I assure her. To not have room for Genie's cooking would be, well, criminal.

She looks at me skeptically. "What, no rubber chickens? And you call this a wedding?"

Everyone laughs.

And for a few moments, we become something that previously I felt we had been in name only.

Family.
 

FROHIKE:

"Mel, come on. We're going for a walk."

Martha is trying so hard to get me back on the straight and narrow, and I, of course, being a recalcitrant bastard, am resisting.

For one thing, my leg is rather stiff, and I do expect to dance tonight. I refuse to let my leg dictate that.

"Maybe in a while." I'm attempting to placate her.

"No, now."

She is also stubborn. Did I mention that?

"We haven't had breakfast."

"We'll have breakfast when we get back. Let's go. It's beautiful out."

And it is. It's a perfect autumn day. Byers couldn't have gotten better had he ordered it up himself.

She slips her arm in mine, and we walk leisurely, taking in the sights of beautiful downtown Alexandria. I've never been to Burbank, but it can't be any uglier than this part of town, with its strip malls and parking problems and apartment buildings that look as if they were thrown up in haste.

"How'd your doctor say you were doing yesterday?"

Huh? Oh right, I had an appointment. Which I cancelled.

"Didn't go." No point in lying to her.

"Mel, you're supposed to go every two weeks for a while. What am I going to do with you?"

Oh, I can think of lots of things...

We walk towards a small park that is near where my building. The trees are blinding in their brightness. We're at the peak of autumn, the most lovely time of the year.

My birthday is in-I think it's eight days. By then, the climate will have changed, and have begun to resemble winter more than fall.

"Mel, you can't be skipping your cardiologist appointments."

"I know, but I had a lot to do yesterday. I'll go to the next one. I promise."

"Which is when?"

"In two weeks."

"I think you should call Monday and get in and be seen."

She stops, lets go of my arm, and turns to face me. "Mel, I love you. I want you to be around. I want you to be healthy. I don't think that's too much to ask. Is it?"

I feel a bit ashamed.

"Please. If you won't do for yourself, please do for me."

I promise her I'll try harder.

But I'm really going to miss having a J&B tonight.
 

ALLY:

"Langly, get up. You need to get your tux."

"Wedding's at five." He's still in bed, which I can't argue with in terms of him trying to get better, but I think this morning, he's mostly being lazy and stubborn.

"And it's almost eleven."

"So? Six hours. Like forever."

"Not even, Langly. We have brunch in two hours. Remember? With Frohike and Martha and the Mulders."

"So? I'm not gonna wear the tux to brunch."

I'm going to smack him. I'm really going to smack him.

"You. Are. Hopeless."

"Nah, just kinda tired." He settles that lovely French vanilla head into the pillows, smiling ever so slightly. Buying him a goosedown pillow was a mistake. He loves that thing. All it seems to have done is increase his reluctance to get out of bed.

"Langly, I have to wash your hair!"

"Oh, no fair. That's unfair advantage, you know."

"How?"

He rolls over on his back and gives me a wicked, lecherous grin.

"Wanna take a shower with me, little girl?"

He's so evil. Playing me like this.

And the worst part is, it works.
 

LANGLY:

I wonder if I can get her to do this even when the cast comes off. Hope so. I like this part.

"Did you and Miranda get to talk?" she asks me as she's soaping my back. God, her hands are nice.

"Mm-hmm," I tell her. I don't wanna go into details right now.

"How was she?"

"She's having a tough time. She'll tell you all about it."

"She read you the riot act?"

"Nah, I think it's more to do with school. Man, I thought high school was cruel when I went."

"Meaning?"

"Randa's gonna tell you. She'll let you know what's up. But she's gonna be fine."

I hope, anyway.

"I guess you're not going to tell me anything," big sigh from the person washing my legs-oh yeah, don't stop, girl...

"Randa wants to talk to you herself. Really, Ally, she's gonna be fine. Randa's tough. She's cool."

"She better not try to drink at the wedding today."

"I think Mr. Hangover will teach her a lesson."

"Ever teach you?" She asks me-keep that up, Ally girl...

"Well, no, not really."

"Me neither." She sounds kind of skeptical. "I just hope she's smarter than we are about it."

Oh, you're not the only one, Ally honey.

You're not the only one.
 

This is really nice-she drops the Miranda thing, and she sinks down to her knees...

Oh yeah! I'm just about shaking thinking about it.

Until the door bursts open-damn, didn't we lock it?

"Mommy, where's my Fed'ration fighter and my Darth Maul action figure? I can't find it!" Oh wonderful. Pint-sized tragedy...

I love parenting.

Most of the time.
 

MARTHA:

He looks so positively delicious in a suit.

We're getting ready for brunch, and I'm wearing my black outfit that I wore on my birthday. I still feel strange wearing black affiliated with anything to do with a wedding-it's my Southern upbringing-but Mel loves this outfit.

And loves to watch me put it on. He's just sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes all lit up like a little boy's, as I go through the motions of getting my clothes on.

Which I do very slowly, teasingly. I let him enjoy every motion.

And I can't believe how much I'm enjoying this myself. He loves to watch me get ready to go out. And I love to do it for him.

I slip into a black lace bra and panties-very slowly, very coquettishly. I almost laugh at myself. Martha, you're a middle-aged nurse, and you're acting like a 20-year-old stripper.

And loving it.

And I want to make a point.

I want him to know how important it is that he care for himself. That dead men don't get to watch their girlfriends put their nice clothes on.

And take them off.

"God, you're hot," he whispers as I slip my camisole on.

Strange how un-self-conscious I feel around this man.

Michael says he's tough. And I believe it. You'd have to be to survive what he has, both in recent times and in times past.

But all that toughness won't help him if he's not going to take seriously that he's got some major health problems that need addressing.

Martha, you have to have been crazy to fall for this man. This is everything in life you don't need...

I look at him on the edge of the bed, watching me, green eyes intent, hypnotized and hypnotic...

Oh, yes it is.

Yes, it is.
 

FROHIKE:

We are, of course, the first ones at brunch. Mulder and Langly are not the most punctual of people, and they live up, once again, to their reputation.

I'm dying for real coffee. Which I can't have.

And champagne. But I promised her I would only have champagne-or any liquor-at the toast.

Which is mine to deliver.

I've thought about all the things I want to say.

I think when the time comes, I'll know how it should come out. At least I hope so.

Michael and Kelly see us and call out to us. I'm somewhat dismayed that he and Kelly have showed up at this rather nice place in their jeans and T-shirts, but Martha shows no disapproval, and in fact smiles when Michael comes over-and gives her a quick hug.

"Hi, Mr. Frohike," Kelly still calls me that.

"It's just Frohike," if she's going to eventually be my daughter-in-law, she can call me that.

Or...

What if she calls me Dad?

I don't suppose I'll reject it.

"We called Jo, asked her if she needed a lift, but she says she's got an escort for the wedding, and she's like bringing him."

"An escort?" She didn't say anything yesterday about an escort.

"She says, don't sweat it, he's a guest at the wedding. So it's cool. Not like we gotta set another place or something."

At that moment, I see her. She's definitely thinner, and so is her hair. And she does indeed have an escort...

One Walter Skinner.

Now where did that come from?

"Melvin, have you met-"

"Frohike, hello, good to see you." Skinner shakes my hand.

At least I won't be the only guy in a suit today.

"Walter's an...old friend of Joan's. And he's going to the wedding, so we decided to go together," Jo explains, as if she needed to.

An old friend of Joan's? As in Langly's older sister?

God, it's a small world.

"I see that you two are already acquainted," she smiles. "Martha, how are you? Having any trouble making Melvin behave?"

Martha rolls her eyes and laughs. "Always."

Jo smiles widely. "Better you than me, dear. Oh, I see the Mulders."

Dana Scully-Mulder leads her clan. She's dressed in a dress of bright royal blue, which I recognize to be one of her maternity dresses. She's only a couple months along, but already she has a visible bump.

She's a vision of loveliness, no matter what.

Mulder follows her, holding Rebecca's hand and carrying Sarah. She got him to dress somewhat nicely, if casually.

He damn better have gotten his tux.

"Unca Fwoiky, I got a Nerfoop!" Rebecca is telling me all about what sounds like a new toy.

"NerfHoops. Indoor basketball. So she can practice her layup shot." Mulder grins. "Hey, Martha, how're you doing with this impossible bastard?"

I glare at him.

I seem to have a reputation around here.

"Oh, he's impossible, all right." But at least Martha smiles when she says it.

"Who are we waiting on? Oh, that's right, the Langlys." Jo's looking around, taking a head count.

"Always the last to arrive," I grumble.

They finally burst in, Miranda and her mother nicely dressed, Langly and the boy appearing to have grabbed whatever was closest out of the laundry basket and thrown it on their backs.

"Sorry we're late. We were waiting on him," Miranda flicks her thumb at Langly.

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to do my hair!" Langly reminds her.

"And a good thing I did, otherwise you'd scare small children and animals." She sticks her tongue out at him, and he returns the gesture.

Nice to see them communicating.

Langly then notices that Walter Skinner is present. I wonder if he's aware that Joan and Walter were known to each other.

Apparently he does. He shakes Skinner's hand with his good arm, and Skinner leans over and whispers something to him.

Langly just nods.

I wonder what that's all about. I'll have to ask him later.

But not now.

This is a time for joy, for love, for friendship.

And for food.

I'm starved.

END OF PART 93