Tu Quoque
 

FROHIKE:

I've got to get these guys stitched up.

Closest hospital...

Martha works at Northeast Georgetown. Admittedly, she's in critical care, not emergency...

Get real, Frohike. If she's working, she's going to be busy and she's not going to have time to talk to you.

And if she's not, well...

You may just have to head up to Baltimore later.

Just to make sure she's okay.
 

MICHAEL:

Sitting here watching CNN Weather with Ally and Miranda and Patrick and Shelby...looks like a lot of the storm's going out to sea.

We get lucky. No damage to Chateau Langly. Pool's dirty from all the crap that blew into it, but I can clean that up, no problem.

I need to check on the offices, but I think everything's okay.

Wish I knew where my dad was. Make sure he's okay. But I think he would've called by now...

Ally's cuddling Patrick, who's real whiny. I think the storm freaked him out. Ally doesn't think it's the storm, she thinks it's the shots he got earlier, says they make kids feel kind of sick after they get them. He keeps whimpering he wants his daddy.

God, my heart just about busts. I know that one way too well. Even now, when my dad is right here anytime pretty much I need him, I still remember what it was like to need him...and not have him around.

Miranda's channel surfing and puts on one of the local stations. I start to get up. I fucking hate local news, mostly because the commentators are such stupid fuckheads. Then I hear the word 'Warrenton' and 'trailer park' in the same sentence...

I stop.

The trailer park's on County Road 113...shit, that's where Kelly's mom lives...where Kelly used to live...near the Warrenton Diner...

17 people dead so far, and tons of property damage.

Oh shit. What the fuck do I do? Do I call Kelly? Do I wait and try and find out who the fuck got hurt and who died and...

"Michael." I hear Ally's quiet voice. "Isn't that where Kelly used to live?"

"Yeah."

"I think you'd better call her."

"I dunno...maybe her mom's okay..."

"Michael! Call her. Now."

"Maybe I oughta go out there first, find out what's going on..."

"Michael! Quit dicking around. Call her." Her voice is almost like a whisper when she gets to the end of the sentence.

That's her I'm-not-fucking-around voice, and I know better than to argue with it. Even Miranda doesn't argue with her when she gets like this.

Oh fuck...Kelly's mom may be a bitch, and a waste case, and a lush...but she's still Kelly's mom...make her okay.

Give Kelly a chance to talk to her again.
 

BYERS:

The wind quiets. I can feel the rain pouring in...

I gently roll off Juliet. She groans in pain. Oh Christ, I hope I didn't hurt her anymore.

"I'm sorry," I say to her softly. She's obviously in pain; I can see a glint of tears in her dark eyes. I gently sit her up. I must have thrown her down harder than I thought.

"It's all right. Beats being dead," she says weakly.

"Do you think you can get up, if I help you?"

"I think so." She blinks her eyes. Her skin is pale and damp with a mixture of sweat and rain. "Just let me sit here for a moment." She clutches at my hand, and I wrap hers in both of mine.

"Juliet, I'm so sorry...I guess I'm not thinking very well lately..."

"No." She shakes her head. "I'd have been hurt far worse if you hadn't done it...I love you, John." And the tears begin to slip from her eyes.

I gaze at her, knowing that our home is destroyed, and I have the oddest sensation amidst all the chaos in my life...

I am the luckiest man ever born.
 

FROHIKE:

Northeast Georgetown is a war zone. Lots and lots of injuries-most of them minor, but enough major ones that these guys are going to have to wait for a while.

I should probably stay with them.

Frohike, get over it! They're men in their late 30s, for Christ's sake!

Never mind that Bryce is alternately mewling and screaming that he's leaving, they killed his mother in a hospital, no way is he gettting looked at...

"Bryce, shut the fuck up!" It's Langly, who for once is being the more mature member of a pair. This is a novel occurrence.

"Yeah, well, you know what they do here, don't you? They suck your blood out, and then they type you, and they record all your genetic data, and they have records, and they follow you everywhere, and you can't get away from it..." the young man whom I've ascertained is Langly's coworker is ranting on.

Jesus Christ on a bike. And I thought we were paranoid.

"Jesus fuck, Bryce, you're being insane!"

Well, not totally. There's plenty of truth in what Bryce has said...but he still needs his head looked at.

Perhaps by the psych department.

I wonder in this moment how much Langly has told him about his...avocation.

I'm guessing not much...I'm hoping not much. We try not to make our identities terribly public. And in spite of the fact that he has a nonstop mouth, I think Langly is smart enough not to be terribly talkative about what we do after hours.

"I'm not waiting anymore!" Bryce is hissing at Langly. I hope they get along better than this in the office; it's got to be hell if they don't.

"You're fucking waiting, and you're gonna shut your yap, and you're gonna do it now!" Langly retorts back loudly, enough so that the crowd in chairs turns to watch the spectacle.

I think this would be a good time for me to bow out.
 

There are a number of ICU's in this hospital. I know that Martha deals with the most critical patients.

With the efficiency that typifies most hospitals, it takes me a good fifteen minutes and three people to find out that she is in fact working and what unit she is on.

I feel like a high school boy trying to find out if a girl I have a crush on likes me back. I find myself stammering and growing warm.

At least being 56 years old eliminates some of the more obvious, and odious, aspects of being a teenager...but not by much.

Armed with information, I make a stop by the hospital florist before I go off in search.

What does she like? I have no idea. I don't know her favorite flower, her favorite color, I don't know what flowers perhaps have an unfortunate significance to her...

What if she won't talk to me? What if she would just as soon forget I ever existed, that I was there for what had to be one of the more unpleasant nights of her life?

What if she's just too busy and can't see me?

Worse, what if she DOES want to see me?   What if she does have feelings for me? That might be even worse...

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I HAVE reverted to being 16 again.
 

Buying flowers is so difficult. I remember agonizing for hours over getting flowers for Dana Scully while she lay in a coma...it seemed the least I could do.

For her, I gave a bundle of wildflowers. This was after a long siege of internal debate and major indecision.

For Martha? I don't even know where to begin.

I contemplate a dozen roses...no. Too forward. A single bloom? That implies a greater intimacy than exists (although I would like it to exist). A bundle of daisies? Too casual. Lilies? Lilies have a habit of striking great emotion in people-sometimes very positive, other times very negative. In Canada, for example, you never send lilies for a special occasion-they're considered to symbolize death.

Chrysanthemums seem too gaudy; nothing about Martha is garish in the least. Azaleas and irises just don't fit right-and with those flowers, I need to make a color decision, which right now is making my ulcer remind me that it's still very much there. There are greenhouse plants, of course, but it just doesn't sit right with me.

I spot them.

Pussywillows. Long, sturdy stems, soft as silk buds.

Yes, I think these will suffice.

I order a bundle, have them wrapped, and I'm off on reconnaisance.
 

LANGLY:

Jesus fuck. And Ally complains that I'm a brat when I need medical attention.

Bryce is being a total baby here, and I'm ready to kill him. If I didn't have a bleeding left arm-now wrapped in an old scarf of Fro's that I found amidst all the trash in his back seat (guy should really clean his car once in a while, you know. I mean, you can keep your house junky, but people may actually have to ride in your car once in a while).

Finally, they take the whining fucker-he's got the head injury, he gets to go first. Fine. I can watch TV. Unfortuantely, since we just had major weather, all we get is news. No chance of switching to MTV or the Cartoon Network-hey, I'd be willing to risk crowd insurrection by changing the channels.

All I can say is, least it's not Oprah. Sorry, I can't deal with the talks. Only time I ever watched was one time when Mulder was on Jerry Springer. And that was such a bummer, because there were no fistfights on that one. Lots of name calling-I mean, Mulder must have elephant hide, listening to people call him what they did-but no real action. And no scantily clad women.

Hardly worth your while watching.

God, this is so amazing. They got all these talking heads out in the field, looking like they must have been dipped in hair spray and dental bleach-don't these guys ever get messed up? I mean, they're so fake. It's windy and this chick's hair hasn't moved one strand.

I look at my own ponytail. It's full of mud and soot and debris. I can't wait to get home and wash it.

Maybe I can get Ally to wash my hair for me. The thought of jumping in the shower with her makes me feel warmer and better. Then maybe just jumping her afterwards...

Which reminds me, I got to call her. I start to get up and head for the phone bank, when I hear my name called.

I'm gonna have to wait to call her...but I still want to jump her bones.

I am such a sick fuck-I've just survived the attack of the killer tornado, and all I want to do is screw my wife.

I wonder what Freud would've made of that.
 

MICHAEL:

Christ, getting a dial tone is a major challenge. Looks like a lot of places had phone service screwed up by this.

Ally tells me to get her cell out of her purse, try that. Three tries and the third one's a charm. I'm in.

"Viral Genetics." Guy voice. I think I met him once. Peter or something.

"Hi, let me talk to Kelly."

"Can I tell her who's calling?"

"Michael."

"Hold on." I don't think he got up from his desk, because I can hear him shout for Kelly. She picks up.

"Michael, what's up? Are you okay? Did anyone get hurt?"

"You've got the news on?"

"Michael, that's all we've been hearing about. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm cool. Everybody here's okay. I'm at your house."

"Thank God. How about your dad?"

"Don't know yet, I think he's okay." I'm kind of worried about that one. I'm saying it to make it be true, but I can feel my stomach knotting up. "Kel, I'm watching the local here...there was an accident in the trailer park in Warrenton...the one near the Warrenton Diner...they're saying the tornado ripped right through there..."

"Oh God no!" I can hear the breath being sucked out of her. "Mom."

"Maybe we ought to wait-"

"I'm not waiting for anything. Stay there until I get there, then we're going out to Warrenton." She clicks up without another word.

Please, don't let her mom be in the dead pool.
 

FROHIKE:

It's quieter here than in other parts of the hospital...the ICU will pick up to a fevered pace after the serious injuries are returned from surgery. For now, people appear to be calmly preparing for a later onslaught.

I can feel my stomach rise to my throat.

"Can I help you?" One of the desk nurses looks over at me.

"Uh...um...I'm looking...for Martha Small." My voice cracks as I say her name.

Yes, I'm 16 all over again. And not liking it a whole lot.

"And you are?"

I almost choke on my own name. "Melvin Frohike." I say it so quietly, as if I'm embarrassed about something.

"She's with a patient. Have a seat and I'll let her know you're here."

Chances are she'll be with that patient forever. She probably will think I'm stalking her...

I wait.
 

LANGLY:

It doesn't take long to get stitched-once they find somebody to stitch me up. I've got five of 'em. In my left arm. Big fucking deal. It's not like I got to win any beauty contests.

And I bet I can get Ally to kiss it and make it better.

Let's see if Bryce-boy is alive.

I go and get my instructions-among them is keep the wound dry.

Not a fucking chance, folks. I'm taking a shower as soon as I get home. And first chance I get, I'm getting in the pool.

They tell me where I can find Bryce. They also ask if I'm related to him.

"No."

"Count yourself lucky." The desk chick shakes her head.

Bryce is sedated. I mean, they fucking had to sedate him! For a gash in the head.

"He okay?" I ask the nurse, who's this huge guy that looks like Jerry on ER.

"Now that we've given him a little Valium, he's just fine."

"Nothing serious?"

"Not in terms of head injury. In terms of hysteria, well, that's another matter."

Bryce is looking like he's totally out of it.

"He needs to be watched for about twelve hours, though. Are you going home with him?"

Not if I can help it.

But he does live alone...and Frohike's driving.

All right, I'll take him home and let Ally deal with him.

She's good at dealing with brats.

I ought to know.
 

FROHIKE:

I feel as if I'm sitting on the sofa in my date's home, under the intensely (and justifiedly) suspicious gaze of her father. And I'm about as relaxed.

Only now I've got the ulcer to remind me that at 56, it's possible to have the worst of both worlds.

How much do you want to bed she told the staff to keep her busy? Or to hide her?

Not that I would blame her.

I was an idiot for this.

She's a married woman, Frohike. Leave her alone.

She's a married woman with a dying husband...

And she lives in Baltimore...and several tornadoes whipped through Baltimore...

No, I couldn't get that lucky, could I?

I am such a pathetic sick fucker. If I had any sense of decency whatsoever, I wouldn't be entertaining such horrible thoughts...

"Melvin?" Quiet, familiar voice. Carolina drawl.

I almost fall out of my chair.

"Debbie said you were here to see me. What can I do for you?"

"Uh...well...I...I just wanted to make sure...you were okay...you know, the tornadoes and all..."

"I'm fine, as you can see."

That smile. Even in her scrubs, how could I have ever thought this woman plain?

And then I notice that under her scrubs, a bit of lace peeks out from the v-neck of the shirt.

Oh God. What I wouldn't give to explore what's under that lace.

"How...how is your husband?"

"Well, we were fortunately spared a tornado...I'm afraid he's doing poorly this week, though." She looks so tired. And so distressed.

This was a mistake. I'm only adding to her misery. I shouldn't have come.

Somehow, though, this revelation gives me hope.

As I said, I'm such a sick, pathetic fucker.

"Um...pardon my presumptuousness.   I should go now." I begin to rise out of my seat. "Oh, I thought...you might...like these." I can feel my face growing hot and my breath catching.

She is going to think I'm such an idiot. Or she's going to think I'm stalking her and call hospital security.

But instead, I'm treated to that smile again. I can feel my kneecaps dissolving.

"Pussywillows! Oh, I love these! Melvin, that was so kind of you...thank you."

I think I detect a faint flush on her cheeks. All of a sudden, she has shed ten years from her face.

"Well...I should go now...I've got two monsters downstairs being repaired."

"Kids or adults?"

"Adults. Allegedly, at any rate."

"They're the worst kind." She looks at me with her brown, clear gaze. "Thank you, Melvin...it's been a bad week, and this just made my day."

"You're welcome."

I am such a dork!

16 revisited. God help me.

I am too old for this shit.
 

Langly is sitting in chairs, arm bandaged, and a very groggy-looking Bryce is leaning up against his uninjured arm.

"Where the fuck were you?" he demands testily.

"Seeing someone."

"Who?"

"None of your damn business." I point to the semi-conscious Bryce. "What're we doing with that?"

"I gotta take him home for a while." Langly grimaces as he says this. "Says he can't be alone for about half a day. So I thought maybe Ally could look after him."

"Langly, some day your wife is not going to forgive your presumption."

"Sure she will! She loves me!"

And the sad part is, he's right.

Oh, to feel that secure with another human being.

END OF PART 84