"Nil non mortale tenemus, pectoris exceptis ingeniique bonis." (We possess nothing that is not mortal, except the blessings of heart and mind.)

Ovid, "Tristia," III, 7, 43. Used without permission.
 

ALLY:

"I think we can stuff him in bed now."

Langly's in his chair, cuddling a sleeping Patrick against his heart. I lift the little guy up, and he stirs slightly, but then drops his head like a lead weight against my shoulder. This kid is growing like crazy.

"Night, dude," Langly calls softly to him. Patrick just hangs there like a rag doll. Like I said, two speeds-way fast or zero. This kid may never develop a second gear. His stepfather/uncle/whatever you want to call him certainly never did.

Miranda has crept up the stairs, hair swept up in a clip, clad in her jammies, which I think she put on hours ago, since she appeared at dinner in them. "I'm going to bed," she announces.

"Night, Randa," Langly calls to her.

I stop over next to her and kiss her on top of the head. "Night, honey, I love you."

"Love you too," she says, and pats Patrick on the head. She then turns to Langly. "Oh, good night to you, too, Wicked Stepfather."

Langly grins.

Ah, we seem so suburban, so middle class, so contentedly domestic.

We could be. Inside our well-secured fortress, we're as normal as the next family.

Then again, most normal families don't live in homes that make security at Buckingham Palace look lame.

Do they?
 

I rejoin Langly in the living room. Nothing much on the news tonight. Not that there ever is-talk about a sanitized press.

"Hey babe," I take his good hand and press it to my cheek. "I think there's something we need to do."

"Hmm?" He's in alpha-wave mode, staring at the TV.

"I think it's time we went through some of the things we got from your mystery siblings."

He doesn't answer for a few minutes.

Finally, he snaps off the TV from the remote, takes my hand, and we walk slowly down the hall to our room.

I think he's dreading this. I know I am.
 

We start with Joan's things, and our first thing to examine are the bank statements she provided. The newest ones are nine years old, which is problematic-not only is it not evident (to me) what these statements mean, but they're probably too old to indict anything or anyone at this point. I'm sure the statute of limitations ran out on these years ago.

"You think these names mean anything? At least the ones she has circled," I ask.

"Well, had to be a reason for her to circle 'em. I can check it out."

We're garbed for bedtime, papers all over the bed. I'm sprawled on my stomach, Langly's sitting up cross-legged (hard to sprawl when you only have one functional arm).

"What if these are just fictitious names, set up just to cover something, though?" I fear that this may be the case.

"I'm assuming they are. But you can trace a fictitious name. Not always easy, but you can do it."

Well, he can. I don't possess his broad array of dazzling talents.

And right now, at least I don't have his cough. It's kicking in again.

"We should probably turn in soon," I say to him, patting his knee.

"Uh-huh." He's examining some correspondence. "Hey, Ally, get a load of this." He shows me a piece of stationery, with nothing but gobbledygook all over it.

"That's useful," I snort. Not!

"Hey, it's encrypted. And easiest algorithm in the world to solve. It's just back letter code. God, these people are idiots if they think they could hide anything with this!"

Well, not if those people happen to be him.

"So what's it say?" I ask.

"Tell you in a minute, just gotta finish it."

He's looked at this piece of paper for less than two minutes, and he's figured it out almost completely.

It can be tough being married to genius.

"Stationery looks to be from Renshaw's law firm."

"Is. Oh fuck. Get a load of this, Ally. My fuckrag brother-in-law was having Joanie followed by some private dick."

"When is that dated?"

"1986. September."

"Langly, when did you go to prison?"

"March 87."

"So six months before hand."

"Yeah. Looks like it's true. Joanie was catting around on ol' Roy. Serves the fucker right."

"What else does it say?"

"They taped 'em. Some of those tapes, they're her, caught in the act."

"That's truly tacky."

"Extremely."

"We don't have to listen to them, you know."

"Yeah, we do. But not tonight."

"How about some of her letters from Walter?"

He looks tired and sad when he stares at me. "Ally, y'know? I've had enough for one night. I got an early day tomorrow. And it's not like this stuff is going anywhere. It's old."

"It might be important."

"I don't know. The bank statements, maybe. The rest of this stuff, this is just Roy's revenge."

"Roy's revenge could be significant."

He shakes his blonde locks. "Don't think so. I think we oughta concentrate on the statements, find out what we can about them."

"I think there might be stuff elsewhere."

He gives me a pleading look. "Maybe you can go through it, then? Would you? 'Cause to tell the truth, last thing I really like reading about is my big sis doing the deed."

"Could be worse. Could be your parents." I say this without thinking, and I'm immediately sorry.

But he smiles, a tiny, sad smile. "Yeah." He folds the statements, puts them in a fresh envelope, and tucks them into the bedroom safe again. "Only way I know my parents did it at least three times is 'cause they got three kids."

"Well, I for one am very glad they had the third one."

He still looks a bit sad. "Glad somebody is." We clear the remaining materials off the bed. He gives me a sweet, childlike, Patrick-type winsome look. "Tuck me in?"

"Sure."

I just hope he can sleep.
 

We're in the darkness. I'm tired, but not able to sleep. Still, I don't want to disturb him, so I keep as quiet and immobile as possible. I think about getting up to make some of the Sleepytime tea Byers leaves us. It's not that bad. Langly considers it toxic, but I don't mind it.

"You awake?" He asks, very softly.

"Uh-huh."

"Me, too."

I slide up so that I'm semi-sitting in bed and cradle his blonde head. His hair is so fine and wispy, soft as a baby's. I play with a few strands.

"That's nice," he murmurs, snuggling against my left breast. I move the motion down from his head to his shoulders, and begin to make circles on them, gently at first, then increasing the pressure. He makes small noises of appreciation and cuddles in closer.

At first I figured he just wanted comfort, but after a few minutes, he's lifting my T-shirt, soft mouth scoping out a nipple. He starts with little whip-like motions with his tongue, and I'm suddenly very, very horny. He's got his lips moving on me, and I feel myself rise into him, very aware of his very firm erection as I do. I reach my hands down and begin to gently squeeze his balls, and this elicits a sharp cry from him.

"That hurt?"

"No, no, no, more," he begs. My fingers travel all over his lower body, and he's moaning and whimpering as I increase pressure on him. I can tell he's almost there; a faint pool of dampness has escaped him, the prelude to his spilling his seeds.

"Want you now," he whispers roughly in my ear.

I willingly oblige him-I want him too. We face each other on our sides, that way he can keep his injured arm from having pressure applied to it. I cry out as he makes his entry, and soon he's pressing his hips hard against mine, and mine against him. Our breathing gets harsher, and it's hard to talk, hard to tell him just how much I love him and adore him and want him. I have to settle for squeezing him as he fills my body. He's not objecting.

I feel myself reaching the peak. "Langly," I repeat his name over and over again. It's the only word I can say right now, and it's the only one that matters.

He kisses the top of my head-hey, he's a lot taller than I am, and in this position, it matters, and I feel a sharp, heavy thrust and then a warm rush of liquid as he says my name and gasps for breath. A lovely sound.

"God, I love you," I wrap him in my arms.

"You too." He's nearly asleep within moments after we've spent each other.

Yeah, it can be tough being married to genius.

But it sure has its compensations.
 

MARTHA:

October 20, 2001
 

Actually ended my shift on time-not a terrible night, and I was grateful, because Gizzie wasn't on, and when Gizzie's not there, I'm the charge nurse. It's a lot of extra responsibility, and with as little staff as I have, I was almost grateful that two patients that were supposed to come my way expired in surgery.

Sick, Martha. Glad that human life was extinguished for your convenience.

Then again, what kind of life would it have been for them? Neither looked to be a good candidate for recovery.

You're just trying to assuage your conscience, girl. And you know it.

Well, hell, you do this job for 20 years and see how well you sleep at night.

I'm tired of being Florence Nightingale. I don't want to listen to moans of pain, screaming relatives, sobbing friends, electronic beeps and whistles suggesting that life goes on when in fact mere breathing-by mechanical force-is usually what's happening.

I'm burnt out.

Thank God Gizzie approved my vacation. Mel needs it, and I need it every bit as much as he does. Yes, I'll have to care for him, but it's the kind of caring I'm happy and willing to do. The kind of caring I need to do.

The kind that a lover brings.

I walk in to find Michael gathering his things for school. He looks a bit weary. I know he didn't sleep well the first night Mel was admitted; last night, I don't know.

"They say Dad's getting sprung today," he says, slinging his heavy backpack over his shoulder. "Just called 'em."

"What time?"

"Whenever his cardiologist gets there. Anyway, I'm gonna come home after work tonight, so I'll be here, I wanna see him. Probably change my mind five minutes later, but I wanna see him, anyway."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see you, dear. And I'm sure he'll want to hear all about what's happening at school."

He looks uncertain. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Michael," I say it very gently. "When you became engaged to Kelly, I encouraged you to hold off on telling him, thinking it was best. I think I might have been wrong. I think he was rather hurt about the whole thing."

"With Dad, you're damned if you do, damned if you don't." He rolls his eyes.

"I think you should tell him about your school plans."

"I dunno. Think he's ready for that?"

"Well, he may be a bit...surprised, but I think it will please him that you told him. Even if he decides to go off on a rant."

"You think?"

"Michael, I'll leave it up to you, but that's my advice. Do you think you can handle him? I have to work tonight, and every night until Friday. That was my negotiation for getting some vacation time."

"So you're gonna do it."

"We are."

"He'll like that."

"I hope so."

"He will. Anyway, gotta go. See ya."

He's so like Mel. Same movements, same voice, same gestures.

Same stubbornness.

They're interesting, to say the least.
 

I've got a million things to get done before Mel returns. Sleep would be on the list, but he's going to need some himself, so I'll do that when he gets home. Besides, I've had trouble sleeping since he's been in the hospital. Having him home, next to me, will help me rest. The hospital staff says he has been resting, which is good to know. He's without fever, and I don't think they can ship him out of there fast enough.

Not an easy patient, my Mel.

Not an easy person.

I can't be without him.

I go over the available groceries, and plan a shopping trip so that we'll have enough tasty, healthy things in house until we leave. I'll make dinner before I leave. Mel and I can eat together, or, if he's too tired, can eat with Michael later on.

I change the linens and throw in a few loads of laundry. I'd forgotten how much I hate apartment laundry. And there's no hookup in my new place-I'll be walking to the laundry room, just like here. I want things to be restful and neat when he arrives. I don't know why I worry over the neat part-he doesn't. But I still maintain that he'll rest more comfortably knowing that there's no work to be done.

I stack the bills on the kitchen table for him to look at-bank statement, Visa, Chesapeake Power, Bell Atlantic. I don't touch his desk-that's for him to deal with. I know that's where he does the bills, but how he finds anything in that desk, I haven't a clue. But I'm not going to say anything. That's his space. Daniel was a slob, too.

I make certain that movies are tucked in their jackets and properly filed away-a fetish of his, and I pile up the papers for recycling. He reads alarmingly fast. How he gets through four newspapers per day-cover to cover-amazes me. Not to mention the astonishing number of periodicals he subscribes to, most of them technical in nature. I refuse to comment on his Playboy subscription. (I think he collects-they're all in chronological order-at least the ten years that he has in the bookshelf.   I'm wondering if he has more in storage, but I'll leave it up to him to volunteer that information).

He has books galore-mostly history and biography, not much fiction. There are a few X-rated novels-the bus station variety-in the bookshelf, but he hasn't moved them in the time I've been here.

I'd like to think he doesn't need to. I shouldn't flatter myself so, should I?

I tidy up the bathroom-it still looks like a bathroom that houses two bachelors. It's not filthy, but it's cluttered, and I swear that Michael hasn't got a clue as to how to hang up a towel. I continually find wet ones all over the floor, and I notice that they tend to make their appearance after he's been in the shower. Shaving stuff is thrown all over, neither one remembers to cap the deodorants or toothpaste, and if Michael would just remember to close the shampoo bottle, he wouldn't run out as often, as it tends to be knocked over and spills all over the shower floor.

I've observed that neither one ever puts their clothes away-for dirty ones, the floor is a perfectly adequate laundry basket, and clean ones are left on the chair until used. As for ironing, I don't think it's even a concept with them.

I think this is one of the reasons I still feel compelled to keep my own place. I'm not ready to perform maid service on a regular basis for Mel, and not at all for Michael. It's strange what things upset Mel that his son does, or doesn't do-and what he'll ignore.

I wish I could be here tonight with Mel, but if I want the time off, which is going to severely burden Gizzie and the rest of the staff, then I'm going to have to bite the bullet.

It will be worth it to take Mel to Atlantic Beach. I'm envisioning days of long hours of sleep, old movies, walks on the deserted beach, sitting on the porch and watching the sun set, cuddling on the sofa, healthy but tasty meals, and...and...okay, I'm blushing here.

The phone rings. Normally, I don't pick up; I let it go to the squawk box or if Michael is here, I let him deal with the caller.

Today I will. I hope it's my man.

"Hello?" I'm tempted to answer 'Frohike residence,' but Mel doesn't appreciate their name given out.

"Hello, pretty lady." The voice sounds tired and still a tad congested, but it's my Mel.

"Have you been released?"

"I have. I was wondering if milady would be so kind as to escort me home."

He's so sweet. Infuriating at times, but totally sweet.

"I'll be there."

"Darling, I need a favor."

I just about fall over swooning the way he says that.

"Yes, my love?"

"Some clothes would be helpful."

That's right, he was in the bunny pajamas when Gizzie kidnapped him.
 

I pull out a pair of Levis, a red henley shirt, a grey T-shirt.

I see it, thrown over the chair.

The alpaca vest.

The ugliest, rattiest piece of apparel I have ever encountered.

Michael's offering cash and prizes to whoever throws it out first. Of course, the condition is that Mel not be able to retrieve it.

Michael's right-it does look like a mangy sheepdog.

Mel loves that thing.

I bundle it up with the rest of his clothes.
 

He's sitting up in bed. He's clear of all IV lines, watching TV.

I can't believe how much I've missed him. He's been gone 40 hours.

Not being able to see him was among the longest 40 hours I've endured-and I've been through a lot of long hours.

"Hello, pretty lady." He looks a bit tired, but far better than he did the other day.

I wrap myself around him. "How're you feeling, dear heart?"

"Now that you're here, fine."

He's no longer feverish; all the warmth I feel coming from his is the warmth you get from one you love. For a small man, he is very strong, even in his somewhat incapacitated state.

We kiss. A long, sweet, warm, soft kiss. Whoever taught this man to kiss, thank you.

His arm reaches around to my waist and begins to slide over my ass. I've always hated my ass, mostly because it's too big.

Mel never complains, and he can't seem to get enough of it.

We spend a long time in our embrace. You'd think it'd been 40 days, not 40 hours.

I let my fingers locate the uncovered skin on his back. Hospital smocks have their advantages.

I'm starting to untie the lacing in back when we're interrupted by a loud female voice.

"You're free to go, Mr. Frohike."

He doesn't break our embrace.

"I'm aware of that."

"As soon as possible would be good." She does not sound amused.

I pull back slightly. "Mel, were you a bad boy?"

He smiles at me, innocently. "Who, me?"

She glares at me. "Are you the wife? Because if you are, you've got my sympathy."

She stalks off.

I know he's been a bad boy-he's an impossible patient, and I'm sure the terms and conditions of his most recent stay did not improve his disposition.

I smile at him and take his unshaven face in my hands.

"She's just jealous, you know."
 

The trip home wears him out. I serve him lunch-fat free chicken Caesar salad, a specialty of mine.

"I could almost give up cheesesteaks for this," he says, appreciatively.

"Mel, you have to give up cheesesteaks."

"I know." He looks chastened. "I really will try, Martha."

His face is so sweet, so soft.

I clasp his hand gently.

"Mel, I'm sorry, I worked all night, and I have to work tonight. I'm really exhausted. I'm going to take a nap."

He smiles at me tenderly. "Want some company?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

We settle in for a sweet slumber. And it's both sweet and slumber.

He's in my arms, and I can sleep again.

END OF PART 10