"Possunt, quia posse videntur." (They could do it because they believed they
could do it)

Vergil, "Aeneis," 231. Used without permission.
 

ALLY:

Langly says he'll be home in half an hour. This is nice-he's getting out of work at a reasonable hour. Not only am I grateful just for the fact that I can spend some time with him, but he sounds so worn out.

I'm also happy he's got a phone. Granted, I can't dial him direct-stupid-but at least we can communicate during the day.

There's e-mail, of course, but I'm only on it maybe twice a day unless I get a call from someone telling me to hop to it. Which Langly did today. I downloaded a bunch of stuff from him. I have no idea what's in it, but I have an idea that it really shouldn't have gone out of the office. Still, I do trust him. He's not an idiot (not about technology-related matters, anyway). As per his instructions, I backed up everything, swept the disk, and put the backups in the office safe.

I'm about to pour myself a nice margarita when I hear the door buzzer. Miranda's down in her room, studying (I hope), and Patrick's not tall enough to reach. I wouldn't want him answering even if he was, not at his age.

I check the visual. I seem to recognize this person, but from where?

"Yes?" I have a habit of not sounding very friendly, which I don't like, but lately, I can't help it.

"I need to see Ringo."

"This is?"

"It's Chris." He says it as though I'm an idiot for not knowing who he is...

Which I am. It's his nephew.

And I haven't even started drinking yet.

"He's not here right now."

"Fine, I'll wait."

"He's not going to be here for a while." Never mind that it's really not going to be that long; I don't like this character, and I want him the hell out of my face.

"I said, I'll wait."

"Suit yourself."

"I'd like to come in. I don't feel like waiting out here."

"Not my problem. You want to wait, you wait out there."

"It's not very Christian not to offer hospitality."

"Well, I'm a Jew. And I don't feel hospitable." At least not towards you, asshole.

"This just proves my point."

Okay, I've had enough of this bastard. He's getting off my property. Now.

I walk outside-oh, how I wish I still had a big dog! We're getting Miranda a dog for her birthday, but it's a Jack Russell terrier. I want something about the size of a mule with a bark that can be heard in the South Pacific.

I go to the gate, but I don't open it.

He may be Langly's nephew, but I hate his guts.

I'm disturbed at how few people I like these days. I've always been insular; lately, I've gone to the next level and beyond. I don't like it. I can't help it.

Seems to me I trust no one.

"I think you should leave, Chris." I try to keep my voice as level as possible.

"I have something to discuss with Ringo."

"I don't think you have anything to discuss with Langly. You've made it abundantly clear how you feel about us. I'd appreciate it if you left now."

"Not until I've talked to your husband."

"Well, he's not here, and you've certainly made your position on my religious affiliation clear, and that makes you unwelcome in our home."

I turn my back to go inside.

"This concerns my cousin."

"What cousin?"

"Patrick. My uncle's child."

I freeze in my tracks.

"What about Patrick?"

"I'd prefer to discuss it with Ringo."

"Why is that, Chris? Because I'm a bitch? I'll buy that these days. I am one. And you're not helping by coming around here."

"What did Christ say about turning your back on family?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"That's because you're an infidel."

"You know, there's something just so quaintly medieval about that word. I was under the impression we were in the dawn of the 21st century."

"Indeed we are. The dawn of a new age of Christ's glory."

"Aren't you talking about more your own glory?" Sorry, I'm cynical.

"The only glory I have is that which is Christ's."

Oh, please, don't make me barf. Not until I've at least had a few drinks, at any rate.

"Chris, go home, go to church, go to a gay bar, I don't care."

I'm expecting another bland pronouncement related somehow to his religious practices.

Instead, his face turns flaming red.

"How dare you make such an accusation!"

"Chris, I didn't accuse you of a damn thing! I just want you to get the hell out of here!"

"To imply that I engage in homosexual practices...that's more than an insult. That's blasphemy."

"Excuse me, the only thing I said was, I didn't care where you went, as long as you left!"

Talk about twisting your words around! And this guy claims he doesn't drink.

He faces me, still livid. He's darker than Langly's side of the family, takes after the dad. In every way, it would seem. And his face gets flaming when he's pissed-not the two spots of blush that Langly gets high on the cheekbones, but a total, my-blood-pressure-just-went-through-the-roof scarlet.

"I see that my assessment of you was correct," he seethes at me.

"Well, if you said I was a short redhead, you were right."

"And forever a smart mouth, just like my uncle. You two aren't fit to be parents."

"Excuse me?"

"With your attitudes, you're not suited to bring up children. And we're going to make certain Patrick is brought up properly."

"Patrick's ours. Legally. We're responsible for him. And we take good care of him." Why the hell am I defending myself to this prick.

Well, he's legally ours in that Frohike worked a little magic. As far as I'm concerned, that's enough for the logistics part. As for the heuristics, well, Langly and I aren't perfect parents, but we love that kid and would do anything for him. And we do.

"Adoptions can be challenged for up to six months. And my father and sister and I intend to do just that."

I feel sick.

"I don't think so." I'm trying to stay cool here. It's not working very
well.

"I don't think we'd have much trouble proving our case. The judge on our circuit is right-minded, and knowing you're a Jew, well, I think we'd have no trouble."

"You don't want him. You just want to get back at us."

"I let revenge be the Lord's."

"We've cared for him, paid for him, done everything parents are supposed to do. He's attached to us. He's had a rough go. And you talk about uprooting him as if he were some sort of house plant that can be transplanted?"

"He'd thrive in the house of the Lord. He'd be raised properly, learn proper respect, which, since you and my uncle have no concept of respect-"

"You're the one who won't get off my property. Don't talk to me about respect."

"There's no way that child will ever be cared for properly in this house. I've met your daughter. She's the daughter of the devil."

"Don't you ever talk about my child that way." I will kill him. I will.

"She's vicious, she has no respect for her elders-"

"She respects people who earn her respect. And that's how I've taught her." And will continue to teach her.

"But she's young enough that perhaps, she, too, can be remediated."

"Miranda doesn't require remediation. You do."

He gives me this look which is supposed to be pity, but I think it's more on the side of contempt.

"You poor, misguided soul. If you only took a look inside yourself, you'd see what a totally wretched soul you are."

"Mostly I'm wretched when I have unwanted company. Now if you don't mind, I have dinner to prepare and children to look after."

"Which is only a recent development, from what I gather."

"I'm sorry?"

"Instead of being responsible for your daughter, you've placed her in the hands of strangers all her life, where she's learned her vile ways-"

I've had it now. "Get out of here. Or I'll call 911."

"It won't help. And I think you should heed my words."

"You know something, Chris? Heed mine. You're a self-righteous, delusional, nauseating little prick. And if you so much as file a single piece of paperwork on our son-"

"He's not your son. Now who's being delusional here?"

"He's our son, and that's how we treat him and care for him. I've seen the results of your father's parental skills, and let me tell you, I'm not impressed."

"You will not talk of my father that way."

"I'll talk of him any way I want. The way he treated Joan-"

"My mother was tainted. She'd been tainted long ago."

"The only thing that tainted your mother was the disease that sucked the life out of her, which knowing you guys, you probably gave her!"

I shudder as I say it. I was merely slinging mud, but as I say it...oh God, something in my gut just makes me feel as though it was channeled...

"Don't come back here, Chris. Ever. You're not welcome here, and I swear, you try anything with regards to my kids, you are a dead man."

"Idle threats."

"I don't think so." I'm a pussycat, but threaten my children, you're dead.

"I think your husband should have the final say in what I can and cannot do-it is his house."

"It's both our house. We have equal authority here."

"That's why you're such a mess. Of course, you, being raised in the liberal Jewish tradition, wouldn't understand the natural order of things-"

"I understand how my own home works." Well, most of the time.

"You two are so presumptuous, thinking you can fashion the rules to your liking. There is only one set of laws, and those are God's laws."

"Your interpretation of God's laws is more like it." Excuse me, but I did go to Hebrew school. And I didn't sleep through all of it.

"The true nature of His laws. We've been chosen to disseminate this information."

"I think you appointed yourself."

"We never appoint ourselves. We're chosen."

I wanted to get this asshole out of here before Langly got here, but too late. A familiar Toyota Corolla approaches the gate and punches in the code.

Getting out of the car, he starts up an all-too-familiar cycle of coughing. Unfortunately, when you have pneumonia, it lasts a while. I just hope it's not relapse.

"Ally, what're you doing?"

"Trying to get rid of this dickhead."

Chris really makes me gag. I call him a dickhead, and he starts this prayer, o forgive her Lord, she knows not what she does...

Excuse me, I have consciousness, and on occasion, I've been known to be rational.

Langly studies his nephew, but his reaction is more one of bemusement. "Got a mad urge to go slumming, Chris?"

He looks at Langly. What a contrast. Langly's pulled out his braid and hairpins, and his long locks fly in the night breeze. He's wearing his Led Zeppelin T-shirt, the symbol on it which has been the subject of numerous long-winded and useless discussions about it being related to the Devil. Levis, Doc Martens and his old baseball jacket round out the effect, which is striking next to Chris's expensive suit and hair that won't move in a hurricane. Hair care companies must like these people, I decide. Their profits on mousse have probably jumped a thousand percent. If Clairol was a big campaign contributor, I wouldn't be surprised.

In the meantime, I decide that until this is confirmed, no Clairol products will be on my shelf.

"I came to talk to you, but your wife here has no clue as to the meaning of hospitality."

"Sure she does, Ally's the hostest with the mostest. With people she likes."

"I've come to talk to you about my cousin."

"What's the matter, fall in love with someone in the first degree?" Langly taunts him.

This infuriates Chris. My, he's touchy about amorous implications.

"For your information, the only first-degree cousin I have is Patrick." We're back to the red face. This guy really has to mellow out or he's going to be on blood pressure meds the rest of his mortal life.

"What about him?" All of a sudden, Langly is wary. His attitude of casual indifference is gone.

"I think he would be better off with my family."

Langly's back to being mildly amused. "Only one problem, Chris. We adopted him. He's ours."

"And we intend to challenge that."

"Nah, I think not." Langly stuffs his hands in his pockets and feigns disdain.

I can hear a quaver in his voice, though. He's scared. Still, if you're a guy, to fear is human, to be macho, divine.

"Your wife seems to feel she can make decisions for you as well."

Now Langly bursts into laughter. "Oh, that's good, Chris. Ally, make decisions for me? Shit, she can't even get me to cap the toothpaste!"

"Well, she certainly refuses to treat your own family with any hospitality whatsoever."

"Well, I mean, think about it. You come around here, you start in on her, whaddya expect? Her house, too."

"And you don't control her properly."

"Me? Control Ally? Might as well try and control the weather." Langly thinks this is very funny.

I don't.

"Ringo-"

"That's Uncle Ringo to you, dude." Langly wags a finger in his face. Langly's not big on titles-unless you're annoying him. Then he's going to push home his relationships and his degrees. If you have to call him Dr. Langly, be rest assured you're not a friend.

"UNCLE Ringo, we are going to see to it that Patrick has a proper upbringing in a proper family, with proper moral instruction."

"He's got a proper family. Even got a big sister."

"She's no sister. She's a Jew."

Langly's face grows dark. The two pink spots that say, I'm pissed as hell, are rising on his cheeks.

"I think you'd better go now." His voice is soft, low-and furious.

"This isn't going to go away, you know." Chris's voice is almost taunting.

"Maybe not. But you sure the hell are. C'mon, Ally. It's cold out here."

He puts his arm around my shoulder, and we head back into the house.

As we unlatch the front door, I see Chris standing there, acting as if he's praying.

Probably praying for our misfortune.

And this is Christianity?

Thank God I'm not one of them.
 

"Smells good." Langly sniffs the air.

"Chicken cacciatore." A dish I know he likes. "Langly?"

"Hmm?" He grabs a Corona from the beer shelf in the fridge.

"I'm scared."

"Of Chris? He's a little fuckrag."

"A little fuckrag that could make a lot of trouble for us."

"Chris? Yeah, he can try. But we been taking good care of Patrick, let them try."

"Langly, I'm Jewish."

"Yeah, but you're a good mom. That's what counts."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Ally, my nephew's a little prick. He thinks he's more important than he is."

"Maybe that's true, but he has Daddy on his side, and Daddy is not insignificant. And he hates you."

Langly looks more serious now. "Yeah, I know. I'm warning ya though, Ally, anybody-and I mean anybody-tries to take Patrick from us, and I'm gonna fucking kill them. I don't like guns, but I used one one time-and I'd do it again."

This surprises me. Langly hates guns. We don't own any.

"I'm thinking about getting one, Ally."

"Langly, I think that's a bad idea." Guns scare me. I'm used to people from the FBI carrying them now, but they're trained in their use. That's a world of difference from a Saturday night special and a casual user.

"I don't like 'em either, but I think we need one."

"I wouldn't know what to do with one."

"Have Fro's old lady show you how. She's an expert, what I hear."

"Martha?"

"Daddy was a weapons instructor. Taught his little girl everything she knows."

Martha? One of the sweetest, mildest-mannered people I've ever met? A weapons expert?

"I worry about it with the kids."

"You got to keep it locked up, don't let the kids get near it. Though Randa might be old enough to learn."

Oh please. Miranda, with her vengeful, exacting nature, learning to use weaponry?

Dangerous combination.

"No. Miranda does not get involved in this." My daughter has enough problems without it.

He thinks about that. "Okay, Randa doesn't do it. But I'm gonna."

"You're serious."

"Totally. Fact, I think I'm gonna call Fro right now, see if his old lady has a line on any good sources."

I'm uncomfortable. He's determined.

"Go ahead." I return to preparing garlic bread while he scopes out the cordless, which is never in its cradle.

"Hey, Junior, let me talk to the old man." "Whaddya mean, he's not there?" "You're shittin' me. No way! How come nobody told me, man?" "Well, excuse me for wanting to know!" "When's he coming home?" "Cool." "Yeah, well, there is that. I'd kill him, too if I had to take care of him." "Hey, speaking of Martha, lemme talk to her." "Don't be a fuckrag, Junior, give her the phone! Jesus! You treat me like I'm some sort of low life
telemarketer."

He covers the microphone. "Fro's in the hospital. Again."

"Oh, shit!"

"He's supposed to be okay, coming home tomorrow. Said he had like a small infection which they got rid of, or say they did, 'cause I don't imagine they're having fun keeping him around."

"When did this happen?"

"Junior says day after the wedding."

"Which was yesterday. So he was in overnight last night?"

"Looks that way. Hey, Martha, what's up?" "Whaddya mean, you're not allowed to see him? Junior says he's okay." "Oh-ho. Trying to teach the old dog new tricks, eh? Good luck." "I got a question for you. Like it's about guns." "For us." Long, long pause. "Yeah, I think we need one." "Well, you know, for like protection." "We got some relatives we don't like a whole bunch, and they keep bugging us." "You got a line on suppliers?" "Why not?" "Hey, it's not like we're go around killing anyone, more like we just wanna have some protection." "Whaddya mean, use a condom?" "Yeah, it's cool. Sorry." "No, just thought you might be able to help." "So you'll think about it?" "Cool. Can't ask for better than that. Hey, tell Fro I'll try and stop by tomorrow night, okay?" "Bye."

I turn to him as I'm loading serving dishes with dinner. "And?"

"She wants to think about it. Says she's not real comfortable with the idea of it."

"Well, I can understand that. So what're you going to do now?"

"Now? Wait and see. Maybe she'll see it my way. She said she'd think about it. She seems reasonable."

"She'd have to be, to be with Frohike."

"Yeah, one unreasonable person goes a long way."

"We should know," I say, smiling at him. "Hey, how about you get the kiddies and we'll eat?"

"Finally, an offer I can live with."
 

To my surprise, both Patrick and Miranda follow Langly back up the stairs from the dungeon. I didn't know he was down there; I figured he'd be playing in his room. I'm surprised Miranda let him stick around.

"What were you doing with Miranda, sweetie?" I ask him.

Patrick is unusually quiet. He's snuggled up in Langly's arms while I serve, but he's not jumping all over the place.

"Something scared him," Miranda says.

"What scared you, dude?" Langly asks him, playing with his hair.

"I seed him. 'Gain. Mommy was talking to him."

Langly looks puzzled. "Were you talking to anyone else?"

"Not today. Not here."

"When'd you see him, buddy?" Langly asks, shifting him to his own chair.

"When Mommy was talking to him outside."

I hold up my hands in a truce gesture. "I swear, the only person who came to the gate today was Chris."

"You mean Langly's nephew Chris?" Miranda makes a face that one would make upon tasting something disgusting.

"Yeah, he was just here," Langly serves up Patrick some food. "Five bites of chicken, six bites of pasta, four bites of salad, and one slice of garlic bread." Every meal is a negotiation. We have to lay out in advance what the requirements are for leaving the table each night. I'd forgotten this aspect of four-year-olds, but once Patrick fell into our lives, I remembered it acutely enough from Miranda.

"That'd be him," I tell her, spooning up some salad for myself.

"God, he is such a dickrag," Miranda says. "Patrick, was that who you meant when you said you saw that guy? The guy with the plastic hair?"

"I seed him! Mommy talked to him!"

Langly and I look at each other. A look passes between us.

Maybe a gun is something to consider after all.

END OF PART 9