He'll Never Know By Bear hersh@i1.net DATE: September 20, 1999 FEEDBACK: My e-mail is hungry -- FEED IT!!! Love it, hate it, I'd still love to know. (If it happens to be the latter, though, please be gentle and let me know how to improve for next time; thanks!) DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, just let me know so I know where to find it SPOILER WARNING: "Colony/End Game," "Anasazi," and maybe a smidge of "FTF" and "One Son" RATING: PG-13 for language CONTENT STATEMENT: MT, A, MA KEYWORDS: MulderTorture, MulderAngst, and just plain Angst SUMMARY: Bill Mulder reflects on his relationship with his son as he attempts to tell him the truth behind his role in the conspiracy. Lots of introspective and MAJOR guilt trips..enjoy the ride DISCLAIMER: Well, I'd think you'd have these memorized by now, but here goes: Mulder, Mr. Mulder, Scully, Diana, CSM, the consortium and the initial plot (whew! that ought to cover it!) are pretty much the property of the wonderful folks at 10-13 and Twentieth Century Fox. No infringement is intended; I'm not making any money off of this, so I can't exactly afford a lawsuit right now! NOTES: Muchas gracias to Scott for help and encouragement to try my hand at fanfic, and to Debbie for her helpful hints! WHEW! It's finally done! I was hoping to have finished this by last night, but it just wasn't happening. Nevertheless, better late than never. If you've read "Until You've Seen It From A Train," let me just warn you right off the bat -- there is NOT -- repeat, NOT -- a humor piece! As with my first piece, I thought it would be fun to "get inside the head" of one of the characters that actually appeared in the episode in question, in this case Daddy Mulder. I know there are a lot of writers out there who write Mr. Mulder as an abusive parent, but I tend to share the opinion of Vickie Mosley that the Mulders were normal people trapped in an abnormal situation (okay, I paraphrased that a bit) and simply blown apart as a family by the circumstances. WARNING: There IS a reference to "La Fowl," but not to worry, folks, she's never referred to by name! Also, depending on the amount of feedback I get from this, there MIGHT be a sequel called "He'll Never Know II" or something similar, which will pretty much tell "The Blessing Way" from Bill Mulder's point of view. Okay, kids, on with the show... He'll Never Know by Bear I've had the same dream every night for two months now. Actually, that's not true. If it were just every night it would be a lot easier for me, but in reality it's every night, in addition to the moments following the occasional one swallow too many of bourbon that find me asleep on my all-too- comfortable tan leather couch. The binges that, ironically, were originally intended to help me forget the stupidity of the foolish friendships and alliances I've made over the years. The alliances that stole a beautiful daughter. The alliances that drove away a wonderful woman whose only mistake in life was marrying a sorry son-of-a-bitch whose decisions would cost her everything she had ever loved in life, including very nearly her sanity. And the alliances that also drove away -- and damn near killed -- a brilliant son who has spent his life since that impossible age trying to win back the love I have for him. The love he thinks he has lost. Not lost. Misplaced, perhaps, but not lost. Never lost. The last time I saw him I could see it in his eyes. It was the frighteningly lean but ever-towering frame of a man of thirty-three who almost seemed to cower in anticipation of what he perceived to be disapproval. But they housed the eyes of the same frightened twelve- year-old Teena and I had found alone lying on the living room rug, shivering uncontrollably, eyes open but unseeing that seemed to tell of their own horror that their owner wouldn't be able to tell on his own for many years. The same eyes that had opened a week later, much to the relief of both of us, in that cold hospital room, pleading for so many things we could no longer give him as parents. Comfort. Assurance that whatever had happened would have no effect on our relationship as a family. Eyes that didn't know -- and still don't know -- that everything that had happened was all thanks to his old man, whether directly or indirectly responsible. Eyes that took the responsibility all on their own, whether or not he actually was responsible. And it was this grown man who was informing me that he had just "lost his sister" for a second time. Oh, yes, how can I forget -- my second chance at having a real family, the moment that I had waited over twenty years before. Looking back now, I must admit it WAS too good to be true. A woman coming to me bearing a such a strong resemblance to my Teena when I whisked her away to the garden of the country club between dances at the debutante ball to ask her to marry me, a woman telling me she was my daughter, my Samantha and needed my help. I still remember the odd mixture of stun and giddiness I felt calling Teena to tell her to come to the house right away, then seeing her face melt from her usual daggers of accusation to a mix between disbelief, longing and love as she came to embrace her "daughter," a stiff hug that must have lasted a good five minutes. It was something an old bastard like me simply didn't deserve. Maybe that was why, once my son, my Fox, approached me on my doorstep with anticipating arms outstretched, I couldn't bring myself to return his offering. I had to continue holding him at arm's length, had to keep him from getting too close to me. I couldn't expect everything I had lost to come back at once; there was just something that wouldn't allow me to completely let my guard down and let him back into my life. If I let him come too close, I would kill him. They would kill him, and I knew it. But at least I could still have this second chance at having a family again, then gradually work my way back into Fox's life. And so, there at his doorstep a mere two days later, as he struggled to explain that a man had demanded that he trade his sister for his partner and that he had felt he was doing the right thing, I realized that it had been too good to be true. I had been played for a fool, as had he. At that moment as I looked at him, all I could see was myself, a man who had everything viciously taken from him not once but twice, a man who had been forced to make a very difficult decision at the expense of everyone he loved and everyone he held dear. And he didn't even know. I couldn't tell him! Worse yet, he still doesn't know. I may not be as close to him as I should, but I do know how much his partner means to him. There are those from my past who send me unsigned letters apprising me of my son's career, telling me of the people he works with in his office in the basement, and even including pictures of them. Women. They seem to have pinpointed his weakness for women, and make a point of pairing him with women, I think in an attempt to distract him from his work. Ironic, now that I think about it -- all of the trouble he seems to encounter in his life seems to be caused by a woman, whether it's a scorning lover or his lost sister. The sister he thinks he lost. The daughter I lost. I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't say I wasn't the least bit concerned about the first woman, a tall, raven-haired beauty who had seemed to bewitch him in every sense of the word and earn his trust. My worst fear had been confirmed: my son seemed to share his father's tendency of trusting -- or worse yet, perhaps literally sleeping with --yet another enemy. And worse yet, there were rumors of an elopement, though it was only a short time later that partner had inexplicably left their work to go overseas "on assignment." Yeah. Assignment. That cigarette-smoking fiend I once called my friend and colleague has funny titles for his trysts. Try to make it sound legitimate by calling it an "assignment." Then once again, when my son seemed to be inching closer to the truth, they tried the diversion tactic again, only to have it backfire drastically this time. THIS one, while clearly recruited by "them" to discredit his work, managed to earn his trust and earnestly work her way to his heart. When they realized their mistake, they then tried to break him by snatching her away and tossing her back to him, barely alive. And, somehow, they had both survived, but the physical effects of that ordeal were all too apparent on my son. Even in the midst of her joy, minutes before my son had called me summoning me to his apartment, Teena, in the grand tradition of motherhood, had taken the time to note how his shirts seemed to hang on him, how his belt just barely seemed to hold his slacks above his hips, how he seemed a bit pale. But I wasn't thinking about that at the moment, fool that I was. All that seemed to occupy that thing in my head I laughingly call a brain was how I had been tricked, how this chance was being taken away from me, what Teena would say when she found out. All I could say to him was, "Do you know what this will do to your mother?" At that point I secretly hoped he would give me the punch in the mouth I desperately deserved at that moment, that he would tell me to go to Hell, that he would call me every name under the sun and throw me out, informing me that he intended to get on with the rest of his life and wanted nothing more to do with me. It would have made things so much easier for both of us ultimately. Instead this thirty-something man turned back into that same frightened twelve- year-old, sobbing and choking out, "I'm sorry, Dad," over and over again in a way that broke my heart. I was such a coward; I couldn't face what I had done, how I had reduced this grown man back into a weak child, so I simply delivered the envelope my "daughter" had given me and stalked out before I could see the effects of my foolishness one more time. Before my own carefully crafted shell could crack and reveal the scum who had sacrificed his family in the name of science and future. Future. What a laugh. Irony of ironies. It was only two weeks later that his supervisor, an Assistant Director Skinner, had come to my door to cryptically inform me that my son had apparently traveled alone to Alaska in search of something, where he was found unconscious on an ice flow and rushed to Eisenhower Air Force Base where his heart had stopped. Where he had died, in effect. My accusation, the self-accusation aimed at him, his desire to earn my love and approval, had driven him in search of God-knows- who, probably that damn bounty hunter who had forced him to make such an impossible decision, and ultimately...killed him. And he'd probably still die, never knowing that I knew all along who that bastard was. Never mind the fact that his partner, fortunately a doctor (God knows he needs a doctor for a partner with the risks he takes on a regular basis), managed to get to the base in time to to restart his heart and treat that virus that had killed him. He may have been alive at that moment, but that did not change the fact that I had killed him. That I could still kill him. And I'm sure that, had I gone to see him, I would have pretty much finished the job. I couldn't bear the thought of losing another child to my folly. And I couldn't even imagine how Teena would fare at the prospect. If she had lost Fox also, I could easily see her "forgetting" her usual dose of valium and taking far more than necessary. And I would truly be alone, with no hope whatsoever of a second chance. So what did I do? I continued the role of the coward, of course. When Teena heard the news, her maternal instincts had naturally kicked in and she had pleaded with the AD to let her be with her son, but we were assured that Fox was in the best of hands and that we would be updated regularly on his condition. I imagine that was a rather deliberate action on their parts, considering the circumstances of our son's illness, but especially considering my responsibility in the matter, I could hardly blame them. It couldn't have been longer than an hour or so after the AD left that my own heart began to gallop at a stallion's pace, probably to give me a taste of my own medicine. I have never been a believer in coincidence, and so I don't find it any coincidence that my arm had started to throb the minute the AD had begun his story earlier. Thus fate had ensured that there was no way I would send my son all the way over the ledge in a cruel moment of irony; I spent the next five hours undergoing what the doctors called a "triple bypass," and it was when they put me under that I had THAT dream for the first time. I can still remember how I was sitting there next to my son, seemingly resting peacefully save for the numerous tubes protruding from his mouth, nose and God knows what else. I can still remember seeing his eyes opening, filling with horror and fear as he sees me, then ripping out every single tube and lunging from the bed, even as I attempt vainly to ease him back and urge him to rest. I can still remember hearing his sudden gasp, seeing him grasp his heart and crumple to the floor as the shrill beeps speed up erratically and the lines measuring the beats of his heart scribble wildly. I can still hear him begging for forgiveness with one last, faint gasp, then see those pleading hazel eyes freezing and locking on me in a sightless, lifeless stare as the lines straighten and the steady squeal haul a roomful of doctors and nurses into the room, headed by his fiery- haired partner. I can still hear her accusations directed at me, can still remember her last words directed at me shortly before waking up in the recovery room with Teena at my side: "He'll never know." Even as Teena was sitting there, affectionately yet coolly informing me that I was going to be all right, those words continued to ring in my ears. He'll never know. He'll never know. It was another three weeks later, two weeks after I had resettled myself back at home and one week after Teena had gone back to her place in Chillmark, that the AD called to inform me that my son had awakened, that he appeared to be very much on the road to recovery, and, according to his partner, was even beginning to question when he could go home, despite barely being able to stay awake for longer than an hour at a time. He would probably be spending about a week or two convelescing, I was assured, but soon he'd be back at work. Everything would be fine. But that didn't stop the dreams from coming. If only I could believe that things could be that simple. If only I could fall asleep just once without dreaming about those terrible three weeks. I wanted to believe. I still do. ************************************************************* I know, I know -- it's not a good idea at my age, to be drinking while on medication for a heart condition, but quite frankly I don't give a damn at the moment. It's not like I wash down the stuff with the alcohol, for God's sakes, and I DO try to wait at least an hour after I've taken the damn pills before I swallow the soothing liquid in hopes that it will make me forget everything from the year 1973 and beyond. It hasn't worked. Yet. But right now I think this would safely qualify as an emergency. I need desparately to forget that face. That looming face from my past with the cigarette-smoke trailing had the nerve to show up on my doorstep insisting that there were "things to discuss." The anger that bubbled up inside of me at seeing him on my doorstep after we had agreed never to meet again brought everything to a head for the first time in over twenty years. I need once and for all to put the memories of that horrible "final meeting" with my son behind me and give him the truth of who I really am, once and for all. Now I have a few things to discuss with him, with my "Little Fox" as I called him at the delicate yet lively age of five, and perhaps the dark, soothing "medicine" will help me drum up enough courage to speak to him, maybe even face him after the insanity and agony I have put him through for the past two months. No. The past twenty-two years. Maybe this will help me forget that nicotine-addicted bastard's face long enough to finally allow me to let my flesh and blood know once and for all the truth behind my work. His sister. My daughter. Good God, it's so clear now. Everything is so clear now, no matter how much I booze myself up. The past that brought us here. The future I have doomed my surviving offspring to. Provided he lives long enough to see the future, of course. Because if a word of what that liar just told me is true, he is doomed to learn who I really am and what I really know about what happened to my Sammy. My little princess. How I was responsible for her "protection." Worse yet, he could put himself in harm's way...and his death will have been in vain. He was a risk-taker from a very early age, much to the chagrin of Teena, whether defending his little sister from the school bully Peter Curtis or sledding down the steepest hill of our lot. This time, however, I fear he may have already stepped too far over the line into the enemy's camp. God only knows how he managed to get a hold of those damn M-J files in the first place, and God only knows how "they" will try to stop him before he can reveal whatever they believe he knows. Technology. What was it that bastard told me? "...the computers that you and I only dreamed of would someday be home appliances capable of the most technical espionage." The evidence of our folly falling into the hands of our future. In a strange way, it seems fitting. That Spender fellow insisted that the files were encrypted. Encrypted, hell -- if they were just destroyed in the first place, this wouldn't be an issue for any of us. I would simply wallow in the torment of my foolishness, my son would continue to berate himself for what he believes to be the truth, and that Spender bastard would continue to have what he wanted. Everyone else to be as miserable as he's managed to make himself. In response to my plea to protect my son from "his own foolishness," he reminded me of that promise he made on that night over twenty years ago, in the doorway of a cold hospital room where a statue seemed to be laying in lieu of my twelve-year- old boy. I have to hand it to Spender, that is a promise he's managed to keep so far, especially considering how low on his priority list his relationship with his own son seems to be. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if he killed his own son if, God forbid, he got too close to the truth. I swear, that man makes me look like Ward Cleaver in comparison! I can't stop my fears. My fears of how my son will see me, should he in fact survive his own folly and learn of my own. My fears caused by the fact that that rat bastard couldn't answer my inquiry with a simple, "Yes, I will make sure he is safe." I don't give a hang about my own future anymore; as far as I'm concerned, it's practically over. I'm concerned about the future of Fox. About the possible lack of a future. And about the past we can only regret but never change. At least I haven't failed my family in one way, where their future is concerned. While I have never considered myself fearful of my own death, my son's illness and my own heart attack made the limits of my mortality painfully clear, and emphasized the fact that I needed to think seriously about those I would possibly be leaving behind, putting those plans into action I had been repeatedly setting aside in my confused attempt to ease the pain of so many wasted lives. Soon after I had received the news that Fox had almost fully recovered from the retrovirus, I finally paid my lawyer in Boston a long- overdue visit and had my will written up. My estate was to be divided exactly in half, with Teena getting one-half of the estate and Fox the other half. Samantha...well, when she was taken to the facility, I had been assured by that Spender bastard that she would be financially secure, and against my better judgment, I decided to believe him. I want to believe that I made the right decision, that she is still there as I have been repeatedly assured. Not that it makes living with that knowledge any easier... Small consolation for all the pain caused over a period of twenty- some years, I know. But still, with so many failures in my life, so many priorities put into the wrong relationships with the wrong people "for the good of our future," it is nonetheless a step in the right direction, providing for them financially, should I in a truly ironic yet probable moment be forced to pay the ultimate price for disclosing too much of what I know about what they have planned. Of what they are planning. And who they will silence in an effort not to be stopped. Thank God I've never actually participated in those cold-blooded executions of my colleagues, in their attempt to squelch the knowledge of an outside entity that will destroy the existence of life as they know it...not physically, anyway. But I am all too familiar with those methods, and after nearly losing him...and myself...to my own folly once, I cannot bear to see it happen a second time. He has to know. I have to tell him. I have to explain. I gaze almost trance-like at the phone for what must be the tenth time in five hours now. I have definitely put this off entirely too long. It must end now. Today. ************************************************************* After one last swallow for courage, I manage to put down the glass long enough to pick up the receiver and dial the number of my son's apartment. My hand quivers slightly with a tremor that the alcohol cannot seem to rid; a quick glance at the clock tells me that the reason may be because my prescribed heart medication is due shortly. At least that is the almost-lie that I am telling myself. That this has nothing to do with confessing a multitude of unspoken sins to my son a mere two months after nearly allowing my misguided blame to kill him with "an unknown virus" I knew only too much about. I am almost astonished at the contradiction of emotions I experience as I anxiously listen to the ringing of the line as it connects. The coward in me is almost hoping that perhaps he's at work, or about doing whatever it is he does in his spare time, and that I will simply be able to leave a message. (How pathetic are you, William! Your own son -- your only son -- and aside from a few rumors about certain former female co-workers, you know so very little about your son's life outside of the office! Of course, there was that Christmas a couple of years ago that Teena informed me that he enjoyed jogging and playing basketball, so I got him a brand-new New York Knicks T- Shirt, as I was informed he already had a basketball. "Ring...") The guilty son-of-a-bitch concealed beneath my skin, on the other hand, worries with each ring that they have already reached him and his dead body may be lying in an alley someplace with a bullet- hole "placed" strategically in his forehead, and that no amount of resuscitation will bring him back this time. Or, worse yet, that there IS no body, that they have already disposed of it, were in the process of doing so even as Spender had come to inform me of the "New Developments." Suddenly I have a new panic -- admittedly I've never been a big fan of the answering machine, especially since I know firsthand how easy it is for the right message to fall into the wrong hands, and it has only now occurred to me that I have no idea what I will say should I miss him! Since it is clear that "Old Buddy Spender" knows, there is little doubt in my mind that Fox's lines -- hell, maybe even my own lines -- have been tapped. How on Earth am I possibly going to arrange a meeting, even within the confines of the safety of my own phone, as safely as possible if -- "...Mulder..." Oh, Fox, thank God you're still there! You sound exhausted, are you all right? Please tell me you won't hate me for everything I failed to tell you... "Fox, this is your father. I need to see you right away." Despite the urgency of my choice of words, to my simultaneous relief and sense of self-disgust I sound as calm as carrying out one of Spender's direct orders of "the good old days." My voice is surprisingly even and indicates none of my uncharacteristictally tumultuous emotion, largely due to the determination instilled by my own father such a long time ago to "do the right thing." Dad, wherever you are, I am so sorry I failed you all of these years, but it was the only way... at least I thought it was... My son's craggy voice leadened with weariness and a hint of confusion break into my thoughts. "Where are you?" Part of the unwritten emotionless script I constructed for him so many years ago. God, how much longer can I play this damn game? I'm so tired of all of this, yet I must play along...after all, I've been the coach all these years... "I'm at home." So far so good. "How soon can you be here?" There is a long pause at the other end that drives a fear through my heart sharper than any stake neither I nor my son could possibly imagine. It is enough to crack my facade of aloofness, I can't bear to keep my raging emotions out of my voice any longer. "Fox," I plead, "it's important." Finally, a long, weary sigh. "All right, Dad. It's pretty close to rush hour, though...is eight o' clock all right?" I manage to conceal a deep sigh of relief and manage to regain a shred of composure. "That sounds fine, son. The light will be on." The next sound a faint jangling of keys followed by the click of the line, and I know Fox is on his way home. I just hope he makes it home safely, I think to myself as I gulp down the bitter pills with a glass of water. ************************************************************* A cold, stark-white hospital room. I'm sitting in a chair that's about as comfortable to sit on as a tombstone, which seems ironically appropriate at the moment. The chair is facing a bed. Fox's bed. He almost appears to be tied down to that bed with every feeding tube, breathing tube, IV and God knows what else wrapped around his body, whipped around his face in an effort to keep him alive. If it weren't for his tubular prison, his pasty white complexion, or that annoying beeping noise which is the only evidence of a beating heart, I could simply pretend he is, as most doctors laughingly put it, "resting comfortably." How the hell anybody can "rest comfortably" with needles jammed in every part of the body to the point where you are pretty much forced to lie flat on your back is beyond me! As always, I reach for his free hand and helplessly feel the icy weight in my own. Apart from that, I can only watch my son as he "sleeps." Or more accurately, as he clings to life by a thread. Considering the number of lines protruding from his frail body, it's definitely a more vivid visual interpretation. He wouldn't be in this bed clinging to life if it hadn't been for me, for the foolishness of both words spoken and unspoken. As I lock his face into my gaze, an odd mixture of excitement, relief and...fear...flood through my body as I watch beaten-looking eyelids slowly lift to reveal hazel eyes quickly filling with confusion and terror. "Dad...oh God, Dad..." In the grand tradition of dreams where nothing is required to make sense, my Fox is somehow able to speak with that tube in his mouth, albeit in a barely audible deathlike growl. "Shhhhh, it's all right, son," I try to assure him. "The doctors say you'll be fine. You just need to relax and get some rest." For once, he doesn't appear to be listening to me; instead his horror- filled stare continues to envelope me. "Dad, I tried but I failed...I lost them all...all of the Sam...the Samanthas...but...I-I- I...failed..." "Son, calm down, this can't be good for you." I instruct, as he struggles to sit up despite his incarceration of life-saving machinery. "You can tell me all about it when you feel better. This isn't important right now..." Suddenly he has shot up in the bed and is looking at me full in the face. "Dad, you don't understand...there's one more chance...he told me...I can make this right for you..." He has now started to yank out every single tube at once with all of the strength he seems to possess. A stream of blood trails down his arm, where he has jerked out the needle of the IV. "Fox, stop!" I bolt out of my seat and try again in vain to push him gently back on the bed! "Where do you think you're going?!?" "...to find her...he said she was still...out there...the real Sam..." He stumbles past me clad in only that terrible death-blue hospital gown, then suddenly pitches forward and, clutching his chest, crumples to the floor as I hear the beats of his heart speed up. I kneel by his side and take his head into my lap, forcing wildly spinning hazel eyes and a wheezing mouth into the direction of my face. "Fox, please! Say something!" I beg him! "Forgive me, Dad..." I have to lean in closely to hear his gasp. "...forgive...me..." Straight line. Long beep. Sightless hazel eyes fixed in horror just past my face. I can simply rock the body of my boy helplessly in my arms as I await the inevitable. The pounding footsteps of an army of doctors and nurses, headed by the screaming fiery redhead. His body is ripped out of my arms by the doctors and nurses as they pound at his chest with their hands, with paddles, only to be rewarded by a dead stare and a persistent beep, a cruel reminder of a promising young life needlessly ended. "MULDER! Oh, God, Mulder!" She tears his body away from the doctors as her tears shower his cold face. Then her head snaps up to face me. "WHAT did you DO to him?!?" I can only vaguely stammer in defence, words that have no form and comprehension. The shrill beep continues as a background for her attack. "If it weren't for what you said to him, if it weren't for what you never had the GUTS to say to him, he NEVER would have been foolish enough to come here in the first place! If he had only known, he'd probably still be alive!" Her face, continuing to fill with tears, bows down over his face once more. "But now he'll never know..." ************************************************************* The long beeping continues...it seems to be a lot deeper now...lower...fuzzier... I rub my eyes with the hand not circling the glass and look around to find myself in my own living room, apparently from yet another ill- fated doze on the couch. It takes a minute for me to realize that what I am hearing is not the beep of a heart monitor, but rather the buzzing of my own doorbell. My eyes drift to the clock. About ten after eight. He's here. I pull myself off of the couch and march myself to the door. Time to face the music once and for all. I greet the young man standing before me as I take a few seconds to apprise him, desperately trying to shake my death-dream image once and for all. I note with some appreciation that, since our last fateful meeting, he seems to have put on enough weight, that his hair has grown out a bit, his face is flushed, and his skin seems to glow ever so slightly with sweat, despite the heavy coat covering his plaid shirt. Quite a stark contrast to the image of the dying body I hold in my dreams. Yet behind his mask of cordiality, in his eyes I note a mixture of apprehension, weariness, confusion, and a hint of suspicion. Suspicion is not necessarily always such a useless thing, I note cynically. If I had only been more suspicious long ago, maybe all of this, this summoning of my son for my confessional, would be completely unnessecary. Maybe the blood of innocent lives wouldn't be on my hands, regardless of whether or not I physically contributed in the shedding of it. He returns my greeting, and holds out his hand in the scripted gesture I myself conditioned him to for so long. And suddenly, as I grip his hand, I come to the realization that I can't do this anymore, that I can't continue to hold him at arms length. The possibility that time may have already run out for one of us -- and I pray to God that it's me -- is too great. Before I have a moment to change my mind, I take the warm, slender hand in mine and tug the body attached to it into my long-overdue arms, in as close an embrace as I can manage. Within my enclosed arms, unable to see his face, I can feel a slight gasp of surprise, fear...and relief, the last of which manifests itself as I feel his arms tightening around my ribs. And at what has to be one of the oddest times, I realize with a hint of paternal pride just how good a grip my son possesses...and how depriving him of this bond, this connection for so long, has robbed me of the pleasure of this knowledge. If I had allowed him to embrace me here two months ago, would I have noticed a frighteningly weak squeeze, a sure sign that something was terribly wrong? I don't know. It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters now is telling my boy the truth once and for all. This is brought to my attention as Fox gently pulls out of my long- overdue embrace long enough to look into my face and study it, now that my own mask, like his, has long since been removed. "What is it? What's wrong?" "Come inside." I gently urge him in by his shoulder, careful enough to shut the door behind him and lock it. God only knows whether or not "they" are having him followed, and God only knows I need to keep him alive. The last thing I need is for an innocent young man to die for the sins of his father. He glances behind him questioningly at my actions, but says nothing. Secretly, I am relieved, as my own greeting from our last meeting echoes through my brain ever-so- briefly, the circumstances seemingly reversed in that instance, my stepping into the home of my son to await a terrible confession. ("You didn't have me come all this way to tell me good news.") Fox, thank God, is far more gracious than his father ever was, as he doesn't bother to fire the ugliness of those words back at me at that moment. Yet his eyes speak volumes of the same levels of fear and terror that had clutched my own heart at that very moment. I pretend to be oblivious of the emotions flooding between the two of us as I offer him a seat. Noticing the glasses and bottle on the coffee table, I proceed to offer him a drink, which he promptly refuses. At that moment I can hardly blame him. The last thing he needs right now is to turn into the twisted old fool who gave him life and, only two months ago, nearly took it away. Seating myself directly in front of his focused gaze, I force myself to focus on the situation at hand; I realize that my cordiality has merely been procrastination. My mind begins to spin and my heart begins to quicken a bit. I decide to ignore it, for the time being. I haven't even spoken or written to my son for two months, so unless Teena has spoken with him, I seriously doubt Fox even knows about my condition. How could I possibly tell him that the guilt resulting from my causing his death nearly caused my own? No. That is hardly important right now. First he must know the truth about my work. Then maybe, once he has forgiven me -- if he forgives me --I can tell him the truth about my health. For a moment, I bury my head in my hands, gathering my thoughts. Digging up memories of sins long buried and forgotten. The truth is so clear, the future almost too clear...the goods...the merchandise...lives, experiments, for the "good of humankind, and the future"...how to tell your own son... ("...I believe I was doing the right thing...I'm sorry, Dad...") "It's...it's so clear now," I finally manage to choke out, more to myself than to him. "So simple. It was so complicated then. The choices that needed to be made." "What choices?" The voice that answers me is deep in manhood and maturity, but the eyes that search my own are those of a frightened twelve-year-old boy, searching for a long-forgotten truth I have concealed for his entire life with my almost deadly silence. "Dad?" "You're a smart boy, Fox," I inform him almost thirty-three years too late. "You're smarter than I ever was." "About what?" "Your politics are yours, you've never thrown in," I reply in a moment of paternal admiration and self-admonishment. My heart quickens a few beats as I continue to summon up enough courage for my confession without one more swallow of the poison I've hidden behind all of these years. "The minute you do that, their doctrines become yours and you can be held responsible." "You're talking about your work in the state department." The statement is saturated in his obvious state of confusion. Poor Fox. You were so much like other boys, you watched your father go to work, occasionally come home, stay at work for longer and longer stretches at a time, neither understanding nor caring about the specifics of your father's profession or the effects they will ultimately have on your future. As far as you were concerned, I was just another father trotting off to work, providing for his family like any other family. Grim determination forces me to fight a slowly creeping dizziness long enough to pull myself to my feet. Determination that our relationship must now reach a long-overdue maturity once and for all. "You're going to learn of things." I manage to adapt my voice into the same voice with which I conducted a talk about "the facts of life" to a boy around the fragile yet inquisitive age of eleven. To a thirty-three-year-old man looking due for a shave, yet searching me for a sense of wisdom I am almost positive I do not possess. I take a deep breath and struggle to maintain my composure. "Fox, you're going to hear the words--" my eyes lock with his as I turn to face him "-- and they'll come to make sense to you." God, that seemed to nearly take the wind out of my sails. That "facts of life" speech was so much easier than the warnings and confessions I have yet to utter. And the beating of my heart seems to increase the dizziness, threatening to overwhelm me. Unspoken terror has completely swallowed the face of my son as he looks up imploringly at me. "What words?" His voice sounds as frightened as it did as a little five-year-old begging me to scan his closet one more time to make sure it was void of monsters. Good God, boy, if you had any idea who the real monsters are... After all these years, the first of a terrifying string of words etches its way to the fore of my brain. "The merchandise," I exhale as the dizziness I have been battling threatens to swallow me whole. My head is pounding so loudly I am half surprised Fox can't hear it. A slight glimpse out of the corner of my eye at the clock informs me that fifteen minutes have passed since I should have taken those damn pills. Suddenly I can feel them. Strong yet gentle hands on my shoulders, a concerned yet puzzled face silently willing me simultaneously to explain what terrible meaning lurks behind such cryptic terminology, and to tell him what is wrong with me, how those simple words could cause such a strong man to fall. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, with compassion...with a sense of love I had no idea was there. The love I have deprived myself of all of these years in my self- inflicted cocoon of punishment. Such a soft, yet firm touch. How could I deny him that all of these years? How could I deny myself? That one point of contact... I manage to get a hold of myself long enough to pull myself into an upright position and acknowlege his willingness to help. Yet until larger truths are revealed, I don't feel the time is right to tell him of my own miniscule heart condition brought on by guilt-related stress. "Look," I explain simply, "I've been taking some medication. You'll have to excuse me for a moment." When the time is right, he will know. I will tell him. I have taken the first of many steps to making peace with my past, and hopefully that will be enough to preserve the future. ************************************************************* I trudge into the bathroom and steal a few seconds to scan the old stranger staring at me from the medicine cabinet. His guilt seems to be etched into every inch of his skin leaving deep grooves, and the weight of his past almost seems to sit on his shoulders. I sigh, and pry open the cabinet. Well, there's nothing I can do to change my own physical appearance, perhaps, no way to hide the evidence of my stupidity. But as I scramble for the prescribed poisons, I am assured that perhaps history won't be repeated through my Fox. I can sense now that at least he knows how much I love him, and hope sincerely that he will in time understand the horrible truth I have brought him all this way to explain, to plead my case before an unsuspecting jury. ("You didn't have me come all this way...") I heave a sigh and close the cabinet, leaning against the sink just for a moment. It is then that I notice another face in the mirror just behind me, tall with dark hair and a young face. Fox? No...but this man is vaguely familiar...I seem to remember seeing pictures of him from... ...oh, my God, he's one of THEM! Here in my house! Oh, God, Fox, if they so much as... Splitting headache unlike anything I've ever felt before. The only motion my body can seem to make at the moment is to slide helplessly to the floor, like one of my beautiful little Sam's rag dolls. Otherwise I can't move; my only awareness at the moment is of the pain in my head, the roughness of the bathroom rug and the salty taste of my own blood. ...slowly a sound, as if from a distance, startled and slightly groggy, "Dad?" ...frantic footsteps coming toward the door...a sensation of being enveloped by cold...a sudden panic as realization hits that I've suddenly run out of time. A small part of me is relieved that my son has been spared and the truly guilty party has, in this case, been executed. Even my son's strong hands as he lifts my head to meet his frantic face cannot chase away this cold..."Oh, Dad..." I can see the shock registering on his face as I mentally curse the injustice of this rude interruption of the one moment of truth I have allowed for my son, even when a black mental blanket seems to envelope it in my vision. Now my my little girl will learn, once found, that she no longer has a father, and my boy will be left unprotected from the ugly truths surrounding a dead father. Even in death I am condemning him to a fate worse than hell, to seek out the truth alone. But there is no other way. If those against us, against him, succeed in removing him permanently, my death will no longer be in vain. Suddenly, in the midst of this darkness, or rather dimness, as I can still make out Fox's devastated form, I can make out an almost blinding light just past his shoulder. I know damn well it is nothing extraterrestrial, but it is also nothing of the natural. It is the sign that both our fates are sealed, that we have both run out of time. At long last, that part of my dream, my son's dead gaze, finally makes sense. Funny that should be among my dying thoughts. "Forgive me," I manage to gasp out before being sucked up into the light. I feel myself floating, observing the scene beneath me with an odd mixture of detachment and sorrow. I see my dead form still prone on the rug suddenly enveloped in Fox's enormous embrace, one I unfortunately am unable either to return or indulge myself in. I see my own blood saturating the front of his shirt as he sobs harder and louder than I have ever heard him sob in my entire life. The words I hear next break my heart. "I'm so sorry, Dad," he chokes out, then his voice gradually begins to rise. "PLEASE come back to me!!! Don't leave me like this, I'm so sorry sosorrysosorry...oh, God...Dad..." A full minute is spent choking out wordless sobs, rants, and late prayers. Even in my own death he seems to somehow feel himself responsible, regardless of whether or not he pulled the trigger. And now it's too late for me. I've wasted precious time with the one person in my life who was patiently yet desperately willing to let me in. And now he'll never know. ************************************************************* THE END Okay, moment of truth -- just let me know what you think at hersh@i1.net. Thanks!