Mulder Home
Teena's husband had not come home the previous night. She sat in the kitchen with the phone in her lap, trying to keep the baby from seeing her tears. She told herself that she had to be strong for her child, even - especially -- if the worst happened.
She smiled at two-year-old Fox. "Is your breakfast good, honey?" she asked. She knew her cheerfulness sounded strange and forced, and prayed he wouldn't notice. Knowing him he probably would.
Fox nodded, his cheeks filled out like a chipmunk's with cereal. He was reasonably adept with a spoon, but he liked to supplement his bites with scooped up handfuls. When he finally managed to swallow he asked, "Where's Daddy?"
"Daddy's at work," she said. That was a lie. She'd called his office again and again and no one had seen him. Or at least no one who would tell her anything.
"Can we call him?" Fox asked. Teena looked away.
"Foxie, Daddy's busy. Daddy's--" She heard the front door open, then got up and ran into the living room. There was Bill, looking unshaven and tired. Beside him stood a man she did not know. She brushed past the man and threw her arms around her husband.
"Teena . . ." Bill said, sounding uncomfortable. Apparently, he found the other man's presence more distracting than she did.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. To hell with him if she embarrassed him. She'd been up half the night crying.
"It's all right," Bill said. He pulled back and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I'll explain later-I promise." He looked steadily into her eyes, then broke away and headed upstairs. The other man followed him. Teena heard water running in the second-floor bathroom. Apparently, Bill and his friend were going to clean up and charge off again after something they didn't trust her enough to tell her about.
Her eyes stinging with angry tears, she went back to check on Fox. He'd overturned his bowl and dumped milk all over his tray. At the moment he was splashing his hands in it. Teena pointed her finger at him and said, "Do not push me." She grabbed a dishrag and attempted to clean him up. He fussed and batted his hands at her. When he squirmed out of his seat she raised her hand to smack him, but at the last moment she relented.
It wasn't Fox she was angry at. He must be frightened, and maybe he was angry at his father too, for making his mother cry. Teena let the boy go with something closer to a love pat than a swat.
Fox plunked himself on the floor by the fridge. He pulled off one of his magnetic letters and began chewing on it.
Unfamiliar footsteps sounded on the stairs. Fox glanced up sharply as Bill's associate strolled into the kitchen. "Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Mulder, but do you have any coffee?" he asked. "It's been a long night."
"You're right. It has," she said. She intended to tell him where he could go with his request for coffee, but realized she might be able to get information out of him. She took the coffeepot from its cupboard. "Is it an affair?" she asked.
"What?" asked the man.
"Bill's always working late,' meeting with people whose names he won't tell me. Is he having an affair?"
"Of course not," said the man. "I understand it must be hard to have him gone so much. However, Bill's work is of a very sensitive nature--"
"Don't give me that nonsense." She slammed the coffeepot down on the stove burner and turned to face the man. "Last night I had no idea whether my husband was alive or dead." Her voice broke over the last word.
Fox called out, "Mom? Mama?" He stood and tugged at the hem of her dress, twisted it around his little hands.
The man ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. "Mrs. Mulder, Teena," he said. "I assure you that in this situation, not telling you what's going on is the kindest thing Bill could do for you."
"I don't want him to keep things from me. I'm his wife," she said. "Or at least I'm supposed to be." Tears flooded her eyes and she turned away.
Teena braced one hand on the counter and put the other to her eyes. Sobs she'd been repressing all morning forced their way out. Bill's friend put his hand on her shoulder.
After a moment the man turned her and pulled her into his arms. He smelled of cigarette smoke and Barbasol. For a few minutes Teena permitted herself the luxury of tears and accepting comfort.
When she finally broke away she turned from him and said, "I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this . . ." She thought she must seem like a horrible wife -- witchy, hysterical, exactly the sort of woman who would drive her husband away.
"Of course you aren't," the man said.
"When he wasn't back by midnight and I had no word, I started calling the hospitals. They said they hadn't seen him . . ."
"He might at least have called," said the man.
Teena turned and looked up at him, hoping she'd found an ally. "Will you encourage him to call home if he won't be in? Just for my peace of mind?"
"Certainly," said the man. His mouth quirked up into an angular smile as he tucked a strand of Teena's hair behind her ear. "I don't know what Bill's thinking of, neglecting a pretty girl like you. If I were him, I'd keep a closer eye on my treasure."
The comment shocked her. Was this man insinuating something? Even stranger, was he offering something? Didn't he care that Teena's husband was right upstairs, that her little boy was clinging to her skirt? She felt her face flush. She didn't know what to say.
Then she heard Bill coming downstairs and went quickly to the stove, where she could busy herself with putting coffee on.
Fox shouted, "Daddy!" His feet made pit-pat sounds as he ran for the doorway.
Bill had shaved and combed his hair, but his eyes were still bloodshot and his face was pale. "All right, buddy," he said. He grunted as he lifted the boy up. Fox was big for his age.
"What's happening?" Teena asked.
Bill shook his head. "I told you I'd explain later," he said. "We have an emergency on our hands."
"Is it war?" Teena asked. She knew there was a "police action" in North Vietnam, and that the U.S.'s worst fear was that the Soviets would put their full nuclear might behind Ho Chi Minh. "Do we need to get to shelter?"
"No, it's not that," Bill said.
"Then what?" Teena demanded.
"Don't worry. You're safe. I'll make it up to you this weekend, I swear." Bill gave her a smile. Bill's smiles seldom reached his eyes, and it gave him a dangerous look. Even after five years of marriage it still thrilled her a little. He caught Teena's wrist and pulled her toward him, then gently kissed her lips.
Then he handed Fox back to her and said, "Come on," to his friend. He turned and headed for the front door.
"One moment," called the other man. He fished inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket for something. He took his time about it. Teena got the impression that unlike Bill, this man disliked hurry. At last he pulled out a pack of Morley's cigarettes and said, "Mrs. Mulder, do you have a light? I seem to be out of matches."
Still feeling stunned, she said, "I think so." She rummaged in the drawer by the stove for the lighter she used when the pilot flame went out. The man lit his cigarette and took a long pull on it, then tugged an empty matchbook from the pack's paper wrapper.
"This evening Bill should be reachable at that number," he said, handing the matchbook to her. She opened it and saw a phone number written inside. She did not recognize it. "Actually," the man added, "we both should." The corner of his mouth curled up around the cigarette. Then he turned from her and said, "Good day, Mrs. Mulder." He walked away and she heard the front door close.
She realized she was shaking. She sat down on the couch as Fox pressed himself against the front window, crying and crying, asking for his Daddy. Teena began to be sorry Bill had come home at all.
Fox was very difficult the rest of that morning. He refused to take a nap. He pulled books out of the bookshelves and dug in the plant pots, scattering dirt all over the carpet. Teena finally lost patience and spanked him, and he sobbed himself to sleep on the living room couch.
The TV was on, showing "As the World Turns." Experience had taught Teena not to turn it off. For some reason both Fox and Bill seemed to sleep better with the television on. Teena didn't like it, but she was learning to pick her battles.
She tried to rest in Bill's TV chair for a while, but comfort eluded her. She soon got up and sat beside Fox on the couch. He slept soundly, sucking on the two middle fingers of his right hand. His eyelids were red and puffy from crying. Teena felt guilty for getting so angry. What happened to little boys whose fathers were never home and whose mothers were always worried and irritable? People said they grew up to be criminals, or psychiatric patients, or perverts.
She retrieved a blanket from his crib and spread it over him. He stirred and stretched a bit, then settled back to sleep. One of his shoes stuck out, untied. She realized this would be Fox's last pair of white baby shoes. He was getting so big so fast. Teena sighed. Sometimes her arms ached to hold another tiny infant. She told herself to forget that thought. She wasn't providing a stable environment for the child she had.
She was sewing a button back onto Bill's shirt cuff when Fox woke up and started fussing. Teena set needle and shirt on a high shelf and went to check on him. Fox stood in the kitchen, his hair mussed, overalls half undone. He ran over and held his arms up to her. "Up, Mom."
Teena hoisted him up onto her hip. "What?" she asked. "Did the TV scare you?"
"Yeah," he said sadly. She felt a new rush of guilt. She knew she should have turned the damn thing off.
"Is there a monster on the TV?" she asked, carrying him into the living room. She did not fully understand his answer. Fox's pronunciation was not as advanced as his vocabulary.
"It's okay," she assured him. "What happens on TV is only pretend."
To her surprise, Walter Cronkite was on the screen. For some reason he was in his shirtsleeves. " . . . shot in the head," he was saying.
Something inside Teena went cold.
Fox continued saying some unintelligible phrase again and again. "Hush, baby," Teena told him.
Cronkite mentioned Dallas and then the picture shifted to a reporter standing in front of a roiling crowd. Somebody seemed to be screaming or crying. The reporter plugged his ear with his finger and said, "There were some--there was a shot, there were several shots . . . at least two men are wounded, including the president. They have been taken to the hospital -- to Parkland Hospital. Again, President Kennedy was wounded by gunfire here in Dealy Plaza just minutes ago. No word on his condition. No word on who the gunman might have been . . ."
Teena sat down on the couch. She felt as if all the blood had drained from her body. "We have an emergency on our hands," Bill had said
She cuddled her son, trying to hush him, but Fox kept saying the same words over and over until Teena grasped their meaning: "They shot him, Mom. They shot him."
Sunday Afternoon,
Washington, D.C.
Teena had never been in a city so deathly silent. Though the crowd pressed ten and twelve deep along parts of Pennsylvania Avenue, you could have heard a pin drop. She stood near the front, holding Fox because his stroller would not fit through the crowd. He was squirming and starting to fuss, and she considered giving up on waiting for the funeral procession. Bill had told her would be nothing for her to do here. She'd countered that at least she could pay her respects. Perhaps she should have stayed home after all.
Finally she heard the distant sound of muffled drums. A buzz went through the crowd and people craned their necks to see. Teena tried to engage Fox's attention by whispering, "Do you hear that? What do you think that is?"
He whimpered and asked, "Where's Daddy?" He'd been asking for his father since Bill left them that morning. Apparently there were "arrangements" to be made. So much for making things up to the family over the weekend.
"We'll see Daddy later." Fox was getting so restless Teena finally set him on his feet, keeping a tight hold of both his hands. An older couple in front of them kindly stepped aside so that Fox had a clear view of the street.
Soon the sound of horses' hooves was audible. When the first rider came into view Fox was enchanted. "Oh! Horsies," he breathed.
"You're right. Lots of horsies," Teena said.
Six white horses passed by, and then came the drum corps. Their instruments made a dull, eerie sound, like a peal of thunder that rolled and rolled and would not break. A silent Marine band followed. The sunlight flashed on the brass of their horns and their faces looked as if they'd been carved from stone. "Mama," Fox said softly, tugging at her hands. She picked him up again and he wrapped his arms around her neck. Apparently the unnatural quiet disturbed him as well.
The funeral caisson came next, a simple, two-wheeled platform bearing Kennedy's coffin, draped in an American flag. At the sight of it Teena's eyes filled. She had not voted for Kennedy, but she had come to respect him. She had never imagined his life would end like this.
After the caisson came a riderless black horse. It walked with its head down, a saber slung from its saddle. A pair of black boots were set backward through the stirrups. Somehow the inverted boots were grotesque - a reminder that the natural order had been violated. Teena felt a chill of horror, as if Death had ridden into the city.
She was desperately glad when the Marine band broke the silence. It played "Hail to the Chief," very slowly as a dirge, but anything was better than that terrible stillness.
When the riderless horse passed out of sight Fox said, "Goodbye, horsie," in a quiet voice. A tremendously long column of military men followed, carrying flags from each of the 50 states. Teena finally disengaged herself from the crowd. Fox was overdue for lunch and a nap, and Teena was desperate to get back to the world of the living, where things were normal. But a little voice in her head told her, "It's not normal. Nothing will ever be normal anymore."
She settled Fox into his stroller and began walking back to the car. Suddenly she stopped, realizing that Bill had the keys. She groaned.
"What, Mama?" Fox asked. He leaned around the edge of the stroller to peer up at her.
"Nothing," Teena said. "Your father's got the car keys."
He looked tired and unhappy. "We can't get in? I'm cold," he said.
"We're going to get inside, baby. Don't worry." She rummaged around in her pocketbook, hoping she at least had enough money to buy them lunch.
Suddenly, someone touched her elbow. "Mrs. Mulder?"
She startled, looked up and saw the man who'd come to their house the other morning. "Oh my God," she said. "You scared me."
"Sorry," he said. "Can I be of some assistance?"
"Do you know where Bill is?" she asked. "He's got the keys and we need to get back to the hotel. It's cold out and Fox hasn't eaten."
"I'm afraid Bill's busy at the moment. I could take you back in my car, if you wish."
Teena hesitated, trying to gauge his motives. His expression was mild and his voice uninflected - perhaps he meant no more than he'd asked. "All right," she said. "When you see Bill, will you tell him where we've gone? Although I really don't know why I ask you that since he never tells me where he's going." She was surprised at herself for saying that. This man was a total stranger; her marital problems were none of his business. Maybe it was just nice to talk to someone who would listen.
"Of course," was all the man said. His car turned out to be closer than the Mulders', just one street over. Teena thought he must have been here very early to get such a spot. Without being asked he opened the trunk so that she'd have a place to put the stroller. She couldn't help being a little impressed; she doubted most men would have thought of that. Once they were all settled in the car the man asked, "So how have you been, Mrs. Mulder?"
"Fine," she said, trying to force some cheerfulness into her voice. "And yourself?"
"As well as can be expected, considering the gloomy nature of my current assignment."
He was practically begging her to ask. Teena had never even asked Bill about the events surrounding the assassination. She'd lost sleep over wondering how much he knew, how involved he was, but could not bring herself to speak the words. She found she didn't have the courage to ask this man, either.
Instead she cleared her throat and said, "I heard something this morning. I heard the man who shot the president has been wounded. Do you know if it's true?"
"It's true," said the man.
"How badly is he injured?"
"He won't live."
Teena bent her head. She had no sympathies for the assassin, but she had not desired more bloodshed. She looked down at Fox, who was nestled against her bosom and beginning to look drowsy. What kind of world had she brought him into? "I don't know what I'm going to tell him," she said.
The man glanced over at her, suddenly looking uneasy. "Bill? I'm sure he won't--" He must have seen her puzzled expression and realized she'd been talking about Fox. He left the first sentence unfinished and said, "I doubt he understands what's going on."
"I think he does. Just the other month he saw some magazine pictures of the president playing on the beach with his children. Fox loved the photos of Kennedy and John Jr. He kept talking about how he and his daddy played on the beach too. I think he understands, in his own way."
At the mention of the "D" word Fox asked, "Where's Daddy?"
Teena sighed deeply. "He asks for his father constantly since all this happened."
"I see," said the man. "That's a shame."
They drove for a time in silence. It would have been an ideal time to ask, "What happened? Did Bill know? Was this emergency' about trying to save the president, or kill him?" Somehow the words wouldn't come. She feared that the truth would be more than she could stand, and though she berated herself for her cowardice, she remained silent.
At last the man pulled up in front of their hotel. He got out and opened the door for her. It was more than an empty display of chivalry since it would have been difficult for Teena to open it herself without waking the child in her arms. "Thank you," Teena said, smiling at him with genuine warmth.
"Any time," said the man. "You still have the number where you can reach me?"
Teena realized that she did, though she'd never called it. "Yes," she said. As he turned from her she called out, "Oh-do tell Bill we're all right?" Too late, she realized she should at least have put a note on Bill's windshield. He'd be frantic if he thought they'd gone missing. Then she thought, "It serves him right. Let him be the one to worry for once."
"Certainly," said the man. The he asked, "Are you all right?"
Surprised at the question, and despite herself a little touched, Teena said, "Yes. Yes of course. Thank you for asking." She smiled at the man as he pulled away, but the smile died when she turned to the hotel's doors.
Teena was not all right. She was unsure if anything would be all right again.
What do you think? Please R&R. Any comments; questions? Pinkpantherx6xAIM