Chapter 21: Call waiting

Yes, Bones thought, Booth had seen the truth of her that day at the airport: she had been so very conflicted. Caroline Julian had characterized their decision to go their separate ways for a year as "running away from each other," but Bones had not seen it in the same light. It wasn't Booth she had been running from, but rather the unremitting stress of their equivocal relationship. Like the four principle characters in the tale, she and Booth had both been torn between approach (generally speaking, Vic and Brennan) and avoidance (Tim and Jay). The tension had reached unendurable proportions; that was the reason she had gone to that far-flung corner of the world, and, for her at least, the isolation afforded her in the rainforests of Maluku had provided her the breathing room she'd needed to decide who she really was, and what she wanted. For Booth, it had been, perhaps, a different story, but that was his tale to tell.

A Tale of Twin Booths, cont'd

It could not be said that Vic and Tim made the transition back to military life easily. They were no longer very young men who adapted to unappetizing rations, rickety canvas cots and unreliable air-conditioning with aplomb. Their first month in Afghanistan, where the heat routinely rose to 120 degrees during the day, and where bursts of small arms fire shattered their sleep at nights, was trying to the max, but they gradually became accustomed to spending their working hours in sweat-soaked clothes, dealing with oft-recurring intestinal complaints, and placing every footfall with extreme care.

During those first few weeks, Vic kept close tabs on Tim, afraid that at any moment his twin, whether by design or recklessness, would put himself in the path of danger. He tried his best to share at least breakfast and dinner with him every day, to make sure he ate. As a mental health specialist, Tim did not go out on patrol, so Vic did not have to worry about his being injured in an attack, but guns routinely misfired and mortar shells fell inside the base, too, so Tim was never entirely out of harm's way. One afternoon, Vic learned that his twin had been spotted with a red-stained towel clamped to his face, his uniform stained with cherry-colored dots. Vic dropped everything and ran to find him, only to discover that the day's brutal heat had caused Tim's nose to bleed. Vic had feared the worst.

As the weeks wore on, Vic's anxiety about Tim began to lessen. His twin had found purpose in his work as a counselor, and, while no less desperately unhappy, had slapped sundry bandages on his broken heart in order to be able to provide crucial services to the soldiers who came to him with their gut-wrenching feelings of guilt, grief or simple homesickness. He let them pour out their loneliness, misgivings and soul-anguish without interruption or judgment, and, if they needed to cry, he did not make them feel unmanly, but rather placed an arm comfortingly around their shoulders and held them silently while they wept, never once tearing up himself. He gained such a reputation as a spirit-guide and healer that he became known across the base, affectionately, as Father Tim.

By the end of week six, Vic's life had taken on a steady rhythm: he trained recruits of the Afghan National Army in counter-insurgency techniques during the day, and, after an evening's weightlifting or a few games of low-stakes poker, would retire to his cot. Enclosing himself in his bed tent against the swarms of insects, camel spiders and scorpions that were intent on making a meal of him, he would take out his reading material of choice: a visitor's guide to Indonesia. Some nights he would read descriptions of the local landmarks and points of interest, but mostly he would flip through the pictures of white-sand beaches lined with palm trees, or thatch-roofed huts built over blue-green waters and try to imagine Brennan there, her hair lightened to chestnut in the sun, her bare shoulders tanned. She hadn't phoned or e-mailed once over the weeks they'd been separated, but at each day's close, he called to mind the sight of her looking back over her shoulder at him with longing, summoned patience against his disappointment, and endured.

As the second month passed without any word from her, Vic began to worry about her safety. Had she fallen afoul of one of the armed bands reputed to roam the Northern Maluku Province? Were she and her team stranded in the rainforest somewhere? Was there a dire health emergency? He watched the TV news nightly, and checked for stories about the expedition on line, but there was no disturbance reported.

By the third month of silence, Vic was concerned enough to broach the topic with Tim. "I thought for sure she'd have gotten in touch by now."

"Listen, Vic, you know as well as I do that Maluku is an isolated corner of the world. Who knows what cell phone reception is like out there, or if she's anywhere near a town with internet access. Plus, she's probably devoting every available hour to the dig so she can accomplish as much as possible in the short time she has. Quit worrying!"

Good advice, but not practical… In the evenings, when Vic took out his well-thumbed guidebook, he began to notice the young, brown-skinned men in the photos, their bodies lithe and powerful from physically-demanding work, whether in the depths of the forest or out on the sea. They were handsome devils, too, with their broad, strong-featured faces, their bright white smiles and glossy black hair. Brennan was especially susceptible to the well-muscled type of masculine beauty, and not a proponent of sexual abstinence…

"God, give me patience!" Tim fumed. "If it's driving you this crazy, call Brennan yourself!"

"Don't you think, after all this time, she should make the first move?"

Tim rolled his eyes in disgust. "What are you, a preteen girl?"

Late in the fourth month, Vic decided to take Tim's advice, and reach out to Brennan himself. It took him days to obtain a likely phone number. Angela, in France, was not answering email sent to her work account, Brennan's father, Max, was incommunicado, and Cam did not have an emergency contact number for Brennan on file. As a last resort, he contacted the ever-resourceful Caroline Julian, who, out of love for his chocolate-brown eyes, worked some magic and wangled him the information he needed. "I haven't been able to get through to her, myself," she cautioned him, in her charming Southern drawl, "but I only gave it one try." Vic tried many, many times, and though the phone rang and rang, no one ever picked up.

Vic lay in bed, early in the fifth month of silence, trying to evoke his talisman image of Brennan looking I want to stay so clearly back at him, but it was increasingly overlaid by harrowing scenes of Brennan finding consolation in the arms of some island hunk she'd hired on to help with the heavy lifting, or Brennan, happily digging away and not sparing a thought for her long-time partner sweltering in the heat and caked with the dust of a country at war, or Brennan, entranced by the natural splendor and archeological possibilities of Indonesia, resigning her post at the Jeffersonian in order to remain there indefinitely.

"You are being ridiculous," Tim told him, impatiently. "Brennan asked for your blessing, and you gave it to her. You promised her a year, and you can't manage a measly five months?"

"But, not so much as a peep, Tim. Not a single sign."

"You want my advice, Vic? Go read the Book of Job. In the Bible," he added scathingly, when Vic's brow knit into a frown. "Pay special attention to verse 38:3."

Vic regarded his brother with some concern. "You know, don't you, that 'Father Tim' is just a nickname? You're not really in holy orders."

"Go back to work, Vic. I've got people with real problems to see."

Tim's absolute trust in Brennan comforted Vic for a while. His twin and his beloved had grown so close of late, it did almost seem that each knew what the other was thinking. And, when the Bible verse Tim had recommended — "Gird up now thy loins like a man" — proved to be, in essence, the same advice as Gordon Gordon Wyatt's "Grow a set," he was strengthened in his resolve to keep faith with Brennan, and endure, no matter the hardship. But, then, thoughts of Tim's inglorious romantic history, of what a soft-touch he was with women would rise up to haunt him. Tim had been easy to manipulate as far back as their mother, whose return Tim had also confidently anticipated, and how had that turned out? Vic's doubts returned, redoubled and continued to multiply.

As the sixth month of no communication dawned, Vic's hope, faith and charity had nearly bottomed out. It was then, on a day when he and his unit successfully saved the lives of a sexy blonde female reporter and her crew, that Vic faced a terrible temptation. He allowed himself, somewhat reluctantly, to be led by the rescued damsel into the shade of a fruiting fig tree where she sank down into the sparse grass with the clear intention of thanking him most vigorously for his efforts on her behalf. Vic drew back from her at first, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and the desolation in his heart urged him to action. He thought of Brennan — I want to stay, I want to stay — but she had left him, he was all alone in a world of hurt without her, and Hannah Burley was right there, delectable as any daughter of Eve, willing, eager, practically panting. When she gave a last insistent tug on his hand, Vic surrendered, and let himself fall.

"Are you sure it was a fig tree?" Tim asked, when Vic confessed all to his twin later. "Did you happen to notice a snake in the branches?"

"A snake?" Vic shuddered. "God, I hope not. Snakes give me the creeps. I didn't know they could climb trees. Really?"

Tim sighed. "I absolve you, my brother. Go forth, and sin no more."

But, alas, the sinning had only just begun.