Chapter Twenty - Voltaire

Kylen was slow to waken, having gone to bed with a relaxation tape containing the sounds of the ocean. Listening to the waves, she had slept surprisingly well. McQueen, on the other hand, was up bright and early ready to slip his traces and start to take control of his own recovery. "Kylen is here. Let her make herself useful. 0630 it is. Everybody into the pool." It took him a while to get her moving at a speed he considered acceptable. He called her a 'slug' and she, in turn, called him a 'grind.' There was no way Kylen was leaving The Barn without her coffee, thank you very much, and in the future the least McQueen could do was to have coffee ready for her. Kylen was not a morning person. After the feathers had been smoothed, the morning went off without a hitch.

McQueen worked out in the pool while Kylen watched. They had breakfast. Amy worked McQueen on the Balance Master and the treadmill. The occupational therapist worked with him on fine motor movements of his new toes. There was lunch. During the afternoon, Kylen and McQueen went for a walk.

Kylen and McQueen had remarkably similar thoughts on the day, but were each affected differently by those thoughts. It had been companionable and purposeful. No drama. No anxiety. Nothing to prove. A job to be done. Pleasant company. Relaxed conversation. It was as if half forgotten doors were being opened. What Kylen and McQueen each found behind those doors was the same only different. Little doors of normalcy. A remembrance that life could be lived every day; a little bit at a time. A memory that life often was just the little bits strung together.

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Dale Steinbeck knocked on the door and entered McQueen's room after receiving a terse 'Enter.' McQueen was buttoning his khaki shirt. He was dressing in the 'B' Service Uniform - acceptable attire for leave or liberty. Amy had selected his new kit wisely. Just a few things, but well chosen.

"Well, I see that the women folk got everything arranged to their satisfaction," Dale spoke easily.

"I thought you had work to do in the lab," McQueen said, hoping that Dale's appearance now meant that Steinbeck would be able to attend Kylen's little dinner party.

"I do, but I thought I should let you know that I double-checked their arrangements myself. As a matter of fact, Charlie, the owner, is a former patient. By the way, I dare you to identify what he has that is new. That said just to give you confidence in my work and the process. Charlie has a daughter in the Navy - down in Norfolk. And he was pleased to be of service to a decorated military man - regardless of his method of birth. Sorry, but I did give him a bit of your story." Dale held up his hand to ward off McQueen's withering look. "Nothing that hasn't been shown on television, I assure you, Tyrus. Look, it is a public place so I can't make any guarantees but Charlie won't put up with any crap in his place. No, I'm actually here because I have another worry. I was almost out the door when it hit me."

Dale flipped McQueen a sheet of sandpaper. "You'll need this for the bottom of those new shoes. Scuff them up good now. I don't want you to go slipping and sliding around the island. I do have a reputation to protect. Have a good time." He patted McQueen on the back and was gone.

McQueen turned, and using his cane negotiated his way to the chair. He sat and scuffed up the bottoms of his shoes." Why didn't I just say no to all of this? Kylen had said it was a dinner 'to begin again.' Now what in the hell does that mean?" He tied his tie (field scarf), pulled on the green sweater and stood at his dresser checking the mirror to be sure he was squared away. The birds looked good on his shoulders. He began filling his pockets when the Bad Penny herself showed up at the door.

"Ready?" she asked. Kylen watched him take the knife off of the dresser and move to put it into his pocket. "Let me see," she said and crossed to him holding out her hand. McQueen gave her the knife. She weighed it in her palm and fingered it's graphite casing. "Show me," she said softly, handing it back to him.

McQueen took the butterfly knife from her hand and with a deft move of his wrist snapped it open.

"Again," she urged.

McQueen couldn't even begin to understand the reason for her request, but it was of obvious importance to her and cost him nothing. He closed the knife and then repeated the action. He held the knife open for a few seconds and then closed it. Fascinated by her concentration, McQueen repeated the action a third time, unbidden. Kylen held out her hand for the weapon. His curiosity peeked, McQueen placed the closed blade in her palm where it rested like an offering.

"Teach me," she said, staring into her hand.

McQueen again felt that 'frisson.' It was becoming familiar now. Kylen could say things - do things - which shocked him. Few people had that power. He tried to deflect her.

"It isn't strictly legal, Kylen," he said. ""I can think of at least four states where the knife itself is illegal. Then there are those states where it is illegal for an InVitro to carry any weapon whatsoever."

"I understand," she said, looking up to meet his eyes. "Teach me."

"It's not a skill you need to acquire, Kylen."

"I do," she said. "I don't want to feel like I'm defenseless again."

"You are home now. You don't need a knife." McQueen gently plucked the knife from her palm. "Most civilians are wounded or killed with their own weapons," he added as an after thought.

"I know. That's why I need a good teacher." Kylen said.

"I thought we were going out to eat lobster - to celebrate beginning again," McQueen said and pointedly put the knife into his pocket.

"We are. But I never want to feel like a victim ever again." Kylen was at her most reasonable.

McQueen composed his thoughts. He totally understood her feelings. It was why he carried the blade. But the thought of giving her a knife repelled him somehow. She needed to be involved with more enlightened pursuits. Kylen shouldn't have to stay forever in survival mode - mired in her fears. "One should do nothing against one's conscience." McQueen wasn't even sure why, but it was strongly - very strongly - against his conscience to teach Kylen to knife fight. He would not aid what he felt was folly. As gently as he could possibly say it; for he knew that it would probably disappoint her, he gave her his final word.

"No. I can't do it. Not for you and not to you. Don't ask me to do this," he said looking away from her bracing for a wave of Kylen's accusation and disappointment to hit him. She surprised him.

Kylen gently place her hand on his arm. "That's all right Colonel. Slow and steady wins the race." McQueen was lost at that last statement. He could not follow her train.

"Don't give it another thought," Kylen said kindly. "Let's go to dinner."

Kylen had baffled McQueen yet again. He had disappointed her, of this he was sure, but her reaction had been to reach out and give him a comforting touch. He refused to consider the possibility that she was pulling a fast one on him and he was correct.

Kylen was disappointed and she might have been hurt but for the fact that McQueen's refusal had been so ... So ... tender. She lost herself in private thought for a moment while she tried to define what she had seen and heard. It hit her. A memory from her childhood. "I must have been eight or nine when Dad told me that Maxie, our dog, had been hit by a car. I remember it to this day. Not so much for the fact that Maxie had died, but for how difficult it had been for Dad to tell me. That's what I really remember - the pain and concern on Dad's face - in his voice. My father had been afraid to tell me. I remember feeling that he was very brave to do something that frightened him so much. I remember feeling that I could be strong for my Dad - that I could help him not be so sad and afraid. The ego of a child. I still remember that moment. McQueen had sounded like that - afraid to tell me something I wouldn't want to hear. Something that he felt would upset me. I wonder what he was really thinking - to sound so vulnerable, so fragile? Whatever you do, Kylen, never touch a butterfly's wing with your finger," she thought. "If he can't teach me, I'll just find someone who will."

It was a hitch in her plan but not the end of it.

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Charlie's was a neighborhood place - a bar and small restaurant about half full when they arrived. There was an interesting moment between McQueen and Kylen as they were seated. They both instinctively wanted the seat, which would put their back to the wall and give them a clear view of both the door and the entrance to the bar - the escape routes. Kylen conceded and McQueen sat in the catbird seat. Charlie picked two lobsters out of his tank.

The dinner was excellent and the conversation covered many subjects. Kylen's desire to learn about Nathan and the rest of The Wildcards was insatiable, and it was a subject that McQueen would open up to. Between Nathan's old letters to his parents, videodisks and what McQueen had to tell her, Kylen felt she was getting a real picture of these people. She chose to share with him something that Nathan had said about him:

"Nathan wrote that you could be very tough sometimes, but that it was a good thing because it's the tough guys who lead the survivors." McQueen felt strangely humbled by the remark.

Kylen ate with what McQueen could only describe as pagan delight. Melted butter did drip onto her chin. She had been disappointed that there was no champagne, but the two made do with a few drafts. McQueen found himself counting how many Kylen drank. She had to be out of practice, and she was the one driving. He didn't like having other people drive, and McQueen had yet to take the reflex reaction test to be reissued his license. He had to admit to himself that he wasn't up to speed yet. They split a third lobster.

They talked about flying. McQueen's entire continence changed when he talked about flying. He obviously loved it and missed it more than he was willing to say.

"After five years underground, in the mines, flying had to be a revelation. A freedom beyond thought - beyond anything you had imagined," Kylen said quietly. McQueen just gave her a smile. There was nothing he needed to say - she understood. He shared several aphorisms that amused Kylen. The old chestnut about there being 'no old bold pilots.' 'Flying isn't dangerous - crashing is dangerous.' 'The difference between God and a Fighter Pilot is that God doesn't think He is a Fighter Pilot.' And the one that made her really laugh: 'Trust thrust.'

McQueen stood and tried to excuse himself. Kylen immediately stood to take his arm.

"Damn it, Celina. You are not walking me to the head," he hissed into her ear. It was a humiliation not to be borne.

"No, Sir. You are correct. I am not," Kylen said smoothly. "I am, however, going to assist you through that maze of tables and chairs into the bar where, since this was my treat, I will pay our bill. Here is your coat."

They negotiated their way around the tables, and the handful of other patrons. Kylen placed her purse and keys on the bar, dropping her gloves in the process. McQueen bent down and picked them up for her. When McQueen leaned over the navel on the back of his neck was clearly seen by Kylen and by at least one of the men seated at the bar.

"Thank you, Colonel," she said lightly, but clearly enough for the people in the bar to hear. McQueen excused himself.

The man at the bar fidgeted. Kylen moved off slightly. Finally the man could not help himself any longer, and he called Charlie Morgan over to the bar.

"Did you see that?" he asked softly.

"What?" Charlie replied in a tone of voice that signaled that he would brook no nonsense. Charlie was not an overt supporter of InVitro rights but neither was he, in any way shape or form, Anti InVitro rights. It just wasn't an issue that had ever touched his life - until this evening.

"That Marine. He's a Tank," the man whispered. Like most people, this man, Cal, did not consider himself a bigot. He would never be overtly rude or confrontational, and he had not done and never would do violence. His prejudices were well hidden - even from himself. He really didn't want to make a scene. He was far more surprised than indignant. InVitros were a distinct rarity in these parts. He would never say anything to McQueen, but a Tank at Charlie's? Well, it was kind of like seeing a two-headed calf walk into your neighborhood watering hole.

"And that Marine defends your right to say things like that, Cal. Watch yourself." Charlie said evenly. In Charlie's view Cal was a good enough man, but a bit too Down East forthright for good company.

Kylen stepped forward, smiled kindly and rested her hand lightly on the man's arm. She chose to treat him as if he were a poor, not too bright, relation - who had just realized that McQueen was the Pope.

"Whoever serves his country has no need of ancestors," she said simply, but only loudly enough for the three to hear. There was no need to bring the whole bar in on the conversation.

Kylen turned to leave and almost ran into McQueen who had silently returned. It was obvious to her that he had heard at least part of the conversation. They left the restaurant in silence.

Kylen didn't ask him. She just drove to the pier; it was a place of calm to her. She parked the car but did not get out. She sat with McQueen in the dark, partially illuminated by the lights in the lot. Kylen could see McQueen's reflection in the windshield. He was watching her - waiting for her. She took several deep breaths then, calmed, she turned toward him. "I handled that badly didn't I?"

"Kylen, you always have to weigh things. You did pretty well, but now is not the time to make new enemies," McQueen admitted to her.

"That's what I thought, but I just couldn't let it slide. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. Now, there's something that I seem to be getting very good at. It's the only thing I'm really sure of," she said.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"My quote? Voltaire. I would have thought that it is one quotation that you would have burned into your memory," Kylen said.

"I will now," he thought. "I'll save that one for Hawkes next time he goes off about country or family."

Kylen nodded toward the pier. Her intention was clear. She had shifted her orbit again and wanted to move - wanted to be by the water. McQueen wasn't in any hurry to get back to The Barn. He could either join her or be left sitting in the darkness. It was a no-brainer. "Keep up, McQueen," he thought to himself.

End Chapter Twenty

Literary Giants M.Wheels