The Cruellest Month

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

Summary: Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

A/N: First of all, I want to thank each and every person who reviewed my story. You, all of you, inspire me, make me go on, and provide much-needed reason for my effort. You guys, quite simply, rock!

Second of all, I apologize for the delay in posting this last and final chapter. The crazy whirligig of chaos that I now call "my life" has prevented me from writing much of anything in the past several weeks. I appreciate your patience.

xxxxxx

Jack relaxed his shoulders and rested his head on the back of his car seat. From this vantage point, he could observe Sam and Daisy Thorpe sitting on the bus stop bench some distance away. It didn't look like they were talking. Instead, the girl sat with her head low, arms crossed in a defensive gesture, less strung out now than when they found her, but more saddened and drained. Sam didn't engage her, she didn't put a hand on her shoulder or her arm, but somehow Jack could see that her silent presence was comforting to Daisy.

As much as anyone's presence could be comforting to a frightened 13-year-old who just attempted to run away, because her father tried to molest her and then killed the only friend she had. Maybe "comfort" was the wrong word, but he could see Daisy's stance relax, her head move in that slow, rapid motion that indicated the beginning of a long and ultimately cathartic cry.

Jack was glad it fell to Sam to be there and talk the girl through the horror that just became her life. It wasn't that he didn't feel up to it, but, all things considered, Sam was in a much better position to understand and to guide. She once told him of the time she herself ran away from home at the age of 16. Not that 16-year-old Sam's predicament was as troubling as Daisy's, but there was a lonely bus stop in her past, and with it, a uniquely pertinent perspective. Sam's mother came after her and picked her up, and the mere fact that she cared to do that became enough for young Sam to never attempt running away again.

But that was about alienation. This was different. This was a horrific, tangible problem for a very young girl to encounter, and it didn't matter that in her apprehension and anger Daisy attributed to her suddenly menacing father all the sins this little town possessed. Right or wrong, the events proved that she had more to fear than anyone realized, and Jack felt his throat constrict in helpless fury. Anyone hurting children didn't deserve to live. Anyone hurting their own children was so far beyond Jack's comprehension, it made him feel physically ill. Like that time two years ago, on the dark, wet highway road, after they found Graham Spaulding's latest victim.

Jack shoved that particular memory back into his subconscious, concentrating instead on Matt Thorpe. What was it the man said in his defense? "It only happened once. One time. . . . I don't know what came over me." And Jack's own visceral reaction to the pathetic reasoning: once? As if once didn't count! As if the number somehow justified anything. Once was once too many times in some cases, and this was definitely the case. The man actually looked at Jack with appeal in his eyes, as if asking for understanding. Why was it that every garden variety pedophile thought himself entitled to understanding? As if they considered Jack capable of accessing the emotional level they operated on. That appeal made Jack see red more than anything else Thorpe said or did. The assumption that, as a psychologist or a father, he would somehow be able to tap the line of reasoning declaring it OK to look at your child in any kind of sexual way. That it all came under the lofty heading of "love."

Jack grounded his teeth. Somehow, it wasn't enough to call the man a "sick bastard" and lock him up. The "sick bastard" bit went without saying, and Jack felt suddenly relieved. Whatever his faults as a father - and they were apparent, if he was honest - Jack could at least exonerate himself from this particular affliction. He hoped his daughters would grow into amazing women some day, but he could not imagine ever thinking of them as anything but his little nuggets, with their dark eyes like giant cups of coffee, looking to him in complete and utter trust.

Trust - a big issue among people on any given day, but this particular case seemed to be all about that: trust children place in their fathers; trust in law enforcement professionals to do their job unencumbered by bias and personal vendettas; trust in the inherent innocence of someone until proven otherwise; trust in parental instincts. Trust that, in this day and age, a lynch mob mentality could not prevail. That in a town such as this, a kid can grow up without fear of the usual horrors that await them in larger, more perilous cities. That a childhood would not be terminated too soon or even fatally by base compulsions, hatred, or the adults' refusal to pay attention. Especially if these things came from the inside of a family - the ultimate place of trust.

His attention drifted back to the two figures. Sam's head was turned toward the girl, her profile soft and distinct. As usual, on those rare occasions that he allowed himself to watch her in peace, without it being obvious or uncomfortable, Jack was struck anew by how beautiful she was. He's gotten used to her beauty, to the soft gleam of her hair, to the steep curve of her upper lip, to the unexpected slant of her eyes. But every now and then, he would be caught afresh by her, as if she suddenly came into focus after existing as a blur somewhere on the periphery of his vision. Here was an issue of trust: had he somehow violated her belief in him? Did she not trust him anymore or was she just humoring him as a boss? Was the fact that she felt the need to hide her thing with Martin a testament to her lack of trust in Jack or in her own faith in that relationship? Not that he felt he any longer merited the trust, but he liked to have it all the same.

Jack sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. So many things in his life needed repair, so many relationships were frayed or broken. His girls, his father, Sam, even Vivian and Danny, who, Jack admitted, weren't confiding in him anymore, either. Part of it was circumstances, and part - his own fault.

It started to drizzle in that slow, indecisive way a rain sometimes begins. A few tentative drops landed on the windshield. Jack shivered and turned the heat up in the car. This was a very cold April, the coldest he could remember. Thank God it was almost over. The month had been draining: emotionally, physically, mentally. May was just around the corner, though, and was bound to be better, with its fresh energy, its promise, and its warmth. He had a lot of work to do.

xxxx

Sam extended her hand, palm up, and let a few raindrops land on it. It was definitely going to pour soon. But she didn't feel like hurrying Daisy off this bench and into uncertain future and unavoidable confrontations. They could sit here a few more minutes and pretend that the world made sense.

She could feel Jack watching them, but it didn't bother her the way it might have done this morning. The events of this day, the very real concern for this lost girl, have driven all personal melodrama out of her mind. The emotional roller-coaster she's been riding lately suddenly felt trivial. Here was someone with dilemmas far less glamorous and a lot more tragic. Dilemmas that had no comfortable solutions.

Daisy will have to go back to her mother, who, oblivious and defensive, allowed things to happen that should never have happened. She would have to deal with the fact that her father would be spending a long time in jail, and the fact that she actually wished it to be longer than that. The one person who believed her and tried to help was dead. And Sam could only guess what all of this would do for the girl's future chances of ever trusting anyone, making friends, or allowing people to get close.

She reminded Sam of herself at that age: restless, confused, scared, feeling as if she didn't belong anywhere. Then again, this was probably true of any teenager at one time or another. Accept this teenager's problems weren't hormone-induced or self-inflicted, and there wasn't a thing - not really - that Sam could say or do to make any of it better.

She turned her head and looked at Jack in the car, his face slightly distorted by the windshield reflections and raindrops. His eyes were closed and he appeared asleep, but Sam knew that he wasn't. He was trying to be unobtrusive and succeeded to the degree that both Sam and Daisy have forgotten for a while that he was there at all. There were a million things they should be doing right now, starting with phone calls, arrangements, and paperwork. Not to mention, they had a long drive back to the City. But Jack didn't hurry them, and Sam felt grateful.

A wave of tenderness passed over her. Jack could be so sweet sometimes it broke your heart. And he looked almost ragged - now that she was paying attention - ravaged by exhaustion, by his family troubles, and by this job. She wondered if he'd slept and when he ate last. She also wandered perversely if Martin was well. None of these conflicting emotions felt irreconcilable anymore. Sam looked at Jack and wanted to stroke his rumpled hair and tell him that everything would be all right. That things had a way of sorting themselves out. And she wanted to get back to the office and talk to Martin. She felt in a much better condition to do this now than she was in the morning. She certainly understood him better. And maybe they could have closure, the real kind that she never got with Jack.

xxxx

Vivian washed out the cups and stacked them on the high rack above the sink. It wasn't necessary that she accomplish this: Reggie already offered to do the dishes, trying in his own way to atone for getting in trouble today. But she wanted to do it herself. The routine and the banality of kitchen duties calmed her down and stabilized her thoughts. Besides, there wasn't much to do here. The kitchen was bright and spotless, the crumb cake she rolled out for the guest earlier remained untouched - Danny not being the cake type and not even touching the tea she poured into a nice cup for him. He didn't stay long, concerned about tiring her out. She smiled her appreciation, relieved that she didn't have to explain anything. He somehow knew that she wasn't up for much company. If worry and apprehension didn't wear her down, those heavy-duty pre-op meds certainly did.

Viv dried her hands and picked up the "Get Well" card Danny left for her on the table. She opened it and smiled, moved by the message and impressed by the intricate image drawn inside. A bird. A phoenix, to be exact. Interesting and well-educated girl, Allie. A phoenix was indeed a good imagery to inspire a dangerously ill person.

Danny had been funny and airy, and without that forced cheerfulness that people sometimes adopt while visiting the sick. He didn't try to make it seem as if everything was OK, but he didn't stress the direness of the situation, either. Danny had a light touch with people, especially people in distress: his friendship with Allie was a good example of that.

Vivian noticed the dark circles under his eyes and she wondered if that was because he worried about her, or because the cases were tough lately, or, maybe, because something wasn't going right with that new girl of his.

Viv, as much as she didn't want him to worry about her condition, hoped still more that it wasn't the last one. He had seemed so happy in the past months, as if walking on air. And if he didn't tell her anything, she knew it wasn't because he didn't trust her, but because he had that superstitious streak in him that precluded talking about the good in his life for fear of jinxing it. Goodness knows, the boy had enough bad things happen to make him be protective of the fortunate ones.

She wished she could say something, had some wisdom to impart. But it wasn't what they did, not even in the best of times, and, anyway, just sitting there, toying with a cup of pale tea and talking about anything other than what's going on, was all the comfort both of them needed today. Tomorrow it may be different, but this evening Vivian felt her spirits rise.

Jack called an hour ago, keeping her informed on the case, even if she wasn't working it with them. It was good news, all things considered: the girl was found safe, and the bad guy was going to prison. Jack kept the details to the minimum, and she appreciated his editorial thinking. She knew it was selfish, but relatively good news was all she could handle right now, and the murkier particulars could wait for the time when she would be well again, at work, and reading the reports.

Vivian chuckled: it was amazing how good you can make yourself feel by censoring the incoming information. There was a reason why she never watched or read news anymore. Who needed the aggravation? Give her the Sports and the Travel sections, and the other parts of the Times may as well not exist. People laugh at an ostrich, but they have to acknowledge the healthy self-preservation instinct of the bird.

Speaking of birds, she picked up Allie's card and put it on the fridge door, alongside Reggie's latest school essay and a funny cartoon clipped from the New Yorker. The phoenix's eye looked at her sideways, unflinching, perceptive, and soothing. "It's going to be all right," it seemed to say, "you are going to be well." Vivan's eyes traveled to a small calendar stuck to the other side of the fridge. April was almost over. Good riddance! It hasn't brought much joy. May would be when she would get rid of this problem once and for all. May was going to be the happy month.

xxxx

They sat at a small table outside of their favorite haunt, "Casa Santo Domingo" - a tiny ethnic neighborhood restaurant run by the kind, motherly Dominican woman called by her patrons simply Mama Arevalo. She was indeed a mother by title and by right, mothering Danny, and now Audrey, bullying them into eating and wearing warmer clothes, and berating them for not gaining weight at the desired rate.

Both Danny and Audrey loved it here. It felt comfortable and familiar, it had character, the food was wonderful, and the service personal and genuine. It was still way too cold to sit outside, though, and Mama Arevalo did not let them do this without a fight.

"You catch cold! You no have sense!" and seeing their amused but unrelenting smiles, with a sigh of defeat: "I make you hot tamales - they keep you warm." Never mind that they didn't order any tamales. The steaming pot of coffee was already on the table, and the Creole Meringue cake they also didn't order magically appeared on a large plate between them. Danny chuckled: by maneuvering, by bluff, or by sheer force of will, Mama Arevalo was determined to feed them into what she considered a "healthy" condition.

It was nice, though, being taken care of, fussed over, and worried about like that. Especially when they didn't really need it. It was nice to be here, to watch the late evening crowd rush by toward their respective homes from work. The coffee smelled like heaven, and the Meringue added a nice touch of yellow to the red checkered table cloth color scheme.

"How's Vivian?" Audrey's thin, long-fingered hand was casting an interesting shadow on the tabletop, and Danny traced in with his own finger.

"She is holding up well. Better than the rest of us, I should say, but that could be because she is on drugs," he smiled a slightly van smile. "Viv is an amazing person. I wish I had a quarter of her resilience, her strength, or her wisdom."

"Danny, admittedly, I don't know her, but I know you, and you have all these in spades." Audrey looked him in the eyes and then laughed. "Well, the wisdom part not so much: here we are sitting on the cold evening outside, and it's going to rain soon. But the other stuff - I don't think I have ever met anyone more resilient or stronger than you."

"You should get out more," he gave her a wink. "On the second thought, no you shouldn't! . . . I love it that you think these things of me, and I know you are being sincere, but it makes me petrified of disappointing you one day."

"You won't. Or I'll get over it. I am not saying this to put the pressure on you. I'm just saying you should give yourself a break once in a while. I am certain Vivian would tell you the same thing. You are not a bad person, Danny, so stop punishing yourself. Especially for things you have no control over. That's the wisdom you could use." The message was somewhat harsh, but the tone was gentle, and Danny wrapped his arm around Audrey's shoulder in silent acquiescence.

"OK, I will try to stay away from gratuitous guilt, but it's hard for a Catholic, even a lapsed one. By now it's second nature. I feel guilty for not paying enough attention to those closest to me. I feel guilty for surviving. I feel guilty for my luck. I feel guilty for being happy and for feeling guilt about this happiness, for staying sober and for still wanting a drink every morning, for not wanting to see my brother and for missing him. I can find more ways to feel guilty than an altar boy in a Sunday morning confessional. I've honed my skills through years and years of AA meetings."

"Yes, you are a study in guild, Taylor. I would be tempted to write a story about you, if I wasn't so sure that Albert Camus hasn't written it all already. . . ."

"Are you actually mocking my pain?" Danny looked at her in pretend shock.

"I am mocking your pain, your guilt, and your self-abuse. I would also mock your tie, but, really, how much ridicule can a guy take in one evening?" Audrey laughed pulling on the offending article of clothing in order to loosen it. "I can't change how you feel about your choices and your luck," she added on a more serious note, "but I can keep reminding you of who you are."

"And who am I?"

"You are someone who makes 'loving thy neighbor' a much easier task." Audrey smiled at him mischievously.

"Oh, good, just see that you don't practice this particular tenet on our other neighbors." Danny knitted his brows in stern warning. "I still don't trust you with young Stevie Kauffman. Especially now that his parents are so preoccupied with his new baby-sister, and he is left to fend for himself."

"Yes, he does pedal his tricycle along the hallway with a lot more fierce energy these days. Poor kiddie: it must be confusing and upsetting at the age of 5 to be suddenly dislodged from the secure position of the center of his parents' universe."

"Must be pretty confusing and upsetting at any age. But you are not allowed to console him: those brooding 5-year-olds with hot bicycle wheels and abandonment issues are very, very dangerous types! Let him get his own obliging neighbor."

They both laughed. The rain started in earnest now, threatening to soak the striped canvas umbrella that sheltered their table.

"April's almost over." Audrey looked up at the patch of gray sky between the building wall and the umbrella edge. "Thing are bound to improve. You just wait and see."

The End.

A/N: I know I've been flogging the dead pony with that "end of a bad month" motif, but I keep thinking of canon, and how things went from bad to worse in May, what with Danny's brother, Jack's hallucinations, and Vivian's surgery apprehension, all culminating in that shooting, and I can't help but play off of this. They must have been looking forward to the end of troublesome April, only to run into the much worse May.