Chapter Twenty Seven
To Say Goodnight…
"So you like lemon bars, hmm?" I ask Beth, quite some while later, with the taste of lemon still lingering in my mouth.
"My favourite desert," she's still close enough that I can feel her lips curving upwards in a smile, against my cheek.
"I would never have guessed that."
"What would you have guessed?"she leans back and stretches out, with her legs draped across my lap.
Hmmm… what would I have guessed? "Something more exotic than lemon bars, anyway," I tell her, because when I think of lemon bars, I think of all the church socials my mother dragged me to as a kid. (Yeah, no matter where we lived, Alison and me got dragged to church every fucking Sunday. And you can just see how well it took, too, can't you? Church is also where I learned to play the piano – we didn't have a pot to piss in, but with the right sob story, Mom could find at least one competant musician to force us to take lessons from.)
"Exotic? Me?" Beth sounds more than a wee bit surprised at my assessment.
I favour her with a half smile and let my hands play along her calves – nothing sexual, just sort of rubbing the muscle and listening to her purr softly in appreciation (which is a serious turn-on, but anyway… I keep my paws below her knees… knees that are ticklish….)
"Stop that!" Beth wriggles, laughing almost hysterically. "God damn it – Sheldon!" She seems to be having a very hard time not screaming (and you know I'm enjoying the Hell out of myself…) "Oh, I'm going to get you!"
"Can't. I'm not ticklish," I grin over at her – although I do relent and leave her knees alone… for now.
"Everyone is ticklish somewhere."
I just smile at her – I'm not going to tell Beth exactly how I learned to 'shut off' – it happened long before I joined the CIA, but it was no more pleasant than some of the things I've had done to me in the last sixteen years… however, that just isn't something I want to think about right now. "Crème Brule."
"What?"
"What I would order for you, for desert. Crème Brule – with a cup of cappuccino, maybe a shot of – hmmm," I'm nibble at my fingertip while I consider various after dinner liquors… "Grand mariner, I think." It's only a guess, of course, but her cologne has a sort of orangey tang...
"You know, I've heard of it – Crème Brule, that is – but I can't say I that know what it is."
"Basically a baked, caramelized custard."
"That doesn't sound very exciting – just a fancy name for something I could make in my own kitchen."
I just chuckle, "So – you've let me figure out that you like lemon bars – and you don't think that Crème Brule is very exciting. I know your favourite colours are green and brown. What else? Besides having ticklish knees," I place hands on them without actually tickling…
"Don't you dare."
"Or you'll what?" I squeeze, just a little.
"I'm sure I'll come up with something." (I know she's smiling at me, I can hear it in her voice.)
I favour Beth with a wicked grin. "Than I suggest you start talking."
"Where should I start?"
"Favourite sandwich."
"Hmmmm – anything not wrapped in a tortilla."
"Come on – you can do better than that," and I give another little squeeze, making her wriggle a little.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?"
"Bet your sweet bottom."
"Ok – ok – stop!"
I do. For now.
"Tuna fish."
"Your favourite sandwich is tuna fish?"
"Well – I have to make it. I don't like onion or celery in my tuna – and it has to be real mayonnaise. With dill and lemon, served on buttered, toasted wheat bread. I hate white bread unless it's potato bread – or Italian or French or something like that. I'm partial to pumpernickel bread, too – just not with tuna. And I feel the same way about margarine as I do about artificial mayo. It's butter or nothing around me."
"Note to self, Beth's arteries are hardening as we speak," I tease her.
She just laughs, "So – what about you? What's your favourite sandwich?"
Hmmm…. I really don't think I want to go there… even if I started this.
"I'm waiting."
"You have to promise not to laugh."
"On my honour," however I can hear her grinning in anticipation…
I'm tempted to ask her to guess, just so I don't have to say it… but – here goes nothing: "Peanut butter and banana on white," ok, she seems to be doing a good job of not giggling… much. "Bread not toasted – but everything has to be room temperature. My mother always kept the peanut butter in the fridge, I absolutely hated that. Cold peanut butter just does not spread right. And the bananas have to be ripe, not bitter." The perfect banana has plenty of freckles and absolutely no hint of green…
"Smooth or crunchy peanut butter?"
"Smooth."
"And you like the crusts cut off," Beth tells me (she's right, too)… "Chocolate milk to wash it down. You don't like white milk, but you'll drink chocolate."
"You really are just a little bit freaky."
"And you're really sure you can live with that?"
"Yes."
In the hall, the clock chimes – I count nine dings.
"I should get Cicily to sleep," Beth stirs slightly, sitting up.
"Where did you want to put her?"
"In bed with me – unless I can get you to change your mind and let me take the sofa."
"Ok – I'd like you to think about this logically," I tell her. "Sofa's here – door's about what – fifteen or twenty feet that way?" I nod in the direction I know the front door to be. "Do you really think I'm going to let you and Cicily sleep down here?"
"Sheldon –"
"Just a simple yes or no will do, thank you."
She sighs, "No."
"All right, then. Now – I should go upstairs and get a few things from my room –"
"Which is probably as well armed as a third world country?"
"I'll clear the guns too." (Cicily is seven and even I know that kids and guns don't mix.)
"Thank you."
I head upstairs and grab a few essentials from the bathroom, along with my robe, sweats and alarm clock. After assembling my things neatly on the bed (where I'll have no trouble finding them again), I go about removing the guns and getting them locked back into my trunk… a soft knock at the door draws my attention.
"Can I – have a second?" Emma sounds very unsure of herself.
What I want to say is that she can have all the time in the world – but I'm really just not good at this stuff, so the best she gets out of me is "Sure."
"I – never got a chance to – just ask how this morning went."
I think my expression must give me away…
"That bad, huh?" Emma asks.
"It wasn't really any worse than I expected," other than having Paula Basil heading up the investigation… but it still could have been worse. I motion for Emma to come on over and ask her to shut the door while she's at it. If Beth is right about some of the things Emma's probably worried about – well, there's no better time to deal with it than now, especially since Em came to me (which I hope is a good sign.)
"What is it?" my daughter parks herself on the bed a few feet away.
"Look – a lot more ended up changing today that I expected, ok?"
"Yeah. I know."
"Beth being here really doesn't change anything between you and me. I don't want you to just stay out of the way – I don't want you to feel like you have to jump in and get involved in whaterver's going on either. Just – just do whatever makes you happy. Within reason," I add with half a grin.
I think Emma almost smiles…"I really don't want you to think that I don't like her, Shelly. She's ok. It's just – when you told me there'd been a nurse who helped you – you didn't mention that there was anything more to the relationship. Which I guess isn't any of my business –"
I shake my head, "It affects you. It's your business. It's just that right now – we're just kind of taking it a day at a time. I wasn't exactly expecting her to show up on my doorstep today of all days."
"How did today really go?"
"I'm suspended from duty pending the CIA's investigation of what went down in Mexico – but I was expecting that."
"What'sgoing to happen?" And she sounds more than a wee bit afraid when she asks that question.
I guess I really am all Emma has left and if something happens to me…? Yeah. I am so not the guy anyone wants to hang their hopes on. "Em – it'll be ok."
"But – what – what do they think you did – what are they investigating you for? You were just doing your job, right?"
"A field agent does whatever he has to do to get the job done. Sometimes it gets a little messy. Usually the Company – CIA – turns a blind eye, as long as you deliver the goods. This time – this time things got really messy and your old man was right in the middle of it, when the shit it the fan."
"I went online this morning, after you left. I checked out CNN and a couple of the other news services to find out what happened down there on the second," she tells me kinda quietly.
Oh, fucking peachy. But I guess it can't hurt to know what they're saying about back here, so I ask, in a carefully neutral tone just what it was she found out.
"That there was an attempted coup – some general guy tried to overthrow the Mexican government. The president was almost killed – in one interview he credited a group of 'loyal sons of Mexico' with saving his life."
"El," the word slips out before I can clamp my jaw shut.
"El? As in the?"
Ok, that gets a bit of smile out of me. "Yeah. El as in the. The Mariachi. A guy with a guitar case full of guns and nothing to live for." At least until I gave it to him – and I'm pretty sure Emma remembers my cryptic remark from the other day.
"So – this guy was working with you?"
"For me." Pride won't let me let that one just slide by. Fucking bastard.
"But – if he was working for you, and he saved the president's life – shouldn't you just need his testimony or something? Wouldn't that clear everything up?"
"It's really not that simple, Emma. A lot of things – just went to shit on me all at once."
"Why won't you tell what's really going on?"
"Because I don't want to scare you."
"I'm already scared."
And I can't tell her that there's nothing to be scared of…
"All the news sites are talking about that guy who – you know," she says, then.
"Barillo." Yeah. His name would have hit the wires... "Ok, look, there are people in the CIA who're saying I was working with Barillo – and it was Barillo who hired General Marquez to overthrow the president," because if she's going to hear this load of bull hockey, maybe I do want her to hear it from me first. "No matter how many different ways I say it, they're not buying that I wasn't working with Barillo. My 'superiors' have made up their minds that I'm guilty – that I went over to the other side."
"But you didn't."
And I'm not really sure if that's a question or a statement… "No. I didn't. I was set up."
"Why?"
"I'm still working on that. But I don't want you to sweat it. I've got a way out. It's – not the best way out – but it works. And sometimes you've just gotta do what works." Which has never been more true than it is now – and fuck me, but this is not a place I ever thought I would be. I am living la vida loca… "Besides, it has the side benefit of pissing off a whole lotta people back at Langley." (Which almost makes it all worth it.)
A soft knock at the door alerts us both that Cicily is ready for bed…
"When will you know for sure?" Emma asks me.
I favour her with a half smile – Emma really is one smart little cookie. "It'll be a while before it's all over. And it could get a little ugly."
"All right," she gets up – I hear her cross the distance and open the door for Beth and Cicily. Then Emma beats feet back to her own room… I really wish she'd've stuck around. I don't like this feeling of – of being pulled in two directions at once… but maybe Beth is right, time is the only thing that will fix this.
Besides, I don't end up with much of a chance to think about it; Cicily is bounding over towards me… "Will you tuck me in?" she asks.
"Have you brushed your teeth?"
"Uh-huh. And my hair."
"Hmmm…. Ok. But it's going to cost you."
"Why?"
"Because I said so," I grin at her.
"What's it gonna cost?" she sounds dubious.
"You have to stop calling me Senor Sands."
"But that's what Mama said to call you!"
"She has a point," Beth says – it sounds like she's watching us from the door.
"Well I'm telling you that if you want me to tuck you in, you have to come up with something else to call me." Ha. (Of course it dawns on me after the words have come out of my mouth that I've just left myself wide open…)
"I don't want to call you Jeff. You don't look like a Jeff."
"So what do I look like?"
Cicily ponders this for a little longer than I think I'm quite comfortable with. "I like Sheldon," she says at last.
I nod, "Sheldon it is," thank God.
Cicily hops into bed – as I lean over to pull the covers up around her, I feel her reaching up, beckoning a hug – much more carefully than that first time, I might add. It still feels weird. I mean – come on – what kind of man am I to be giving a sweet little kid like this one a hug good night? But here you have it. "Don't let the bed bugs bite," I grin down at her.
Cicily just giggles and I listen to her settling into the covers…
I grab an extra blanket from the foot of the bed and make my way towards the door.
Beth hits the light and follows me, shutting the door behind us.
"Is she – ok with all this?" I ask as we reach the steps.
Beth slows down and lets me place a hand on her elbow, "She's pretty resilient. The night we left her father – I just waited until he'd gone out with his brothers to get drunk, and threw everything I could into a suitcase. I was afraid to even call a cab – and I couldn't take the car, it was in his name. I had one friend I could trust to get us to the bus stop – and she had to meet us on the corner because – because everybody loves and or fears Neal and if her husband ever found out she'd helped me, he would have killed her."
My Christ… "So what finally made you leave him?"
"He hit my daughter. He hit her hard enough to fracture her jaw. She was four. He could have killed her."
"You know it's a really good thing you made me promise not to touch him before you told me that."
"You think it was an accident, Cowboy?"
"Why?" I toss my stuff onto the sofa.
"Why what?"
"Why did you stay with him for so long?"
I listen as Beth picks up the remains of desert and our coffee cups and carries them into the kitchen; I follow.
"I didn't have anywhere else to go. I knew Glenna would never let us stay with her – Corey was in the middle of his own problems. I only had a couple of friends in town, but no one I could stay with – like I said, everyone loved Neal or feared him."
Spontaneously and for no particular reason, I pull Beth towards me, wrapping my arms around her waist – she's startled at first, but very quickly settles comfortably into my grasp. "You realize I'm never going to let anybody hurt you like that again, don't you?" I say into her ear.
"I have to face him eventually."
"Fine. You face him. Just you remember there's going to be somebody standing right behind you when you do. Somebody packing a fuck of a lot of heat."
"Sheldon –"
"Not negotiable, Darlin'."
"How about we worry about Neal later," she asks me.
"As soon as you tell me what Milo did to fix things for you with the feds."
"I gather a higher court judge took issue with the fact that Neal's uncle signed the arrest warrant."
"All right." I don't like it. I would rather Milo had settled it by putting a bullet into Neal's skull – but I really didn't expect anything like that. As I've said, Milo's a real stand up guy. I find her mouth with mine – and I'm just going to keep on saying it, I love the way this woman kisses….
"I should really let you get some sleep," Beth tells me, some while later (we've long since moved to the sofa.)
"I'm not really tired," honestly, I'm not.
"You said it yourself – you've had a fuck of a day. And it's getting late."
And she's probably tired. I'm just not ready to let her go – to say goodnight. I'm ready to take the chance that I'm going to wake up and find that none of this was real…
"I'll be her in the morning, Cowboy, I promise."
"You have no idea how hard it really is," I tell to her. "Going to sleep in the dark – waking up in the dark – and never really knowing what's real and what's just a dream." Or a nightmare…
"This is real."
And I'm real not sure I'm going to be going to sleep anytime soon… but I listen to her go upstairs, flipping off the lights as she goes. I take my toiletries to the bathroom and change into my sweats – it does feel good to peel off the denim. And – yeah, everything else (hey, I did mention being well armed, right?)
Going about my nightly business helps the blood flow back to where it normally flows – but taking off the glasses, even alone in the dark… I face the mirror I can't see, knowing what I would see if I could…
"What the Hell do you think you're doing, fuckmook? What does Beth think she's doing? How can any of this really be real?" With a cautious touch, I feel my way up my face until I come to the gaping holes that used to have eyes growing out of them… I know she's seen me dozens of times… looked into what's left of who I used to be and not been afraid. And I can still feel the cold lump in my stomach wanting to rise…
I slide the mask into place quickly. Somehow it's presence makes it easier to – to forget. As if I could ever really forget – but at least if no one else sees me, I can at least pretend.
And walking back to the sofa, listening to the clock chime eleven times – yeah, I am pretty fucking exhausted. I tuck the Browning under the pillow and lay down… and… and I still get the fucked up urge to close my eyes when I get ready to go to sleep. Isn't that weird?
………………………………………………………………………………………
I can be a nightmare of the grandest kind
I can withhold like it's going out of style
I have the bravest heart that you've ever seen
And you've never met anyone who's as positive as I am sometimes
You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can't relate
And you're still here
I blame everyone else, not my own partaking
My passive-aggressiveness can be devastating
I'm the most gorgeous woman that you've ever known
And you've never met anyone who's as everything as I am sometimes
You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can't relate
And you're still here
What I resist, persists, and speaks louder than I know
What I resist, you love, no matter how low or high I go
You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can't relate
And you're still here
And you're still here
And you're still here...
- Alanis Morresette -
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Next up: the long awaited "Spanish Inquisition"