Smooth, lilting notes of jazz flowed from the small stage and enveloped the smoke-filled nightclub in a pleasant heat, combating the frozen slush outside. Tear-drop Christmas lights hung around the bar and tables, the fogginess in the air causing them to glow like dancing orbs. Chris took a sip of his dry martini and licked his lips. Embers was, in his opinion, the best club that New York City's nightlife had to offer, at least north of 54th Street. Jazz pianists always played until two, and then the white crowd slowly thinned out by two-thirty when African blues took the stage until dawn. He came here often to unwind, sometimes staying until the diner across the street opened for breakfast.
Tonight he found relaxation difficult; and his hands clenched with tension and nervous energy. Tiny rivulets swirled outward from the mini-whirlpool in the martini glass as he spun the olive toothpick in fast circles. A shadowed figure in a long grey coat and a drenched, black hat pulled low on his forehead approached Chris' hidden corner. The man removed his hat, ruffled his curly hair, and plopped into the chair across from Chris with a "humph".
"Hey, excuse me," the man said, grabbing the sleeve of a waiter breezing past, "I'll take a Manhattan. Dry. No olives. So," he said, turning to Chris, "why the secret meeting?"
"I just need someone to talk to, Ronald."
"What's happened now?"
"You know I could be killed for telling you this."
"How many times have I heard that? Just say it already."
Chris chewed his bottom lip in hesitation, then sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't as though he hadn't broken the 'top secret in confidence' thing before.
"I've been given a special assignment, and I…I don't think I can go through with it," he admitted before falling silent.
"Am I supposed to guess what it is?"
"Murder."
Ronald leaned back in his chair and nodded, playing with the stubble at his chin.
"Can I ask who—"
"Patrice Lumumba. Prime minister of the Republic of the Congo. He's a nationalist, highly respected. They want him killed because of his radical ideas regarding African isolationism and his ties with the Soviet Union."
"Hmm…Men have been killed for less. When will the operation occur?"
"Sometime near the end of January. They'll be in touch," Chris snorted, "…Who am I Ronald? Who the hell am I? What gives me the right to change history? Killing a man with whom I have no business. A man I don't even know!"
Ronald thought for a moment and cleared his throat. "Well, it seems to me this act doesn't make you the killer. It only makes you the hand."
"What's the difference?"
"You're doing a job. Murder is personal."
"Have you ever killed anyone, Ronald?"
"Well…no. But if I must someday, I won't allow it to weigh down my conscience, because I have faith in what we do. The work must always come before personal qualms over morals. "
"That's all about perspective. I killed a man in the Korean War when I was nineteen years old. I killed more than one, of course, but I'll never forget the first. Bullet to the head at less than ten yards. They teach you to detach yourself from making it personal, but I wept in the bunker that night, because the enormity of the whole thing hit me. I thought about the life I had stolen from a man I didn't even hate…I had sworn to myself long before that I would never become the cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch my father was. But I had become him…When I stepped outside the tent for a smoke to clear my head, my superior officer followed me. I confessed the guilt I felt, and you know what he told me? He said I hadn't killed anyone—I had saved someone who would've been killed by that guy tomorrow. And that's how I got myself through the rest of the war. Deny everything…But this assassination? My excuse doesn't hold. It is personal; I know what I'm destroying."
"Chris, I think you need to stop obsessing over everything. No more analysis of right and wrong. Be glad they like you enough to give you this one. Do your job."
"At the expense of what?"
--
"Teena? Hello?"
The first few wooden steps creaked beneath his feet, and she could clearly hear his palm brushing the evergreen garland on the banister.
"Are you in the shower, honey?"
Teena squeezed the air out of her lungs and forced her dry throat to emit sound, because she knew that remaining silent would surely bring him upstairs to investigate.
"I'm preparing to get in the bath," Teena called back, praying her voice didn't sound as shaky as she felt.
"Okay, well I haven't had dinner, so I'll just be in the kitchen picking at leftovers. Be up in a few minutes."
"All right. There's a casserole in the fridge!"
The chandelier in the foyer bathed the hallway in a yellow glow and his footsteps soon descended and faded through the dining room into the kitchen. In a wild rush of panic, Teena organized the papers with trembling fingers and shoved them back into the top drawer of the filing cabinet. She looked about frantically to see if she had disturbed anything else, and finding everything back in proper order, she switched the lamp off and quietly pulled the door closed. After removing the key from her pocket, she swiftly locked the door and bent down to examine the broken floorboard with her fingertips. Briefly she glanced at the tarnished skeleton key nestled in her palm and then back again to the splintered hole in the floor. Instead of returning the key to its prison, she dropped it into her pocket and carefully slid the wooden plank back into place. On her way to the washroom, she buried the key under the false bottom in her vanity table beside her Star of David necklace.
--
Her heart continued to patter anxiously while she soaked in the porcelain claw-footed tub. Suddenly the bedroom door swung open; and she braced herself for him to enter the washroom, but instead she heard him rustling through his chest of drawers. He seemed like a stranger to her, more so now than ever. First the document about—of all things—flying saucers, which she had heard him dismiss as "complete garbage" on multiple occasions, and then his own notes…something about a vaccine? Surely he wasn't some kind of scientist—no he couldn't be, she would have known that, he was just some sort of government agent and that was all. Maybe it was part of his work to dispel myths surrounding science-related phenomena. She drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit at that thought. No, there was something else. The last line of his handwritten notes had disturbed her more than anything else she discovered. "Ruse in place to earn their trust." Teena couldn't help but wonder if she was part of "them".
A knock on the washroom door fractured her thoughts. "Honey, are you almost finished in there?"
"Yes darling, I'll be right out," she replied flatly.
After she had dried off and slipped into a silk chemise, she stepped into the darkened master bedroom. Bill rested on his side facing the opposite wall, and waves of panic rose in her chest once more. What if he somehow knew what she had done? He flipped over when the door closed, smiling as he pulled the covers back for her. She tentatively stepped into the four-poster bed and tried not to tense as he slipped behind her and enveloped her body with his heat. A shiver ran down her spine when his hot breath shuddered against the back of her neck.
"I hope you won't mind darling, but I invited someone to share our Christmas Eve dinner."
"That's fine," she replied, "Who?"
"Chris Spender. You remember him; he was the one moping around the back porch at the party."
"Oh yes…I remember."
"He doesn't have any family to see during the holidays, so I think he'll enjoy a nice Christmas here with us…Out of curiosity, what were the two of you talking about that night? You seemed deep in some conversation."
"Oh no, it was only small talk. I don't even remember what about. He offered his lighter and his coat. He seemed very polite."
"Chris is well-mannered, just a bit stand-offish when you first meet him."
Teena "mmm-hmmd" softly, not wishing to discuss Chris any further with Bill. She almost felt guilty, as though there was something to hide, but of course that notion was ridiculous. They had done nothing wrong. Bill's palm caressed her side and gradually trailed to the swell of her hips in languid circles, bunching the layers of the silk dressing gown around her waist until he touched bare flesh. Both of his arms lightly turned her to face him, and she found herself resisting. It was a husband's right to expect intimacy, but that was not the way she needed to close their distance. Whatever happened to conversation? Another argument similar to the one last week would be preferable to this polite discussion and obligatory love-making.
"Teena? Are you upset about something? What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine," she answered curtly as she sat up and pulled the gown over her head. She was glad he couldn't see her face in the dark; otherwise he would surely see the tears welling in her glassy eyes. He seemed satisfied with her response and continued his possession of her body.
--
Her eyes glazed over, staring absently past his shoulder while he moved above her and within her, and his face came into her mind. Soulful hazel eyes sparkling green, rugged yet gentle features, full lips. What would it feel like to caress that mouth with her lips, to taste the hot flesh of his neck, to wrap her legs around his lean frame, to hold him until dawn with drying sweat sticking to their bodies like dew? What would it be like to share this secret part of herself with someone who understood her—someone who loved her without ever having to say the words. Lovehad become such a shadowy concept. She told Bill she loved him frequently because she was his wife and it was her duty to love him. Her life was pleasant enough, maybe it wasn't a fairy-tale, but it was comfortable. Teena wanted the fairy-tale. Deep in her mind's eye, she felt Chris's moist breath puffing erratically against the pulse at her neck before his strangled cry, and she was with him.
"I love you love love you….." she chanted airily as white sparks hazed over her vision. But when everything faded to black, all she could hear was Bill's voice.
"I know, honey. I love you, too."
--
"I must thank you both again for the invitation. This looks delicious," Chris said with an awkward, forced smile.
A hunk of glazed turkey lounged on his china plate enticingly, and he poked at it with a knife and fork, glad to have something to occupy his hands. For years, he'd managed to avoid celebrating this holiday. He was probably one of the few lonely Americans who didn't contemplate suicide during theChristmas season. Oh, the pleasures of misanthropicism. Bill was not his closest friend, and accepting this sort of invitation was out of character for Chris. Truthfully his motivations hovered around the irrational desire to see Teena again, at least more so than attending a seasonal gathering at the home of a colleague. Conversation had remained sparse and suffocatingly polite since he'd arrived an hour before, Bill instigating much of the stifled banter. Teena had scarcely said a word more than necessary.
He felt his pulse thudding in his ears each time his gaze accidentally fell upon her, causing his breath to catch in his throat. She looked something more than beautiful that night. The velvet gown she wore shone a deep forest green with a scooping neckline that revealed the soft curves at the top of her breasts. Her hair was loosely pulled back with a pearl comb, soft chestnut curls spilling to her neck. In the light of the candles atop the dinner table, her rich, dark eyes sparkled with a hint of gold. Chris silently assured himself this attraction would pass—she would eventually fade and flicker in his memory just like the few others before her that had, for whatever reason, truly captivated him. If anything, this dinner was simply a harmless way of distracting him from the solemn, tumultuous weeks he knew January would bring. And nothing more.
"Where are you from, Mr. Spender?"
He startled at the sound of her voice and looked up from the fascinating dead bird on his plate to see her regarding him curiously with one eyebrow raised.
"Please call me Chris. I'm from Louisiana originally; Baton Rouge and New Orleans," he replied.
"I've always wanted to visit Louisiana. It seems so gothic and romantic. Do you have relatives there?"
"Teena," Bill jumped in quickly, "Let's not pester our guest with so many questions."
"I don't mind, Bill," Chris said, "I never had brothers or sisters, and as far as I know, my parents didn't have any siblings. Both of them passed away when I was very young, and I don't have many memories of them. So no, I don't have relatives in Louisiana."
"I'm sorry," she murmured, tilting her chin down to the table.
"Don't be. I managed to have a descent childhood. I traveled around a great deal, living in several different states with foster parents and such...What about you? Where are you from originally?"
Before she could respond, Bill cleared his throat from his position at the head of the table and addressed Chris. "Teena and I just purchased a summer home in Quonochontaug. It's gorgeous up there and the water-skiing is wonderful. We're having a party for the 4th of July with a cook-out and fireworks, aren't we, darling?"
Teena nodded absently, her eyes far away as one of her fingers twirled a long tendril of dark hair.
"I hope you'll join us, Chris," Bill continued.
"I would like that very much," he answered, studying Teena until she raised her gaze to meet his.
--
When he was a small child, probably only four or five, he believed ardently that Santa Clause existed. He was in between foster homes during that time and living in a small, Catholic orphanage in Chicago. On Christmas Eve, he asked Sister Helen if Santa would come to see him, since Santa loves all children, and she answered him honestly that Santa doesn't visit poor kids. Refusing to accept her response, later that night, he managed to crawl out of the fire escape to the roof and gazed at the star-gilded winter sky in preparation for the appearance of the sleigh and reindeer. He desperately wanted to yell and scream for Santa's attention and demand why orphans weren't worth the effort. Shivering in the gloomy darkness, he fell asleep waiting for the tinkling of bells. That was the night he became a deist.
Hastily he shoved the suit he'd worn that evening into the small duffle bag along with his toiletries and wallet. After flicking the chrome lighter on top of the pile, he changed his mind and shoved it in his pocket; God, he was dying for a cigarette. He couldn't believe he'd ever agreed to stay the night. In one of the large guest bedrooms down the hall from the master, he felt impossibly awkward and out of place. Anxiety attacks had left him in peace for years, but now, in this strange house, he felt the familiar confused panic welling up in his chest like tears. Maybe it was this stupid holiday that didn't belong to him, or maybe it was seeing Teena—it had been a long time since his emotions were stirred like this, and in addition to the stress he felt over his upcoming mission—He had to get away. A note would do just fine—he would leave a letter thanking the Mulders again for their hospitality and explain that he had business to attend to and didn't want to invade their private holiday. Simple enough.
Without a sound, save for the occasional creak of a floorboard, he descended the staircase and circled toward the kitchen. Discovering a convenient pad of paper on the fridge, he quickly scrawled out a succinct message and left the note on the kitchen table. Upon returning to the darkened, ghostly foyer, he clicked the brass lock on the heavy front door and swished the chain aside, inhaling deeply as the frigid air cleansed his lungs.
"Chris?"
At first, he swore he'd imagined the whisper of her sweet alto, but when he glanced over his shoulder, there she stood. She wore a floor-length pale yellow robe, the shape of her legs clearly visible through the sheer silk. In that frozen moment, she seemed more of an apparition than a person, with streams of silver moonlight trickling in from the open door glowing in her face and hair. Chris blinked, wondering if he really might be crazy, but she was still there when he opened his eyes, studying him enigmatically.
"Where are you going in the middle of the night?" she asked softly.
"I was—I just, I have some business to take care of. Something came up and I need to leave early. Forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I really must go."
He turned to leave before his less reasonable half persuaded him otherwise, but before he could fully open the door, he felt the gentle tug of her fingers on his sleeve.
"That isn't true, is it?"
She was so close, closer than she'd ever been. He could smell her.
"I'm sorry, but I must go now," he firmly declared, refusing to look into her eyes.
"Go before dawn if you must, but before you leave…Take tea with me. I can't sleep."
"All right. I can stay for tea."
--
