The Lady, or the Tiger: Chapter 6: Perhaps, Just a PAPER Tiger after all
A part of her knew that something was off, that she was too old for what was happening here. Like a mosquito's droning hum near your ear, it was annoying, so she smacked at it with her attention once or twice to get it to go away. The classroom smelled so dusty. How could it smell old and musty like this if children filled it for hours and hours each day? Julia wondered. Mrs. Marks sat, stiff and judgmental and cold, behind her overly large desk. Julia's father matched the stern school teacher's body language, for he had become accustomed to getting irritated at these parent-teacher meetings, and Julia's nervousness had put him on edge before it had even begun. "My god, what has she done now?" he dreaded.
Unfortunately, Julia's father believed it was more effective, more potent, and likely more humiliating, for Julia, herself, to hear her teachers' complaints, so he insisted she sit silently behind them while the two adults met. It felt like she was already being punished. She had learned a long time ago, that she'd best be as quiet and still as a church mouse at a Feline Sunday service, if she had any hopes of avoiding a stern talking to, and going to bed without supper, and not being permitted to leave the house, at all, for a week, not even just to walk in the woods. She would much have preferred to remain at home and pace frantically back and forth waiting for her fate.
"Well, Dr. Ogden," Mrs. Marks started, "Julia has a rampant imagination and a stubborn streak to boot. The assignment called for students to research inventors and write a biography on one from the 18th century. I'm afraid your daughter, despite numerous warnings that her topic was inappropriate, insisted on handing in a final work of pure fiction…"
It took all Julia had to hold her tongue. Her report had been on Marie Christina Bruhn, a woman who had invented a safe and effective type of packaging for gunpowder for the Swedish Army back in the late 1700s. It was all true, but Mrs. Marks had refused to believe it. And she was calling Julia stubborn…
"Gunpowder?!" she heard her father raise his voice, jerking her to alert.
"Something so unseemly as gunpowder?" he questioned again.
"Yes, Dr. Ogden," replied Mrs. Marks, "and… to make matters worse, Julia insisted that it was a woman who had done it!"
"First off," Julia began her argument in her head, "It wasn't 'gunpowder,' it was a 'package' that would safely hold and transport gunpowder. And secondly…" And with this thought her head seared with such anger it made her teeth grit tight with such a force that it threatened to chip a tooth, "Marie Christina Bruhn WAS, most definitely, a WOMAN!"
The teacher clicked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly, "It does seem that Julia's behavior consistently threatens to leave one with no option but to see her as becoming quite a bold and immodest woman in the future," she concluded.
Such a penetrating, hurtful, glare from her father plastered into Julia's eyes, filling them instantly with pools of tears. Her father gathered his hat from the teacher's desk and conceded, working to hide any hint of his shame in his voice, "Yes, we have had… problems with her tomboy antics. Um… Julia's mother…" He hesitated here, thinking that his wife had always been much too free with their two daughters, but it was getting much worse now… "Um, Julia's mother has not been well…" Her father stood, signaling for Mrs. Marks to stand as well.
Julia forced herself to remain seated, kept her eyes low, submissive, respectful, tears hidden. She watched as a big, salty drop plopped down onto her skirt…
"I assure you Mrs. Marks," Dr. Ogden said, "Such behaviors will cease and Julia will behave as a proper girl from n…"
Maybe it was because she WAS bigger now, Julia was not quite sure. But, what had sat inside her gut, nauseating her for years and years as a festering shame, exploded into fury, and her full-sized, adult self, hauled off and punched her father square on in the jaw, sending him flat out to the ground.
Suddenly, unseen behind her, there was a shadowy, gray-skinned, rotten-toothed monster… and many more of them behind that one, closing in. One of them, the one closest to her, she could see his features even though she was not looking back, somehow seeing the whole scene from above her body at the same time as being down in it… The monster - IT WAS HER FATHER!
How could it be that the MONSTER was her father, wasn't her father on the ground right there in front of her? She stared at the man's body lying in the dirt, his hat next to him… a homburg!? "Odd," she thought, "Father didn't wear a homburg?" She stood there, frozen with the puzzle.
William's voice, it was definitely William's voice, called out, warning her "Julia! Look out!" He leapt up from the ground, her father now transformed into William… Or was Father always the monster? Julia's eyes dropped down to stare at the gaping injury in William's chest – BLOOD, so shocking and red… William had been GORED, the antler still sticking out from the wound through his heart. Her eyes jumped up to his beautiful brown eyes, desperate, pleading for him to be alright, for it not to be true. Her head shook from side to side in disbelief. How could she have hurt…
Unexpectedly, William dashed towards her, so strong, so fast, and he grabbed her and clutched her to him and hurled them both to the ground, surely covering her in his blood as he shielded her, his body over hers, protecting her as the danger barreled towards them.
Her brain rushed to grasp it all – William, it was William she had hit, NOT her father… and he had sought to save her despite what she had done to him. He was protecting her. Oh, it ached, she loved him so.
Then, only then, once safely tucked underneath him, did she hear its rumble, first off in the distance, only a small quaking rattling up through her body into William's above her, a thundering that incessantly grew closer, louder, to the point that the roar shook the ground and quaked underneath them, and their eyes were forced to turn to see it, a herd of elk stampeding towards them… Wild, terrorized, frenzied with being tormented by the monsters, the cause of their distress no longer visible, only the humungous cloud of dust, more dense near the ground, near the ground where William and Julia were laying, where the hooves of the thundering elk pounded and struck the earth, running, crazed in their panic. They would be trampled! Her own voice, from deep, deep inside, told her that it was somehow not real, that it was a mirage, that it was something that used to be, but it was no longer, that, if she could just see the truth of that, they would be safe. And she knew, Julia knew she needed to tell him…
She blurted it out in a rush, "I'm sorry, William," she cried and hugged and kissed at his ear from under him, pulling him down into her, sucking him close with all her might, as if she could pull them down into the ground to be safe. "Of course, you are not my father. I know that. And I… I should never have thought you would think so badly of me so. I'm so sorry…"
"Good," he answered in his winsome way, lifting away to take in the view of her underneath him and nod, and tip his hat. A marvel, how the man somehow seems to keep his hat…
"Good," she replied, and sniffled back a tear. Grounded now, solid and secure, firmly planted to the earth, she glanced back in the direction of the raging storm of elk – there was nothing but clarity and quietude on the horizon now… the stillness of it slowing the passage of time, time… it moved too slowly, she noticed, the ripple of the wind through the curl on the fringe of her face… before he kissed her…
Barely, barely, Julia awakened for a moment – to their bed, to his familiar safety next to her… home. Sleep came, heavy, healed, delicious sleep. And when Julia awoke again, early, before the first crack of dawn, she knew then, her psychiatrist self knew it so clearly, that she had been transferring her feelings from her childhood relationship with her father onto her current relationship with William. It had been understandable – there were similarities. But, William Henry Murdoch always had her back. He would always have her back. Love-struck, lust rose in her, but it was different, different from the usual rush, more patient, more assured, more grateful, more generous.
She turned to him. It was dark, the darkest hour before dawn, the moon having had set some time ago, the curve of the Earth not yet angled correctly to capture the rays of the Sun and bend their light – as William had attempted to do at the age of 12 when he ended up burning down Father Keegan's shed. The time had not yet come for the Earth to entice the Sun into pinkening the sky.
The predawn autumn air was chilly, crisp, as Julia pushed the covers down off of them. She rolled over onto her hands and knees, studying his breathing, deep and slow. Shifting her weight to her haunches, she straightened up, gathered up the bottom of her nightgown, lifted it over her head, stretching tall in the blackness to feel the coolness brush her skin, and then tossed it to the floor.
She slid onto him, straddling him, smoothly and slowly mounting up on him, waking him, gentle, her lips to his cheek. "Mm," slipped out of her throat, raspy, as she encountered his manly stubble, and her kisses fluttered the flesh of his ear. His name, in a whisper, HER whisper, lured, called, beckoned, as much from inside of his dreams as from outside of them, in their bedroom.
"Julia," his voice dry, "What're you doing?"
The softest giggle from her before she teased him, her seductive voice so intimately close, "If you can't tell, William, then I'm not doing it right."
A kiss to his lips, tempted his mouth to open to her, and her fingers pinched down the row of buttons at the center of his pajama top, and then, and then, so dizzying, the centripetal force of it, luscious and slow she stunned him, thrilled him, shot a bolt of desire straight through him, direct and unbending, she snuck her hand under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, deliberately, smoothly, firmly, taking him. "Mm," her moan muffled into his mouth, overcome by the feeling of having him within her fingers.
Melting her, thoroughly melting her, so very succulently, his weakened, sharp, hushed, gasp, at her boldness. Such a mountainous soaring as he grew more and more aroused. Pulsing, wave after wave rippled through her, as she lay on him, longing to be closer to him, wanting, with jungle-wild, steamy urges to POUR all over him, and seep down into him. It drove her to press her malleable, soft, flesh into him, mush her weight down into him, heavy, into him, in upward, sultry, undulating, surges, over and over and over, matching, synchronizing, with the rhythm of her hold on him, breathtakingly snug, surrounding him completely, waking his more savage and primal essence.
Breathing changed, becoming fierce, his and hers, in the dark, the lush, raging bursts from his flaring nostrils deluging over her face as she kissed him.
It took all of the blood left in his brain, for most of it had rushed away to his groin, to think, to focus, to find, his reply. "I think you're doing it right," he finally pushed the words out into the air, scratchy, and whispery, and raspy, his voice, after he broke off their kiss, and found her supple, scrumptious nakedness with his hands in the blackness. "Ohh… my… Mm…" absolutely crushing him, the fascinating curves of her buttocks as he memorized the shape, the feel, the buoyant, bouncy, moldable texture, of the two sumptuous orbs within his grasp…
Her breath, hot and humid, tinged his anticipation, just before his new flesh was seized. Her mouth sucked, the cadence of it intoxicating, on his earlobe, a premonition, a warning, of what was to come… down lower, down there. William hung on, wobbling, only a feather-light grip on the edge of the fall, almost, almost…
His heart, it was most definitely his heart that sent him the message, William hearing it in the thick dark fogginess all abound, her beautiful, beautiful soul is weary, it is sore, it needs to be loved with tenderness. And with its whispered advising, desperately, William knew that they needed to touch, core to core, and so, he could NOT let her push him over the edge without her, he could NOT let her continue to work him up into a lathered frenzy of lusty euphoria that he would not be able to contain. No, he had to stop her, to truly love her as he knew she needed to be loved.
"Such deep and devoted lovemaking will take time… lots of TIME!" came the reminder in his head. William took heart from the blanketing darkness in the room, for it held the promise that they had enough, enough time for this moment in eternity to expand and stretch sufficiently for him to love her slowly, completely, wholly. So, he rolled her over, forcefully, insisting that she yield to him.
And then, William Henry Murdoch loved his wife to the utter precipice of her survival, his honey-sweet kisses and tingly nips and sucks making a beeline for the one spot he wanted, the one spot that he knew that she wanted him to touch more than any other, so much, taking it hungrily and smoothly, until she would have willingly sacrificed her very life to have him closer to her, to touch her deeply, to thunder and pound and drive his love into her with everything he had, until the world would implode and they would become one. And when he did finally take her, love her, fill her, rough, and abandoned, those fingers of hers, the same ones that had, just moments earlier, twisted and tortured their bedsheets into little teepees to cope with the impacts of his silky-smooth, juicy, loving, those fingers now scratched and dug and gouged their nails into his back to withstand the torqueing force of his rugged thrusts, needing him so desperately to be… just… that… one… drop… closer.
Glorious, came the breathless promise, the floaty feel before the sinking, the hint that, inevitably, the wave would hit, spun her as it hovered, and her breath told him that it was coming, and then the dam broke and his pure, liquid heat flooded and soaked into – each – and – every – thirsty – cell, rhythm, so primal and humid, filled her, seeped down into her, surged and rushed up into her, through and through her, drenching into the very marrow of every bone. My God, how he loved her. The honesty of it, the power of it, had strained every ounce of her in the effort to bring him closer, and after the waves, the huge, huge waves of finally having him touch her, perfectly, where and how she had so urgently needed to be touched, after the waves had collapsed her into a series of moans, each reaching, and slowing, and diving lower and lower down into her core, to sound, and then…
When a stillness, and a quiet, all but for their rushed, hot, strong, breaths and their drumming heartbeats, followed the rage of the intense whirlwind, and she began to cry, a soothing, intensely deeply cathartic cry, he held her and rocked her and told her, so dreamily, "I'm here. I'm right here. I'll always be here. Shh… Shh."
With her voice squeaky from the intensity of the passion of their touch and the exhaustion of their drained efforts, she wept, "You can't promise me that, William," because it hurt, so much, living with her profound wishing that it were true.
"But I can," he replied, kissing her cheek, taking in her salty, slippery, tears… tasting her, loving her.
Feeling more logical, after a breath, the stability of that logic calming her, she protested, and in her doing so attempted to harbor herself from the unbearable pain that the mere thought of losing him exposed inside of her, "You can't know the future, so you can't promise me that…"
"But I know the present, and I know my love for you is undying," he insisted, adding, "Is not yours for me?"
"It feels that way," she sniffled, giving at least that much.
"Our love is undying, Julia…"
"It may be," she answered him, "but you're not, William... You're not," she assured.
The lack of an answer from him swelled as the clock ticked and ticked, his absent response taken to settle the matter, and she took a deep breath, tears evaporated away now, and gave him the signal that he could roll them over now – gentle, clear, the press of her palm against his chest.
Together, no words, boundaries still blurry, memories seesawed and swayed them, to and fro, to and fro, recalling the love they had just made, the perfect touches, the yearning moans and the fulfilled moans, and the rippling, warm sensations submerging completely through them… Contentment, so lovely, so pleasant, so delightful, filled them for a time.
)
The baby woke them with his little knock.
"Maybe we shouldn't have left his crib down… encouraged his climbing out," William complained with his customary admitting it wrinkle of the corner of his mouth.
The toddler may have been able to maneuver himself well enough to get out of his crib and come to their door, but he still had not yet mastered using the doorknob – gratefully. William and Julia rushed about behind the door trying to find, and get into, their pajamas.
"We'll be right there, little one," Julia called out.
Their son's baby-pitched reply enchanted their Mommy-and-Daddy hearts with its cuteness, "O.K. Mommy."
Julia managed to get covered up first and hurried to the door to let him in, scooping the child up into her arms and kissing and kissing and kissing him. She brought him over to the bed where they cuddled with him happily for a while. Once a bit of roughhousing began, and William got a good whiff of the backside of William Jr.'s diaper, he wrinkled his nose with the stenchy ripeness of it and declared, "Whew, someone needs a nappy change." Rising to the call, William volunteered himself to do the job. He would be the one to ready the little boy for the day, "At least until 'Care-Mary' gets here," he told his son, using the little boy's own way of saying his nanny's name, as he held the tiny, little hand and guiding the toddler out, leaving Julia behind to get on with her morning routines.
)
Julia heard the giggling and playing from down the hall, William's 'monster' voice, the baby's gleeful shrieks, the little pitter-patters of the toddler's escaping footsteps, and William threatening, "How fast do you think you can go on those little, tiny, monkey legs, anyway, Little Man? Ooh, I'm gonna get you!" William Murdoch was such a wonderful father, she noted to herself for the umpteenth time, teardrops welling-up with the thought. She made herself exhale deeply, felt the heat of the burning air flowing over her heart, surging the reminder of the pain. He had always wanted a big family… and it still hurt so badly to know that she was the reason he would never have one.
By the time Claire-Marie had arrived and William came back in, Julia had recovered, moved on, had started planning and thinking about her busy day ahead. It was Friday, and they still had the press to deal with.
Needing privacy, now that the nanny was about, William closed the door behind him. He quickly began undressing, reaching back and pulling his pajama top off over his head. On his way to the bathroom he shared with her how lovely their little boy was, her agreeing, of course. He popped his head back out and said, "Oh, and you'll be glad to hear, it smells like Eloise is making us her famous French Toast."
Instantly, Julia's mouth watered and her stomach yearned. "French Toast!" she declared, "Now that is good news." She looked back into the mirror and focused on freeing a curl or two from her hairdo, quite conscious, every time that she performed this particular ritual, of her motivations, wanting to have a dangling curl available for William to play with whenever he was feeling flirtatious. She spoke louder so he could hear her over his tooth-brushing, "Eloise has a magical way of knowing which one of us needs her cooking cure the most, does she not?"
"Mm," she heard his reply.
Finished, she came to watch him shaving at the bathroom doorway. She caught his eye, for a moment, in the mirror, mmm, the man was so beautiful when he smiled.
His face smooth and clean, William pulled out his, not so secret, well not between them at least, Chinese spice-scented aftershave.
"Let me," she stepped forward and suggested, and they both felt their worlds begin that familiar lust-inspired spin.
She stood dangerously close to him, and they both dropped their eyes down to the tiny bottle, now in her hands. They seemed to hold their breath as she turned the cap, so that once the lid had freed the aroma, and their need for air, combined with the magnificent impact of the smell, guaranteeing that they would each become dizzy with the deliciousness of it. She felt him watching her as she spread some of the invigorating liquid all over her palms and up her fingers. In her periphery, his chest, his rugged and gorgeous chest, bare and hunky, lifted acutely with each rushed breath, and she felt her womb scrunching with want for him. Softly, she slapped her dampened hands to each side of his face, his neck, and she stepped closer, her bosoms, inside her blouse, so close they could almost, almost, touch him, and she slipped her liquidy, cooled fingers back behind his ears, taking the tender flesh of them in her fingers and squeezing and running her fingers along his sensitive outer ear, then backwards, scratching into his hair and tingling his scalp. Oh, she was becoming aroused, and his breathing… it told her that he was too, and she let her hands peruse him, down his neck, out over his big shoulders, and down to ride the breathtaking ups and downs of the chiseled muscles of his chest, then down further, to his stomach, so flat and firm, towards…
He stopped her there, though it wasn't easy. "Mrs. Murdoch," he said, with a threatening tone, "Are you starting trouble, again?" he raised an eyebrow at her.
"Oh," she responded, so devilish and enticing her tone, "Trouble, you call it?"
"We are… I am, late, I'm sure you are aware," he explained, one of her golden, twisty, curls in his grasp. Delicious, she gazed into his chocolaty eyes, and basked in the heavenly feel of his fingers just glancing against her cheek as he fiddled with her curl, and then he slipped his fingers in, to cup her face, and she tilted her head, so hungry for his kiss.
And Mm, this kiss was magnificent…
And then William kissed a trail down her jaw to her neck, and there he discovered it, casually hanging on its chain all along. So deeply he felt the significance of it, as he pulled back, and looked into her warm blue eyes. "You're wearing the locket," he smiled.
It was the locket that had become magnetized to his badge when they had kissed goodbye as she was leaving him for Buffalo… The same one she had worn again to cope with her worry about him, back when she was pregnant with William Jr., and he had disappeared somewhere on route to Winnipeg while working undercover to catch a killer riding the trains as a hobo with George. And she had told him then – when he had finally returned, beaten up by the horrendous experiences he had had out in the jungle, and after they had fought so very, very, terribly about his not telling her that he would be staying with Ettie Weston in Winnipeg, and his betrayal in doing so that had hurt her so very, very deeply – she had told him then that the picture of him in the locket was quite old, from a newspaper clipping from long, long before he had even gotten up the nerve to ask her to join him for their absinthe-infused gourmet picnic, and also that, in the other half of the locket, there was a picture of her, so that when it was closed, she and William would be together, face-to-face, over her heart.
William knew, ever since then, that Julia wore the locket when she felt the need to heal. He took the cool, glossy, metal locket in his fingers and rubbed it and held it there admiring it, reflecting on its history, its value, its meaning, to them.
When the intensity of the moment faded, William reminded her that Eloise's French Toast was waiting downstairs, prompting Julia to gather up William Jr. and head down to the kitchen while he hurried to try to avoid being any later than he already was.
) (
Grateful that, at least, the badgering of the group of reporters who had been waiting outside their home seemed focused on the dangers of their dreaded Body Farm and his inept handling of the case, rather than on their reproductive history and their efforts to adopt, William suddenly decided to change tactics mid-stream. He would appeal to their better angels, the leap of faith required in doing so centering on his being able to believe that they had better angels to hear his plea. The decision had sprung from a feeling, more a sound really, from deep inside of himself. It was a simple 'click,' the sound, much like the sound of a light switch being flicked on. He had experienced this before, and he knew, now, that it resulted, if he would let it, in an alteration in his perspective, one as significant as the change in a room that happens when the light switches from the darkness of 'off,' to the light of 'on.' He had learned to trust it, having suffered the painful consequences of ignoring the little 'click' in the past. It was probably stirred by Julia's wearing of the locket this morning, because one of the more important times when he had heard it and ignored its secret sound was associated specifically with the little, metal necklace, the locket, back when it warned, with its subtle metallic 'click' telling them, when it magically became joined to his badge, that they were meant to be together, back so long ago, when he lost her, ultimately for her to marry another.
"Gentlemen," the term applicable as none of the reporters present were women, William altered his tone, the change catching everyone's attention, "Solving a murder is extremely difficult when the identity of the victim cannot be ascertained. That has been the challenge with this particular case, as the victim was shot in the back of the head, from point blank range, probably with a shotgun, completely obliterating his facial bones, making it impossible for Dr. Ogden to use our forensic technique, developed from Hiss' work, of facial reconstruction from a skull based on average thickness of flesh patterns. Thus, the victim remains a man without a face. Further, his fingermarks match none on file. He had no clothing or other items, tattoos, or notable scars. Really, there is no way to identify him as is…
"Just sounds like more excuses, Murdoch," a voice called out.
"Meant more as an explanation," William countered, quickly moving on. "Now, this case has been practically devoid of clues, but, as our pathologist recently pointed out to me…" he nodded at his wife, "this UV photograph of the month-old bruise on the victim's thigh IS a clue..."
Grumbling began to build…
Louder, William hurried, "I'd like to offer you the opportunity to help us get the most out of this clue, to enlist your readers to help us identify what made the bruise."
Julia, next to him almost gasped – the men suddenly hushed and heeded.
"You could help solve a challenging case instead of gripe and complain and find fault with our efforts, ultimately only aiding the murderer by doing so," William added. William reached into his vest pocket to pull out the folded-up drawing of the bruise. "This is the actual size of the object," he said. He unfolded his paper with his accurately-sized drawing of the mark from the UV photograph. "Publish this drawing, with its dimensions, and that it landed on the back of the victim's thigh with a force of about 2000 pounds, breaking his femur. As you know, we have this impact mark of the object that injured the victim severely, from a month ago… if not for this new way of photographing the body, we would not have this evidence…" William stopped himself there, not wanting to blow his own horn too much. "Ask for citizens' help in identifying whatever made it. Once we know the object that broke the back of this man's thigh a month ago, we can pick up the trail…"
There was a rush as the reports all moved closer, wanting to be the one to get the drawing first.
William held up his hand as he quickly tucked the paper back in his pocket. Please come by Stationhouse 4 in about an hour. I'll have copies for you all then, with the other relevant details."
Locking Julia's elbow into his, William ended the reporters' interviews with that, escorting her protectively to the street to get a cab. Fortunately, there was a regular driver waiting. William helped her up into the cab. They both knew he would not get in, that he was going to ride his bicycle. Leaning in to kiss her cheek, she told him quietly, lingering him there, "That was brilliant, William."
She watched, half expecting him to blush, instead he seemed to beam, clamping his lips together, his admitting it face. It made her giggle.
He warned her, just before he closed the carriage door, that there would likely be a whole new bunch of reporters to contend with at the morgue.
"I'll tell them to head over to the stationhouse to get the big scoop," she teased.
"Yes. Yes, it promises to be quite a zoo, doesn't it?" he replied, tipping his hat for his final, charming, goodbye.
)(
At the morgue later, Miss James gave Julia an idea… when she shared her feelings of frustration and helplessness about the stories in the papers this morning, shaking her head with a sigh and saying, "It's just that they are all so… derogatory and unfair, truly, truly unfair. And I just feel so bad for the detective."
Julia pictured her husband, sitting over there at his desk, rubbing his brow, forcing himself to read the reporters' berating words about him, about his work on this case, and using it all as fuel to get people fired-up about forcing them to close their body farm, and her heart ached for him. She told herself, told Miss James, that he had probably actually fixed all this negativity and criticism this morning, with what he had said to the reporters, with his asking the reporters to help rather than hinder the investigation, to take heart because Detective Murdoch had probably fixed it. Still, the pain seemed to hang around, and then she pictured it, her showing up with a warm lunch for him to brighten his day. She would do it! Order lunch from the Windsor House Hotel, ask Jason, who had always treated them so well there, to get it all ready to for her to pick-up for them. They would eat the surprise meal together in William's office. The ache in her chest warmed, bringing a Mona Lisa smile, an air of sneaky satisfaction, to her face. "Yes! Yes! That would help."
)(
Subconsciously, William touched his vest pocket, assuring himself the love-note he had written her was still there. He was pleased with it, particularly considering his plan to purchase a multi-colored array of flowers for the bouquet to accompany it, to nestle the handwritten note into.
The words tucked close to his heart said…
As scientists, and astute observers in our world, we both understand the technical phenomenon of the visible spectrum, and yet, the innate beauty of it still captures our hearts, when we look upon it, for instance, in this bouquet of flowers, splashed and sprinkled into a parade of fun, or in a rainbow at the crystal-clear edge of a dark storm. Is a rainbow merely an optical illusion, or does the pure, white sunlight, perhaps akin to our love, really bend, and thus separate, the different wavelengths into discrete bands as it flows through the heaviness of our stormy encounters with unbearable adversity? I want you to know, milady, that I best see the rich, colorful, fullness, of the spectrum of the world when I am looking at it, with you.
Once he opened the door to the shop, the familiar jangle of the little bell atop the door and the pleasant brush of floral scents wafting over him, William's own alarm bells stiffened him before his brain had had a chance to register the woman's name. "Madge Merton!" the connection landed, half his body poised to turn and run, the other half smiling and removing his hat. Politeness won out, and his mind raced while he greeted the famous toff-column writer and the shop owner. "Coincidence?" he asked himself, "Not likely," came the answer, "Such a woman as Madge Merton would have others to run such errands for her. She had to be here for a story. But how would she know I buy Julia's flowers here?" he wondered, suddenly feeling overly paranoid. Wavering between dread and some odd pride in having his love for Julia exhibited in the Toronto Daily Star's, "Page For Women," he planned on waiting for the woman to leave before making his purchase.
Of course, Madge Merton would have none of it, for her sole purpose in being in the tiny shop in the first place was to get the scoop on the detective's flower-buying habits as of late. She had already learned that he purchased Dr. Ogden flowers – usually roses – once or twice a week, and that he often included a little love note tucked into the bouquet. Sly, even before she had seen Detective Murdoch's bike pull up, she had charmed the shop owner into colluding with her, into telling her all.
Truth be told, the flower-shop owner always read the woman's stories, idolized her, and thus she knew Madge Merton had a soft spot for this particular couple. Madge Merton had been the main driving force behind the Murdoch's fame and popularity in becoming 'Toronto's Favorite Couple' in the first place, drawing attention to the storybook qualities of their romance.
"Detective," the shop owner declared, "This will be three days in a row!"
So handsome, his smile, mingling with that subtle edge of embarrassment, and his big, brown eyes, so warm, and both women each noticed their own internal interests flickering to life.
"Mrs. Jansen tells me you are her most regular customer, detective," Miss Merton said, stepping back, making room for him at the counter. "Please," she invited him forward, "I am curious to see what delightful flowers your lovely wife will be receiving today." She watched intently, listened intently, as the detective ordered two of every color of rose, and a peppering of half a dozen bright blue corn flowers to be mixed in with the floral fireworks, here and there. The result was truly beautiful, she thought, and so fun. Any woman in the world would have loved them.
Miss Merton accompanied the detective out and asked, "Do you ever regret falling for her?"
Dumbfounded by her question, he stared at her, frozen momentarily.
Miss Merton hedged, "I mean… with all this trouble that comes with, um, with… being such a… modern woman's, um… husband?"
She wondered sometimes, if a man as smart as Detective William Murdoch appreciated how similar they were to each other, if he realized that their professions called for similar skills, such as asking questions and reading people's answers, and sneaking about to discover whatever it is people were hiding. Particularly, right now, she wondered if he, too, rummaged through people's garbage, as she had done with Dr. Ogden's from the morgue, starting back years ago. It was this specific act that had led her to this particular flower shop, and it was how she had discovered the rare and hidden passions of this man, being the only other human on Earth, other than Dr. Ogden herself, to have read his poetic love notes to his soulmate. Madge Merton found a moment, standing there, looking into the detective's gorgeous eyes, to remember something her own past love had once told her, that a soulmate is the one person whose love is powerful enough to motivate you to meet your soul, to do the emotional work of self-discovery, of awakening…"
Standing before the formidable woman, instinctively, William was flung towards outrage, but then he saw her ploy for what it was, for he knew through her writings that Madge Merton understood his and Julia's love, he knew that she knew that he would passionately refute such a claim as regretting marrying Julia. Making himself breathe, he felt a ray of hope with her given opportunity. And in that moment, his wariness switched to trust, and William looked inside of himself instead of out. And he remembered the first time he had ever seen Dr. Julia Ogden, March 12th, young Clayton Bowles hanging up in a tree… With a profound 'click' he felt the mysterious touch of this one magnificent moment in his life, this one magnificent woman, flare again, in the core of his heart, like when a match strikes, and he remembered that this morning, and that, today, right at this very moment in time, albeit unseen, Julia was wearing the locket – the one that had taught him about the secrets of the 'click.'. He felt the glow expand in his chest…
Madge Merton caught a glimpse of it, becoming thoroughly enchanted.
The moment waxing magical, William Murdoch told her, his eyes looking off in the distance, his words slow, with a sense of awe as he spoke them, remembering, feeling, the emotions of the memory intensely, "Since the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew, I knew she was my everything. What I didn't know, couldn't possibly even imagine back then, was how very, very much, how astoundingly, amazingly wonderful, that EVERYTHING would be."
"Wow," Miss Merton's mind tried to fathom the strength of it, basked in the way it gave her chills. Theirs was quite a love, she was right, had always been right, about this couple…
Abruptly, William's eyes grounded, meeting Madge Merton's eyes head-on. He wrinkled up a corner of his mouth.
She found it wholly endearing.
"I must be off, I'm afraid," he gestured towards his bicycle.
"Of course," she replied, stepping aside.
Detective Murdoch tipped his hat, gave her a, "Good Day, Miss Merton," tucked his bouquet into a pouch fixed to the back of the bicycle and mounted up.
"Good day, Detective," she said, waving her goodbye.
)(
Taking advantage of the lull in postmortems, Julia sat at her desk and prepared for tonight's lecture for her class. Again, the seemingly never-stopping phone rang. It would be another reporter, wanting to ask her more obnoxious questions…
Julia glared at the phone, an internal battle ensuing. "It could be William… or it could be the University with some results from the samples I sent them…"
"City Morgue," she answered, picking up the infernal device, refusing to give away to the caller that it was SHE who had answered the phone. Julia's mouth hung opened, ready to barrel off her speech to the arrogant reporter on the other end of the phone about the importance of leaving the line free for emergencies when she heard the woman say…
"Ruby Rosevear, don't you remember me, from the Murdoch Appreciation Society…"
The whole memory was so sweet, a whole group of people appreciating William's astounding talents, how remarkable he was. It had been the first time she really had gotten an inkling that she wasn't the only one who thought so. Julia remembered this particular young woman. She was the outspoken one, the one who let all the world know how attractive she found William to be – admiring his detective skills, "and the rest…" the one who had grabbed his arm for the photograph that had ended up on the front page a few years ago now.
Basically, much of the phone call consisted of Miss Rosevear gushing over William's invention of using UV photography to see something that, otherwise, could not be observed. The young woman was writing a story for the Toronto Gazette and asked if she could come by and see what the injury looked like on the victim in regular light… and, "maybe get a photo." Julia agreed, and added that she would get the young aspiring reporter a photo of the same area that she and William had taken at the same time, with a regular camera lens, suggesting that, "Perhaps it would be best to publish that comparison photograph because the body has decomposed even more since then." Unable to help herself, Julia became excited about all this William-adoring attention. She, too, found herself gushing about how brilliant a man William was, and the marvels of her husband's latest innovative invention, adding, "You know, it will likely help physicians all over the world, as well forensic scientists in solving crimes. Even social workers, for instance, being able to see old bruises may provide evidence of a child being beaten regularly, or even provide bite marks from a rapist!"
Julia didn't notice, but after hanging up the phone, she was pleasantly humming when she went back to work.
)(
His cheese, and apple, and slices of carrots laid out on his desk in front of him, thanks to Eloise quickly handing them off to him this morning as he rushed out the door to leave with Julia – all of the food untouched thus far, William sighed and put down the latest, awful, newspaper story he had finally had time to read. The burden felt huge. He tried to shake it off, taking a bite of cheese, telling himself to breathe, that things would be better tomorrow. Flashes played in his imagination of the crazed, but optimistic, scene earlier, when the mob of reporters had all showed up to get copies of his drawing of the victim's bruise, and they were even enthusiastic and competitive about getting a hold of copies of the two original photographs themselves – the one taken in regular lighting of the victim's broken leg, the other in the ultra-violet part of the spectrum, revealing the previously hidden clue.
Even so, he found himself staring down at the apple, his mind slamming him with quotes from today's castigating headlines, "Murdoch Bungles Body-Farm Dumper Case," and "Detective Outsmarted: Botches Hopes of Catching the Body-Farm Dumper," and then, "Body-Farm Dumper Gets Best of Murdoch." It was a struggle, not to take it personally… "Better angels, indeed," he scoffed at himself. He broke off a piece from a carrot slice and popped it into his mouth. The little angel on his right shoulder tried to win over the little devil on his left, seeming to get his ear, "They seemed to be excited about helping," it reminded. A big sigh filled the air around him, "It'll be better tomorrow."
(
That was when Julia came to him with her gift of a warm lunch from their old hotel – "One of their favorites, beef stroganoff!"
She sensed it immediately, his hesitation in thanking her. William seemed uncomfortable.
"Don't you like it?" she asked… after he had stood up from his desk to kiss her hello, and then help unpack the toasty warm bundle of treats and place the various containers out, with her, on his worktable, and after he had specifically said how thoughtful the gesture was.
William's stomach churned, his upset growing. There was no point in continuing to try to hide it from her, she knew him too well… She had already seen, so he explained, after a sigh, and while rubbing his forehead, "It's… um, it's just that it's Friday, and we're Catholic…"
Wham, "ouch," she felt the land of the punch of it in her gut! She had failed on yet another front to be a good wife for him. Unlike her to be overly sensitive, to be so quick to tears, Julia felt the burning swelling begin in her eyes. Admittedly, she still felt… so vulnerable, about not being able to have a child… and… well, it had only been last night, after all, all that fighting, and crying…
William rushed, slipped his fingers under her jaw, lifted her face to look him in the eye, so she could see the truth of it, as he reassured her, "Julia, it was such a sweet, sweet thing to do for me… To do this, because, because you knew I was feeling down, about the stories in the papers today, and you, you wanted to cheer me up, I'm sure… hmm?" he coaxed her.
Her eyes were stunning, glossy, as they filled with tears, tears he sensed he was curbing, leaving such beautiful pools in her eyes, magnetic, her beauty, and he felt his love for her surge so that it hurt in his chest. Julia nodded, and he kissed her cheek, paused so his voice snuck into her ear, "Julia, it is a wonderful feeling to know that there is someone as lovely as you… who is out there in the world, thinking of me, worrying about me, someone dedicated and devoted to caring, so well, for me."
Her nod seemed more persuaded now, and he sighed with the relief of it, her feeling his smile against her cheek.
William pulled back a little, adding, "And this meal is perfect…" his eyes toured the myriad containers. "We can save the stroganoff for lunch tomorrow. It'll be delicious, and that way William Jr. can even try some. We can keep it in the morgue, in the cold room. I'll pick it up there before I head home on my bicycle," he suggested, then becoming animated, he added, "Before we meet up later, remember, after your class, we're meeting at the Transportation Exhibition?" his tone suddenly cheerier remembering their planned outing.
"Yes," her smile was sincere as she appeared to lighten.
He asked, his attention turning back to the food, the vast display dwarfing his little pile of carrots and cheese at his desk, then meeting her eyes again to open his eyes wide, playful and excited, "Did they give us that yummy garlic toast, and the vegetables, and the potatoes?" he hoped.
"And desert, William. We've got a delicious desert…" she hurried to reply, knowing he would be thrilled with his favorite desert, Coconut Cream Pie. The rise in her spirits such a contrast to just seconds before, made her question it, and she remembered her mistake, and she drooped. "I'm sorry I forgot," she offered. There was the slightest hint of a pout.
He pulled her in to kiss her. It was a good, long, delicious kiss. Quite convincing – tingly so, leaving no doubt… He adored her.
(
Constables Crabtree and Higgins had come in together after walking their rounds, intentionally passing one of their favorite places – the little place that makes banana splits! They sat at their desks, George looking through his messages, Higgins pulling out his lunch.
George held out one of the messages and commented, "One of the reporters already called us with an idea about what made the bruise."
"That was quick," Henry responded, not looking up. Amazing, even after the banana split, he was still hungry.
"Suggests it's from a machine used at slaughterhouses," George said. He put the note down and pulled out his own lunch. "Now, Detective and Murdoch and I know quite a lot about the machinery used in slaughterhouses…"
Henry groaned and rolled his eyes, sarcastically interrupting, "Yes, yes. I know George, because you and he went together undercover to work at slaughterhouses in Chicago. I know. I know." Under his breath he added, "And you have been bragging about it ever since."
"I heard that Henry," George complained about the insult, "I'll have you know, we both almost died on that case, multiple tim…
They hadn't even noticed the young woman approach, but her sudden gleeful gasp drew their attention. Ruby Rosevear…
George was sure he recognized her…
Ruby Rosevear exclaimed, bouncing in place with her happiness about it, "Oh, they're kissing!"
Both constables jumped to catch whatever she was looking at – in the detective's office, instincts faster than the brain, for they both already knew what they would see. It was rare, that the detective allowed anyone to see the passion between himself and the doctor, but it was not unprecedented.
It was Henry who responded first, minimizing it. "Oh, they do that all the time," he said.
"They do not, Henry," George corrected, giving Henry the evil eye. Turning to Miss Rosevear, he explained, "The detective is quite a modest man, really… buttoned-up, if you know what I mean."
"Oh, yes," Miss Rosevear responded, her eyes remaining glued to the couple, "Still waters run quite deep."
Suddenly realizing that they had been lured into a more personal conversation than they should be engaging in, George said, "And, I apologize, I am sure we've met, but I can't…"
"Oh yes," the young, and noticeably attractive, woman interrupted, finally looking at George as she spoke to him, "I was here with some of the other members of the Murdoch Appreciation Society.' Her eyes bugged out, the thrill of it all more than she could contain, "I was even in your jail, Constable. It was Constable Crabtree, right?" she asked.
George's expression showed his recognition, "Yes, of course. It was Ruby, wasn't it?"
George remembered from back then, from right after the detective and the doctor had married, that this young woman had, very blatantly, flirted with Detective Murdoch. It had always reminded him of Dr. Ogden's younger sister, who had behaved in much the same way with him, and who interestingly was also named Ruby. He also noted to himself that there was another thing these two Rubys had in common – how good-looking they each were.
Miss Rosevear stood up taller, "Miss Ruby Rosevear, constables. I'm working on a story for the Gazette…"
In his head, George rolled his eyes, "What is it with me and lady reporters," he admonished himself once more for ever being enchanted with Miss Cherry.
Abruptly realizing that he had missed some of what Miss Rosevear was saying, George rushed to pay attention and catch up.
"…meeting with the doctor. I thought I'd check over here, um, knowing she and Detective Murdoch are married." Ruby tried not to show her ulterior motive, her crush on the detective still quite strong. "Perhaps it would be best if I wait over at the mor…"
Suddenly, Ruby Rosevear's jaw dropped, and her eyes gaped, and she sucked in some air, and covered her mouth with her delight and surprise. "He's giving her flowers!" she nearly shrieked it.
The three of them watched on through the glass as Dr. Ogden took the bouquet from her husband and dipped her face close to the puffy bundle of flowers to inhale the smell of the large bunch of plush and colorful flowers…
(
"Oh, William! They're like confetti! They're beautiful," she exclaimed, her heart skipping a beat upon seeing his note nestled in the petals. Julia then took a deep breath, savoring the pleasant feelings, and held the bouquet out to the side to keep it safe as she stepped into his arms. "Thank you," she whispered to him, then kissed him on the cheek.
"It does feel good," she added, lifting out his note, "Like you said earlier, knowing that there's someone in the world that loves me as much as you do…"
(
Out in bull pen, George and Miss Rosevear were nearly giddy, sharing excited glances at each other with their excitement about the detective's gift. Higgins found the whole show quite entertaining, unsure which part was best, these two watching the couple, or what was happening in the detective's office, though that was pretty juicy too.
"Look, he wrote her a lovenote!" Miss Rosevear declared.
They watched as Detective Murdoch stopped his wife from opening it, gently placing his hand over hers as she started to lift the back of the small envelope. The detective's back was to them, but they could see Dr. Ogden's face. My goodness, she was truly beautiful. She smiled, such a knowing and compassionate look she gave the man she loved. Then she tucked the note away in her pocket.
George made the inference, suggesting, "He must have asked her to read it when she was alone. Perhaps… he is too shy, maybe he gets embarrassed?"
"I'll bet it's beautiful," Ruby sounded dreamy and far off with her longing. She wished with all her heart that a man like that loved her like that.
The couple went back to dishing out the meal, and talking, and eating. The others agreed that it appeared that the show was over. Miss Rosevear asked Constable Crabtree to let the doctor know she would be over at the morgue waiting, once the couple was finished with their lunch.
George suddenly regretted having the pretty woman go, saying, "It was quite nice seeing you again. Um, if there's anything I can do to help, er, um with your story…"
"There very well may be, Constable," she tilted her head to flirt…
Message received.
"…I have the impression that you know Detective Murdoch best of all," Miss Rosevear explained. She nodded her head at him awkwardly, almost offering him her hand to kiss. And then felt embarrassed about it and quickly turned to go. But, unexpectedly she stopped, turned back. "You can call me Ruby," she said.
Oh how George wished Henry wasn't watching. He was sure he blushed. He even needed to clear his throat, "George… You can call me George," he said.
"Well, good day, for now, George," Ruby said.
"Good day, Ruby," George made sure to say, giving her his most charming nod and his quirky little smile.
The very second the stationhouse door closed behind the aspiring young reporter, Higgins gawked at George.
"Don't say anything, Henry," George warned.
)(
Later that evening, William and Julia were returning home from the Transportation Science Exhibit, sitting together inside the carriage of the cab. The trip back to their house was a relatively long one, and, at first, their conversation had been lively. But, eventually, it quieted down, and their individual thoughts drifted through the various events of each of their days. A sigh from William alerted her. As she observed him, off on her periphery, his telling rub of his forehead made his stressed state definite. "He's back to the case," she told herself in her head, knowing her husband well.
Julia ventured to cheer him up, suggesting, "You know, William, the press may NOT turn out to be the big, bad wolf that we had thought they were…" she slid closer, "Perhaps, in reality, it's just a paper tiger, after all," she giggled at her own pun. "Get it, William?" she gleamed and squeezed him closer, "Newspapers… and a paper tiger… one that can't really hurt you because it's made out of paper?" she made it even worse by explaining her own joke, gazing into his eyes, waiting for him to love her.
Thoroughly enamored, he yielded, and laughed with her.
She added, her smile delighting him, "And now the reporters are bending over backwards to help…" Julia reached over and cupped his cheek. The gesture so caring. The charge, the change between them, in an instant, took her breath, stole her eyes away into his, pulled at her with a stunning magnitude…
It had happened so quickly, thus making it harder to control… William suddenly wanted to make love – very, very urgently, the screaming in his groin outright distracting. Oh, but so magnificent, so delicious, that tight, strong, invigorated sensation down there, throbbing in his trousers. "Could we… here? Is there enough time – we've… been quick before, left our clothes on. She could sit in my lap…" The fantasy, dizzying in its strength, somehow Julia not having anything on under her skirt, her supple, silky-soft thighs hugging around his hips, and so… warm, and so perfectly creamy, and surrounding, as he began to make love to her… it was so close, so enticing, it caused a subtle buck in him, his groin already on fire, overpowered by the need to pump. "Easy William," he warned himself, his inner conflict, his desire, so obviously unmasked. William smiled at her – just a little…
"Embarrassed?" she wondered, Julia herself feeling the flames of her insides calling, working to slowly back herself out of her own unanticipated arousal.
William had surprised himself, was astounded that he seemed to be actually considering doing this, reasoning the final piece out, "The driver!" the thought hit with a wave of panic, "Would the driver feel our motion, up there, out there?" Yet, all the time knowing that he, William Henry Murdoch, would never dare to do such a thing.
Gaining the upper hand, loving every moment of it, Julia's voice took on a teasing air as she asked him point blank, "William, are you thinking of having sex?
Oh my God, how he blushed!
Such satisfaction with her shock, "You are," she breathed at him, sliding closer and squeezing his arm.
William rolled his eyes. How could this constantly keep happening to him? Since when was he such an open book?
Adorable…
The way he coped with the pressure, exhaling the smothering air out through his pursed lips, before he admitted it with a barely decipherable nod.
"Men," she teased him, shaking her head, "Do you think of sex absolutely all the time?"
"More than I used to," he answered, with his loveable 'admitting it' wrinkle at the corner of his mouth.
Julia simply nodded her acknowledgement of his confession, her expression dazed, knowing it would make him squirm more, but mm-mm-mm, how her womb tugged at her.
William reached up and rubbed at his forehead while he elaborated uncomfortably, "I guess that's one way you haven't affected me for the better."
A cocky smile slipped onto Julia's face, worrying him. "Oh, William," her voice confident and knowing, "most women would see it as for the better," she giggled with her teasing, and the amazing truth of it. She practically crawled in his lap wanting to be closer to him and added, "Too bad they'll never know how good it could be," she gloated.
Deflect, William thought of a way to deflect this feeling of being under her microscope. But, too, he did wonder what she thought about this. He asked her, "Julia," the question drawing her eyes to his, "Do you think it's not like it is with us with everyone?"
Her reply came so quickly he was certain she had thought about this before. "I doubt it," she answered simply. With that resolved, she tucked her arm in his, rested her head down on his big shoulder, and they grew quiet, each reflecting, lulled pleasantly by the rocking and swaying of the carriage.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Things were looking up. William's mind let her words mingle with the thoughts in his head, "Perhaps, Just a Paper Tiger, after all." He pulled a bit closer, kissed her hair, took in the smell of her, cherishing her into his marrow. It was there, though, nagging, bugging him, just below the surface, an uneasiness, as yet unnamed.
An image flashed by, so quickly in his mind that he barely recorded it, of a tiger, huge and fierce, teeth bared, long claws ready, about to attack. He didn't need to push it away, it was gone so fast. But William Murdoch was curious by nature, and so he called it up, puzzled. "Was it because Julia had just mentioned tigers?" the question came and went.
Wham, it lasted longer this time, the intrusive image of the tiger pouncing, this time taking him deeper into the tale it had to tell. "The tiger was after Julia!" he realized with a fright. "I had pulled it off of her, drawn it away from her, but now… now that it's not hunting me, it will go back to stalking HER!" he grasped his concerns, for he had taken the pressure from the press the last few days, him, and his handling of the case. It had spared her the press' badgering, there had been virtually no reporters paying attention to whether or not they used contraception, or the reasons for their need to adopt instead of have their own child, and such. And now, now, if he had solved HIS problems with the "tiger," well, it would mean…
From seemingly out of nowhere, the old story, or was it a fable, from his childhood whispered its secret premonition, the brave hero will be confronted with a choice between two doors, behind one there is the Lady, the one matched perfectly for him, behind the other door, there is a man-eating tiger. William imagined himself facing the two humungous wooden doors, imagined himself facing the choice between the Lady, or the Tiger… He took a deep breath, the challenge of the dilemma registering, for sometimes, it seemed, in order to save the one that you love, that in order to have the one you want, more than anything in the world, to have her with you, you have to deal with the other, you must engage in battle with the threat. He knew he would always choose the Lady, his Lady, the one for him in every way, if he could. He honestly felt he had no choice in the matter, it being up to destiny, or fate, that, for him, it was Julia, it was always Julia, it had always been Julia, it would always be Julia, but… It was in this moment that he became keenly aware of a profoundly driving instinct blazing inside of him, an instinct that lured him, wildly, primally, beyond his control, to fight, to fight with every last breath he had, with his every last drop of his reddest blood, to fight to make the world a safe place for HER. And so, in the end, must he not face the tiger to save her… paper or not?Unaware of it, William reached up again, and rubbed his brow.
"Hold her closer, hold her closer, love her with everything you have," his soul rustled the resonant message, so softly, to him, brought him out of his head, back into the cab, sitting on the seat, next to his love. "She is a treasure, your treasure, and you are hers. Feel her warmth against you. Love her, love her, and let her love you, for every moment is precious."
)) ((
