Tucker
It's just weird how it all takes me back.
Not a lot has changed, at least on the surface; the house was far enough from the point of impact to avoid most of the environmental damage, and the trees around the place are green and faded, shimmering in the summer heat as we all make our way onto the veranda and the comfy seats there. A few garden chairs have been brought in to make up the numbers, so there's enough for everyone. Even the kids throw rugs and cushions on the decking and spread themselves out, just like the kids in the household always have done. Doesn't seem more than a few years since it was me down there.
I'm roped in to help pour out the lemonade into the glasses that have been cooling in the fridge. Each one's got a thin crust of sugar around the rim – Mom is definitely showing off to the visitors that she knows what's what. Condensation appears like magic on the side of the jugs as I take them out and put them on the big tray, and snip off a few sprigs of mint to go on top of the ice that's standing ready to drop in.
That was always Lizzie's job, putting the mint on top. That and the pumpkin pie. Decorating it with fancy pastry shapes. She did an amazing job with the one at the party to see me off when we launched; must have taken her hours. I hated having to cut it, I remember that, and she laughed at me. She was so pretty, that day, wearing a red dress that set off her lovely blonde hair.
I still can't believe she's gone. That we never even had a body to bury. It leaves something unfinished, something that maybe could have helped me cope a little better. There's no closure.
Malcolm understood about that. He tried to help me understand it too. Tried to say he was sorry I hadn't gotten to attend the service, and I tore a strip off him for his trouble.
It's not that I don't love being back here. This is my family home, my home town, even if some of it's gone for good into that goddamn hole in the Earth, and sometimes I can even sort of forget that she's not here, pretend she'll walk in the door any minute and be as pretty as ever. At least all the rest of my family survived. One of the guys I went to college with went surfing that day and saw the whole thing: watched that damn weapon burn up his parents' place and his wife and kid with it. He suffered major burns to most of his body and they said he was lucky to have survived.
I'm not sure I'd think I was lucky, if I was him.
I haven't gotten up the courage to get in touch with him yet, though we used to be real good buddies and I still heard from him now and then even after I joined Starfleet. How do you talk about something so monstrous?
Where do you even start?
A touch on my arm makes me jump. I realize I've been staring down at the sprig of mint in my fingers, twirling it back and forth while I just look at it without seeing anything.
Mom's changed, just a little. I suppose it's impossible that she could have lived through all that pain without being affected by it. Her hair's definitely grayer than it was; I was surprised at first that she didn't color it or anything, because she always cared about her appearance, but it didn't take long to realize she wears it like a scar, the scar of what she lost to the Xindi. Even now her eyes don't have the sparkle they used to, and there are lines of tiredness on her face; and when she's not thinking about it her mouth has a downward turn it never used to. But as soon as she realizes anyone might be looking she pulls herself up and pins that brave smile back on her face. She's the lynch pin of the family. As long as she's strong the rest of us will cope somehow.
That must be such a burden for her. Such an unfair burden, but she carries it anyway and doesn't complain. I can imagine her being in charge of a wagon train in the early frontier days, coping with what must have been a non-stop succession of problems and dangers and just marshaling everyone into good health and good order.
"Ice'll be meltin', Trip," she says gently.
The air conditioning's on of course, but she's right. I scoop ice into the jugs to fill them almost to the brim and then drop the mint sprigs into place.
Her arms go around me and we stand for a minute just hugging each other. She's so small, and feels frailer than I remember. She still smells of roses, though; it's her favorite perfume. Every evening she goes out to the rose bushes and cuts the spent flowers so she can put the petals out in bowls around the house. Lizzie bought her and Dad a big cut glass rose basket for their silver wedding anniversary; it was in the middle of the table at dinner, filled with pink roses…
"Just got to get on with life, Trip," she says at last, looking up at me and cupping my face in her hands. "Doesn't pay to bear grudges. Let the dead rest. At least thanks to you and Jonathan and the others, there won't be any more."
Dad bears a grudge, I know that. I see the lines of hatred dug into his face under the hair that's now completely white. It's like looking in a mirror and seeing myself as we set out in pursuit of the weapon. I was kind of surprised he still went to church, but maybe he and God have some kind of an understanding about the 'forgiveness' side of things.
It would have helped him, I think, if I'd been able to hand out some kind of punishment to the Xindi, if the ship had managed to retaliate for what had been done to us. (Maybe it would have helped me too, though even I got to understand by the end that there are good and bad Xindi too, just like humans. Degra was a decent guy and I wish he'd lived long enough to see he was right to trust us.) I don't think I've imagined it that Dad thinks I've somehow failed to avenge Lizzie, though; that Enterprise had the chance and didn't take it. It's that kind of attitude that's fed into the terror organizations that have sprung up, especially since the attack; I can't blame people for being scared, I definitely can't blame them for being mad, but these organizations think all aliens are our enemies. Even someone as kind and decent as Phlox, who wouldn't step on a bug. And I can't help but realize that attitude's got to be pretty well the norm around here. It's hard to forgive and forget when there's a damn great crevasse cut from practically one end of the state to the other, and seven million people are dead.
Well. At least they can't have anything against the people I've brought with me – both safely human and non-controversial. It gives me a cold feeling down my back to think what might have been said if I'd brought T'Pol instead, though. I'm not even sure she'd have been safe, especially in public. It's too widely known that our Vulcan 'allies' weren't willing to lift a finger to help us when we were attacked, and memories around here are long. As unjust as it would be, seeing that we'd never have gotten through the mission without her help, I'm not sure that would be enough…
Without saying anything else, Mom releases me and goes to fetch a couple of bottles in case anyone fancies a mixer. I carefully arrange the jugs and glasses on the big, worn silver tray that's twice as old as I am, and carry them out to the veranda. It's a whole lot hotter out here of course, even though it's in the shade and the first hint of a breeze has started to get up. Everybody has found a chair and sunk into it, torpedoed by the size of the dinner. At a guess, most of us will be fast asleep within a few minutes; Uncle Ed's already there, regardless of our having visitors. But then us Tuckers were never very strong on standing on ceremony.
Malcolm's on a lounger. He looks very correct, very English, with his short-sleeved beige shirt and slacks and his legs crossed at the ankles. His eyelashes are low but he's not asleep. His hands are joined across his stomach and he's studying them, deep in thought.
Hoshi's on the sofa, and the seat beside her has been ostentatiously left for me. She looks summery and gorgeous in a long white dress with blue embroidery, and she's putting out all her charm to coax a smile out of Dad, sitting opposite her. Needless to say, she succeeds, and soon the two of them are talking about the collection of World War 2 memorabilia at the Military Museum over in Clay County. At least, he's talking and she's looking interested and asking questions to prove she's paying attention, so that's proof positive to him that they're having a conversation and that she's as bright as she's gorgeous. The overwhelming irony is that if he was having this conversation with Malcolm instead he'd be talking to someone who actually is interested in military memorabilia, and who probably knows even more about it than he does, but who is now reduced to the status of an eavesdropper. Maybe that's why Mal's just staring at his hands – I'll guess he's halfway between annoyance and laughter that he's the armory officer and his host's talking military matters to the ship's comm officer. Dad sometimes works as a volunteer at the museum in busy parts of the year, so he knows his stuff. I'm not sure why he hasn't seen fit to invite Mal into the conversation; maybe he's not keen on the careful English formality that can so easily come across as a sense of superiority. I know darn well why Hoshi hasn't. The whole situation must be tickling her to death.
Making a mental note to slap her ass on our lover's behalf as soon as I get the chance, I hand around the drinks before I join her on the sofa.
The weight of the warmth of the summer afternoon bears down on all of us like a blanket. We're full, comfortable, contented; the temptation to doze is practically irresistible. The peace is barely disturbed by the background chirping of grasshoppers and the occasional whinny from the horses in the paddock.
Part way through an explanation of why the replica of a Boeing B-17 at the Wings Over Miami Air Museum has just finally lost its airworthiness certification, Dad finally succumbs to the inevitable. Malcolm opens one eye and glares at Hoshi, who giggles silently. I wrap my arm around her and give her a shake. "You're a naughty little girl and you do know I'll have to punish you for this," I whisper.
"I'm counting on it," she whispers back. "Just as long as you punish me for Mal as well."
Well, I think I can oblige there. At the thought of handing out some prolonged and appropriate punishment on behalf of both of us under that old-fashioned quilt on her bed upstairs, I suddenly find it necessary to cross my right leg high over my left; it doesn't make me any more comfortable, but there doesn't seem to be any cushion handy that I could use to cover up my embarrassment. Mom's in the chair next to us, and she may be dozing like pretty well everyone else but she has this disconcerting habit of waking up when it's least convenient, and the last thing I want to do is give her a bird's eye view of the fact that her li'l boy isn't so li'l any more. At least in certain places.
Malcolm undoubtedly gets the picture of what's going on. He opens his other eye and glares at me with both of them. 'Bastards,' he mouths.
I suppose it was too much to expect Mister Antsy to just relax and chill out for an hour or so, even with his belly full of good home cooking. He stands up and rolls his shoulders like he's going to work out, and jerks his head in the direction of the lake. "I'll just take a stroll," he says quietly. "I won't be long. An hour, max."
"Sure." I'm too warm and comfortable to move, and I tug Hoshi to snuggle up against me; after that long flight she probably needs a sleep, and she'll have jet lag to cope with. A little nap will do both of us good, and Mal's a grown man. As for able to look after himself, I don't know anyone better qualified.
He walks away, and I watch him for a minute or two, enjoying the way his glutes undulate.
Somewhat to my surprise, Carl stirs in the chair almost opposite. I'd thought he was fast asleep. "Too hot," he whines. "It'll be cooler down by the lake. Might see if your pal fancies some fishin'. Get the boat out."
"Boat was leakin' last time we tried to use it," I say sleepily. "And there won't be any fish bitin' in this heat." I'd recommend he tries fishing off the jetty instead, but it was starting to go rotten before I left; he'd probably go through any planks that are still on it by this time. As for recruiting Malcolm to making the other half of a fishing party, I'd bet my next year's pay there won't be any bites there either. I'd rated my own chances of it as fairly slim; a stranger's are downright nonexistent. Still, that's Malcolm's decision to make, not mine.
As Carl makes his way down the veranda steps – making a heck of a lot more noise about it than Malcolm did – Hoshi raises her head. I can't see much of her face and she doesn't say anything, but I get the feeling she's not that taken with Cousin Carl. Can't blame her for that, he's not my favorite person either, but you don't get to pick your family. I have too many memories of him picking on me when we were kids because he was bigger and older than me. Dumber, too, which didn't help. All in all, I wish he didn't live close enough to be invited to family gatherings.
Still, those days are long past.
What harm can the jackass do now?
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