Spring, 2014
Rules, Schmules
(or)
Screw The Prime Directive, Let's Go Kill Somthing
When Lexi was born, I hadn't argued when Ducky broached the subject of having her christened. I grew up nominally Episcopalian (which made it easier to be in Fr. Parker's good graces when we got married—at least I started on the right path), but as life went on I became more and more distanced from the rituals, particularly baptism. I always kind of felt it wasn't fair to make that decision for a kid—but, at the same time, it wouldn't hurt (not like a botched circumcision would!). So I said yeah, sure, we had the little ceremony and a big party at the house afterward.
Ducky tried taking Lexi to church a few times and discovered that keeping a squirmy infant occupied during Sunday service is easier than it sounds. Fr. Parker told Ducky he could take Lexi to the nursery—well, heck, if he's going to do that, he may as well leave her home with Mommy (who said, 'thanks, pass' when he suggested I join them). So Lexi stayed home, Daddy went to services 4 or 5 times a year and we all got along just fine.
When Lexi entered kindergarten, Ducky gave it another try. Lexi went to Sunday School, Daddy went to services, and Mommy stayed home with Grandma. (Keeping Mother in line is harder than Lexi had been. Ducky wasn't fool enough to take her with him.) Since it was fairly laid-back and nothing like—well, like the Kemmelbachers' former church, for example, I had no objections to Lexi going in. With the "responsibility" of bringing Lexi to church, Ducky started going once, twice, sometimes even three times a month. And if Ev, Lily and Charlie had spent the weekend, I'd sometimes even wander in with Ducky, earning me a good-natured wink and nod from Fr. Parker. (If it was Fr. Knowles, I got the baffled "who are you?" stare and a pleasant smile. I try to avoid Fr. Knowles, who usually does the 0600 service and is known to many as Fr. Doesn't-Shut-Up; when he fills in for Fr. Parker at the 1030 service, I've seen people come in, see his name on the listing and give a 'dang, I can't turn around and leave' sigh.)
One Sunday, with Easter barely a month away, while we were leaving and shaking hands all around, Fr. Parker leaned over and murmured a request that if we could spare a few minutes, could we meet in his office? We said sure, wandered over to the church office and wondered what the heck was going on. (I hoped we weren't getting roped into running the church bazaar.)
Fr. Parker joined us a few minutes later and, instead of sitting behind his desk, dragged over a third chair to our two. (Ducky told me before Fr. Knowles joined the staff, Fr. Parker was "Father Jim." With two Jameses, both usually called Jim, they went to last names to lessen the confusion. This Father Jim would be perfect casting for an Agatha Christie mystery. A little on the round side, mostly bald but with stray bits of short white hair and what can only be described as "laughing" green eyes. Nice. Approachable. Even when officiating at a funeral, I'm sure the lowest wattage those eyes can manage would be "caring.") "So. It's been aboot six years since ah marred you two, haven't killed each other, yet, good, eh?" (He also has a sometimes-odd sense of humor and came to us from Scotland—after a fifteen-year stopover in Canada. Half the fun of his sermon is translation of the warring accents.)
"She locks up the knives," Ducky deadpanned.
I gave him a friendly glower and Fr. Parker laughed. "An' well y'should, with a wee bit running in and out. And such a darling she is!"
Ducky and I exchanged a look. Fr. Parker's eyes were glinting with repressed humor, like he knew the punch line of a particularly good joke. Great. What has our little terrorist done now?
"I didn't get a chance to talk to Mrs. Taylor until this morning, but last Sunday the lesson was on 'the golden rule.'" He looked at us expectantly.
I did what I often do when confronted with a sudden test: panic. "Uh—whoever has the gold makes the rules?"
Ducky rolled his eyes slightly but Fr. Parker laughed. "We wait until they're in the high school class to teach them that one. 'Do unto others—'" He nodded and waved his hand instead of finishing the adage.
"Oh, that one." (Fr. Parker is the sort of minister you can say that to. Fr. Knowles is the new generation, a VSM—Very Serious Minister. Two years at this parish and he still hasn't caught on.)
"So-o-o-o, Mrs. Taylor was going around the circle, asking for other rules that make life better. She heard, 'don't fight with your brother,' 'go to bed when your parents tell you to,' 'don't steal,' 'don't swear at a cop because that makes the ticket more expensive—'"
I tried not to snicker and failed. So did Ducky. At least we knew Lexi hadn't popped out that one, since my last ticket was years before I even met Ducky—and as far as I know, he has never had even one.
"'Return your library books on time,' 'don't borrow money—'" The eyes were definitely laughing. And he was grinning. "Alexandra's rule was, 'don't mess with a Marine's coffee if you want to live.'"
I clapped a hand over my mouth and heard a faint groan from Ducky. "Gibbs," we said in unison.
"Mrs. Taylor didn't quite know what to say. Alexandra probably felt she had given a wrong answer, so she changed it to, 'never go anywhere without your knife,'" he chuckled.
I figured that was Ziva's contribution, but no. Ducky just half-groaned, "Gibbs…" again.
"Then, 'if it seems like someone is out to get you—they are.'"
"Even paranoids have enemies," I said half-defensively.
"Next she tried, 'never leave suspects alone together.' Mrs. Taylor was so stunned, she couldn't say anything. Alexandra was almost desperate—" He was trying to contain his laughter and was failing. "'Never involve lawyers'—can't argue with that one m'self." He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He was pulling a Santa Claus, quaking with laughter like a bowl full of jelly. "She made one last-ditch attempt before Mrs. Taylor went on to other things." He pulled himself together—mostly. Mouth still twitching, he solemnly said, "'Never screw over your partner.'"
Ducky dropped his face in his hands. "Well," I said. "That is the golden rule…" I looked at my husband, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just… Jethro Gibbs' version."