From jhadden@willamette.edu Sat Nov 09 02:32:27 1996 TITLE: Member of the Family AUTHOR:Sneakers RATING: PG-13 for one swear word used repeatedly CLASSIFICATION: V A KEYWORDS: Cancerman story. SUMMARY: Cancerman's family takes a look at their lives . . . and his involvment. Three notes: a) #xf-romantics-ers, this is the infamous "cancerfic" b) this is *not* a romance. c) po6, no, this is not the CS one. Mulder and Scully are property of ten-thirteen productions / Twentieth Century Fox TV, and used without permission, but also without intent of malice, misuse, or copyright infringement. MEMBER OF THE FAMILY by Sneakers Elly Grayson careful adjusted the "No Smoking" sign on the front door. It was tacky, too tacky; obnoxious read, white, and black that clashed terribly with her cream, green, and blue decor, but she'd rather look like tacky white trash than pollute her lungs -- or Emily's, or Cube's -- with one more particle of that carcinogenic filth. He was family, she reminded herself, and the only family that Emily and Cube had, since hers were in Nebraska and Nate Jr. -- her Nate -- had insisted to his death that Nate Sr. was the only blood relative he had. Elly'd grown up in a big family, a tangle of cousins and uncles and grandparents and love, and she couldn't believe at first that Nate hadn't, and she found it even harder to believe that Emily and Cube weren't. She was supposed to find family in this taciturn man who made Emily's allergies act up and scared Cube half to death? He came faithfully once a month, bringing small gifts -- usually candy or books -- to Emily and Cube, then offering Elly money or other ridiculous luxuries -- plane tickets back to Nebraska, or computer parts, always gotten at a discount through his 'government connections' -- which she always professed she didn't want and most certainly didn't need. But she'd taken it twice, once when Cube broke his leg and the bills were astronomical, and once when Emily begged and pleaded to be allowed to take band at school. And it got easier to take the money, easier every time, and he kept offering, and she was afraid that someday, she wouldn't hesitate at all . . . He kept coming, even though he never got to know any of them besides Elly -- whom he'd already known, anyway. She had a stinking suspicion that he'd picked her as Nate Junior's wife the first time he saw them. Physically similar to both of them, an innocuous look to her. She didn't ask questions, but she did wonder, wonder why Nate Junior had taken her from Fieldstone, Nebraska. She shook her head, fortunately snapping out of her daydream as she stepped on Cube's toy trumpet. "Cube!" she hollered up the stairs. "Come get your trumpet! And . . ." -- she picked up another toy - " . . . and your cars! And tell Emily to get her music folder!" She took a deep breath. Music. That would calm her down. She put a Simon and Garfunkel CD in the player, singing idly along to remind herself that she was a rock, she was an island. Simon and Garfunkel had been 'their' band -- trust somebody like her Nate, used to the best in everything, and herself, accommodating to the point that she berated even herself for it, to not a have a special song, but a whole band. He'd claimed that Paul Simon by himself was sacrilege, but there were still enough songs by both of them to satisfy her. Records and tapes and CDs. And a rock feels no pain; and an island never cries. She'd stopped crying a long time ago; it had been replaced by pure rage. Why cry? An island never cries, and she had to be that to her children. Being a continent was out of the question, that would require being as rich as Nate Senior, but an island was attainable. She didn't want to be a rock; rocks sure as hell didn't feel pain, but they didn't feel pleasure, too. Islands were living, sun-sparkled or rain-dappled depending on longitude. An island, she could handle. A rock was out of the question. Cube stomped down the staircase in his usual six-year-old manner. "Don'wanna clean. S'nuff cleaning." "Cube?" She peered back up the staircase. "Cube, where's Emily?" "D'know," he grumbled, plunking the MatchBox cars in the bell of the plastic trumpet. "S'not here. S'all I know." "Well, do you know where she went?" she demanded, then caught herself. He was only six, and if he was a little behind where Emily had been at six, well, he got less attention than she had. One of two children of a working single mother. Only child of a professional father and stay-at- home housewife. No contest. "S'not here!" Cube yelled, crunching one of cars into the carpet. Elly got herself back together and sent Cube back upstairs with a hug and a suggestion that he double-check for his sister; he'd find her somewhere. She extracted the stereo remote from her back pocket -- she'd only remembered it when she jammed her hands in said pocket out of frustration -- and turned up the volume on the CD. Okay. She flicked a minuscule piece of lint off the back of the rocking chair in the corner of the living room. It may be plain, and it may be old, but, damn it, it was clean. She'd never seen Nate Senior's house -- it probably stunk; who'd want to? -- or any of Nate Junior's coworkers' houses -- lots of single guys with apartments, she assumed -- or any of the houses of the people she worked with -- filthy rich, no doubt, and official, too -- but she silently challenged them to get their houses this clean. She supposed she should be grateful for Nate Senior's getting her the job. Civilian secretary for a division head at the FBI; low-cost childcare and benefits, plus enough stories to keep even Emily's teenage-bored boyfriends amused. Even more thankful that it was with the bureau; Nate Junior had been DEA, and she had no wish to deal with any of his colleagues and their false pity. People died often enough in his line of work, even if his death had been from a traffic accident and not a crazed addict. And Nate Senior . . . she got an image of high rank, perhaps CIA or NSA, something along those lines. He'd said repeatedly, he wasn't just pulling rank in his agency. Those old 'government connections' again, eh, Nate? Make that three times she'd taken one of his offers. "Told'ja, s'not here!" hollered Cube, from the top of the stairs. "S'gone." Elly sighed, stuffed the remote back in her pocket, and went back to the stairs. "Cube, what did I tell you about running your words together?" "*She's* not here," muttered Cube, "I swear." "Don't swear, it's not polite," she told him absentmindedly, climbing up the stairs. "Are you sure she's not up here?" He nodded. She swung the protesting bundle of child up on her hip. "We'll find her, don't worry." Five minutes later, she had to conclude that Emily was not upstairs. Ten minutes later, she had to conclude that Emily was not downstairs, either. "Damn," she said, standing in the kitchen. "Don't swear, it's not polite," parroted Cube, squirming down to the floor and away from her. She crouched down at Cube's level, trying not to panic. "Cube, can you do something for me?" she asked. Keep the voice level, breathing calm, act normal. "What?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "Can you do me a big, big favor, and take Emily's music folder and her knapsack upstairs for me, and put them in her room? If you can't lift the bag, open it up and take the books up one by one until you can, okay?" There'd by hell to pay once Emily found out that somebody had been going through her stuff, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. He stumbled off, full of childish pride at being allowed to invade his sister's private belongings, and she let out deeps breaths as she called the McKanns, the Sorensens, the Harmons. She sat there, waiting for one of the neighbors to pick up the phone, staring out the window, and thinking of the kook at work that claimed his sister had been abducted by aliens. Why'd she have to think of that *now*, damn it? Kids wandered off all the time. She was over raiding Shirly McKann's fridge, or playing Monopoly with Tess Harmon. But the Harmons were in New York, with only their seventeen-year-old son -- who, though Emily might have had a crush on him, wouldn't have been hiding her -- at home. Shirly McKann -- the surrogate grandmother, replacing the ones Cube and Emily would never know -- hadn't seen her, and all that Emily wanted from anybody right now was food for her boyfriends, so they'd stay with her. And the Sorensens weren't home. The aliens were sounding more and more plausible . . . She kicked the cabinets until her foot stung, pure frustration, then called the neighbors further down the street, then the whole street . . . nobody. Nobody'd seen Emily. She called a widening circle, called people she'd never met, thankful for the list of numbers that Shirly had given her once. She hit pay dirt at the top of the street. Pay dirt she didn't want to hit. "Oh, yeah, sure, I saw her. 'Bout a minute ago," reported the unfamiliar nasal male voice. "She was, oh, let's see . . . oh, yeah, she was getting in this car. Brown. No, black. Dirty black. I think. Yeah." Double damn. Call the police. Go out and search. Damn, you can warn people and warn people and warn people and they never learn. "Cube? CUBE?" she hollered, suddenly fearful for her younger, less-aware child. Aliens were starting to sound better. "Wha' now?" he called back down, annoyed. "Sorry. Nothing." Kidnappers and rapists and older boyfriends and those crazy child pornographers they talk about that stalk kids over the internet and then take them in real life and oh, my God, what if somebody's taking her to use her to make money off of . . . The doorbell rang. Ransom notes already? She tiptoed to the kitchen window and peered around to the front porch. No greasy-haired kidnappers, just Nate Senior's head and shoulders. Nate Senior. Damn. Emily's stuff was, in all likelihood, still lying all over the living room floor. She straightened her shoulders and tucked her blouse into her slacks as she headed through the kitchen, trying to think about what to do about Nate Senior. Pretend nothing happened? Ask him to involve his "government resources"? She opened the door, and some dam in her vocal chords broke loose. "Oh, my God, you wouldn't *believe* what happened, I mean, you know that guy at work that keeps rambling about aliens . . . well, I know this sounds stupid, but I thought, you know, that they'd come, but aliens don't pick people up in cars and, so then, but you came, and I don't know what do . . . " Without a word, he stepped sideways. There stood Emily, her lavender satin T-shirt too tight and her wide- wale olive cords too baggy, one-hundred percent teenager but still somehow the child that she would always be to Elly. Emily glared at her mother and swept past, furiously stomping up the stairs, yelling back about how she was only going to go see her boyfriend, and her creepy grandfather had done some damn Miami Vice move with the car and forced her to get in. Elly grinned at Nate Senior, embarrassed beyond words, both for her own sake and her daughter's. She caught a breath and stepped back to allow Nate Senior to come in. "No, it's not necessary, Elizabeth," he said, addressing her with her full name that she never used. "I must . . . a meeting has come up. One of utmost importance . . . I felt it was necessary to tell you in person that I wouldn't be able to spend time with you today." She nodded. He seemed at a loss for words, an unlikely situation for a man that had so much silence to formulate them during. He stuck his hands in the pocket of his khaki raincoat and took out two envelopes, plain, with the children's names written on them. "These are for . . . Emily and little Nate," he said, pressing them into her hand. "I . . . I feel somewhat guilty for deserting them." "He goes by Cube now, Nate," she said, the same words she'd been saying for years. "And, no, you're not deserting them. If they've been less than appreciative, please tell me." "No, they are plenty. Though your daughter could improve her selection of clothes." She laughed, the first time she'd laughed during one of his visits for over a year. "That's outside of even my power . . . or maybe especially my power." He looked thoughtful, then tried unsuccessfully to ask his next question casually. "So, you know Fox Mulder, do you?" Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Not personally, and I've never seen him, no. Just heard about him." A nod, then he turned to go. Halfway out to his car, he paused. "I have a . . . friend in Jackson, Nebraska, that needs a long-term caretaker for his house. He's . . . ah, traveling. I'll look into it for you. Get you away from this polluted city and that incendiary Fox Mulder." What a strange thing for him to say. A *very* strange thing, she mused, closing the door. THE END Visit my fanfic page: www.willamette.edu/~jhadden/xfic.html . . . sneakers . . . _____________ / ___ ___ \ ------------------------------------------------------------| |---| |---| |-- . . . sneakers . . . 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