From: Duffsan Date: Tue, 31 Mar 1998 06:39:16 EST Subject: Skinner's Weekend (1/3) VA,R by Medina TITLE: Skinner's Weekend (1/3) VA,R by Medina AUTHOR: Medina, written March 1998 E-MAIL ADDRESS: duffsan@aol.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please forward to ATXC. Archive at Gossamer. Attach my name if archived elsewhere. SPOILERS: One Breath RATING: VA, R CONTENT WARNING: language LENGTH: 40 kb SUMMARY: Skinner returns home for the weekend. DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Miki and Meredith; peerless editors both. You deserve more thanks that I can ever supply. FEEDBACK: Feedback gratefully received and promptly answered. Please send to duffsan@aol.com ********************************************* Skinner's Weekend VA,R by Medina Sunday at 2:40 pm, the phone in my apartment rings for the first time in two days. It is not an interruption. It is my niece Caitlin. She is thirteen years old and if I get only one call over the weekend, I want it to be from her. Unhesitatingly to the point, she asks, "What are you doing next Saturday?" It is a leading question, but I do not evade her. "Not much." I answer and wait for the invitation I suspect will follow. "Want to come over?" As though we live just down the street from each other. "It's a little far, don't you think?" We are time zones apart; between extreme edges of Eastern and Central -- plus an hour's drive from the airport. "You could fly. It's only two hours. You have frequent flyer points so it won't cost you anything." This from someone whose entire air travel experience consists of waiting for me inside a Midwest arrivals terminal. She thinks I don't visit as often as I could because of money. Seeing her on Saturday is important. It is her fourteenth birthday. I am silent, wanting say yes, but nonetheless resistant to the idea. My family is not a treat. Visiting simply keeps the old wounds open and fresh. And yet, I think to myself, I have not seen Caitlin in months. She is growing up too fast and I can't afford to miss these opportunities. Every time I see her, she is taller, changed and more mature. I know there will be a time soon when the little girl is gone completely. And the invitations. "Please?" With her usual instincts, she has detected my weakness and using her one weapon, she drives a wedge into the crack in my defense. "Please? Please?" "Caitlin ..." Then the pleases come down in a torrent, like rain in a summer storm. I can picture her in overalls and a plaid shirt that is too long at the sleeves -- her eyes closed, bobbing up and down with the effort of saying one word over and over again. I interrupt and give her a single moment of hope. "Let me speak to your mother." I hear her put down the phone and yell for my sister-in-law, Gail. "Mo-om! Uncle Walter says he's gonna come!" ~~~ My family and I do not get along. To them, I am a failure. I am a Vietnam veteran; and for a very long while, a wounded, angry drug addict. I have also been something of a drunk and done a few things no one is proud of, but that are remembered with startling clarity and regularity. However few my successes may be, as far as my family is concerned, they too are positioned as failures. I was accepted to college through Government Legislation, not merit. I never made the Dean's list. Neither of my parents survived long enough to see me graduate. I defaulted into the Bureau. I am, in their eyes, an AD for reasons other than hard work and intelligence. As children, then as teenagers and adults, my brothers drank, and fought, and thought it natural to do so. So did I. It was the only way we knew how to be. Yet, however I came by it, my education is the thing that saved me, the thing that matured me, the thing that broke the mold my brothers can not see, can not understand or comprehend. I was the only one able to stop the hopeless cycle and became someone different while they remained the same. But for the chance get out of this house and this town that is as small as the minds that dwell here, I would still be just like them. I admit that, for a long time I have been a reason for and, years ago, a main instigator of our family's feuding. The war fragmented us -- politically and emotionally. It didn't help that when I returned, I was a complete mess. The fact that I have recovered to put my life back together is irrelevant. My credibility here is negligible. People change but memories and grudges are permanent. Despite all the history, the conflict, the talents on all sides for keeping the deepest wounds fresh and bleeding, I do return home time and time again and subject myself to the abuse. Caitlin is the only reason I go back. I know she is a victim of these endless wars. I need to return; to maintain my connection with her, to see for myself that she is all right and not just have to take her word for it when we talk on the phone. While I'm with her, she can draw on me for strength to endure what she cannot escape. In this branch of the Skinner clan, I am the oldest of four brothers. The Skinners have been the same for generations - - learning to fend for ourselves at the knees and skirts of our elders. It seemed so natural to hit, to hate, to drink into oblivion. Those that did not agree were never strong enough to resist. As the elders disappeared into graves, their legacy lived on, propelled by self-righteous rage and fundamental ignorance of any other way to live. We four are that legacy. While I live in Washington, the other three live within a twenty-mile radius of this farm. They see or speak to each other every day. Stanley, the second oldest, and I do not agree on anything. He substitutes leadership with intimidation and rules the family, placing himself at the head of the table in my absence. That I am the first born is a usurping twist of fate that he ignores when I am absent and undermines when I am present. He protested the war -- not because he believed in the political ideal, but because it was the perfect camouflage to hide his grudge against me. Suddenly he could hate for a higher cause. When I returned home, he was the ringleader to seal my fate as an outsider. Thomas thinks Stan walks on water and George, Caitlin's father, is too weak to resist Stan and does not think for himself. Rather, he absorbs the prevailing family opinion through osmosis. Once positions are clear, he quietly conforms, creating no undo conflict. Each brother is married and all have kids. Caitlin is my youngest brother's child. If it weren't for Caitlin I wouldn't return home -- and if it weren't for Gail, no one in my family would speak to me. It took the combined efforts of these two to convince me to come. I am still not sure if this is a good idea. Gail is, by nature, as warm-hearted and gentle a woman as I have ever met. She is the only one who will risk sticking up for me. Beyond that, we are close because I was there when Caitlin was born. During my niece's birth, I was her mother's only help. This twist of fate makes Caitlin the closest thing I will ever know to my own flesh and blood; the child I never had. It was one of those horrible coincidences of life. After a fight with Sharon, I had arrived at the family farm unexpectedly. The snow had been falling hard all morning then continued unabated, threatening a wedding in town early that afternoon -- of a distant cousin that I hardly remembered. Gail was too pregnant to travel and I was both uninvited and unwelcomed so the two of us stayed at the farm while the rest of the family trooped into town in their not quite stylish Sunday best, covered with bulky coats bought for function, not fashion. As George kissed Gail good-bye, I remember watching, stunned at how easy it was for him to leave her behind. She was young, and healthy and insistent he go without her. He didn't put up much of a fight and as he ducked out the door, I swore at him. That he could just turn his back on her -- his pregnant wife -- was beyond my comprehension, but Stan was yelling from the driver's seat and George simply shrugged at me and hurried out. Late afternoon, I was in the den, drinking heavily and hating the world, when Gail called to me with a voice that froze my heart. The second time I heard my name, I was on my feet and running to her. I did everything to avoid what turned out to be the inevitable. I called her doctor, then the police and ambulance, begging them to come, but the snow had shut everything down. The roads were closed. Delays would be hours long. In desperation, I offered to drive her myself; but when she sank to the kitchen floor, panting, clutching her swollen belly and stifling groans, I abandoned all hope of escaping and knelt beside her. I felt dizzy and sick, ready to vomit from too much booze and a bellyful of fear. I was no help. Gail, the baby and Mother Nature did all the work. I just waited, half-drunk and trembling until I could do the obvious. >From Gail's body emerged a wrinkled, bloodied baby girl. In my shaking hands, this child took its first breath -- a breath that seemed to surround me in a column of angels and light. I wept as I wrapped her in towels and handed her into her mother's outstretched arms. I sat on my heels, staring awestruck. It was almost enough to make me believe in God. Of the children, Caitlin is the youngest by four years. Her age works against her and it is enough to get her as ostracized from the second generation as I am from the first. Apart from her social status that roughly parallels my own, she is the only one with a backbone -- it is still forming yet -- but she knows right from wrong without being told and understands about honor. Although opposites in many ways, we are nonetheless alike. ~~~ At my request, no one meets me at the airport. For this trip, I prefer to have my own rental car so I can come and, if need be -- go -- as I please. After a quick exit from the terminal parking lot, I turn onto a single-lane highway that is nothing but deep icy ruts crisscrossed in frozen braids. In places, snow has drifted, obscuring the path. As I drive along, the wheels of the car suddenly catch, sending me towards the ditch. With a hard yank, I pull myself back on course. The farm is still a half- hour away and the closer I get, the tighter I clench the wheel. I arrive in mid-afternoon. When I pull up, there are five cars in the driveway, but since this is a cattle farm there is room. I set the emergency brake with a hard yank that locks the stiff gears and see Caitlin tearing across the yard, kicking up snow -- her coat unbuttoned and flapping behind her. I shut the door as she rounds the fender, slips, recovers by thumping her hands on the hood and then slams into me, binding my middle in a hug. When she was younger, I used to swing her high in the air, like an airplane and make her laugh until she was breathless. Now I just bend a little forward, wrap my arms around her then lift her off her feet and spin her around once or twice. It has the same effect. "I am so glad you came. I am so glad you came!" Her eyes are shut tight, and she wriggles with delight. "I missed you!" "I missed you too, kid." I go around twice then set her down. She retreats, beaming up at me. I have never been the first one to end one of our hugs, and I despise the moment when she's had enough and pulls away from me. I always let her go the instant she wants to leave but as she withdraws, I have the real fear that I'll never get another chance to hold her. So much can be said to turn her against me. So much of it is true. "Everybody is already here." Great, I think, taking my time with the luggage and resisting Caitlin's efforts to speed my approach. My role changes. I am not an AD, not a man, not a brother or friend. Just an outsider, tolerated and never asked to come back soon. ~~~ END OF PART 1 ~~ Caitlin runs ahead, stomping up the porch stairs and swinging the screen door with a wide bang. I follow, overnight bag in hand. At the threshold, I brace myself before entering. This is clearly enemy territory. I am not welcome here; but I am not here to see them, I remind myself. I am here to see Caitlin. "Look who's here!" She tugs my sleeve hard, wanting everyone to rise up and greet me. They don't. It takes Gail to appear, wipe her floured hands on her apron and embrace me before they exchange looks and finally stand. Their greeting is more a reluctant funeral procession than a homecoming. George attempts genuine civility then gets pushed out of the way by Stan. "If it isn't Big Brother." His face is pink and he reeks of beer. The voice is sharp and he stops the slur by speaking too loudly. "Where's Sharon? Another fight? Oh. I forgot." Being divorced is just one more in my long list of sins. "Hello, Stan." We shake hands and he tests me with an overly tight grip. He laughs forcefully when I let him win the contest because he thinks he won it of his own accord. I am drawn reluctantly towards the den and pass the wall covered with portraits -- about fifty photographs hang here representing every one in the clan. The pictures have been in this house as long as I can remember. It was mother's way of keeping everyone, as she used to say, near to her heart and close at hand. George and Gail run the farm because they were the only ones who really wanted to, and before mother died, I saw to it the transfer of the deed was stated in the will. As the keepers of the homestead, they keep up the tradition -- content subject to approval. I stop and scan the Skinner gallery. Some of these photographs are eighty-five years old -- sepia but well preserved in glass with gilded frames. Others are black and white -- one of my parents' wedding; another of my father in uniform. The rest are in color, the decades dated by fashion and hairstyle. I stand back, looking for and missing one picture in particular. Of me. As a Marine in full dress uniform. There is another picture there now. Three brothers sit on the front steps. Everyone smiling. Beers held up in salute. I don't linger further. I step down into the den. Nothing has changed in thirty years. The place is still decorated in Classic American style -- an entire room arranged around a television focal point. George has a big screen. At least 42 inches. This will be a popular spot for tonight's basketball game. The standing bar at the back is a well-used convenience. Cases of beer bottles line the wall and are stacked hip deep -- the empties growing at the usual weekend pace. Gail excuses herself and disappears to continue with a birthday cake and I am given the one seat that is set apart from the rest. From habit, Caitlin brings me a can of soda then sits on the hassock at my knees. Cupping her chin in her hands, she stares at me, smiling, happy to simply be close and watch. Stan lifts another beer, then notices me and lowers his can without sipping. "Fuck. That's all you're drinkin'? George, get him a beer." George sets his beer down and heaves himself to his feet. He steps over a pair of outstretched legs on his way. Stan lifts his heels off the floor, catching George's trailing foot, not fast enough to trip him. There is raucous laughter, but not from me. "This will do." I say. "No beer? You gone soft?" Stan laughs again. "You used to put 'em away pretty good, I remember. Used to be your warm up." He is right but it was a long time ago. Since then, a lot has changed. There are, by my last count, three 12 gauge shotguns and at least two hand guns in this house. Not counting my automatic. I figure at least one of the adults should stay sober. Besides, I don't want to drink in front of Caitlin. Someone has to show her that it is possible to make choices, to make up one's own mind. It was the same when I was smoker. I never lit up in front of Caitlin. It wasn't easy -- she was a devil at knowing just when to appear. Like all kids, she could sense that a conspiracy was taking place when I mysteriously excused myself for a few minutes on the back porch. Not long after, she would follow so she wouldn't be left out. She never caught me with a cigarette in my hand, but I burned my fingers more than once so she wouldn't. "This will do, Stan." I hold up the can and drink as evidence of my conviction. "George. Sit down." My youngest brother stands between the bar and his easy chair -- stuck in no- man's land between two opposing forces. "You said you were going to bring me something." The kid has superb timing and inevitably chooses just the right moment to break the tension. She gets a lot of practice. "Yes." I pull out an envelope from my back pocket. It is thin and sealed. A roomful of eyes turn to dollar signs and I can see them silently estimating the value. Caitlin tears into the envelope with shameless enthusiasm. She pulls out the small rectangle and pauses to read. Finally she gets it and erupts in a scream of delight. Caitlin lands in my lap and hugs my neck tightly. She kisses my cheek, disrupting my glasses and wriggles enough that I have to keep the drink at arm's length to prevent a spill. I have given her what she has spent the last three years begging me for. "How much?" Stan has no shame either and holds out his hand to see the paper. "How much?" "When can we go? When can we go?" "What the fuck did you get her?" Stan is angry I have made her happy. In his eyes, I have stolen something from him. This glory should have been his. It is not Caitlin he cares about, not Caitlin he loves. It is all a question of power. Of control. Of stealing someone's joy simply because he can. Caitlin won't leave her new perch, even though she is too old now to sit in my lap and turns the coupon to face the room, panning like a ringside model with a round one card at a prizefight. "A parachute jump!" Stan explodes. "What the fuck you tryin' to do? Kill her?!" "You have got to be kidding me." Thomas takes over, echoing the sentiment. "Are you out of your mind?!" "No. Absolutely not." George puts it out as a mild statement. He is still not sure which way the scene will end up. Coward. "It's what I wanted." Her heels start digging in, but have no anchor, no solid base of defense except her own fourteen year old will to keep what has been given to her. "Nothing is going to happen to her." I say mildly. "We'll go tandem. All she has to do is go along for the ride. I do all the work." "You?! When was the last time you fuckin' jumped out of a goddamned plane?" Stan loads the next word with narrow- eyed sarcasm. "Nam?!" A record. A full fifteen minutes have passed before the Specter appears. I let the comment go by noticed, but undefended. Having seen the way the lines have been drawn, George steps in. "I refuse to let my kid jump out of a plane flying at sixty thousand feet in the air. Gail?" He hollers for his wife in the next room. "You talk to him." "Try twelve thousand. Sixty thousand feet is higher than most commercial flights." "Quit changin' the fuckin' subject, Walter." "I'm keeping it." Caitlin folds the coupon and flattens it against her chest. It is a bold statement. Defiant. "Fer Christsakes, George." Stan flicks his arm as a directive. "Take it away from her." George holds out his hand and nears. Caitlin rolls off my lap and over the arm of the chair to avoid him. "No!" She flees the wrong way and before she can make it to the door, Stan intercepts and rips the coupon from her hands. He shreds the paper in nasty little pieces as Caitlin looks on ashen, ready to cry. "Enough of that fuckin' nonsense," he says, eyeing Caitlin and making sure she witnesses his fullest contempt then slaps the remains in George's hands. Caitlin turns on her heels and pounds upstairs. A few seconds later, a door slams. ~~~ No one else goes after Caitlin so I set the can on a coaster and excuse myself. As I cross the floor, Stan blocks my path momentarily. We are wordless and exchanging our ever- contemptuous stares. He is wearing a smug expression of superiority -- inexplicably proud of his petty victory in a fight with a child. All at once, I am ten years old again and Stan is a snotty little seven-year-old standing in front of me with his arms crossed, daring me to hit him. Now, as it was then, my impulse is to beat the shit out of him. I want to smack his chubby conceited face, to stun him into obedience but I don't because my mother's voice is in my head telling me I am the oldest and have to set the example for the others. I know, deep down, in some perverted rationale, Stan is still my brother and brothers, right or wrong, stick together. I am certain I am the only one in my family who believes this arcane notion. As I head for the exit, the three of them are standing, lined up -- one behind the other. Stan at the lead, George at the last. "What are you smiling at?" I walk past, not quite catching Stan with my shoulder. Asshole. "Leave her alone." Thomas offers his advice. "You're just encouraging her. The kid needs a lesson." When I pass Caitlin's father, I stop. "How can you let them do this? To your own kid?" George looks away and doesn't have an answer. I leave him with the question, furious that he refuses to defend her. His weakness guarantees all her struggles are valiant defeats. Not once have I ever seen him side with her against a brother -- against anyone, yet it does not stop her from fighting for what she believes is right. ~~~ Upstairs, I knock on a pink door that has a nameplate decorated with red and yellow balloons. There is no answer - - nothing but silence until I hear a muffled sniff. I knock again and repeat her name. "Can I come in?" My hand is on the knob, already twisted so I can just push in and enter. I hear no plea to the contrary so I enter and shut the door behind me. I have been here countless times. It used to be my room. It's all the same furniture. Only the colour of the walls has changed. The room is small, painted the same rosy shade as the door. The decor is dominated by stuffed toys, model airplanes, mobiles and kites. Covering the length of her closet, a big poster shows a view of a cloudless blue sky filled with hot air balloons. By the window, a mobile of exotic birds spins and on the bench just beneath, there is a kite with the wings fully expanded and a long tail dangling to the floor. It is a tribute to wind and sky by a girl who is stuck in an earth-bound family. On her desk, a math book is opened and a notebook is filled with dark lead numbers set down without need of erasing. Around the mirror there are pictures of Caitlin and her friends, her on a horse, her with me taken by Gail. I am even smiling. I also find the one of me in full Marine dress uniform. The glass is cracked, diagonal shatter lines drawing outward from a point -- damage caused by something thrown. Two of the glass pieces are missing and the rest have been repaired with scotch tape. I wonder when this happened. And why. She is curled up on the bed, her glasses held in her hands and a stuffed bear in her arms. Her face is red and wet and she is gasping, shuddering, not finished crying. Broken hearts are not quickly mended. Not when you're fourteen. It is my fault. I should have known better. I should have known to give her something practical. Something mundane. Something that wouldn't make her soar one minute and crash-land the next. I should have known enough to give it to her privately, after warning her mother and father. I don't know how to begin this and I am reminded again that, no matter how much I love this child and no matter how much I believe I could do better than Gail and George, I am ill-equipped to be a parent. There is no end in sight to her tears so I draw near, then lower a hip to the quilt-covered bed. It creaks under my weight and sounds overly loud in this cramped room. I pat her shoulder, but it has no effect, so I stop. "Caitlin." I touch her again, this time stroking her fine, uncombed hair. "This isn't the end of the world." She does not respond so I move on to another platitude disguised as a question. "What's the matter?" Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets out a squeaky- voiced plea, "I want to fly." "You will. Someday." I wish I could guarantee it, give her some tangible proof that she will get beyond this time in her life and be loved and a success in spite of her surroundings. "No. I won't. Not ever! I'll be stuck here forever!" She is angry, red-faced with her fists clenched. "You don't understand!" I do, but it is not the time to discuss one of the reasons why I became a Marine. And I refuse to use this to turn her against her parents. In their own misguided way, I know they do love her. Just not in a way she can understand. "Caitlin. I know it's hard now. You're still young. But one day, you'll be able to leave. You're smart enough to do anything you set your mind to. And I am always here to help you. Always." I wait for a response and it is obvious the speech has no effect. There is nothing left for me to say. "Caitlin. I'm sorry. This is my fault." She bolts upright and stares, shocked at the apology. Wiping her face, she puts on her glasses to see me more clearly. "No." She shakes her head then her chin quivers and she presses her lips into her braces to control it. "He had no right. It was mine! You gave it to me. Uncle Stan is a jerk!" Anger comes out and flushes her face. The frown keeps the tears at bay. "Uncle Stan is not a jerk." Technically, I'm right. Jerk is not the right word. Words. She views me narrowly, as if I am proving to be less a judge of character than previously estimated. "Uncle Stan is a jerk." It is a Skinner scowl. A mirror reflection. The one I use when I am being thwarted. "Uncle Stan is ..." I cannot find a single redeeming quality, yet I cannot admit what is plainly evident to both of us. "Uncle Stan is your Uncle. He's family. That counts for something. He was only doing what he believed was right. This isn't the end of the world." She glowers and tucks her chin into her chest, not enjoying that I have placed on her a higher sense of honor than the one she wants to have. "It isn't fair. He has no right." I let her say this unchallenged, then say after a suitable silence. "Go wash your face and come downstairs." ~~~ END OF PART 2 ~~~ Caitlin cleans herself up and returns. Together, we search for a place to play cribbage. Neither of us consider the den and Gail declares the kitchen off limits, having now progressed from baking to icing and preparing a roast dinner. The only place left is the stiff, overly formal front parlor that no one ever uses. There are gold-rimmed plates on the wall and lattice lace doilies under every lamp and running along every wood surface. On the coffee table, there is a glossy- paged book of renaissance art that has never been opened. When Caitlin was a baby, I used to take her into this room and stand her on my knees while she put fingerprints all over my glasses. When she was old enough, I came in here and read to her before bed. After her mother had bathed her, she'd return to me dressed in pink sleepers with white vinyl feet sewn in. With a little help, she would climb into my lap and settle -- so serious, with her hands gripping the edges of the book, intently surveying the pictures of dragons and caves and damsels and heroes. Then, when it grew late, she would fall asleep and I'd pull the book from her curled fingers. After a slight adjustment to cradle her head in the crook of my arm, I'd watch her sleep -- so perfect in every way. When the adults had consumed enough alcohol, the fighting started in earnest -- with one brother starting it and the rest following suit, sparing no one, not even the women. Voices would compete to be heard and profanities would punctuate the viciousness. She could sleep through a lot, but there'd come a time when she'd stir and I'd comfort her so that she'd go back to sleep. If the yelling was bad enough, I'd carry her up to bed and tuck her in and stay with her -- watching how the moonlight made her skin almost translucent, and look just like the princess in her book. This room where I spent so many hours playing with her is once again deserted and that makes it a perfect place for us. Caitlin settles immediately on the floor and I sit in my usual place on the overstuffed couch while she peels off the elastic band from the deck. The cards are miserably worn and I tell her so. Directing her to bring me my overnight bag, I dig around for an unopened deck and hand it to her to unwrap. When Stan comes in, Thomas is shadowing behind. Caitlin twists, looking over her shoulder and not making eye contact but watching and wary for any unexpected movement. She is ready for flight. They stay long enough that she finally gets up and walks on her knees so that she shares the same side of the table with me. She has long since learned you don't keep your back to them. "Don't you want to sit with the men?" Overemphasis on the last word. As if their company could possibly be preferable. "I'm fine." I answer. "Just where I want to be." Eventually, it gets rid of them. The afternoon wears on and the three youngest Skinner boys do their best to clear out all the beer in the house. They use their oldest brother for verbal target practice and their accuracy improves with each bottle. By dinner, they are a trio of snipers who have used my every mistake and flaw as ammunition. I take the abuses without retaliation and keep reminding myself I am here to see Caitlin. It has become my patience-sustaining mantra. It is still working, but is wearing thin. When we are seated for the evening meal, the Stooges have passed needing the bottle chilled. The two other wives, Jill and Carol, who have been best friends since grade one, don't have any problem keeping up. They, too, have stopped using glasses and drink straight from the bottle. There are other nieces and nephews present, but none recognize me as sentient and depart soon after dinner is over since they are at precisely the age where spending Saturday night with parents is a social stigma. When the birthday cake comes out, we sing and Gail tells her to make a wish. Before she blows out the candles, I make one on her behalf -- that Caitlin's wings grow strong and straight, and take her where ever she wants to go. We eat chocolate cake iced with fudge and the Brothers Grim drink, but two of them start to slow. Only Stan keeps going strong. By nine, we have arranged ourselves in the timeless den. The TV is blaring. The laugh track shrill and contrived. Stan has another beer and everyone else switches to coffee. Finally Stan starts to lose control. I take Thomas aside and tell him to cut Stan off. I know George would never be able to say no, but Thomas is occasionally responsible enough to do the right thing. Thomas listens to my request without comment. The moment the words are out of my mouth, I know he won't listen to me. He might have well answered with an imperious five-year old's "I'm telling!" It ultimately unravels the night. "Get me a beer." It cracks the quiet in the room like a rifle shot. He pins George to the spot with a bloodshot glare. "Go on." Thomas leans on the door frame, cool and pleased with the power he has suddenly inherited. The asshole's apprentice. "Walter doesn't think you should have any more." A nice clean opening. Slit right up the belly so the guts spill out. "Oh?" A warning flare -- shot directly overhead. Stan is shorter than I am, but built like a steer -- with hard labor muscles. Gail calls from the kitchen for some help and Carol and Jill use it as their excuse to run for cover. "Get me a fucking beer!" This is getting out of hand. "Stan. Take it easy." I say. "Give your system a chance to piss out what's already there." It is the most I have said to him in twenty years and I'm not talking about beer anymore. He knows, too, that I am a hair's breadth away from losing my patience. All it takes now is one good push. "Big man. Wants to run my life now that you've fucked up your own." The words fly like bullets. Each one is dead on target. This conversation is seconds away from a fight. "You're right. Assistant Director of the FBI's doesn't have quite the same clout as shop Foreman." "Bastard!" He stands up, weaving and uneven. "Bully!" I stand my ground. "Fuckin' baby killer!" It is a scream and silences the entire house. No one breathes and I can hear reverberations from the chimes in the wind-up clock. His three words conjure up a vision of a ten-year old covered in grenades, walking into camp with pants cut off below the knees and sandals with no socks and dusty brown feet. The kid knew he was going to die. He knew. He knew his life had ended the moment someone had snatched him up. He had seen it before happen to his brothers. Now it was his turn. He knew he was going to die. The grenades would get him. Or the enemy would. I can see the kid, crying open-mouthed with his lower lip curled down exposing small white teeth that I would blast through the back of his head. Slowly approaching, he walked with tightrope precision so he would not set off the grenades - desperate to prolong the last seconds of his life as if they meant something. He was just a terrified child caught in the crossfire and he had peed himself from fear. I remember it all in super-slow motion, seeing how his shirt was filthy and mis-buttoned and how I wildly searched for some way to rescue him. But he was strung with grenades and I pulled the trigger because I wore a uniform and because that innocent little kid was going to kill me if I didn't kill him first. Stan's face merges with my vision of a Vietnamese child then the ghost recedes, leaving the flesh and blood of my brother, the enemy. Stan sticks out his chin and I know I could break it in a single swing. He has an expression so superior, so self-righteous I want to kill him. He takes a half step forward and before I can stop myself, I reach up and twist his collar around my fists. "You weren't there!" My teeth are clenched. "You don't understand!" Our faces are inches apart and I can see his eyes peel back in momentary surprise. My intense fury startles him, but he doesn't defend himself. He is satisfied that I have just proven his point. "Pretty lame. Even for you." I see Caitlin just beyond the doorway, watching us with big round eyes that take in every nuance of our pantomime of family hatred. I want to hurt Stan, but I can't. Not with her watching. This furious energy of mine has to go somewhere so I push him hard and he falls backward, sitting abruptly in the chair. "Cool off!" I hiss picking different words for the audience. "Just cool off!" I point at him, like telling a bad dog to stay. Then I turn on my heels and head for the barn to take my own advice. ~~~ Pulling on my coat, I cross the three hundred yards to the barn and take the steps up two at a time. Once in the front door, I pass a leather harness hung on a nail; a set raccoon trap and a mound of used bailing twine. Beyond that, my pupils start adjusting to the dim light. Four feet in, I see the first face -- black, with a white blaze down the nose, brown eyes as big as silver dollars and a nose slick with snot. It pulls up its head, greeting me like a neighborhood Italian. Paesano. The stock is curious and silent except for some strong breathing and cuds being chewed from side to side. Hooves occasionally scrape along the wooden plank floor in an action of boredom more than restlessness. I make my way to the back of the barn and yank open the sliding back door that reveals an expanse of fields. The right side bangs wide and I kick the left open into a similar position. I am a story up and the drop off the ledge is steep. Throwing down a bale of hay, I take a place at the center. The thumping and tossing has done little to ease my anger, and when I sit, I put elbows to knees and head to hands, unable to start calming down. I watch my breath come out in clouded snorts. It is cold, but I don't feel it. All I feel is rage. After a while, I hear the front door open. Instantly, I recognize the footsteps. When Caitlin arrives, I make room for her and she sits beside me. Wordlessly, she puts an arm around me and rests her cheek on my shoulder. I can feel her hand rub against my back, not to give comfort, but to get it. Unsettled, she shifts a bit, adjusting her glasses on my sleeve. She is tight against me, like an animal scared and looking for shelter. After a while, she takes a nervous breath, and speaks in a whispered rush, "They're yelling." I know they are. I can recite the arguments without prompting. We've had the same ones for years. I always lose, but I'm not hear to win an argument. I am here to see Caitlin. She snuggles closer. She thinks I have some magic power that will protect her from all this. I can't even protect myself. I draw her near and wrap my arm around her. She tucks both her bare hands into my one pocket and shivers a little. She is living my life -- my childhood and I am powerless to stop it; unable to either remove her from this place nor change the situation. I can leave. She can't. Every time I say good-bye, it tears me apart because I have to look her in the eye and simply walk away, leaving her to fend for herself. We look outside at the fields of snow and the stars and a quarter moon that marries with the leafless trees and casts long witchlike shadows. It is a silent night, but there is no peace. After a while, there is more commotion at the front door. "Go!" It is Gail. "He's your brother, for God's sake!" Two sets of footsteps approach. A voice calls out, but neither Caitlin nor I answer. Finally, they find us. After a few words that mean nothing, Thomas takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry." He says. I have no voice for accepting it. Besides, I don't really believe it. When my silence drags on, he touches my shoulder in a friendly way. "George and me. We both are. Stan's really out of line this time. What do you say?" He gives me a mild shake. "Walter?" "Yeah." It is as close as I come. Thirty years of history doesn't disappear with one apology, but it is an olive branch and I accept it, knowing it may never be offered again. "Me, too." George adds to the going rate. "You came all this way. It isn't right." We stand in tableau, looking out. Then there is a final rattling of the barn door. The cattle unsettle and snort. One or two add a vocal complaint. "Where the fuck did everybody go?" Stan appears, his arms open wide, a beer in his hand and the same chip on his shoulder. Very slowly, George turns to him and says in a voice like the one I reserve for direct orders, "Shut up, Stan." FINIS AUTHOR'S NOTES: Caitlin first appeared in "Skinner's Tarot". Feedback gratefully received and promptly answered. Please send to duffsan@aol.com