A Time and A Season
Episode 13: Party Time
by Janice

Part One: Jim

December 26, 2004

Warm summer sun was shining down between the trees. The preserve stretched, seemingly endless, in every direction. He was running, not in fear, but for the sheer pleasure of it, with no particular destination. Or, was he riding a horse? The dream twisted and turned, shifting him seamlessly from one location to another and furnishing him with a strange variety of companions, including Trixie, his high school history teacher and Mr. Lytell. The others seemed to come and go, but Trixie remained with him.

Jim began to be aware that he was dreaming. His mind supplied the detail that it most certainly was not summer and the fact propelled him towards consciousness. Without opening his eyes, he came to an awareness of why he was dreaming about Trixie being near him. Her head was tucked under his chin and her body pressed close. He thought with pleasure of the surprise which awaited her in Winter Rock; one about which no one knew, except him. A moment later, he remembered that the night just past was the last she would spend at Manor House; the last where he could hold her tight as they both went to sleep. This morning, she would return to Crabapple Farm.

I’ll enjoy this while it lasts, he thought, still feeling pleasantly sleepy. He took a peek at his girlfriend, whose steady breathing and relaxed posture told him she was still asleep. Taking a look at the clock, he came to the conclusion that it was almost time for her to wake. I wish I didn’t have to do this; she looks so content and peaceful. A smile crossed his face as he reflected on how rare that was. His hand moved to her waist, creeping underneath her shirt to the tender – and ticklish – skin he knew he would find there.

“Mmm-oo-fuh-dm,” said Trixie a few minutes later, as she began to squirm. “Stoppit ri’ now.”

“Morning, gorgeous,” he whispered. “Nice to see that you’re your usual cheerful self.”

“You know I don’t like being tickled when I’m asleep,” she muttered, trying to pull the covers over her head.

Jim laughed. “How, exactly, am I supposed to know that?” he wondered. “I don’t normally get the chance to try.”

“Well, you should know,” she insisted. “Besides, I didn’t want to wake up; I was having too good a dream.”

“It’s almost time for you to go,” he replied, pointing to the clock. “We don’t want to get caught now.”

“Don’t want to go,” Trixie said, with a groan. “I like sharing with you.”

“We’ll be home, soon, where we can spend as much time together as we want,” he said, softly.

“Let’s go there tomorrow,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow and smiling down at him. “I’ve had enough family togetherness to last me for a long time.” He shook his head slightly. “Haven’t you?”

“I think I can stand it for a little while longer,” he replied.

He raised both hands above his head and stretched. Never one to miss an opportunity, Trixie pounced on him, tickling any spot she could reach. Jim was taken by surprise, letting out a startled exclamation before he could stop himself.

“Quiet!” Trixie chided, but without stopping her assault. “You don’t want someone to hear you, do you?”

“If you want me to be quiet,” he said, catching one of her arms in an iron grip, “you’d be stop what you’re doing.” He made a couple of grabs at her remaining hand before he managed to catch it, pinning both above her head with one of his large hands. “Now, let’s see how quiet you can be.”

“Please, Jim,” she said, softly, “don’t tickle me.” She let out a squeak as his free hand ran lightly down her side. “Please!”

A wicked smile graced his face as he repeated the action, earning another, more tortured sound from his girlfriend. Her eyes squeezed shut and her nose wrinkled in the effort not to make a loud noise. As his hand strayed under her shirt, looking for even more ticklish territory, there was a disquieting noise from outside the bedroom door.

It’s locked, Jim told himself, concentrating on finding Trixie’s most sensitive spots. No one can interrupt us here. The voice came nearer, along with footsteps.

“Please, Jim,” Trixie was saying, “let me go! I’m sorry I tickled you.”

There was a slight sound and a movement of air.

“I’ll make you sorry,” he replied, moving his hand higher. His face pressed against Trixie’s body as she tried to break free.

Something was wrong. Jim felt a cool breeze from the direction of the doorway and an even colder glare. Beneath him, Trixie stiffened, twisting slightly to see something in that same direction. In one terrible moment, Jim realised that the door was open and that whoever had opened it was still standing there, presumably staring at them.

It’s not Honey, he thought, rather desperately, a vision of what this must look like rising in his mind. It’s not Hallie, either. Not Mother, or Dad. Not Miss Trask. Not Tom, Celia or Regan. Not any of the other people who would understand. There’s only one person it could be.

“You dirty boy!” cried Aunt Vera, apparently having just regained the power of speech. “How dare you do such filthy things here, in Matthew’s house. On a Sunday! Have you no shame? And that– that– tramp! I don’t have words to express how vulgar I find this” (she waved an irate hand in their direction) “disgusting and highly inappropriate situation. When Matthew hears of this, you can be sure that there will be– What are you doing? Stay away from me, young man!”

In desperation, Jim had risen to protect himself from this onslaught, smartly slamming the door in Miss Carlton’s face… and this time remembering to engage the lock. The tiny bit of satisfaction he felt at seeing the look of shock on her face as he did so was completely drowned out by a feeling of uncontrollable guilt.

“Oh, Jim!” cried Trixie, as he slumped against the door and shut his eyes in horror. “What are we going to do?”

From the other side of the door came the sound of pounding, and Miss Carlton’s voice saying, “I have not finished with you! How dare you lock me out?” Despite his mortification at the situation, Jim began to laugh.

“Don’t,” said Trixie, coming over to him and pounding her hands against his chest. “Please, Jim. It’s not funny. We’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“Open this door!” cried the old woman, clearly working herself into a rage.

Jim’s arms closed around his girlfriend and he pulled her close. She struggled for a moment, before letting him hold her. She whispered, “Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”

“I know,” he said, running a loving hand over her body. “Sometimes you just need to laugh, otherwise you’ll cry. You don’t want to make me cry, do you?”

“I’d rather get out of this without either of us crying,” she said, with a sudden grin. She hurried to get ready to leave, throwing her belongings into her duffle bag and pulling on her warmest clothing. “Right now, I’m just glad that there are so many phones in this house.”

He watched her curiously as she picked up the receiver and dialled a couple of digits. A moment later, apparently, it was answered and she said, “Hey, Hon, it’s me.” There was a slight pause, while she listened. “I don’t know. Maybe she heard us talking, or something. Anyway, can you do me a favour?” Jim smiled, knowing what the answer would be. “Can you make a call to one of the downstairs phones and pretend that you’re someone else; ask for Miss Carlton, then keep her on the line until I can get away? Thanks, Honey. I owe you one.”

Trixie set the receiver down, giving him a grin. “You’d better kiss me goodbye now,” she said, “while you have the chance. I don’t think I’ll be visiting you here again anytime soon.”

“I would hope not,” he said, taking her advice. “I’ll come to see you at the farm, sometime – probably later tonight.”

Outside the door, the sound came to them of Celia trying to convince Miss Carlton to take a telephone call from a Mrs. Hortencia Carrington-Markwell, who wished to speak to her urgently, regarding the moral tone of society today. Jim watched, amused, as Trixie pressed her ear to the door to hear better. She held tight to his hand, keeping him close, as the argument outside continued. Finally, they heard the old woman say, “I never heard anything more ridiculous. I will take the call, if only to give Mrs. Carrington-Markwell a piece of my mind.”

“Wish me luck,” Trixie whispered, as the footsteps receded into the distance. She kissed him soundly, before slowly opening the door. A moment later, she was gone.

Sighing with a mixture of relief and disappointment, Jim made his way to a window from which he knew he could see her progress. It was not long before he saw her darting towards the path which led to her parents’ home. He gave her a few more minutes, before heading for Honey’s room to give her the signal to end the conversation.

“I’m sure that I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Carlton,” he heard his sister say in a most unnatural voice, “but it’s such an important cause that I spend my every free moment on it – yes, even on a Sunday.” He mimed putting the receiver down and almost laughed at the sheer relief on Honey’s face. “If you feel that strongly about it, Miss Carlton, I won’t bother you any longer. Good-bye, and I hope I’ll see you at our next meeting.”

The receiver clicked into its cradle and she slumped onto the bed. “You both owe me big time,” she groaned. “That was terrible! Oh! You’d better get out of here – she’ll probably be coming back.”

Jim nodded, throwing out a few sincere words of thanks as he headed for his own room. He closed the door and dressed for the day as he waited for the inevitable. After a few minutes, nothing had happened. It was clear that, whatever his father’s aunt was doing, she was not going to continue the stand-off from the opposite side of the door. Somehow, that made Jim feel worse.

When someone did, finally, arrive at his door, it was quite clear that it was not Miss Carlton. Hearing the firm, but polite, knock, he opened the door to find his father, looking grim.

“Come down to my study,” Matthew said, curtly.

With a wildly pounding heart, he followed the older man downstairs, wondering all the way what sort of trouble he and Trixie were in. The set of Matthew Wheeler’s shoulders gave nothing away, other than determination – but, for what? They entered the room to find both his mother and Vera Carlton waiting for them.

“I have no wish to be in the same room as – him,” the old woman said, with the air of having repeated the statement a number of times. “I have told you what happened; there’s no need for this.”

“I don’t agree,” said Matthew. “Jim, I’m sure that you’ve deduced that a complaint has been made against you. Your mother and I have decided to bring you in on the discussion. As you’ve just heard, Aunt Vera does not agree. Now, the nature of the allegation is that you were found engaged in inappropriate conduct.”

“Inappropriate!” interrupted Miss Carlton. “Filthy! Disgusting! ‘Inappropriate’ does not even begin to cover the disgraceful exhibition that I had the misfortune of happening upon.”

“That’s enough, thank you, Aunt Vera. Jim, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Only that I thought the door was locked,” he replied. “I’m sorry if we offended you, Miss Carlton.”

“You call that an apology,” she sniffed. “Matthew, I insist that you do as I have already instructed.”

“Perhaps, Aunt Vera,” Madeleine suggested, in tones that made it clear where Honey got her tact, “you and I should leave the two of them to sort this out. I’m sure that Matthew will take what you’ve said into consideration. I’m sure you’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea.”

“I certainly do feel shaken,” Miss Carlton agreed, in grieved tones. She turned back to her nephew, saying, “I hope you don’t mean to defy me.”

Madeleine leaned in close, as she led the older woman out. Jim could just make out something about men having their own way of dealing with these things. The door closed gently behind them and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. The ordeal, however, did not seem to be over, since his father still looked stern.

“That was quite a tale of depravity she related,” he said. “Rather sketchy on the details, I thought, but full of hints of perversions untold. I’m sure that if my aunt knew of the terms ‘bondage and deprivation,’ she would have used them.”

“It wasn’t like that, really,” Jim protested, feeling his face and neck turn crimson at the thought. “I’m sure it looked bad, but it was really pretty innocent – and definitely nothing to do with that sort of thing.”

“I’m not asking for details.”

A silence followed.

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t want details, why are we here?”

“To let Aunt Vera think I’m chastising you, of course. That’s why I’m frowning at you; just in case she bursts in here.”

“Like she burst in on us this morning,” added Jim, with a frown of his own. “Though, why she did is a complete mystery to me.”

“I wondered about that myself,” said his father. “She didn’t seem to have a satisfactory answer for it, either.” His expression changed to a furtive one and he strode over and locked the study door. “I won’t say that I’m happy about this situation; Aunt Vera is enough trouble at the best of times, without giving her reason to be upset. There is one positive thing that we might be able to get out of it, though.”

“Take the heat off Honey for a little while?” Jim asked. “Do you think she’d appreciate that? I’m perfectly willing to do that, but I could leave for Winter Rock this morning, if it makes life easier here.”

“I’d rather you stayed,” said Matthew. “I’ll tell Aunt Vera that I’ve given you another chance, on the condition that it doesn’t happen again. ‘It’ being you and Trixie caught by her in whatever situation it was that you were caught in,” he added, with a grin. “I won’t spell that out to her, of course.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and gave his son a wicked grin. “Oh, and, by the way: please don’t engage in any real bondage and deprivation in front of Aunt Vera; she’d probably have a coronary.”

Sunday, January 2, 2005

A week had passed since the unfortunate incident with Matthew Wheeler’s aunt and Jim was more than ready to put it behind him. The old lady had finally returned to her own home the night before, leaving the household to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Breakfast, that morning, was a quiet affair. At the end of the meal, Jim found himself being summoned to his father’s office for a private conference.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Matthew said, once the door was firmly closed behind them. “I didn’t think it politic while Aunt Vera was still here, but you certainly need to know what I’ve found out.”

“This is to do with the suspected espionage and sabotage attempts?” Jim asked, as his father pulled a sheaf of papers out of the safe.

“They’re not ‘suspected’ any longer. I’ve got enough evidence now to begin some legal action, if I decide to take that course. Those responsible have been removed from their positions, so this part of the matter should be at an end.” He extracted a sheet from the bundle and set it in front of the younger man. “Here’s the list of known targets of the attack. I’d like to know if you see anything significant in the makeup of the list.”

Jim frowned as he read through the information, eyebrows lifting as he came to a conclusion. “These are all things that you’ve taken a particular interest in, or been instrumental in starting, aren’t they? Does that mean this is personal, rather than an attack on the business?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. There’s a possibility that it’s personal to me, but still connected to the business – for example, a person who feels that a decision I made wronged them. Before you give that theory too much credence, I’d like you to look at a few other things.”

He laid a number of other documents out across the desk, many of them marked with his own characteristic scrawl, some apparently initialled by Jim. Several companies were among the group, none of them associated with Matthew Wheeler’s company. Most carried a ‘Confidential’ stamp.

“I found these purely by accident,” he explained, “when my assistant was sick and the meeting I was supposed to attend was cancelled. They were hidden – though, not very well – just outside my office. I’m not certain, but I think that the person who hid them there was intending that they be found inside my office and was interrupted in an attempt to put them there.”

“Could be,” said Jim, feeling sick in the stomach. We’re in trouble, he thought as he studied the documents. We’re both in a lot of trouble. “They must be fakes,” he finally said. “I’m sure that I’ve never seen these before.” He singled out one sheet, tapping his initials with an index finger. “Trouble is, I couldn’t have told that this wasn’t my writing.”

He read, with a shiver, the legend: ‘Jim, Not looking good. Recommend you sell. Dad.’ Below that, in a slightly different ink, was written, ‘Okay. JWF II.’

“They’re plausible fakes,” his father agreed. “I’m going to be getting some legal opinion on these, but I think my lawyer’s going to be rather upset about them.”

I bet he will be, thought Jim, with a sinking heart. All of these represent stock that we’ve sold. If these see the light of day, we’ll be hard pressed keeping ourselves out of jail. It’s not just Dad who is the target; whoever they are, they’re after me, too.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

The envelope sat on the table, mocking Jim. He turned away, trying to put the matter out of his mind for at least a little while, but it refused to be moved. Heaving a sigh, he picked it up and quickly slit the flap. A single sheet was contained within. Jim could not decide whether that was a good sign, or a bad one.

My whole academic future on one sheet of paper, he mused, unwilling to find out just yet what that future would be. My whole career depends on this. The enclosure slid out and unfolded, but Jim only stared at the university insignia printed upon it. Finally, he steeled himself to read the contents.

A sigh escaped his lips and he slumped into a chair. When he had first received notice that he was accused of plagiarism, he had been terrified that no one would believe him. To find out that his defence had been accepted was more of a relief than he could possibly express. After a few moments, he straightened himself and studied the letter more carefully, just to make sure that he had read it correctly.

He frowned. There was something strange about the letter. He took the previous one from his file and compared the two. A number of subtle differences sent the alarm bells ringing in his mind. He looked at the names at the bottom and noted that they were spelt differently – the first said ‘Reilly’ and the second ‘Reily’. I think it’s a fake, he decided, with a start. Someone wants me to think this is over. His mind refused to find a plausible explanation of why anyone would want that.

Possible courses of action swam around in his head. He felt, uneasily, that he should act quickly. Maybe I should go to see Professor Reilly, he decided, and headed for the telephone. He checked the number and dialled, reaching the reception area, rather than the Professor herself. In a few short words, he stated his business.

“You want to reschedule the appointment?” the woman asked. “Can’t you make it for the time set down?”

“I’m sorry,” said Jim, his level of alarm rising enormously. “I don’t have an appointment with Professor Reilly; I wanted to make one.”

“That’s strange,” she replied. “She distinctly told me that she was expecting you at four–” Jim looked at his watch and noted that it was a quarter past three, “and that you might call, since you hadn’t confirmed receipt of the letter.”

“I didn’t get a letter from her with an appointment.” Jim’s heart was racing. “Do you know whether I needed to bring anything? Or where I was supposed to see her?”

A slight sound from the other end of the line told him that the receptionist was shifting papers. “Here it is. She left a copy of the letter here. I’ll read it to you.”

Relieved at this small mercy, Jim quickly noted the details and thanked the woman. Ending the conversation, he raced to his room to prepare for the interview. A fresh shirt and a quick combing of his hair dealt with his appearance. He grabbed the file he had prepared of his case, carefully replacing the original letter and adding the one which had just arrived. Without more delay, he was out the door.

At a few minutes to four, he waited outside the small conference room where his interview would be held. The unease he had felt earlier had hardened into a resolve to overcome this latest obstacle. The door opened and he was ushered inside.

“Please, take a seat,” Professor Reilly told him.

To Jim’s surprise, he was faced by a panel of six. From his earlier enquiries, he had found that this kind of matter was handled by a committee of three and that it was usually dealt with in writing. The row of serious faces gave nothing away.

“As you are no doubt aware,” the professor explained, “this is outside of the usual procedure for dealing with a case of plagiarism, but we find ourselves in circumstances that have not previously been encountered in this college.” She slid some papers across the table towards Jim. “This is the paper for which you were accused of plagiarism. The next is the paper – from a student a few years senior to yourself – from which you were accused of copying. You will see that they are identical.”

“This is not my paper,” Jim objected. He drew a copy of his own work from his file. “It bears no resemblance to the paper I submitted.”

“That is our dilemma,” replied Professor Reilly. “Your defence rested on the relation between your notes, outline and rough draft with the finished product. When we tried to make the comparison, there was no resemblance between the material you had supplied and the essay in question. There was also no resemblance between the plagiarised work and the copy of the paper you supplied with your submission. There is no other student with your name enrolled in this college, nor has there ever been. We would like you to explain this matter.”

Jim drew a breath, seeking the best explanation for the situation. “I’ve been having some trouble with someone using my identity. He tried to sell some of my property, he placed a newspaper advertisement in my name and he’s trying to sabotage my academic career. I finished my paper in plenty of time and submitted it. I noted the time and date on my copy – here. This paper is dated the same day, but a few hours later. He must have submitted this in my name and somehow removed my own paper. I have no wish to cheat. I am perfectly capable of doing my own work. The topic of this paper was of particular interest to me and I enjoyed researching and writing it.”

A man at the end of the row spoke for the first time, introducing himself as Dr. Wilson. “That is why we have called you here. Your paper is considerably better than the other one. It shows great insight into the topic. I would like, if I may, to ask you to discuss the paper with us.”

“Of course,” Jim agreed.

For the next fifteen minutes, four members of the panel plied him with complex and challenging questions on the psychology of exceptional children, with particular reference to his paper. As he had been telling the truth, Jim was easily able to keep up the discussion. He found, to his surprise, that he was enjoying the experience. At the end of a particularly complex answer, Dr. Wilson nodded to Professor Reilly.

“I think that is all that we need, for now,” she told Jim. “We will discuss the matter and inform you of the result in writing.”

“Excuse me, professor,” he asked, tentatively, “but could I collect the letter, rather than have it posted?” He withdrew the forged letter and laid it on the table. “As you can see, the person who is doing this to me has other resources – but I knew this wasn’t real because they spelt your name wrongly.”

She opened a small book, which lay on the table in front of her. “Come to my office on Friday afternoon at four. I’ll have the answer ready for you then.”

“Thank you, Professor Reilly.” Jim thanked the other members of the panel and left.

Part Two: Mart

Saturday, March 12, 2005

The bedroom was dim as Mart lay watching his sleeping wife. Even in repose, she looked tired and more delicate than usual. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Silently, he wondered whether there was something wrong. She’s been so tired, the last few days, he thought. I’m sure she’s not been feeling well, even more than she’s been saying. And she spends so long in the bathroom. She says that she’s cleaning it, but it can’t really need to be cleaned that much, can it?

He cast his mind over the few clues she had given that all was not as it should be. Last night was a case in point. Diana had eaten little at the dinner table, claiming not to be hungry. Mart knew – and had always known – that Di had quite a small appetite, but the amount she had eaten was small by those standards. Afterwards, she had gotten ready for bed and told him she needed an early night. Within half an hour, she was asleep.

A frown crossed her face at the sound of Brian’s voice outside, angrily calling for his sister. Why can’t he be quiet? Mart wondered, feeling distinctly uncharitable towards his brother. Didn’t he see how sick Di was looking last night?

Outside, there were loud bangs and angry voices. Whatever Trixie had done this time, it had really gotten Brian angry. Di settled slightly in her sleep, apparently able to block out the noise. Mart returned to his disquieting thoughts.

I’m sure there’s something wrong, he told himself. It’s just not normal for her to need so much sleep, or not want to eat. I’ll really have to look after her. Outside, there was a strange silence, followed by the sound of footsteps crossing the house. A moment later, the banging started up again, this time on the other side of the house. Di frowned again, shifting a little in her sleep.

“What’s going on?” she murmured, over the confusion of voices that could be heard, even through their closed bedroom door.

“I don’t know,” Mart replied, giving her a kiss. “Should I go and take a look?”

“Mmm,” she said, eyes still tightly shut.

When he returned ten minutes later, he was full of indignation and wanting to talk over the situation he had just discovered. The rest of the household was buzzing with the news of an advertisement for a party, fraudulently placed in Trixie’s and Jim’s names. Unluckily for Mart, there was no one to discuss the matter with: Di was peacefully sleeping once again. How do you like that? he thought, torn between annoyance and relief. If she could sleep through all that, she could sleep through just about anything.

That night, as they nervously waited for the trouble to start, Mart found himself the target of a frosty glare from Trixie. Di had, once again, retired early, but the uncertainties of the situation made sleep seem a very long way off to Mart. Maybe it’s time to end this, once and for all, he decided, getting ready to issue a challenge.

“Can we have a word, Trixie?” he asked.

“Sure.” She looked a little startled, but rose readily and led the way to her own room. “What do you want to say?”

“I want us to make peace,” he said, as simply as he knew how. “Di doesn’t need us arguing all the time and I don’t want us arguing, either.”

“Are you going to take back what you said this morning?” she asked, in a dangerous voice.

“Take back what?”

“Your comments on my being to blame for this,” she answered, “and about me living with Jim.”

“I didn’t say you were to blame,” he objected. “I said you were partly to blame. And, no, I’m not taking them back. I still think that whoever did this has exploited your own behaviour. You keep talking about your relationship with Jim as not being much different from mine with Di. You can’t have it both ways, Trixie. Either you make a public commitment, or you stop trying to get the benefits of having done so, without the responsibilities.”

“Excuse me?” she asked. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you can’t make people treat you like you’re married just by sheer willpower. You have to play by the rules, even when you don’t like them. If you want respect, you have to behave in a manner that society says is respectable. I’m not saying that it’s really wrong to live together thesedays, but if it was me, I wouldn’t.”

“I told you,” she said, through clenched teeth, “we’re not living together.”

“But people will think you are, after this.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

“But if we weren’t all living together in this house, they couldn’t have done this.”

“If we weren’t living here, I’d be back in Sleepyside!” she cried. “I couldn’t afford to start college if it wasn’t for this house, so can we leave that whole argument out of this, please?”

“I’m sorry, Trixie,” he said, taking a step backwards. “I guess I’m angry with myself as much as anyone. We shouldn’t have put you, Honey and Di in this situation.”

“It’s too late to think of that now,” she said and held out her hand. “Peace?”

“Peace,” he agreed. “I’m sorry I said you were living with Jim, when quite clearly you aren’t.”

“And I’m sorry that I’ve been so nasty to you lately,” she added. “It just annoys me that you get so much extra consideration.”

“I’ve got the piece of paper to prove that I’m serious,” he said with a smile. “On the other hand, it should be obvious to anyone who knows you that you’re serious about Jim.”

“I am,” she agreed, “but I don’t intend to get married just to prove it. We don’t need that sort of complication right now.”

“Next Christmas, I’ll put in the good word for you,” he offered. “Maybe Moms will invite Jim.”

“Thanks, Mart,” she said, giving him a hug. “That would be wonderful.”

Friday, March 18, 2005

A chill was in the air as Mart walked home from his last class of the week. He dug his hands into his pockets, wishing that he’d remembered that it would be almost dusk when he returned. It’ll be good to get home, he decided, casting a glance to his right. The setting sun was casting a reddish light across the cliff-face that stood beyond the town. At this time of day, the weathered rock had a forbidding look to it. In the light of day, he knew, it made a pleasant backdrop to the town, contrasting with the evergreens on the mountainside above and below.

He turned a corner and that part of the landscape was out of sight. Instead, he could catch glimpses of the lake. That’s a more pleasant thought, he decided, remembering the times he had spent there with Di. His mind was well-occupied for the rest of his walk and he was in a good mood as he entered the house. Nothing in particular seemed to be happening. The only point of note was the absence of Di in the main part of the house.

I thought she should be home, he thought, frowning slightly. Didn’t she tell me she had the day off? He wandered into their bedroom, only to find her sitting on the bed and waiting for him.

“Hi, kitten,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s something we need to talk about,” she said, looking very serious. She patted the bed next to her, indicating that he should sit down. “I went to the doctor this morning and she ran some tests.”

“What is it?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper. “Are you sick?”

Di’s bottom lip began to quiver, even as she shook her head. Mart felt all of the blood drain out of his face as she said: “No, I’m pregnant.”

“Wh-what?” he stammered. “You can’t be. We’ve been really careful. This can’t be happening. My dad’s going to absolutely kill me.”

“Your dad?” she asked, through unshed tears. “Only him? What do you think my parents are going to say? You know what happened when we told them we were getting married.”

I’ve got to get out of this, he thought, somewhat irrationally. This just can’t be happening. There has to be some way out.

“Let’s run away,” he said, “straight away, without telling anyone.”

“You’ve still got to finish college,” she said, smiling for the first time since breaking the news. “How will you do that if we run away?”

“I’ll transfer,” he said. “What do you think about Alaska?”

“I think we’ll just face this together,” she replied. “Here – where our friends and family can help us.”

“Right after they kill us.”

“The Bob-Whites won’t,” she said, in a soft voice. “Maybe we should tell them first – confidentially, of course.”

“Can I have a little time to think about it first?”

She nodded and leaned against him for a hug. He drew her close, feeling her tears finally fall.

Hours later, Mart stood before his sister’s door, wracked with indecision. Above all else, he wanted someone to talk to about his situation and the one he wanted to consult was Trixie. Despite that inner longing, a part of him was reluctant to say the words aloud. It was almost as if admitting it would make it somehow more real.

It’s real, no matter what I say or do, he decided, raising his hand to knock. I need someone to talk to and, even if we’ve fought a lot lately, she’s the one who’ll understand. There was a long silence. Please, be in there. He knocked, again. There was a series of strange sounds from within, then the door opened.

“What is it?” she demanded, her face echoing some of the emotions he felt. She grabbed his arm and drew him into the room.

“I need someone to talk to,” he said, as the door shut behind him. “Confidentially.”

Trixie cleared a space on the bed, tossing books and clothes onto the desk and floor, before pushing him towards the head. She settled at the foot, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I don’t want to be saying this. I don’t want it to be true.” He stared at the floor for some minutes, unmoving.

“Just tell me,” she said. “I’ll help you; you know that.”

All in a rush, the news that Di had shared with him poured out in a disjointed stream of words. All of the emotions that he felt were there for her to see: fear, anger, sadness, shock – and something else that he didn’t want to acknowledge, at least, not yet. He looked up to see that Trixie’s mouth had dropped open into an ‘O.’

“Oh, Mart,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but I just can’t help thinking that you’re going to make the best dad. Di is so lucky to have you.”

“Don’t you get it, Trix?” he asked, incredulous. “I’ve still got to finish college; I can’t afford to drop out now, or reduce my course load. What am I going to do? How can I support a wife and child? And have you any idea what sort of trouble we’re going to be in?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Moms had a talk with me a while back about the same thing.”

“She what?”

“She talked to me about accidental pregnancy. I thought that’s what we were talking about here.” She shook her head in confusion and continued. “She said that we – meaning you, me and Brian – may be over eighteen, but Moms and Dad still think of us in terms of being their children. They’re not ready to be grandparents, yet.”

“Especially since they’re coping with a new baby. They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

“Probably, but I think you have more to worry about from Di’s parents,” she replied, with more honesty than tact. “They’re not going to like this at all.”

“After the scene they made when we told them we were getting married, I don’t know that I want to be there when they hear this. Do you think we could send them a postcard, or something?”

Trixie giggled. “Ooh! I can see it now: it’ll have a picture of a whale on the front and then on the back it’ll say, ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lynch, After only three months of marriage, I have managed to get your daughter pregnant. As a result, I will be in hiding for the next nine months. Love, Mart Belden.’ Meanwhile, you and Mrs. Diana Belden, along with Junior Belden-to-be, will be safely hidden away in an undisclosed location.”

“Okay,” he laughed, “so, it’s not the best idea I’ve ever come up with. Do you have a better one?”

“No,” she said, sobering a little. “Only, while Mr. Lynch is throttling the life out of you, remember that I, for one, am looking forward to meeting your baby, and that I’m sure all the Bob-Whites will support you and do anything they can to help.”

“There you go again,” he said, giving her a hug, “promising things for other people. I’m sure the Bob-Whites will be ready to smack you one for volunteering them, again.”

“That’s gratitude,” she said, with a laugh. “I give you these assurances and you insult me.”

“I am grateful,” he said, suddenly serious. “Thanks, Trixie. You’ve made me feel a lot better.”

Wednesday, May 4, 2005

It was time to begin making some plans. The initial storm caused by their news had passed and life had begun to return to normal. Mart knew, as he walked into the house in the afternoon, that Di would be waiting for him, ready to discuss their future. The thought gave him goosebumps.

“Is that you, Mart?” she called, as he lingered outside their bedroom door.

“Yes, sweetie,” he replied, taking a deep breath and stepping inside.

He was surprised to see her sitting on the bed surrounded by paint colour charts, fabric samples and a variety of brochures. She looked up and smiled at him, waving him to a tiny free space on the opposite side of the bed.

“What do you think?” she asked, pointing to a collection in front of her. “Don’t you think that would be just adorable for the baby’s room?”

“I thought we were going to talk about our plans,” he said, slightly bewildered.

“We are. These are my plans for the baby’s room. So, do you like this scheme?”

“It’s a bit, um, bright, don’t you think?” he asked, holding up a bright yellow card and imagining a whole room in that shade.

“That’s the trim,” she said, laughing. “The walls would be eggshell blue.”

“Right,” he said. “Uh, Di, how are we going to pay for redecorating the room?”

“Pay?” she asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Money? Something we’re becoming quite short of? Remember?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said, waving the difficulty aside. “My father’s going to look after it. I thought you understood that.”

“Don’t worry? Di, we can’t accept that sort of thing from your father!”

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re not going to start rejecting gifts from my parents, are you? That would be very rude, for one thing, and I don’t think I’d like it, either. They haven’t always been very supportive of us, but if they want to give us things, I think we should let them. Like you said, we’re running short enough of money without doing something so silly as that.”

“But–”

“No ‘buts,’” she said. “Dad wants to help with the nursery, so we’ll let him.”

“There’s more pressing needs than the baby’s room,” Mart objected, unwilling to dignify it with the word ‘nursery’. “Like, paying our rent and finding the money for my books for next semester. I thought that was what we were going to talk about.”

“And we will,” she soothed. “Right after we decide on the decor for the nursery.”

Just so long as we’ve got our priorities right, he thought, with a roll of his eyes. We’ll be stone broke, but if the decor is perfect, she won’t mind.