Retam Sullet - Part Seven

John Byers rarely got the opportunity to drive. Langly had commandeered driving duties since the earlier nineties, and when he wasn't driving, Thea wanted to. It usually didn't bother Byers, but periodically he was gripped by the desire to be in control of a motorized vehicle. That particular day was one of the rare times in question. He offered, then insisted on being the one to pick up dinner.

In the days since the newlyweds had returned from Baltimore, the changes in all four of their lives had become more pronounced. The air of tension had evaporated. Thea and Langly seemed like any other married couple. Perhaps that's exactly what they were.

Byers was seeing something similar to a normal life unfold before his eyes. A normal life belonging to someone else. Ringo Langly. He fought off envy as unworthy and unbecoming. On the whole, he was very pleased on their behalf.

Every morning they sat elbow to elbow at the kitchen table, Langly with his Cap'n Crunch and Thea with her dry whole wheat toast mounded with bacon, marking their newspapers intently. Langly would gaze adoringly at her over the tops of his black glasses; she would run her foot down the back of his calf while cursing the military/entertainment/industrial complex, her highlighter clenched in her teeth.

They still spent an unseemly amount of time playing games on the computer. They still enjoyed inventing crude terms of abuse. The phrase 'blows goats' was currently en vogue, the intensified 'blows syphilitic goats' and the active 'goat blowing' also being popular.

The paper did not appear to be suffering. Investigations, of a non-life-and-limb-risking nature, were swimming along. The quality of the writing itself, something he tended to scrutinize when he was feeling out of sorts, seemed somehow improved.

But John Byers was an honest man. He could not deny there had been a shift in priorities for everyone, himself included. It was as if there were some magical significance to the fact that Thea was carrying three fetuses. He felt the inexplicable desire to both mourn and celebrate.

There was no disavowing the fact that the Truth, the Struggle for Justice, the paper as his own personal reason to get up in the morning, had taken a back seat to those three tiny lives. He had been distracted from the cause that had consumed the majority of his adult life basically because Langly had been too impulsive to take ten seconds and put on a condom.

He was flustered to find himself grateful for what amounted to an oversight.

At first he had been furtive about his sudden interest in pregnancy and child development. Then one day he realized Frohike had the latest edition of 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' hidden in the bathroom under a stack of Fortean Times. Now, it was common practice for the two of them to while away the evening reading child care tomes as Langly surfed parenting sites. Thea would just roll her eyes and set about trying to make sure the van did not fall prey to entropy.

YOU PEOPLE NEED A HOBBY THAT DOESN'T CENTER AROUND MY REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM, she would sign, a wrench tucked under her arm.

Nonetheless, Byers suspected it secretly pleased her.

He stood at the check-out counter waiting longer than he should have, thoughtfully examining the green and gold flecks on the Formica. He paid, finally, took his grease-stained paper sack to his VW bus, only to find Marita Covarubbias sitting neatly coiffed in his passenger seat.

For a moment, he didn't know where to put the cheese steaks.

"I've come to offer you my help, Mr. Byers," Ms. Covarubbias said earnestly.

He nearly laughed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've come to offer you my help. With Thea Fidelis."

He was befuddled. "Why would I need your help?"

"Surely you realize you've taken a viper into your nest." Her blue eyes looked straight into his.

"Oh?" He gave up and set the paper bag behind his seat.

"Thea Fidelis is dangerous, poorly designed. Surely you have seen her impulsiveness, her temper, Mr. Byers? Surely you know by now she can be nothing by a liability to your cause?"

Byers waited.

"I am giving you the opportunity to have your problem taken care of."

Byers blinked, surprised by her offer, by her affected concern, by her clear underestimation of him. He wished all villains were always so transparent. "You want her children."

"You won't be able to control the children anymore than you have been able to control the mother," she warned.

"I see," he said as neutrally as he could.

"I could make it worth your trouble. I know about Dr. Modeski. I could see to it that the two of you are free to be together, without fear, without reprisal."

He gaped. "You expect me to find my own happiness at the expense of Langly and Thea - and their children?"

"You truly believe Richard Langly is the father?" she asked. Clearly, she believed no such thing.

"Why shouldn't I?"

Marita licked her lips. "How long do you think a man like Langly can hold her interest, Mr. Byers? Thea Fidelis was designed with heightened needs, needs your associate can't begin to meet. How long do you think it will be before she sets her sites on Jimmy Bond? On you? Even Melvin Frohike? Who's to say she hasn't already? One male can't begin satisfy her. It's simply a matter of time."

"Slandering an innocent girl won't convince me of anything," Byers replied, surprised by his own anger.

"An innocent girl?" Incredulity dripped from Marita's words. "That girl will be the mother of gods, Mr. Byers. How innocent can she be?"

"Gods?" He almost snorted.

"Gods," she repeated, her eyes suddenly seeming lit from within. "Gods to be molded to suit whatever agenda one pleases." Her voice became quiet. "The bidding will be...intense."

"And you honestly believe I will be party to this?"

"I believe you will do what you always do, Mr. Byers. I believe you will do what is right."

"You're right," he answered. "And that's why I 'm not having any part-"

She interrupted him with a gun to the ribs. "Oh, I think you are. If Thea Fidelis is the daughter of Fox Mulder I believe her to be, she will trade herself for you, without hesitation."

It wasn't the first time Byers had been on the wrong end of a gun, and although he felt sweat slick his palms, he knew it probably wasn't the last. But he also realized, as he twisted her wrist away from him, that Marita had gravely under-estimated him.

Shock and surprise crossed her face as the delicate bone in her wrist snapped.

He soon discovered, however, that she was tenacious. She fought dirty. With every muscle in her body, she battled for control of the gun. Byers knew that was one thing he could not allow.

The struggle was dizzying, disorienting. Half of everything in Byers told him that Marita was a woman, and that fighting a woman was wrong. The other half, the stronger, smarter half, told him she would kill him in an instant if she had the chance. He had to remind himself to breath.

She chose at that instant to risk it all by crushing her body toward him. Byers was quick enough to anticipate her next move and managed to get the gun pointed away from himself. Somehow, it seemed, Marita had gotten confused about the position of the gun in the tussle. Rather than shooting Byers in the arm, the bullet pierced her own throat.

The artery was severed. Blood pulsed everywhere. There was no time for last words or much of a death scene.

In less than a minute, she was dead.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Byers came home with a bloody corpse and cheese steaks. Both his suit and the interior of the van were a total loss

YOUR TIE LOOKS LIKE A BLOODY KOTEX, Thea signed when she saw him.

THEA, THIS IS SERIOUS, Byers signed.

ARE THE CHEESE STEAKS ALL RIGHT? AT LEAST TELL ME THE BLOOD DIDN'T SOAK THROUGH THE SACK, Thea signed.

Langly threw up.

Frohike called Yves, who arrived shortly thereafter. Yves had a plan.

Three days later, John Wilson, Melvin Quinones, and Richard and Althea Torvald split into two recently acquired vehicles for the 2500 mile drive ahead of them.

Ten hours later, an electrical short began a fire that destroyed a warehouse in Takoma Park, Maryland. The only things found in the ruins were ash, a few bits of charred bone, and a molar from each of the former occupants

According to the fire marshal, nothing remained of the warehouse's contents larger than a standard pawn. The marshal was an avid chess player.

He had never played three card monte in his life.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Langly woke up in a convenience store parking lot just as a dawn was breaking, stiff and disoriented, with an aching dry socket near the back of his mouth. They were somewhere in the middle of the country, by the look of things.

A note slipped down off the dash:

Don't panic: I'm pissing and buying coffee. T.

Great Thea, he whined inside his head. She'd promised she'd only drive a few more hours, but it looked like she'd gone on through the night. Either that or there weren't any motels to be found and she'd just pulled over in a likely parking lot to catch some sleep.

Langly hated this part of the country, all flat and nothing, just like where he'd grown up. He popped his neck and pulled his glasses out of the glove compartment. He could stand to drain the lizard himself.

Where were they, anyway? It wasn't like her to get lost. Unfortunately, it was like her to get lured hundreds of miles off course by signs for the *Famous Union Leaders Wax Museum and Sausage Stand.* He wondered what kind of roadside attraction she could find in a place like this. There was nothing he could see but corn fields and highway and cows.

He ran a brush over his head. It really did look like Nebraska. There were even bare patches in the pastures on either side of the road from natural salt deposits. He tucked his ponytail in the back of his shirt and grabbed a baseball cap from behind the truck seat.

He realized there was a large smear on his glasses. He was concentrating on cleaning the greasy slash on the coated plastic when he walked into the fluorescent lights of Love's Country Store.

"Daddy, I swear I was not the one that scraped your truck," the high nasal voice of the clerk seemed to be addressing him.

"Excuse me?" Langly put his glasses back on. The speaker was a thin blonde teenager in a brown and orange polyester smock.

Her forehead wrinkled for a moment. "Uncle Ringo?"

"Uhhh, you seen a pregnant girl around here? Short brown hair? About this tall?" He put his hand on top of his head.

"Uncle Ringo, it's me, Becky!" she yelled, running around the counter and throwing her arms around his neck.

"We're in Saltville?" he asked.

"Seventeen miles off the interstate, same as always."

He winced. Thea had stayed up all night and driven to fucking Saltville, fucking Nebraska. And they were all supposed to be dead.

He looked hard at Becky, who was busy grinning at him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to see Tom. Tom could keep his mouth shut better than anyone alive.

Pop! A peanut ricocheted off the side of his head.

Thea stood outside the women's room door, as inscrutable as ever, throwing legumes.

WHAT'S WITH LETTING THE BIMBO GROPE YOU? she signed.

SHE'S MY...MY...I DON'T KNOW THE SIGN. MY FEMALE RELATIVE, MY BROTHER'S DAUGHTER. BESIDES SHE'S ONLY A... He stopped before he signed the word 'kid' just in time to realize his wife and his niece were the same age. Wait, maybe Becky was older. Shit!

WHAT? SHE'S ONLY A WHAT? Thea signed irritably before he took her by the hand dragging her over to her newly discovered in-law. JUST ONE MORE WORD AND WE'LL HAVE A SENTENCE.

HER NAME IS BECKY.

"Becky, this is my wife, Thea," he said, smiling tightly. "She's deaf and I have to go to the bathroom."

With that, he left the two of them alone.

*****

The two girls stood there, all eyes, evaluating each other in the manner universal to 17 year old female homo sapiens the world over.

Becky was the genuine article, a real live teenager. Her shiny yellow hair in a trendy coif, wearing no more and no less but the exact amount of make-up prescribed in the fashion magazines she pored over. Becky made the best of a bad situation when it came to the orange and brown smock. She dated. She blew what cash she had and was always borrowing money from her father. She went to sporting events to see and be seen. She flirted with every male that crossed her path.

Becky appraised her Uncle Ringo's wife. She was around her own age, Becky thought, which was kind of creepy. She was tall, too, as tall as Uncle Ringo, and pregnant in what Becky considered a tacky way, with a good six inches of Firm, round belly protruding from the bottom of her black muscle shirt. Unfashionably low slung jeans, canvas tennis shoes. She was dressed, Becky realized, like a boy.

Usually you had to go to Omaha to see something like that.

On a deep, instinctive level, Becky Langly was uncertain whether she was attracted or repelled. Either way, her reaction occurred on a magnetic level. The brunette's bored expression tipped the scales in favor of appeal. Her short hair was wet from the bathroom sink and parted on the side. With her large unpainted eyes, her too broad mouth, her large nose, high hard cheek bones, Becky would never have called her pretty. It did not matter. On some fathomless plane of her soul, although the other girl was clearly pregnant and Becky had never, would never, consider herself even slightly bisexual, she found herself responding to the woman before her as though she were a piece of prime male flesh.

Becky was extremely surprised.

She blinked rapidly. The entire exchange took less than 15 seconds.

A low, nasal voice clipped the air. "Why is there a three foot long scratch on the side of my truck?"

A man stood just inside the door. He was wearing jeans, t-shirt, and a John Deere baseball cap. Becky breathed a sigh of relief.

"Your brother's in the restroom."

"What's that got to do with my truck?"

"It's Uncle Ringo."

"Ringo?" he repeated in disbelief.

*************

It seemed like slow motion when he reached out and shook Thea's hand. She smiled at him, squeezing back firmly. He touched her wedding ring fleetingly then shook his head.

Dammit! What had she done wrong? She tried to keep smiling as she took his hands and laid them on her belly. People liked that, right? Strangers were always trying to touch her stomach now. Maybe that would fix what ever she had done.

His whole body stiffened. She was screwing it up worse, she thought. The babies kicked. He took a step backwards just as Ringo stepped out of the men's room.

T, he signed at her, WHAT'S GOING ON?

I DON'T KNOW. I DID SOMETHING WRONG, I'M SORRY, RINGO, I DON'T KNOW WHAT. I TRIED TO LET HIM TOUCH THE BABIES, FEEL MY STOMACH. HE DOESN'T LIKE ME. I'M SORRY.

IT WAS A BAD IDEA TO COME HERE, T.

I KNOW. I WANTED...I WANTED TO SEE FOR MYSELF. YOU SAID HE COULD KEEP A SECRET.

IT'S COOL, T. LET'S GO, he said it and signed it at the same time. "You guys'd be better off if you forget you saw us," he told his brother.

"Like Hell we will," Tom Langly answered.

"Just forget you saw us, okay?" Langly said reaching into his wallet to pay for whatever Thea had bought.

"She already paid," Becky lied.

"Don't tell any body we were here, okay?" Ringo insisted walking backwards out the door.

Langly climbing into the their new pickup and wondering why Thea was still standing on the sidewalk, just looking at him.

The truck smelled like cows. He wanted to puke.

His brother stood staring as well. "That's my truck, dumb ass."

Ringo climbed out of the vehicle. He looked at one truck, then the other. Except for a long scratch down the side of the one he'd just been sitting in, they were identical.

Thea stood beside Tom, printing in her notebook. Ringo watched as they passed her notepad back and forth for what seemed to him like very long time. Without warning, Thea and Tom walked over to him.

"My sister in-law wants to see the farm," Tom said, hopping up into what was clearly his truck. Thea climbed in on the passenger's side

Ringo didn't believe he was in a position to argue.

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Henry "Hank" Langly was in the barn, not thinking about his son, Ringo. His fourth child had always been a sore spot with him, the kind of occurrence a less stubborn man would have taken as a sign from God to stop reproducing. He firmly believed he was not to be blamed, in any event.

He had not intended to get MaryBeth pregnant so soon after the twins but those kinds of accidents happened to people all the time, and they usually didn't turn out so badly. Ringo managed to be premature, though, so right away the boy was expensive and worrisome. And, in his father's opinion, the most contrary person on the face of the earth. When he put his arm around Marybeth outside the neonatal intensive care and told her the boy would pull through, it was the last time Ringo let him be right about anything.

It never seemed like all Ringo's cylinders were firing to Hank. He spent too much time staring into space or saying things that made no sense. His mother, of course, jumped right in to defend him. What else was she supposed to do? But when the boy taught himself to read before he started school, Hank's fear that something wasn't right was confirmed. To a man who valued his children primarily on their ability to perform chores efficiently, an awkward, bookish boy with a tendency to malinger was a special torment.

Hank Langly made a policy of ignoring his offspring until they were big enough put to work. Until then, they were their mother's problem, to be referred to in the third person only, as in "Can you shut them up or am I gonna hafta take the TV out to the barn?"

It was a classic division of labor along gender lines; Hank raised dairy cows, MaryBeth raised farm labor.

When Ringo was 12 and Bobby and Eddie were 8, the twins could milk four cows in the time it took their older brother to finish one. Of course, he might have done better if he didn't try to read and milk at the same time. After a while, Hank learned enough to frisk Ringo for books when it was time to start to work.

The boy grew quick enough, but no matter how much he grew, even his sisters could outwork him. Hank piled more chores on the boy in hopes of toughening him up. Mule-like, Ringo slowed his pace even further and complained more bitterly.

The boy seemed naturally disrespectful. Sly, smart-ass comments about everything seemed to slip out of the corner of the boy's mouth at the slightest opportunity. And these comments were usually directed at the one person a boy should respect - his father.

Hank did what had been done to him on the rare occasion he had been stupid enough to flout his own father's authority; he gave him a lick or five with his belt. It seldom worked on Ringo. The boy had the irksome habit of hollering before leather ever met skin, just to get the sympathy of anyone in ear shot. Hank was never sure exactly how much was sincere pain and how much was for show.

It went downhill from there. So, by the time Ringo got the scholarship to go to school back East, Hank Langly was downright relieved. You couldn't expect to win every time, and six out of seven was still a good track record. He didn't think about the boy much after he was gone.

He watched from the barn door as Ringo got out of Tom's truck with a girl. A pregnant woman. It looked like he'd finally started breeding.

Well, Hank hadn't sired a pansy after all.

The Egghead held her hand and stared at her like she was made of gold.

Better late than never. Maybe.

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In the house, Meggy Langly was feeding her granddaughter and having a cup of coffee.

"What did Becky say about the truck?" she called when she heard the front door squeal.

"Doesn't matter," he yelled.

"That wasn't what you said when you left."

"I got somebody with me you're gonna want to see."

Meggy snorted softly. "Unless it's the Prize Patrol or Harrison Ford, they can wait until I finish my coffee."

Tom elbowed his brother in the ribs. Ringo didn't know what to say. "What's the chance of getting something to eat?" was all he could think of.

Meggy dropped the baby's spoon and turned in her chair. Next thing Langly knew, she was running toward him, screaming. "Ringo!" She kissed him firmly on both cheeks. "And who's this?" she asked taking Thea by the hand. "Is this your - oh!?" She stopped mid-sentence. "Oh, Ringo!" she said reprovingly.

"'member when you told me I'd find a girl who'd appreciate me if I just waited? Turns out she hadn't been born when you said that," Ringo told his sister in-law, his shy swallow and averted eyes belying his blustery tone.

Meg bit the inside of her mouth. "Well, looks like it's too late to get after you now," she muttered. "Honey " she said smiling and gathering up Thea's hands in hers, "can I get you some breakfast?"

"She's deaf, Meggy," he said taking the small green book from her shirt pocket. "Write it out."

"Lord, Ringo!" Meggy hissed.

Thea signed to Ringo excitedly, LOOK, THEY HAVE A BABY.

"Whose kid?" he asked Meg

"Little Tommy's," Meg answered.

"Jeez, he's 23, Meg," Tom interjected.

"Where's his mom?" Ringo asked for Thea.

"HER mom, Amy, is at work at the plastics factory outside of Omaha," Meg answered uncertain who she should address.

"Amy who?"

"Amy Langly," Tom sneered.

"Amy's mom is Mandy Clevenger," Meg supplied.

Ringo's eyebrows shot up involuntarily. When he was sixteen, he was sure that Mandy Clevenger had been put on Earth to torment him. Long black hair, huge brown eyes, captain of the girl's basketball team, he could never figure out why everyone else paid so much attention to the twins when Mandy Clevenger leapt around the gym like a goddess. Of course she never said two words to him. Now she was someone's grandma. That was weird. Beyond weird, actually, and right into surreal.

Meggy picked up the baby and offered her to Thea. Thea squeezed Ringo's arm excitedly.

CAN I? she signed to him.

DO YOU KNOW HOW? he asked.

I READ IN A BOOK, she answered.

"She doesn't have any experience with kids, so she might need a little help," he told Meg.

Meg's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Well, no time like the present."

"I think I need Ringo out in the barn," Tom said. Ringo signed dutifully.

Thea nodded, barely noticing Ringo for once, mesmerized by the baby. Ringo was slightly wounded.

"We'll be fine. You two go on," Meg assured them.

Ringo didn't know what to do, other than comply.

********

Tom Langly asked as soon as they were away from the house, "So, what's going on, Ritchie?"

Langly grimaced. "It's complicated."

"I got time."

"Tommy, in a couple of days someone's probably going to notify you that I'm dead. I've pissed off some people."

"Like her dad?"

Langly shook his head. "Her dad's a friend of mine."

"That's how you treat your friends? Walt Einer's my friend and if I caught him messing around with one of my girls, I'd still be looking for my gun."

"Tom, I'm gonna say this slowly so you'll understand." He enunciated his insult very clearly. "Her father is not looking for us. I'm an investigative journalist, you stupid hick, and I've pissed off the mob." It sounded like a good lie, something they could swallow in Nebraska. Super soldiers and government plots only played to the militia guys.

Tom looked skeptical. "And they're gonna kill you in a coupla days?"

"Noooooooo. We faked our deaths, Einstein. It'll probably be another 24 hours before they notify you."

"Her parents know she's okay?"

"Yeah. She's been living with me two years already. It's not like it happened-" Ringo Langly blurted. Fuck, there was no way he could straighten this out. Tom would never believe he lived with her two years without so much as a kiss. He wanted to break something.

"How old is she, Ringo?" Tom kept his voice low and even.

"17. And she's deaf, not mentally defective or anything. She's a damn genius. She can read and write four languages. She's got math theory so intense maybe two hundred guys in the country can touch her," Ringo said matter-of-factly. "I'm not taking advantage of her, I swear."

"15, Ringo? Damn!" Tom threw his hat on the ground and walked away in disgust.

Ringo promised himself he would not run after him. He promised himself. Then he promised himself again. And then he trotted behind him like a puppy.

"You know, if that was my girl you'd be in jail right now?"

"If that was your girl, I'd belong in jail," Ringo agreed.

Tom nodded and grunted in affirmation.

"How'd you meet anyway?" Tom looked at his shoes.

"Like I said, her folks are friends of mine," he said quietly.

"Which one? Byers or umm, Dohickey?"

"Frohike, but it's not either one of them." He sniffed arrogantly. "I do have other friends, you know.

Tom didn't say a word.

"T's parents are FBI agents. I consult for them from time to time." It was more of the truth than he'd mean to reveal, and he closed his eyes.

Tom shrugged.

"We been together pretty much 24/7 the last couple of years and I never have to explain what I mean to her. That doesn't happen a lot for me." Ringo leaned against the corrugated metal of the barn; it was already getting hot from the sun. "You ought to be able to talk to the chick you love, right, without feelin' like you're from another planet."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Shit! I forgot! Ringo's so smart nobody understands him. He's unique."

"Cut it out," Ringo snapped.

"He's special, he's the loneliest guy in the world and all us morons can't hope to fathom his depths, so I guess it's okay if he messes around with teenaged girls."

"Okay." Ringo shut his eyes. "Here's something you can understand. Remember when you were first dating Meg? Or before that even, when we'd be in our beds with the light out and she was all you could talk about? 'Meggy Gilbransen's got the best butt of any girl in school. Meggy Gilbransen made the best dessert at the senior class bake sale. Meggy Meggy Meggy blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.' And later, when she turned up pregnant, as mad as Dad was, you told him you weren't sorry 'cause you were in love."

Tom grunted, profoundly embarrassed.

"For the first time in my life, I know what that feels like." Ringo pushed his glasses up again.

Tom scratched his forehead, trying not to look astonished, and wound up looking deeply pained instead.

Ringo leaning his head against a tractor, unable to look Tom in the eye. "She's the first person who told me she loved me since Mom. This is my chance. I don't think I'm gonna get another one."

Tom couldn't hold back his incredulity any more. "You mean you never-?"

"Of course I've gotten laid, moron." Ringo sighed. "I just never developed what you'd call a serious relationship."

Tom was speechless. What his brother was describing was so totally alien to him, so totally out of his realm of experience, he didn't know how to react.

Tom looked at the ground. Some things you didn't want to know about your brother. It didn't fit with the image he had in his head. He wanted to ask him what their mother would say. He wanted to wake up and this whole thing to be a bad dream. He studied Ringo's shoes as an uncomfortable thought settled over him: his brother was not the same boy who had left the farm twenty years ago. Something had happened to him, and he now had a life, a life Tom knew nothing about, and might not understand even if he was told.

"T was just this kid hanging around and like, one day I realized she'd turned into my best friend, then one day she was...everything."

Tom cleared his throat. "Yeah but she might grow up sooner or later."

"Screw you."

"Look, no matter what kind of crap you might try to tell yourself, you know it's wrong "

Ringo kicked at the ground. "I love her, Tom."

"Is that why all I keep hearing is why this is such a great deal for you? You ever stop and think about what she needs?"

"I can be what she needs."

Tom looked dubious. "Is that so?"

Ringo grimaced. "I guess we oughta be going."

"No, stay. I'm finished chewing you out, the least I can do is feed you."

Ringo stared at him, arms folded across his chest. "Think Meg'll make dessert?"

Tom smirked and nodded. "Doesn't that little girl know how to cook?"

Ringo smirked back. "She's not exactly skilled in the wifely arts. I mean-" he stopped, stammered, "she, um, she's pretty skilled at some. But she just can't cook or do laundry, and she's a slob, but, um..." He blushed.

Tom almost laughed out loud. He'd forgotten how much fun Ringo was to tease.

"How's she compare with Nancy?" Tom asked, trying to keep his face straight.

Nancy Squalls. Two years younger than Ringo, Nancy had been the other school geek. Short, stocky, with Coke-bottle glasses, greasy black hair and tits only slightly smaller than Bosnia and Herzegovina. Everyone in a three county radius knew she had it bad for Ringo all the way through school. She might have had a shot at him if she'd bathed a little more frequently. His standards might not have been high but he drew the line at girls who stunk.

"She still here?" Ringo asked, trying not to wince.

"She's principal over at the junior high school," Tom said, trying not to smile

"You two done giggling? You sound like a couple of school girls." The old man stuck his head out of the barn. It was, Ringo thought, difficult to believe he was only a few years older than Frohike. "You married her, right, this girl genius?" It was the longest string of words he'd said to Ringo since the boy was 12.

"Yes, sir." The words jumped out of Ringo's mouth unbidden.

"Well, it's done then, no point in talking it into the ground. I want to get a look at Mrs. Egghead." And with that, he led his two sons into the house, muttering, "Couple a sissies, if you ask me. Least Bobby and Eddie would have knocked the hell out of each other, but, no, all you two do is yack."

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end 07