Retam Sullet - Part Nine

It took exactly four days for John Wilson (formerly Byers) to obtain gainful employment. Work opportunities in the tiny hamlet of El Rito were limited to working in one of a handful of small recording studios, the single winery, or leading wealthy tourists on fly fishing or kayaking trips, none of which exactly suited his personality or abilities. He was, therefore, forced to look farther a-field. The full-time position he was offered at the Harwood Public library was perfect; the forty five minute drive to Taos was less than many urban commutes and the view was lovely.

His first day on the job he spent mostly setting up audio visual aids for a University of New Mexico satellite's 'Introduction to Anthropology' class taught in a basement meeting room. The professor was young and pleasant; he thought he might want to take a class from her in the future. Maybe two.

Soon, they chatted regularly over their sack lunches at the picnic tables in front of the small library garden, but, other than missing her on the days she had no classes, he thought little of it. He enjoyed her company. She was intelligent and personable. He'd made a friend. It was that simple.

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Ringo's well-built pretense of autonomy shattered when he took the first regular joe-job of his life. He had to leave Thea by herself for eight hours a day, nine and a half if you counted the commute. He couldn't stop thinking about her. They hadn't been apart like that since they'd met. He imagined every male in El Rito aching for her attention. If he was one of these imagined suitors, he would start by bringing her broken electronics, then steal her affection with amazing feats of sexual prowess.

He could never quite figure out what would happen between presenting her with the busted amp and the bedroom, though. How lame was that? He couldn't for the life of him figure out how to seduce his own wife. That was just pitiful.

Every second of his work day he wondered where she was, what she was doing, and who else was thinking about her.

Ringo had always had a special disrespect for jealous husbands, so it was a pain in the ass to realize he was one. Before they had ever slept together, he'd gotten a big clue and ignored it - a boy at the skate park bought her some cheese fries one night. It had made Ringo uncomfortable but he didn't ask himself why. Back then, he didn't want to know why he felt unreasonable hostility toward a baby-faced kid whose mom picked him up in a Volvo. He didn't need the aggravation.

Ringo Langly might not have had a lot of first-hand experience with relationships, but this he knew; to possess a thing was also to be possessed by it. Unfortunately, he treasured the illusion of freedom. Too bad it was too late to pretend. He, and it, were long, long gone.

The only solution he could find was to attend to his job only when it was unavoidable and spend the rest of his time chatting with Thea. He lowered the bar at a local ISP already renowned for spotty service and a surly help-line, inspiring his co-workers to more sarcasm and even more lackadaisical repairs. Any time he was put on the spot about his use of company time, his reply was, "She's pregnant," as if it was well-understood that gestation required a modem connection. If he was not a bad employee, he did a remarkable imitation of one. It was a wonder he lasted the 21 days he did.

He had been engaged in wanton cyber-sex with Thea on his laptop while repairing a line and wound up knocking out internet connections for half the company's 4000 customers. When his supervisor apologetically let him go, the only person who was surprised was Ringo Langly. But he wasn't what you would call heart broken.

He went home to his wife, with a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his slouching step. He walked through the front door at noon to find her reading a stack of children's books Byers brought home a few days before.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS? THIS RED FISH, BLUE FISH BOOK? IT'S VERY STRANGE. AND THIS ONE? WHY IS THIS CAT DOING THESE THINGS? IT HAS A TIE BUT NO SHIRT. WHY IS IT BIPEDAL? THE KIDS SHOULDN'T HAVE LET IT IN THE HOUSE, THE FISH WAS RIGHT. She shook the books at him.

I GOT FIRED, he signed trying not to smile.

COOL, she signed. WANT TO PLAY THE NEW GAME I DOWNLOADED?

MAYBE I GOT A BETTER IDEA, he signed, peeking at her through a lock of hair.

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When Frohike came home early, he was greeted by the sight of Langly, kneeling naked in front of the couch playing hide the bratwurst with his big-bellied wife. She was on the sofa with her long legs thrown over his freckled shoulders as he thrust lazily. She raised her eyebrow at Frohike.

My god, she's limber, Melvin thought as he got back in the car, wondering how much time he ought to give them.

When he returned, they'd gone upstairs. But he decided he was never, ever going to sit on that couch again.

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

A week later Ringo had not made even the most cursory attempt at finding employment. Instead, he and his young wife repaired several mixing boards deemed unsalvageable by the neighbors four houses down, also known as Discobolus Studios, and were repaid with cash, a crate of avocados and a his pick of several rare CDs. Neither John nor Melvin was exactly sure what they'd done for whom, but stuff began to pile up in a striking manner: camping equipment, pressure cookers, a tattoo gun, two more couches, a Tesla coil, three scuba tanks, an antique wicker pram, a crate of smoked kippers, a box of obscenely juicy imported oranges, and most of a butchered deer.

Ringo insisted what they were doing was better than a job since it was part of the barter economy. Byers couldn't follow his reasoning, but then, he didn't put a lot of effort into it.

July was on its way and John laid on the couch drinking a beer and thumbing through The Journal of American Medicine, reminding himself that envy was a petty emotion and was utterly beneath him.

He watched the couple spending their usual evening time at the monitor. He glanced carelessly at Ringo running his pinky along the inside of her arm and looked quickly back down at his article on necrotic bowels. Langly stopped at her wrist. Did he feel her pulse? What else did he feel with her there on his lap? Did he even notice? Or was he too focused on the information on the screen to realize what he held in his arms?

Byers took a sip from his Sam Adams and closed his eyes. He didn't even realize he was drifting off until Langly woke him.

"See ya in the morning," he called as Thea pulled him by the hand in the direction of bed. Langly made a point of stopping on the stairs and yawning theatrically. It was pretense. Pure Pretense. They would be downstairs again in an hour, languid and hungry and musky smelling. Thea would rummage through the refrigerator for meat and Langly would eat Cap'n Crunch from a mixing bowl.

"It's okay," Frohike said as soon as they were gone.

"Of course it is," Byers answered, blinking to himself, unsure of the topic.

"Situation like this," Frohike went on from his own couch, "it's the most natural thing in the world to be a little jealous."

"I'm not jealous," Byers replied quickly, still blinking rabbit-like.

"Anybody would be."

Byers was silent a long moment. "It's like a fairytale " he finally said softly. "The worthy knight, after many adventures, finds the lost princess, evil sorcerers, magical beings, true love." It reminded him of Mulder and Scully, but he didn't say that our loud.

Frohike either couldn't or wouldn't suppress a derisive laugh. "Sounds like a load of crap to me."

"You said anyone would envy..." John looked bewildered as Frohike cut him off mid-sentence.

"I meant because they're like a couple of goats." Frohike laughed again and took a pull at his own beer.

"That sounds like obfuscation to me." Byers frowned primly as he said it.

Suddenly Frohike became slightly more serious, his smile More wistful. "You know what's special about those two knuckleheads? They're friends. Yeah, they're probably in love, too, but a man and a woman goin' at it like rabbits and still best friends? That's something you don't see everyday." He took another pull at his beer.

To this, Byers had no reply. He had never considered that friendship and romance could co-exist. All his relationships were based on idealization. But then, now that he thought about it, all his relationships ended in disappointment and disillusionment, too. For the first time in his life he considered there might be some correlation between the two.

He had in all honesty spent more time over the years with his dentist than he had with Susanne Modeski. It was a sobering thought.

Out of the blue Doctor Wilde came to mind.

He set down his copy of JAMA and thought about her for a good long time. Then he made a well-thought-out plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day at lunch he offered her the brownie he had packed for himself and asked if she'd do him the honor of accompanying him to the town 4th of July parade.

Her reply? "Chocolate and librarian's biceps? Oooh! How could I refuse?"

John blushed.

---------------------------

It was, by any standard, a good first date.

They ate red, white, and blue missile Popsicles he bought from a street vendor, laughed at a flotilla of 20 sequin wearing welsh corgis running in formation to give the illusion of a low and rather doggy American flag, raised their eyebrows at three teenaged girls in red checkered bikinis with the Declaration of Independence painted on their bodies. John even managed to catch a handful of candy thrown by a volunteer fireman from the back of the gleaming polished fire-truck. They had fun. At least, John did. He hoped Amanda had, too.

Three days later they went out for lattes at a trendy book-filled coffee shop. Amanda told him about her childhood, her family, her parents, her friends. John listened attentively and hoped she didn't notice when he didn't share the same facts about himself.

Two days after that, they attended a poetry reading.

Three days later, there was a trip to the Saint Vincent de Paul thrift store during lunch, where he bought Thea a tent-like maternity dress. Amanda looked surprised. "For a friend's wife," was all the explanation he gave, realizing that, even as he said it, he may have made a major miscalculation. But two days after that, they made a trip 30 miles south to the Drive-In Theatre in Espanola.

Everything was going according to plan.

He did his best not to arouse his house mates' suspicions. He claimed he was working late, or doing volunteer work for the animal shelter or any number of other likely excuses. If anyone could ruin his chances with Dr. Wilde, it was the people he cared for most in the world.

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One Friday at the end of August, the four of them - Ringo, John, Melvin, and Thea - were scarfing down a pleasant dinner of black olive and anchovy pizza, when John's ruse began to unravel.

It started when Thea spied a bit of blue fabric peeking out of the pocket of John's khaki pants. Having little or no cap on her natural curiosity, she didn't think twice about pulling the fabric quickly out of his pocket to reveal a pair of cotton panties. She stood and waved them in the air.

John lunged. Thea ran. Just as he was about to reach her, she tossed them over his head to Ringo, who held them just beyond Byers's grasp. John jumped frantically, Ringo smirking down at him as he tossed the underpants back to Thea. John miscalculated, attempting to bring Ringo down before the panties left his hand. But he tackled too late, and they laid on the floor face-to-face for a second while Thea ran upstairs with the underpants, her belly like the prow of a ship.

In such close quarters, Ringo realized John's face smelled suspiciously like he'd been, as Ringo would put it later to Thea, looking shyly away, 'on a pearl diving expedition.'

Ringo slid easily out from under John. "Sorry," Langly apologized. "That uhh got uuuuuhhhh outta control. Um, congratulations. Where'd you meet her?"

John chose to ignore him.

"Aww c'mon, Johnboy, you know all about my lady," Langly tried to ingratiate himself a little too late.

"Lady?" John snorted. Thea was creeping down the stairs by this time, and Byers stood stock still and crossed his arms at her.

WHO IS SHE? Thea demanded, the panties dangling from her hand. WHAT'S HER NAME? WHERE DID YOU MEET? DO YOU LOVE HER? WHY DON'T YOU HAVE HER SPEND THE NIGHT?

GIVE ME THE PANTIES NOW, John signed stonily.

JOHN, she signed, WHAT'S HER NAME?

UNDERPANTS NOW, he signed.

FUNNY NAME, Thea signed. She held up the underpants in question. I HAVE SOME JUST LIKE THIS. HAYNES HER WAY. COMFORTABLE.

THOSE ARE BRIEFS - YOU WEAR BIKINIS Langly interjected.

Thea rolled her eyes. WHAT KIND OF UNDERPANTS DOES CINDY WEAR, FRO?

SHE DOESN'T. Frohike signed, still at the table.

"EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww," Langly squealed and signed simultaneously. "That is not an image I want in my head. They let her cook like that?"

YOU'VE HAD YOUR FUN, KIDS. GIVE THEM TO HIM BEFORE I GIVE YOU BRATS THE ASS PADDLING YOU DESERVE, Frohike signed, ignoring Langly's comment. JOHN'LL INTRODUCE US TO MISS UNDERPANTS WHEN HE'S READY.

"She's a doctor," John snapped, then cringed.

JOHN'LL INTRODUCE US TO DOCTOR UNDERPANTS WHEN HE'S READY, Frohike amended. NOW GIVE HIM THE PANTIES.

Langly smirked, first at Frohike, then at Byers. Thea stuck out her tongue, but allowed the article of clothing in question to drift down into John's hands.

Even after they learned her name, Thea and Ringo continued to refer to Dr. Wilde as 'Dr. Underpants.'

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

Amanda stood over the potato display in the grocery store, lost in meditation. She was feeling very favorably disposed toward John Wilson right at that moment, thinking she'd cook him something tasty, ply him with a good wine, and then. . .

"Excuse me," an unfamiliar voice came from behind her. She stepped out of the way of the shopper she'd been blocking, and much to her surprise, caught a glimpse of her amorata turning into the produce section.

With a woman.

A pregnant woman.

A very pregnant woman who appeared to be wearing the maternity tent he'd bought a month earlier when she'd gone with John to the thrift shop.

An enormously pregnant woman who kissed John soundly on the cheek.

Amanda felt her heart rise to her throat.

That shit. That bastard. He already had a baby on the way, from the look of things. He was obviously playing Johnny Appleseed, spreading the fruit of his loins as far as possible.

Shit. She felt sick to her stomach. She had really trusted that cheating son of a bitch.

Amanda wished the floor would open and swallow her. Instead, she stepped a little too quickly backwards and accidentally stumbled through the doors marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Shit.

She was ready to sneak back out, when some wily part of her brain realized she could see without being seen from her new vantage point. She stood, watching through the round windows as that son of a bitch and that poor, incredibly pregnant woman picked their way through the heads of endive.

"Hey," a voice startled Amanda. She turned. A round faced man with MIKE and PRODUCE MANAGER embroidered on his shirt was giving her a hard look. "I'm sorry ma'am, but you can't-"

"I think my boyfriend is cheating on me or with me or, or something," she sputtered. "I'm not entirely clear on the semantics of the situation right now. I'm just-"

Mike cut her off. "Yes, I'm sorry, but ma'am-"

"Look." Amanda pointed. Anger was rising in her. "Those two. By the lettuce. Look at them."

"Ma'am, I-"

"Look!"

"Okay." Mike said, peering through the smudged window. "The guy with the holly on his head?"

"He's the one."

"Oh. I know that girl. She comes in a lot but she's usually with a different guy."

Amanda scowled. "Great. So they're both cheaters."

"I don't think so, I - oh, look. There he is, her regular squeeze, the one with the cereal, mas wheto."

Most white, indeed, Amanda thought. This new guy was the very model of your standard northern New Mexico Anglo male, and looked like someone had dipped him in bleach. He was about two shades shy of albino.

Mas wheto said something to John and dumped the cereal into the basket. DressWoman slipped her hand into the new guy's hip pocket and simultaneously brushed the top of John's head lightly with her other hand.

"Could be one of those free love things," Mike said. "Like up at the Lawrence Ranch. You know, share and share alike?"

"Shit," was all Amanda could think to say. All she wanted now was to get out of the grocery store without being seen. "You have a back door here?"

Mike shook his head. "Other end of the building."

"Shit," she repeated. She wasn't about to abandon her food for the sake of that sleaze. The hard part was going to be making it through the check-out line.

She almost made it, too.

She was mid check-out, her inner voice screaming at the cashier to 'hurry-up-dammit-hurry-the-fuck-up!' as she smiled pleasantly.

"Amanda," John's gentle voice came up right behind her. "Hey." He smiled when she turned reflexively toward him. "Fancy meeting you here."

There he was. Behind him, a small, gnomish older man wearing fingerless gloves appeared to giving a grocery list the once-over. Mas wheto, as she thought of him now, was browsing his way through a copy of some trash tabloid, scowl on his face. And up close, DressWoman looked young. Indecently, damned-near illegally young.

The John Wilson Amanda knew - or thought she knew - would never be involved with a teenaged girl. Or was her mother right about all men being morally inferior to the average dog? Or - a light shone at the end of Amanda's emotional tunnel and she prayed it was not a train - could she be his daughter? A much younger sister?

She was grasping at straws, she realized, as disappointment settled in her gut.

"Hi Amanda," he repeated.

"Oh, John, hey," she answered, flipping a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear. She was trying to sound light and casual instead of deflated and defeated.

The gnome behind John cleared his throat theatrically.

"Oh, um, Amanda, I'd like to introduce you to my, um, housemates."

"Your um housemates?"

"Dr. Amanda Wilde, meet Melvin Quinones."

She made herself smile again as the gnome took her hand. "Mr. Quinones."

"Mel is fine, Dr. Wilde," he assured her, and kissed her hand soundly.

Amanda swallowed. "Pleased to meet you, Mel."

"This is Ringo, um, Richard Torvald," John supplied as Langly leaned over the cart and shook her hand.

"Ringo's okay, better than Richard, anyway. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She squeezed his hand forcefully.

For a moment, all eyes focused on the pregnant girl.

Amanda went for broke. "And this?"

"This is my wife, Thea," Ringo supplied. "She's deaf." The other men began to sign back and forth rapidly with the girl, whose fingers moved so quickly Amanda was almost incredulous.

Suddenly, the girl's eyes lit up and she leaned forward extending her hand over the top of the grocery cart. But her belly was too big and no matter how she squirmed, she couldn't reach. Finally, Thea stamped her foot in frustration, gave up, and just waved.

Everyone laughed, even Amanda, although her laugh was somewhat uneasy.

Amanda waved back. "Hi."

"So-" John began.

"When is she-" Amanda said, then remembered that she should be talking to Thea. She turned to face the girl and was careful to make eye contact. "When are you due?

"December," Ringo answered as Thea signed. Before the surprise could register on Amanda's face, Ringo added, "It's triplets. So, John tell you about the potluck yet?"

"No." Amanda turned to John. "There's a lot John hasn't told me."

"Well, I was going-" John began, but Mel cut him off.

"Just a few friends and neighbors. Is El Rito out of your way?"

"Actually, I live in El Rito," she said slowly, giving John a pointed look, "although I'm not home a lot."

"Small world, huh?" Ringo smirked and she didn't particularly like it. "Tomorrow, 7:30, 8:00. We'd love if you could join us, wouldn't we, *John?*"

John looked pale suddenly, but agreed. "We would, Amanda. We really would," he said sincerely.

"Pot luck?" Amanda asked.

Three of the four nodded. "We expect about 25 people."

"Sounds like fun," she said with little real enthusiasm. If nothing else, she'd get some answers. "I'll be there."

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

Byers still hadn't figured out the protocol for announcing oneself at the door of a yurt. There was nothing to knock on and just walking in was something he still wasn't quite comfortable with, especially under the circumstances. He scratched the back of his neck for a moment, then called, "Hello? Amanda?"

In response, a small curly mop came rushing out the bottom of the door flap and attempted to leap into his arms. He lifted it. "Hey, Spot." He laughed for an instant, taken aback. At least the dog's feelings hadn't changed.

A moment later, the flap pushed open and Amanda stood there in her bathrobe. It was the first time he'd seen her out of her ever-present khaki shorts, aside from the few times she had been utterly OUT of her khaki shorts.

"May I have my dog back please?" she asked quietly.

The dog in question attempted to bury his head in John's chest. Amanda was clearly less than thrilled.

"I believe I owe you an explanation," he said lightly.

"If you want to lie to me, that's your business," she answered softly.

"I was concerned that you might find my friends somewhat, um, off-putting I guess, and I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

She pulled her robe more tightly closed. "And what wrong idea would that be, hmmmm?"

John did not answer immediately; he was not certain there was a right response.

"That's about what I thought," she muttered. "Look, John, I finally found a good spot for my satellite dish and Seti Troopers is about to start, so I'd appreciate if you'd give me my dog and go-"

His words came out in a rush. "I live with three other people - Melvin and Ringo and Ringo's wife Thea. You met them at the store. We've lived together for years. Well, not Thea, but-"

"It's not some stupid alternative life-style thing, is it?" she sniffed.

John's eyes went wide. "What?" That was when he noticed how terrible she looked. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy, and her hair looked like she's combed it with a hand mixer.

"Polyamory," she mumbled. "Polyandry. Group marriage. Something stranger I don't even want to know the name for."

"Absolutely not," he assured her. "God, no. And I shouldn't have said I lived in Dixon, either."

"No," she agreed. "You shouldn't have. What the hell is this all about?"

"It's a complicated situation," he began. Off her look, he quickly added, "Complicated, not kinky. I've known and worked with Ringo and Melvin since the late 80's. Most of the time it was just cheaper and easier to share living accommodations, so we did. Do. We still are."

Amanda folder her arms across her chest. "And Thea?"

"Thea's been living with us for almost three years."

"How old is she?"

John scratched his chin. "Almost 18."

"She's been living with the three of you for three years and she's only 17? I hope she hasn't been married to your friend for that long, John."

"No," he said.

"No," Amanda repeated, clearly angry. "So why was a 15 year old girl living with three supposedly adult males?"

John hesitated. Honesty was one thing, but he wasn't sure how much he could tell her without just plain scaring her. He didn't want that.

"Thea's parents are friends of ours. She needed a place to stay. We let her."

Amanda looked skeptical. "And now she's married to Ringo and pregnant with triplets?"

"Shit happens." John shrugged. "On the upside, she and Ringo are madly in love."

"How do her parents feel about this?"

John exhaled slowly. "They don't know."

Amanda gave him a long, hard look. "Give me my dog, John."

"I struggled with it myself, Amanda, but they're in love, he isn't taking advantage of her. It's a weird situation, but it's, god, it's okay, it really is."

She shook her head. John, I-"

"Look," he said, knowing he sounded desperate. "Come to the potluck. See everyone in their natural habitat. You'll see that it's unconventional, but it's not bad. And, and, um, if you don't come I won't know anyone but my friends." He held out Spot. "Please?"

She took her dog and, for a moment, their hands touched and the top of her robe slipped open.

"Probably," she replied. She hesitated a moment. "It's three minutes until the credits roll."

"Right," John nodded. "Seti Troopers. I'll get going."

"I, um," she hesitated, "I was going to ask if you'd like to come in."

John blinked. "Sure. I, am I forgiven?"

"No," She answered. She held open the door flap. "But I might need someone to adjust the dish. You'll do."

John wasn't stupid. He went inside.

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

Thea wasn't exactly hiding when she stowed herself in a comfortable office chair behind the bank of speakers Ritchie had assembled for the party. She liked feeling the thump of the sound system all over her body, and even the babies moved in rhythm. It was a cool trick of theirs, she thought: they were smart and they weren't even born yet.

Besides, it wasn't really hiding. She was just eating cherries from a paper sack and...avoiding.

This was NOT like any party the guys had in Takoma Park.

This first party in New Mexico was busier than any at the old warehouse, more animated, more people. No one had the slightest interest in a friendly game of D&D. And most different of all, there were lots and lots of chicks. They never used to have chicks at their parties. Unless you counted her. And she didn't.

It wasn't like she had a problem with Byers and Frohike having women. She didn't, honest. It seemed like nearly every guy in New Mexico had a female, and so did a lot of the women. It was kind of relaxing to consider there were women who preferred other women sexually and therefore could be safely assumed to have no interest in Ringo. She liked two or three of the smarter ones and deemed the coupled-up females pretty harmless, overall. It was all the unattached women floating around her house like free radicals that made her clinch her jaw.

And her husband was acting weird.

Robert Thompson had ridden his horse over and brought her the sack full of cherries. Ritchie had made that face - that pissed-off face where the corners of his mouth went down and his nostrils flared. When she offered him a cherry, Ritchie signed NO THANKS and stalked off somewhere. Sitting where people wouldn't see her and feel compelled to try to communicate with her seemed like the best option.

Her ass was starting to fall asleep so she struggled to her feet. Ritchie surprised her by sticking his head around the corner.

GOT ANY CHERRIES LEFT? he signed.

She held out two on a common stem. YOU STILL MAD?

He looked embarrassed, started to sign something, then appeared to think better of it. Blond hair swayed as he shook his head, popping the cherries into his mouth.

She reached out and ran two fingers along his cheek, traced his jaw. He stepped closer, as close as her distended belly would allow. She drew two fingertips down the bridge of his nose and watched as his right hand went unconsciously to his now straining crotch. With one finger, she touched his mouth.

Ritchie buried his face in her hand, nuzzling the palm.

WANT ME TO SUCK YOU? she signed, drawing her hand away.

HERE? NOW? WHAT IF SOMEONE SEES? he asked.

IF SOMEONE SEES US, THEY WILL CONSIDER THEMSELVES FORTUNATE, she answered, the slightest smile on her lips.

I LOVE YOU, Ritchie signed. YOU'RE SO DIRTY.

Thea was poised to pop open all the buttons on his jeans at once when a head of long wavy chestnut brown hair poked itself into the cubby where they stood.

Robert Thompson. Damn!

The two men traded speech, rapid-fire. Thea wishing she could lip-read more than her name and a few vital words.

She signed a question mark to her husband.

SOMEONE AT THE FRONT DOOR. I THINK IT'S DR. UNDERPANTS, he signed back.

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? Thea replied. LET HER IN BEFORE SHE CHANGES HER MIND!

Ritchie grinned and took off for the door.

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

Potluck. Yeah. Right.

Amanda wasn't stupid; she knew a party when she saw one.

It was loud. It was crowded. On top of that, there was a line of behemoth American-made motorcycles parked in front of the house.

But part of her was curious to see if John's friends were as odd as he'd let on, and part of her didn't want to know.

Spot wagged his tail. She could turn around, fire up the generator, watch an old Seti Troopers DVD, and eat the garlic roasted peppers and rice crispy treats she'd brought along in the relative comfort of her yurt. It sounded a lot like a plan, really.

As she stood there deliberating, the door opened.

It was the blond roommate. What was his name? Paul? She knew it was one of the Beatles. Damn, no way she could run away graciously now.

"You're here. Cool." He gave her a measuring look that made her feel nervous. "Loverboy was gonna be pathetic if you were a no-show," he added laconically.

She tried to smile and nod. "Oh, I-"

Suddenly the blond's face lit up. He looked 12, complete with dimples.

"RicekrispytreatsAAALLLLLRRRRRRRIIGGGGHHHHTTTTTT!" he squealed. He took the plate from her hands, yanked back the wrap, and shoved one into his mouth. "By bub usta bake deez," he said with his mouth full.

"Yes," Amanda smiled. "One of the treasured ethnic delicacies of my people. They have sustained us through times of great famine and many episodes of the Brady Bunch."

The blond just stood there, nodding and chewing.

"Next time I could bring bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread with mayonnaise."

"And Kool-Aid?" he asked, shoving a second square into his mouth.

"Cherry," she answered. "Unless you prefer grape?"

"Cool." But he still didn't ask her in.

For some bizarre reason, Spot suddenly developed amorous designs on John's roommate's foot. The roommate didn't notice; he was chewing with an ecstatic look on his face.

Fortunately, the gnomish hand-kisser she'd met in the grocery chose that moment to stick his head through the doorway.

"Let the lady in, willya, *Ritchie*?" he said, slapping the blond on the back of the head. "Sheesh."

"Why doncha ever make me rice krispy squares?" Ritchie said as soon as he swallowed.

"Why don't you bring me flowers?" the tiny man answered.

"Why don't you blow me?"

"In your dreams, Farmboy."

Further volleying was interrupted by John poking his head between the two combatants.

"Amanda!" he said breathily.

No one, she realized as John took her hand and led her into the bustling house, had ever looked so pleased to see her in all her life. She was suddenly very glad to be there.

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Amanda had no idea that the next day she was investigated within an inch of her life.

Her middle name was Lynn. (It took Langly some time to explain to Thea that *Amanda Lynn* sounded like *a mandolin* and why that was funny.)

They also learned Amanda was the only child of prosperous blue collar parents who divorced when she was ten years old, that her father had been a plumber and her mother a secretary, and that both were now deceased; her only grade below an A in her entire school career was a D in typing in 11th grade; she had lived on a series of scholarships and grants and her late father's nest egg until earning her Ph.D.; she had owned a succession of small, long haired pure breed dogs and her groomer bills were high; she taught but preferred to excavate; she had had a series of serious, long-term relationships with various grad students, but had never married; she was apolitical to a degree Thea found peculiar; and best of all, she had no ties to any known conspiracy.

They deemed her safe.

Not that John would have listened to them if they had any objections.

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A leopard cannot change its spots, nor a zebra its stripes. And a man who has spent forty five years being a boy scout is unlikely to be transformed by something as shallow as a shave, a haircut, and a new name.

Whether he was called Byers or Wilson, John Fitzgerald still carried an extensive first aid kit, a jack, jumper cables, and, since Frohike had a habit of ripping the seat out of his pants, a sewing kit whenever he left the house. It was practical.

And so, his day began with saving Barney. Yes, THAT Barney. The eight-foot tall soft-sculpture dinosaur in the children's library had been injured in a violent tussle between three 2-year-old girls. This resulted in tiny Styrofoam balls spilling everywhere. As the only person in the immediate vicinity with both a sewing kit and the appropriate colored thread, John had been elected to mend the behemoth.

He sat on a stool behind the circulation desk, stuffed purple legs thrown over his shoulders, intently focused on his repair job.

"John?"

He did not recognize the voice, and so, he did not look up.

"John," the voice again, and this time there was something familiar in the intonation. "John, is that you?"

Oh Lord. It couldn't be...

He looked up.

It couldn't be, but it was.

"Susanne?"

She let out a small laugh, and it sounded like a caged bird fluttering its wings. "That's quite a disguise. I almost didn't recognize you."

He smiled shyly, lifting his hand reflexively, scratching the tattoo on the side of his head. If she noticed it, she said nothing.

"Susanne, I..."

"I know you weren't expecting me."

"No," he replied honestly. That last thing he'd been expecting was Susanne Modeski. "How have you been?"

She gave a tight little smile. "Good. You?"

"I've been-" He stopped. "How did you find me, Susanne?"

"I have resources," she said a little cryptically. "Contacts. People who owe me favors."

"Oh," he replied as calmly as he could. If Susanne could fine them, that meant anyone could.

"But don't worry," she rushed to assure him. "Jimmy said you and your friends are perfectly safe." She gave a weak smile. "I wouldn't have come otherwise, John."

"Right." He nodded and licked his suddenly dry lips. "Susanne, if you're in any kind of trouble..."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not in any trouble, at least not anymore."

"Then, why are you here?"

She smiled. "I'm here for you, John."

"For me?" John gaped. "Susanne, I...you...you and I barely know each other."

"I realize that." She kept glancing down at her hands as she spoke. John noticed a thin fish-belly white band of puckered skin on the ringer finger of her left hand. "I just, I just thought you and I might have a chance."

"I'm with someone," John blurted out.

Susanne blinked. "Oh."

"Someone I am serious about, I mean," he said, much to his own surprise.

"Someone who knows John Byers?" she asked. "Or someone who only knows John Wilson?"

Byers looked at her, hard. Amanda knew him only as John Wilson. But. . .

"Someone who knows *me*," he answered.

"Well, then." She seemed to draw herself in tight, "I guess I'm going to have to hurry back to Denver if I'm going make it in time to cash in your plane ticket."

Byers nodded. "Yeah. I guess you are. I-" he stopped.

"Yes?"

"Thanks for stopping by," he said, and held out his hand. "Have a good life, Susanne."

She gave him the tiniest sigh and the thinnest smile as she clasped his hand and shook it. "You too, Mr. Wilson." And she walked away.

Byers sat back down. He picked up his needle and thread. He was surprised at how little her departure bothered him. He realized he'd probably never Susanne Modeski again. He was surprised how little that bothered him, too.

He thought maybe he would stop at the jewelry store after work.

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In Amanda's yurt on the edge of village, they lay in her bed enjoying the crisp September morning. Afterglow city.

Lightly, her fingers tripped over his stubbly head.

"Amanda, do you have any regrets about your life?" John said quietly into her side.

She didn't say a word, just kept stroking.

"I do," he answered his own question. "I regret not having a wife."

"Oh," she replied.

"Not having a family," he went on.

Amanda was silent a long moment. "You could still have those things."

"Could I?"

She nodded. "Sure."

"Could I have them with you?" he asked, glad the air was still and he was able to speak softly.

"With me?" she echoed.

"Theoretically?" he asked. "Hypothetically?"

"Maybe," she answered after a pause.

It wasn't a 'no,' and to John, it sounded enough like a 'yes' to make him push his luck. "Do you think. . .perhaps you might consider. . .we might. . .not *try* to conceive, exactly, but. . .not try 'not' to?"

She stopped stroking. "John," she whispered. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious. Would you give it some consideration?" he asked, too nervous to raise his head and look at her. "Take as long as you like and let me know. Get back to me, you know, um. . ."

"John, I can't exactly think about it rationally." The stroking began again but, John noted, it was a little less casual, a little less easy. "I can't say it hasn't been on my mind, either. My biological clock is striking like Big Ben at midnight."

"That's hyperbole if I've ever heard it." He smiled.

There was a long pause. "And, if, um, when I get pregnant? What then?"

He knew this one. "We'll get married. We should get married either way, I think."

"We should?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Oh," she answered neutrally. "Um," she began, and cleared her throat softly, "let me think about it? Okay?"

"Of course." He snuggled against her. "Of course."

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End 09