Lessons 22
Date: Sun, 26 Apr 1998
From: lisby@earthlink.net

Snow fell lightly as Carl Handford exited the Beltway onto Route 50.
The little flakes danced in front of his headlights and splattered his
windshield like the unfortunate moths of summer. There's always
something striking out. Getting creamed on the windshield of life.

His briefcase skidded off the front passenger seat and thudded the
floorboard as he took the cloverleaf turn too sharply. Ah, the burgundy
leather appendage of Special Agent Due Diligence. So dedicated to the
Forensic Accounting Unit. So damn useful. The smile played on his lips
again. Hell, why not look over cases until the cows came home? It filled up
time. Made them think they were getting a bang for their buck...or a buck
for their bang.

The Subaru's tires hissed on pavement and splashed through puddles of
slush. Only a few cars on the pike. A few lights in windows. Almost
everyone was asleep, dreaming of an official snow day. "Five to seven
inches by morning," said WMAL's butter-voiced late-night DJ.
"Martinsburg, West Virginia, is reporting three inches already on the
ground. In our area, where the snow has just begun, Fairfax and
Montgomery County Schools have decided to close tomorrow...."

"Crap," Carl frowned. Karan would show up to shovel the drive and the
walks. Did he have ten bucks or should he stop at the ATM? Handford
patted the breast pocket of his dress coat for his wallet, steered around a
pot hole with his other hand. Wait. He did. Yeah, he'd broke a twenty at
lunch....Good. Nice kid, Karan. Big, round black eyes like Joshua. Like
Joshua's mother.

Carl hung a left on Pickett Road. Windshield wipers slapped. Piloted up
and down the rolling hills past the ugly shopping strip with it's acres of
empty car parking pierced by a poles casting unnatural light. A few blocks
and then a left into the Mantua subdivision. A steep decline, a steep rise.
His neighbor's mostly feral and incredibly stupid gray cat dashed across the
pavement, and then the drive of number 10274. Home, sweet home.

Opened the kitchen door. The only thing to greet him was the dry
scent of dust. The carport light offered a little glow to the kitchen, but
the rest of the house
was dark. No one home but the mites and the pinhead-sized spiders and the
cockroaches that sometimes scuttled around the countertops.

Carl flicked on the light over the cluttered kitchen table, shrugged off his
coat, threw it on top a chair piled with newspapers he hadn't bothered to
recycle.

Surveyed his jumbled kingdom without expression.

Might as well get the mail.

Carl loosened his tie, ran a hand through reddish-brown hair, walked past
the sink and the range, and the pot on the window ledge with the African
Violet he'd stopped watering years ago. Crossed into the dining room
where the surface of the dark wooden table was powdery, moved past the
lighter colored square on the dark beige wall where a picture once hung:
Narin in her colorful Turkish wedding gown, him in his olive green
sergeant's uniform. Didn't know why she had taken the picture with her. Maybe
she wanted it for Joshua.

The mail was all ads and bills. Always was. He walked it into the kitchen
and dumped the pile onto the table. Didn't feel like going to bed, as late as
it was. Maybe he'd write out some checks before things were too far
overdue.

Carl sat down in the one empty chair, pulled out his checkbook. Unlocked
and opened his briefcase on the floor beside his seat to find a pen. Flipped
the check register to the latest entry. His balance was big--there was plenty
in there. Always plenty. Enough to have the house redone, to replace the
Subaru. Enough to travel--to see all the places he had read about and
imagined, once upon a time. They wanted him to spend all that money,
maybe to ease their consciences. Maybe to make him feel like a whore. But
what was the use in either case? After all, the date was set.

The blurred phone number lingered on his palm. It was still legible, but
wouldn't be for much longer. He stared at it and at the faint scars on his
wrists and chewed on the pointed tip of the pen's cap.

His eyes drifted down to his open briefcase, to the photocopied article
topping a stack of file folders--'Agent Recognized for "Spooky" Ability.'
An image of Fox Mulder receiving an award from the Alabama Police
Officers Association for his work in catching Monty Props.

Holly in the research center had been very helpful. She's a real cute girl, he
thought, bending to pick up the photocopy. He'd have asked her out. Once.
After leaving Holly, some field agents over in VC had spilled what they
knew and forwarded him to a guy named Pendrell in Crime Science.

Carl stared at the charcoal-hued image--at Fox Mulder's handsome, young
face, his narrow-lapelled suit and thin tie. Spiky hair lingeringly punk. July
8, 1988, the dateline read. It had looked like the start of a promising
career.

Oh, yeah, his VC informants agreed: Mulder'd had the looks and the moves
to blueflame his way to the top. But he'd chucked it all. Took on X-files--
weird shit nobody would touch. Must have stumbled across clues. Started to
put it all together. Had been putting it together for years, actually. A hell
of a lot longer than it had taken for them to crack down on HIM, Carl
thought. Didn't seem fair somehow. Handford smiled at his own innate
idiocy. As if the tacit rules of fairness operated here.

Handford sighed and hunched over the table, wrote out two checks, paused
when his gaze was diverted by Fox Mulder. Carl tugged his eyes away and
scribbled another payment. Tore out the check and stuffed it in its
envelope, glanced up at the wall-mounted phone, rolled his lower lip
between his teeth. Narin's voice was in his head. "You are my good angel."
No, he thought. Just a man who screams and bleeds and begs for mercy
when someone hurts him.

"Why should I?" he said aloud. It was the crux of the issue written in
smeary blue ink. Do it because Pendrell said Mulder was a nice guy who
paid for his favors with Redskins tickets? Because a pretty redhead
shouldn't be cheated of the possibility of twelve good years? Because Doc
Preftakes asked so nicely?

His eyes traveled to the wall again. Carl put down his pen, sat his chin on
his hand, and looked at the tan phone with it's dirty fingerprint smudges
for a long minute. How about do it because you don't have the guts to air
out your own brainpan and this might motivate somebody to do it for you?
he asked himself, hearing his heart thud in his ears for a few beats. Now,
that was an idea with some merit.

Carl stood up, pushed back auburn bangs, reached out for the receiver,
then slowly let his hand drop and stared at the cobwebs at the conjunction
of ceiling and walls. Okay. Instead of why, why not? When he thought
about it, it felt the same as 'why?'--that is to say, it didn't feel like
anything.

Handford closed his dull, green eyes and let his head tip back. It just didn't
feel like anything. His pulse was steady and even again, his breathing deep
and regular. No jitters. No thrill in his gut at the idea of facing God.

Nothing.

He didn't care if they found out and killed him. Didn't care if they sent him
off to be punished, day after day after day. Hell, he'd even chauffeur
himself. No need to trouble the boys with the long drive out to the suburbs.

Without opening his eyes, Carl's fingers found the phone and lifted it,
heard a click and a hollow dial tone. Cool, hard plastic was held by a grip
that didn't waiver, but should have. Felt a shiver that had everything to do
with the brumal night and nothing to do with fear.

Stir up a little trouble and fuck the consequences, he told himself. And if it
helps this Mulder guy, then fine. Aces. Whatever. Who cares if it helps
Mulder--do it for you. It's the first time you've been able to do jack shit to
them. Stir the bastards up and make them squirm. Dick around with them
for the pure sake of dicking around. Hurt them for tearing you up and
making you into something you never dreamed of being, but couldn't stop
becoming.

Carl Handford sighed. "I never liked practical jokes, did I?"

He hung up the receiver and walked away, went to tape Karan's money to
the outside of the front door.

--lisby@earthlink.net
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"Why did the robot cross the road....? Because it was carbon-bonded to the
chicken! HA HA HA HA!"
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