From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 25 Jun 2006 20:36:29 -0000
Subject: NEW - Forgive Us Our Trespasses by Taffy Northwood (26?) by taffyxf
Source: direct

Reply To: taffyxf@yahoo.com


Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses
Author: Taffy Northwood
E-Mail: taffyxf@yahoo.com
Rating:  NC17 (now and then)
Category:  AU, MSR  
Archives:  Just ask.  
Feedback: Never in bad taste <g>
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and any 
other XF characters are on loan only.  
Summary:  In 1911 New York City, there were two 
distinct and separate worlds: that of the very wealthy 
and that of the very poor.  Could love bridge the 
great divide between those worlds for two star-crossed 
lovers?
Author Notes: Like a huge part of the fandom, I've
become absolutely dotty over AU fic.  This is my 
modest attempt to put Mulder and Scully into another
time and place.  Please be aware, this is a 
work-in-progress. 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder's 
story - Part 26

"Katie? I'm so thirsty.  Where are you, Kate?"  

"Here, Fox.  Let me help you."  Her voice was soft, and
she smelled of soap and roses.

An arm snaked gently behind his shoulders, raising his 
head.  Cool water slipped past his parched lips.  
Greedy, he drank too quickly and coughed.  His chest 
burned and he groaned. 

"Easy, Fox.  Just a few sips."

Something wasn't right.  Katie always called him "Mulder."
He must be very ill, indeed, for her to call him by his
given name.  

He couldn't see her.  The room was dark and he could 
barely make out her slender shape.  Something was wrong,
but he was tired, and it was so hard to think.

"My head hurts," he said.  A cool hand came to rest 
against his forehead.  The touch was gentle, but wrong,
somehow.

"Your fever is down, thank God."

He grabbed at her hand before she could move it, and held
it between his palms.  It wasn't right.  Katie had 
capable little hands, swift and sure in their ministrations.
This wasn't Katie's hand.
 
"Where is Katie?" he asked, weakly.  He raised himself
up on one elbow, his hand outstretched.  His arms had no 
strength and he was easily pushed back onto the mattress.
"Why isn't she here?"

"You've been very ill, Fox."  Gentle fingers brushed
the hair from his forehead.  "You need to stay in bed."

"Samantha," he said, finally recognizing the voice. 
"Why is it so dark?"  

"You complained that the light hurt your eyes.  We've
kept the shades drawn and the lamps turned down.  I'm
so glad you're awake.  How do you feel?"

"Everything hurts," he mumbled.  "My chest...it hurts
to breathe."

"Fox, you had us all so frightened."

"Please tell me.  Where is Katie?"

"Let me call Dr. Wieder."

"You can call him later.  Tell me."  He closed his eyes,
praying with all his might that she was alive.  His
memory was hazy, but he remembered Katie lying in this
very bed, looking as if she might slip away into death.   

"She's...she's not here, Fox."

The bedroom door opened and Walter Skinner peered in.  
"I thought I heard voices."

"Walter, why don't you sit with Fox and I'll let Dr.
Wieder know he's awake."  
 
Samantha exited the room with a swish of petticoats,
probably too uncomfortable to remain one moment longer.
Skinner looked like he'd aged ten years, his face 
drawn and tired.  He pulled a chair closer to the bed
and sat down.

"What happened to me?" Mulder asked.  "And where the 
hell is Katie?" 

Skinner took off his spectacles, rubbing weary eyes.
He polished one lens and then the other with his 
handkerchief.

"You locked yourself in the library after the
funeral," Skinner began.

"Funeral," Mulder echoed.  His precious child, ripped
out of his heart and laid to rest.  Her birth, which
almost took her mother's life.  One birthday.  One
death day.   The knowledge that his Mairead was dead
hit him like a stone dropped from a great height. 

"That was six days ago," Skinner continued. "You and
Katie had words, and some time after that she left the
house."

"We argued? It's not possible."

"Daisy heard the two of you."

"I...it's all a blank.  I just know I couldn't bear
to see the pain on her face.  I remember being relieved
when she left the room."

"I understood if you wanted to be alone, but after two
days I broke down the library door."

"Where's Katie now?  Didn't someone try to find her?"

"I telephoned to her mother and the clinic, but no one
has seen her."

"Didn't you go look for her?  She's been terribly ill,
and she just lost Mairead!"  Mulder's outburst threw
him into a fit of coughing, and the pain in his ribs
forced him back down against his pillow.

"I sent Dunham around, and Miss Muir made some
inquiries.  Mulder, I don't think you understand how
sick you were yourself."

"I had pneumonia?"  

"You were sicker even than Katie had been.  You had
drained every drop of whiskey in the library, and that
weakened you further."

"It made me feel better.  Stopped the cough," Mulder
explained.

"Wieder thought you were going to die."

"We need to find Katie.  Help me up, Skinner."

"It's too soon."

Mulder struggled to rise from the bed without help,
but his chest burned and he saw spots before his eyes.

"Damn it, Skinner," he groaned in frustration.
"I have to talk to Daisy."

"I'll find Daisy and bring her to you but you have to rest."

Mulder realized he had little choice.

"Can you get some paper?"

Skinner returned with a pad and looked at Mulder
expectantly, waiting for his dictation.

"I'm not too feeble to write," Mulder said, angrily,
but his hand shook as he reached for the pen.  "Go
find Katie." 

Samantha returned as soon as Skinner had departed, 
carrying a silver tray.

"Cook prepared beef tea for you," Samantha told him. 
 
"Not now," he said.

"You have to eat, Fox, or you'll never get well."

"Leave it here, then."

She looked doubtful.

"You'll pour it in the potted palm.  I remember that 
trick," she said.

He smiled weakly, remembering happier times with his
sister.

"Samantha, I need to ask you something.  Is there
anything in this house, anything of Father's, that
you're especially fond of?"

Her face grew serious.

"Stop that, Fox.  You're frightening me."

"Never mind, then."  

She withdrew from the room, still shaken.  Mulder
tried to sit up, but he was simply too weak.  Instead
he turned on his side and began to write.

"Last Will and Testament."

Samantha always loved the farm, but Mulder thought now
that he would like to give it outright to Jim Parker,
who had run it so well for so long.  That reminded him 
to place a stipend for Kevin Kryder, with a sum to be 
awarded when he came of age.

He would give Samantha the Lodge.  His heart almost
broke again at the thought.  It should have been for
his sweet daughter.  It was all supposed to go to her.
 
Samantha had been slighted in Father's will, and
Mulder righted that wrong.  He also passed to her his
share of the Little Dynamo Company, making her an
equal partner with her husband, Frohike and the
others.

Mother would be as secure and pampered as he could
make her.  He couldn't prevent her from turning to
Spender, but it would not be from necessity.

Mulder sank back on the pillow, to work out the
details in his mind before the exhausting task of
committing them to paper.

The Clinic would have to be fully endowed, with
generous salaries for the staff.  

Skinner would be the perfect owner and proprietor of
Mulder's mining interests, meager as they were.  He
added assorted holdings to round out the settlement.

Charlie Scully, Melissa and her boys, Margaret.  Edgar
and the other servants.  Even Miss Muir.  It wasn't
her fault.  His, perhaps, but not hers.

Everything else for Katie.  

Exhaustion overtook him and he drifted in and out of
consciousness.  Images floated before him:  Katie,
standing before him, naked, the first time they made
love, her waist so tiny he could span it with his
hands; Mairead in the nursery, banging away on her
contraband pots and pans; he and Katie, holding 
Mairead between them as their baby breathed her last.

He roused to the bedroom door opening as Skinner led
a frightened Daisy into the room.  

"Took you long enough," Mulder said.

Skinner ignored his complaint.

"Daisy, Mr. Mulder has a few questions for you.  You
don't need to be afraid," he said.

As he was currently unable to raise his head off the
pillow, Mulder figured Daisy didn't have to worry.  

"Daisy, you spoke to Mrs. Katherine before she left?"

"Yes, sir.  She was powerful sad, sir."

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No, sir.  She just asked me to get her valise.  Then
she told me to go."

"But why?  Why would Katie leave?" he asked.  The 
question was purely for himself, so he was surprised
when Daisy spoke further.

"Maybe...I think maybe..."

"Daisy?" Mulder asked.  "If you know something, you 
have to tell us."

"I think maybe it was what you said to her in the
library, sir.  I didn't mean to overhear, but I was
in the hallway and your voice was raised."

"I'm not angry, Daisy.  Please, tell me."

"You said you needed Miss Mairead back," Daisy said
with a sob.  "And then you said you couldn't bear to 
look at her."

Memory flooded back like the relentless wash of the tide.
"Oh God," Mulder said.  "It was too much.  Too much.  
I...couldn't stand to see the pain in her face."

Daisy was weeping softly, but Mulder turned his head
away, shocked and shamed that Katie had fled their
home with his own bitter words in her ears.  He heard
Skinner thank the maid and dismiss her.  Daisy left,
still crying, but Skinner stayed.

"You're thinking I drove her away, and she's well rid
of me," Mulder said.

"We'll find her," Skinner said.

"You'll help me search?"

"I will search, Mulder.  You will remain in bed."

"I can rest in the motorcar!"

"Certainly.  As soon as Dr. Wieder gives his
permission."

It was useless to argue.

"Then go."

"Mulder, you have to stay here and rest.  I don't
want to bring Katie back to find you collapsed on
the floor."  Skinner turned and left.

Samantha returned, carrying another tray.

"I haven't yet had time to enjoy my first beef tea,"
Mulder complained.

"It's iced tea."

She rearranged the pillows behind him as he struggled
to sit up.  He drank in long gulps, gasping for breath
in between.

"Samantha, I'd like to question the servants.  Someone
might know where Katie has gone."

"After Dr. Wieder sees you, perhaps.  He'll be here 
soon."

When Wieder arrived, he gave orders of complete bedrest
for Mulder, with no visitors at all.

"Mr. Mulder, if you don't heed my instructions, I won't
be held responsible.  You were near death and your 
body needs to recover.  If you aren't careful, the 
illness could spread to your heart or your brain."

Samantha thanked Wieder and showed him out, shooting 
Mulder a stern glance before she closed the bedroom door.

"How could it possibly harm me to talk to Cook, or Edgar?"
he asked when Samantha returned.  

"Because I know you, Fox.  You won't 'just talk'.  Stay
in bed, please, and let Mr. Skinner do his job."

Samantha was caring and attentive, and Mulder was
appreciative, although her devotion meant less to him
now than it would have in years past.

That evening Mother made an appearance.

"You had me very worried, Fox," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Darling, I grieve for your suffering, but sometimes
things happen for the best."

"I will not hear this."

"Oh, I'm not talking about poor, dear little Margaret.
But your Katherine--perhaps she realized that our
differences were too great."

With more strength than he knew he had, Mulder raised
himself on his elbows.

"My daughter--your granddaughter--is Mairead.  Her
name is Mairead."

"My goodness, Fox, I didn't mean to upset you."

"And my Katherine--my wife, Mother--is my only reason
for living."   

"Very well, Fox. I only meant to suggest--"

Mulder interrupted.

"I'm very tired.  Would you kindly have Edgar send
someone to assist me?"   

"Of course, dear."

Mother retreated, to Mulder's relief, and it was Edgar
himself who came to tend him.

"I have some papers for my attorney," Mulder said. 

"I'll see that they're delivered.  Anything else,
sir?"

Mulder considered how to phrase his next request. 
Communication between himself and Edgar followed
certain formulas, all of which he rejected.

"I need to find my wife," he said.

Edgar didn't blink.

"Very good, sir.  Dunham was the last to see Mrs.
Katherine.  I'll send him to you in the morning."

"Thank you," said Mulder.  

"Would you like me to contact Mr. Bocks, sir?"

"Not yet."

"Very good, sir.  May I suggest a bath?"

Mulder wasn't sure he had the stamina, but decided to
try.  

"Please."

Edgar helped him to his feet when the bath was ready,
but Mulder accomplished the rest of the operation
unaided.  He knew that Edgar was standing at attention
on the other side of the bathroom door, but Mulder was
able to climb out of the tub and into fresh pajamas
without calling on him.

The bed was freshly made, but it looked so huge and
desolate that he wished he could retreat to the
library.

"Will that be all, sir?" Edgar asked when he had
reluctantly settled himself in bed.

"I'd like to see Dunham now.  I don't want to wait for
tomorrow."

"I'm sure he's retired for the night," Edgar said.

"What time is it?" Mulder asked, suspiciously.

"He'll be here in the morning, as soon as you've
finished with breakfast."

The next morning, Samantha brought Mulder's breakfast
tray, and sat by the bed watching him and counting
each spoonful of oatmeal he swallowed, each sip of
milk he downed.  

"I don't need a babysitter," he said, not bothering
to hide his annoyance.  Edgar wouldn't bring Dunham to
him if Samantha was still there.  

"I'm sure you don't.  On the other hand, I remember
watching you hide brussels sprouts in the Ming vase
that Mother was so fond of."

He ate as much as his stomach would allow, hoping
Samantha would stay away after she took his tray,
but she seemed quite content to putter about the 
room.  It was only when he feigned a nap that she
left him alone.

It seemed like hours before Dunham knocked lightly
on the bedroom door.  

"I'm sorry to have taken so long, sir.  Miss Samantha
won't allow any of the servants to bother you.  I had
to wait until she went into the library to make some
'phone calls."

"Then we had better not waste any time.  Mrs. Katherine,"
Mulder said.  "She asked you to drive her somewhere
the day of the funeral."

"Yes, sir.  She was so sad, sir.  It broke my heart.  
Her face was white as a ghost.  It was almost like...
almost like she wasn't alive, herself, any more."

"Where did you take her?" Mulder asked impatiently.  
"Did she say anything to you?"

"Just asked me to take her to the train station.  
Didn't say nothing more than that, sir."

"Did you go into the station with her?   Did you see
who sold her the ticket?"

"No, sir.  She made me let her out a block away.  Wouldn't
let me park the car, wouldn't let me carry her bag.  Just
disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk."

Mulder's hopes dashed at the words.  Katie could have 
gone anywhere from the train station and he'd never be
able to trace her.  He supposed that Skinner had already
asked Dunham about that day, but Mulder had hoped there
might have been some detail, some hint he would be able
to gather from the driver's words.  

"I wish I could be more helpful," Dunham concluded.

Mulder looked into his bland, open face.
 
"Please fetch me my clothes," he said.

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

Mulder realized that Dunham's duties had never
included such personal services.  He indicated where
his things were kept with a wave of his hand.

"My trousers, from that wardrobe, if you don't mind.  
My shirts are in the dresser."

"How I understood it, how Miss Samantha instructed us,
sir, you need to rest," Dunham said awkwardly.

Would the chauffeur defy him, in deference to his
sister?  Mulder didn't think so.  He could have
repeated his order, but instead he waited.

"I suppose you could rest with your trousers on,"
Dunham said.

Dunham supplied the needed items, although his
discomfort was obvious.  Mulder was huffing with 
the effort to put them on.

"I would like to rest in the Rolls Royce," he said 
when he had finished.

"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said, unhappily.  "I'm
thinking you could rest better if we took the back
stairs."

How long since Mulder had slipped out the servants'
entry in the guise of Mathew Fox?  

"I'm certain you're right," he agreed.

By the time Dunham had helped him settle into the
back of the Rolls, Mulder was soaked in
perspiration.  

It was a warm day, he decided.

He instructed Dunham to take them to Missy's home in
Brooklyn, but the chauffeur corrected him.

"You'll find her at Clinton Street, sir."

So John Barleycorn had once again dragged Danny Murphy
from his family, leaving Missy to take shelter with
her mother.  Mulder was in no position to condemn him,
however.  He had drunk more than his share, stopping
only when both the decanters in the library were dry.

"Did you drive Mr. Skinner to the boarding house?"
Mulder asked.  

"Yes, sir, many times.  And always Mrs. Scully said to
leave them alone, for the love of God.  And Mrs.
Murphy said if Mr. Mulder cared worth a box of
matchsticks, he'd be banging on the door himself."

"Then let's go to Clinton Street.  If it's me they
want, then it's me they'll get."

Mulder closed his eyes as Dunham threaded through the
streets of New York.  His head ached, throbbing with each
bump of the road.  When they arrived at the boarding
house, he could barely muster the strength to get out
of the car and leaned on Dunham far more than he wanted.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Maggie Scully exclaimed when
she opened the door.  Mulder steadied himself on the
doorjamb as he entered the house, praying he wouldn't 
pass out in front of Maggie.  

"Well, lookit that," Missy said from the doorway, where
she stood drying her hands on her apron.  "Fox Mulder
in the flesh."

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he said.  "But I am
hoping you have heard from Katie."

Missy took a better look at Mulder, coming into the
room.  "Mr. Skinner said you was sick.  We thought he 
was just makin' excuses."

"Have you...have you heard from her?" he asked.  Both
women had taken on a blurry, French impressionist look.
Missy was moving closer to him, with what might have
been pity on her face.

"The only word was a note she sent from the train
station, saying she had to go away for a while. 
That's how she's always been, handles everything on
her own.  If the truth be told, I'm startin' to get a
bit worried myself."

"Ya look terrible," Maggie Scully said.  "Are ya sure
ya should be out of bed?  Maybe ya should sit down."

"I'm fine," he assured her, but he did gratefully lower
himself into a chair.  

"Do ya want us to call Dr. Vitigliano?" Missy said.  "Ya
really look awful."

"No!" Mulder said, as forcefully as he could manage.  He
had to get out of the house before he passed out.  The
Scullys had no information for him, or weren't comfortable
sharing it.  He faltered when he tried to stand, but
then Dunham was at his side to haul him to his feet.

"Some tea for ya, or a cup of barley water?" Maggie
offered as Dunham helped him to the door.  "A
soft-cooked egg with some butter melted in?"
 
Mulder's stomach lurched, and he had to clench his
jaw.  Dunham answered for him.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am, but Mr. Mulder must be
going."

Mulder was grateful to achieve the soft back seat of
the Rolls Royce without the loss of consciousness or
his breakfast.  He covered his face with his hands, 
trying to block out as much light as he could.  His
head was pounding now.

"I'm taking you home, sir," Dunham told him from
behind the wheel.

"The clinic," Mulder said.

"Very good, sir."

Mulder was relieved by Dunham's ready agreement until
they parked at the clinic and Dunham announced his
intention.

"I'll  fetch somebody to help me carry you in, sir."

"Dunham, no," he said, keeping his voice steady.

"If you'll pardon me, sir, you're not walking very
well."

"Then ask Mrs. Berkowitz to come out." 

"She won't be much help, sir.  I'll ask Dr. Vitigliano
if he can tend you in the car."   

"I don't require tending.  I want to find my wife," he
said, too tired to raise his voice.

"I'll get Mrs. Berkowitz," Dunham said, uneasily.

It was only a minute before Shayna was standing by the
car, rapping on the window for Mulder's attention.

"Nu?  Where is Katie?" she asked.

"I don't know," Mulder said.

"Oy vay ist mir!"

"You haven't heard from her?"

"Just a note to say she was going away."

"I need her, Shayna.  I have to find her."

"You're telling me somethin' I don't know?  Some of 
these patients have the relapse from not takin' care a' 
themselves.  Come to think of it, you don't look so 
good yerself, Mulder.  Let me get Vincent..."

"That won't be necessary," he said, weakly.  "I'll be
fine as soon as I find my wife.   Thank you, Shayna."

He ordered Dunham to drive away.  Shayna had no
information of use to him.  Mulder was sure that 
as worried as she appeared, Shayna would have told him
Katie's location if only she knew it.

Mulder closed his eyes, resting his head against the
back of the seat.  If only it wasn't so hot today.  Sweat
was pouring down his back, soaking the shirt under his
coat.  It was hard to keep his mind focused on the problem
at hand--finding Katie.  It was so hard when his head
felt as if it would burst.

He remembered a time long ago when he combed the city 
looking for Katie.  He'd haunted the same places and 
questioned the same people that he'd seen today.  How
ironic that Katie had been mere blocks away, back then,
staying with Mrs. Tibby.

"Dunham," Mulder said.  "I want to go to Greenwich Village.
Thompson Street."  

"Very well, sir," Dunham answered, but the glance he gave
Mulder was one of worry.   Still, he drove to Mrs. Tibby's
house, a tidy brownstone on a shady street.

Mulder stirred in the back seat of the car.  He took a deep
breath, hoping it would revive him.  The result was a
coughing fit that made his chest hurt enough to bring tears
to his eyes.  The pain in his head was blinding.

"Shall I get someone for you, sir?" Dunham asked, as he got
out of the car.  He opened the back door and peered in at
Mulder.  

"No," Mulder said.  "Just help me out of the car and up those
steps."

Dunham bore most of Mulder's weight up the short flight.
Mulder's ears were ringing by the time he ascended the last
stair.   

"Fox!" Mrs. Tibby exclaimed as she opened the door.  "Are
you all right?"

"I'm fine," he answered, wishing his voice sounded stronger.
He followed Mrs. Tibby into the house.  Dunham stayed on the 
stoop, his hat clutched in his hands.

"That's a bit difficult to believe, I'm afraid.  You don't
look very well at all, Fox."

With her white hair and cultured voice, Mrs. Tibby reminded 
Mulder of his mother, if his mother had ever been able to 
show sympathy for anyone else.  

"Have you...have you heard from Katie?" he asked. 
"I've been so worried about her."

"I received a note from her a week ago.  She said she
was going away," Mrs. Tibby replied.

"Nothing more?  No word of where she might be
staying?"

"I'm sorry, Fox.  I wish I had some information to
give you."

"I'd hoped...so hoped that you might..."  He was having 
difficulty forming words.  Disappointment crushed him, 
literally pushing him down until he felt the floor rise up
to meet his body.

He couldn't control his body.  He was aware of movement and
how hard the floor felt under him.  He couldn't see, as his
eyes squeezed shut, but he could hear Mrs. Tibby's heels
clatter as she ran to the door.

"Driver!  Call a doctor!" she shouted.  "Mr. Mulder is 
having a seizure!"

To be continued....

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder's 
story - Part 27

"Mother, Mother, I am sick,
Send for the doctor, 
Quick, quick, quick!
Doctor, Doctor, shall I die?
Yes, my darling, 
By and by."

The children's voices were high and reedy, carried 
in the wind, along with the scent of the potatoes 
they were roasting over a small fire on the beach.  
They were barefoot, skinny, dirty-faced sons and 
daughters of fishermen, so like Katie and her brothers
and sister as children.

Katie turned and walked away, the brisk wind flaring 
her skirts behind her.  Knuckling the tears from her 
cheek, she kept her head down to avoid the stinging sand.

She walked for hours every day, up and down the
beach, where she moved past the fishermen like a ghost.   
Katie hadn't chosen this place.  When she'd left after 
her daughter's funeral, the only thing she'd known for 
sure was that she couldn't stay in the Mulder home 
for even one more hour.

She'd stood at the ticket counter, barely able 
to speak, let alone decide where she would go.  
The ticket agent must have grown frustrated, but
perhaps he sensed her bone-deep sadness.

"Lots of folks like the seashore," he'd offered.
"There's nice towns all along the New Haven Line."

So, she'd bought a ticket and gotten on the train.
When the conductor called out the stop for Stone
Harbor, Katie had risen from her seat as if propelled
by an unseen hand.  

The town was small, clinging to the rocky coast of
Connecticut like a barnacle on a boat.  Katie rented
a small cottage on a bluff overlooking the windswept
beach.  She rarely walked to town, except to purchase
a little food.  

Katie held her skirts above the sand, glancing down 
as her hands clutched the fabric.  Without her wedding 
ring, her left hand felt odd, wrong.  The week before, 
she'd packed the ring in a little box and walked to 
the tiny Stone Harbor post office to mail it back to 
Mulder.  It felt wrong to keep it.  She didn't
deserve the honor of owning it.  

Her husband couldn't bear her presence.  Deep down,
Katie knew that Mulder could never hate her.  But
could he ever look at Katie and not remember how 
her selfish insistence on working had killed their
child?

He would be better off without her.  If her time 
amongst the rich had taught Katie anything, it was 
that she would never belong.  Mulder couldn't 
recognize that, but having Katie in his life would 
only hold him back.  Better that he get over Mairead's 
death and Katie's loss, all at once, rather than drag 
things out to their inevitable ending.

Katie had been blinded by her love for Mulder and his 
love for her.  She had forgotten the immutable truth
that their lives together had been built on a lie.  
She'd fallen in love with Mathew Fox--a man who did not
exist. 

The man she'd married was Fox Mulder, a very different
man than the poor photographer who lived for his
art and for Katie.  Fox Mulder was as kind and loving
and exciting as Mathew Fox had ever been, but he was 
a mystery to her.  "The rich are different from us,"
Walter Skinner had told her years ago, and it was true.
Fox Mulder, for all his love, was often unfathomable 
to her in his thoughts and his actions.  

She could see her little cottage in the distance, its
weathered gray shingles and green trim shimmering in
the sun.  Katie supposed that happy families may have
spent happy weeks in its confines, but it had been an
empty structure to her, even when she was in it.

She picked up her pace as she approached the cottage.  
Leaning against the railing on the little porch was a 
dark clad figure.  His head was down, a hat obscuring 
his face.  For a second, she thought of Mulder and her 
heart seemed to skip a beat before she realized the 
figure was too broad across the shoulders.

"Hello, Kate," Skinner said as she climbed the steps.

"Hello, Walter," she replied, cautiously.  In spite of 
the warmth of the day, a chill ran down her spine.  
The feeling of foreboding puzzled her.  She had thought
herself too numb to feel anything.  

"How are you?" he asked.  At her shrug, he continued.
"We were so worried about you.  Please come home.  Mulder 
needs you."

"Oh, Walter, I'm the last person Mulder needs.  He can't
stand the sight of me."

"That's not true, Kate.  He wasn't himself before you 
left.  He...he's been very ill."

"Oh no," Katie said, panic settling in her belly.  She
remembered how thin and tired Mulder had gotten during
her illness, how he'd neglected himself when Mairead
became sick.  

"I know he said things, terrible things, but you have
to understand--he was out of his mind."

"I don't hold anything against him, Walter.  Whether it
was grief or illness, nothing has changed.  He was right.
I caused my child's death by my own selfishness.  His
illness didn't put the thoughts in his head.  It just 
allowed the words to come out."

"He does need you," Skinner said, taking Katie's hands.  
"When his fever broke, he became frantic because you were
gone.  He remembered...what he'd said to you."

"Walter...my coming back would only delay the inevitable."

"No.  You don't understand.  He went out looking for you
and collapsed.  Dr. Wieder says it's encephalitis.  Mulder
won't survive if you don't come home."

"Oh no.  Oh, dear God, no."  Katie felt her knees give way
and Skinner's strong arms encircle her.  He helped her 
over to the rocking chair that stood on the porch.  

"I have a ticket for you," Skinner said.  "We have to 
hurry if we're going to catch the train."

"What if he doesn't make it..." she whispered, her 
eyes downcast.

"Come on, let's get you packed up."

It took a pitifully short time for Katie to gather
her things and pack them in the valise.  She and
Skinner were soon on the train bound for New York 
City.

"How did you find me?" she asked, as they rattled
along in their seats.

"Your ring,"  Walter answered.  "I followed the
postmark to Stone Harbor.  If you hadn't sent it 
back, I never would have found you."

They didn't speak again until the train pulled into
Grand Central Station.   Skinner carried her valise
as they walked to the taxi stand.

"I'll send word to your mother as soon as we get
to the house," he said.  "She's been very worried
about you."

"Thank you," Katie answered, a pang of guilt tugging
at her.   She'd been so numb, so completely disconnected 
from life since losing Mairead.  It hadn't occurred to 
Katie that anyone would be concerned about her.  

She took a deep breath as she got out of the cab in
front of the Mulder house.  So much had happened here,
so much pain and sorrow.  And now, she had to try and
keep one more tragedy from unfolding.

The footman who admitted them to the mansion was too
inexperienced to maintain a bland facade.

"Mrs. Katherine!  It's grand you're back."  

"Thank you, Emil," she said.

"I'll fetch your things to your room at once."  He saw
the single valise that Skinner carried.  "I expect the
rest will arrive shortly?"

"Just this.  I'll see to it," Skinner said.

"Good to see you too, Mr. Skinner."

"It's less than a day I've been away," Skinner said.

"But. . . Well, you should talk to Edgar.  Mrs. Fowley
has been very persistent in trying to see Mr. Mulder."

Katie had hoped for Walter to accompany her upstairs,
because she was quite unsure how Mulder would react to
her presence.  But now she found she could wait no
longer.

"Excuse me," she said, her heart pounding as she made
for the stairs.  By the first landing she was
breathless, but she couldn't slow her pace.  

She expected to feel peculiar when she entered the
sitting room, but she wasn't prepared for the sharp,
painful memory.  This was where they had discovered
Mairead's fever.  

Katie crossed the room with even, deliberate steps. 
The bedroom was dim, and the door stood open.  

Mulder.  She watched from the doorway, counting the
breaths as his chest rose and fell.  He lay on his
back, arms outstretched.

A woman had been sitting by his bedside, and as she
rose Katie saw it was Daisy, who had been her personal
maid.

"Mrs. Katherine, you've come home," Daisy said in an
excited whisper.

"How is he?" Katie asked.

"Dr. Weider says only time will tell.  No more fits,
and that's all to the good."

"Fits?  Seizures?" Katie asked.

"Not since the first day, ma'am.  And see how nice he
sleeps?"

"He looks very comfortable.  You've taken good care of
him, Daisy, but I'm surprised that no one thought to
hire a professional nurse."

"You'll have to ask Mr. Skinner about that, ma'am,"
Daisy said.

Mulder looked so normal as he slept that Katie was
afraid to ask her next question.

"Does he wake up at all?"

"Yes, ma'am.  But he's not himself."

"Can he speak?" Katie asked.  She pictured him mute
and unreachable, his eyes darting in terror or
mindless rage.

"Oh, yes.  He speaks a great deal, ma'am, but you
can't always tell his meaning.  And sometimes. . .
sometimes who he's talking to isn't really there."

Katie touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

"He's quite warm," she said.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but he doesn't like his fever
tonic.  Miss Samantha could get him to drink it with
some honey mixed in, but he hasn't taken it since she
left."

Katie felt her face harden.

"Miss Samantha left him?"

"Her husband was hurt at the factory.  Word came on 
Tuesday, and she had to leave for home," Daisy 
explained.

"What about his mother?  Couldn't she coax him to take
his medicine?" Katie asked.  Teena was a shrewd
manipulator, most adept at bending her son to her
will.

"Mr. Spender sent her to Maine.  He feared the
sadness would be too much for her, and the illness
might take her as well."

Mr. Spender.  A disgusting, shameless man who beheld
the misery of others and saw only opportunity.  His
grief over Mairead had been genuine, but it wasn't
enough to turn him from his incessant scheming and
interference.   

"Would you bring the honey, Daisy?  When Mr. Mulder
wakes up, I will see if I can persuade him to swallow
the tonic."

"He'll drink it for you, ma'am.  I know he will."

"And then you may return to your regular duties."

Katie settled into the chair that Daisy had vacated. 
She waited for Mulder to awaken, but not without
apprehension.  Asleep he seemed full of peace and safe
from pain.  Suddenly he groaned and flung himself onto
his side.  He hadn't opened his eyes, but she knew he
was awake.

"Mulder," she said, touching his arm, "it's time for
your medicine."

Mulder sighed but didn't answer.

"I know you're awake, love," she said.

"You sound so real," he sighed.

"I'm here, Mulder."

"I'm dreaming you, Katie.  But talk to me, and I'll
pretend."

"Just open your eyes," she begged him.  

"Then you'll disappear," he said stubbornly.  

"Will you take your medicine?"

"Skinner threw away all my medicine."

"Mulder, that's nonsense."

He laughed.

"You sound exactly like her.  And Skinner did throw
away my medicine.  My Scotch medicine, my Irish
medicine, even my fine old French medicine."

"Listen to me, love.  I'm going to mix up the powder
with honey, to make it sweet."

"Leave it bitter."

Because he sounded serious and determined, she did as
he asked.  She wasn't surprised when he sat bolt
upright and swallowed the bitter draught in a few long
gulps.  She took the glass from his hand, and he 
collapsed back on his pillow.

"There.  Now talk to me in Katie's voice," he said.

Clearly he was on his way to recovery.   Katie felt
cautious about his dementia, but she had heard enough
babbling from the sickbed to know that such confusion
usually disappeared with the return of health.  For
Mulder, though, recovery would mean also the return of
sorrow.  

"I love you, Mulder."

"She would say that."

"And what would you say?"

"I would tell her to go."

Katie recoiled as if he'd struck her.  Mulder looked
more awake than ever, but still his eyes were shut.

"Talk to me!" Mulder demanded.  "Be Katie again!"

"But you wanted her to go," Katie managed to whisper. 

He answered with a couplet:

"So shall those blots that do with me remain, without
thy help, by me be borne alone."

"Shakespeare," she said.

"He was here yesterday.  Or I think it was yesterday."

"A sonnet."  Katie tried to remember the verse, a
famous one.  "Let me confess that we two must be
twain, although our undivided loves are one."

"Twain.  Mark Twain visited too."

Katie felt a lump in her throat.  "Such literary
visitors."

"Because I have no friends."

"Of course you do.  Walter.  Frohike.  Langly and
Byers."

"I pay them."

"But Frohike was your friend before that."

"And now he's my partner.  But Skinner. . . He's
Katie's friend, anyway.  He'll look out for her."

"Walter Skinner is your friend," Katie said
emphatically.

"Is he in the room with us?" Mulder asked. 

"If you would open your eyes you would know," she
said.  She had begun the conversation with a plan 
to draw him out, to understand what he was thinking.  
Now her answers were spontaneous, and often a 
surprise to her.

"But if I open my eyes, you might turn back to Mark
Twain."

"Perhaps I shall."

"He wrote a book, you know, about going back to an
earlier time.  I asked him about it."

"He wrote many fine stories."

"But it wasn't only a story.  He was good friends with
Nikola Tesla.  And I must talk to Leamus about
financial support."  Mulder's voice changed when he
spoke about business and money.  "An initial bequest
for Tesla, something sizeable.  Perhaps an endowment. 
After a few years the firm could underwrite an
offering--a little risky, but possibly quite
lucrative."

"So Tesla came to see you?"

"Mark Twain," he corrected her impatiently.  "But
transposition of the epochs, traveling across time.
That's a task for a scientist.  And if I could do
that, I could make everything right."

He grew quiet, and he turned his face into his pillow.

"Mulder?"

"Leave me now.  You sound too much like her," he said.

"Don't make me leave again.  Talk to me."

"If I could go back in time, I could make everything
right.  There isn't any other way."

"Oh, Mulder."

"The first time I met her I would tell her the truth. 
She would know my name, and why we had to get married
at once."

"Would she agree?" asked Katie, somewhat bemused.

"We have to get married, for our little girl."

"Mairead."  The name tugged at her heart as she spoke
it.

"I saved a boy once," Mulder said.

"My brother," Katie said.

"Another boy I sent away, to keep him from harm."

"Kevin Kryder."

"But my daughter, my own daughter."  Mulder curled
into a ball.

"Our baby," Katie said.

"My wife almost died giving birth.  But then we had
our beautiful daughter, and it let me forget what I'd
done.  How I'd hurt and shamed Katie, who never knew
shame until she met me."

"I never knew love until I met you," Katie said
fervently.

"If I could have been the man my father wanted me to
be. . .  Or the man my wife deserved. . .  But I was
neither.  An equivocator, a trespasser."

"Mairead died from pneumonia.  How can you hold
yourself to blame for that?"

She buried her face in her hands, but he touched her
wrist and drew her hands away.  He was sitting up and
his eyes were open at last.

"Don't cry," he said.  "You look exactly like her, and
I can't bear it if you cry."

"You're crying too," she said.

"Our child is gone," he said, his voice husky.

"I know," she whispered.

"But Tesla and Edison and H.G. Wells. . .  with all my
money they can make a time machine, and Mairead won't
be dead."

She put her arms around him and waited for him to push
her away, but he buried his face against her, sobbing
silently.  For a long time she rocked him and cried,
and when her neck ached too much for her to continue,
she crawled into bed beside him. 

Some time later Daisy roused her timidly, saying that
Mr. Skinner hoped she would join him for a light
supper.  Katie sent word she would see him in the
morning, and told Daisy she could retire for the
night.  After the maid had left, Katie got up to wash
and change into nightclothes, then slipped back into
bed without disturbing Mulder.

She had been glad for the merciful numbness she'd felt
walking on the rocky beach of Stone Harbor, but now,
as she lay in bed, her breasts pressed against
Mulder's back, she felt her heart stir in her chest. 
Before she had understood how Mulder would never again
see her without seeing also the agony of their loss,
and now she wondered if the same wasn't true for her.

Mulder was her love and her life, but he was also the
father of her precious child, lost forever.  Her love
was like a fire, searing her even as it warmed her
back to life.

She succumbed to sleep but awoke when Mulder turned so
that he was facing her, and she moved to accept his
embrace.

He clasped her tightly, finally loosening his hold
enough to wipe a tear from her face with his fingers.

"You came back to me, after all I've done."

"I care about you," she said simply.

"I need you, Katie.  I can't survive without you."

"Is this how it will always be for us?  Looking at the
past and trying to forge it into what might have
been?" she asked.

He looked at her, his eyes large and bright in his
gaunt, pale face.

"I will always ache for Mairead and wish she was with
us still," he said.

"And when you look at me, will you always see the one
who brought death home to our child?"

"What?  Of course not!"  His answer was too swift and
forceful to be a lie.

"But I did," she said softly.  "How can you blame
yourself and the clinic without blaming me as well?"

"Because helping people is what you do.  Mairead
understood.  She was so proud of you."

How the child could chatter!  What a din she could
raise, with her sturdy shoes on the marble floors or
her wooden spoon against a copper bowl.  It was only
when she was ill that she was quiet, only when
breathing came too hard that she was without a song or
a question.  

"Our beautiful girl," Katie said.  Every memory felt
heavy, but Katie treasured them all.  "You're right,
Mulder, we will always ache for her."

"As long as we live."

"Apart or together," Katie said.

"Together.  Please, together."

She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead.  If
he would have pressed, she would have promised to stay
with him.  How easy it would be, to close her eyes to
the obstacles between them.  

They slept in turns, it seemed.  She watched his
peaceful slumber, then later awoke with his eyes on
her, as if he was guarding against her escape.  As
dawn's light peeked through the curtains, she woke 
again, to an empty bed.

"Mulder?" she called, to no answer.  She found him
lounging in the bathtub, his head back so his ears
were submerged.  He sat up when he saw her.

"I thought I could do with a wash," he said.

"I would have helped you.  You shouldn't be bathing
alone yet," she said.

"I'm better.  I'm fine now," he said.

"I suppose we'll find out at breakfast," she said.

"As long as you can dissuade Cook from preparing my
'favorite,'" he answered.
 
Katie hated to call for a maid at this early hour, so
she stripped the bed by herself, and made it up with
fresh linen.  She returned to the bathroom as Mulder
was climbing unsteadily from the tub.  Once she had
him settled in the bed--in pajamas, although he
demanded his shirt and trousers--she pulled on her
dressing gown and tiptoed down the stairs in search of
nourishment.   

"Bread and jam," he said, when she brought him his
plate.  "Our first breakfast together."

"I don't think Cook would care to hear you refer to
her Damascus fig preserves as jam," Katie said. 

"Perhaps it's time to inform her that I would prefer
jam," he said as he took a generous bite.  He took a
long swallow of cold milk.

"You might even tell her that your 'favorite' has lost
its appeal, now that you're a grown man.  Gently, of
course."

"She made it for me my first holiday home from St.
Paul's," he said.  "My parents were out, and Cook let
me eat it in the kitchen."

The proud Mulder mansion held very few places of
comfort.  The nursery, once.  The darkroom, for
Mulder.  And the kitchen.

"How many rooms in this house?" Katie asked.

"I never counted," Mulder replied.

Katie had never felt that this house was her home. 
At times, she'd hated living here.  How sad that
Mulder was no more at home here than she.

Katie gathered up the remains of their breakfast to
carry them downstairs, and was pleased when she didn't
encounter anyone until she reached the kitchen. 
Walter Skinner stood by the stove, contemplating the
percolator with a mixture of regret and frustration.

"You're up early," she said as she set the tray down
on the table.

"I woke in the middle of the night," he replied.  "I
had some ideas for the book and had to write them down."

"Would you like some coffee?" Katie asked.

"Mulder and I spent several hours trying to unravel
the mystery.  Unlike him, I never got the hang of it,"
he admitted.

"If you grind the beans, I'll make the coffee," she
offered.

"How is Mulder this morning?" he asked.

"He's still weak, but his fever is down and he's very
much himself," she said.

"Thank God.  You have no idea how frightened we were."

"I was curious, Walter, why you didn't take on a
professional nurse for him," Katie said.

"I tried, twice.  They didn't work out," he said.

"Mulder drove them away, with his delirium?" she
asked.

"On the contrary, they meant to make the most of his
confusion," Walter said bitterly.  "I discovered the
first holding up some papers for him to sign, chiding
him because he couldn't grip the pen."

"Good lord," said Katie.

"The second woman came with the same spotless
credentials, but the same intent.  Edgar made the
discovery."

"Did you learn who had set them to their purpose?"
Katie asked.

"A colored man."

"Mr. Xavier?" Katie wondered.  Blaming a colored man
was a convenient and popular lie, even where dark skin
was rare and conspicuous, but on this occasion it
might be the truth.  The despicable Cornelius Spender
was probably behind the plan, and he could have sent 
his urbane hired man to bully and bribe the nurses.

"I didn't dare hire another nurse.  We took care of
him quite well ourselves, at least until Samantha had
to leave."

"Daisy told me her husband was hurt."

"He was shot," Walter said.

"Shot!"    

"A man came to the factory around closing time and
asked to see him. They went into Sean's office to
talk. If the foreman hadn't gone into the office
before heading home, I think Sean might have bled to
death."

"Will he be all right?"

"He's hanging on."

Apparently the gunman had forced Sean to open his
safe.  The police were faced with a lack of leads 
in the crime.

She left the dishes in the sink.  The kitchen staff
would be up by now, ready to start their work shortly.
The coffee was nearly ready, the percolator drumming
madly on the stove.   She turned down the flame and 
moved the pot off the heat.

Katie hadn't taken time to make coffee when she came 
down earlier so she took three cups from the shelf over 
the sink and filled them with the fragrant brew.  

"Have you told Mulder about Sean?" she asked, handing
Skinner a cup of coffee.  

"He wasn't well enough to hear it," Skinner answered.

"I think we should wait to tell him until we know more 
about Sean's condition."

Skinner nodded in agreement.  Carefully bearing the hot
coffee, Katie returned to the bedroom.   

"You were gone a long time," Mulder said.  "I was worried."

"No need to worry, love," she replied.  "I made us some
coffee."

It took all of Katie's energy to keep Mulder in bed that
morning.  Used to constant activity, he was restless and
bored.  Katie brought him the newspaper and some photography
books to occupy him, but they failed to engage his 
attention.

She was relieved when his weakened body finally insisted
on rest and he fell into a deep sleep.  Katie closed the
door quietly behind her.  

Perhaps there had been news from Detroit in the last few 
hours.  Katie went in search of Walter Skinner.  She found
him talking into the telephone in the library.

"Our thoughts are with you," he said into the speaker.  
"Let me know if there is anything we can do to help."   

"Sean?" Katie asked, hopefully.

"Yes.  That was Samantha.  He's not doing well."

"Oh dear," Katie said.  "Poor Samantha."

A knock on the door gained their attention.  

"Excuse me," Edgar said as he entered the room.  
"Mrs. Fowley is here, again, asking to see Mr. Mulder.  
I told her that he's not accepting visitors, but 
she's very insistent."

"Please show her to the drawing room," Katie said, 
hoping she had successfully hidden her distaste.  
When Edgar left, she glanced at Skinner.

"She's come calling every day," Skinner said.  

"I'll deal with this," Katie said.  Beyond the drawing 
room door, she smoothed her dress and took a deep breath.

"Good morning," Katie said as she entered the room.  "I'm
Katherine Mulder.  What can I do for you, Mrs. Fowley?"

Diana Fowley extended her hand with the cool assurance of
one who had never doubted her place in life.  She was older
than Katie had first thought, though still lovely in a 
brittle way.  

"I want to convey my condolences, Mrs. Mulder.  I was
horrified when I heard that your daughter had passed
away."

"Thank you," said Katie, and waited for Mrs. Fowley to
express the true purpose of the visit.

"I must see your husband."

"He is not receiving visitors this morning."  Katie
tried to sound neutral, but she remained very curious.

"Please, it's urgent.  It concerns his business."

"Then I suggest you call on Mr. Traut."

"I've been a friend of the family for many years.  I'm
certain Mr. Mulder would agree to see me."

"Are you?" Katie asked, blandly.

Mrs. Fowley pursed her lips, which made her look older
and harder than ever.  She shrugged her shoulders, and 
then she let them sag.

"No, I'm not.  And I fully realize what you must think
of me.  But I have important information for your
husband.  It's in his interest and yours to let me
speak with him."

"I will inform him of your stated purpose and will
send you a note if he decides to receive you."    

"I was sent here by Cornelius Spender," Mrs. Fowley
announced.

"Do you imagine I will bow to your wishes on his
account?" Katie asked indignantly.

"I am not here to obey Spender, but to thwart him."

Katie finally lost her patience.  The odious woman 
was clearly willing to try one gambit after another 
to achieve her audience with Mulder.

"Mrs. Fowley, it will be impossible for you to see my
husband today.  If you want to entrust me with your
information you may do so, but my time is limited."  

"I'm risking everything to bring you this warning!"

"Yet in the past you brought us nothing but trouble!"

"That's true.  I insinuated myself into Fox's life and
caused you both distress, but only because Cornelius
Spender forced my hand."

"But now you're willing to defy him."

"If not for Fox, I wouldn't know my daughter, and I
won't repay his kindness with treachery."

Katie listened at first as one listens to a well-told
yarn, deferring judgment as to its veracity.  Mrs.
Fowley described the circumstances of her child's
birth, how the child was taken from her, and how she
had allowed Spender to use her shameful secret to
manipulate her.

"Fox found my daughter for me, but more than that he
made me understand what I had lost."

Mrs. Fowley showed Katie a photograph and a review
clipped from a newspaper.  Katie had never heard of
the celebrated Louise Grace and saw little resemblance
between the sweet-faced actress and the shrewd, driven
woman who claimed to be her mother.  Nevertheless, she
believed Mrs. Fowley was telling the truth.  The
motherly pride was convincing, and the story was too
damaging to be an invention.

"How nice for you," Katie said, feeling the bitter
irony that Mrs. Fowley's child was a young woman,
while her dear Mairead had died before her second
birthday.

Mrs. Fowley hastily tucked her photo out of sight.

"I'm grateful to Fox, and I won't be party to
Spender's scheme," she said.  "He gave me papers for
Fox to sign."

"Papers?"

"A will, among other things.  Deeds, certificates.  If
I couldn't convince Fox to sign them, I was to testify
that he had communicated his intentions to me, even if
he wasn't able to commit them to writing."

"Was that all he asked of you?  Mulder's signature and
your false witness?"

Mrs. Fowley was genuinely startled.

"What more could he want?  What could be more
contemptible than robbing an invalid in the guise 
of friendship?"

Katie didn't answer, but rose to show that their
meeting had concluded.  Spender's perfidy was beyond
her normal vocabulary.  On hearing that the man he
called his son was facing death, he responded with a
plan for embezzlement.  

What would have happened if Mrs. Fowley or one of the
nurses had secured Mulder's signature?  Would Spender
have been content to let nature take its course? 
Perhaps the next visitor would have arrived with a
pistol instead of a pen.

"If he learns what I've done he will have his revenge.
I beg you for your discretion," Mrs. Fowley said.

"Of course, I'll keep this between us," Katie replied.  
"But, surely, he can do nothing to harm you, now."

"You mustn't underestimate him, Mrs. Mulder.  He 
frightens me, these days.  He was always ruthless,
but it's gone beyond that now.  He's irrational."

Mrs. Fowley departed, leaving Katie alone with her
rage.  She could compare Spender to a viper, a
scorpion or a swine, but it would be a slander against
the animal kingdom.  She tried to imagine what Shayna
would say.

*He should rot before he dies.  From the inside out 
he should rot.*

The curse satisfied her.  

Mulder was awake when she returned to the bedroom, 
flipping through one of the photography books Katie had
brought him earlier.  He looked up and smiled as she
entered the room.

"When I woke, I was afraid that you had been a dream,"
he said.  "Then I spotted your valise by the door."

"I'm real," Katie said, sitting on the side of the bed.
She placed her palm against his forehead and nodded in
satisfaction.  "You're fever is still down.  That's 
good."

"I feel fine.  I wish you'd let me get out of bed,"
he groused.  "It's boring lying here."

"Well, you'll need to be bored for at least a week,"
she said.  

Mulder undoubtedly would have found diversion in an 
account of Mrs. Fowley's visit, but Katie had no 
intention of telling him about it right now.   
He might just decide to chase down Cornelius 
Spender right then and there and Mulder was not 
nearly strong enough.

"Very well," he said with an exaggerated sigh.  "I
suppose I can put up with a week in bed as long as
I have you here to talk to.  I missed you so much."

Katie smiled and ruffled his hair.   "I was wondering
if you might occupy yourself for a few hours.  
I...I really need to see my mother."

"Of course," Mulder said, quickly.  He took her hand.
"You must go."

After lunch, Dunham drove Katie to the boarding house.
Missy opened the door and drew her into a tight
embrace.

"Oh, Katie, Ma and me were crazy with worry about ya."

"I'm sorry, Missy.  I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Come on in and let me make ya a cup a' tea.  How is
Fox?"

"He's much better."

They went into the kitchen and Missy turned the heat
up under the kettle and began measuring tea into the
teapot.

"Where is Ma?" Katie asked, looking around the room.

"She's takin' a nap," Missy answered.  "She hates to
admit it, but since she was sick, she gets tired a 
lot."

"I'm so sorry.  Ma got sick taking care of me."

"Ya can't blame yerself."

Katie shook her head.  No matter what anyone said,
she would bear the burden of guilt to her grave.

"It's good that you were here to take care of Ma,"
Katie said.

"Well, it's not like I had any place else to go
when Danny drunk all the rent money and run off. 
I'm lucky Ma could take me in."

Missy poured hot water into the teapot and set the
table with cups and saucers.  

"It's good yer back," Missy said.  "Poor Fox come
by one day when ya was gone and he looked like 
death warmed over.  He was frantic.  Katie, the man
loves ya like crazy."

"I know he does, Missy.  I just wish it was enough."

"Oh, Katie, what are ya talkin' about.  He loves you.
You love him.  It don't have to be any harder than 
that."

"Missy, do you love Danny?"

"Danny has nothin' to do with this."

"You love him.  And I believe he loves you, too.  But
you can't make it work any more than I can with Mulder."

"Look it," Missy sputtered.  "Danny may love me, but
he loves the drink more.  You can't compare me and you.
Fox is a good man, and he loves you."

"It's just not that easy," Katie said.

"What's not easy?" Maggie asked from the doorway. 

"Ma," Katie said, rising and embracing her mother.  
"I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I feel fine," Maggie said, laying a hand on Katie's
cheek.  "It's good yer back, Kate.  Yer husband
needs ya."

"Let's have some tea," Katie said, pulling out a 
chair for her mother.  She managed to keep the 
conversation away from her relationship with Mulder,
but Katie knew her mother and sister had plenty 
more to say on the matter.

"Aunt Katie! Aunt Katie!"  Michael cried as he ran
across the kitchen to throw himself into Katie's arms.

"Have you been helping Mommy take care of Jimmy?"
Katie asked.  

He looked to his mother, in confusion.

"Jimmy ain't sick, is he, Ma?" he asked.

"Yer brother's fit as a fiddle," Missy reassured him. 
"I was just tellin' yer aunt what a big help you are,
mindin' him for me."

Michael turned his attention back to Katie.

"Ma said Mulder is sick.  An' Gran said he looks like
a raggedy bag o' bones that wouldn't leave a footprint
in the mud."

"If only you had such a memory for yer catechism," 
Maggie groused.  "And since yer such a help mindin' 
yer brother, go fetch him in from the yard before 
the mosquitoes gobble him up."

Katie stayed long enough to hug her youngest nephew,
then took her leave.

"Get on home, yer husband needs ya," was Maggie's
goodbye.

Katie was surprised, on her return, to come face to
face with her young brother, Charlie.  He was
descending the front steps as she climbed out of the
Rolls Royce.

"Ahoy, Minnow!" he greeted her.

"Ahoy to you too, small fry," she said, but for the
first time she realized that he had overtaken her in
stature.

"I missed you," he said, seriously.  He was too tall
for her to ruffle his hair, so she hugged him.

"Look at you, Charlie, using the front entrance like a
proper visitor," she said.

"I didn't come to raid your pantry this time.  Mulder
wanted to see me."

"I'd like to see you myself.  Come back inside and
we'll raid the pantry together."

"Sorry, sis.  I have to get ready for my trip."

"And where do you think you're going?"

"New Jersey.  Official business with Mr. Traut!"

Katie had left Mulder with strict orders to rest,
orders which he'd apparently flouted.

"Mulder is sending you to New Jersey?" she asked.

"He told Mr. Traut I'll be invaluable as a porter and
messenger.  Do you think Ma will let me go?"

Charlie looked so confident and grown up that Katie
was sure Maggie would agree.

"I think you'll do us proud," she said.  There was a
bounce to Charlie's step as he walked away; perhaps
the real wonder was that his feet touched the pavement
at all.

Edgar opened the door at Katie's approach.

"It was my hope that Mr. Mulder would rest," she said.

"He has not left the house, Mrs. Katherine.  That is a
victory in itself," he answered.   

She climbed the stairs to find Mulder in their
bathroom, fitting a new blade into his safety razor.

"I see you've taken advantage of my absence to conduct
business," she said, sternly.

"You ordered me to rest.  I'll rest more easily
knowing that DT won't be buying or selling railroads
on impulse."

"Do you really think Charlie can hold him in check?"

"Sometimes all it takes is a pertinent question. 
Charlie's a shrewd boy, and I know I can trust him."

Mulder turned on the taps, leaning heavily on the sink
as he gathered up his shaving materials.

"Go sit down.  I'll help you," Katie said.

"Honestly, you're treating me like a child."

"A child in need of a shave.  Now sit."  She indicated
one of the armchairs, and, with a sigh, he obeyed her.

She pulled the chair from the dressing table next to 
the arm chair.

"Are you sure you've done this before?" Mulder asked,
nervously.  

"I've always wanted to learn," she answered.  She knew
enough of his dry humor to understand his question as
a joke.   She worked the shaving soap into a frothy
lather and patted it onto his face.

"Skinner told me about the hired nurses, who tried to
force my signature.  I suppose it might have been a
near thing if one of them had taken a razor to me."

Katie felt sick at the thought of how easily he could
have been murdered, and with greater subtlety than a
razor to the throat.

"Mrs. Fowley was by this morning," she told him. 
"Cornelius Spender charged her with the same task, 
to acquire your signature on some documents."

"And she refused him," Mulder concluded.

"She was afraid to refuse him outright, but she
wouldn't do it."

"Katie, I've kept a secret for her, but now I must
tell you.  I'd rather betray her trust than risk
losing yours."

"She told me about her daughter, and how you helped to
reunite them."

"I'm not sorry I helped her, but I'm sorry I kept it
from you.  No more secrets."

He was silent as she whisked the lather from his face
in short, expert strokes.  She had delayed informing
him of Pendrell's misfortune, and his words pricked
her conscience.
 
"I need to tell you something, too.  The reason that
Samantha had to leave."

"A fevered lunatic makes for tedious company."

"Her husband was shot."

He gaped in surprise.

"How did it happen?" 

Katie told him what little was known, including Sean's
precarious state and the failure of the police
investigation.

"Who would do this?  Not his business partners--we're
600 miles away.  A competitor?" 

"A burglar?" Katie asked.

Mulder drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. 
When he spoke his voice was dark.

"Katie, there's a photo.  In the darkroom.  A large
brown envelope on the lowest shelf.  It isn't
labeled."

"All right," she said.

"Send that to the police in Detroit.  Let them show 
it in the factory."

Katie found the picture precisely where Mulder had
indicated and brought it back to him.  

"Who is he?" she asked.  The man in the picture did
not look like a killer.  

"That's my former assistant, Alex Krycek.  Cornelius
Spender's mercenary."

"But why?"

"To get Samantha out of the house, so he could get to
me."  He gave a pained smile.  "You must think I'm
delirious again."  

"I don't."

"Or mad."

She shook her head, somberly.

"No, Mulder.  Not you."

To be continued...

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder's 
story - Part 28


Charlie Scully paced as he spoke, back and forth
across the large office, the hitch in his gait most 
noticeable when he reached the edge of the Persian carpet 
and pivoted around.

"See, Mulder, I got nothin' against school, but it
takes away from my time here.  Mr. Traut says I'm a
great help to him, says I have a memory like an
elephant.  And I feel bad, Mulder, havin' you pay 
for my schoolin' when I don't need it."

"Your continued employment here is contingent upon you
finishing your education," Mulder said firmly.

"I'm getting the best education right here.  My
arithmetic's better than DT's already.  My brother was
done when he was my age, an' Missy too.  Hey, it's
Katie, isn't it?  Is she the reason you're tellin' me I
have to go on to graduate?"

When Mulder had returned to the office, he found that
people treated him differently.  Voices were hushed,
speech was carefully formal.  But Charlie Scully was
always the same.

"Charlie, where's Russia?" Mulder asked.

"What kind of question is that?  It's far away, that's
for sure, and you'd have to cross an ocean."

"What do you know about Austria?"

"Well, kangaroos, I guess."

Mulder didn't laugh, but Charlie colored anyway.

"I understand what you're sayin', Mulder, and I know
there's a lot I have to learn, but--"

"Sit down," Mulder said.  "Maybe your ears will work
better if you stop walking in circles."

Charlie dropped into a chair across the desk.

"You were a crackerjack newsie.  Remember?"

"Oh, sure."

"You knew where your customers would be, and what
would interest them.  You knew when a big headline
would make you more sales.  You're a natural-born
businessman."

"Nothin' much to it," Charlie mumbled.

"You have a keen aptitude, but that won't substitute
for a broad education."

"How about a compromise?"  Charlie asked.

Mulder decided to end the discussion.

"If you're determined to leave school, I won't stop
you," he said.

"Thank you!"  Charlie jumped up from his chair.  "I'll
write up a letter of withdrawal to the headmaster."

"I'll see that your last paycheck is mailed to your
home."

"What?"

"Let me know if you'd like a letter of
recommendation."

Charlie's blue eyes flashed.

"So if I leave school, I lose my job?  You could have
just said so."

"I thought I had," Mulder answered, mildly.  

Charlie huffed as he stalked from the room.  

Probably the day would come when Charlie would thank
Mulder for his generosity.  Maybe on that day Mulder
would be candid enough to admit that backing Charlie's
education was not charity, but an investment.  

Walter Skinner was another recipient of Mulder's
largesse, but he knew full well that he was being
used.  Mulder had installed his former tutor into his
old office, and Skinner had accepted the position
grudgingly.  Fortunately Skinner turned out to have an
unexpected flair for finance.

Mulder was pleased to see the growing respect Skinner
commanded around the firm.  It made him wonder if he
should have spent more time cultivating his own scowl.
Skinner could stare down anyone, from DT to Morris
Fletcher, and it was only in private that he would
reveal his uncertainty.

Besides Skinner and young Charlie, there were other
men at Mulder & Traut who showed talent and integrity.
It took an effort of will for Mulder to step back and
let them exercise their abilities.  DT was content
when their efforts brought more profits, angry when
their maneuvers went awry, as if he had forgotten that
investment was always speculative.  

DT still insisted that Mulder was a genius of finance
and that no other man could do his job.  Mulder
answered coolly that if one man couldn't do it,
perhaps it took two, or three, or four.   

Mulder couldn't allow himself to regret that he hadn't
found the strength to release his hold on the reins
while his daughter was alive.  Some days any thought
of Mairead was too much to bear, but other times he
could take comfort from his memories.

DT neither liked nor understood Mulder's detachment
from the firm.  He recommended the waters at Gstaad or
a tour of the Orient for a man to regain his zest. 
Mulder told him flatly that his zest had never been
for banking.

Mulder sighed, wondering if it was any favor at all to
push Charlie toward a profession that valued wealth
and power above everything.  The pursuit of the
almighty dollar could be intoxicating.  When was the
last time Charlie had taken his bike for a spin, or
pitched a game of stickball?

Mulder pushed himself away from his desk.  He had
spent the morning at work and was determined to keep 
the afternoon for himself.  First he would stop by 
Skinner's office, but then he would be off.

Morris Fletcher jumped to his feet at Mulder's
approach.  

"Coffee, sir?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll tell Mr. Skinner you're here."

"Please."

Fletcher simpered into his 'phone and then ushered
Mulder through the door with another offer of coffee. 
Skinner glared, and Fletcher retreated.  As the door
closed, Mulder settled into a chair and Skinner
dropped his facade.

"I suppose it doesn't trouble you that I have no idea
what I'm doing," Skinner said.

"I have complete faith in you."

"I've tried to learn the business, but I think my 
decisions are no better or worse than a roll of 
the dice."

"No one can take issue with your results," Mulder
reminded him.

"I believe I've uncovered your secret.  Where Mulder &
Traut goes, others follow.  We can scarcely
fail to make money."

"Money goes to money, Skinner.  I thought everyone
knew that."

Skinner frowned, then removed his spectacles
and polished them with his handkerchief.

"What would you do, Mulder, if your analysis lead you
to one conclusion, yet your impulse was to do the
opposite?" he asked.

"I'd follow my impulse."

"Even if every logical argument told you you were
wrong?"

"Especially then," Mulder said.

"Standard Oil--"

"May it rest in pieces," Mulder interrupted.

"Perhaps a few pieces for us?"

"If you think so."

"American Tobacco Company?"

"A similar opportunity."

"I don't like it, and I can't explain why," Skinner
said.

"Then leave it alone."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"Your feelings will be right more often than not. 
Besides, I don't like American Tobacco either.  It
reminds me of Spender."

"Do you think we've seen the last of him?" Skinner
asked.

"My detective saw him board the Mauretania bound for
Hamburg.  Mrs. Fowley reports that he plans to sojourn
in the Balkans."

"Then I pity the Balkans." 

"He killed Sean Pendrell."  Mulder was certain of
this, although he hadn't been able to convince Skinner
or the police, but he continued anyway.  "The foreman
identified Krycek from the photograph, and Krycek is
nowhere to be found."

"I'm sorry about your brother-in-law.  But the fact
that Spender and Krycek are both fiends doesn't
establish their connection." 

"You've heard my suspicions, and I know you find them 
fantastic.  But Warwick Manchester is not a fanciful 
man, and I am quite sure he fears Spender too."

"You should press him for details," Skinner advised. 
"His insinuations are no more useful than DT's
riddles."

"Sir Warwick feels anything set in writing can be lost
or waylaid.  He booked passage for the spring.  It 
seems at long last he's ready to tell his secrets."

"I don't doubt that Spender is dangerous, powerful and
quite possibly insane.  But a *kingmaker,* a man who
can play with the world as if it were a chessboard?" 
Skinner shook his head.

"Do you know, he offered me the Presidency once?"

"With the Republicans standing by Taft, and Roosevelt
refusing to back him, this might be your chance,"
Skinner said, drily.

Mulder stood up and set his camera on Skinner's desk
as he put on his coat.

"Then I'd better hurry home to prepare my speech," he
said.

"Leaving me to slave away while you stroll about and
indulge your hobby," Skinner said, nodding at the
camera.

Mulder knew that Skinner had accepted the role of
financier as a personal favor.  His hope was that his
friend would come to relish the challenge.

"Aren't you enjoying it even a little?  The respect,
the ability to cast so much influence?  You were able
to effect some significant changes in our geological
holdings."

Skinner gave the smallest of smiles.

"I liked helping the miners.  And tormenting Morris
Fletcher is highly rewarding."

"You see?  We both have our hobbies."  Mulder picked
up his camera and headed for the door.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

"Are you sure you won't reconsider and come along?"
Teena Mulder asked, as she slipped on her gloves.  
"Adele Schuyler would love to see you."

Katie sincerely doubted that Mrs. Schuyler would miss
her presence at her tea party.  She smiled, and helped 
her mother-in-law draw on her wrap.  "You go on and 
have a good time."

Teena had returned from Maine a week ago.   If she'd 
been surprised to find Katie at Mulder's side, Teena
had hidden it well.  Her impeccable breeding would 
allow no sign of disapproval.  Katie could hardly blame 
Teena for her reservations.  In truth, Katie shared 
some of them.

Katie had no doubts about where she belonged.  Her
place was with Mulder, his place was with her.  But
could people from such different strata overcome the
gulf between them?  Mulder believed they could, yet 
it was rarely him, and usually herself, who had to 
stretch or shrink to fit in.

Teena left in a cloud of French perfume and false
disappointment that Katie was staying behind.  Though
she'd never tell Mulder, Katie had come to realize 
that Teena was not someone she liked very much.

Since she returned from Stone Harbor, Katie had less 
patience for the artifice of New York society.  She'd 
never felt comfortable among the wealthy.  She'd 
eventually found some acceptance and a circle of friends,
but their purposeless lives held no interest for Katie.

Katie returned to the sitting room and sat down with an 
old medical journal.  Since Mulder had recovered and gone
back to work, Katie felt rather purposeless.  She avoided 
the nursery, the wound in her heart too fresh and painful 
to enter the room.  The house ran smoothly, with or 
without her input.

Katie'd forced herself to go down to the clinic one day,
but the memories were so painful, she couldn't stay.  
Not that they needed her; with additional staff, the 
operation ran as smoothly as a finely tuned machine.

Katie flipped through her journal, trying to focus on 
an article on new approaches to treating tuberculosis.
She smiled, remembering how Shayna had once said since
she knew more than half the physicians in their orbit, 
Katie should "go be a doctor, already."

Katie had snorted with laughter at that.  "I like taking
care of people too much for that.  Doctors see patients 
for a few minutes and then they're on to something new.  
Besides, if I became a doctor, I'm afraid my head would 
swell."

Shayna had pointed out that Vincent didn't have a swelled
head and seemed to spend plenty of time with patients.  
Katie hadn't had a chance to reply because more patients
arrived at the clinic.

Katie tried to read the magazine, but the afternoon sun
drifting in the sitting room window made her drowsy and
soon she nodding into sleep.  

She woke to a kiss.  Mulder smelled of the outdoors, of
chestnuts and smoke.  He brushed the hair from her 
forehead.

"What time is it?" she asked.  Sunlight was streaming
in through the window, and Mulder was home.  Something
odd was going on.

"Half past four, Sleeping Beauty," he answered, a teasing
smile curving his lips.  

"You're home early."

"Skinner had things well in hand, so I thought I'd come
home.  The weather was so nice, I decided to walk.
Did you enjoy your nap?"

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said, straightening
her dress.  Mulder was still grinning at her.  "What are 
you smiling about?  You look like the cat that swallowed 
the canary."

"Such a suspicious mind, Mrs. Mulder.  Can't a man smile
at his wife?"

"I've known you too long, Mulder," she laughed.  "You're 
hiding something.  What is the big secret?"

"I have some work to do in my darkroom," he said, airily,
as he took off his suit coat and tossed it on the sofa.  
"If you're going to interrogate me, you'll have to do 
it down there."

Mulder whistled as he led the way down to the basement,
with Katie scurrying to keep up.  Every time Katie tried
to engage him with a question, he whistled louder, casting
an impish look over his shoulder.

In the red light of the darkroom, Mulder looked devilish
as he set about his alchemy.  Katie perched on a stool, 
wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell of the chemicals he 
poured into three large pans.

"Mulder," she said.  "while I'm thrilled that you're 
taking pictures again, I still don't understand all of
this silly secrecy."

Mulder submerged what appeared to be a blank sheet of
paper into the first pan filled with liquid.  A fuzzy
image took shape, but Mulder moved and her view was
blocked by his back.  

"Wait, impatient one, and all will be revealed."

Finally, Mulder moved and the image was clear, wrought 
iron railings, trees and wide paths.  

"What a pretty park," Katie said.  "Where is it?"

"Not far," he answered, with a smile in her direction.
"It's called Gramercy Park."

After a few moments, he transferred the paper into each 
of the other two pans and hung the paper on what looked
like a small clothesline.  

He took another blank sheet of paper and immersed it 
in the solution.  

"What do you think of this?" Mulder asked.  

Katie stood beside her husband and watched as a shimmery 
picture began to form.  A brick house with a delicate
filigree of ironwork around the front door and windows. 
So much smaller and simpler than the house on Fifth 
Avenue.  So much homier.

"It's beautiful," she said. 

"I thought so too.  What would you think about living
there?"

"Mulder?   Did you buy this house?"  Katie asked.  

"Well, not yet," he answered.  "I wanted to see if you
liked it."

"I do.  It's warm and graceful."

"Not a grand house, though.  I wonder if my mother
will approve."

"I suppose she'll find it small and undistinguished." 
Katie forced the words past her tightening lips.
Mulder's photo had started her dreaming again of a
place of their own.  If Mulder valued Teena's opinion
above his own, the dream would be lost.

She shivered, as she realized there was more at stake
than a house.  Samantha was 16 years old when she
threw off her parents' control.  When would Mulder
find the strength to do the same?

"Mother will find the house completely unsuitable,"
Mulder said. "It's too small for her taste, and the
neighborhood is unacceptable."

"I know you try to please her," Katie began, but
Mulder continued blithely.

"Fortunately she has a very suitable home of her own."

"Oh, Mulder."

Tears of relief pricked at her eyes, and she covered
her face with her hands, so Mulder wouldn't see them.

"Katie, what's wrong?"

She blinked back her tears and tried to smile for him,
overcome by the swift march of emotions.

"It doesn't have to be this house."   He swept away
a tear that had broken free and trailed down her cheek.  
"Don't you remember?  I'll live anywhere you want."

"A shoebox," Katie said, her voice catching in her
throat.  "Remember when you said that?"   

"A shoebox would be fine--but only if we're together."

Mulder pulled her to him, enfolding her in his arms.

"Are you still sniffling?" he asked, tilting her chin.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a different
shoebox?"

"This will be our shoebox, yours and mine, and that
makes it perfect.  There's no place on earth I'd
rather be."

The End.

Next: Epilogue.
    
Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Epilogue - Mathew Mulder's
Story.

"What a pretty park," Rosie said, her gloved hands
gripping the black iron bars.  "Did you used to 
play here?"

"Every day.  I can get the key from the house, if you
want to see it," Mathew said.

Rosie rolled her eyes.

"You have your own park.  Of course."

"It's not *mine*.  It's for the neighborhood," Mathew
explained.

"And it's locked."

"Rosie. . . "  He touched her shoulder and she turned
to face him.  "I know you're nervous about meeting my
parents, but it's going to be OK."

"Your father is Fox Mulder," she said, her eyes
widening as she said the name.  "My father used to 
sing that old song, you know the one...'I could 
have all of Mulder's millions, but I'd be broke 
without your love.' Of course, I'm scared."

Mathew laughed and put his arms around her.  
"Grandmother Mulder hated that song.  My parents 
thought it was hilarious.  My father isn't scary, 
I promise.  Your father is twice as scary as mine."

Rosie laughed.

"He likes you, Mathew.  You should see how he was with
my other boyfriends."

"And my mother. . . "  Mathew paused.  It was
difficult to describe his mother so that she wouldn't
sound intimidating.  Her public image was of someone
demanding and determined, with no patience for
dishonesty or stupidity. In private she was much the
same, but she could also be silly and fun.  

"Your mother is Dr. Katherine Mulder.  Dr. Secare
called her the living link between the laboratory and 
the actual practice of medicine.  She revolutionized 
battlefield medicine.  She's adviser to FDR.  She 
travels around the world, touring hospitals, demanding 
to inspect prisons.  She's brilliant and fearless."

Mathew sometimes felt his mother's accomplishments as
a burden or a reproach.  She had achieved so much,
despite a medical establishment that was quick to
dismiss women as interlopers or lightweights.  

"She's afraid of snakes," he said.

Rosie gave him the look that said he was a dolt but at
least he was amusing.

"So what?" she asked.

"So, she's human.  Look, Rosie, you loved me when you
thought I was a humble medical student.  Nothing has
changed."

She surprised him with a quick kiss.

"I do love you, but everything has changed.  Your
family is rich and famous, and I'm just little Rose
Caselli from the North End of Boston," she said.

"Who is brilliant, beautiful, and soon to find her own
fame and fortune as a renowned psychologist."

"And you're just as nervous as I am.  That's why we're
freezing to death and staring at the park instead of
going to your house."

"You see?  I said you were brilliant." He took her
hand and led her down the street.  "But, Rosie, I know
my parents will love you.  I'm nervous about this." 
He tapped his hand to his chest.

"The uniform?"  She topped in her tracks.  "Mathew,
didn't you tell them you were going to enlist?"

"I, er, tried.  I told them that my country needed me,
and they both agreed.  My mother said my country
needed me to finish med school."

"But you will, right?  That's part of the program."

"I thought Dad would understand," Mathew said.  "He
and Mother didn't give a second thought to going to 
Europe during the Great War.   He put himself right
in the thick of the action taking those photographs."

"His pictures were brilliant," Rose said.   "There's
speculation that they actually shortened the war 
when President Wilson saw them."

"Dad said I had no idea what war was like, or the
suffering that could occur at home when every resource
was sent overseas.  And then. . ."  He grew silent,
remembering Dad's consternation.  For a few minutes
Mathew had feared his father might actually cry. 
"Anyway, I didn't tell them."

Rosie shook her head.

"Oh, Mathew."

He squeezed her hand.  

"It's kinder this way.  Fait accompli."

He drew her up the front steps, past the delicate 
ironwork surrounding the entrance and unlocked 
the heavy oak door.  
 
"Hello?  Anyone home?" Mathew called out as he pushed
the door open and walked into the foyer.  Footsteps 
echoed distantly from somewhere at the back of the 
house, and then a booming tenor voice.

"Matty, me boy!  'Tis a fine wind blows you home to
us."

"Oh, no," Mathew said under his breath, and Rosie
turned to him with surprise.

"My brother, Mike.  Sometimes he drinks too much," he
explained in a whisper.

Mike appeared in the foyer, and Mathew was relieved to
see he looked dapper and fresh.  

"Good to see you, Mike," Mathew said.  Mike clasped
him into an affectionate hug that was only a little
too tight, and Mathew could smell the Irish whiskey on
his breath.  They broke apart, each man taking a step
backward.

"Rosie, this is--" His introduction was interrupted by
an outburst from Mike.

"Good God, Mathew, what are you wearing?"

"It better be a United States Army lieutenant's tunic,
or those guys at the recruitment office were playing
a trick on me."

"You know your dad can get you out it.  You don't have
to do this."

"I enlisted, Michael.  I want to do my part."

"Matty, no.  We can't lose you too."

"Pull yourself together," Mathew implored him.  "I
want you to meet my fiancee."

With obvious effort, Mike composed himself.

"Where are my manners?  By all means, present me to
this lovely lady."

"Rose Caselli, I'd like to introduce my brother,
Michael."

Mike took the hand that Rose extended.

"Cousin, actually.  And I'm delighted to meet you."

"Adopted brother," Mathew said.

"Michael Murphy at your service.  I suppose Michael
Murphy Mulder would open more doors, but there's only
so much alliteration one man can handle."

Rosie laughed.

"Besides, Michael Murphy is the name of my favorite
playwright," she said.

Mathew felt his cheeks color.

"I guess I forgot to mention," he mumbled.

"Yes, the playwright.  Which of his works is your
favorite?"  

Mike was in his glory, and Mathew was worried.  His
brother was one of the kindest people he'd ever known,
but alcohol made him unpredictable.  

Rosie, meanwhile, was gushing about his plays.

"I adore them both.  'Her Majesty Maureen' is so
funny, with that cranky old lady and her boarders. 
I've seen it three times.  'A Fine Madness' is 
wonderful too, but I don't think I could bear to 
see it again.  It's just too sad."

"The orphan boy.  Yes, very sad," Mike said.

"It's a beautiful story, how he uses his pain and
isolation to become a great painter.  But there's 
so much heartache.  And it's true, money can't buy
happiness."

"It's nice, though.  Much nicer than sneaking away in
the night because you haven't got the rent."

"I wish Murphy would write some more," Rose said.

"We all wish that," said Mathew.  

"Except the cranky old lady.  She's never quite
forgiven me," Mike said, with a mischievous smirk.

Rosie's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Michael Murphy.  Well, I truly am very honored to
meet you," she said.

Michael glowed, and Mathew knew his next question
would put a damper on his triumph.

"Are Mother and Dad around?"

"They're due back from Washington around suppertime. 
I take it they didn't know you were coming home."

"I thought I'd surprise them."

Mike looked him up and down and nodded knowingly.

"I'm sure you will," he said.

"They'll have to accept it," Mathew said.

"They'll have to accept it.  And if you get killed,
they'll have to accept that too," Mike said grimly.

Rosie's hand flew to her face.

"But he'll be a doctor.  They won't put him where
people are shooting," she said.

"That's right," Mathew said, although her knew her
confidence stood on shaky ground.

He wanted to tell his brother to shut up, to stop
looking for tragedy in every shadow.  Mike was a fine
one to berate him for hurting the family, when his own
drinking was a constant source of despair.

Mathew didn't know how long he and Michael would have
stood in the foyer, eye to eye, each one filled with
things to say but holding his tongue.  It was Rosie
who broke the spell.

"It's awfully chilly out.  Do you think we could make
some coffee?" she asked.

"Splendid idea," said Mike, offering Rosie his arm as
he led the way to the kitchen.  "I like this girl,
Mathew."

"Just remember she's spoken for," Mathew said,
relieved that the tension had broken.

"Oh, do you know Jim was here a week ago," Michael
said.

"Our other brother.  His brother, my cousin," Mathew
explained.

"James Murphy Mulder.  Captain of industry and a
mighty force in building the arsenal for democracy,"
Michael said.   "Do you see what a man can accomplish
when he's not overburdened by alliteration?  He 
offered me a position at the factory.  And Uncle
Charlie's been nagging me to come in to Mulder &
Scully, so I can learn about an honest day's work."

"But what about your writing?" Rosie asked.

"My writing.  I take my pen in hand, but nothing comes."

"Writer's block," Mathew said.  "Perhaps it would help
if you took a job at the firm, or even in Detroit with
Jim.  Some fresh inspiration for you."

"I've started psychotherapy.  Aunt Kate suggested it. 
And Mulder is paying for it."

"That's great," Mathew said, trying to sound sincere.

"Oh, that's wonderful!  It's hard work, but you'll
understand everything in a new way.  You'll be free of
the chains of the past," Rosie enthused.  
 
"I need the past.  I don't want to lose it," Michael
said, very seriously.  

"You wouldn't have to lose it.  Just make your peace. 
Put it in its place.  Quiet the ghosts."  Rosie
sounded a bit flustered.

"Ghosts.  I have plenty of those," said Michael.

"Your parents.  Like the boy in your play," Rosie
said.  She sat down at the enamel-topped table and
Mike took the seat around the corner.   

"No."  Michael shook his head.  "I drew from my life,
but it wasn't an autobiography."

Rosie considered for a while.

"In the play, Stephen's aunt was a nurse instead of a
doctor," she said.

"Aunt Katie really was a nurse, before she became a
doctor.  But my father was a bum."

"So you rewrote him as a war hero," she concluded,
her voice gentle.

"Careful, Mike.  Rosie's a psychologist," Mathew
warned him.  He took the canister of coffee down from
the shelf.

"The baby who died, that was Mathew's sister, not
mine."

"Oh, Mathew."  Rosie's face twisted with sympathy. 
 
"I never knew her," he said.

"Before he was born," Michael explained.

"And I'm not in the play at all," Mathew said.  "Or
even Jimmy."

"It's fiction, not history," Michael said. 

"Maybe that's why it's hard for you to write," Rosie
mused.  "It's not autobiography, as you say, and yet
it exposes your life."

"And other people's lives.  Like that cranky Irish
landlady," Mathew said.

"Gran could write her own play.  Or we could just put
her up on a stage with a cup of tea and she'd have
plenty to say without a script," Mike said.

"Only first she'd have to serve tea to the entire
audience."

Mike and Mathew shared a laugh, but Rosie looked
serious.

"So the funny old lady from your first play was the
grandmother of the hero of your second play," she
mused.

Mathew expected his brother to object once again 
that it wasn't autobiography, but instead he agreed.

"Loosely speaking, yes," said Michael.

"Now it feels cruel to laugh at a woman who lost so
much.  Her husband, her daughter, her grand-daughter,"
Rosie said.

"Life is loss.  And Gran is as strong as his coffee,"
Mike said, jerking his head in Mathew's direction.  
"And if we wake her up from her afternoon nap, she'll 
come down here and thump us squarely with her cane."

Mathew poured a steaming mug and set it in front of Mike.

"Drink your coffee," he said.  "Strong or not."

"Make no mistake, life is loss," said Michael,
wrapping his fingers around the mug as if he was
suddenly cold.  

"The War," Rosie said.

Michael heaved a huge sigh.

"I suppose each generation finds the old tragedies a
bit boring," he said.

"We're the same generation," Mathew protested.

"We are not.  I remember the fire at the shirtwaist
factory, and how Gran had to go to a warehouse full of
bodies to identify one of her boarders.  A warehouse,
Mathew, because the morgue couldn't hold all the
bodies.  And the War, with more men called up every
month.  And then the telegraphs."

Rosie looked at Mathew, and he saw a new fear in her
eyes.

"And the Influenza, so that you were afraid to walk in
the street.  Gran begging Uncle Charlie not to go to
Mass, for fear of the crowd."

"She did?" Mathew asked.  It was almost unimaginable.

"My mother. . ."  He picked up his mug, eyes shut as
he sipped his coffee.  "Every day the wagons came to
take the bodies, stacked like firewood.  

"I'm so sorry," Rosie murmured.

"Aunt Katie was a doctor by then," he said.  "Mama was 
one of the early victims, so Jimmy and I came to live
here.  But after a few weeks, we were sent upstate to 
the lodge with Mrs. Skinner...though she was still Miss
Muir then.  I know, now, that they were trying to protect 
us from the 'flu, but I remember thinking that nobody 
wanted us."

"Oh, how sad," Rosie said, gently covering his hand
with hers.  "To lose your mother and then be sent 
away from the only family you had."

"The lodge was a wondrous place.  We swam in the lake
and hiked through the forest.  For city kids, it was
a different world.  Miss Muir was kind to us, but
we were still in exile.  The first time Walter Skinner
came to visit, I was sure he was taking us back home 
with him, but, of course, we were left behind."

"Walter Skinner?" Rose asked, her excitement overcoming
her sympathy.  "The man who wrote 'Down to the Mines, 
Singing'?"

"The very same," Michael replied.  "And a fine book it
was, too, though it became his undoing.  He was on his
way to becoming the next great American author when 
they asked him to do the screenplay for the book.  Got
seduced, right and proper, and never left Hollywood."

"This is incredible," Rose said, turning to Mathew. 
"Your cousin is a famous playwright, and Walter Skinner
is a family friend.  Who else do you have hiding around
here?  T.S. Elliot?  Ernest Hemingway?"  

"Nobody else," Mathew laughed.  

"Actually," Michael began, "Skinner worked for the Mulder 
family over the years in various capacities--everything 
from tutor to the young Fox Mulder to running the business.  
He told me once that most of 'Down to the Mines' was written 
in the Mulder mansion.  Ironic, isn't it?  A story of poor
but honest miners penned in such a palace of wealth."

"I didn't know that," Mathew said, shaking his head.  
"Mother and Dad rarely talk about the time before I 
was born."

"There's all sorts of interesting stuff in the attic,"
Michael said as he rose from his seat.  "I seem to 
remember a box of old photographs in a trunk.  You
should take a look.  And with that, I'll bid you both
adieu.  I'm off to meet some friends down the road."

Michael tipped an imaginary hat to Mathew and Rose and 
left the kitchen.  Mathew sighed and Rose glanced in 
his direction.

"Let's go on a treasure hunt," she said, taking his hand.

Rose followed Mathew through the house, up the main
staircase until they came to the narrow steps into the 
attic.  Dust motes hung in the air as light filtered 
through the windows on either end of the house.  

Mathew reached for the pull string on the single 
electric light bulb above their heads.  "Who knows
what we'll find under all this dust.  Maybe Judge
Crater is hiding up here."

"Does this work?" Rose asked, blowing dust from the
mahogany top of an old radio.

"It used to," he answered.  "Dad bought a new one
a couple of years ago, but I listened to 'The Lone 
Ranger' and 'Inner Sanctum' on that baby."

Rose turned the radio on and twisted the dial 
through static and garbled speech until she found
music.

*Jeepers, creepers....where'd ya get them peepers
Jeepers, creepers...where'd ya get those eyes*

"Not bad," she said, turning to face Mathew.  

They surveyed the contents of the attic.  Boxes, 
trunks, an old floor lamp and an elaborate English
perambulator were arrayed around the room.   

He recognized his old hobby horse, its hide seat 
showing enough wear to indicate that he wasn't the 
first Mulder to ride "Old Paint."  Mathew picked up 
a toy drum, tapping his fingers on the well worn 
leather top.  This was one toy he hadn't remembered 
seeing in the nursery when he was small.

"How beautiful," Rose said from across the room, where
she stood before an open trunk.  She held up an 
old-fashioned suit, its yellow fabric thickly 
embellished with cream braid. 

"I think I remember that dress from my parents' 
wedding photograph."

Rose regarded the garment.  "This is a pretty dress, 
but it's so simple.  I would have expected heavy satin 
and yards and yards of train."

"They didn't have a society wedding," Mathew said.
"I never thought about it, but I can't imagine my 
grandparents being pleased with Dad marrying the 
daughter of a poor Irish fisherman."  

"I wonder what they would have thought if they knew
what an important woman she would be."  She sighed
and dug deeper into the trunk.

With little cries of excitement, Rose unearthed 
several other dresses, pink chiffon and blue satin.
With a final squeal of pleasure, she held a conical
fairy princess hat aloft.  In her other hand was a
Viking helmet, complete with shiny brass horns.
Donning the princess hat, Rose crossed to Mathew
and crowned him with the Viking helmet.  

"What have you got there?" she asked, looking
down at the small, leather trunk he'd begun to 
unpack.  

"A lot of books," he said.  "Some history, a
few medical texts.   Ah, maybe this is something."

Underneath the books, he found a cigar box.  He
lifted the lid and found a stack of photographs.

"Paydirt," he said, as he flipped through the photos.
"These are old--from way before I was born.  Let's
take them downstairs where the light is better."

"And where it's warmer," Rose said, with a shiver.

"I'm sorry," Mathew said, slinging an arm around
Rose's shoulders.  The afternoon had flown and
the unheated attic had become cold.
 
They turned off the radio and descended the stairs,
the cigar box under Mathew's arm.  He led Rose to 
the library, where Mathew set about lighting a fire
in the fireplace.

"How cozy," Rose said, warming her hands at the
crackling blaze in the hearth.

"It's my favorite room."   This was where his 
parents spent their evenings, reading or listening
to the radio.  It resonated with their humor and 
intellect.

Mathew sat on the leather sofa and switched on the 
brass floor lamp.  Rose sat beside him as he opened 
the cigar box and lifted out the first photograph.

It depicted children playing stickball in the shadow 
of tenement buildings.   Their hands and faces were 
dirty, but they vibrated with excitement at the game.  
The photographer had captured them in that moment in 
their lives.  He'd captured another figure, as well:   
on the sidelines, a child leaned on a crutch, his legs 
bowed and crippled.  The boy's eyes were filled with 
longing as he watched the stickball players. 

"What an amazing job of framing," Rose said.   "It
tells a story."

"Rickets," Mathew said.    

He flipped the picture over, but nothing identified the
subjects or the artist.  Carefully laying it down, he 
held up the next picture.   He recognized the location--the 
triangular Flatiron Building.  Dwarfed by the massive 
structure, a small boy held a newspaper aloft, determination 
on his face.  

"There is something familiar about this picture.  I can't
place it, though."

"Maybe you've seen it before," Rose offered.

"I don't think so."  Mathew set the photo down, lifting
the next one with excitement.  "But this one..."

"I've seen that picture," Rose said.  "It's famous.  These
girls worked at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory.  This
was taken a few years before the fire.  I didn't realize
your father was the photographer."

"I don't think he was," Mathew replied.

He turned the photo over and then passed it to Rose.
A rectangular label was affixed to the back.

"Mathew Fox," he said.   "*Quitting Time*. Accepted for 
publication by 'The Atlantic Monthly'."

"His name is spelled the same as yours," Rose said.  "A
relative?"

"My parents never mentioned him," Mathew said.  "I always
figured I was named for Mathew Brady."

Mathew rose from the sofa and crossed to the bookshelves
that lined the opposite wall.  The books in the Mulder
family library were not for "show."  The classics vied for
space with his mother's medical texts, his father's books
on economics and business and the arts.  Mathew's hand rested 
on his favorite among the many compilations of his father's 
work.  "The Gleaning of the Harvest," Fox Mulder's celebrated
study of America during the Great Depression.  Mathew was in
one of the photographs, a small boy playing with a share-
cropper's son.  The text had been written by Melvin Frohike.
The book had won a Pulitzer Prize.

Among his father's collections were a number of general
photography books.  Leafing through them, Mathew finally 
found what he was looking for.

"Listen to this, Rose.  'While his career was brief, 
Mathew Fox left a brilliant, though small body of work.  
Following in the footsteps of Jacob Riis, Fox's favorite 
subjects were slum-dwellers.  The most famous of his 
photographs depicted factory girls from the Triangle  
Shirtwaist Company'.  There are a few more pictures of 
his in this book."
 
"Mathew..." Rose said, picking through the last few
photos in the box.  "Look at this one."

She handed him the last photograph in the box.  Mathew
felt his mouth go dry as he held the picture.  

"It's my mother," he said.  With a basket of laundry on
her hip, the girl in the picture regarded him with
a steady gaze, intelligence flashing in her eyes.  He 
turned the photograph over.  This one was labeled as
the other, with the name "Mathew Fox" and the title 
of the photograph, "Girl with Basket."

"Mathew, I don't understand.  These are the original 
photographs.   They must have known him--he certainly
knew your mother.  Looking at this picture, I would 
almost think he was in love with her."  Rose smiled
and shook her head.  "How fanciful of me."

"We can ask Michael about this fellow," Mathew said.  

"Surely he'd have been too young to remember him," Rose
responded.  "You should ask your parents."
 
He looked into Rose's calm brown eyes and wished he 
could explain why asking them wasn't as easy as it would
seem.  They rarely spoke of the past, and for the most
part, Mathew recognized his parents as people who lived
their lives in the here and now.  But he'd always sensed
a deep sadness in them when it came to the time before
Mathew was born.

"They're home," he said, suddenly.  The creak of the 
front door could have equally signaled Michael's return, 
but Mathew thought it was probably his parents.

Rosie patted her hair and smoothed her skirt,
although neither appeared to need readjustment.

Soon his mother's voice echoed from the foyer:

"Michael?  Michael, we're back."  

And then his father's:

"I'd better go check on him."

Mathew heard his mother's apprehension and his
father's weariness.

"Come on," he said to Rosie, tugging her hand.  
"Let's tell them we're here."

"How do I look?" she asked.

He stopped in his tracks and faced her squarely.  
He spent long seconds eying her carefully, 
and finally he gave his verdict.

"Awful.  Hideous.  Grotesque."

"Mathew, I'm nervous enough as it is!"

"No, seriously.  I can't believe I never noticed it
before.  You're just about the ugliest girl I've 
ever seen."

"You're terrible," she huffed.

"I hope they don't faint in fright," he said, taking
her by the arm.  "My mom is little, but my dad would
be hard to carry."

He led her along, bracing himself against his own
nervousness.

"Mother!  Dad!" he called out.  "I'm home--and with 
a surprise."

"Mathew!"  His mother stood in the foyer, her face 
wreathed with a smile.  Her red hair was nearly as 
bright as he remembered it when he was small.  Only
a smattering of gray threaded through her short curls.
She was across the room in a moment, her arms circling
his middle and her face buried in his chest.  

"Sweetheart, what a wonderful surprise to find you 
home."

Looking weary, Fox Mulder shook his head at the sight of 
his uniform-clad son.   

"You did it, despite my objections," his father said
grimly.  "I thought at least you would finish medical
school."

"Dad, I will.  It's an accelerated program, so I can
get my MD and serve my country," Mathew said.

"We discussed this, son.  There are other ways to
serve your country."  

"We discussed it, and then I made my decision." 
Mathew's parents frequently forgot that he was an
adult, and he held himself tall and steady to remind
them.

"Believe me, we will discuss it further," said his
dad, but then Mother broke in.

"Mulder, we have a visitor," she said.  

All eyes turned to Rose who drew herself up and smiled. 

"Yes, of course," Mathew said, recovering his manners.
"Mother, Dad, I'd like to introduce Miss Rose Caselli."

"I can't begin to tell you how excited I am to meet
you, Mrs. Mulder...oh my goodness, I mean Dr. Mulder,"
Rose gushed, extending her hand to Kate.  If Rose was 
upset at the omission of her status in his life, she 
didn't show it.  "I've read your monograph on morale 
and the recovery from wounds in wartime.  I cited it 
in my thesis.  And Mr. Mulder...I've been so moved by 
your photographs."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Rose," Mother said, taking
Rose's hand between her own.   She glanced in Mathew's
direction before turning her eyes back to Rose. "My son
has...well, he hasn't told us anything, so why don't we 
go into the library and you can tell us all about yourself."

"I'll be along in a minute," Dad said, turning toward
Mike's room.

"He's OK," Mathew told him.  "He went out to meet some
friends."

"Oh.  Well, then, let's get acquainted in the library."

They trailed after the others.

"You'll love her, Dad.  There's no one else like her,"
Mathew whispered.

"I'm sure I will.  But I wish you hadn't kept her a
secret."

Mother and Rosie took the sofa, facing the crackling
fire.

"How did you and Mathew meet?" Mother asked.

"We met in an insane asylum," Mathew piped in.   

"The Inget Murray Psychiatric Hospital," Rosie explained.  

"Oh my God," Mother said, the color draining from her
face.

"I wasn't a patient!" Mathew protested.

"I work there for my practicum in psychology, and Mathew 
spent a month as part of his training," Rose said.

"Katie, are you all right?" Dad asked her.

"I'm fine, Mulder."  She turned back to Rosie, and
then to Mathew.  "I wonder if you encountered a
Cornelius Spender."

Dad's face fell into a scowl, and he folded his arms
across his chest.

"Old Stinkweed," Mathew said.  

Rosie pursed her lips, obviously offended.  He knew
she was a stickler about the dignity of all her
patients, even a gibbering, dribbling wretch like
Spender.

"A very sad case," she said.  "Tertiary syphilis,
with severe neurological damage.  There's nothing we
can do for him."

"I thought he was dead," Dad said.  "How long have you
known, Kate?"

"I discovered it by accident," Mother said.  "We can
talk later."

It was as if she had to remind him they weren't alone. 

"Old Stinkweed.  What a fitting nickname," Dad mused. 
Mathew thought his mother would be as annoyed by this
impertinence as Rose had been, but she surprised him.

"So many were lost, and he's still alive," she said,
bitterly.

"Maybe death was too good for him.  But you're right,
love, we'll discuss it later."

"How do you know him?  Who is he?" Mathew asked.

"Nobody you need to worry about," Dad said.  

"Who's worried?  I'm just asking a question."

"Another time," Dad said.  "Rose, do I detect the hint
of a Boston accent?"

"More than a hint, I'm afraid," she laughed.  "I've
been working on it."

"You'd better.  Otherwise you'll be Rose Muldah, of
Gramercy Pa-ak," Mathew teased.

His parents exchanged looks.

"This sounds serious," Mother said, smiling broadly. 
"Mulder, I think you should break out some champagne."

"Champagne?  You don't keep liquor in the house,"
Mathew said.

"We gave up on that.  It didn't make any difference,"
Dad said, rising from his chair.  "By all means, this 
calls for a toast."  He left to get the champagne.

"We're delighted to have you in the family," Mother
said, her hand on Rose's arm.  "I remember how
intimidating it was when I met Mulder's parents, and I
don't want you to feel that way."

Mathew's paternal grandmother was a stiff, distant
woman.  He couldn't imagine her welcoming a new
daughter-in-law with any warmth.

"Thank you, Dr. Mulder.  That means everything to me,"
Rose said.

Mother's smile broadened.

"Then maybe you should call me Kate.  And my husband
will be very pleased if you call him Mulder."

"Tell me, how did you meet?  I bet you have a story as
good as ours," Rose said.

"It's quite a story, all right," Mother said.  "But
really, I'd rather hear more about you."

"Did Mathew Fox introduce you?" Mathew asked,
suddenly.

"Mathew Fox!  How do you know about him?" Mother
asked.

"We found his old photo of you.  Was he a friend of
Dad's?  Whatever happened to him?" Mathew asked.

"The way his name is spelled. . . . We wondered if
Mathew was named for him," Rose added.

Dad came back with the champagne and the glasses.  

"Let's pop the cork," he said, proceeding to do just
that.  Mathew passed around the glasses and Dad
poured.

"To Rose and Mathew," Dad said.

"May their love be as lasting as ours," Mother added.

"Thank you.  We couldn't ask for anything better,"
Rose said.

"Down the hatch," Mathew quipped.  They touched
glasses and drank.

"Mulder, Mathew wanted to ask us something," Mother
said.

Dad gave an exaggerated sigh and pulled out his
wallet.

"How much?" he asked, gruffly.  Mother and Rose both
laughed.

"The kids wanted to know about Mathew Fox," Mother
said.

Dad put his wallet back in his pocket.

"Mathew Fox.  Remember him?"

"How could I forget?  He was the handsomest man I've
ever seen," Mother said.

"But that wasn't how he won your heart."

Mother raised an eyebrow.  "It didn't hurt."

"Oh, brother," Mathew said.  "Sorry, Rose.  I guess
they're just too old and senile to give us a straight
answer."

"Mathew!  That's no way to talk about your parents," 
Rose said.

"You want to know about Mathew Fox?  You'd better sit
down," Dad said.

"Yes, you might as well get comfortable," Mom agreed. 
"It's a long story . . . ."

End Epilogue  

Thank you, Dear Reader, for hanging on to the end of 
this long journey and the epilogue.  Whenever I read an
epic historical AU, I always wondered what  happened after
the story was over--after we left the characters.  When
I planned this story, I felt it was important to wrap 
things up so the reader knew how things turned out for 
Mulder and for Katie.  So, now you know what happened 
to them and to Skinner and Stacy Muir, Missy and her
family, Sean Pendrell, Cornelius Spender, Margaret Scully, 
and Charlie.

But I ran out of places to fit updates, so a few of
characters didn't make the epilogue.  I'll give you some
freebies:

Warwick Miles Manchester was unable to meet with Fox 
Mulder in the spring of 1911.  Sir Warwick was among
the brave men who stood on the deck of the Titanic 
singing hymns as the ship disappeared into the dark
water. 

Izzy Berkowitz created a popular, yet gory comic book 
series.  His Great Mutato horrified parents and educators, 
but children were delighted and clamored for more comics,
bringing Izzy a great deal of success. 

The child that Diana Fowley gave up for adoption, Louise 
Grace (Gracie O'Connor), became a great movie actress, 
her career one of the few that made the leap from silent
pictures to the talkies.

So, what do you think happened to Diana Fowley?  How about
Morris Fletcher?  Shayna Berkowitz?  Vincent Vitigliano?  
Kevin Kryder?  Sheila Fontaine?  Langly and Byers? 
Come on, I bet you guys have ideas for what you think 
(or wish) happened to them.