With a Hey Ho, the Wind and the Rain
Part Two
Part Two
Act 2. Scene 3: Why this is the best fooling, when all is done ..
The rest of the school day seemed to pass quickly, although the sudden interruption of the fire alarm in the middle of Keats probably helped with that impression. It turned out to be a prank - of course - and the whole school trudged back into the warmth of the building after spending a half hour turning blue in the snow. Parkinson was an interesting shade of purple by then; Sam caught sight of his apoplectic face as he bore down on Rowdy Lynch and his associates. They looked suitably innocent. It was Holly who was smirking fit to bust ...
This is getting out of hand, Sam realised with a frown. What had probably started as a simple couple of jokes looked as if it might be rapidly escalating into a contest. And in that kind of contest there were no winners. Just losers.
He just hoped that Al could give him sufficient warning in order to prevent Jo-jo from losing permanently ...
He arrived early for the rehearsal, finding Eugene on stage, practising his capers with the young man called Kix, who’s Andrew Augucheek left a lot to be desired. So did the capers.
"This is stupid," the youngster complained petulantly. "And the costume is stupid, and the whole thing is stupid, and if I didn’t have to do this to make up my grade I’d ..."
"You’d what?" Sam enquired sweetly as he climbed the stairs onto the staging. Both young men jumped in alarm.
"Oh - ah - hi, Miss Allister," Eugene reacted, his eyes darting in the direction of the green room before he could stop himself. "We didn’t hear you come in."
"Obviously." Sam glanced towards the closed door behind the drape of stage curtaining, and both boys hurriedly interposed themselves.
"Could you - "
"Do you think - " They both tried to speak at once, and vague suspicion crystallised into wary concern.
"Is Rowdy here, yet?" Sam asked, keeping his voice light. A casual step towards the green room shuffled two anxious bodies directly in his way.
"No, Miss Allister."
"He’s going to be late, he said."
The chorus was overeager. Sam’s eyes narrowed a little.
Something’s going on, right? Something they don’t want me to know about ...
He adopted a disarming smile and favoured the young men with his full attention. "Eugene?" he asked sweetly. "Would you get the prop box out again, please? And Kix? Would you start laying out the chairs in the hall?"
"Yes, Miss Allister."
"At once, Miss Allister."
The look of pleased relief that flashed between them was almost tangible. Sam suppressed a grin and waved them off to work with a generous gesture. He waited just long enough for both of them to leave the stage - then walked straight over to the closed door and pushed it open. Eugene let out a strangled gasp; Kix dropped the chair he’d just picked up - and there was the most almighty crash from inside the room as Rowdy Lynch toppled from the precarious step ladder he was balancing on and knocked Jo-Jo and young Andrew flying.
What the ...?
Sam had the sense of mind to jump backwards as paint splattered everywhere. Bright red paint - which layered the room and its entire contents with implications of gore. For one startled moment the time traveller seriously thought someone might have been beheaded by the incident - until he realised that the face which stared up at him was one made of paper mache and that its severed neck was what the boys had been dipping into the open paint tin ...
He knew he was supposed to react with outrage and indignation. But the sight of the three of them, tangled in the step ladder and dripping paint, made him more inclined to burst out laughing.
Serves you right, he thought to himself, schooling the sternest expression he could manage onto his face. "Well?" he demanded. The boys hauled themselves gingerly to their feet and clearly didn’t know where to look.
"It was - meant to be a surprise," Jo-jo finally managed, wincing as he realised how pathetic it sounded. Sam suppressed a snort of laughter. The three of them were an absolute mess; paint dripped everywhere and made them look like escapees from a low budget horror movie. But their pitiful state was nothing compared to the looks on their faces.
They looked as if they wanted the ground to open up and swallow them whole ...
"What’s going on?" Kinnison’s voice preceded the man himself, arriving at Sam’s shoulder in haste.
"It seems - " Sam announced, still trying hard not to laugh, "that I have caught our jokers, red handed. Literally red handed," he added, unable to resist the remark. Rowdy flinched; Andrew rolled his eyes skywards, and Jo-jo groaned.
Kinnison actually grinned.
"So I see," he said. "Do we have an explanation, boys? Or are you just going to stand there and drip?"
Rowdy coloured, adding an extra layer of red to his paint spattered face. "It was just gonna be a joke, Mr Kinnison. H-honest - that’s all it was. We were hanging the head over the door, so that when Moe came in for the costumes - "
"Oh jeoshaphat," Jo-jo gasped. "The costumes ..."
The three of them turned in horror, stepping back and parting like the red sea before the wrath of god. Behind them - beneath the scene of their disaster, were a set of cardboard boxes. Open cardboard boxes. And the paint that hadn’t settled on skin or floor was slowly sinking into the spill of pale silk and blue velvet that they contained.
Kinnison’s expression went from wry amusement to one of brief anger - and then collapsed into bleak resignation. "So that’s it," he muttered, turning away and stalking out into the hall. "All that work, all that effort - all for nothing. Goddamnit. Why the hell do I even try?"
"Jim?" Sam’s instinct was to follow him - but he hesitated long enough to glare at the perpetrators of the disaster. "Don’t move," he snapped. "I’ll deal with you in a moment."
He caught up with Kinnison as he was striding out into the corridor, both of them ignoring the worried looks that the rest of the arriving cast cast in their direction. "Jim - " Sam called again, turning the man’s head, earning himself a bleak look.
"It’s hopeless," Kinnison muttered, stopping to rest his weight against a wall and grope distractedly in his pocket for a cigarette. "Utterly hopeless. They don’t care. None of them care. Nobody ever does," he added darkly.
"I care," was the instant comeback; Kinnison looked up from his match flame in surprise.
"Do you?" he asked warily. "Do you really?"
His look was intense and challenging, his inner angers written in it along with the weight of whatever it was he carried. And Sam realised that - no matter what the reasons for this man’s embitterment - he did care. Cared enough to want to do something about it. To put back the fire that belonged in those eyes ...
"Yes," he offered softly. "I do. And so do you. You know you do."
"Maybe." The answer was defensive. "But what’s the point? They’re a bunch of knuckleheads and I can’t reach them. Maybe they’ll act better in costumes they’ve painted themselves ..."
"The costumes don’t matter," Sam protested.
"Oh yeah? Are you going to suggest they perform naked, Miss Allister?"
Sam hesitated before he answered that.
Well, maybe ... Oh, come on, Sam. It’s ‘59, remember?
"Of course not. But Twelfth Night is a comedy, isn’t it? Not one of the History plays. Why don’t we just do it in contemporary dress?"
"Contemporary ...?" Kinnison stared at him for a moment, then sunk back into his despondency. "Ah, hell. You could dress them in uniform and they’d still stink."
"No they wouldn’t." Sam warmed to his subject, sensing that - if he could rekindled the man’s enthusiasm for this, then he might have a chance to reach the rest of the problem. "You can do it. They hang on your every word. You just have to say the right things."
"I don’t have the right things to say," the man denied wearily. "I never did."
Yes, you did, Sam wanted to say, recalling the look - the pleasure - with which his friend had recognised his old teacher. He was beginning to understand a little of that, to appreciate the charisma that Kinnison had buried beneath his disillusionment. You reached a real hard nosed kid, not so long back. And he carried the inspiration you gave him all the way to stars ...
"You can do it," he re-iterated softly, putting confidence, certainty, into the words. "I know you can. I believe in you, Jim Kinnison. Why can’t you believe in yourself?"
"Because - " the teacher started to say, but broke off, catching the intensity with which he was being observed. "You believe in me, Miss Allister?"
"Yes," Sam insisted, stepping closer, wondering how else he might hammer the message home. Inspiration struck him, along with the impact of the man’s cologne.
And he acted without thinking, responding to deeply buried instincts which rationalisation would later deny. His hand reached to catch the hand and its burden of tabacco, and he found himself leaning forward with deliberation, to plant a gentle kiss on the man’s cheek.
It was just a brief brush of his lips, a gesture of support, a proof of the confidence he offered. Kinnison stared at him - at Elizabeth - with astonishment - then, with a disarming smile, he caught at his company’s waist with his free hand and pulled Sam into a impulsive hug, returning the hesitant contact with one far more determined. A bold response which the traveller felt he should have protested, but into which he melted all the same ...
And at that moment the familiar sound of the Imaging Chamber door registered somewhere to Sam’s right.
"What the - ? Saam!" The growl was half anger, half outrage, and all astonishment. Sam recollected himself with difficulty.
Ah, geez, Al. This isn’t what it seems ...
"Jim - " he pushed himself away with gentle hands. "This isn’t - "
"No. Of course." Kinnison looked a little abashed. "I’m sorry, Miss Allister, I shouldn’t - "
"Yes, you should," Sam found himself saying, trying to ignore the look of utter thunder on his hologram’s face. "But not here, and - maybe not so fast, huh?"
His heart was beating like a metronome set on double time. He thought it was from embarrassment, and he didn’t have time to deal with that here and now.
I’ll explain later, he considered, conscious of Al’s expression. If I can ...
"Maybe not," Kinnison smiled; an oddly shy smile, full of sheepish comprehension. "If the school board caught us doing that in school, they’d have me out of here for sure."
"Hang the school board," Sam said recklessly. "The play’s the thing, isn’t it?"
"It sure is." The smile became a grin - a warm and wonderful grin. "Contemporary dress, huh? They might go for it. And I might as well be hung for a sheep as lamb. I’ve already outraged half of the town by being unconventional. Let’s see if we can make it a clean sweep." He started back towards the hall with enthusiastic steps, then stopped and reached back, catching Sam’s hand to drag him after him. "Elizabeth May Allister," he pronounced with warmth, "you are one hell of a woman."
"Yeah, sure," Sam heard Al growl from behind him. "That’s what he thinks ..."
Act 3. Scene 1: If you do not murder me with thy love ...
Thwunk.
The ball impacted hard against the back wall of the court and bounced just as he expected. He stepped sideways and caught it on the return, hammering it back with a vicious sideswipe.
Thwack!
Once again it went right where he wanted it, and he slid to meet the rebound, his whole attention focused on the movement and nothing else.
Thudunk!
The swirl of movement behind him didn’t even touch his concentration. His heart was racing, his lungs were screaming, and all there was was the ball and the need to keep it moving. As long as it was moving he didn’t have to care about anything else, didn’t even have to think.
Thwunk!
"How long’s he been down here?" Vernon Beeks’s voice asked conversationally, somewhere beyond his attention range.
"About an hour." Tina’s answer was resigned. She’d been sitting there watching him for a long time, not daring to interrupt him, clearly uncertain of his state of mind.
As uncertain as he was right there and then.
"I see." Beeks didn’t sound too surprised. "Has he missed one yet?"
"No. I thought he would, but he hasn’t. Not once. He hasn’t even changed the pace. And if he keeps at it much longer he’s gonna drive me crazy."
"Meditative rythymics," the psychiatrist observed with admiration. "Right on the beat. It’s a form of self hypnosis. Guess that’s a trick that served him well in Nam."
"What?" Tina asked in puzzlement. "Playing squash until he drops?"
"No," Beeks chuckled with soft denial. "How to focus and clear the mind until it’s not thinking anything at all. Buddhists do it by chanting. The Chiralaquoi do much the same thing in a spirit dance. Dancing to the drums." He chuckled a second time, amused by something in the concept. "Perhaps I should book the Commodore a place in the next clan sweat lodge. Do him a world of good."
"You think so?"
He didn’t care what they thought. They were just background irritation, noises he could tune out of his perceptions. There was no reality except the savage rhythm of the racquet and ball, no existence except the impact of feet on polished wood and the rasp of air in white hot lungs.
Thwunk.
He loves me.
Thwack.
He loves me not.
Thadunk.
He loves me ...
"Al?"
He ignored the query, reaching to maintain the rhythm, oblivious to sweat and pain.
Thu-thunk.
He loves me.
Thwock.
He loves me not.
Thadunk -
"Al!" The inquiry was fiercer, filled with imperious command. "Damnit, Commodore! You’ll be one hell of a help to Sam if you give yourself a heart attack, now won’t you?"
He faltered on the name, missing his stroke and letting the ball bounce beyond his control.
He loves me ...
Reality crashed back with the impact of exhaustion; the protest of overstretched muscles and the scream of overworked lungs. He bent forward in reaction, dragging in heaving chestfuls of air, gasping and fighting for breath.
"You’re the one gonna give me a heart attack, Beeks," he managed to snarl. He straightened with an effort and glared at the man concerned; Beeks was standing in the open doorway to the squash court, watching him with calm consideration. "Aren’t you Doctors always telling my generation to take more exercise?"
"Not like that we aren’t. Al - you don’t have to kill yourself to keep fit. Particularly when you’re already twice as healthy as most men your age."
"Yeah, well," Alonzo growled, stalking over to reclaim the abandoned ball. "That’s because I have to keep up with a crazy kid with a twenty year advantage on me ... Did you want something, or are you just into interrupting me for kicks?"
Beeks smiled. "Do you think I need that kind of excitement in my life? No way, Commodore. I’ve got kids, remember? I have a reason to live."
That brought the ghost of a smile to the older man’s lips. "So?" he demanded, somewhat belligerently.
"So - ah - Vega tells me Sam changed history - and you didn’t tell him."
"Oh. That. Yeah - I didn’t have an opportunity. I’ll tell him tomorrow."
"I don’t doubt it. But you’ll tell me now. Won’t you." There was a sudden hint of steel in the usually soft and reasonable voice, and it turned the Commodore’s head with startled surprise. "We had an appointment," Beeks continued sternly. "You missed it."
"I’m always missing appointments during a Leap," Al snarled back. He pushed past the psychiatrist to snatch up the towel hanging just outside the court. Tina got to her feet and scurried over, an anxious look on her face.
"Al, honey - "
He glanced in her direction and allowed himself a wry smile; she was dressed to please, in a short tight leather skirt and a blouse overflowing with frills and cleavage. On a good day he’d have told Beeks to take a hike and sought therapy from what ailed him in a far more entertaining manner than the good doctor would ever provide. But it was not a good day; it hadn’t been so for nearly a year, and he was perfectly well aware that seeking Tina’s company was just as much an escape as the punishing routine on the squash court. Brief oblivion backed by the lie of denial.
You’re a man’s fantasy in the flesh, kitten. Sweet and willing, and oh so ...
Desire stirred reflexively, a reaction quickly subsumed by the weight of physical exhaustion. He was too tired - too stressed out - to want to play, which was all Tina ever seemed to want. The more languid pleasures never appealed to her; she thought fireside rugs were for fights, not long slow mutual massages.
Oh god ...
It didn’t matter which way his thoughts turned, they always led back to Sam in the end. And right now, that was what he was desperately trying to avoid.
"I promised you dinner - breakfast, didn’t I," he remembered belatedly. "I’m sorry, kitten - just give me a few moments to shower ..."
"I quite like fresh sweat," she teased, leaning a little closer; then her nose wrinkled. "But not that much." She hesitated for a moment, then asked, a little tentatively: "You want company in the shower?"
Beeks raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. Al sighed.
Yes, kitten. I’d love company. But not yours ...
"Not right now, sweetheart. Maybe some other time."
"Okay." She was unoffended by the rejection. "I’ll meet you up in the canteen. I’m having breakfast," she confided to Beeks with a warm smile. "He gets steak. I’ll order," she promised. "Medium rare, heavy on the onions, right?"
"Right," Al agreed wearily, wondering if he could face steak, but knowing that he needed it. He stabbed a finger in the direction of the changing rooms. "Beeks - you got the time I take to shower to make your point. So talk fast."
"I don’t intend to talk at all," the psychiatrist said mildly, walking across to hold the relevant door open. "I get paid to listen." His bare nod in Tina’s direction released her from her hesitant hover; she turned and shimmied away, leaving two men watching her retreat in a mutual moment of appreciation.
Damnit, Al thought, throwing the towel over his shoulder and stalking past Beek’s waiting arm, why can’t I get jealous over her like any other red blooded man would do?
He sighed again, dropped his racquet onto the nearest bench and began to strip, tugging sweat soaked cotton away from his skin and totally ignoring the man who’d entered the room behind him. He wasn’t sure he could talk to Beeks. He’d stormed out of the Imaging Chamber in a decided temper and - despite the hour on the court, slamming his frustrations into the wall - he was still wound so tight he was likely to explode.
He still might - if only he could figure out what he was so mad about.
Ah geez, kid. You’re back there, having a good time, and I’m here, screwing myself up, when I should be screwing you ...
It was close on seven in the morning and the Project’s internal recreational area was, to all intense and purposes, practically deserted. They’d added it as a perk for the staff with high level clearance, somewhere they could relax and discuss their work without concern for breeches in security, and few of those who used it were even in work at that hour of the day. Since there were other, more luxurious facilities elsewhere on the numerous levels that made up the Project, the changing rooms the area boasted were just basic changing rooms, and the communal showers were little more than an open ended tiled room with the water dispensers set into its ceiling. One or two people had complained about the lack of privacy they offered, but it had never bothered the Commodore, who’d served aboard too many carriers and on too many Naval Bases to find having an audience to his ablutions an embarrassing situation.
Sam, he recalled with a wry grimace, had always preferred to shower alone.
We’d avoid each other in here, he remembered, fisting the water control and testing the resultant temperature with a reach of his hand. Too public a place, too potentially an explosive situation ...
He hurriedly stepped into the impact of the shower, letting the weight of the water strip at his skin and strip away the images his mind had rebelliously conjured up. Images of Sam in a shower, naked and glistening, the steaming water cascading over taut muscle and soft skin ...
Al planted the palms of his hands against the wall and leant his weight into them, tipping his head straight into the ice filled stream as he did so.
I wonder how long it’ll take for Beeks to ask how often I take cold showers ...?
His company said nothing. Said it for so long that eventually Alonzo had to turn his attention in the man’s direction. If only to confirm he was still standing there.
"What?" the Commodore demanded snappily, finding Beeks not only where he’d left him, but watching him with an odd intenseness that he found disturbing.
"How long have you been wearing Sam’s soul stone?"
The question threw him for a moment. He frowned, first at the questioner, then at the cause of the question. The heavy band of silver that clasped his right forearm glinted softly against his skin. He’d taken off his watch before he took to the court, but that particular piece of jewellery never left his side ...
"This?" he queried defensively. "Ah - I dunno. He left it on my desk one day - and it’s too damn valuable to leave lying around like that. I figured, if he didn’t want it - "
"It was the day he Leaped, wasn’t it?" Beeks found a quiet smile at the thought. Al grimaced and reached for the soap, trying to pretend it was no big deal.
"Maybe," he growled. "I don’t remember. Look - are you gonna stand there and make small talk, or have you got something to say?"
The psychiatrist sighed, sitting down on the nearest bench and considering his patient with thoughtful eyes. "Sam changed history, didn’t he."
"Yeah." That was safer territory. Just. "When he caught those kids he ended the campaign of practical jokes - until the day of the dress rehearsal. The accident still happens. Only this time Jo-jo is killed. We don’t how yet. Vega’s still cross referencing the newspaper reports."
"But you didn’t tell him."
"No. He was busy."
Busy in the arms of another man ...
The Commodore shivered, feeling a resurgence of the confused rage that had flared inside him at the sight. Not just at the realisation of what Sam - his Sam - was doing, but at the other reaction, the one that had raked him right to the depths of his soul.
"Oh, god," he muttered, sinking back against the wall, letting the chill of the tiles eat into his back. Beeks was waiting - and suddenly Al needed to talk about it. Needed to talk about it real bad.
"Ever walked into a room and found your wife in a clinch, Beeks? My fourth wife did that to me, once. She didn’t even stop - just went on eating tonsil until the poor guy nearly choked. He was pretty embarrassed about the deal.
"I just felt a fool. I guess I shoulda seen it coming. But hell - I wasn’t even there half the time."
Too busy chasing the stars and too stubborn to admit that the snatched passions of a brilliant affair might have turned into a restrictive and uninspiring marriage ...
"What did you do?"
Al dunked his head back under the shower stream, getting the water back into his hair. "I screamed at her. I accused her of all sorts of things. And then we went to bed." He sighed, regretfully. "We were both so hot the sheets nearly caught fire ..."
Beeks smothered a quiet chuckle. Al shot him a withering glare.
"A week later I came home and found she’d gone. Just upped and left me. I didn’t know whether to kill the guy or congratulate him."
"So what did you do?"
"Neither. I just went and got drunk. Drowned my sorrows. Wondering how I could be jealous of a guy who was taking away something I didn’t really want in the first place ..."
"She was your wife. You had every right to be jealous."
"Maybe." He stared at the puddle of shampoo he’d poured into his hand as if trying to work out what he was supposed to do with it. "I get jealous over Sam, you know? All these gorgeous women throwing themselves at him, and him barely knowing how to catch ... And when he was Samantha - "
The psychiatrist grinned, recalling that particular occasion only too well.
"- if any of those half brained nozzles so much as looked at him I was ready to pop their noses straight through to the back of their skulls." Alonzo formed a fist as he spoke, demonstrating the intent with a determined gesture. Then he let it go, the chill of the water cascading between his fingers, spilling soap and foam at his feet.
Oh, god, kid, I love you so damn much. So why do I feel this way ...?
His fingers jerked tight; the reformed fist slammed back against the tiled wall so hard it hurt.
"I went to tell Sam the news," he announced tightly. "About the change. I stepped through the door - and he and Kinnison were - were - lip locked so damn close you think they’d used crazyglue." The fist impacted a second time, splattering water and pain in equal proportion. Beeks frowned.
"So you’re angry about it," he hazarded. "Angry with Sam -and jealous of this character Kinnison, right?"
"Yes. No. Both together - hell, I don’t know. I’m scared Beeks," he admitted bitterly. "Jealous over Sam I can cope with. Angry with him, I can cope with. But - but - " He turned to meet his companion’s eyes, oblivious to the ice cold impact of falling water, his hands curled tight into tensioned knots. "I was standing there. Staring. Not sure what to do or say, or how to react - and I heard this - this little voice snarl inside me. You know what it said? It said - take your frigging hands off of him, you fairy fagola!"
The admission was fierce, laced with savage defiance. The moment was still etched into his heart with the acid sense of utter betrayal. And he had the dubious satisfaction of seeing Beeks react with decided startlement.
"Uh-huh - I get it," the psychiatrist observed after a moment. "You know something, Commodore? There can be days you act like a worse martyr than Sam can ever be. And that’s saying something. Do you want to go on crucifying yourself over this, or do you want to examine it rationally?"
"There’s no rationally about it," Al growled, already regretting his outburst. He heard Beeks sigh. Softly.
Heard it because the man had reached to kill the flow of water to the shower, so that the world they shared was suddenly filled with nothing but silences.
"Odi et amo," the psychiatrist quoted quietly. "Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. And you’re going to catch your death if you stand around in ice cold water much longer. Here - "
The man was waving a towel in his direction, and he snatched at it grudgingly. "I can do without platitudes, Beeks," Al snarled. "Particularly nonsensical Latin ones. What the hell was that supposed to mean?"
"Love and hate," Beeks explained. "Are two sides of the same coin - and no good relationship is possible without aspects of both of them in it. This isn’t a cause for panic. It’s healthy. You ought to get mad at Sam more often. Do you both good."
"Ah - you’re crazy," Alonzo decided, wrapping the towel around himself and starting to walk away. "I’m not mad at Sam. I’m mad with myself. For even thinking something like that ..."
"Uh-uh," the psychiatrist denied authoritatively. "Everybody thinks things like that once in a while; even Nai called me a no-good nigger once. She did too," he added, at the look this elicited. "And it’s none of your business what I said - or did. But the point is, she said it. And I still love the hell out of her, and I know she loves me back. You got mad, you had a gut reaction. It happens. What you have to ask yourself, is why. What are you so scared of, Al? Why get so uptight about a stupid insult you didn’t even express? An insult you couldn’t possibly mean?"
Because ...
He couldn’t answer that; it was the one thing he hadn’t dare ask himself. He just grimaced and walked away, snatching up a second towel from the bench so as to scrub some of the water from his hair.
"What were you really mad about?" The quiet question made him wince. "Kinnison kissing Sam? Or Sam kissing Kinnison?"
Oh my god ...
His hands clench reflexively on the towel; the memory of the two of them as they shared that moment was something etched starkly into his mind. A moment he had been dreading, ever since this crazy business began. Samwise Beckett, responding so fervently to another man’s charms. And his own reaction - one of instant and furious confusion. He hadn’t stopped to consider that some of that angry, hurtful feeling might well have been due to the other man involved ...
He couldn’t untangle the emotions that savaged him, couldn’t separate the anger from the jealousy, or the confusion from the betrayal, couldn’t isolate the fury or the sense of failure. And the worst of it was, he knew that most of it - all of it - was pointless, stupid reaction. Sam had no recollection of his personal life, no idea of the fragile ground he might be trespassing on, and Kinnison saw only Miss Allister; bright eyed, slightly shy Miss Allister ...
"Think about it, Al," Beeks suggested sympathetically. "Work through it. Don’t just judge yourself guilty without listening to the evidence."
But I am guilty.
Guilty of jealousy in the first degree ...
"Kinnison was - everything when I was a kid," Al realised bleakly, pacing away down the room and fighting a little for breath. "Everything I ever dreamed of being - he was Buck Rogers, and Flash Gordan, and we thought he could probably leap tall buildings in a single bound ... He could do no wrong. If he’d asked me to jump off Brooklyn Bridge I’d’ve done it. But he didn’t. He just asked me to believe in myself. To try - to do my best and not feel I’d failed if that wasn’t quite enough to meet my standards."
And there he was, suckered into sucking face because he couldn’t see past Sam’s disguise ...
My ideal hero.
My consummate saint.
And I was the one that brought them together ...
"How old were you?" Beeks was asking. "When you first met Kinnison?"
"Sixteen - or close on it." He answered distractedly. "Ah - geesus ..." Another thought occurred to him, one that stirred the lurking fear in his heart.
"What?"
"Do you know how old I was when I met Sam?"
"Well - "
He didn’t let the man finish his response. "Kinnison’s age. Thereabouts. Sam Beckett is back there with a man who right then is everything he fell for all those years ago. The cynical, disillusioned hero ..."
"James Kinnison," Beeks pointed out, "is not Al Calavicci."
"No," the Commodore agreed with decided bitterness. "He’s just everything I wanted to be ..."
Act 3. Scene 2: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Kinnison had dived into the morass of despair that his young cast was contemplating and stirred them up a storm; they’d stared, and they’d gasped, and then they’d begun to catch his enthusiasm. After a chaotic discussion they’d ceremoniously taken the ruined costumes and decided to dump them, one by one, into the school trash bins.
"A plague on these pickled herrings!." Rowdy proclaimed with gusto as the last paint spattered doublet tumbled to its doom; the rest of the group laughed and cheered before heading for the student carpark and the pursuit of their allotted tasks
"Do you think Moe will find a pair of yellow plaid trousers?" Kinnsion asked with amusement as he watched them go.
"I suggested he try the golf course," Sam answered distractedly, shivering a little in the wind that whipped around the edge of the building. He was getting a little worried about what he might have started; their decision not to tell Parkinson about the disaster seemed sensible enough, but he was aware that this man’s career might stand or fall by the success of this performance, and the fuse they seemed to have lit was now burning way out of his control ...
"Here." Kinnison had slipped out of his jacket and now draped it around his companion’s shoulders. "Let’s get inside to wait. They’ll be a while."
"Sure." Sam pulled the weight of the fabric close around him as he followed his fellow teacher through the snow. The jacket carried the scent of the man’s cologne, along with the whisper of cigarette smoke and a hint of earthier tones; the presence of its warmth conveyed an odd sense of security, as if safe and welcoming arms had been wrapped close around him. He wondered if the echoes it raised were those of his father, recalling odd moments of time in disparate flashes of disjointed memory.
There was one wet night in Boston ...
"I’ll make some coffee," Kinnsion announced, holding open the door to the staff room. "There’s some cookies on my desk somewhere. Help yourself."
The image Sam was wrestling for slipped from his grasp, lost in the immediacies of the situation. There was no one else in the room, the two teachers scheduled for detention duty no doubt already ensconced in their assigned classrooms. Not that the school was deserted; the sound of distant singing drifted from the upstairs music room where the school choir was practising its carols.
He’d already earmarked Kinnison’s desk and he dropped the jacket over the back of the chair before he sat down in order to rummage through the mismatched piles of books and papers in search of the promised biscuits.
His lifting and moving only succeeded in dislodging a tumble of files which somersualted to the floor. "Oh - " He caught back the curse just in time. Kinnison looked up from the hot plate and smiled.
"Just pile ‘em back up," he suggested. "I really must sort my stuff sometime ..."
Sam did as he was asked, carefully stacking a battered dictionary on top of an equally battered Byron before bending to collect the scattered scrapbook which had littered the floor with unpasted pages.
"My reviews," the English teacher noted a little ironically. "Or should that be rejection slips?"
"You write as well as teach?" Sam’s question wasn’t a total guess. There were a couple of bound manuscripts in among the toppled school work, both of them overwritten with far more red pen than the work of the students.
"I guess so. I’m no Walt Whitman, that’s for sure. But you’d think with all this interest in War poets, someone might want to look at my scribbles, wouldn’t you? All I get is no thanks and stick to what you know. But I know this." He walked back to help shuffle up the papers. "They want heroes, these days. I suppose no-one’s really interested in how it feels to be shot at, or to be shot down - and to watch your friends die in the water, or hear their screams in your phones as they hit the deck ..." He broke off with an embaressed dip of his head. "I’m sorry, I - "
"No," Sam interrupted. "I - I’m interested. Can I read your work? May I?"
Kinnison shrugged. "If you like. It might be a bit - strong for you, Miss Allister." A slightly bitter smile tugged at his lips. "War is hell, and all that." He picked up the papers and dumped them onto his desk. Three photographs fluttered from among them, one of which he managed to grab. Sam got the other two.
In the first, there stood a group of fresh faced young men dressed in combat gear. Proud and smiling, clustered around a vintage US Navy plane. In the second one of those young men stood in splendid isolation, knife edge smart in dress whites, and determinedly at attention.
"My squadron," Kinnison explained, reclaiming the group with a haunted smile. "There are - three of us left now. Just three. Spit on the end there - he took a peice of shrapnel in his butt somewhere over the Marivellas and then complained he couldn’t sit out the rest of the war like the rest of us."
Sam smiled at the obvious jest, although there was a definate hint of pain in the man’s voice.
"Carlo and Ryan - they bought it over Midway. And Frank - he never came back from his last Patrol. That’s Mitch - he’s a carpet salesman in Idaho now. And Spit got a job down in Florida. Something to do with those Disney people."
"Who’s this?" Sama asked, putting the second photograph on the desk, aware that it’s subject had not been one of those the man had pointed out.
Kinnison’s face went quite bleak.
"That’s - that was Buckie. Henry Buck Brogan. If I was - the squadron’s poet, he was its heart. Always there for you, always willing to step in, to put himself out, always the one to crack the joke or buy you the next drink ..." He shivered and reverently slid both photographs back into the pages of the scrapbook. "He took a hit about a month before I took mine - cooked his engines and ploughed his way back onto the carrier with everything smoking.
We only manged to pull half of him out of his plane."
"I’m - sorry," Sam offered, aware of how inadequte that sounded. The ex-pilot chuckled, albeit humourlessly.
"Well, don’t be," he advised, abandoning the last photograph on the desk top and heading back towards the coffee pot. "That half of him lived just as determinedly as the whole of him had. Used to chase nurses in his wheelchair. Caught a few of ‘em too. You gotta stay flying, Jim, he’d say. If I can make it ..."
He stopped to grimace at the percolating pot and sighed. "Only he didn’t. He died last summer. From complications. He was three years younger than me." He turned to consider his company, perhaps wondering why he had chosen this moment to unburden his soul. "Don’t get me wrong here," he said. "But I loved that kid. As if he were a brother. More than a brother. There was so much I owed him. And he believed in me. Really believed I could make a difference."
"You can," Sam offered softly, moved by the sudden catch in the speaker’s voice, by the grief that he so clearly could not let go.
"Nah," Kinnison decided, dismissing the introspection and himself all in one gesture. "I don’t reach ‘em. What difference do I make?"
I wish I could tell you ...
Sam’s eye fell on the last picture, suddenly making sense of its tonal images. It was a scene from a play - a makeshift production, the scenery slipshod, the costumes obviously amateur - but the cast were clearly putting everything they had into the delivery.
And one of those faces was suspiciously familiar ...
He picked up the photograph, staring at it in a mixture of wonder and delight. Was it? It had to be. And if it was ... A young - a very young - Al Calavicci stood centre stage, his hair a shock of unruly curls, his costume a deliberate tatter of rags and greenery. And the smile that was written on his face was a mixture of utter innocence and impossible mischief.
My god ...
"My perfect Puck," Kinnison considered with decided warmth. "Cute, ain’t he?"
"Yeah ..."
The man laughed, lifting the image from Sam’s hands to stare at it reminiscently. "Buckie loved that performance. He came to every show. And that - that imp - never gave the same interpretation twice. Great kid. Hard nosed as hell, but - god, could he act! I managed to get him a slot with a company in summer stock - and blow me if he didn’t come back that fall and announce that he was going to join the Navy."
Kinnsion chuckled again, this time with real amusement. "He loved the theatre, but - uh -he really wanted to fly. So, Buckie and I we - well, we wrote him a recommendation. Sent him to Annapolis. I figured if he could stick it long enough to graduate, he’d probably make Admiral one day."
Would Commodore do? Sam wondered, enchanted by this unexpected recollection of his friend. And he didn’t just fly. He went all the way into Space ...
"He listened," he offered with sudden inspiration. "You reached him. Why not the other’s too?"
The man shrugged, sliding the photograph back into the pages of the scrap book. "One swallow does not a summer make," he considered tiredly. "Kids like that don’t come along very often, Miss Allister. More’s the pity ... You want sugar?"
Sam wondered if he could press the point, but the change in subject was clearly deliberate, and he didn’t want to undo what little good he might already have done.
He’s carrying so much grief, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Guilt too, I guess. Perhaps he left the city to get away from all those memories ...
"Uh - no. Thank you. Jim - "
"M’mm-huh?"
"What are you going to do about the school board?"
Kinnison didn’t answer immediately. He brought over the cups of coffee and handed one over, then pulled up another chair and sat down, staring thoughtfully into his cup.
"Nothing," he said eventually. "If they want to jump to conclusions that’s their affair. My private life is my own business. Besides," he added, looking up with a conspiratorial grin, "if I told them I go to those jazz clubs in order to give poetry readings, do you think they’d believe me?"
Poetry readings?
Sam wasn’t sure he believed him.
"So - all this talk about wild women is just talk, right?"
The question earned him a suspicious look. "You’re not a spy for the Atherton Morality League, are you?"
"No," Sam protested hurriedly. "Not at all." He took a small gamble and jumped to a conclusion he hoped was the truth. "Just - I’ve never been to a jazz club, and it sounds - kind of fun."
Kinnsion reacted with an indulgent chuckle. "Maybe I could take you one day. If I’m still here next term, that is."
"I’m sure you will be," Sam told him softly.
I’m going to try and make sure of that ...
Act 3, Scene 3: Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness ...
There was a rose in Miss Ema’s pigeonhole that morning. A red one, crisp and fresh, undoubtably brimming with a glorious scent. Alonzo watched Sam lifted it out, watched his face, reading there the amusement at the gesture, the vague embaressment that it could be directed at him, and the appreciation in the quiet smile. No doubt he’d was touched by the consideration, by the attentive implications of the gift.
James Kinnison, you are an incurable romantic ...
He had no doubt that Kinnison was responsible, although how the man had managed to find a fresh red rose on short notice in the depths of winter was something of a mystery.
The fact that he would manage to do so if the need arose did not escape him.
I never gave you flowers, kid.
Maybe I should have done ...
Plants, yes; shelves full of them, rich green foliage that still occupied the living room of Sam’s apartment back at the Project. They had proved the perfect excuse for the Commodore to spend time in the echoes of his absent lover’s company. But never flowers. They had never had the kind of relationship which would have allowed for any of those smaltzy, romantic gestures with which he’d wooed uncountable women. Not in public, anyway ...
And the only time Sam had presented him with a bouquet, he’d been flat on his back in hospital, with a shattered leg - which probably meant it didn’t count.
I always bought you popcorn at ball games, and hot dogs in the park ...
He’d always brought something back from trips away; expensive art works, hand crafted ceramics and glass, rare books, and antique peices.
But never the simple honesty of one red rose ...
Sam was carefully pinning the flower to the lapel of his jacket; it’s crimson glory stood out against the dark oatmeal wool. Oatmeal and ochre, soft colours that suited their wearer, even if the cut of skirt and blouse looked vaguely incongruous on his althletic frame. The makeup he’d adopted was equally subtle, and what was meant to enhance Miss Ema’s natural innocence served equally well for the face behind the mask.
You’re getting too good at that, Al thought a little gloomily. He had no objection to anyone wearing make-up - in the right circumstances. Pancake and greasepaint had once been a familiar accessory in his own life and he always figured on Sam being the most intimate of actors, continually immersing himself into the roles he was forced to play. But he sincerely hoped it was not a habit the man would bring home with him.
He sighed, and keyed a sequence into the handlink. There were times he liked to stand and watch Sam like this, silent and unobtrusive, hovering unseen at his side like a guardian angel. But watching his lover now was only reminding him of the turmoiled thoughts and emotions which had robbed him of any chance of a decent night’s sleep. Besides - the dampener that hid his image ate power, and he had information he ought to deliver.
"Hi," Sam said, turning to welcome his friend’s appearence with a warm and disarming smile. There was no-one else in the office, so he could speak without self conciousness. His fingers brushed at the rose, and his expression added a layer of abashment to the smile. "Will you look at this? I didn’t think I’d made that much of an impression."
Al supressed a grimace at the man’s naiveté and adopted a knowing smirk instead.
Time to go into the act ...
"You don’t have to have done, kid. I give those things away like candy."
Not quite a lie, but a throwaway line good enough to earn him the expected reproachful frown. There’d been a time when he’d loved to tease his lover like that, loved to disconcert his sensibilities and challenge his moral seriousness; but the act had become a more essential facade, a mask which - while not denying the truth - covered it with effective dissemblance.
And it just didn’t seem so much fun now that only he was in on the joke ...
Sam’s irritation last only a moment; he was clearly in a good mood, and he dipped his head that little bit to catch the scent of the flower. "That which we call a rose ..." he quoted, a hint of pleasured smugness in his voice. Al’s surface smirk dropped into a vague frown.
I know that look ...
It was Sam’s feel good look, the one that he reserved for the moments when he was decidedly pleased with himself. An I am a happy bunny bounce that would have been a wonderful thing to see in any other circumstances.
Right then it sank a cold hard cannon ball into the pit of his Observer’s stomach. Because the only thing Alonzo could think of that might have put it there was the one thing he’d been praying desperately not to have happen.
Samwise Beckett was falling in love ...
"I thought the play was Twelth Night, not Romeo and Juliet," Al growled, his inner alarm manifesting itself as irritation. Sam laughed.
"Yeah, that’s right ... Listen - where did you go yesterday? You said you were going to help."
"You seemed to be doing pretty well on your own," was the instant comeback, backed with unavoidable resentment. Fortunately Sam didn’t appear to notice it; instead he went a little pink and glanced away with vague embaressment.
"Well - I - it just seemed - " He shrugged helplessly. "It - it worked. Okay? After we went back, Jim just set the kids on fire. I mean - you were right about him, Al. I never - "
"Jim, huh?" The Commodore interrupted the tumble of words, not wanting to hear more than he had to. He knew Kinnison was a pretty wonderful guy. There was just a part of him that didn’t want Sam to actually say so ... "I guess you’d have to be on first name terms after - er - you know."
"Aall," the scientist protested with a half laugh. "It wasn’t like that. Really it wasn’t. And you were the one that asked me to help him. Remember?"
He remembered. He still wanted it to happen. But he was angry at the way Sam had decided to go about it. Angry at Sam - and angry at himself for reacting that way.
The kid doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He thinks he’s in control of the situation when he isn’t even aware of what the situation is. And Kinnison may be falling for Miss Allister’s baby blues - but they’re backed with pure Beckett charm ...
"I asked you to help the guy, Sam. Not throw yourself at him. What good is that gonna do?"
"A lot," Sam replied, the beginnings of a frown hovering on his face. "Look - Jim had a friend - a good friend - and he died. Just over a year ago. They were close. Real close." The vague frown softened back to a smile. "A bit like you and me."
Al winced inwardly at the easy delivery of that statement.
Like you and me.
Yeah, right.
And then he went slightly pale at the possibility that Sam might have meant exactly what he’d said. Even if he hadn’t known he’d meant it.
"That close, huh?" he tried to joke. Sam grinned.
"Maybe closer," he teased, completely unaware of the irony of that remark. "Get Vega to check on a Henry Brogan. Buck, or Buckie, Brogan. He was Jim’s wingman."
Al did as he was asked, getting Vega to dip into relevant obituaries. They recorded the passing of one Henry ‘Buck’ Brogan, who died of kidney failure resulting from old injuries sustained during the war.
My god ...
The memories came back in disjointed fashion. Just snatches of what had been - of catching sight of a beaming face across the footlights, of hearing a laugh fit to shatter the world; and of trying to hover nonchelantly in the doorway to some club - or was it a pool hall - while Kinnison bent to converse with a man in a clumsy wheelchair ...
That was his best friend ...?
When you were sixteen years old, teachers only had life inside of school, only existence for you and not for themselves. But by the time you got to be a ranking ex-Navy Officer with the scars of conflict written deep in your pysche you’d learnt a little more about life. Enough to comprehend how deep a brotherhood forged under fire could run.
And who better than he to understand how it might feel to lose it ...
"I think Jim stayed in the city to take care of him," Sam was saying, starting to stack up his books for the day. "He was the one who encouraged him to write ..." He paused to throw his friend a slightly haunted look. "He needs someone, Al. Someone to believe in him. I read his poems," he explained, tugging the manuscript from among the other paperwork. "This is powerful stuff - about the war, and how it felt, and what it did to people ...
"It killed his friend. I think it’s killing him. And I don’t want that to happen. You know," Sam went on, looking for a lighter line of conversation, "the more time I spend with him, the more I think - well, I guess you and he have a lot in common, that’s all. He’s more of a poet, though. More a - " his eyes dropped to the richness of the rose and he grinned. "Romantic," he concluded, intending it as a tease.
"Ah geez, Sam," Al exploded before he could stop himself. "This is just a game to you, isn’t it? Learning your lines, walking through the part, portraying the role to the hilt ... These are people’s lives you’re trying to change. You’re playing with fire here, and don’t you forget it. Don’t you dare forget it. And unless you’re on the ball at that rehersal there’s a kid that’s gonna get himself killed. So don’t forget that, either."
Sam looked startled at the outburst, then concerned at the revelation.
"Jo-jo’s going to die? But I thought you said - I stopped the practical jokes. I caught them at it."
"Sure," the holgram growled irritatedly. "You changed history all right. You made it worse. Much worse. You gotta get Kinnison interested in the kids. In the play. Not Miss Allister."
The scientist frowned. "I can do both, Al. I can save Jo-jo and I can help him. You wanted me to help him, didn’t you?"
"Yeah," Al agreed after a moment. "I guess I did at that."
But I didn’t know he was hurting over Buckie. I don't want him to be hurt any more, Sam.
I don’t want you to be hurt, either.
And right now the two of you are tearing me apart ...
Torn by old loyalties and conflicting feelings. By irrational fears and even more irrational jealousies.
Ah, geezus. Beeks was right. I really have to deal with this.
He and Beeks had agreed - a long time ago it seemed now - that as long as Sam did not remember, he was better off making the assumptions that he had. That Alonzo would go on cracking the jokes and making the remarks and pretending everything was hunky-dory because that was better for both of them. For Sam not to know and Al not to tell, guarding their mutual secret with the same discreet silences he had always done.
There are days I wished you remembered, Sam. And days I pray that you never do. Not until the moment that you come home ...
"I know what I’m doing," Sam pronounced firmly. "Trust me, okay?"
"It’s not you I’m worried about," the anxious Observer muttered, lying through his teeth as he did so. "Okay," he acquiesced reluctantly. "You wanna go through with this, you do what you damn well please. Just be careful, willya? If you’re gonna make a fool of yourself for the next couple of days then I’m outta here."
He keyed up the Chamber door and walked away, only too aware of Sam’s indulgent grin as he did so.
You have no idea, do ya, kid?
You really do think this is some kind of game ...
Interlude: Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
"I got it, I got it!" Milly Bailey’s exclamation was breathless. She dived into the practically deserted classroom and closed the door behind her, leaning against it to catch her breath. Helen looked up from her place at the window and sighed.
"Well, tell everyone, why don’t you, brat," she drawled with deliberate sarcasm. She put out her hand imperiously. "Give."
Milly bounced over and thrust out a folded magazine, the action drawing the attention of the other three girls in the room. "Page twelve," she announced. "Oh, is he dreamy ..."
Helen snatched at the publicaton, flicking throught the pages until she found the article in question; she took one look, sighed with dramatic emphasis and clutched the whole thing to her bosom. "I’m in love," she declared. Greta grimaced and tugged the magazine away.
"You can’t be," she denied. "Not with him and Jo-jo."
"Yes, I can," was the instant come-back. "I deserve the best, don’t I? Anyway, Jo-jo’s a jerk. How dare he ruin my wonderful dress. I was going to look like - like Elizabeth Taylor."
"Yeah - in Lassie Come Home," Milly muttered, earning herself a glare from Helen and giggles from the rest of them.
"You still can," Greta pointed out, turning the magazine over to display the still from Giant that Helen had been drooling over. "Although Jo-jo’s gonna be more Carrie Grant than James Dean. Even if he does wear that leather jacket like he threatened ..."
Helen snatched the article back, staring at the pictures with a gleam in her eye. "Yeah. And him mooning over Sarah instead of me ... Hey! I got a sizzler of an idea."
"What?" Milly questioned, bouncing up and down to get a better look at the magazine over the older girl’s shoulder. "What?"
Helen smiled, beckoning her cronies closer. "How about," she murmured, "we pay that lunkhead back for all the jokes he and his bunch have been throwing at us."
"Sound’s good," Greta reacted. The other two nodded excitedly.
"Count me in," Milly demanded. "I can help."
"You’re his sister," Helen complained, pushing her away. Milly just bounced right back.
"Uhuh. That makes it personal ..."
"Oh, shut up, brat." Helen waved her friends even closer, bending her head to add conspiratorial emphaisis to her idea. "Now," she grinned. "This is what I want you all to do ..."
Act 4. Scene 1: For such as we are made of, such we be.
The house was cluttered but cosy; one of those wood built low slung affairs with plenty of boarded verandah and a basement big to hold a ho-down in. The decor was subdued and in need of attention, but the casual vistor would never have noticed that. What they would notice were the books. Acres of them, spilling across yards of shelves and out into the rest of the living space. There were books stacked in piles under tables, books piled on tables, and even books acting as door stops.
And they weren’t just text books either.
Alonzo paused by one wall of the living room to study the titles ranged along it. There were a handful of Zane Greys, a slew of paperback mysteries, a few bloodcurdling thrillers, a number of early SF classics - and some not so classic, going by the titles. Next to those were texts more suited to an English Teacher’s home; collections of poetry, critiques of various authors, several bound plays and essays and a few stray volumes that looked as if they’d ended up there because their owner couldn’t be bothered to find out where they belonged. A battered copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim caught the Observer’s eye, along with a copy of Coral Island, a paperback edition of She, and a translation of Homer’s Iliad.
The curious Commodore turned away from the bookshelves to consider the rest of the room. Most of the furnishings had obviously come with the house rather than belonging to its current occupant; the suite had clearly seen better days and the paperstrewn coffee-table had escaped from somebody’s nightmare. No TV, but a lovingly polished gramphone sat in once corner and an equally sleek radio stood on the mantlepeice.
Along with a bunch of photographs that sent a sympathetic shiver down Al’s spine as he walked over to take a closer look. He had collected a few like that himself ...
Young men with proud faces, staring out of the glass; dead men most of them. Comrades and collegues, lost to war. Displayed with care, as if the images held the power to deny their subjects mortality.
They do not grow old, as we that remain grow old ...
Henry Brogan stood in pride of place. Stood - dressed in Navy fatigues with the Golden Gate forming a perfect backdrop behind him. Beside that was a more recent picture; the same broad smile but only half the man - strapped into a weight of fabric and steel, his right leg gone completely, his matching arm reduced to a stump.
At least they gave him a hero’s funeral ...
He’d had Vega check; Henry Brogan had died in a Veteran’s Hospital in New York and had been subsequently buried at sea with full military honours. At his own request the Enterprise had taken him back to the Pacific, and it was there that he had finally rejoined his fallen comrades. In the place that a part of him had never left.
They said he’d been lucky to survive ...
Al wasn’t so sure about that. He’d walked close enough to the edge to understand that surviving had little to do with luck. It was about stubborn, hard headed determination and the sheer cussedness that wouldn’t let you give up. About wanting to live. And having a reason to do so.
He turned to sweep his eyes across the rest of the room and finally let his gaze settle on the figure who sat sprawled on the sofa at its centre. Having a man like Jim Kinnison on your team, he decided with a twisted smile, might be a pretty good reason for anything ...
It was late - late in ‘59 terms anyway - nearly nine o’clock in the evening. Kinnision had kept his actors rehearsing until close on seven thirty, then had made his way home via the late night store where he’d bought a number of things, including a bottle of whiskey.
The same bottle which he was currently staring at, through the layer of amber liquid that he’d poured into a shot glass.
"Don’t do this to yourself, milord," Al advised, knowing that the man couldn’t hear him but still wanting to express his concern. He’d watched the rehearsal as an invisible ghost, unseen by anyone, including the man he was supposed to be Observing. He’d been a little unsettled to find out that Sam had been right; with Miss Allister’s attentive support Kinnison was setting the youngsters on fire, just as he remembered from all those years before.
Beeks had thoughtfully suggested that - at sixteen - it was not unusual for a bright and impressionable youngster to develop a deep affection for one of their teachers. Al had known what he’d been implying and had growled at him appropriately; watching Kinnison now, he was not so sure that the man had been wrong ...
I was sixteen. Stuck back in that stupid orphanage because my last set of Foster Parents couldn’t handle me. I had nobody. My father dead, my sister taken away - I couldn’t wait to grow up, to get out ...
And this man had come into his life like a whirlwind, his enthusisam re-opening the doors to all those dreams a tough street kid had long thought lost to him forever.
Maybe it was a crush. I worshipped the ground he walked on, didn’t I? I followed him home like a puppy dog, carried his groceries, ran all his errands. And he let me. Rewarded me with tales of daring-do and high adventure. Leant me his books ...
Like that battered copy of Kim. He remembered devouring it late at night, perched up high on the orphanage roof, away from the potential jeers of his fellow inmates. Not that many of them dared jeer by then. They knew better than to mess with Calavicci and his hard won reputation.
Competing for the Golden Gloves had given him a hard-edged self-confidence. Kinnison had given him self-esteem.
I wanted you to be proud of me. And I was probably just one more punk kid to you. I bet you don’t even remember me now ...
Al sighed, moving to stand at the man’s side and watch the way he tilted the whiskey to and fro, letting the light flick across its golden surface.
"Don’t do this," he re-iterated softly. "It don’t work and it don’t help. Trust me. I’ve been there."
And if it hadn’t been for Sam ...
He sighed a second time, staring down at Jim Kinnison’s handsome features, seeing there a quiet anxiety that almost directly mirrored his own.
You have to let him help you.
I have to let him help you ...
"Here’s one in your eye, Buckie," Kinnison considered bleakly, lifting the shot glass in mock salute at the photographs on the mantle before he finally drank down its contents. Then he reached for the bottle and re-filled the glass with a generous slug.
He downed that in one determined gulp, and Alonzo frowned at him.
Don't ...
He didn’t bother to say it out loud again. The man couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t sure he’d listen, even if he could.
"I used to look up to you, you know," he said instead. "I wanted to be you - have what you had, do all the things you’d done ... " He snorted softly at the irony of hindsight.
And now you have the one thing I want and can’t have.
Sam’s love.
Even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s offering you ....
Sam Beckett had been born with an innate chivalry, a generally unselfish and noble nature that ensured he was the perfect choice for the precipate oddyssy he was currently undertaking. When he became involved with people’s problems he did so with impulsive generosity, committing himself to their cause with the same kind of total dedication with which he committed himself to anything.
Including the depth of feeling with which he gave his heart.
Sam can’t help it. You’re just the kind of guy he would fall for ...
Hence the jealousy. Hence some of the anger.
Because Al Calavicci’s greatest - and rarely admitted - fear, was that one day his knight errant would find reason to abandon him, just as everyone else in his life had done over the years.
Besides - he had an Italian heart, and an Italian soul, and just enough Russian in his blood to add high minded gallantry to all that fiery passion, and those that he loved he loved with a feirceness that went way beyond mere devotion.
He felt that way about Sam.
He’d always feel that way about Sam.
It was just that - he now realised with wary self honesty - he felt a little of that way about Kinnison, too ...
"This is crazy," the man back in ‘59 suddenly announced, slamming the shot glass down on the table as he did so. "What the hell would you think of me, Buckie? Sitting here, drowning my sorrows all by myself.
"Get outta there and live, that’s what you’d say."
He got to his feet, staring at the photographs with a determined frown.
"She’s right, isn’t she?" he continued, walking round the table to pick up the image of the man in the wheelchair. "Telling me I shouldn’t give up. But it’s hard, Buckie. It’s real hard." He stood and stared at the picture in his hand while his unseen observer watched him with comprehending sympathy.
"You know," Kinnison continued after a moment, looking up from the photograph to sweep his eyes around the room, "I know you’re never far away, and - it’s weird, but - I can almost feel you watching me tonight." He grimaced at the thought and reached to put the picture back where it belonged. "Nah," he decided with a half-laugh. "That’s just the whiskey talking, Jim. That quaffing and drinking will undo you, as the Bard says. Still - " He turned his back to the mantle and stared out into the room. "What say you, sir knight?" he asked. "Shall we leave this place and cut a caper in company?"
Al grinned at the question, and tugged the handlink out of his pocket.
Why not?
"Hey, Gushie," he called to the general air. "You and Vega wanna run that focusing diagnostic you’re always muttering about?"
The on-line check would take several hours and required that he stooge around in the Imaging Chamber while they did it. This seemed the perfect opportunity; Sam would be asleep, the Project team were on normal hours - and for once he got the chance to go out on the town ...
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