From: bewalton17@aol.com (BEWalton17)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative
Subject: QL: The Enemy (Chapter 4)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 04:34:20 GMT
Message-ID: <19981201233420.27332.00000923@ng-fc2.aol.com>




                          CHAPTER FOUR

     "Can I leave my picture for her?" Nate whispered, standing
outside his mother's closed door and holding out a piece of folded
newsprint.
     Sam nodded.  "I think she'd like that."
     "Okay."  Nate put his finger to his lips.  Whether he was
reminding himself to be quiet or suggesting that Al and Sam follow
suit was unclear.  He reached up, and turned the doorknob.
     Sam watched him tiptoe into the dark room, lean over Ruthie's
sleeping form, and kiss her very lightly on the cheek.  He stayed
there for a minute, just looking at her with a concerned, confused
expression on his face, then went across the room and propped his
picture on her dressing table mirror.  He stopped by her bed again
on the way back, and reached out toward her.  Al cleared his throat
softly, and Nate pulled his hand back.  Al shook his head; Nate
nodded, and came out, closing the door slowly behind him.
     "She's going to be fine," Al whispered.  He picked Nate up,
and carried him into his own room, next door, to get changed for
bed.
     Sam wandered to the other end of the hall, and picked a book
from the shelves.  He flipped through it, not paying any attention
at all, and waited to hear the squall of the Imaging Chamber Door
opening into the world.
     He had a lot of questions.
     First, Ruthie obviously loved Al a great deal; even thinking
that she was talking to her current husband, she hadn't been able
to hide that.  Sam thought that Sid Weiss had to be an extremely
patient man.  She also seemed to be a good personality match for
him, and he for her.  So why were they divorced?
     Second, Al had never spoken a bad word about Ruthie, as far as
Sam could remember (which, he supposed, was not saying much).  If
there had been a custody battle, Al had lost it, or Sam would have
known Nate.  Custody battles were a nasty business, and it was hard
to imagine so many clearly warm feelings coming out of one,
especially from the losing side.
     Third, why was Ruthie so insecure about her relationship with
her son?  What had happened to frighten her so deeply?
     And finally, most importantly...
     The Door to the Imaging Chamber opened behind him with a
thwump, and he started to ask the last question before he turned
around.  "Al, why didn't you tell me you had a -- "  He turned to
find not Al, but Gushie, the chief programmer for the Project. 
"Gushie?  Where's Al?"
     Gushie's image flickered uncomfortably.  "The Admiral isn't
feeling well," he said.
     "Not feeling well?"  Sam knew Al Calavicci better than anyone
(with the possible exception of Ruthie Weiss, he amended -- thirty
years), and he had never known him to shirk duty for anything less
than a crisis.  Or a blonde.  Sam somehow doubted that, in this
case, it was the latter.
     Gushie nodded.  "Actually, Dr. Beeks had him sedated.  He
recognized Sid Weiss in the Waiting Room, and he... didn't deal
with it well."
     "How do you mean, he 'didn't deal with it well?'"  Sam didn't
wait for an answer.  Most of his memories of Al had come back, and
he didn't really need to ask.  "What's going on back there, Gushie?

Why am I here?"
     Sam didn't remember Gushie very well -- just vague images of
a mild-tempered man with extremely bad breath.  He had been more of
an acquaintance than a friend.  But he remembered enough to
recognize the look on the hologram's face: it meant that the news
he was bringing was beyond bad.
     Gushie swallowed and said, "There's an eighty-seven-point-
three percent chance that you're here to prevent the death of
Nathan Calavicci."
     To prevent the death of...
     Sam took a step backward, not wanting to be anywhere near this
knowledge.  "Nate's dead?"
     Gushie nodded implacably.  "He died in a fire at Al's
apartment in 1985, just before they transferred Al to the Star
Bright Project."
     "I met Al at Star Bright."
     Gushie nodded.  "Yeah.  They brought him on board because of
some experiment he did at MIT.  I don't know much about it; I
wasn't there.  It didn't pan out, that's all I know, and the
government started trying to push him out of the project only a
couple of months after they got him there."  He considered this. 
"The Admiral's not much of a theorist, you know.  It was probably
luck the first time."
     Sam didn't care.  He didn't even remember what Star Bright was
about, not really.  The only image that he knew for sure was from
that time was of Al, beating a vending machine with a hammer,
supposedly because it had not credited his money, although even on
their first meeting, Sam had known it was something a bit bigger. 
Sam had found the coin Al lost in the coin return, and tried it
again -- he'd been there a few months and he knew the machine in
question was sometimes moody -- and it worked.  Al had thanked him,
and they had been friends ever since.  Had Al ever told him what he
was really angry at?  Sam couldn't remember, but he didn't think
so.  "Did I know about this?" he asked.
     Gushie shook his head.  "No one did, except the people who
transferred him from San Diego to Stallion Springs.  The military
types can be pretty tight-lipped, you know."
     "Yeah, I know."  Sam sat down on a decorative bench that
graced the hallway near the stairs.  "Who's Nate's biological
father anyway?"
     "Unknown," Gushie said.  "After the death of her second foster
father, a mortician, one... Herman Burkholtz... Ruthie moved around
a lot.  Apparently, she was... friendly to a lot of men on the
road."
     "Nate looks like Al."
     "Her taste in men is apparently fairly consistent."
     "You said the fire happens in eighty-five?"  Gushie nodded. 
"What year is it now?"
     Gushie picked up the handset.  He looked relieved to be back
in the clinical, no-nonsense end of Observing.  "It's eighty-four. 
You're in Chicago, and you're a kindergarten teacher.  Your name is
-- "
     "Sidney Weiss.  And I'm married to Al's third wife, Ruthie. 
That much, I've figured out.  I want to talk to Al, Gushie.  As
soon as he's conscious."
     Gushie looked at him very hesitantly, and said, "We're
considering keeping him off this Leap entirely."
     "No."
     "Beeks thinks -- "
     "Beeks is not the head of this Project."
     "We're just concerned about his state of mind," Gushie said.
     "I am too, Gushie."
     Neither man said anything for a few minutes.  Gushie toyed
with the keys on the handlink.  Sam closed his eyes and leaned his
head back.  He could hear Nate in his room, offering sleepy
protests over his bedtime.  Dead, in less than a year, so far away
from home...
     Sam opened his eyes and sat forward.  "How am I supposed to
stop a fire in San Diego in eighty-five from Chicago in eighty-
four?"
     Gushie breathed deeply.  He looked like he had been
anticipating the question, but still answered it gingerly.  "That's
why we're considering keeping Al off the Leap."
     "What do you mean?"
     "The Admiral feels responsible for his stepson's death -- "
     Sam shook his head.  "That's ridiculous," he said.  "I've been
watching Al with Nate, he's a terrific father -- "
     Gushie cut him off with the fact that he supposed he had known
was coming next.  "And Ziggy agrees with him.  She says the only
way to keep Nathan Calavicci alive is to make sure the Admiral
never gets custody."
     "That can't be right."
     Gushie shrugged.  "I can't explain it, Dr. Beckett.  That's
just what Ziggy says."
     "Ziggy's been wrong before."  He gestured toward the other end
of the hall.  "Al's been steady as a rock for Nate all afternoon. 
Ruthie really went off the deep end when he brought up custody.  If
either one of them should have custody, it's Al.  I mean, why
should custody automatically go to the mother?" 
     "Dr. Beckett, Al Calavicci left his six-year-old son alone in
an apartment for five hours.  Nate only lived through four-and-a-
half of them."
     "It was an accident."
     "An accident that wouldn't have happened if Nate had been
here."
     "Still -- "
     "And the fact remains, that here is where you Leaped to, Dr.
Beckett.  To this time, and this place.  Do you really think it's
a coincidence?"
     Sam thought of the contented look on Al's face, and the nearly
worshipful one on Nate's.  
     Never.
                               ***
     Nate wished that Pop could smoke cigars in Mama's house.
     Mama said they were bad for him, and she didn't like the way
they smelled, but Nate liked them a lot.  They made a Pop-smell
that felt warm and nice.
     Pop was unpacking Nate's suitcase over at the dresser, putting
clothes away.  Mama usually did that, and she might be mad, but she
might not, too.  She was acting weird, not like Nate thought she
was going to.  But Pop and Sid both said that she would be okay
when she woke up, so Nate wasn't going to be afraid.  Not even a
little bit.
     "I guess that's about right," Pop said.  He closed a drawer.
     Nate nodded.
     "You ready for me to turn the lights out?"
     "Uh-uh."  Nate sat up in bed.  "I'm not tired."
     "Oh, is that why your eyes are half-closed?"
     "They are not."
     "Are too."
     "Are not."
     "Are too."
     Nate tried to say Are not, but yawned instead.
     "Come on, paison," Pop said, sitting down on the bed and
pushing Nate down into the pillow.  He tucked the covers tight
around him.  "You've got school in the morning."
     "I don't want to go to school."  Nate liked school, really,
but he could go any old time.  He wanted to stay home and play with
Pop and Mama tomorrow.
     "You already missed two days last week coming to see me. 
School's important."
     "Will you still be here when I come back from school?"
     "Of course I will.  We're going home together, remember?"
     "Will Mama come with us?"
     Pop leaned away.  He had a funny look on his face.  "No, Nate.

Your mama's staying here.  You knew that, didn't you?"
     Nate shrugged.  "I guess so."
     "Do you understand that your mama's married to Sid now, not
me?"
     "Yeah."
     "Do you understand what that means?"
     "Yeah."
     "What?"
     "It means that you don't live together anymore."
     "That's right."  Pop put one hand on Nate's cheek.  "It's
rough on you, isn't it?"  Nate shrugged again.  "I'm going to make
it up to you one of these days.  I don't know how yet."
     Nate didn't understand him, but that was okay.  All grownups
said things he didn't understand sometimes.  Mama's stupid friend
Mrs. Fox -- who had a stupid daughter named Lori who was in Nate's
kindergarten -- was always saying stuff and then stopping for a
minute to let people figure out what she really meant.  Nate didn't
like her.  The funny thing was, he didn't think Mama liked her,
either, but Mama still had her over for coffee all the time.
     Sid was the only grownup who always made sense.  He talked
plain and made jokes.  Nate liked him a lot, even though he wasn't
Pop, and even though being married to him meant that Mama couldn't
live with Pop anymore.  Nate had tried getting mad at him once, but
he couldn't.  Sid just let him go on and on until his tongue got
all twisted up and he started laughing.
     The bed moved, and Nate opened his eyes (he didn't know until
then that he'd closed them).  Pop had flipped the light switch by
the door and was leaving.  "Pop!" Nate called.
     Pop turned around.  "I thought you were asleep."
     Nate shook his head.  "Can you stay?"
     "Sure."  Pop pulled the bean bag chair up to the side of the
bed, and sat down in it.  Nate could hear the little things inside
of it moving around (a seam had broken once, and Nate had noticed
that the little things were really tiny white plastic balls called
"spirofone"; he'd wanted to take a bunch of them out and play
snowstorm with them, but Sid had said it was dangerous to play with
spirofone.)  "Do you want me to sing to you or something?"
     "No."
     "What do you want?"
     "I just want you to stay.  Sometimes I dream."
     "Bad dreams?"
     "Yeah.  There's a big monster, and I can't get away from him,
'cause I'm in a dungeon."
     "A dungeon, huh?"
     "Yeah.  It's like a cave with bars."
     Pop shivered.  "That sounds pretty bad."
     "It is.  Will you stay?  You can kill the monster, if he
comes."
     "What kind of monster is he?"
     "A big one, with orange claws and purple eyes.  He's got
wings, only he can't fly, 'cause there's no room, you know."
     "Is that why he's mad?"
     "I don't know.  He's a monster.  Do monsters get mad?"
     "Why's he trying to hurt you, do you think?"
     Nate shrugged.  "I thought he was trying to eat me."
     "Did you ever try to kill him?"
     Nate shook his head.  "He's very big."
     Pop messed up Nate's hair, something Nate hated from everyone
else, but liked okay from Pop.  "Well, I won't let any monster eat
you, okay?  I'll stay here 'til I'm sure he's not coming.  Is that
good?"
     "That's good."  Nate felt a yawn coming, and tried to stop it,
but that only made it bigger.  His eyes started to close.  "Pop?"
he said.
     "What is it?"
     "I... "
     He lost the thread of it.
                               ***
     Al sat in the bean bag chair, unmoving, as Nate drifted off to
sleep.
     There would be no monsters tonight.
                               ***
     Sam stayed awake for three hours after the rest of the
household had gone to bed, hoping that Al would appear -- the Al he
knew, not the stranger who had finally come out of Nate's room
around midnight, and was now unpacking in the guest room that
abutted it.  This Al had nothing to say to him, no way to help him.

Sam had tried a few casual words in the hallway, where he'd finally
settled into a dog-eared paperback copy of a book by Chaim Potok
called My Name is Asher Lev, but Al had been singularly
disinterested in talking to Ruthie's husband.
     After he disappeared into his room, Sam felt alone and
isolated, and couldn't find his way back into the novel.  He put it
in his pocket, and went downstairs to rummage around the house,
trying to find clues that would lead him through Sid's life.  It
was a scavenger hunt that Sam had to engage in at the beginning of
any Leap, and he had even learned to take some pleasure in it. 
There were always little things left lying around to hint at his
hosts personality, and this Leap was no exception.  
     He'd begun in the study, a small, comfortable room on the
first floor which seemed to be inhabited entirely by Sid's
belongings (except for an odd toy here and there -- Sam had noticed
earlier that Nate did not lack for things to play with, and that
those things seemed to have found their way around the house). 
Sid's desk stood in one corner, a cheap, functional piece of
furniture that looked like he had obtained it in a grammar school
rummage sale.  It was covered with papers of every kind.
     Sid kept piles of neatly written lesson plans, and even (thank
God for small favors) a seating chart for his classroom.  Sam noted
that Nate was in Sid's class.  Magazines were piled perilously on
a chair beside the desk -- Early Childhood, Developmental
Psychology, Gifted Child Quarterly, others.  Pictures of
kindergarten classes, Sam counted sixteen of them, were taped to
the walls around the desk.  Sid Weiss was obviously dedicated to
his career, and Sam respected him for it.  Elementary education was
a tough job, and not one that was particularly well-respected,
especially for men, but Sid had stuck with it for sixteen years,
and Sam got the distinct impression that he was one of the rare
people in the world who was honestly happy with his career choice.
     The rest of the study was decorated in a style that could only
be called bachelor-chic.  A sprung out leather easy chair reclined
in the corner opposite the desk, an aging plaid couch sagged
against the wall facing the window, a hideous lamp obviously
scrounged from a garage sale graced the space between them.  Sid's
entire bachelor flat had probably been moved into this out of the
way room in Ruthie's house.  Sam smiled, and wondered what it was
about marriage that suddenly made men want to keep every bit of
junk they had ever collected.  There was nothing else in the study,
and he moved on.
     The living room, at the front of the house, was a pleasant
disaster area.  A low table covered with crayons and construction
paper and other childhood friends occupied an oddly prominent
place, like the main desk in an executive's office instead of a
child's toy being given space in an adult room.  Other toys were
strewn about -- a few stuffed animals, enough blocks to build a
small city, a scaled down punching bag, a red car that looked
eerily like the one Al had been driving the last time Sam had seen
him outside the Imaging Chamber.  He noted with some approval that
the television set was a small one, and that there was some kind of
locking mechanism on it.  He wondered if that was Sid's doing or
Ruthie's, and, unfortunately, suspected it was Sid's.
     The living room opened onto the corner of the kitchen.  A
phone nook was nestled between this door and another, which led
into a formal dining room (judging by the shininess of the floor in
this second room, it wasn't used often).  Sam picked up the phone
book, and checked it for the address of Beth Israel Elementary.  He
had to be careful on this Leap -- he'd been so concerned about Al
earlier that he'd forgotten ask Gushie for help with the mundane
details of Sid's life, like how to get to work.  He was sure he'd
seen a map of Chicago somewhere in Sid's office, and he could check
it quickly in the morning for a route, but an oversight like that
at the wrong time could be dangerous.
     Sam finished with the phonebook, and slid into the darkness of
the dining room.  There was nothing notable there; it could have
been a stage set for all its personality.  On the other side of it
was a utility room (which also seemed to open onto the kitchen; Sam
hadn't noticed earlier how many doors there were), with a washer-
dryer, a built in ironing board, and a deep sink, which stretched
across the archway into the next room.
     It was a large open space that seemed to occupy the entire
length of the back of the house, the short end of the "L".  Large
windows around the entire room gave it the feel of a greenhouse. 
Sam could see the light from the kitchen spilling in a rectangular
shape at the far end, and deduced that this was the room Al had
come in from earlier.  A chess game, half-played, sat near the door
to the utility room.  Whoever was playing black was about to lose
a queen, but Sam saw two quick moves, a pawn and a rook, that would
checkmate the white king if a nearby bishop took the queen.  He had
some memory of playing chess as a child, but the interest had worn
off quickly.  He waded further into the room.
     It was filled with painting supplies and plants, like a jungle
where easels grew casually among the trees.  Beside a large easel,
set up with a palette and oil paints, was a small, child-size
easel, and a box of water paints.
     Sam had to admit, this was a very child-centered home.
     But Al could pick up on all the ideas in it, he was sure, and
implement them in his apartment.  Maybe he already had; Sam hadn't
known him in '84, and for all he knew, Al's apartment looked just
like this.
     Never.
     Sam couldn't accept that.  The kind of decision that would
lead to never would break whatever bonds were left in this family,
and that couldn't be right.
     He needed to see Al.
     But between the end of his last Leap and the beginning of this
one, Sam estimated that he had been awake for nearly forty-eight
hours.  He decided to go upstairs, lie down, and wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barbara