From: bewalton17@aol.com (BEWalton17)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative
Subject: QL: The Enemy (Chapter 7)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 04:46:00 GMT
Message-ID: <19981201234600.27332.00000929@ng-fc2.aol.com>



     
                          CHAPTER SEVEN
     The Game was set up in Ruthie's studio, on a low mahogany
table against the east wall.  On clear days, the large plants
around it would cast sharp shadows over the pieces, which would
move with the sun and give the impression of the tide turning in
some fantastic battle between the forces of light and darkness.  Al
doubted that was the purpose of the plants, which mostly provided
a screen against curious little hands, but it gave The Game an
interesting twist that it hadn't had in any of its previous
locations.
     He had looked it over last night, but he wasn't sure whether
or not she had made her last move.  None of his pieces were
missing, and he couldn't remember the exact layout of her side.  He
thought she might have moved her queen, but he wasn't absolutely
sure.  It was vulnerable to attack, and he might have set that up
the last move in... July.  He'd been in town on business in July,
and moved a pawn.  But he couldn't remember if that had freed the
diagonal toward her queen.
     She was painting, as she always was in the mornings (this
morning, it was a mix of brown bands and swirls that Al didn't care
for very much), and she was beautiful, as she was at all times. 
Looking at her was like being caught in a time warp, and a sudden,
aching nostalgia took him by surprise.  His marriage to Ruthie had
been good, and, try as he might, he had never understood their
divorce.  He'd often wished he'd contested it, but he hadn't really
loved Ruthie (Beth was the only woman he would ever really love)
and at the time, he'd thought that divorce was probably the only
reasonable answer to that.  
     He wasn't always sure of that anymore.
     Then Beth's face came into his mind, her sweet, winsome smile,
the smell of her hair at dawn, the sound of her laugh.  It was that
memory that he held on to whenever things became too hard to bear;
that face that pulled him through the depths of hell and got him
out on the other side.  
     He couldn't betray it, not ever.  
     And especially not with Ruthie.  That would be too much of a
slap in the face, after '62.  Beth had almost left him when she'd
found out about it, and he had promised her that things were over,
that he did not love Ruthie and had no plans to.  She had sighed
and pushed her hair behind one ear, and said, "Then we go on, I
guess.  But remember that I'm trusting you."
     Al remembered.
     He looked up from his second perusal of the chessboard. 
"Whose turn is it?"
     "Yours.  I moved my rook last Thursday."  Ruthie didn't turn
around and smile, which she usually did, and she didn't speak
warmly, which she always did.  Al was vaguely troubled by this,
but, he figured, the best way to get her back on track was to
reassert a familiar situation.  The Game was as familiar as
breathing.  It seemed, sometimes, that half their relationship had
been spent over a chessboard.  It was a welcome relief from the
other half, which was as often twisted and confusing as it was
secure and comforting.  Al could trace their friendship from game
to game, board to board, check to check.
     They had started playing this particular Game a week after
Nate's birth, and neither of them had been in any hurry to reach
endgame, even during the divorce.  He bent over the chessboard.
     She had moved her one remaining rook two spaces forward -- of
course; that's what had been blocking the diagonal.  It was a
strange, pointless move, but he had learned long ago not to
underestimate such moves from Ruthie.  They almost always led to a
break in his strategy.  He didn't mind this; she had made him a far
better player over the years.  Father Brusero, who had taught him
the game, had once told him, "Never think of the other player as
your enemy.  The enemy is always the problem, not the player.  If
you solve the problem, you win the game.  If the problem solves
you, you lose.  It doesn't matter who gets checkmated."  The funny
thing was, when Al had finally started playing that way, it was
almost always the other player who ended up cornered.
     "Yeah," he said.  "I see what you did.  We'll make a
strategist of you yet."  He surveyed his position.  "But you left
your queen vulnerable."  
     She shrugged indifferently.
     Again, Al was uncomfortable.  Something was wrong here.  He
shook off the feeling, and moved his bishop four spaces to knock
Ruthie's queen off the board.
     He had no idea where she was keeping the captured players, so
he brought the piece to her.  She took it without speaking and
stared at it as if she had never seen it before.  
     Then she went to The Game and swept her fist across it,
knocking over all the remaining pieces and finally overturning the
board.
     Al stared at the wreckage with dumb shock and mounting,
irrational anger.  He bent to one knee and began to pick up.  "That
game outlasted our marriage, Ruthie."
     "Well, now it's over, too."  She turned away and went back to
her painting, now in dark, angry brushstrokes.
     Furious, Al followed her, grabbed her wrist -- there was that
familiar but still exciting feeling of actually touching her, the
spark of desire it had always set off, even when he was angry -- 
and turned her to face him.  "What is *with* you?"
     "Take a wild guess."
     Al sighed.  He had hoped that a good cry and a solid sleep
would make her more reasonable.  Not necessarily agreeable -- he
knew her better than that -- but not completely unapproachable,
either.  "Is this about Nate?"
     "Give the man another medal.  I always said you were a genius,
Albert."
     "Look, honey -- "
     "Don't call me 'honey'."
     "Ruthie, hon -- "
     She pulled her hand away.
     "I'm sorry.  Ruthie.  We... this doesn't have to be a fight. 
It doesn't have to be like this."
     "You aren't that stupid, Al.  Neither am I.  You can't just
walk in here, tell me you're taking my son, and then act like
nothing's changed."
     The smartest thing to do, Al thought, would be to remind her
that he had never said any such thing.  He had brought up the
subject -- because Nate had asked him to, mind you -- and put it on
the floor for debate.  He hadn't threatened her; he certainly
hadn't said anything to make her think a kidnapping was underway. 
The best way to approach the situation was no doubt to remind her
of this, and return to a reasonable discussion of the issue.  So he
said, "*Your* son asked me to."
     Ruthie went back to painting.  For some reason, this
infuriated Al.  He grabbed the brush and pulled it out of her hand.
     "Give that back," Ruthie said.
     "No."
     "Fine."
     God, Al thought as she stalked off to get another brush out of
her cabinet, No one can say "Fine" quite like an ex-wife.
     She knocked over a can of paintbrushes as she reached for one. 
The smell of the turpentine they were stored in flooded the room. 
Al noticed that her hands were shaking, and she was very close to
tears.  This alarmed him, because he thought of Ruthie as thick-
skinned and tough, and he'd seen her weakened twice in less than
twenty-four hours.  *Had* he been too blunt about Nate's custody? 
He wasn't sure, but having given himself a chance to think, he
realized that after thirty years of friendship and three years of
marriage, he had allowed his relationship with this woman to
deteriorate into childish bickering over a paintbrush.  "I'm
sorry," he said.  "I shouldn't have dropped it on you like that. 
I should have thought how you'd feel."
     "Why break with tradition now?"
     "Oh, come on, Ruthie.  I never treated you that badly."  He
touched her arm and she turned to him reluctantly.  "What did I
ever do to you that was so horrible?"
     "Let go."
     "I'm not holding on."
     She looked down at her arm, where his hand was still resting
lightly above her elbow.  He moved it.  She bit her lip, but didn't
move away.
     "I miss having you and Nate around," he said.  "If I thought
there was any chance that you'd come back with us, I ask you to." 
This, he realized, was ultimately the truth.  In the end, it was
his whole family he wanted back, not just his son, and Ruthie had
been family long before there had been Nate at all.  "Is there?"
     "No."
     "I didn't think so," he said.  What he didn't say was that he
knew perfectly well that a part of her *did* want to come back; it
was in her eyes, in her voice, in the subtle way she leaned toward
him when they were together.  There was an electricity between
them, and she was as aware of it as he was.  But she was also
stubborn, and was more likely to thumb her nose at her own
happiness than to change her mind about a decision she'd made, so
he didn't push.  He returned the conversation to the sole subject
of Nate's custody.  "I don't want to go to court over this.  It
would be bad for us and worse for Nate."
     She looked down.  "I don't want that either."
     Al hooked one finger under her chin and tilted her face back
up (he realized, rather pointlessly, that she was the only one of
his women who could look up at him while both of them were
standing).  "It's what Nate wants," he said.  "It was his idea."
     "I know."  She tried to look away, her wide blue eyes
searching for something to fix upon.  
     Al just watched her until they found their way back to him. 
She looked hurt and puzzled, even frightened, and he felt terrible
about doing this to her.  But Nate had asked him, not the other way
around, and he'd promised -- *promised* -- to try.  Still, he could
try to ease Ruthie's mind.  "Ruthie, it's nothing you did.  It's
just that Nate and I are a team.  We do things together."
     "He needs you to be his father, not his best pal."
     "The best father *is* the best pal."  Her eyes started
wandering again.  "Ruthie, look at me."  She did.  "Do you think
for a minute that I wouldn't die for that kid?"
     "I know you would, Al.  But most of the time, parenting
doesn't call for measures like that.  You'll get bored."
     "No, I won't," he answered, puzzled by her concern.  Bored? 
He and Nate never lacked for things to do.  Ruthie shook her head
ruefully, and started to walk away.  Al put his hands on her
shoulders, to hold her there.  She looked at him with a kind of
helpless frustration.  Since childhood, they'd turned to each other
when they were in pain; now they were causing each other pain, but
they were still drawn to each other for comfort.  He put his arms
around her, and she leaned against him.
     "Why, Albert?" she said.  "Why are you doing this?"
     "He's my son."
     "He's my son, too."
     "I'll take care of him, Ruthie," he said quietly, rocking her
gently back and forth.  "I promise.  Just give me a chance.  If you
ever loved me, give me a chance."  He kissed her forehead, telling
himself that he meant it only as a comforting touch, as he had when
they were young.
     Then he felt her small hands slide up his back, and the air
became electric.
                               ***
     Sid's classroom was a scaled down world of its own.  There was
a coatroom to one side of the door, and a bathroom off the other
side of the room.  Between them was a play area with a plastic
slide and a box of foam rubber balls, as well as a stack of plastic
boxes with the names of all the students on them.  They held
personal toys and supplies, some even including a change of
clothes, just in case.  Just beyond that area was a clear section
of the floor; plastic mats stacked against the wall suggested that
it was for naptime.  The rest of the room was taken up by a series
of child-size tables and shelves filled with enticing items like
picture books, toys, number games, and art supplies.  The walls
were covered with bright pictures; Sam noticed that at least one of
them was signed "Ruthie Calavicci."  " -Weiss" had been added
later, in a slightly different shade.
     Most of the kids didn't see him.  Most of them simply accepted
Sam as their normal teacher, Mr. Weiss, and let him go about his
daily duties without comment.  Most of them had crossed the
developmental threshold beyond which they were unable to see Sam
for who he was.
     A few of them hadn't.
     One of these was a girl named Lori Fox, who had a voice loud
enough to wake the dead, and who had been using it to broadcast to
the class that Mr. Weiss wasn't Mr. Weiss, that some stranger was
trying to fool them all.  Sid Weiss' teaching assistant, a pretty
young girl named Molly, had managed to calm her somewhat, and was
now cuddling her and crooning that of course Mr. Weiss was Mr.
Weiss, no one was trying to fool her.  
     Sam chose to stay out of the conversation.
     The kids had been finger painting for about forty-five
minutes, and Sam supposed he should try to come up with a new
diversion for them, but things seemed reasonably sane right now,
and he was in no rush to break the status quo.  He went through the
room, looking over small shoulders at the colorful messes that were
multiplying on the low tables.
     "Hey, Mr. Weiss," a girl said, and Sam turned around.  "Look
at me!"
     Sam groaned.  The girl had gathered up a handful of purple
paint, and was lathering it into her hair.  "What are you doing?"
     "Moussing," she said.  "My big sister does this all the time. 
She says it makes her hair pretty.  Do you think mine's pretty?"
     "I think it's pretty purple."   He plucked her out of the
chair, and nestled her into the crook of his arm.  "I think we'd
better wash it out."
     "No!"
     "Yes, I think so."  He carried her over to the sink (against
increasing protests), and managed to make a game out of using the
sprayer to get rid of the paint.  He pulled a towel from a rod on
the side of the sink and wrapped it around her head.  "You want to
go back to painting now?"
     "Mm-hmm."
     "You think you can keep the paint out of your hair?"
     "Mm-hmm."
     Sam carried her back to her chair.  When he was sure that her
hands were staying on the paper, he started wandering again.
     Nate Calavicci was sitting a bit apart from the others,
painting meticulously, with an adult-like concentration.  Sam
looked over his shoulder and saw that a face which could pass for
Al's was emerging from the solid mass of paint that Nate had
started with.  It wouldn't be mistaken for an adult's artwork, but
it was certainly advanced for a kindergartner.  "That's pretty
good, Nate," he said.
     "It's Pop."
     "I can tell."
     Nate's face lit up with a pleased smile.  "You can, really?"
     "Definitely."
     Still smiling, Nate went back to his painting.  "I want to be
able to paint like Mama," he said.  Sam watched Nate's finger push
the thick paint around for awhile, then taper to a stop.  Nate
looked up timidly.  "Is Mama still mad at Pop, do you think?"
     Sam sighed inwardly, wondering how many spats Nate had
witnessed in the five years of his life.  "I think your Mom's just
upset because you want to leave," he said.
     "I don't want to make her sad."
     "She knows that."
     "I just should be with Pop."
     "Why is that?"
     Nate furrowed his brow, in exactly the same way Al did when he
was trying to think of the best way to explain something.  After a
minute, he nodded to himself and said, "Mama's got you to take care
of her here.  But Pop and Sharon, they got divorced, so he's all
alone, see?"
     Sam smiled.  "I think so."
     "If I was there I could make sure he eats his breakfast, and
ties his shoes and everything."
     "I think it's supposed to be the other way around, Nate," Sam
said as gently as he could.  
     Nate cocked his head to one side, confused.  "What do you
mean?"
     "You're the kid.  He's supposed to take care of you.  You're
not supposed to take care of him."
     "Then who's going to?"
     Good question, Sam thought, but said, "Your Pop's a grown-up. 
He can take care of himself."
     Nate sighed deeply and dramatically, as if the weight of the
world was on his shoulders.  He shook his head.  "You don't know
Pop much, do you?"  He went back to his meticulous painting.  
     Sam smiled and ruffled his hair (he was rewarded with a dirty
look for this), then went to the other end of the room, where Molly
had finally managed to quiet Lori Fox.  Lori looked at Sam
suspiciously, but said nothing.  She went back to the low tables,
sneaking glances at him until she sat down.
     Molly shook her head.  "Do you know which one of them got it
started?"
     "What?"
     "Eight or nine of them have come up with this 'Mr. Weiss isn't
really here' business.  Someone must have started it."
     "Yeah, well, I... "
     "Maybe it was a movie on television or something.  Did you see
anything?"
     "No, I haven't really been watching television lately."
     Molly laughed.  "It's the only time I get to see other
grownups."
     A high-pitched scream broke the air.  Lori had stood up on her
chair and was pointing at the door.  "It's a ghost, in the hall,
he's a ghost!  Mrs. Liebman walked right through him!"
     Sam looked at the doorway quickly enough to see Al punch the
handlink and disappear.  He headed for the door.
     "I'm going to see if there's really someone out there," he
told Molly.
     "And leave me with this?  Thanks, Sid."
     Al was standing in the hallway, near a double door that led to
the stairwell.  He jerked his thumb toward the stairwell and
disappeared again.  Sam followed.
     "Sorry about that, Sam," Al said, nodding vaguely toward the
classroom.  "I don't know what I was thinking."
     "I do.  And it's okay."  
     Al looked down.  "He's a good kid, isn't he?"
     "He's a terrific kid."
     "When he first died, I had nightmares.  I was back in 'Nam,
but Nate was with me.  They gave us a bowl of rice to split, only
I'd eat the whole thing.  And then they wouldn't give us rice at
all.  They'd hand me a knife, and I..."  He closed his eyes and
rubbed his face.
     "It's only a dream, Al."  Sam spoke quietly but firmly.  "You
loved Nate, and he knew it."
     "That's not enough.  I was a lousy father, Sam."
     "That's not true."
     "Yes, it is.  Ruthie was right, I got bored -- " Al looked up
suddenly, a memory surfacing on his face.  "You have to call home."
     There was a pay phone on the wall at the bottom of the stairs,
and Sam trusted Al enough that he was already headed for it when he
asked "What do you mean?"
     "Just do it, Sam."
     He picked up the receiver and started dialling Sid Weiss' home
number.  "What am I supposed to say?" he asked as the phone began
to ring across town.
     "Say anything.  Ask her if she wants you to pick up something
at the store."
     "Why?"
     "Because a phone call from her husband right now could stop
her from... from making a bad decision for a lousy reason."
     Sam looked up the stairs at Al.  He was looking away; he
seemed too ashamed to meet Sam's eyes.  "Oh."  Sam turned back to
the phone, wanting to give Al a moment's privacy.  On the other
end, the Weiss' home phone kept ringing, and ringing, and
ringing...
     "She's not answering, Al."
     "Damn!  It's too late.  I forgot... " He slammed his fist into
the handlink, which beeped in an oddly comforting tone.  Al sighed. 
"Hang up.  She won't answer."
     Sam hung up.  Al pulled his hand across his face viciously. 
This isn't fair, Sam thought again.  Al had lost everything that
mattered.  His father, his sister, Beth, Nate, Ruthie... No one
could be expected to sacrifice that much.
     And maybe he wasn't expected to, Sam thought with an
unexpected surge of hope.  Maybe Sam had been sent here not just to
keep Nate alive but...
     "Al, maybe I'm here to get you and Ruthie back together, so
custody isn't an issue -- "
     But Al was already shaking his head.  "No.  That's the first
scenario I ran.  I figured you'd think of it; I did at the time. 
Ziggy says it's only a thirteen percent."
     "Why?"
     "For starters, Ruthie's married to Sid."
     "But she loves you, I could tell -- "
     "Do you really think that matters?"
     "Of course it matters!  If she really loves you -- "
     "Cut it out dammit, Sam!"  Sam looked up at Al and was
surprised to see that his friend was not merely upset; he was
furious.  It wasn't the kind of anger that flared up and cooled
down at any mild irritation.  It was a deep, slow-burning fire,
coming to the surface after God only knew how long.  It was alive,
but it was terrible, an anger that was as likely to turn inward as
outward.
     Then he sighed, and the fury seeped out of him with his
breath.  "I'm sorry, I... I'm sorry."  Without thinking about it,
Sam reached out to put a hand on Al's shoulder, to try and calm
him, but of course, they had no substance to each other, and Sam's
hand simply fell through the air.  It was more than Al could take. 
He closed his eyes and turned away.
     Sam stood quietly for a moment, not knowing what to do.  Al
wasn't open with his emotions, and he did not like -- or respond
well to -- having them pried at.  After awhile, Al turned back to
Sam, and he seemed somewhat more composed.  "Are you alright?" Sam
asked.
     Al considered the question, then nodded.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm
okay.  It's just that, maybe if Ruthie and I hadn't been so
obsessed with ourselves... " He shook his head.  "I did love her,
Sam, in a way.  Maybe not the right way, but I did.  I still do. 
But it's not my life you're here to change, or Ruthie's.  It's
Nate's.  You're here to give Nate the chance at life that Ruthie
and I took away from him.  He deserves it.  And if you start
wasting time on something you won't be able to do, he'll lose it,
just like he did before."
     "But what if I could fix all of it?"
     "What about Sid?" Al asked, gesturing at a pane of glass in
the stairway door, where Sid's reflection was a barely visible
ghost.  "What are you going to fix for him?"
     Sam couldn't think of anything.




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