From: bewalton17@aol.com (BEWalton17)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative
Subject: QL: The Enemy (Chapter 20)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 05:19:48 GMT
Message-ID: <19981202001948.27332.00000959@ng-fc2.aol.com>





                         CHAPTER TWENTY
     The rain let up in the morning, leaving the sky clear and
crystal blue.  There was ice on the roads and walkways, and the
deejay on the radio alarm was reminding metropolitan Chicago to be
careful on its morning commute.  There were already a few
accidents, and he didn't want to see any more.  He cut to a
commercial for a Midas Mufflers.
     The first thing Ruthie Weiss was fully aware of that day was
a cold spot on the bed, where Nate had just vacated his space.  It
left an empty sensation in the circle of her arms.  She heard him
open and close the door, and start down the hall.
     The second thing she was aware of was the feel of parchment
against the skin of her hand.
     She opened her eyes curiously and sat up.
     The scroll in her hand was nothing fancy, and she didn't think
it had originally been intended to be presented to her rolled.
     She had a feeling it was intended to be thrown.  In the
presence of two legal witnesses.
     With shaking hands, she unrolled the parchment, and looked at
the Hebrew message written on it.  It was simple, impersonal, like
any legal document.
     It was a _get_.
     It would be laughed out of any religious court she took it to
(the missteps in the presentation would render it invalid), but so
would the marriage it terminated.  For Ruthie, the salient fact was
that Al had delivered it at all.
     It was over.
     For a moment, she felt nothing.  A kind of mental and
emotional numbness descended on her.  She could see the parchment
in her hand, but she couldn't feel its texture under her fingers. 
It wasn't real, it couldn't be.
     Then feeling flooded in, and her mind started working
frantically, trying to assign some meaning to the last thirty years
of her life.  She had been in this place before, the moment she'd
met Beth, but it was so much stronger now, so much more urgent.  It
*couldn't* be for nothing.  She wouldn't allow it; it was more than
she could bear.  Surely, there was something left, something
besides the chaotic images of a doomed childhood.
     But every meaning she found was shattered on the rock of the
parchment under her fingers, and swirled down in a charybdis loop
to the bottom of the sea.
     "Pop?" she heard Nate call from down the hall, bringing her up
from despair.  *That* was her meaning.  That was all the meaning in
the world.  If there hadn't been Al, there wouldn't be Nate. 
Ruthie would have simply grown old and fat on the Lower West Side,
never knowing the world beyond.  Albert had given her that world,
and that world had given her Nate.  Not to mention that he would
not be the same child he was had Albert not been his father, no
matter whose blood ran in his veins.
     If Al had left her the _get_ like this, he was gone, and if he
was gone, it was going to be a bad morning for Nate.
     She got out of bed, then pulled her bathrobe from the hook on
the back of the door.  She pulled it on as she went down the hall
to the guest room.  
     Sid was standing at the door to the front bedroom; she ignored
him.  Whatever had gone through Al's mind last night had started
with Sid's attack on him.  He had no business being a part of the
morning.
     "Hey, Pop!"  Nate was standing just inside the open door, one
hand on the doorknob.
     Ruthie sighed.  The bed had not been slept in; the crisp folds
of Al's military style housekeeping had not been disturbed since
yesterday.
     Nate moved in a few more steps, his eyes widening.  He looked
in the closet, then ran to the bed, and looked under it.  He stood
up; his eyes darted from side to side.  "Pop!"
     "Ruthie -- " Sid started.
     She turned and glared at him. 
     "Ruthie, I -- "
     "Pop, come out!" Nate called, getting frantic.
     Ruthie turned away from her husband, and went into the room. 
"Honey?"
     Nate looked up at her.  His lower lip was trembling.  This
wasn't like him at all.  Ruthie had no hang-ups about her son
crying, but it had never been in Nate's nature to spend too many
tears on anything.  "Pop's gone," he said.  "Where is he, Mama?"
     "I'm not sure."
     "But I was supposed to go with him.  He *said*."
     "I know he did, honey, but sometimes -- "
     "He *promised!*"
     Ruthie tried to pull him to her, to comfort him, but he pulled
away, and looked under the bed again.  She leaned back against the
doorframe, and that was when she noticed the white square of paper
folded into a tent on the desk.  The words "To Nate" had been
printed in large block letters on the front.
     Her heart sank.  If it had just been the _get_, it would be
hard enough to bear.  But this farewell was to more than a
marriage.
     "Nate, honey?" she said.
     Nate didn't respond.  He crawled all the way under the bed,
and out the other side, then checked the closet again.  After a
thorough inspection, he started out into the hall.  "Pop!"
     Ruthie squatted down and caught him at the door.  "Nate, stop
it.  Your Pop left this morning."
     "No."
     "Yes."
     He bit his lip, then nodded.
     "There's a letter for you," Ruthie said when she was fairly
sure he wasn't going to run again.  "It's on the desk."
     Nate was young, but old enough to know understand that letters
left like that were never good news.  "I don't want it," he said
sullenly.
     "But, honey -- "
     A tear brimmed over his thick eyelashes.  "I don't want it,"
he said again, then pulled out of Ruthie's reach, and ran for the
stairs.  Sid followed him down.
     Damn you, Ruthie thought, not sure which of her husbands she
meant it for.  Damn you both, she amended.
     She went to the desk and picked up the letter.  It seemed
heavy in her hands, and an unthinkable thought
     (please God don't let it be a suicide note)
     flashed through her mind before she could stop it.
     She blinked it back.  There were two things about Albert of
which she was certain:  one was that he would not commit suicide,
no matter what the circumstances, and the other was that if he ever
surprised her on the first, he would certainly not involve Nathan
in it.  Not ever.
     Downstairs, she heard Nate crying, and Sid trying to soothe
him.  She took a deep breath, and went down to join them.
                               ***
     Sam caught Nate at the front door and picked him up easily.
     "Where are you going?"
     "Put me down."
     "You can't go outside, Nate.  It's too cold for your pajamas
out there."
     "I have to find Pop."
     Sam carried him into the living room, and sat down on the
sofa.  He thought he'd have to fight to keep Nate on his lap, but
he didn't.  Nate turned in his arms and clung to him, trembling.
     Sam rocked him.  "It's okay," he whispered.
     "I want my Papa."
     "I know you do."  He pushed his fingers through Nate's hair,
and thought What have I done here?
     He felt Ruthie standing in the archway before he saw her
there.  She was watching him coolly, tolerating him because Nate
needed him right now.  There was a sheet of paper in her left hand. 
"Al's gone," she said.
     "I know," Sam said.  "I'm sorry."
     "I doubt it."
     Nate looked up from his spot, and reached for her.  She came
to him, and plucked him out of Sam's arms.  He nestled against her
shoulder, eyes glassy.
     "Ruthie, I really want to -- "
     She shook her head in a tight, jerky movement.  "Not now, Sid. 
I'm very angry at you, and if we start talking, I'm going to say
something that I regret.  I don't want to do that, and I don't
think you really want me to."
     Sam backed off.  He had done enough damage here to last a
lifetime; he didn't want to do any more.  If Ruthie was really
trying to control her temper, then there was a chance that she and
Sid would be able to work things out when he got back, as long as
she had time to cool off first.  Sam thought that the best strategy
might just be to give her room.
     Ruthie sat down on the cushioned footstool that sat at the end
of the sofa, and pulled out the letter.  Nate saw it, and squirmed
off her lap.  He went over to his table, and looked across at the
wall.
     "Honey," Ruthie said, "I'm sure Pop says where he went in this
letter."
     "I don't care."
     "Nathan, look at me."  Ruthie waited for him to turn around. 
There was a sullen, resigned look on his face.  She pushed on.  "Do
you want to read the letter yourself, or do you want me to read it
to you?"
     "You read it."
     She opened the letter, and read aloud.  "It says, 'Dear Nate,
Sometimes it's hard to know the right thing to do, and sometimes
grownups make mistakes.  It was a mistake for me to ask you to come
live with me... "
     Nate's alive, Sam realized.  I know him.
     He didn't know Nate very well -- at least he didn't think he
did -- because his visits to Al's were short and infrequent, but he
did know him.  There was something wrong between Nate and Al;
whether it dated from today or not was debatable.  Sam had a
feeling that there had been other things along the line.
     Something happened at Nate's bar mitzvah.  I think I was
there.
     There was no way to know for sure, but Sam thought that maybe
there'd been a glimmer of an actual memory falling into place.  Not
much, just an image of Nate standing in the doorway of a reception
hall, lifting his little sister up onto his shoulders because she
wanted to see how the door hinge worked.  That had been before the
blow up between him and Al.
     But there was something else he knew, something that seemed
important somehow, but he couldn't get a hold of it.
     "'... so you see, Nate," Ruthie continued.  "I thought it was
better if I left you with your mother for now -- '"
     "I don't want any more," Nate said.
     Ruthie looked at him sympathetically.  "It's almost done,
Nate."  
     Nate sighed deeply, and pulled himself up onto his table to
listen.
     He's at Annapolis.
     That was it.  It had been hard to get hold of because Sam had
never known about it firsthand.  His plebe year had been after Sam
had started Leaping, and Sam's only memory was a vague impression
that the Observer had once mentioned it in passing, as part of a
longer, convoluted story about Jack Kerouac.  "Nineteen fifty-
eight, my plebe year at Annapolis -- God, Nate's missing all the
good stuff going now... "
     Ruthie smiled.  "It says, 'You be good, Nate, and try to
understand that sometimes what's best for us isn't always the most
fun.  Love, Pop.'"  She got up and went across the room to him.  He
looked at her reluctantly.  "Do you understand that, Nate?" she
asked.
     "Yeah," Nate said.  "He doesn't want me there."
     Nate looked like he was about to cry again, but he didn't. 
Instead, he slid off the table, and ran past his mother.  Sam heard
the quick staccato of his footsteps on the stairs.  There was a
thud as he tripped near the landing, then it sounded like he might
have scrambled the rest of the way up on all fours.
     Ruthie turned on Sam.  "Are you happy, Sid?" she demanded, and
ran after her son.
     Sam sat forward, and buried his face in his hands.  Nate was
alive, but what kind of life was this for him?  Or for Ruthie and
Sid?  Or for Al?  Was being alive enough?
     "Don't worry about it," Al said behind him.  "You did the
right thing.  Ruthie and Sid wind up fine."  
     "They do?"
     "Yeah.  Oh, it's going to be rough for a little while.  But
Sid's tougher than I gave him credit for.  He rides it out.  And
when they find out that Misi's on the way, they make it work, Sam. 
Everyone's okay."
     "Are you?"
     "Me?  Hell, I always land on my feet.  Don't worry about me."
     "I *do* worry about you."
     Al shrugged.  "Well, Nate wouldn't talk to me when I called
for two months.  And I was pretty messed up when I came to Star
Bright.  But there was someone there who helped me out.  Got my
dime out of the vending machine."
     Sam looked away.
     "Sam, it was the only way to save Nate's life without changing
mine, and we couldn't risk that.  You know that better than anyone. 
You taught it to me."
     "What about you and Nate?  Does he ever get over what happened
here?"
     "This?" Al looked around.  "I don't know if he even remembers
it.  It's not like he ever came up to me and said, 'Why'd you bail
out when I was five, Pop?'  But I gave him enough other things to
hate me for.  It's not all there yet" -- he tapped his finger
against his temple -- "but it's coming.  I wish it wouldn't."
     "What kinds of things?"
     "I embarrassed him a lot.  Mostly with women.  One time a
bunch of his friends caught me -- "
     "At Nate's bar mitzvah," Sam realized aloud.  "With one of the
caterers."  Al nodded.  Sam wished he'd held his tongue; Al was
obviously mortified by the memory that was forming.  It was too
late now.  "I'm starting to remember."
     "And I'm starting to forget that things were ever any
different," Al said.  "When you Leap, we'll all forget.  At least
that's what Ziggy thinks."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Yeah."
     "How can you be?"
     "I don't remember Lisa Sherman dying.  Ziggy tells me that she
did, and I remember the Leap.  But what I remember from that time
is that Lisa got transferred, and she and her husband fixed things
up.  I met Beth a couple of weeks after that."  He shrugged.  "I
sure remember talking to myself in the Waiting Room; that's a hard
thing to forget.  But I don't really remember what happened the
first time around, not on the inside.  Not where it counts."  
     "Then that's why I haven't Leaped."
     "What is?"
     "Al, I think He's giving you a window."
     "A window?"
     "A time when you can remember two lives, *really* remember
them.  I Leaped in here to keep you from losing your son.  I fixed
it here, but you're the only one who can fix it in the present."
     Al shook his head.  "You don't understand, Sam.  Nate doesn't
even talk to me unless I order him to do it."
     "Then order him.  Don't let the window close, Al."




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