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Roman a Clef
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One of the boys upstairs had emailed him a stupid computer
puzzle with a picture of an alien wearing a Santa hat. It
was a simple game meant for children, so Mulder was able to
keep one eye on the tiles and one eye free for Scully as she
walked through his office door.
Unfortunately, she wasn't wearing a Santa hat.
He clicked the last tile into place and the alien started
winking at him. Nice.
"Twas the Friday before the last shopping weekend of
Christmas, Scully. What are you still doing here?"
She didn't take a chair or perch on the edge of his desk as
was her custom but rather hung back between him and the door.
"I'm done with my shopping for this year."
Of course she was. She'd probably finished it sometime
around Independence Day. "Then shouldn't you be scampering
home to toast chestnuts and sip cocoa with..."
His finger froze on the mouse for a second. He knew she had
siblings, but he could never remember their blasted names,
despite the fact that he could remember his junior high
school locker combination and Mickey Mantle's career batting
average.
For some reason, Scully's personal life just didn't stick to
his neurons. He'd be fine if she just slept in a pod at the
Hoover and didn't exist elsewhere in the universe.
"With...?" She prompted him, her arms folded and her
eyebrows raised slightly.
He straightened up and quit playing his game. "With your
family?"
Damn if this didn't appear to be the opening she was waiting
for, because instead of leaving, she stepped from the shadows
and deeper into his lair. "Bill doesn't get to town until
late Sunday. He's bringing his fiance to dinner this year,
can you believe it? He's the first one of us to get
married."
"He beat you to the altar? I can't even fathom it."
"What about you, Mulder?"
"What about me?"
"Are you doing anything for the holidays?"
"You're looking at it," he said, indicating the folders piled
high on his desk, and she looked at him askance.
"You're not serious."
"Hey, come on, Scully, there's nothing Santa could bring me
that's better than what I've got right here. Look, this is a
file on an unexplained hum in the New Mexico desert. I've
also got one on a haunted carousel in Georgia -- it
supposedly plays in the middle of the night without power and
workers have reported seeing the ghost of a 6 year old boy
riding it -- and out in Oakland there's a woman who says the
1989 earthquake gave her psychic abilities."
"Did she hit the lottery in 1990?"
"Not to my knowledge, no."
"Then I think you can save yourself the plane trip because
that woman is either delusional, faking it or both."
He put the folder aside. "You know what you are, Scully?
You're an X-files Scrooge."
"Bah, humbug," she replied cheerfully as she stood up again,
but she still didn't leave. She hovered over him for another
moment and then said, "You know, Mulder, if you're not busy,
I thought maybe you'd like to go for a drink."
"You and me?"
"That would be the guest list, yes. I just thought it might
be nice, you know. For the holidays."
He hesitated. He and Scully, alcohol, and the most morbid
season of the year. What could go wrong?
"It would be my treat," she added.
"Well, fa-la-la-la-la-la, Scully," he said as he grabbed his
coat. "I believe this is the first annual X-files holiday
party. I'm glad to see one hundred percent attendance from
the staff."
She said nothing but he caught a smile as she hit the button
for the elevator.
She took him to a hole-in-the-wall pub he'd never known
existed, despite the fact that it said "Since 1897" in
crackled gold lettering on the front window. It had yellowed
plaster walls, lots of dark, carved wood, and an old stone
fireplace in the back. Scattered customers sat around in
their heavy winter clothes while the sound system crooned out
Bing Crosby's "White Christmas."
Scully hung her dark coat on a hook but kept the red scarf
around her neck as they took their seats. The high-backed
booths reminded him of his days at Oxford, and he smiled a
bit as he ran his hand over the worn wood table. "I'll have
a Guinness," he told their waitress, and Scully ordered an
Irish coffee.
But with no props between them until the drinks came, they
eyed each other warily and tried not to bump knees under the
table.
Eventually Mulder cleared his throat and grabbed the ketchup
bottle, sliding it easily from one hand to the other. "How'd
you find this place?" he asked her.
Her cheeks pinkened slightly and he knew then there was a man
involved. "A friend introduced me to it a few years ago.
They make a great Shepherd's pie."
He almost asked the friend's name, but she fell silent, lost
in her own thoughts, and the moment slipped away.
He and Phoebe had certainly marked time in many a darkened
booth such as this one, smoking and drinking, stinking up the
expensive clothes he'd bought for her with his parents'
money. She'd called him pathetic and transparent with every
gift, but he noticed she never gave them back.
"Did you ever play that tape?" Scully asked as their drinks
arrived.
"Huh?" He got the reference immediately, of course; Phoebe
had only been gone two days now. It was just a little spooky
how she sometimes guessed what he was thinking.
"From Inspector Green," she said, blowing on her coffee.
"I threw it out," he lied, and she looked unconvinced.
Eight months together and she already knew he was
pathologically unable to let go of his past. Phoebe's tape
was just a way for her to get the last word, but he'd saved
it anyway. It sat in a junk drawer at home, unlistened, and
he imagined himself stumbling across it at some futuristic
point, when it was a relic or a curiosity, an artifact of the
Mulder museum.
"She isn't at all the type of person I'd pictured you with,"
Scully volunteered, and he snapped back to the conversation
in hurry.
Scully pictured him? With women? He stared at her in some
amazement but she seemed nonchalant about this stunning
revelation. He wondered if she expected him to be picturing
her with men. There was that one guy she was seeing a while
back, but he'd never gotten a name. Or maybe she'd said a
name and he'd failed to register it.
But here she was now telling him he was a person she didn't
see with Phoebe Green. It had taken her three days to find a
truth he'd spent ten years learning.
Scully set her cup back down but kept her fingers around the
porcelain. "It's funny the way people from your past can
unearth remnants of yourself that you didn't realize still
existed. They're like archeologists of your psyche. I think
it gets worse around the holidays, too. If you go back to
your parents' house, then you're automatically a child
again."
"So then why go?"
She smiled over the rim of her mug. "Childhood wasn't all
bad. Besides, there will be frosted gingerbread cookies, and
that's worth a few hours of arguing over whose turn it is to
do the dishes. You mean to say that you're really not going
home at all?"
He shook his head and pushed his half-empty mug around with
the tip of one finger. "We haven't celebrated in years.
They kept up appearances until they divorced, but now it's
each Mulder for him or herself. My mom sends a card and a
check; I send her flowers for Hanukah. Dad sometimes calls
me on Christmas."
"Your mother is Jewish? I didn't know that."
"Neither did I until... until Samantha was gone."
*one more thing your father took from me* He could still see
his mother, face white with anger, eyes black from the
opiates, as she dashed the present from his grasp. *you're
far too old for this rubbish*
"She disappeared less than one month before Christmas," he
explained. "I bought Sam a present anyway. She'd wanted
this blue and white striped purse that had a mirror and a
lipstick case inside, but my Mom wouldn't buy it for her. I
used up pretty much all my Christmas money, but I figured
that when Sam came back she was going to need something nice
to cheer her up, and I knew my parents weren't getting her
anything."
"I'm so sorry," Scully said. She reached for him but stopped
before they actually touched.
He wondered if he ever found Samantha, what part of him she
might unearth again. "It was ages ago," he said to Scully,
waving her off. "Now Mom gets her peace and quiet, Dad gets
his scotch, and I get 3 days to investigate whatever the hell
I want without having to report upstairs every ten seconds.
It's win-win all the way around."
"The ghost of Christmas present, haunting the Hoover
basement?" she asked, slightly teasing.
"Boo," he said. "Maybe I'll open an X-file on myself. Or
better yet, on Santa. Just how does he make it twenty-five
thousand miles around the globe in a single night, and where
did he get those elves? Does he breed them up there, or are
they ageless as he is? What does he do with the toys for
houses that don't have a chimney - just break and enter?"
"At our house he put the toys in an old trunk."
He paused with his beer in front of his mouth. "Come again?"
"We had a chimney, and he'd fill the stockings, but the rest
of the toys were in this old trunk my Dad had. The key was
hidden in the house somewhere, and whichever one of us kids
found it first got to open the trunk. In retrospect, I think
it was a way for my parents to enjoy a cup of coffee while we
hunted for the silly key."
"My dad used to collect keys." He had no idea where this
memory had come from. "He had a big jar of them that used to
sit in the garage."
"I only found it once," Scully said, shaking her head. "It
was on the top of a window sash and I was the only one who
thought to look there. Bill got it pretty much every year
because Melissa didn't really care and we were too little. By
the time I was old enough to compete, my father stopped the
game. Once Charlie turned seven, and Dad decreed there was
no more Santa. When he makes up his mind that Christmas is
over, it's over. He'd haul the tree out to the curb at
twelve midnight on the twenty-sixth if my mother would let
him. I'm sorry -- what were you saying about your father?"
"I'd totally forgotten. Dad had a jar about this high filled
with old keys that he kept on his workbench. I wasn't
supposed to touch that stuff but I used to sneak in there
sometimes and look at the tools."
It was amazing to him how this memory broke open: the aging,
drafty garage that smelled of wood, motor oil and car wax; so
forbidden until the one day in November when everyone stopped
caring where he was and whattrouble he was in.
"My brothers and I once used my Dad's good saw to remove the
steering wheel on an old car at the dump. We were making a
go-cart and needed the wheel. We got punished twice; once
from my father for ruining his saw and once from my mother
because Charlie nearly cut his thumb off."
He gave her a mild smile at this anecdote and polished off
the rest of his beer. "I'm afraid I've got to bust up this
little party," he said, reaching around behind to retrieve
his coat. "But thank you for the drink."
"Hunting Christmas ghosts?" she asked as he rose.
"Something like that. Merry Christmas, Scully."
As he left, flakes started to swirl down from the night sky,
alighting briefly on his clothes before melting away. The
next morning he had to scrape the frost from his car but the
roads were clear for his trip. He took with him a Christmas
wreath that smelled of fresh pine and an extra large cup of
black coffee. It was night again before he reached his
destination.
He knocked because he wasn't sure he'd be welcome.
His father opened the door wearing his ubiquitous sweater
vest and a surprised expression. He had slippers on his feet
and a whiskey in his hand. "Fox," he said. "To what do I
owe this honor?"
"Merry Christmas, Pop." Mulder held up the wreath as a peace
offering.
"Come in, come in." He stepped back and allowed Mulder to
enter the living room. The old TV was playing some black-
and-white movie, which his father switched off with an
ancient, enormous remote. "I was just going to freshen
this," he said, holding up his glass. "You have time for a
drink?"
"Sure," Mulder said as he lowered himself onto the couch.
His dad took the worn out furniture in the divorce, and from
the looks of things, he still had much of it. Mulder
accepted the tumbler from his father and peered in at the
amber liquid; his father had cheap furnishings, but he spared
no expense on the booze.
"What are you doing up here?" his father asked, settling back
into his chair.
"It's Christmas," Mulder replied, and his father looked
blank. Mulder scratched his chin. "I had a few days off,"
he tried instead.
"Ah, good, good. Are you going to visit your mother?"
"Maybe."
"There's a storm that's supposed to hit, so you be careful on
the roads. We've had two of them come through so far, and I
can't say I care for all the shoveling. You must have it
easier down there in the south."
"We get snow." Mulder watched his father take a sip drink
and saw the wrinkles and brown spots on his hand.
"Two inches and it paralyzes the whole city. I remember how
it works. Bunch of politicians just looking for an excuse to
take the day off. How's work going for you, anyway? My boys
tell me they assigned you a partner now, a woman."
"Your sources are correct, sir."
He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe they're
continuing to indulge you in this nonsense."
"It's not nonsense. You should know better than anyone. I'm
sure you've seen your share of government hush-ups."
"Don't tell me what I know. I know I raised you better than
this. You were making a name for yourself within the Bureau,
really going places, and now I have to answer questions about
how you're chasing lights in the sky. No good will come of
it, Fox. Mark my words."
Mulder stood up and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a
folded newspaper story, which he handed to his father.
"That's a serial murderer who has been eating people's livers
for more than a century. Thanks to me and Scully, he's
behind bars now. I think that's one we can chalk up in the
'good' category."
His father unfolded the paper, glanced at it, and handed it
back. "Makes no God damned sense," he muttered, and Mulder
was pretty sure his father wasn't talking about the case.
He sighed and sat back down. "I didn't come here to fight."
"Why did you come here?"
Mulder swirled the liquor around in his glass. "Hey, Dad, do
you still have those old keys?"
"The ones in the jar?"
"Yeah, you used to keep them in the garage with your tools."
"They're still out there, I think. I don't bother with that
stuff much anymore. Why do you ask?"
"I was just thinking about them the other day and wondered if
you still had them."
"I'm reasonably certain they're out in the garage gathering
dust with the remainder of my past," his father said darkly.
"You are welcome to investigate for yourself."
Mulder opened the connecting door and felt around for the
light switch. This garage was neater and more modern, but
old combined odor of wood and exhaust fumes still hung in the
air. He found the glass jar filled with keys and brought it
back to the living room. His father was pouring himself
another drink.
"Can't imagine what brought that old collection to your
mind," he said. "I haven't thought of it in years."
Mulder fished out a cold key. "What does this one go to?"
"I'm quite sure I don't know," his father answered, and
Mulder tried again.
"What about this one?"
"No idea. Fox, are we truly going to play this game all
night?" He stopped as he saw Mulder examining a silver key
under the light.
Mulder squinted to read the lettering that had worn away.
"Your key to greater value."
"Let me see that." His father took the key and turned it
over in his hand. "This was the key to my first car - a 1958
Chevy Impala. It was black, you know, with those old fins.
Cars back then had style. I saved up two years to buy that
shining hunk of metal, and I sure did think I looked smart
driving it around town. Your mother did too. I used to take
her out driving in the country on the weekends. She thought
it was romantic, but the truth of the matter was that I
didn't have any money left over for fancy dates." He
shrugged. "Must've worked, eh?"
"I don't remember you owning an Impala."
"It was before your time, son." He rubbed the key with his
thumb a few times and gave it back to Mulder with a thin
smile. "I've owned a dozen cars since then, but that one, she
was special."
Mulder dropped the key back in with the others, an amalgam of
oxidized metals that had seen better days. "Hey Dad, if
you're not going to do anything with these, do you mind if I
keep them?"
"What for? They don't unlock anything anymore."
"I've just always liked them. But if you still want..."
"Keep them." His father sank back down into his armchair,
eyes closed. "Merry Christmas."
XxXxXxX
Thanks to Amanda for proofreading the first of her Christmas
stories, and also for the assist on the title.
This is the first in a series of seven holiday shorts.
Others will follow as soon as time allows.
Feedback welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com
(
geocities.com/xmas_files)