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Title: The Myth of Silence
Author: Livia Balaban livia@stoodjood.com
Website: http://go.to/inkspot
Rating: R
Classification: V A R. More A.
Content: SA, MSR
Spoilers: TINH
Distribution: Auto-archives, okay. All others, please ask.
Disclaimer Haiku:
Legal restrictions
Make me sing this harsh refrain:
I do not own them.
Notes and thanks: At the end.
Summary: "Love and dignity cannot share the same abode." - Ovid
The Myth of Silence
by Livia Balaban
It's not until I remove his months-old dirty laundry from the hamper
that I realize I don't want to know this much about him.
It's an irrational last straw - after all, underwear only goes to
the washing machine because it needs cleaning - but there's
something so degrading to him about my seeing it like this, I cannot
go on. I drop the dirty clothes back into the basket. It was a
piece of him I was never supposed to know.
If I look back, I can see the moment it became clear that Mulder
would be comfortable sharing certain intimacies with me. He not
only didn't mind exposing them, but he also seemed to look forward
to each opportunity to do so. He wasn't at all subtle with the smug
little grin of challenge he shot me when I came across another issue
of Celebrity Skin on his coffee table.
"Those shots of Brad Pitt are fakes," I offered up casually,
ignoring the magazine, perusing a file, refusing to give him the
satisfaction of eye contact.
"Oh, Brad's in that issue? I only noticed those bathtub pics of Nana
Visitor." When I failed to tug at the bait, he clarified. "She's
gone red, you know."
"Well," I responded, still engrossed in the file, "it must be all
that scalding bathwater. It's bad for the skin."
I felt him smile.
He showed me those things.
He opened his heart, his vision, his humor, his adolescent lusts to
me, and I took them in.
But this...
I don't want to see his stained undershorts. He wouldn't want me
to. I don't want to know this about him now.
I don't want to know about the little box of phone-number-inscribed
matchbooks in his desk drawer.
I don't want to hear another phone sex operator message on his
machine. Once, just once, his dark humor pervaded me and I thought
how much better it would have been if I could have had the gunmen
piece his voice together digitally again, and leave a better message
on that recorder.
"Hi, this is Fox Mulder. I'm dead.
Don't bother to leave a message."
I didn't hate myself for thinking it. He would have smirked.
If I had done it, I wouldn't have had to know about Tiffany, or what
"Marty" might have done, accompanied by the sound of her expensive
voice. Perhaps she called because he hadn't required her services
for a while. I just don't know.
I don't want to know.
I didn't want to find the angry poetry he wrote in college, or the
journals he kept while he was hospitalized following a botched
adolescent suicide attempt.
I didn't want to find those letters he'd written to Samantha - God,
all those shoeboxes full of letters - or the explicit photographs of
some random unnamed girlfriend from high school.
I didn't want to stumble across a stack of torn-out catalog pages
and magazine advertisements in his bedside table; some so well
handled, the ink had worn off the corners. Gift ideas - some he'd
given, some he must have pondered but never gone through with - Joy
perfume, a moonrock key chain, diamond solitaires, sheer little
wisps of lingerie, a Tantric massage video, a review of an excellent
Einstein biography, a subscription card for Working Mother
magazine...
I have the key ring and the book. I didn't need to know about his
uncompleted plans.
The deceased lose more than their lives when they pass on; they lose
their privacy as well. Doggett's team of investigators has seen all
of this and more; boxes of files I haven't mustered the strength to
go through yet, albums half-emptied of photographs, a previously
unopened gift package containing an inflatable sex toy shaped like a
sheep.
In death, Mulder does not deserve such indignity. I want to give
him his privacy, even now, even as I struggle to understand the
small pieces of his life that touched mine.
I want to leave this place as it is for now, but the rent is too
much to handle any longer. I was the one who loved him, so I must
be the one to pack his things up, give them away, sell them, take
them out of his home. Unless I burn the lot of it without examining
what I find, I have no choice but to obliterate what is left of his
privacy, his dignity.
The silence of the tomb is a myth. The dead scream their secrets to
the living when they entrust their "loose ends" to us. While they
are alive, they believe their wills ask us simply to distribute
their belongings. What they fail to understand is that once they're
gone, each object we touch desecrates their memory just a little
more.
I don't want to do this, but it must be done. I return to his
bedroom closet, imagining that it might be easier to pack up his
clean clothes. But God, not his suits, not yet.
* * * * *
He bounded out of the bed, and I squinted up at him, my breathing
still quick and high in my chest.
It was unlike him, I thought, watching the strong, lean muscles of
his thighs stretch and contract as he moved away from the rumpled
bed. He always left the bed right away, gallant even when spent and
sticky, to fetch a towel and a bottle of water.
The towel he would dampen with warm water all along one short edge,
and he would bring it to me via the long route, having also
retrieved a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator. The towel
was for me, the water was to be shared. In the space of a few brief
encounters, it had become ritual.
But that night it wasn't his actions that surprised me - they were
expected - but rather it was his manner that made me squint in the
streaky light streaming from the bathroom. He'd bounded.
Mulder was the same kind of lover as he was an investigator: a
thoroughbred racehorse. He ran each heat flat-out, unconcerned
about any need to conserve energy for another run. Every case,
every lead, every wild tumble into bed consumed him and his energy
utterly. Only when the case was closed or the lovemaking brought to
a shattering, shuddering finish would he slow down and collapse. In
all things he was intense and demanding until resolution. Then he
would succumb to exhaustion.
At first, I found myself disappointed to learn I wouldn't have my
favorite kind of sex with Mulder; the long, slow, second coupling of
the night. Although certain vital parts of him often appeared
willing to cooperate, he simply lacked the physical stamina to run
another race. He'd almost always worn himself out the first time.
I learned to simply sink into the comfort of his warm skin and the
soothing chill of the water on my raw throat. No one but Mulder had
ever pushed me or my body's limits so far that I screamed from the
building, blinding tension of it. So I became comfortable with the
reality of one impossibly intense orgasm rather than two or three
lesser ones.
He would collapse; I would hum in quiet satisfaction, and will
myself to sleep.
But that one night, bounding from the bed, he was almost
unrecognizable to me. Normally he would have to drag his ass out of
that bed to obtain the necessary supplies, but that night, he
bounded.
Standing by the bedroom closet, with a towel draped over his naked
shoulder, the damp border slapping lightly against his naked
stomach, and a cold bottle of water opened and pressed to his deep
pink, swollen lips, he seemed invigorated. He looked up, most
likely sensing my scrutiny, and tossed the towel to me.
I grabbed the towel in mid-air as the soggy edge rocketed toward me,
and cleaned myself up in preparation for sleep. He still stood by
the bedroom closet and emptied the bottle.
I dropped the towel on the floor beside the bed and looked over at
him, confused. "Do you have another one of those for me?" We
usually shared.
"Uh-huh," he replied, watching me, processing some thought; I didn't
know what.
I raised my eyebrows.
He pursed his lips.
I sighed.
Then he grinned and opened the closet door. A long row of dark
woolen shoulders and sleeves hung there silently, empty and lifeless
without his limber form to animate them.
I looked back up at him and shook my head. I didn't get it.
He stepped back and pointed to a white shoe box at the top of the
closet. Written in large black letters were the words, "Emergency
Use Only." He drilled his gaze into me until I looked back at him
again and nodded. "Just so you know," he said and closed the closet
door. "I'll just stroll on down the boardwalk and acquire another
frosty beverage," he added as he left the room. He returned moments
later with a second bottle, and that one we shared.
* * * * *
The sleeves of his suits are lifeless, and I can't bear to touch
them. His scent is still strong in this closet.
When I look up, I see the box I've tried not to think about for four
long months. Everything else here is private, it was his to share
or not. But this -- this was something he wanted me to know about.
I drag a chair from the dining room and balance myself carefully to
retrieve the box. It's impossibly light.
I lower myself with equal care back down and sit on the chair, the
box resting on my lap. I don't want the finality of this, but I'm
out of options. I need a respite, even one as feeble as an
emergency preparedness kit. If this isn't an emergency, I don't
know what is.
When I open the box, all I see is a vinyl record, a single. "Under
the Boardwalk".
The box and record fall to the floor as I rush to the living room.
Twenty minutes later I am seated, cross-legged, on the remains of
Mulder's living room floor. His desk stands away from the window,
surrounded by a littering of loosened floor boards.
It wasn't hard to find the one he'd had in mind: He'd scratched a
tiny "X" on its corner.
When I lifted it, I caught a glimpse of what he'd hidden there.
When I'd pulled up three more boards, I saw nearly all of it. Two
boards - and three broken nails - later, I had it in my lap.
This position is uncomfortable to be certain, but I don't want
comfort right now. What I want is time; time to acclimate to this
new, unthinkable life, time to give each of Mulder's possessions the
consideration they deserve, time to learn how to take even a single
breath without feeling the stinging approach of tears.
I shake my head in disgust. I hate myself when I'm like this.
What sits in my lap is a metal lock box. It is fireproof storage
for his valuables, nothing more.
I needn't even think about the combination. I simply slide the
wheels to match his birth date - one, zero, one, three - and it
opens. There is a little note card on top of a stack of envelopes
of varying sizes and colors.
Scully,
If I could fit you in this box, everything of value in my life would
be in one safe place. Do what you want with this stuff, but be good
to yourself. If you get careless or sloppy now, I'll kick your ass
next time around. Don't think I won't.
For what it's worth, don't be too hard on Skinner. He has it bad
for you. But then, who doesn't?
Someday maybe I'll have accumulated enough wisdom from lifetime to
lifetime to understand what the hell I did to deserve the support
and faith of someone as astonishing as you.
I'm honored to be the one you chose. Now get off that delectable
ass and choose somebody else.
Mulder
I set down the card with shaky hands and go through the contents of
the box.
There is a sealed envelope that reads, "For Samantha, just in case I
was hallucinating." I feel a weak grin form as I put it aside.
Another. "Please send this to Bonnie, and tell her I'm sorry." I
will have his probate attorney handle the delivery of this envelope
to his ex-wife, or whatever the hell you call it when your young
wife's rich daddy buys an annulment.
There is a letter for Skinner and one for my mother. There are also
three envelopes paper-clipped together - one each for my brother
Bill, Senator Matheson, and Alvin Kersh - with a sticky note that
reads, "Burned bridges herein. Use with caution. I suggest waiting
at least a year. Maybe two." That makes me smile.
There is a CD-ROM, the writeable kind, in a clear plastic case. The
disc itself bears a label that says, "'Trust No One' - Helen
Wolfson, Harper Collins. > $800K." I wonder if that means he's
already negotiated the deal or if it's simply a suggestion. I put
it aside.
At the top of the remaining stack is a large hinged velvet box, the
kind I've seen in the movies. It's the kind a wealthy man presents
to the object of his affection, and it invariably contains an
extravagant string of pearls or a priceless diamond necklace. I
remember the stack of gift ideas I found in Mulder's night stand and
worry a little.
When I open the case, I see that it is filled with little velvet
pouches. Each one crackles as I handle it. I open them, one at a
time, and find family heirlooms, carefully labeled with little slips
of paper. With each object, I learn a little more about him and his
family history.
The first pouch reveals a pearl brooch from his grandmother Anna
DeKuyper, purchased in Amsterdam in 1928.
The second pouch contains an impressive pair of diamond stud
earrings from his mother, intended for either Samantha or his
daughter. I smile, hoping he will know somehow that they will
remain in the family.
There is an ornate gold bangle bracelet set with emeralds and
diamonds. One little square on the top is hinged, and I discover
the tiny watch hidden there. It had been a gift from his
Grandfather Samuel Mulder to his grandmother Gerbrig on their 40th
anniversary. I can't read the Hebrew inscription inside, but Mulder
thoughtfully both transliterated and translated. "Ani l'dodi,
v'dodi li." It's from Song of Solomon. "I am my beloved's and my
beloved is mine."
There is a rose gold men's Bulova with a green crocodile strap. It
was his father's.
In another pouch there rests a thin gold chain from which dangles a
single, small gray pearl. It had belonged to his sister, a gift for
her seventh birthday from their maternal grandparents.
Next I come across a hideous little white metal brooch depicting a
bear with a diamond at the end of one forepaw. It looks to be
kicking it. Dear Lord, I think it's made of platinum. The note
reads, "Bear kicking diamond, Naarden, 1931. Grandfather Samuel
acquired it from a local jeweler just before the bulk of the Mulder
family fled Europe for the U.S.A. Samuel apparently had plans for a
whole menagerie of diamond-kicking animals, but Mom said that
Gerbrig swore she'd leave him if he followed through. There were no
others."
Another pouch, another little treasure. This time, a small strip of
brass, with one nail hole at each end. There are little streaks of
white paint along the edges. On the front is another symbol, also
in Hebrew. On the back there is a little hinged door, which when
opened, reveals a small scroll of paper with tiny Hebrew lettering
on it. "Mezzuzah, Leipzig, 1814. Made by local artisan for Dad's
great grandmother Liesl's father, Reuben Fuchs. First on Fuchs
(Fox) family house on Bruederstrasse before the move to Netherlands.
Just prior to and during WWII, on Mulder home in Armonk, New York.
Taken to Mulder house in Providence in 1952. Removed when house
sold in 1971." I didn't know his father's family had come from
Germany before they lived in Holland, or that his first name had
been a nod to his ancestors.
The next pouch reveals a silver cigarette case that contains a
cryptic little note in Mulder's hand. "Found at the house in Q, 2
Morleys inside. Assume the worst."
Another pouch contains a well-worn platinum ring with one large
diamond, his mother's engagement ring. "It was supposed to be for
Sam. I toyed with the idea of having it reset for you, but I didn't
think you'd take it. Prove me wrong and wear this sucker. Make it
into something you like. Appraisal's in 2nd desk drawer." I find
the document in question, and I'm stunned: The diamond weighs 1.74
carats, and it's of exceptional clarity and color. The stone is
spectacular, and worth over ten thousand dollars. Jesus, Mulder.
There's a Mickey Mouse wristwatch in one pouch. "Disney World,
1972. Good trip. Sam barfed in the Cinema 360. Animatronic
Lincoln freaked me out. We all rolled our eyes at the Country Bear
Jamboree, which was, in retrospect, the very last moment of familial
unity for the four of us. You'll probably find the mouse ears
around here somewhere."
Another pouch contains a few nondescript rings, earrings, and
pendants. "Assorted jewelry, mostly Mom's."
I finally make it to the bottom of the box, and the last envelope.
It is very large, and contains a thick, stiff stack of paper. The
note says simply, "From Dad. Ill-gotten. Knock yourself out." When
I open the envelope I nearly hyperventilate. It is filled to
bursting with German bearer bonds. I rise on wobbly legs and pull
today's newspaper from my bag. After a quick check of the financial
section and some mental math, I arrive at a number beyond
comprehension: four million dollars. There are over four million
dollars' worth of German bearer bonds lying at my feet.
Of course he wouldn't have spent it. He wouldn't have been likely
even to consider it money. It's probably so dirty I could pass an
ultraviolet light over it and still see the blood on it. In
principle, some of that blood is Mulder's.
Mulder left four million dollars' worth of blood money in a box
under his floorboards. I shake my head. Damn it, that settles it.
I'm not touching another thing of his. That box was all he'd wanted
me to see, and it's all I care to know about. I will preserve
what's left of his dignity.
His will was straightforward; except for a few trinkets and a single
insurance policy listing Frohike as beneficiary, everything went to
me. Those were the things that he felt could withstand public
scrutiny: Insurance policies, bank accounts, real estate. They are
impersonal things, and tell nothing of who he was. But the contents
of this box - these are the private things he wanted to share with
no one but me. I will not abuse his trust.
I repack the fire box and place it by the front door. I put the
floorboards back where they belong. I slide his desk back into
place.
I pick up the shoe box and record, return them to the shelf at the
top of the closet, and close the closet door. I return the chair to
the dining room. Everything is back where it should be.
I'm not touching another goddamned thing of his. I won't do this
anymore - - and now I have the means to ensure I don't have to do
it, ever, if I don't want to. Welcome to the Fox Mulder Museum and
Gallery. This place remains as-is. His father's payoffs have just
made their first purchase: Mulder's rent.
I gather my things and leave, locking the door carefully behind me.
The boys will doubtless have some idea of how to cash the bonds
without arousing the attention of the authorities or the Internal
Revenue Service, and I intend to use them.
I'm not delusional - I know I'm going to have to clean out his
apartment at some point. But that point is not today. It's not
even this year. I have a career to protect, a baby to plan for, and
a species to defend, and now I have the means to concentrate on
those things properly.
I will distribute the letters that need to be sent, I will place his
family's treasures in a safe deposit box at my bank, and that is all
I will do.
Mulder's little stash has bought me the only thing of value right
now, and the only thing I truly need. He has found a way - dead and
buried, no less - do to the impossible. He has purchased time.
=====
End.
"If we value so highly the dignity of life, how can we not also
value the dignity of death? No death may be called futile." Yukio
Mishima
Notes: The bear kicking the diamond is real, sadly, but fortunately
not in my possession. Writer Yukio Mishima ended his brilliant life
in his 40s when he committed seppuku, or Japanese ritual suicide, so
although the quote seems fitting, it's actually prophetic and
horribly, horribly wrong. Which makes it work even better, I guess.
Many thanks to Token, Lysandra, and JHJ Armstrong for the beta, and
to YV for the thumbs-up.
- LB
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Livia's Ink Spot.
Spotty, knotty, it's a hottie.
Or some other marketing bullshit.
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