Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 1 April 2003

Delegating and Dealing

Blair was asleep. I slowly extricated myself from his octopus-like grip, and carefully got out of the bed. But I needn't have worried -- Blair didn't move. The exhaustion from earlier had claimed him completely. I took a minute more to rearrange the pillows so that he'd have something to hang onto if he rolled over, then tucked the blankets around my cold-sensitive partner and went down the stairs.

It was late -- after midnight -- but that didn't stop me as I lifted the phone and dialed.

"Banks."

His voice was heavy, thick with sleep, and shot through with displeasure at being awakened.

"It's me, Simon."

I could almost see him sitting up in the bed, pulling on his glasses as he shot to full alert.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

I shook my head, suddenly unable to speak, then said, "Nothing. Everything." I sighed. This was going to be harder than I thought. "I need a favor, Simon. It's about Blair."

"Is the kid all right? What's going on, Jim?"

I was silent for a moment, and I could hear Simon's heart racing, his breathing catch in his throat, the little sounds the sheets made as they rubbed together from his fidgeting.

"Jimmmmm..." he growled, my name a warning, and I sighed.

"I'm sorry, Simon," I said, "I don't know how to explain it."

"You better try," he said, his voice still low, still worried. "You call me in the middle of the night, you better have something to say."

I rubbed my face with one hand, then closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Remember when we talked about the Costas case -- about what happened to that little girl?"

Simon was quiet, then he groaned. "Sandburg?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "He just told me tonight."

"When?" Simon's voice was strangled.

"He was eight," I said. "Eight years old."

The silence was there again, not awkward this time, just patient, as if we were both waiting and had all the time in the world. And then Simon took a deep breath and asked, "Who do we have to kill?"

I choked on a laugh that rapidly turned to a sob. "God, Simon! I -- I -- can't ..." I just didn't have words for the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.

Simon listened to my choking sobs for a while, then pragmatically asked, "Well, that is what you called me for, isn't it? For help to hide the body?"

He was so matter of fact, so bland, I couldn't tell if he was joking to make me feel better, or if he was really serious. Was this his way of telling me he'd help me do whatever it took to make this right? I scrubbed at my face again, my eyes feeling puffy from tears that had to fight past years of ingrained 'men don't cry' speeches. How do I tell Simon that there was no way to make this right? The damage was done -- it may have happened years ago, but the wound was still there, still raw and bleeding, and there was nothing I could do to make it right.

"Jim?" Simon's voice was soft. "You there?"

I nodded, then barked a single laugh and spoke. "Yeah. I'm here. And the bastard is already dead."

"How?"

"Died in prison. Child molestation."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

There was silence between us again. I was envisioning a hundred different ways I hoped that fucker had suffered. And wishing every one of them had been at my hands. I ached to be able to do something and yet, I knew there was nothing I could do. There was no way to rectify the past -- I could only try to be here, now, for my partner and try to give him whatever he needed to deal with all this. And I had no idea what that would be. I'd barely been holding on through the thought that Blair had been beaten. I'd been flying blind, operating on instinct that letting him talk, and letting him cry, and letting him be angry, and letting him grieve were the things to do. But now, this introduced a whole new set of issues. Physical violence? I had some experience with that. But sexual abuse? I was hopelessly in over my head.

Simon's voice broke my reverie. "How's Sandburg?"

I scratched at my head, then ran my hand over my hair. I needed a haircut. That was my first thought. I needed a haircut. And then I thought how weird it was that I was even thinking about that. And then I said to Simon, "I need a haircut." And then I wondered who the hell it was that had control of my tongue and would say something so stupid, so inane at a time like this.

But Simon was quiet for a minute, then he said, "Jim? How are you?"

My hand was running through my hair, appalled at how long I'd let it get. "I really need a haircut, Simon," I said again. "I can't believe I let my hair get this long."

"Jim? Where's Blair?"

I glanced up the stairs, then listened a minute. Soft little snuffling noises tickled my ears, and I could hear the slow and steady beat of my partner's heart as he slept soundly. "Sleeping," I said. "He was exhausted."

"And you want me to come over -- at quarter to one in the morning -- and what? Cut your hair?"

I snorted, then hung my head. "I have no idea what I'm talking about," I said.

"I do," Simon said sympathetically. "You're having trouble taking all this in and your mind just wants to deal with something safe. So -- haircuts."

"Where'd you buy that psych degree?"

Simon ignored the sarcasm in my voice and said, "You could just as easily have started talking about grocery lists or the latest case you're working. It's another form of self-preservation -- you should know something about that," he added wryly.

Was that what I was doing? Repressing it already so I wouldn't have to deal with it? I shook my head -- that wasn't going to work this time. Blair needed me -- and he needed me to be able to face this. It was the least I could do. He'd lived it -- I could at least listen to it.

"I hate this," I said suddenly. "I feel so damned helpless."

"I know," Simon said quietly, his voice thick again. "It's -- hard."

Rage raced through me. "What would you know about it?" I sneered, elated to suddenly have a target for my anger.

"My brother -- his wife ..."

The rage flowed out of me as if someone had thrown a switch. "Aw -- shit. I'm sorry, Simon. How ...? I mean ... Are they ...?" I wasn't sure what I wanted to ask.

"They're still together. They're still dealing." He took a deep breath, then added, "It doesn't go away overnight. It's not something you pull out and deal with one time and it's over. It keeps coming back -- over and over again. Every time Lou thinks they've got a grip on it, thinks things are going along okay, something happens, and it's right there between them again."

"Simon," I said, "what if I'm not strong enough for this?"

"Fuck that," Simon responded. "You don't have a choice. Just like Blair didn't have a choice -- you're in it -- you deal with it." His voice softened as he added, "And it's not like it's there, between them, nonstop. I just meant that they can go months, sometimes years with no problems, and then something will happen. Sandra hears something or sees something, or has a dream, and it's suddenly there again -- the elephant in the living room that won't go away."

"Years, eh?" I asked, suddenly feeling a bit more hopeful.

"At times," Simon agreed cautiously. "But they've been working on it a lot longer than you and Sandburg."

"Naomi was here tonight," I told him. "She showed up on her way to Alaska."

"Did -- did he talk to her?"

I nodded, then remembered again that I was on the phone. I had to clear my throat to speak. I needed something to drink. Foregoing the kettle, I filled a cup with water and stuck it in the microwave. "Yeah, he talked to her," I said in a flat monotone as I dug through the bin for a tea bag.

"And?" Simon prompted me.

"I don't know!" I slammed the bin on the counter, then glanced up guiltily, listening to see if I'd awakened Blair. He was still sleeping, and I relaxed slightly, then plucked out an orange spice bag, and removed the hot water from the microwave. "She's -- she just can't be what he wants," I finally said. "What he needs."

"Jim -- this is important. Did she know this was going on? Did she know he was being abused?"

I dipped the bag up and down in the water, watching as the clear liquid slowly turned brown and the odor of spices and oranges filled the room. It was a nice scent, and I breathed deeply, wanting to get lost in it and fighting the urge at the same time. "I don't know, Simon. I think so -- maybe. But -- maybe not. She's," I dropped the bag into the water and walked over to the door to the balcony, my fist tight at my side, "she's incredibly self-centered," I said at last. "Everything, and I do mean everything, has to revolve around her or she just," I lifted my fist to strike out, then dropped it with a sigh, "dismisses it."

There was a sound through the phone, like Simon had crushed something in his hand, but I couldn't tell what. "Did she," he swallowed hard and licked his lips, "dismiss him?"

My eyes were full again, and I ran the back of my hand across my face angrily as I remembered the scene from earlier that evening. "Oh, yeah. You could say that."

I heard Simon wipe his face as I did the same thing, then he said, "Jim? What can I do?"

"She left last night -- wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't listen to him. Simon," my voice broke and it took me a minute to get it together enough to go on, "he was standing there, telling her about what this, this bastard did to him, tears pouring down his face. He was crying, begging her to talk to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault." I swallowed another sob, then wiped my nose with the back of my hand. "He called her 'Mommy,' Simon. He's twenty-seven years old, and he stood in the kitchen, snot running down his face, crying, trembling, in so much pain I thought he was going to shatter. He called her 'Mommy,' and she -- she ...." I paused, suddenly filled with rage again. "She fucking walked out the door without a backward glance. She abandoned him -- again!"

I heard the sound of something breaking, and it took me a minute to realize what it was, then I laughed, a bitter, painful sound. "Simon?" I said, my voice cracking with emotion, "which wall?"

There was a grunt, then my boss said, "Huh?"

"Which wall?" I asked again.

"Oh," his voice was sheepish, "the one behind the bed."

"I know how to drywall now," I offered. "I had to learn to redo the hall."

"Fuck," Simon said, and I heard him sit heavily on the bed. "What can I do?"

I walked back to the kitchen and plucked the tea bag from my cup, dropping it in the garbage can. Somehow Simon's attack on the wall had helped ease my own rage as well. I lifted the cup and sipped. "I told Naomi when she left that she needed to get a room and stay in town. I have to go talk to her tomorrow." I looked at the clock. Almost 1:30. "Well, later this morning." I took a deep breath. "But I don't want to leave Blair alone. Can you come stay with him for a while?"

"No," Simon said shortly.

"No?" I echoed in disbelief, the cup of tea hanging forgotten in mid-air.

"No," Simon repeated. "You need to stay with Sandburg. I'd be willing to, but he's going to get up in the morning and act like everything is all right, yet before the day is over, he's going to fall apart."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Lou says that's what happens with Sandra. She'll tell him something -- drop some bombshell in his lap -- then pretend everything is fine. He'll be tied up in knots and want to talk about it, and she'll be lost in her own world of denial. But eventually, it will all creep up on her and wham! Meltdown."

"Sandburg may not be like that," I said, sipping the tea again.

"No, he might not," Simon agreed. "But what if he is? What if you take off, and he falls apart and needs you? You know I don't mind coming over -- you know I'm glad to do anything for the kid -- but, Jim ... if he really does suddenly need to talk about this, need to get it out -- you're the one he needs there, not me."

"I've got to talk to Naomi," I said, my frustration quotient rising as I put my mug on the counter and began to pace.

"Let me do that," Simon said quietly. "Maybe I can get through to her -- one parent to another."

I stopped moving to think. It was hard to even think about letting someone else try and deal with Naomi, but I couldn't do both. I couldn't go talk to her and still be here for Blair. And Simon might have something -- maybe there's something he could say that would bridge that chasm of ego and selfishness, if only long enough for her to do or say something that would make this easier on my partner. I sighed again and said, "I don't know where she is. I told her to get a hotel."

"I'll find her," Simon said confidently. "Once I do, what do you want from her?"

That was a good question. I headed back to the counter and picked up my cup. "I -- I .... Damn!" I took a swallow of tea, put the cup down and rubbed my face. "I'm not sure. I just ... I hadn't really thought that far ahead."

"Well," Simon said, "think now. I can talk to the woman, but I need to know what I'm supposed to say. Do you want her to come see Sandburg? To talk to him? Or do you want her to go away and stay away a while? Or never come back?"

I shook my head. "No -- not never come back. He really loves her, Simon." I ran my hand through my hair again, stifling an almost hysterical laugh that threatened to break loose when I thought of my earlier comments about needing a haircut. Damn -- I wished that was all I needed to do to get through this. "It would kill him if she never came back."

"Okaaaaay," Simon said slowly, "so what do you want? A little time before she visits again?"

I slammed my hand down on the counter in frustration, then listened again to make sure I hadn't woken Blair. Still sleeping. I've got to find a better way to deal with my emotions than hitting things. "I want her to tell him it wasn't his fault. I want her to hold him and kiss him and tell him he didn't do anything wrong." My voice hardened as I realized there was one more thing I wanted. "I want her to lie to him and tell him she didn't know. I want her to convince him she would never have left him alone like that if she'd really known what was going on." I walked back over to the windows, staring out over buildings to watch the inky stillness of the harbor at night. "If she can't do that, and make him believe, then I want her to stay away for a while -- until I contact her and tell her she can come back."

"I can handle that, Jim," Simon said softly.

It was quiet between us for a while, and I stared out over the water, out miles into the darkness that was not dark to me. I watched as a dolphin leapt above the gentle waves, then dove, disappearing from even my sight. I sighed again. "Thanks, Simon."

"What are you going to do now, Jim?"

I walked back and got my cup, finished the tea in one gulp and refilled it to make more. The microwave squeaked when I opened it. I would have to see what I could do about that. I turned and leaned on the counter, waiting for the water to boil. "I'm going to watch the sun come up," I said quietly.

"It's two in the morning," Simon said.

"So I'll wait," I replied. The microwave dinged and I retrieved my cup, dropping in another tea bag -- plain old Lipton's this time. I reached above the stove and grabbed a bottle of scotch and added a liberal splash to the cup.

"You should sleep," Simon urged. "Try and get some rest."

I nodded, not caring this time that he couldn't see my motion. "Thanks, Simon," I said. "You're a good friend."

He was quiet a bit longer, then he said, "I'll call you tomorrow -- on your cell, okay?"

"Yeah. That'll be good. Thanks, Simon." I hung up the phone, picked up my tea, and moved to stand by the windows.

I was still there when the sun came up, and I still didn't have any answers.