On Golden Sands (part 1/7)
by Jean Helms (jeanlhelms@yahoo.com)

TITLE: On Golden Sands
AUTHOR: Jean Helms 
CATEGORY: Pre-XF
SUMMARY: Sometimes, what seems like confusion is really
confession. 
MAJOR WARNING: Rape, but non-explicit with minimal physical
injury.
RATING: NC-17 primarily for the rape, although the rest is little
more than PG. 
SPOILERS: Through U.S. Season 1, but anything's fair game. The
present-day timeline, brief as it is, fits with absolutely
nothing in canon of which I'm aware.
DISCLAIMER: Characters from the X-Files are the property of 1013
Productions and I claim no copyright or intellectual ownership of
them. However, I still say Shakespeare was a fic writer.
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, yes. Enigmatic Dr., yes. All others, please
ask. 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: As always, my utmost gratitude to linc, my
careful, strict and insightful beta reader, not least for her
help in solving the name problem at the end. What would I ever do
without you, girl?
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On Golden Sands
by Jean Helms

~*~*~*~*~*~

Present day:
Baltimore, Md.

"Mom, is this yours or Uncle Joe's?"

Maggie Scully put down the scrapbook she'd been looking through
and turned to see her daughter sitting on the floor next to a
huge dark blue steamer trunk.

"It's your grandmother's, Dana," she said. "Although it was mine,
once. If I'd known how much traveling I'd be doing in my adult
life, I might have kept it."

"Should we open it?" Scully asked.

"I doubt there's anything of importance in it," Maggie said.
"Heaven only knows how long it's been in this attic."

"Judging by the dust, I'd say close to a century," Scully said.
She rose and wiped her hands on her jeans. "Or maybe two
centuries."

Her mother smiled. "Hardly," she said. "My father bought it for
me while I was in high school, and while I may be old, I'm not
ready to have my birthday announced on the Today show yet."

"Not for a long time, Mom," Scully said, and gave her mother a
quick hug. "But Grandma ... I always thought she was ancient,
even when I was young."

"Of course you did," Maggie said. "Children always do think that.
She wasn't really old when you were born, though; younger than I
am now ... strange to think of that, isn't it?"

"You'll never be old to me," Scully said, softly. "Never."

Maggie smiled, but it was an unsteady smile this time. 

"Sometimes I feel a great deal older than I really am," she said.
"Especially since your father died. No one will ever know all the
things he was to me, all the things he did to make me happy ...
these days, I find myself missing him almost as much as I did the
day he died. More, perhaps."

"Well, clearing out a house after death can make you remember
past grief," Scully said. "That's a perfectly normal reaction."

"Thank you for that expert diagnosis, Dr. Scully," Maggie said,
but she patted her daughter on the cheek as she said it. "I'll
admit, I am a bit unsettled by your grandmother's death," she
said. "But it's not the same thing ... not at all."

"You were never really very close to her, were you?" Scully said.

"I loved her," Maggie said. "I always loved her. But there were
things ... well, you know, mother-daughter things, that we never
could quite get over."

"Such as what?" Scully said, but Maggie just shook her head.

"Things best forgotten," she said. "Look, I don't know about you,
but I'm hot and I'm tired of breathing in dust and I'm hungry.
Why don't I go downstairs and make us some sandwiches? We've got
a ton of ham left over from the wake."

"A ham sandwich sounds wonderful," Scully said. "You go on; I'll
be right down. I promised Mulder I'd call him at 11 and it's
almost 11:30."

"Don't stay up here too long," Maggie said. "It's getting awfully
hot."

"Yes, Mother," Scully said, smiling. Maggie smiled back, then
turned and headed down the attic stairs to the kitchen.

Scully pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and hit 1 on
the speed dial.

"Mulder, it's me," she said. "I'm sorry I forgot to call. We've
been clearing out Grandma's attic."

"Not a problem," Mulder said. "How's your mom doing?"

"All right, I suppose," Scully said. "She's ... I don't know,
she's not reacting the way I would have expected. She's talking
about Dad, but she doesn't seem to want to talk about Grandma."

"Almost any reaction is normal when someone's grieving, Scully,"
Mulder said. "Anger, denial, laughter, apathy, a desire to eat
purple jelly beans -- you name it, someone's done it."

"This is different," Scully said. "This is ... she's almost
disconnected from Grandma's death, almost as if it were someone
she really didn't care much for. And from something she said, I'm
beginning to think there really was something that came between
them ... something Mom can't forgive, or can't get over. I wish I
knew what it was."

"Did you ask her?" Mulder said. 

"I did," Scully said. "She doesn't want to talk about it."

"Then you're probably better off just leaving it alone," Mulder
said. 

"Leaving it alone?" Scully repeated. "Excuse me, but what ever
happened to 'searching for the truth'?"

"I found it," Mulder said, dryly. "Or at least, enough of it to
make me want to warn you off following my lead. Scully, I realize
you're concerned about your mother, and it's only natural to be
curious about the family history, but one truth I have learned is
that sometimes, there's a good reason for keeping the skeleton
locked up in the closet. Sometimes, if you let him out, he'll
stalk you until the day you die. At the very least, you could
wind up being his new keeper, maybe for life."

"Now there's a cheerful thought," Scully said, with equal
dryness. "But I see your point. I'll drop it."

"You're a wise woman, as always, Scully," Mulder said. "Now, on
to other matters: When am I going to see you?"

"Tonight, I hope," Scully said. "Mom said she doesn't need me to
stay with her tonight; Bill and Tara are coming this afternoon,
so I'm planning to go home. But I'm warning you: I'm going to be
exhausted. There's very little chance of any activity in the
bedroom."

"Scully, please," Mulder said. "You act as though sex was the
only thing on my mind."

"That's because it is," Scully said. "But I'm not complaining.
I'm just saying it may have to wait until tomorrow morning."

"Morning is good," Mulder said. "I can do morning. Just give me a
call when you're ready to leave and I'll come get you."

"I will," Scully said. "Love you."

"Back at you," Mulder said, and hung up.

Scully snapped the phone shut and put it back in her pocket,
noticing as she did that her left shoe was untied. She reached
down to tie it, propping her foot on the lid of the trunk,
causing her shoe to strike its bent and rusted latch. 

Just that slight weight was too much for the metal; the latch
gave way, and the trunk fell over. The fabric that lined it was
yellowed and rotten with age; it tore away from the trunk,
spilling a huge pile of papers onto the attic floor, papers that
had lain there hidden for God only knew how long.

"Oh, shit," Scully muttered as she bent to gather the papers,
most of which appeared to be old tax forms and other financial
records.

One of them wasn't, though. It was a birth certificate, issued by
the state of California in September of 1960 for Gerald Francis
Hanley, son of Francis Xavier Hanley and his wife, Agnes Ann
Hanley.

Her grandmother and grandfather. And their child, whose name she
had never heard before, a child who was born to them very late in
life, by the look of things.

My God, she thought, Mom had a brother I never knew. 

"Dana?" came her mother's voice from behind her. Scully turned
around, still holding the birth certificate. There was her
mother, standing at the top of the attic stairs, a glass of iced
lemonade in her hand.

"Mom?" she said. "Mom, what's this? Why didn't you tell me you
had another brother?"

"What are you talking about, Dana?" her mother said.

Scully held out the birth certificate. Maggie set the lemonade
down on a cardboard box, reached out and took the paper.

"Oh, my God," she said, her eyes growing wide with shock. She
sank down to the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, staring at
the paper. "I thought this had been destroyed years ago."

"Why, Mom?" Scully said. "Why would anyone want to destroy it? He
was your brother ... why didn't you ever even mention his name?
Just because he died, you tried to hide his very existence?" 

Maggie shook her head. "I didn't," she said. "He didn't die. And
I didn't hide his existence."

"You must have," Scully said. "I know I've never met him."

Maggie smiled, but it was a shaky smile. "Yes, you have," she
said. "Many, many times." She looked at the paper once more,
sighed, and then looked up at her daughter. "It's time," she
said. "Time you knew the truth about this child -- and about
yourself."

"What do you mean?" Scully said. "What about me?"

"Be patient," Maggie said. "I'll tell you the story. It's a long
one, and it's a very ugly one in places, but if you'll listen,
I'll tell you all of it -- or most of it. It all began a long,
long time ago, right here in Baltimore ..."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Catholic Girls' Central High School 
Baltimore, Md. 
March 1960

The afternoon sun was slanting through the windows of Sister Mary
Frances' classroom in a way that made Mary Margaret Hanley's head
ache. 

Sister was normally an interesting teacher -- as interesting as
any math teacher could be, anyway -- but Mary Margaret's thoughts
were elsewhere, either outside the classroom or on the clock
above the blackboard, a clock that insisted on taking twice as
long to tick off the minutes as any clock had a right to do.

The school day was almost over, and Mary Margaret had something
important to do. She had to make wedding plans. She had to make
them pretty quickly, too, before she began to show any more than
she already did.

Seventeen was young to be married, but now that she was in
trouble, her parents would have to allow it. There simply wasn't
any alternative.

Her parents were only one problem, though. The other problem was
Jerry. She hadn't actually told him yet, and she knew he wasn't
going to be very happy about it. He had plans to go to college in
the fall, and being a married man with a child to raise was going
to make that very difficult. 

Still, her own parents had managed to marry and stay married
through some very difficult times. Money had been tight -- very
tight -- when her parents married, and it hadn't gotten better
for a long time. Her two elder brothers were born while her
father was at sea, and her mother had reared all three children
virtually on her own, with her father's Navy pay their only
income.

Yes, it had been tough. But they had made it.

Things were different now. Her father had retired from the Navy
and taken a well-paid civilian job. The war years had been
prosperous ones, and now there was money for everyone and jobs
for everyone. Jerry would be able to finish college even with her
and the baby to support. It would just take a little while
longer, that's all. In the meantime, Mary Margaret would have her
own little home in the married students' housing area to decorate
and furnish and care for ... and, of course, her own little baby
to love. 

It was that thought alone that had kept her from panicking when
her monthly visitor didn't arrive on time. She had prayed and
prayed and prayed and had asked the Blessed Mother to pray for
her, too, but it hadn't done any good. 

Before long, she was getting sick to her stomach all the time and
she could barely stay awake through her classes. Once, she had
actually fallen asleep during morning Mass. The breakfast that
followed Mass absolutely refused to stay down; the long pre-
Communion fast seemed to make her stomach even more touchy.

The nausea was gone now, but her tummy was starting to look a
little bit round. 

It was time. Jerry would have to be told today. Soon after, there
would have to be a quick, quick wedding, followed by months of
unspeakable shame as people counted off the months on their
fingers until her baby's birth revealed as a certainty the
terrible sin she had committed.

But at least she would be married when that happened.

Jerry wasn't to blame. Boys who did what he had done with her
were just sowing their wild oats, as all boys tried to do. It was
her fault that he'd succeeded. Girls were supposed to slam on the
brakes when things started to go too far. She knew that. Her
parents had taught her that; her religion teacher had taught her
that. She had even read a magazine article that reminded girls
that it was solely their responsibility to keep things in bounds.

"You have the greater control," the article had said, in no
uncertain terms. "Use it."

She had failed. She hadn't stopped him. She had confessed her
sin, of course, and she had received penance and absolution, but
that didn't make the baby go away. And she'd wanted it to go away
back then, wanted it so much she couldn't think of anything else.

Things were different now. Now, she could hardly wait for her
child to be born.

If it's a boy, she thought, I will name him Gerald Francis
Colman, Jr. 

Jerry will like that.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"You're what?" Jerry repeated, total bewilderment on his face.
Shock seemed to have robbed him of his appetite: His chocolate
malted and cheeseburger sat untouched in front of him. 

"I said I'm going to have a baby," Mary Margaret said, patiently,
and she took another sip of her Coke. "In five or six months, I
think." She had finished her burger and fries; she pushed the
heavy white plate away from her, crumpling her napkin and
dropping it beside the plate.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Jerry said. "How the heck did you let
that happen?"

"What do you mean, how did _I_ let it happen?" she snapped, so
loudly that several heads turned to stare, despite the high-
decibel blare of Chuck Berry from the jukebox. "You know exactly
how it happened, Jerry," she said, in a lower tone. "You were
there -- remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," Jerry said, angrily. "Keep your voice
down, for Pete's sake. But damn it, Mary Margaret -- I mean, how
-- Jesus, what are you going to do?"

"What am I going to do?" she repeated, in disbelief. "Don't you
mean, 'What are _we_ going to do?' It's your baby too, Jerry."

"It's not my damn baby," Jerry said, even more angry now. "I
didn't want a baby. I don't ever want a baby. You've got to get
it taken care of."

"Taken care of ..." she repeated, uncomprehending. "What do you
mean, 'taken care of'?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Jerry said. "Look, Mary Margaret,
I love you. You know that. But a baby right now ... I mean, jeez,
you know what people will say. We can't do this. We've both got
to finish high school and I'm going to the University in the
fall. This is just not a good time for a baby. You have to find
someone who will ... you know, know how to fix this."

"You mean an abortion?" Mary Margaret said, and her voice sounded
shrill in her own ears. Once again, she forced herself to speak
more quietly. "You want me to have an abortion?" she said in a
stage whisper. "Are you crazy?"

"Women do it all the time," he said, stubbornly. "You know they
do. If they didn't, the Church wouldn't always be preaching
against it."

"Maybe they do," she said, just as stubbornly. "But I'm not going
to. It's dangerous. I could bleed to death, or die of an
infection, or I might never be able to have children afterward.
Besides, it's illegal; if things go wrong and I have to go to the
hospital, they'll call the police."

"Quit being so dramatic," Jerry said.

"I'm not being dramatic," Mary Margaret said. "It's the truth. I
won't have an abortion. Anyway, I want to have the baby."

"Okay, fine, so go away somewhere and have it and then put
it up for adoption," Jerry said. "Go to one of those homes the
nuns run."

"I thought about that," Mary Margaret said, "But I don't think I
can do it. Jerry, I want our baby. I really do. Oh, I was upset
at first, but not now, not anymore. Just wait ... in a little
while, when you get used to the idea, you'll feel differently
about it. I know we're both young, but our parents will have to
let us get married once they know about the baby."

"Married," Jerry repeated. "Married?"

"Yes, married," Mary Margaret said. "Jerry ... when we ... you
know, did it ... you said you'd marry me if I got in trouble.
Well, I'm in trouble."

"And you think I'm just going to drop all my plans for my whole
entire life and marry you?" Jerry said. "You'd better think
again, Mary Margaret. I'm not going to give up college and take a
job pumping gas and washing windshields just because you were
stupid enough to get yourself knocked up." 

"Jerry," Mary Margaret said, tears rising up in her eyes. Her
chest hurt. "Jerry, you don't have to do that. I'll make a home
for you. I'll take care of the baby and you can go to school
part-time. Lots of people do it. Or you could join the Army and
go to school later on the G.I. Bill. There's lots of ways we
could manage."

"Forget it," Jerry said. He stood up, shoving his plate across
the tabletop so hard that it slid off the other edge and landed
in Mary Margaret's lap. Catsup, mustard and grease splattered her
angora sweater; the rest lay in a sullen pile on her skirt. 

All around the shop, her fellow classmates -- their eyes again
drawn by the sound -- turned to stare. Several of the girls
raised their hands to their mouths in shock, but their eyes were
gleaming and feral. This was a story they'd get to tell over and
over.

The boys just snickered.

"You listen to me, Mary Margaret," Jerry said, bending toward her
just a little, and the look in his eyes took away her last
vestiges of self-control. She began to weep. "We are not getting
married. You got yourself in trouble; now get yourself out."

He turned and walked out of the malt shop, two dozen pairs of
eyes trained on his back. The rest were fixed with fierce
satisfaction on the sobbing form of Mary Margaret Hanley, who sat
in the booth with her face in her hands, scarcely able to
believe what had just happened.

She had awakened this morning feeling like a bride-to-be; she
would go to bed tonight as an unwed mother, and there was just
nothing worse. 

Her life was ruined.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Navy Exchange 
Naval Station Annapolis 
Annapolis, Md. 
March 1961

"Excuse me, miss?" 

Mary Margaret turned around from the perfumes she'd been
arranging. There was a first-class midshipman standing by her
counter, smiling at her.

"Can I help you?" she said, making a brief mental note that this
one, with his deep blue eyes and dark auburn hair, was handsomer
than most of the middies she saw in her work. 

"I hope so," the middy said. "I'm looking for something for my
mother's birthday. I know what her perfume smells like, but I
don't know the name of it. Can you help me find it?"

"Just from the scent?" Mary Margaret said, and shook her head.
"That's like looking for a needle in a haystack, midshipman. Do
you remember what the bottle looked like?"

"I'm afraid not," the middy said, apologetically. "She always
kept it in one of those bottles with the little rubber ball on it
that you squeeze to make it spray ... I don't know what they're
called."

"Atomizers," Mary Margaret said, absently. "All right, let's
start with some of the older scents. Could it be L'Heure Bleu?"

"It could be L'Heure Green, Pink or Plaid for all I know," the
middy said, smiling broadly. "I really don't know, miss, and I'm
sorry."

Mary Margaret made another mental note -- this one had a smile
that was absolutely the most. Not that she could ever let that
matter to her. There were girls you married, and then there were
the others ... and since that night that had led to Frank's
birth, she had been one of the others.

No one knew that; not officially, anyway. Her relationship with
her mother and father had never recovered from the news of her
pregnancy, but they had at least stepped in to cover her shame.

Frank was six months old now, and so beautiful it made her heart
ache, but then, everything about Frank made her heart ache.
Nothing hurt more than knowing she could never really have him,
could never be his mother. Frank -- her beautiful, bright boy --
was being raised by her parents.

As her brother.

She remembered the day he was born, how she'd awakened from the
nightmare of the anesthetic known as "twilight sleep" to learn
that she'd given birth to a son.

The hospital was in San Diego, far, far away from their home;
she and her mother had moved there, leaving her father at home in
Baltimore, on the pretext that the climate was better for her
mother's unexpected midlife pregnancy. She had finished high
school there at a home for unwed mothers, and remained at the
home, hidden from view, until the time came for her baby's birth.

They hadn't even let her see Frank while she was in the hospital.
She had begged and begged to hold him just once, but the nurses
told her, very firmly, that it was best if she did not hold him
at all. That way, they said, she would never think of him as
hers, as of course he could never be.

Their treatment of her was professional but cold and disdainful,
and she had expected no better. She was an unwed mother.

But the nurses had been wrong. Whether she held him or not, she
did think of him as hers. She thought of him every time the
nurses came in to tighten the bandages around her chest that were
supposed to make her milk dry up faster. She thought of him every
time she limped into the bathroom and felt the pain of the cut
they had made between her legs to make it easier to take him from
her as she lay semiconscious and raving, unable to help bring her
child to birth, unable to form any memory of his first breath,
his first cries.

Most of all, she thought of him as she lay down to sleep and
heard the cries in the hallway that meant the other mothers --
the married mothers -- were about to hold their beautiful babies
in their arms, were about to feed them with breast or bottle,
were about nuzzle the tiny heads and nibble at the tiny toes,
claiming their babies as their own.

And always, she wondered if any of those cries was his.

The only concession her parents had made to her biological
motherhood was to let her choose his name, and she had named him
after his father. The official story was that Gerald was the name
of the Navy obstetrician who had seen Mrs. Hanley through the
difficult delivery.

Francis, of course, was assumed to be because it was _her_
father's name, and he was her baby's legal father. The adoption
had been finalized and the court files sealed forever within a
few weeks of the baby's birth.

Darkness and depression had nearly swallowed Mary Margaret alive
after she returned home. She pretended to her friends as best she
could that she was still the same carefree girl she had been, but
there was nothing left inside of her. She was empty. Her arms
were empty. 

And there was no way to fill the emptiness.

Her mother refused all offers of help with Frank's feeding,
diapering or bathing, telling Mary Margaret in a tone reminiscent
of the nurses' that it was best if she just put Frank out of her
mind as much as possible.

"He's your brother," her mother said. "Nothing more. You're not
his mother, Mary Margaret. You have to accept that."

She tried. She really did. But she still couldn't stop herself
from tiptoeing into the nursery late at night while her parents
were sleeping. She would stand beside Frank's crib, watching him
sleep, praying that he wouldn't wake up and then praying that he
would.

Sometimes, when she couldn't hold back any longer, she would pick
him up and cradle him in her arms, cooing in his ear, whispering
to him the words she was forbidden to speak aloud. 

"Mommy loves you, Frankie," she would say. "Mommy will always
love you, no matter what." 

And after she had laid him back in his crib, she would go back to
her own bedroom and cry herself to sleep.

Finally, when Mary Margaret's depression and sorrow had become
too much for any of them to bear, her father, who still had many
high-ranking friends in the Navy, had used his influence to get
her this job at the Navy Exchange, and she had moved to a women's
hotel where the comings and goings of the "career girls" were
strictly monitored. Male visitors were allowed only at certain
times and then only if they were immediate family.

The hotel was designed to provide an environment that would
protect the girls' reputations as closely as if they were still
under their parents' roofs; otherwise, their motives for living
away from home while still unmarried might be suspect. The only
way she could leave for a weekend was if one of her parents
checked her out, and they seemed increasingly reluctant to do so.

After all, that would put her under the same roof as Frank, and
she was not supposed to think of him.

Put it all behind you, Mary Margaret, they said. Put it behind
you and go on with your life.

"Miss?"

Mary Margaret turned around. She blushed when she realized how
long she'd been standing there, holding a perfume bottle and
gazing off into space. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was distracted for a moment. Would you
like to smell the L'Heure Bleu and see if that's the one you
want?"

"Actually," the middy said, "I think it's something more like
what you're wearing. What's that one called?"

Mary Margaret stared, feeling again the invisible scarlet "A" on
her chest that marked her as a ruined woman. Men could sense it,
she was sure.

"Nice try, sailor," she said, sarcastically. "Is that the line
you throw to all the girls?"

"I beg your pardon?" the middy said, and to her shame, she saw
that he was genuinely confused by her reply. He really hadn't
meant anything by it.

"No," she said, looking away. "I'm sorry. You were just asking a
question. I ... I was reading too much into it. Please forgive
me."

"There's nothing to forgive, miss," the middy said, and this time
there was a note of gentleness in his voice. "If you'll forgive
my saying so, though, you look a bit tired. Perhaps I'll come
back another time?"

"No, don't do that," Mary Margaret said. "I know you don't get
much free time at the academy. I'm wearing 'Evening in Paris.'
Does that sound right to you?"

"Perfect," the middy said, and the smile on his face was nothing
short of dazzling.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As time went by, Mary Margaret began to notice that her middy
customer was to be found shopping in the exchange rather more
often than the average midshipman, but she refused to give it any
significance. There were more than a few midshipmen who came from
money, and while they seldom had a chance to spend it -- being
much occupied with the relentless pace and restrictions of Naval
Academy life -- she supposed there were some who might want to
spend their scant leisure time shopping.

Somehow, though, this one always found a reason to stop by the
cosmetics counter and browse among the perfumes, skin creams and
nail lacquers there. There was always a sister or an aunt or a
grandmother who was celebrating some occasion that called for a
grand gift, and one that he was utterly and charmingly
incompetent to select without her assistance.

One day, quite by accident, she learned his name. She heard some
of his classmates calling him to come join them, and he answered,
telling them to go on without him.

"Why did you do that?" Mary Margaret asked after the other
midshipmen had left.

"I haven't finished buying my grandmother's birthday gift," the
middy said. 

But she soon found that even though she knew his name, she
couldn't bring herself even to call him by it. It seemed far too
intimate, a presumption of incredible magnitude, for a fallen
woman even to think the Christian name of a fine, upstanding
officer-to-be from Annapolis. 

He was just another middy; nothing more.

After all, it was always best not to let yourself think of people
you could never have.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Finally, Mary Margaret let the middy walk her home from work.

She'd been standing behind the cosmetics counter for eight hours,
and she was nearing the limits of her strength. The Christmas
shoppers had worn her to a frazzle, and there had been no one
available to help her: All the other clerks were just as busy as
she was. She hadn't had a moment to get a bite to eat or a drink
of water. Even finding time for a visit to the ladies' room was
all but impossible.

Just a few more hours, she told herself, and then you can go home
to a hot shower and a bite of dinner. That the shower was down
the hall, rarely hotter than lukewarm, and that the dinner was
likely to be Spam cooked on a hot plate didn't matter; it was
food and comfort, and just now she needed both very badly.

She almost made it to her hot plate and her Spam dinner, too,
until she tried to climb the stepladder to get down a large
bottle of eau de toilette for a particularly ill-tempered matron.
The combination of fatigue and low blood sugar hit her like a
blow, and the climb proved to be too much; she felt dizzy, and
her legs wouldn't hold her up. She reached for the shelf, hoping
to hold onto it and steady herself, but only succeeded in
knocking down the bottle she'd climbed up there to get.

The bottle went flying, landing on top of the glass display case,
shattering them both. Glass flew everywhere, and the rich
gardenia scent of Eau de Joy filled the exchange.

"Oh, no," Mary Margaret said, but she got no further. The
stepladder began to sway alarmingly, and she realized with a
sickening certainty that she was about to be pitched face-first
into the broken glass.

Or she would have been, had her middy not been standing nearby,
had he not moved with the speed of a panther and caught her just
as she fell.

"Whoa, miss," he said, as he set her carefully on her feet. "That
was a close one. Are you all right?"

"I'm ... yes, I'm fine," Mary Margaret said. "I just ... I don't
know, I felt so dizzy."

"You should go home and lie down," the middy said. "You seem ..."

But Mary Margaret was never to know what he thought she seemed,
because at that moment, the exchange manager's voice rang out
over the store like the blast of a foghorn.

"Miss Hanley, what in blazes have you done?" the manager
screamed.
"That's a $45 bottle of scent you just broke. That's coming out
of your wages this week, young lady."

"Mr. Grip, it was an accident," Mary Margaret said. "I'm so
sorry, so very sorry."

"I'll bet you're sorry," Mr. Grip said. "But you've got to pay
for it, sorry or not. That's the rule."

"But that's almost my whole week's wages," Mary Margaret said.
"Please ... can you just take it out a little at a time? It's
almost Christmas."

"Mr. Grip," the middy said quietly, and Mary Margaret turned
around. She had almost forgotten he was there. 

"Yes?" Mr. Grip said. "What can I do for you, midshipman?"

"I'll pay for the scent," the middy said, as he took a wallet
from his pocket and began counting out bills. "It was my fault
she knocked it over. I spoke to Miss Hanley, and it distracted
her. It's entirely my fault."

"You're very kind, but I couldn't ..." Mary Margaret began, but
the middy interrupted her.

"I insist, Miss Hanley," he said. "You're not at all to blame,
and there's no reason for you to pay for the damage." He handed
the bills to the manager. "Mr. Grip," he said, "would you allow
me to escort Miss Hanley home? I believe she's rather shaken by
this incident."

For just a moment, Mary Margaret thought Mr. Grip would refuse...
but then, for just a moment, she found herself hoping that he
would. It was just not a good idea to allow this nice young man
to think of her as anything but a sales clerk. Best to nip this
or any other young man's advances in the bud, because a serious
relationship was completely out of the question. 

Her parents might disguise the outward facts of Frank's birth,
but the marks on her body -- the stretch marks, the sagging flesh
-- would always be there to betray her. 

"Go home, Miss Hanley," Mr. Grip said, sourly. "Be here tomorrow
at 6 a.m. We have to restock the shelves before opening."

"Yes, sir," Mary Margaret said. She took her coat from the rack,
reached under the counter for her purse and hit her head smartly
on the metal edge. Blushing furiously, she straightened up and
started to hurry out of the exchange, when she felt someone take
the coat from her hands. It was her middy; he was holding it for
her.

Still blushing, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, and
shivered as she felt him gently lift her hair from the collar. It
was almost -- but not quite -- an intimate touch, as disturbing
as it was welcome and exciting.

"Will you take my arm, Miss Hanley?" the middy said, holding it
out to her. "It's snowing outside; you could slip." 

"Yes, of course," she murmured, slipping her cold hand through
the crook of his elbow and laying it on the dark wool of his
overcoat.

They didn't speak again until they were about a block from the
exchange. The middy seemed quite at ease with the silence, but
Mary Margaret felt it almost as a weight, something that could
pull her down and drown her if she didn't get rid of it.

"You're going to smell like perfume every time you wear this coat
now," she said finally, just for something to say. "Won't you get
teased?"

"Not one bit," the middy said, confidently. "The other fellows
will just think I'm the luckiest midshipman at the academy. And
at the moment, I'd have to agree with them."

"Oh, stop it," Mary Margaret said, but she felt the warm flush
starting up in her cheeks again. "I haven't brought you any luck
at all; in fact, I just cost you $45, and I'll bet you can't
afford it any more than I can."

"I'll bet I can," the middy said, and now he sounded quite
serious. "I know where you live, Miss Hanley. I've seen you in
the mornings on your way to work. The ladies who live there don't
often have extra money to spend. Forgive me for being so
personal ..."

"I'll try," Mary Margaret said, although to her surprise, she
wasn't feeling terribly offended by this public discussion of
money.

She could see her hotel now; they were only a couple of blocks
away. This would be over soon, and she couldn't tell if that made
her happy or sad.

"Why won't you call me by my name?" the middy said, abruptly,
breaking in on her thoughts.

"I beg your pardon?" Mary Margaret said. "I don't even know your
name."

"Yes, you do," the middy said. "You heard my friends speaking to
me. You do know it. Why won't you use it?"

"Because you're my customer," Mary Margaret said. "We haven't
actually been introduced, you know."

"The roof constitutes an introduction, Miss Hanley," the middy
said. "Even if it didn't, this isn't 1941, it's 1961, and I think
we can afford not to stand on such ceremony. Why won't you call
me by my name?"

"I can't," Mary Margaret whispered. "I just can't."

"Do you find me that objectionable?" the middy asked, and there
was a wistfulness in his voice that warmed her heart.

"No, not at all," she said, earnestly. "I don't find you at all
objectionable. It's just that ... well, there are times it's best
not to become overly familiar, you know?"

"No, I don't know," the middy said. "Or at least, I don't know
why this is one of those times for you. You're not married, or
you wouldn't be living in a women's hotel. Are you engaged?"

"No," Mary Margaret said, the old shame rising in her again. "I'm
not married or engaged. I don't expect I ever shall be."

"Do you have a religious vocation?" the middy asked. "I noticed
the crucifix you wear ... perhaps you're taking the veil?"

"No, not that either," Mary Margaret said. "Look, I appreciate
your offer of friendship, midshipman; truly, I do. But for my own
reasons, I simply cannot accept."

They were at the door of the hotel. The middy stopped, and Mary
Margaret let go of his arm and offered him her hand.

"Thank you for seeing me home," she said. "You've been very
kind."

"I'm not easily discouraged, Miss Hanley," the middy said. "I
would like to see you again. I have tickets to the Army-Navy
game, and it seems my parents will not be able to attend. Will
you take those, at least? We can't be seated together, of course,
but I'm sure you'll enjoy the game."

"I can't ..." she began, but he interrupted her.

"You can," he said. "I don't know what it is that troubles you so
much, but it can't be that awful. Not for a bright, pretty young
woman like yourself. I understand if you can't attend the game.
Just promise me that you'll speak to me when I'm in the exchange.
Will you do that?"

Everything in her warned that this was a turning point, a moment
that would change the course of this casual acquaintance and send
it in another direction entirely, but in that moment, Mary
Margaret found that she didn't care. She'd been empty and lonely
and alone too long. A friend -- even if he was a boy -- would be
a wonderful thing to have.

"Yes," she said, almost in a whisper. "I can promise you that." 

And her middy smiled.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Spring 1962

After that Christmas, it was a simple matter for her middy to
time his shopping trips with the end of her shift, so that she
found herself being escorted home on a regular basis. Mary
Margaret was in equal parts afraid and ecstatic. There had been
no young man in her life since Jerry had so callously abandoned
her, and her middy's attentions were more than just welcome. She
felt her soul blooming, expanding, felt life and hope returning
to her in a way she'd never have believed it could.

But the fear, the terrible fear ... that was always there. Some
day, this would have to end. He was too fine a young man, too
upright and morally true, to countenance a disgrace such as hers.
There was no question of allowing it go any further. That simply
could not be.

When May came, she let him talk her into attending his graduation
and commissioning -- as a friend, of course. She tried to remain
unemotional and detached, but still she felt an unexpected and
completely unearned rush of pride in her middy as she heard his
name called and saw him walk across the stage to receive his
diploma. She kept her eyes fixed on him, feeling the excitement
and joy of watching as he flung his hat into the air in triumph.

And when it was over, he sought her out and introduced her to his
parents. She watched, almost envious, as his mother helped him
exchange his midshipman's shoulderboards for the single stripe
and star of an ensign and line officer.

His parents, for their part, seemed friendly enough. She even saw
his mother smiling fondly at the two of them when her son took
Mary Margaret's hand briefly as he helped her board the bus that
would take her back to her hotel.

Yes, his parents seemed to approve of her.

Of course, they didn't know about Frank.

The following Saturday night, her middy took her to see "The
Miracle Worker." It was a lovely evening, marred only by his
confusion at her inexplicably bursting into tears when Helen
Keller's brother stood up to his overbearing, over-protective
father and won the battle.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the summer, it began to end.

It came sneaking up on her as silent as the river, on a lovely,
warm evening when she failed to notice that someone was following
her as she walked home from work.

She was standing on the doorstep, fumbling in her purse for her
key, when she saw him, standing in the shadow of the hedge,
watching her intently. Terror struck her; she was paralyzed, too
terrified to move a muscle. She was still trying to decide
whether to pound on the door, run down the street screaming or
just stand still and hope he went away, when he spoke to her.

"Hello, Mary Margaret," he said, in a voice as smooth as satin; a
voice that, try as she might, she would never forget.

"Jerry," she said, her own voice trembling from the fright. "What
are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he said, and he moved closer to her. 

He was as handsome as ever; tall and blue-eyed, with his short
dark-blond hair streaked with sun. He was wearing chinos and an
Oxford-cloth shirt, and he looked quite comfortable with himself.

He probably was comfortable, Mary Margaret thought with a flash
of anger. He'd walked away and left her and Frank without a
backward glance, and he -- being male -- had no invisible scarlet
'A' on his chest. 

"As if you cared about me," Mary Margaret said, bitterly. "Please
don't try to pretend you do, Jerry."

"But I do," he said, moving closer to her. "I care very much.
I've never forgotten about you, Mary Margaret. I never will."

"Really," she said. "What about our son? Did you forget about
him?"

"Oh?" Jerry said, with a nonchalance that astounded her. "You had
a boy, huh?"

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Mary Margaret said. "I had a
boy. I named him Frank, as in Gerald Francis, after you. He's our
son -- yours and mine -- but my parents are raising him as their
own. But I can't imagine that really matters to you."

"Why are you so angry?" Jerry said. "I admit it, I made a mistake
leaving you the way I did. But everything's turned out all right.
Nobody knows you had a kid, do they?"

He took a step closer to her, and Mary Margaret caught a whiff of
alcohol on his breath; brandy, she thought. Strong stuff.

"You're drunk, Jerry," she said, fishing her key out of her
purse. "Go home." 

"Just go for a walk with me," he pleaded, catching hold of her
hand as she tried to fit the key in the lock. "Just one little
walk. You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you anything," Mary Margaret said, pulling away from
him.

"But you still love me," he said. "Don't you?"

"For Pete's sake, Jerry," she said, exasperated. "No, I don't
love you. You abandoned me and our son. You ruined me. I can
barely stand the sight of you. Are you really so drunk that you
think I could just forget all that?"

"I'm so drunk I need you to walk me back to my rooming house," he
said, and smiled at her with the smile that had won her heart ...
it seemed a lifetime ago.

"I have to be inside by 9 o'clock," she said, but her resolve was
weakening, and he knew it.

"A little walk, Mary Margaret," he repeated. "There's no harm in
that."

She looked at him for a long moment, considering, then sighed and
put her keys back in her purse. It probably was the easiest way
to be rid of him without causing a public scene, she thought. A
little walk, and then safely back home.

"All right," she said. "I'll walk with you for a few blocks. But
that's all, Jerry. You understand me?"

"I understand, baby," Jerry said. He reached out and took her
hand again. "Just a little ... bitty ... walk."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"What are you thinking about?" Jerry asked as they walked slowly
through the park, sipping at the cans of Carling Black Label beer
that Jerry had bought. Mary Margaret wasn't especially fond of
beer, but it would have been rude to refuse, so she took it.

But she hadn't eaten, and her head was beginning to spin a
little.

"You," Mary Margaret said. "You, and me, and our son, and all the
things I've lost because of you."

"You look like you're doing okay to me," Jerry said. "You're a
career girl, out living on your own. That's something."

"I'm not a career girl," Mary Margaret said. "I'm just a girl
with a job. That's all."

"You're a lot more than just a girl," he said, putting his arm
around her shoulders. That unsettled her, but she didn't want to
be rude. "You're a very beautiful girl, Mary Margaret. Very ...
beautiful."

His hand was damp and clammy on her shoulder. It felt ...
unclean somehow, low and insinuating like his voice, something
she should get away from as fast as she could.

Oh, really, Mary Margaret, she scolded herself. This is Jerry.
Maybe things ended badly between you, but you've known him for
years. There's no reason for you to be acting so silly.

"Thank you, Jerry," she said, but it came out sounding nothing
more than polite. Still, Jerry seemed to take it as
encouragement. He tightened his hold on her and pulled her
closer.

"No, I mean it," he said, his mouth next to her ear. "You've
really grown up ... you're more beautiful than you ever were in
your life ... and I still want to be with you."

"No," Mary Margaret said, and this time her voice was deadly
cold. "You and I will never be together again. What do I have to
do to make you believe me?"

"Baby, you'll never make me believe that," Jerry said, and before
she could realize what was happening or move out of the way, his
lips were on hers and he was kissing her ... not the gentle kiss
he'd wooed her with back in high school, either, but a hard,
unfriendly kiss, a loveless kiss, a kiss that told her all she
needed to know about Jerry's intentions this night.

"Stop that," she said, putting her hands on his chest and pushing
him away. "I don't want any of that from you."

"Oh, yeah?" Jerry said. "Who do you want it from, Mary Margaret?
You giving it to someone else?"

"How dare you?" Mary Margaret said, furiously. "How dare you even
think such a thing about me, let alone say it?"

"Oh, get off your high horse," Jerry said. "I know about women.
Once you've had some, you can't ever get enough again ... can
you, Mary Margaret? You know you want it. You always did want
it."

"I'm leaving," Mary Margaret said. "I don't have to listen to
this. You're drunk, and you're worse than horrid. I can't imagine
what I ever saw in you."

She turned to walk away, but Jerry grabbed her hand from behind
and spun her around.

"Well, aren't you Miss High and Mighty?" he said, in a voice that
was almost a growl. "You don't need to put on airs with me. There
are girls you fuck and girls you marry, Mary Margaret, and we
both know which kind you are."

Suddenly his arms were around her, and he was pulling her toward
the shrubbery. His grip was tight; so tight that it hurt her, and
it was hard to breathe.

"Stop it," she said. "Please, Jerry ... let me go."

"Come on, baby, you know you want it," Jerry said, still dragging
her toward the bushes. "You're saying no, but you mean yes; I can
tell. I know what you really want ... and I'm going to give it to
you."

"No!" Mary Margaret said, as loudly as she could. "I'll scream!
Let me go now!" She twisted and struggled in Jerry's arms, but
that only earned her a hard slap in the face. The blow split her
lower lip; she tasted blood in her mouth, and for a moment, she
thought she might black out.

Jerry clamped his hand down over her mouth hard. "You scream and
I'll beat the living shit out of you," he hissed. "Don't think I
won't, Mary Margaret. This is going to happen, one way or
another, so you may as well just make up your mind to enjoy it."

Mary Margaret shook her head, trying to let her eyes plead with
him, beg him not to do this to her, but he only shook his head in
return.

"I mean it," Jerry said, coldly. "If you don't want to wake up
with a broken nose and two black eyes, you'll come with me right
now. Do you understand? Nod and I'll take my hand off your mouth.
Don't nod and ... the lesson will continue. Your choice."

His other hand was digging into her back, his fingernails
breaking the skin even through her clothing. It hurt. Everything
he was doing to her hurt, and he seemed quite willing to hurt her
even worse. 

And to her eternal shame, Mary Margaret decided to let Jerry have
his way. 

She knew you were supposed to fight back hard; she had learned
that long ago when her father scornfully dismissed a neighbor's
claim of rape with the observation that "she only had a few
bruises on her."

Yes, she should fight. A good girl would do that. But she wasn't
a good girl, was she? Even if she had been, she was simply too
afraid of what might happen if she did fight. She didn't want him
to hurt her anymore.

It won't take long, she thought frantically. It won't take long,
and I've done this with him before, and then it'll be over and I
can go home. God help me, but I don't want him to beat me. 

Reluctantly, she nodded, feeling another sharp stab of terror at
the vicious gleam in Jerry's eyes.

He took his hand off her mouth and smiled. "Come on, baby," he
said, jerking his head in the direction of the shrubbery. "You
know you're going to like this."

~*~*~*~*~*~

It didn't take long. It took an eternity, and when it was over,
she lay curled into a fetal position, crying, covering her face,
hoping and praying that no one would pass by and see. Her face
hurt, her back hurt, and it hurt even worse between her legs
where he had entered her while she was dry and unaroused.

She thought she might even be bleeding.

"You want a cigarette?" Jerry said, in an utterly casual tone as
he rose, zipped his chinos and stretched comfortably.

Mary Margaret shook her head. 

"Come on, quit wailing," Jerry said. "Jesus Christ, you'd think
I'd raped you or something."

Mary Margaret made an inaudible noise.

"What?" Jerry said. 

She looked up at him then. "I said you did," she said. "You did
rape me."

"Oh, you think so, huh?" Jerry said. "You went out with me, you
drank two beers, you sure as hell didn't fight it very hard and
let's face it, Mary Margaret, you weren't a virgin to start with.
Hell, you went all the way with me before, plenty of times.
You've even had a kid. You go tell a cop you got raped and he'll
laugh right in your face."

With that, he reached down, took her hand and pulled her to her
feet, as casually as if they'd been sunning themselves on the
beach. "You're a looker, Mary Margaret," he said. "I don't know
why you made me hurt you."

And he kissed her. "I'll walk you home," he said. "Wouldn't want
anything to happen to you."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mary Margaret called in sick to work for the next week. She spent
too much time in the shower, trying to wash her body and her mind
clean of what had happened to her. The rest of the time, she
stayed in her bed with the covers up to her chin, flinching at
every noise. She stopped crying only when she was asleep.

She refused to step outside her door, even when she began to run
out of groceries. There was always the chance that Jerry would be
there.

Finally, Mr. Grip called and told her that she either had to
return to work or find herself another job. She went back the
following Monday.

It took her almost twice as long to walk to work as it should
have. She kept stopping, looking over her shoulder, trying to see
if Jerry was following her.

When she arrived at work, her middy was there. His eyes lit up
when he saw her, but she turned away from him, unwilling to meet
his gaze.

That was useless, though; he walked up to the cosmetics counter,
smiling his beautiful smile, and she knew she could not avoid
him.

"Mary Margaret," he said. "I hoped you'd be back today. Mr. Grip
said you'd been ill. I hope you're feeling better?"

"Yes, thanks," she said, still not lifting her eyes to his. "It
was the flu or something. I'm much better now."

"I'm glad to hear it," her middy said. "You look as though you're
still a bit tired, though."

"I'm fine," she said. "Really. I just need to rest up a bit
more."

"Of course," her middy said quickly. "And you look lovely, as
always, tired or not. If you're not too tired, though, perhaps
you'd have dinner with me this evening?"

She repressed a shudder. Sit at a table with him, smile and make
conversation as though nothing had ever happened? That was
impossible.

"That's a lovely offer," Mary Margaret said. "But I'm afraid I'll
have to decline. I do need my rest still."

"I'm sorry you can't accept," her middy said. "Another night,
then ... but very soon, I hope."

"Why very soon?" Mary Margaret asked. 

"I've got my orders," he said.

There it was. The moment she'd dreaded, the moment she'd wanted.
This relationship had to end; it just had to, and quickly. With
him at sea, it could end quietly, without any horrible scenes or
recriminations.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly, then, without thinking, added,
"When do you leave?"

"I don't know," he said. "Ships' movements are classified, as you
know. It could be anytime. I'm assigned to the USS Charles P.
Cecil. She's a destroyer, homeported in Norfolk."

"I'll miss you," she said, trying to force down the lump in her
throat. She would do a lot more than miss him, she knew; she
would ache for him as she ached for her baby, weeping through the
night with the pain of empty arms and an empty life.

"I'll miss you, too," her middy said. "But Mary Margaret ..."

"Yes?" she said, when he didn't go on.

"I wanted ... that is, I meant ..." he said, and he was
practically stammering. That was strange; he was normally so
self-possessed. Already she could tell that he had a bright
future in the Navy. There was something about his personality
that just made people pay attention, like Mr. Grip had on that
day that now seemed a lifetime ago.

"Yes?" she said again.

"I was hoping ... that I would find you waiting for me when I
return," he said, simply. "I mean ... as my wife."

Had she known this was coming? she thought, in a near panic. Oh,
yes. She had. If she was honest with herself, she'd known it
almost from the start. She'd made a few abortive attempts to
discourage him, but it was like the insult Jerry had flung at
her: Her lips were saying no, but everything else about her was
saying yes.

But this wasn't Jerry. This was another man, a good, honest and
decent man, and she really was saying yes, with every fiber of
her being.

Yes, I love you. Yes, I want to be with you. Yes, yes, yes, I
want to be your wife.

"No," she said, and she thought the pain of saying it might kill
her then and there. "No. I'm sorry. I can't."

"But why can't you?" he said, helplessly. "Mary Margaret, why? I
know you love me. You won't say it, but I know it. Why won't you
marry me?"

"I can't tell you that," she said, shaking her head furiously.
"Please don't ask me. Please. Let's just part friends, please?"

"That's not good enough," he said, and the commanding firmness
was returning to his voice. "I want to know the reason, Mary
Margaret. You've been keeping your secret as long as I've known
you. If it's going to keep you from marrying me, then I think I
have a right to know what it is."

"You do not," she said, her anger rising. "You have no right
whatsoever to pry into my personal affairs. We're friends. We've
had fun being friends. But you're leaving and it's over, so let's
say goodbye right now before this becomes an ugly scene."

She tried to turn and walk away, but he reached out for her,
caught hold of her hand and held it tightly with his own. The
fear she felt at his touch was almost more horrifying to her than
the memory of the act that had made her so afraid to be touched.

"It is not going to end this way," he said, and the passion in
his eyes was breathtaking. "I cannot let you go out of my life.
Don't you know what you mean to me? Don't you see how much I love
you? I would do anything for you, I would give anything to make
you happy. Please, Mary Margaret ... please let me."

"Please stop this," Mary Margaret said, tears rolling down her
face. "Please. I have a reason that I can't tell you or anyone,
not ever. Don't make me say it. Don't make me make you hate me."

She pulled her hand free and ran out of the exchange just as fast
as her spiked-heel shoes would let her.

And her middy -- her ensign -- was left standing by the counter,
one hand clenched into a fist, the other clutching the small
velvet box in his pocket, a box that held all that remained of
the hopes and dreams he'd cherished until they had died, only a
few short moments ago.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
George Santayana said that, and Sister Mary Robert said it too,
over and over, in her American history classes at Catholic
Girls'.

Mary Margaret had never doubted it. What she hadn't known was
that sometimes, those who do remember the past can still be
condemned to repeat it, and that the memory of past pain can
render present pain unbearable.

She came to know it when, two weeks after Jerry's attack, her
period failed to arrive.

At first, she put it down to the emotional upheaval she'd been
undergoing. That could throw a woman's cycle off; of course it
could.

She spent hours at the public library, stealthily reading medical
textbooks, seeking for something that would bolster her slender
hope, but all of them gave the same fearful answer: A missed
period in a woman of childbearing age who is having sexual
relations must be assumed to be due to pregnancy until proven
otherwise.

The only hope the texts held out was that pregnancy could not be
confirmed until a second menstrual cycle had been missed.

And so she waited.

The fear continued to haunt her, whether she was conscious of it
or not, and she became even more distracted, especially at work.
She broke things, she forgot to do tasks she'd been assigned, she
failed to notice customers who were waiting at her counter and
she was coming in late more and more often.

At last, Mr. Grip called her into his office and informed her
that her services were no longer required.

"You were a fairly good clerk when you started here, Miss
Hanley," he said, and for once, she thought he actually meant it.
"But your performance has continued to deteriorate despite my
efforts to correct it, and that leaves me with no choice. Turn in
your cash drawer and pick up your final paycheck."

She did.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The bus was crowded and hot, but Mary Margaret was oblivious to
it. Every ounce of her strength was focused on not breaking down,
not weeping here in this terribly public place in front of a
hundred staring strangers.

She was going home. She had nowhere else to go.

Her parents hadn't checked her out from the hotel, but that was
for the simple reason that she hadn't asked them. She had run
straight from the exchange to the bus depot and boarded the first
bus out of town, not caring where it was bound, caring only that
it would take her away from Annapolis, away from Mr. Grip and
away from her middy and his impossible, painful love. When she
was able to breathe again, she had gotten off that bus and found
her way to the correct one, the one that would take her home.

She would get in trouble at the hotel when curfew came and she
wasn't in her room, but it was her first infraction. They
probably wouldn't put her out for that; anyway, the first thing
they would do was call her parents, and by that time, she would
be home. By Monday, she would be hard at work finding another
job, and still traveling on the long, painful road toward
forgetting the man she loved.

She wasn't fooling herself about that; she wasn't even trying
anymore. She did love him, and if things had been different, she
would have accepted his proposal with nothing but pure joy, but
things weren't different. Things were what they were.

The bus screeched to a halt, and Mary Margaret looked up. They
were stopped at a filling station just a few blocks from her
home; her parents' home, she corrected herself. She got off the
bus, still feeling shaken and wobbly, and found herself very near
tears again as she remembered the slight roughness of the navy
blue wool sleeves of her middy's uniform, remembered how he'd
offered her his arm and caught her so she wouldn't fall.

There was no one here to help her now. She would just have to
walk alone and be careful.

She walked to her home, to the house she'd grown up in, and
knocked on the door. 

She heard a squeal inside, and her heart beat faster. Frank? she
thought. My Frank? 

The door opened, and there stood her mother, wearing an
immaculate housedress and apron and holding Frank on one hip. He
was 2 now, or would be in just a few weeks, and he was more
beautiful to her than ever.

"Mary Margaret?" her mother said, with a lift of her eyebrows.
"My goodness, child, what are you doing here? You're supposed to
be in Annapolis."

"I had to come home, Mom," Mary Margaret said, but her eyes were
still fixed on her son. "I lost my job and ... I ... I just
needed to be home for a while. I'm sorry I didn't call first ..."
Her voice trailed away. It wasn't her mother she wanted to talk
to just now.

"Frank?" she said, reaching out for the chubby little toddler
hand, and her whole being seemed to shrink into a quivering
bundle of fear and hope. He wouldn't remember her; but maybe,
just maybe, he could come to know her again. 

"Frank," she said, softly. "I'm your ... your sister. I'm Mary
Margaret. Do you remember me, Frank?"

"No!" the boy protested, pulling his hand away. "No."

"It's all right, Frank," Mary Margaret said, but her eyes were
stinging because of the tears she would not let fall. "It's all
right if you don't remember me. But I remember you, little
Frank."

"No!" he repeated, more loudly, shrinking back against his
grandmother. His mother, Mary Margaret reminded herself. She's
his mother.

"He's confused because you're calling him by the wrong name,"
Mrs. Hanley said, as she patted the boy's back to calm him. "His
name isn't Frank; it's Billy."

"Billy ..." Mary Margaret repeated, then looked up at her
mother. "Billy?"

"Your father thought it was best," her mother said. "People
remember who you were dating in high school, Mary Margaret. We
changed his name to William Francis, and we call him Billy now.
That way, there's no ... association ... with anyone from the
past."

"You can't do that!" Mary Margaret said, helplessly. "You can't.
He's my son. I named him Gerald Francis. I don't care if it's
Jerry's name; it's his name, the name I gave to him. It's all
he'll ever have of his real father."

"Lower your voice, Mary Margaret," her mother hissed. "If you
have to shout the family secrets, at least have the decency to
do it inside where the whole neighborhood won't overhear."

"I haven't raised my voice," Mary Margaret said, but she spoke
more quietly anyway, cowed as always by her mother's absolute
certainty. "No one's heard anything we said."

"I did," came a familiar voice from behind her.

Mary Margaret froze. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her
heart beat so fast and so hard that she was sure she saw the
cross around her neck jumping in time to her frantic pulse.

She couldn't bring herself to turn around, but she didn't need to
see him to know who it was.

"What ... what are you doing here?" she whispered, eyes on the
ground. There was no one here she could look at now; not Frank
(Billy, she corrected herself, his name is Billy now), not
her mother, and most of all, not her middy.

"I had to see you once more before I leave," he said, and she
heard a slight crunching of leaves as he stepped out from behind
the trees and walked toward her. 

"I wanted to be sure you were all right," the middy was saying.
"You weren't at your hotel, so I came here. I got your father's
name from Mr. Grip. I was hoping your parents could tell me where
you were."

"I'm all right," she said, still in a whisper. "Please go now.
Please."

"Mary Margaret, who is this?" her mother said. "What is he doing
here?"

"He's ... no one," Mary Margaret said. "A friend from Annapolis.
He's shipping out soon."

"Actually, Mrs. Hanley," her middy said, "I'm the man who asked
your daughter for her hand in marriage just a short time ago. She
refused me. Now, I suppose, I know why."

He was closer to her now, so close that she could feel his
warmth. His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable
tinge of regret.

"This is why," he said, and he laid his hands carefully on her
upper arms, steadying her. "I would never in my wildest dreams
have imagined it, but I see now. You're an unwed mother. And you
think that means you can't marry."

"Please go away," Mary Margaret whispered. "Please. I can't bear
any more of this. I can't let anyone know ... least of all Fra
... Billy." 

"Billy," her middy said, and shook his head. "William Francis.
Ironic, isn't it? All right, Mary Margaret. I'm leaving. I'm
sorry ... I really am. But I suppose you're right. It wouldn't
have worked out."

In spite of herself, Mary Margaret whirled around to face him. 

"You see?" she said, tears coming to her eyes again. "You see?
This is why I couldn't tell you. I knew you wouldn't want to be
with me ever again if you knew. Well, now you know. So go. Go to
your ship and spend the next six months kicking yourself because
you didn't take advantage of the fact that you had a girl who was
really very easy, after all, and had a baby to prove it."

"That's not what I meant," her middy said, quietly. "I don't know
how Billy came to be, and I don't mean to ask. I'm not here to
judge you. It's clear to me that you've done the best you can to
spare him from shame and make certain that he's cared for, and
that speaks well of you."

He moved closer then, so close she thought he might be about to
kiss her, but he didn't.

"The reason it wouldn't have worked, Mary Margaret Hanley," he
said, keeping his voice too low for her mother to hear, "is that
you don't trust me; you don't think me enough of a gentleman to
understand, or to forgive, even though there's really nothing for
me to forgive. You've done nothing to me. If you think that
little of me, then we have no hope of a successful marriage; and
for that, my sweet girl, I am very sorry."

He stepped back from her then, and she could see the deep hurt in
his eyes, but his military bearing didn't fail him. He nodded to
her mother. "Mrs. Hanley," he said. "I'm sorry we had to meet
under these circumstances."

"I ... I don't know what to say, ensign," Mrs. Hanley said. "I'm
horrified to think that you overheard what should have been a
private family matter."

"There's no harm done, ma'am," the middy said. "I'm sure it'll
all be forgotten, someday." The way he said it, it almost sounded
like a question -- a question Mary Margaret couldn't answer right
now.

He must have known it, because he sighed. 

"Mary Margaret," he said, softly. "I understand now why you
refused me, but don't let it be over between us. Not like this. I
don't know when my ship will sail. I don't know when it will
return. But please, if you can, wait for me. Be there on the dock
when we return. I'll walk right off that ship and into your arms
and I promise you, I'll never let you go again."

With that, he inclined his head again in Mrs. Hanley's direction.
"Ma'am," he said. "Mary Margaret," he added, more softly.

And then he turned, and was gone.

The next morning, Mary Margaret's father drove her back to her
hotel.

"You really should stay here as much as possible," he told her
firmly. "It's best for all concerned. And forget about that young
man. A Navy officer needs a wife who is above reproach. His
career could depend on it. Whatever he may think now in his
romantic dreams, it's impossible. You must accept that."

"Yes, Daddy," she said, obediently. 

It was easy to speak calmly now. The dead are always calm, and
Mary Margaret was utterly and completely dead inside.

Her unborn baby, however, was very much alive.

~*~*~*~*~*~

October 22, 1962

"What's up with the TV?" one of the residents called out. 

"The president's going to make some kind of speech," another
answered her. "They're interrupting my favorite show. This had
better be good."

"Is it ever?" the first girl said. "It's always just some
political thing, civil rights for Negroes or something boring
like that."

"Civil rights are important," a third girl said. "If you'd just
wake up and see what's happening ..."

The discussion went on and on, but Mary Margaret wasn't paying
much attention. Ever since the day her parents had made it clear
to her that she was no longer welcome in their home, she had
spent her days working at the public library and her evenings
here in the common room, knitting or watching television.

She wasn't interested in TV right now, though. She was reading
Ian Fleming's latest James Bond novel, feeling a certain
recklessness with each page she turned. Proper young ladies
weren't supposed to read such things; of course, she was no
proper young lady. In a few weeks, all the loose clothing and
tight girdles in the world weren't going to be able to hide that.

A week after she left her parents' home -- for the last time, she
was reasonably sure -- she tried to write a letter to her middy.
It was a "Dear John" letter, not the sort of thing one should
write to a sailor at sea, but she had to end it, now and forever,
and she lacked the courage to wait until he returned and tell him
in person.

He probably wouldn't even read it; most likely, he'd crush the
letter into a ball and throw it away, as he would throw away
whatever feeling he had left for her.

In the end, though, she was the one who threw the letter away.
What was the point of mailing it, anyway? He'd get the message
when she disappeared and he never saw her again.

And it was nearly time for her to disappear. She knew it. She
should have already been making plans to go away and hide until
the baby's birth, plans for placing it for adoption -- she was
certain she couldn't bear watching another child grow up as her
"brother," even if her parents had been willing -- but she simply
couldn't make herself care, about that or anything else.

She was past worrying. Nothing really seemed to matter; often,
she found herself thinking that she'd really be better off dead,
but she lacked even the energy to do that.

So she read, and she knitted, and she put the tiny new life
inside her out of her mind as much as possible. She put
everything out of her mind. She just moved through her days with
all the animation and feeling of a robot, too far gone even to
cry any longer.

That was why the president's speech was half over before she
noticed how quiet the room had become. She looked up from her
reading: Dozens of girls were gathered around the set, and some
of them were crying. All of them looked frightened.

"What's going on?" Mary Margaret asked, putting her book down.

"The Communists have put missiles in Cuba," said the girl who
thought civil rights were boring. "Oh, my God, they're going to
kill us all!"

"Quiet, Debbie," another girl said. "I want to hear this. I have
a brother in the Navy, you know."

"The Navy?" Mary Margaret repeated, and felt her chest tighten.
"Janice, what about the Navy?"

Janice signaled her to be quiet. "We're about to find out, I
think," she said.

Mary Margaret looked at the screen, where the handsome young
president was reading from his script in his clipped New England
accent.

"To halt this offensive buildup," President Kennedy said, "a
strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under
shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound
for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain
cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back."

"That's what about the Navy," Janice said. "They're the ones
who'll have to blockade Cuba."

"It's not a blockade," Debbie said. "It's a quarantine."

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," Janice said. "Whatever
you call it, it means our sailors will be out there and if
someone tries to cross that line, they'll have to shoot. And the
Commies will shoot back, too."

"Oh, my God ..." Mary Margaret said as the realization hit her.
Her middy. Was his ship one of the ones blockading Cuba?

"It shall be the policy of this nation," the president continued,
"to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any
nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union
on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon
the Soviet Union."

"There's going to be a war!" Debbie wailed. "It's going to be
World War III and we're all going to die!"

"For Christ's sake, Debbie, will you shut up?" Mary Margaret
snapped, startling her fellow residents almost as much as she
startled herself. 

"The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as
all paths are," the president was saying, "but it is the one most
consistent with our character and courage as a nation and our
commitments around the world. The cost of freedom is always high
-- and Americans have always paid it."

Hazards, Mary Margaret thought, and fear clenched at her chest.
Hazards for the people enforcing the quarantine. For the Navy. 

For him.

"Janice," Mary Margaret said, her throat dry, "is there any way
of knowing which ships are out there?"

"Around Cuba, you mean?" Janice said, and she shook her head.
"No. At least, I doubt it. Ships' movements are classified."

Ships' movements are classified. She knew that. And he'd said
that, her middy had said that, the day he asked her to marry him.

Mary Margaret cleared her throat. "If your brother's at sea," she
said, "and you don't know where his ship is, how do you know when
to go meet him?"

"There's a number you can call," Janice said, looking at Mary
Margaret curiously. "Mary Margaret, is there a sailor somewhere
that you're worried about?"

"A friend," Mary Margaret said. "He's just a friend. But he's at
sea, and I just ... I was thinking that ... I wanted to know if
he was safe."

Janice rose and put a hand on Mary Margaret's shoulder.

"He sounds like a real good friend," she said softly. "Come on --
I'll help you find the phone number for his ship."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The young WAVE who answered the phone confirmed Mary Margaret's
fears: The Charles P. Cecil was at sea and she wasn't expected in
port anytime soon.

There was no reason to think that her middy was involved in the
blockade, and yet something inside her told her that he was very
much involved. The stabbing pain in her heart told her that he
was in harm's way as no sailor had been since the end of the
Korean conflict. Or worse; North Korea didn't have nuclear
weapons. The Soviets did.

She called his parents' house. His mother answered the phone, and
the trembling in her voice only added to Mary Margaret's worry.
His mother didn't know where he was; she didn't know when he'd be
home. But yes, she thought he might be involved in the blockade.
He'd shipped out suddenly, with little warning, just days before
President Kennedy's speech. In fact, she said, she'd been told
that the ship put to sea so abruptly that she'd sailed with a
motley crew, half of whom were shanghaied from other Navy ships,
the Cecil's officers having been given insufficient time to
locate their own crew members who were away on leave or liberty.

She asked Mary Margaret to come over for a visit, but Mary
Margaret declined as politely as she could. She was beginning to
show; and while the people who saw her every day might not
notice, people who hadn't seen her for months probably would.

But at last, the U.S. Navy accomplished its mission in the
Caribbean. Faced with the blockade, the Russians took their
missiles out of Cuba, and at the end of October, President
Kennedy said the crisis was over.

But her middy still wasn't home.

Mary Margaret, try as she might, could not stop herself from
thinking about him, being afraid for him and wishing with all her
soul that she could see him, even if it was just one quick glance
-- from a distance, of course -- so she would know that he was
safe.

To her shame, she forgot completely, until they called to tell
her that they were safe, that her parents were in Puerto Rico on
vacation while the whole crisis was going on. She was a bit
disturbed to discover that they'd taken Frank with them (Billy,
she corrected herself for the ten-thousandth time, it's Billy),
but they assured her there was no danger.

"There are Navy ships nearby at Roosevelt Roads, Mary Margaret,"
her father said, in his usual condescending tone. "We're very
well protected."

Mary Margaret thought privately that the presence of Navy ships
might make Puerto Rico more of a target than a safe haven, but
she prudently kept those thoughts to herself. Arguing with her
parents wasn't going to get her anywhere. It never had.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On Halloween night, Janice stopped by Mary Margaret's room.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the door frame. "I just got word
-- Fred's coming home. He'll be here tomorrow afternoon. It turns
out he was on your friend's ship."

"On the Cecil?" Mary Margaret said, putting down her book. "The
Cecil's coming home?"

Janice shook her head. "No," she said. "The Cecil's not coming
into port. It's another ship; a few sailors caught a ride home.
Fred's one of them. He wasn't supposed to be on the Cecil; they
just sort of grabbed him off the dock, pretty much. But I thought
you might like to come down to the dock with me anyway, you know,
maybe ask one of them about your friend."

"No," Mary Margaret said, trying to hide her disappointment --
and her relief. "Thanks, Janice, but I'd really feel awkward
doing that. But thanks just the same."

"Mary Margaret," Janice said, then stopped. She pursed her lips
briefly, then stepped into the room and sat on the bed beside
Mary Margaret.

"What, Janice?" Mary Margaret said.

"Sweetie," Janice said, taking Mary Margaret's hand, "you have to
tell him. You just have to."

"Tell him what?" Mary Margaret said, withdrawing her hand, but
she already knew what, and that truth was jabbing into her spine
like an ice pick. 

"You have to tell him about the baby, hon," Janice said, gently.
"He has a right to know. More than that, he has a responsibility
to you. You can't let your baby be born without a father."

"Janice ..." Mary Margaret said, then stopped. It was too late to
deny it. She was showing. Her mother always said it happened
faster with the second baby.

Janice knew. Oh, dear Lord.

"Mary Margaret?" Janice said. 

She felt a gentle hand on her cheek as Janice knelt down beside
her and looked her in the eye. To her enormous relief, and shame,
she saw no condemnation in her friend's eyes.

"What are you going to do, hon?" Janice said. "Won't you let me
take you to the dock when he gets home, so you can talk in
person?"

Mary Margaret shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes.

"No," she said. "There's nothing I can do. I'll go with you to
the dock this time if you want me to, but I can't go when the
Cecil gets here."

"Why?" Janice asked. "You don't need to hide from him. If he has
any decency at all, he'll marry you."

"No," Mary Margaret said. "No, he won't."

"Why on earth not?" Janice said.

"Because," Mary Margaret said, "I won't let him."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, Mary Margaret was sitting in her room, waiting for
Janice, dressed to the nines in her best suit, her best shoes and
pillbox hat and, of course, her best white gloves. Why she felt
compelled to dress, she couldn't say; maybe, she thought, it was
because it would be her last public appearance for a while. If
Janice had noticed, others would notice soon, and she couldn't
put off moving to a home for unwed mothers much longer. 

Her girdle was the tightest one she could get into, but she still
thought there was far too much roundness about her abdomen. It
didn't matter, though. No one at the dock would know her, except
Janice, and Janice already knew; anyway, if anyone did notice,
the gloves would hide the fact that there was no ring on her left
hand.

She should have been going to Mass, today being the feast of All
Saints, but her current state of mind didn't lend itself to
partaking of holy things. Better to go with Janice, enjoy the
sight of the sailors reuniting with their families -- and maybe,
if she were honest, let herself imagine for a moment what it
would be like if her middy were among them and she were waiting
there to greet him.

Maybe, she mused, that was the reason she was dressed up in full
Jackie Kennedy rig: She wanted to look like a Navy officer's
wife, just for a few minutes, to let herself feel for a brief
moment the thrill of being one of the happy throng at the dock.

Stupid, she thought. So stupid, so pathetic. But she could no
more have stopped herself from going than she could have stopped
herself from being pregnant.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped, gasping, when
someone knocked on her door. She opened the door, expecting to
see Janice, but instead, it was the housemother.

"You have a telegram, Miss Hanley," the housemother said, eyeing
her suspiciously.

"A telegram?" Mary Margaret repeated, nervously. A telegram could
only be bad news. She took the yellow Western Union envelope and,
with trembling fingers, pulled out the slip of paper.

DAD HAD HEART ATTACK PUERTO RICO STOP PLANE TICKET AT AIRPORT PAN
AM COUNTER YOUR NAME STOP COME QUICKLY SITUATION SERIOUS STOP JOE

Mary Margaret dropped the telegram, grabbed her purse and fled
down the hallway to the front door.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Naval Station Roosevelt Roads
Ceiba, Puerto Rico
Nov. 2, 1962

But her haste was for nothing, in the end.

Despite a frantic taxi ride to the airport, catching the first
available flight to San Juan, and an even more frantic taxi ride
from the San Juan airport to the Navy hospital at Rosey Roads,
Mary Margaret arrived too late to say goodbye. Her father was
still alive when she got there, but in extremis, too far gone to
know what anyone was saying to him -- or so the doctors said.

Even her mother, who she had hoped would at least be grateful for
her presence, seemed more displeased than ever to see her. She
said little to anyone except Mary Margaret's brother Joe; with
Mary Margaret, she was tight-lipped and largely silent as they
sat in the waiting room, waiting for the next visiting period.

But when the time came, the doctor met them at the door.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hanley," he said, with a face of professional
somberness. "He's gone. He passed away just a few moments ago. If
there are any other family members, they should be called now.
After the nurses are finished, you can go in and spend a few
minutes with him before we have to move him."

"Thank you, doctor," Mrs. Hanley said, then turned to Mary
Margaret. "Mary Margaret," she said, "call Linda at the Navy
Lodge and tell her you're coming to get Billy."

"Mom, don't you think Billy's a little young for this?" Joe said,
wiping tears from his eyes. "It can only upset him to see Dad
like this -- why don't you leave him with Linda and the kids?"

"No, Joe," Mrs. Hanley said. "This is Mary Margaret's
responsibility. She's going to go get him, and -- and then she's
going to take care of him."

"If that's what you want, Mom," Mary Margaret said, fighting back
her own tears, "but he really ought to be with you, not me,
because I think Joe's right. I think Billy will be frightened,
and he can't really understand what's happening."

"I'm not going to let him see your father, Mary Margaret," her
mother said. "Your father who, thank God, is dead and won't ever
have to know what you've been up to."

Her gaze dropped to Mary Margaret's abdomen.

"Before Billy was born, your father told me that any girl, even a
good girl, can make a mistake," Mrs. Hanley said, raising her
eyes back to her daughter's. "Maybe he was right. But once is a
mistake, Mary Margaret. Twice is a way of life. Isn't it?"

Mary Margaret stared at her mother, unable to speak.

"Mom?" her brother said. "Mom, what are you talking about?"

"Ask your sister," her mother said, turning away. "Go and get
your son, Mary Margaret. Raise him along with your other bastard.
Your father can't protect you now, and I'm done with both of you.
Billy's your problem now."

"No," Mary Margaret said, a little hysterically. "No, Mom,
please, no, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but it was an accident,
really, it was ... you can't do this ... you can't do this to
him, please, don't do this ... not to Billy. He's not to blame
for any of this. You can't give him away. You're the only mother
he's ever known."

"What the hell is going on?" Joe demanded. "Mary Margaret? Mom?"

"I'm going to see your father," Mrs. Hanley said. "I don't have
anything else to say. Joe, come with me."

"Mom, no," Mary Margaret said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"For Billy's sake, Mom, please. You're not thinking clearly now,
you can't do this to him, please don't do this to him ..."

"I've had two and a half years to think about this," Mrs. Hanley
said. "I never wanted to raise your child for you in the first
place. You can thank your father for that. But he's gone now, and
you, it looks like, are in trouble again. Put those all together,
Mary Margaret. It spells 'this time, you're on your own.'"

"Mary Margaret, what the fuck is going on?" Joe exploded. "God
damn it, tell me now!"

"Joseph Allen, watch your language," Mrs. Hanley said. "Mary
Margaret, get out of here. I can't stand the sight of you."

Mary Margaret felt dizzy, weak in the knees ... her brother's
anger and her mother's preternatural calm were like grappling
hooks ripping her self-control from her in opposite directions.
Nausea gripped her; she knew with a deadly certainty that she was
going to vomit. Blinded by tears, unthinking, she ran toward the
nearest door, escaping her mother's madness, her brother's anger,
the sickening smells of the hospital, running outside as fast as
she could go, just making it in time to throw up into the
shrubbery beside the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She didn't know where she was now, only that she was somewhere on
the naval base, wandering around, lost. She didn't know how much
time had passed since she had fled the hospital where her father
lay dead and her mother ... oh, God, what her mother had done.

How on earth was she going to stop her mother from doing this
terrible thing to Billy? Not that she didn't want him; dear God,
she wanted him. Not a day went by that she didn't imagine her son
coming back to her, her parents telling her that he would be
better off with his mother. In her dreams, Billy always ran to
her, gleefully shouting "Mommy!" Somehow, she imagined, he
remembered those whispered words of love from his infancy ... he
knew her to be his real mother, and he came to her gladly.

But that would never happen in real life, and she knew it. This,
much as she had wanted it, could never be allowed to happen.
Billy had just lost his father, his real father, the father who
had reared him almost from the day he was born; he couldn't be
allowed to lose his mother on the same day, and certainly not
like this, not to be given away, rejected, handed over to someone
who, no matter how much she loved and wanted him, was still a
complete stranger to him, who could only frighten and upset him.

If only she hadn't arrived too late to tell her father goodbye.
Maybe he knew what her mother had planned ... maybe he would have
said something, something that would have kept her from doing
this ...

But then, she supposed, it had been too late for goodbye for a
long, long time. Her father had protected her, had protected
Billy, yet whatever goodbyes her father had to say to her, he had
in effect said when he found out that Billy was going to be born.
Anything he had said to her after that was a coda, a postscript,
words addressed perfunctorily to a stranger who had taken over
the name and face of the daughter he'd once known and loved.

Mary Margaret knew she wasn't that daughter anymore. As she
wandered around the naval base, aimless, lost, she thanked God in
a truly horrible way that her father had died before he could see
the new stranger that had taken up residence in her body -- and
she wasn't sure she meant her impending little stranger, either.

No, it was Mary Margaret Hanley who was a stranger to her family,
to herself ... to the world. She had no place in it. Her grief
for her father, fresh and painful as it was, was only the
sharpest and newest aspect of her grief for the very real loss of
her own life, her own hopes and dreams, her own sense of self --
and perhaps, most of all, the comforting dream of Billy that had
also died in the face of a harsh and cruel reality.

Her wanderings had taken her down to the dock. Dully, she looked
out over the water. There was a destroyer tying up, her men
manning the rails, looking out expectantly, hoping ... but there
was hardly anyone waiting to greet her. This was not her
homeport, then. The families of these sailors were back in the
States somewhere.

This wouldn't be the great, happy homecoming she'd wanted to see
with Janice, when she could imagine herself waiting for her middy
to disembark and run to her arms ... herself waiting there for
him, dressed in her Jackie Kennedy look-alike suit, which she
still wore ... if she looked hard enough, there was even a young
officer standing on the deck who looked a little like her middy.

Mary Margaret sighed. If only ... it could have been so lovely,
that other life she would never live. There would have been a
moment like this one, with the ship neatly secured at the dock,
the men beginning to head for the gangway, and in the background,
a radio blaring a song that was strangely appropriate:

"Somewhere ... beyond the sea ... somewhere, waiting for me ...
my lover stands on golden sands ... and watches the ships that go
sailing."

Oh, it was becoming a waking dream, this wish of hers ... her
aching heart was creating it for her, she could sense it. The
officer who looked so much like her beloved middy was even
looking her way, even ... it seemed ... was he waving at her?

He was. And he was walking ... he was walking down the gangway,
he was picking up speed now, running toward her, he was ...

Oh, my sweet Lord, Mary Margaret thought, with a wild mixture of
horror and elation. It can't be.

But it was.

"Mary Margaret!" the middy called as he ran, and there was no
mistaking the pure joy in his voice. "Oh, my God, Mary Margaret!
You're here!"

"You're ... what are you doing here?" Mary Margaret said weakly
as the middy ran toward her and flung his arms around her,
pulling her tightly into his arms.

"You know perfectly well what I'm doing here," he said, and he
pulled back just far enough to -- for the first time -- press his
lips to hers in a warm, embracing kiss. "Mary Margaret Hanley,"
he said, as he leaned back to look into her eyes, "will you do me
the honor to become my wife?"

"What?" Mary Margaret said, utterly confused now. "What did you
just say?"

"Mary Margaret, I just asked you to marry me," the middy said,
and now it was his turn to sound confused. "I told you I would.
Isn't that why you're here?"

"No," Mary Margaret said, shaking her head vehemently, but for
once, she didn't shrink from his embrace. "No. I had no idea you
would be here. I'm here because ... my father just died. Here. In
the hospital here, I mean. That's why I came. To tell him
goodbye. But ... but I was too late."

"I'm sorry," the middy said, more quietly. "I'm so very sorry,
Mary Margaret. No, of course you wouldn't be here to see me.
There's no way you could have known I would be here, could you?"

"I didn't know you'd be here," Mary Margaret said, then blurted
out, "but I'm not sorry to see you."

Her middy smiled softly. "Then no matter how sad this day is, it
can't be a complete tragedy, at least for me," he said.

"We'll meet ... I know we'll meet," the singer crooned in the
distance, "beyond the shore ... we'll kiss ... just as before ...
happy we'll be beyond the sea ... and never again I'll go
sailing."

The middy sighed. "I certainly can't say that I'll never go
sailing again, but nevertheless, I think I'm going to love that
song for the rest of my life," he said. "Don't you think you
will, too?"

"No," Mary Margaret said. "I'm ... look, I've misled you. I can't
... things have changed since I saw you last ... things aren't
... I mean, I still can't marry you. That hasn't changed."

"Because of Billy?" the middy said. "I told you before, that
makes no difference to me."

"It would," Mary Margaret said. "It would make a lot of
difference if you knew ... everything, everything that's
happened. I have to ... I can't stay here with you. I have to go
get Billy."

"Go get him?" the middy repeated. "Is he here? Do you spend time
with him now?"

"I haven't been," Mary Margaret said. "But I will be ... but
that's why ... oh, please don't ask me."

"I haven't asked you, Mary Margaret," the middy said quietly. 

"I know you didn't," Mary Margaret said. "And I do thank you for
that. But more has happened ... things I can't tell you or anyone
... things that ..."

"Isn't that Billy?" the middy said, interrupting her, looking
over her left shoulder. "But who's that with him?"

Mary Margaret whirled around. Her brother Joe was walking up
behind her, carrying a sleeping Billy in his arms, his face grim
and angry.

"Mary Margaret," he said as he approached. "You're to take Billy
home with you as soon as possible, Mother said."

"Joe, did she ..." Mary Margaret began.

"She told me," Joe said flatly. "She told me everything," he
added, looking meaningfully at her stomach. "Mary Margaret, I
can't tell you how shocked and disappointed I am in you. I never
thought you'd engage in this kind of behavior. Mom was right:
Once is a mistake. Twice is a choice. You weren't brought up this
way. I can't imagine how you managed to turn out to be such a ...
a ..."

"Never mind," Mary Margaret said, wearily. "I think I know what
you're thinking. But never mind about me. Are you sure Mom won't
change her mind, for Billy's sake?"

Joe shook his head. "She says not. I think she's wrong, too, Mary
Margaret, but there's no talking to her just now. Maybe in
time..."

"Excuse me," the middy said. "I hate to interrupt what appears to
be a family conversation, but is there anything I can do to
assist? I know there's been a death in the family ..."

"Who are you?" Joe asked. "Are you the father?"

"Billy's father?" the middy said. "No, I'm ..." And then he
stopped, and looked at Mary Margaret. "Yes," he said. "I'm
Billy's father. And I'm here asking Mary Margaret to marry me.
Perhaps you can help me persuade her?"

"Bill," Mary Margaret said, without thinking. "Bill, no."

"And are you the father of the other one, too?" Joe said,
harshly. 

"What other one?" the middy said, looking at Mary Margaret. His
eyes drifted downward to her abdomen, awareness dawning slowly.

"Oh. I see," he said. "Well, yes, I suppose I must be. I know
Mary Margaret, and I know that there can't have been anyone
else."

"Bill, stop it," Mary Margaret said. "You don't have to do this."

"Don't have to take responsibility for my children?" Bill said.
"Mary Margaret, you shock me. Of course I do. What have I been
trying to do all these months, ever since I found out about Billy
... Bill Jr.?"

"Bill Jr.?" Joe said. "He was named for you?"

"My name is William Francis Scully," Bill said. "He has my
Christian name, and I would have given him my last name, too, if
your sister's pride hadn't prevented me."

"Bill, please," Mary Margaret said. "You're wonderful to want to
do this, but you don't know ... you don't understand ..."

"Then make me understand, Mary Margaret," Bill said, and the
mixture of passion and anger in his eyes nearly took her breath
away. "Tell me everything, and make me understand. No matter what
your answer is going to be, you do owe me that much." 

"I can't ..." Mary Margaret began, but he interrupted her again.

"You can, and you will," Bill said. "I've asked you to marry me
twice now, and both times you've said no. Twice, apparently,
you've become pregnant out of wedlock, and if that's your reason
for saying no, I want to know it, and I want to know why it
happened. I know you, Mary Margaret. You're not fast, you're not
loose ... you're not a bad girl, no matter what anyone else may
say or think, and I want to understand what's going on,
especially as it seems to affect my future as much as yours. Tell
me. Tell me now, because I haven't got much time here. The ship
won't be staying long."

Tell him? How could she tell him, how could she ever hope to make
him understand about Jerry, about Billy, about how this new baby
had come to be? But how could she not tell him, when he stood
there looking at her that way?

"Mary Margaret," Joe said, and she turned to look at him.

"Yes, Joe?" she said.

"I'm going to take Billy back to the lodge," he said, more calmly
than he had spoken earlier. "You and Mr. Scully clearly have some
things to talk about. Call me when you're done, and I'll bring
him to you -- or we can make arrangements to take him to the
Catholic orphanage here on the island, if that's your
preference."

"No!" Mary Margaret said, in horror. "No, I could never do that!"

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Hanley," Bill said. "I'm sure Mary
Margaret and I can work this out, given some time alone to talk.
If you'll watch Billy for us, say for an hour or so, I feel
certain Mary Margaret will be able to reach the right decision
about his future."

"And you?" Joe said. "It was a nice try on your part, Mr. Scully,
but you're no more Billy's father -- or the new baby's -- than I
am. Do you honestly plan to take on my sister and her
illegitimate offspring?"

"I plan to take on whatever your sister will allow me to take
on," Bill said. "As for being Billy's father, that's up to Mary
Margaret. If she's willing, I plan to be his father very soon,
and I don't plan for anyone ever to tell Billy or any of my other
children that things were ever otherwise, Mr. Hanley. Do I make
myself clear, sir?" 

"You do, Mr. Scully," Joe said. "Although I think you're making a
big mistake. It's not easy for a man to forget or forgive a
woman's past."

"And yet I'd be surprised to learn that you didn't have a past
yourself, Mr. Hanley," Bill said. "No doubt you'd be amazed if
your wife held that against you. Men are hypocrites when it comes
to this sort of thing, aren't we?"

"That's different," Joe said, gruffly.

"Is it?" Bill said, then he turned and held his hand out to Mary
Margaret. "Will you come with me, Mary Margaret?" he said, in a
quieter voice. "There must be somewhere around where we can get a
cup of coffee or a soda and talk about this."

"I don't know ..." Mary Margaret began.

"Well, I do know," Bill said. "Several people's lives are hanging
in the balance, Mary Margaret. There's no time for false modesty.
Come with me -- now."

There it was again -- that commanding voice, the voice Mary
Margaret had never known anyone to resist; except, perhaps,
herself, and just now, she couldn't bring herself to.

She nodded, and took the hand he held out to her. 
 
"Yes, Bill," she said, and to her own amazement, she smiled.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Half an hour later, in a tiny coffee shop near the dock, her
smile had deserted her.

"You have to forget about me, Bill," she said, toying with her
coffee cup. Oddly, she could bring herself to call him by name
now; she just couldn't bring herself to look him in the face.

"Why do I have to forget about you?" Bill asked. "Mary Margaret,
you're the only woman I've ever felt this way about. I know
there's more to this than you're telling me, and I want to know
what it is, but in the end, it doesn't matter. I still want to
marry you."

"No," she said. "I'm not the kind of woman men marry. It's not
just Billy; Joe was telling the truth. I'm expecting again, by
Billy's father."

She paused there, almost left it at that, but some dim feeling
she couldn't explain pushed her to go further. Trust? she
wondered. Could she really ever trust him, or anyone, with this
secret?

Or did it matter? She had nothing to lose by telling him.

"I didn't want it to happen," she said. "Please believe me, I
didn't. But he hit me, and he hurt me ... he ... he said he'd hit
me some more, he said he'd leave me with black eyes and a broken
nose, and I was too much of a coward to fight back. I know what
that makes me; I know what you must think of me, and I'm sorry,
but I just didn't have the courage to take a beating to protect
what was left of my 'honor.'"

"Mary Margaret, what you're describing is rape," Bill said, and
she could see the veins beginning to stand out on his neck. He
was angry; but inexplicably, he was angry at Jerry, not at her.

She shook her head. "No," she said. "I went with him voluntarily,
I drank two beers, and you know ... well, I had been with him
before. He's Billy's father. You know that. And I didn't fight
him ... not much, anyway."

"And where is it written that you have to be beaten to a pulp in
order for it to be a rape?" Bill demanded. "Mary Margaret, he
hurt you, he hit you, he promised to hit you again, to leave you
bruised and battered. Submitting to relations under those
circumstances is rape; nothing less."

"He said no one would believe me," Mary Margaret said, wiping
tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"Well, I believe you," Bill said, then reached into his pocket
and took out a white handkerchief. "Here," he said, handing it to
her. "Wipe your face and blow your nose, and then stop crying for
a minute and tell me what you want to do about the baby."

"I don't know," Mary Margaret said, wiping her face as ordered.
"I don't want it. I wanted Billy -- I still want Billy -- but
this baby ... I can't stand even to think about it."

"Do you want to place it for adoption?" Bill asked. "No, that's
all right, keep it. I've got others," he said as she started to
give him the handkerchief back.

Mary Margaret shook her head. "I don't think I can," she said,
crumpling the handkerchief in her hand and holding it tightly.
"I'd spend the rest of my life wondering about it, feeling
guilty ... no, I don't think I can give it away."

"Then your only other choice is to have the baby and raise it,"
Bill said, and he smiled. "And that would seem to work in my
favor, wouldn't it?"

"How is that?" Mary Margaret asked, puzzled. 

"Because," Bill said, "if you can't stand to raise this baby, you
need someone who can. And that someone, my sweet girl, is me."

"No," Mary Margaret said. "How can you? How can you stand to
raise Jerry's baby, knowing what you know about him, about me?"

"What I know about you is that you're the sweetest, gentlest,
most loving woman I've ever met, and the strongest," Bill said,
softly. "What I know about him ... I can forget for the sake of
your child, if I have to."

"And the rest of the world?" Mary Margaret said. "My family?
They're not going to forget."

"I can't do anything about your family except insist on their
silence, Mary Margaret," Bill said. "As for the rest of the
world, I'm probably leaving the Cecil in a couple of months,
heading for a land assignment in Okinawa. We can get married now,
and then when we go to Okinawa, and the baby's born ... well, no
one there will have to know how long we've been married. They'll
simply assume that Billy was born to us in wedlock."

"That can't be," Mary Margaret said. "Billy doesn't know I'm his
mother and legally speaking, I'm not. I gave him up for adoption,
to my parents, the day he was born. He's not my child. If I did
marry you -- and I said if -- he wouldn't be yours, either."

"That's easily solved," Bill said. "Your mother's already said
she doesn't want him anymore. We can petition the court to void
the adoption, and if she doesn't fight it -- and it doesn't sound
as though she will -- then he's yours again and I can adopt him.
And the new baby ... if we're married when he's born, then
legally, he's mine."

"Or she," Mary Margaret said. "Maybe if it were a girl ... she
wouldn't remind me so much of Jerry."

"Perhaps not," Bill said. "Either way, I believe you'll come to
love it in time."

"You've thought all this through rather quickly, Bill," Mary
Margaret said. "How can you be so certain?"

"I've learned to think quickly," Bill said, and Mary Margaret
thought his mouth looked a little grim. "The blockade --
quarantine, if you insist, although it sure looked like a
blockade to me -- taught me that. Did you know that the Cecil
forced a Russian submarine to the surface?"

"No," Mary Margaret said. "Is that hard to do?"

Bill laughed. "Yes, you could say so," he said, still laughing.
"It took us a while, but we did it. That was one submarine that
wasn't going to launch a sneak attack on anyone. Once it was on
the surface, it was neutralized."

"Oh," Mary Margaret said. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be dense. I
just don't know much about naval warfare."

"Stay with me, Mary Margaret," Bill said. "You'll learn a lot." 

"You sound different, Bill," Mary Margaret said in wonder.
"You've changed so much since you've been gone."

"Not in the way that really matters," Bill said. "I still love
you ... and I still want you to be my wife. I know it's going to
be hard, raising Billy, trying to get him used to being with us.
He may never really get used to it, but at least he's young
enough that he won't remember ever having other parents. That's
in our favor now."

Mary Margaret shook her head. "He'll never be the same," she
said. "He'll never be the happy little boy he should have been.
Losing the only parents he's ever known, both in one day, is
going to hurt him badly."

"We'll do all we can to make it up to him," Bill said. "What we
can't do, we'll leave in God's hands. It'll be the start of a new
life for all of us."

"I wish I could believe that," Mary Margaret said. "I wish I
could leave Mary Margaret Hanley behind. I wish I could be
someone new, someone who could truly deserve you."   

"You can, you do," said Bill, "you can be Mary Margaret Scully or
just Margaret Scully. Yes, I like that. Margaret Scully, my own
lovely, darlin' Maggie. That sounds like my wife. Will you,
Maggie?"

"Yes, Bill," Maggie said, very softly, as she leaned over the
table to kiss him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Present day:
Baltimore, Md.

"And so we got married the next day," Maggie said, gazing out the
window. "Your father went back to sea shortly afterward, but I
was able to join him in Okinawa three months later. Missy was
born not long after that."

A loud gasp drew her attention back to her daughter, who was
sitting on the trunk, one hand over her mouth, both eyes tightly
closed, tears running down her face, gleaming in the rays of the
late afternoon sun.

"Dana," her mother said, compassionately, and knelt beside her.
She put her arms around her daughter. "Don't cry, dear. It's a
sad story, I know, but it has a very happy ending."

"Oh, my God," Scully said, laying her head on her mother's
shoulder. "At Ahab's funeral ... when you said ... you were
telling the truth."

"About what, Dana?" Maggie asked. "I don't understand."

"You said ... you told me that Dad marched right off his ship
after the Cuban blockade and proposed," Scully said. "I always
thought you must have been confused about the date ... because I
knew ... that the Cuban Missile Crisis happened after Bill Jr.
was born. But you weren't confused, were you? You were telling me
exactly what happened."

"I don't remember telling you that," Maggie said, uncomfortably.
"I wouldn't have said that if I'd been thinking."

"No, you wouldn't," Scully agreed. "But you did say it. And it
was the truth. And then you said ..." 

But she stopped there, unable to go on. Tears filled her eyes
again. 

"What, Dana?" her mother said. "What did I say?"

"When I asked you ...," Scully said, in a choked voice, "I asked
... if Dad was ... at all proud of me. You told me the truth. It
was what made me different ... from Bill ... and from Missy ...
even though he loved them ... it was always different with me,
wasn't it?"

"You were his little girl," Maggie said. "He tried not to play
favorites, but sometimes he couldn't help it."

"And you told me why," Scully said. "Oh, my God."

"What did I say, sweetheart?" 

"You said, 'He was your father,'" Scully said. "You really meant
that, too. He wasn't Bill's father or Melissa's -- not in the
same way that he was mine. That was what you meant, wasn't it?"

"I don't remember saying it," Maggie said. "I don't know how to
tell you what I meant. But he was Bill's father, and he was
Melissa's father. If he felt differently about you -- and he did,
Dana, I won't lie to you -- it wasn't because he loved them less,
but because he became their father in a different way -- but he
still became their father. That's the only thing that matters."

"What about Jer..." Scully stopped, and swallowed hard, "their
biological father?" she finished. "What ever happened to him?"

"He dropped out of college after four years of getting nowhere,
or so I heard," Maggie said. "I heard later that he would have
been drafted, but he fled to Canada. He died there in a drunk
driving accident in 1967. When I heard about it, all I felt was
relief -- may God forgive me."

"Oh, my God," Scully said. "Oh, my God. Oh, Mom. What you went
through ... I never knew. I never could have imagined ..."

"I know," Maggie said, rocking her daughter gently. "Do you hate
me now?"

"Hate you?" Scully said, sitting up. "How could I ever hate you?
After everything you suffered, after all you went through? I
don't hate you, Mom. I just wish you'd told me sooner."

"I never wanted you to know," Maggie said. "If you hadn't found
Bill's birth certificate... but never mind that now. What's done
is done. But never tell him, Dana. He's proud to be Bill Scully's
son. Your father was proud to have him for a son. Never take that
away from him. Promise me."

"You could wind up being his new keeper, maybe for life." Scully
could hear Mulder's words as clearly now as when he had spoken
them. If only he knew how right he was, she thought.

Scully was just opening her mouth to answer when she heard heavy
footsteps on the attic stairs and her brother Bill's voice
booming from below.

"Anybody up here?" he called, as his head and shoulders popped
through the doorway. "Dana? I thought you were going back to
D.C."

"I, uh, got delayed," Scully said. "Mom and I were ... going
through some of Grandma's things."

"Oh, yeah?" Bill said, as he emerged into the attic. "Anything
interesting? You know how I love family history."

"Oh, no, nothing really," Maggie said, just a shade too brightly,
Scully thought. "Old clothes ... some kitchen things ... nothing
that would interest you."

"Well, let me see what you've got," Bill said, walking toward the
spot where the papers still lay in the slanting orange sunlight.
"Hey, is that a birth certificate?" he said as he got nearer.

"Oh, my God, there's a rat!" Scully screamed, leaping up from the
trunk and simultaneously kicking over the glass her mother had
left there hours earlier, sending a cascade of lukewarm lemonade
all over the papers -- including the incriminating birth
certificate.

"Dana, for Christ's sake!" Bill exploded. "Look what you've
done!" 

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Bill," Scully said, leaning over as if to
pick up the papers and carefully stepping on the birth
certificate, tearing it in two and smearing the ink. "Oh, no, now
look what I've done," she said. "I'm so sorry, Bill."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Maggie said, and Scully could hear
the relief in her mother's voice. "It was your Uncle Joe's birth
certificate, Bill," she said. "We can get another copy if you
like."

"I wanted the original," Bill grumbled. 

"What's going on up there?" Tara called as she came up the
stairs. 

"Nothing, I'm just tearing up the place," Scully answered.
"Bill's a little annoyed."

"You're destroying family history, Dana," Bill said. "Maybe we
can get another birth certificate, but some of that stuff is
irreplaceable."

"You and your family history," Tara said as she reached the top
of the stairs. "You're just like your father -- always trying to
trace the Scully name back to the Norman conquest."

"Well, in this case, it would have been the Hanley side of the
family," Bill said, "but as for being just like my father, you're
damn right I am -- and damn proud of it."

"As well you should be," Maggie said, gently, with a quick look
at Dana. "Come on, let's go downstairs and start dinner."

Bill mumbled his agreement and headed for the stairs. "You really
ought to pay more attention to this stuff, Dana," he said as he
headed down the stairs. "It's important to know who you are, and
where you come from."

Scully smiled. "Yes, it is, Bill," she said, following him down.
"But you already know the answer to that."

"Not all of it," he said. "I'm still researching."

"Yes, all of it," she said. "The only part that matters, anyway.
You're Bill Scully, Jr. Is anything more important than that?"

Bill stopped, and then smiled for the first time since he'd
arrived. "No," he said. "No, nothing matters more than that,
Dane. You're right."

Scully smiled back. "You go wash up first," she said. "I'll be
right behind you."

As Bill walked off, hands in his pockets, humming tunelessly,
Scully turned around and slowly closed the door to the attic.

"Rest easy," she whispered, leaning her head against the door.
"Rest easy, Ahab. I'll take care of him for you. I promise."

With that, she locked the door, turned her back on the attic and
its secrets, and walked away.


The END

~*~*~*~*~*~


Author's note: The USS Charles P. Cecil was a real U.S. Navy
destroyer, which did indeed force a Soviet submarine to surface
during the Cuban blockade of October 1962. Unbeknownst to the
Cecil and her crew, the Russian sub was armed with nuclear
weapons powerful enough to vaporize an aircraft carrier, with
orders to fire "first, in the event you are attacked with depth
bombs and your pressure hull is ruptured; second, if you surface
and are taken under fire and hit; and third, upon orders from
Moscow." 

The men of the USS Charles P. Cecil behaved with extreme grace
under extreme pressure, forcing the sub to the surface without
firing upon her. The ultimately peaceful resolution of the Cuban
Missile Crisis is in no small part due to their bravery; yet they
themselves would not know for decades just how close they and all
of us had come to the unthinkable.

JLH
~*~*~*~*~*~

END "On Golden Sands" by Jean Helms (jeanlhelms@yahoo.com)

~*~*~*~*~*~