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Date Finished: May 26, 2000 Rating: G Category: Vignette, Angst, Requiem missing scene Spoilers: "Requiem," small for "all things" Summary: Mulder and Skinner can't sit together on the flight back to Oregon. Feedback: Branwell

 

 

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I was struggling to maintain a unified mind even before we
taxied down the runway in Detroit. My backpack was ruled
too big for carry-on luggage. Every seat on the flight was
filled. The woman across the aisle held a baby with fuzzy
hair and quivering lower lip. My seatmate shifted
constantly, swinging his knees from right to left, moving
his hands in constant, unreadable gestures.

He balanced a briefcase and a laptop on his thighs,
dividing his attention between them until a flight
attendant stopped and stood with folded arms while he
stowed them for takeoff. Then his gaze turned my way.

It was going to be a long flight to Portland.

I kept my eyes fixed on "A Tale of Two Cities." I'd read it
in high school, three years ago, but Professor Okumura
expected quotes from memory during class discussions.

It hadn't been a hardship to read a classic during my visit
home. The house was chaotic with guests and wedding
preparations. I had an excuse to jog down to the library,
or retire to my old room and shut the door. Now there were
only eight chapters left.

The baby yipped and the man next to me jumped. The poor guy
must be a nervous flier. I was sorry for people with a fear
of flying, but it wasn't my job to hold his hand.

He sat folded up like a lawn chair in the tiny space
between the rows. Short stature gives a man few advantages.
However, I can boast that I suffer less than a tall man on
an airplane. That didn't mean I owed conversation and
commiseration to the tall man in the seat beside mine.

I ignored the sharp reminder from my conscience that I owed
loving-kindness to all creatures.

My companion's briefcase came out again as soon as we
reached cruising altitude. From the corner of my eye I
watched him cover sheet after sheet of paper with his
dramatic scrawl. Each time he filled a page he read it over
and then wadded it up tightly. When he'd built a small
pyramid of paper balls on his tray he signaled the
attendant and asked her to dispose of them. He repeated the
pointless exercise twice before lunch was served.

Of course they didn't have enough vegetarian meals to serve
everyone who ordered them. Luckily they had risotto as an
alternate entree. The man next to me asked for risotto too,
with black coffee. His voice wavered a little when he first
spoke, as though he were experimenting with vocal ranges.

By the time I was done eating I'd finished "Cities" and had
re-read the last suspenseful chapters. The rest of my books
were marooned in my backpack. That left pretending to sleep
as a refuge from unwanted conversation. I sighed, and
realized it was a noisier exhalation than I'd thought when
my seatmate turned and gave me a hopeful look.

His thick brown hair stood up in spikes like the fine fluff
on the baby's scalp. He was older than I'd first thought.
The rangy body moved with fluid ease, but the fine lines
around his eyes gave his age away. He was close to forty.
His big nose might have looked goofy, if it weren't for the
sadness in those eyes.

I swiveled around quickly and stared out the window. My
conscience stepped up its critical commentary.
"'Compassion' makes a good meditation, but practicing it is
something else, isn't it?" it jeered at me. "Your
compassion ends at your own skin."

"The clouds down there look like a bowl of cottage cheese,"
the man said. His voice cracked a little on the words,
still uncertain in its pitch.

My response came without thought or tact. "That's not very
poetic," I answered.

"I'm not a poet. I'm not hungry either, never mind the food
metaphor. Do you want this?" he asked, motioning toward the
meal on his tray. "I remember how hungry I always was at
nineteen."

"I'm twenty," I informed him, hearing immediately how
childish the correction sounded. The portions were
ridiculously small. I could eat three meals that size. "Are
you sure you don't want it?"

"I can't eat it. I thought I could but . . . ." He shrugged
a little, and fidgeted with the gold chain around his neck.

"Thanks," I nodded.

He picked up the plastic tray and moved it toward me.
Somehow he miscalculated distances and hit the armrest with
his elbow. If I hadn't grabbed it, the dish and its cheesy
contents would have gone straight into my lap.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," he said.

His big hands still shook as he tried to quiet them by
clasping them across his tray. He knocked his coffee cup to
the floor with a jerk of his forearm when the flight
attendant startled him with an inquiry about a refill.

My conscience gave up lectures and took charge.

"Flying gives you the jitters, huh?" I sympathized.
"Sometimes coffee makes me jumpy. Maybe you should cut
down." I grinned in an attempt to show fellowship.

His answering expression was more of a grimace. He took a
fresh cup of coffee from the attendant and drained it in
four gulps. "Don't worry. I won't run amok. It's been a
tough week. Auditors. Traveling. Meetings from hell," he
said. This time roughness masked the cracked quality in his
voice.

"Sounds bad," I agreed. "I saw a poll one time where people
ranked an IRS audit as less stressful than a death in the
family, but more stressful than a job loss. Me, I'm going
back to college to recover from my sister's wedding. My
name is Steve."

"I'm called Mulder," he said. "I'm on my way to Portland on
business."

He didn't say "business" as though it were just business.
In fact, he seemed barely able to force the word out. I
made a mental note to avoid that topic.

"I'm a student at the University of Oregon. In Eugene," I
added.

"A liberal arts student in a world of runaway technology.
Are there jobs out there that call for crying from the
wilderness? What will you do after you graduate?"

"You mean besides go to grad school?" I deadpanned. "Teach.
Hopefully in a high school."

"So liberal arts students are brave." He laughed softly.
"Don't you worry about the violence?"

"Teachers are supposed to help youths find a better way."

"That's good," he nodded. "It's awful, kids shooting kids.
Isn't life hard enough that we humans can't be good to each
other?"

It was an odd way to put it, but I showed my agreement with
a vigorous nod back at him. Mulder tapped a random pattern
on his tray and reached reflexively for his coffee cup. Its
emptiness appeared to surprise him. Then he absently tucked
it into the fabric pocket on the seat ahead of him and
fastened his tray up. The restless movements began again.

He struck me as a troubled man. It was awkward to share
personal things, but I was working on openness. I decided
to risk it.

"I don't want to be a pest, like a Jehovah's Witness or
anything, but I've found an answer to stress for myself. I
meditate regularly now, and it's made everything so much
clearer to me. Have you ever considered turning your
troubles over to a Higher Power? We often forget to make
time for our spiritual needs. I see you're a Christian," I
commented, with a pointed look at the chain around his
neck.

His fingers went to the cross at his neck for the hundredth
time that I'd seen.

"No. No. I'm not a Christian. I'm not religious. My . . .
wife gave it to me to remember her by."

The reverent little pause before he said "wife" made my
stomach drop. Now I'd done it. This was probably the first
anniversary of her death, or some occasion equally painful
for him.

"I'm sorry. Did I put my foot in it? Is she . . . Has she
passed on?" I stammered.

"No, she's all right." He answered without a hint of
amusement at my awkwardness. "She knew this would be a
difficult trip for me."

"Well, I'm not a Christian either," I struggled on. "A year
ago I started studying with a Buddhist teacher . . . ."

I suddenly had Mulder's full attention.

"Did you ever have a vision in a Buddhist temple?" he
interrupted me.

"No." The flash of interest in his face faded.

I was disappointed. My intense seatmate had no more insight
than the average American, who expects enlightenment on
demand. He wanted to stir in atmosphere and serve nirvana
immediately. Even spiritual enlightenment has to be instant
these days.

We both jumped when the baby across the aisle did an ear-
piercing impression of an air horn. Everyone around her sat
in silence while the flustered mother tried a variety of
treats and tricks to divert her child's unhappiness. I
smiled at her to show my equanimity.

Finally she picked up the wailing sufferer and headed for
the galley. Two flight attendants closed in on her with
bright and purposeful expressions. The group moved out of
sight and the volume of the screams diminished.

"Do you have any children?" I asked. "You and your wife," I
added when he looked baffled.

"Oh no, we don't have any children. It's for the best. Our
profession . . . It just wouldn't have worked. I wasn't cut
out to be a father." He ducked his head as though he'd just
admitted to mocking the handicapped.

I wondered whom he was trying to convince. I was convinced.
His nerves would never stand the strain of kids. He twisted
his hands together while I tried and failed to come up with
another topic of conversation.

It was Mulder who introduced one.

His darting glance flitted over to where "A Tale of Two
Cities" lay on my tray.

"Don't you think Sydney Carton had it pretty easy?" he
asked me. The curious question caught me unprepared.

"Well, of course Dickens relied heavily on coincidence.
What would be the chances of resembling the object of your
rescue so closely . . . ." I floundered.

"No I don't mean that," he explained. "I mean it was so
clear what he had to do and why. And what the results would
be. What if he hadn't been sure Darnay was in danger? What
if he couldn't be certain his sacrifice would do any good?
He never had to doubt his mission. It was just a matter of
mechanics."

"And the willingness to give up his life!" I exclaimed. "I
don't call that easy!"

"It was a quick, painless death," he objected, with a
dismissive flap of his hand. "What if the punishment had
been years of torture with no hope of escape?" His hand
kept on waving, the motion gradually turning into nervous
pleating at the neck of his turtleneck shirt.

"There's always hope," I offered. "Anything can happen.
Governments come and go. Laws change. People learn."

He continued as though he hadn't heard me.

"Worst of all, what if Carton had been Lucie's lover and
had to trade his life directly for hers? And what if she'd
had no child or husband? That would mean he took away the
most important thing in her life when he gave up his own.
Would that be altruistic? Or selfish? I don't think he
could count on her remembering him with love. She'd hate
him. It's human nature. We feel abandoned when someone we
love dies in an accident. We blame them irrationally. When
we think they chose to leave us . . . and didn't even tell
us. . . ."

He swallowed hard. I knew we weren't really discussing a
book anymore. I had no idea what to say. I thought maybe I
should notify someone, but who? And what would I tell them?

His next words welled out slowly, like drops of blood from
a deep wound. "What do you think? Would she ever forgive
him?"

My answer tumbled out breathlessly, an impulsive message
from my old, emotional self instead of wisdom from the
formless mind. "Yes. She would understand. Even if his
judgment was faulty, even if he tricked her, like Carton
did Darnay, she'd know he did it out of love. That he had
to do it because she gave his life meaning, and his death
too."

Mulder stared past me, out the window, into the still
bright cloudscape. The sun couldn't outrun us as we
screamed through the western skies.

"Why me? Why now?" he asked softly. He wasn't talking to
me.

I answered anyway. "I believe there's goodness at the core
of the universe . . . ." I began.

His eyes focused on me and he gave a strangled laugh. "You
have no idea. No experience. I could tell you things that
would ruin sleep for you for the rest of your life. If you
knew, you'd never want to shut your eyes again. You'd
never . . . ." His words rasped low and harsh.

I pulled back in alarm at the sudden attack. A look of
appalled realization overtook the anger in his flushed
face.

"I guess I'll never learn," he said in an anguished voice.
"Forgive me. There was no excuse for that. There's been
enough suffering."

He turned his face away, and caught sight of the baby, who
now sat in blissful enjoyment of a crumbly cookie. Then
Mulder leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and
buried his face in his hands.

Half an hour later a big, bald-headed man in glasses
stopped beside us on his way to the bathroom. He bent and
whispered something in Mulder's ear. The answer was a
mumbled, "I'm fine. I'm sleeping." The man shook his head
with an unhappy air, but I felt better. At least Mulder
wasn't alone.

He sat in tense silence with his face hidden until we
landed in Portland.

While we waited to join the shuffling, patient line of
departing passengers, I offered to shake his hand.

"Good luck," I told him. "Maybe we'll meet again when
things aren't so difficult for you."

"I doubt if we'll have that opportunity. Anyway, have a
good life, Steve," he said. His voice was flat now, and his
hands were steady. Only the sadness in his eyes remained.

We shook hands and those were the last words I heard from
him. I saw him once more, though, while I looked for
Barry's van outside the baggage claim area.

Mulder and the big man from the plane were checking the
straps and flaps on a piece of wheeled luggage. His friend
pointed at the contraption and said something. Mulder
responded with one emphatic word. After another exchange
Mulder grabbed the handle impatiently and took off, staying
two strides ahead of his companion. The back right wheel on
the carrier wobbled, and clicked noisily. The friend rolled
his eyes upward and stretched his lips thin before he
followed.

Mulder's face was set, his motions economical and tightly
controlled. Unruly feelings had been repressed.

I knew it wasn't true detachment.

My jet-lagged brain registered the swift, silent revolution
of rubber tires on a passing baggage cart, but it heard the
ominous creak of a tumbril's wooden-wheels as it rolled
through narrow streets.

Mulder had undone a lot of the good work I'd accomplished
with the meditation group. I'd gotten very close to
acceptance of the world as an illusion of the mind. Now I'd
let myself be pulled back into the confusion of impassioned
attachment, judgment, and caring. In the glare of Mulder's
intemperate emotions, my cool tranquility had evaporated
like snow in a desert wind.

Kuei Shan said, "The world is inherently evanescent, empty;
how can conditions oppress you?"

I felt oppressed.

I brooded about the incompatibility of romantic love and
enlightenment. I tried to forget about the possibility of a
realm of beings so wrong in their existence that they'd
defeat my attempts to extend non-discriminating compassion.

"May you be truly happy and free from suffering, Mulder," I
chanted to myself.

The words echoed hollowly in my mind, even without a sound.
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