Author's website: http://www.templeofthesentinels.com/

This is a dark story that ends with a message of hope. Ultimately, it's about Love and Karma and a journey out of the darkness and into the light - but its over-lying theme is an unhappy one.
It was written for Mariojoe, who won it in the Moonridge auction, 2006. She could teach the Buddha a thing or two about tolerance and forbearance and I thank her for her patient kindness.
Beta'd over many months, by PsychGirl, Skye and T-Verano; to whom, many, many thanks.
Takes place right after 'Spare Parts.' This story has a very dark theme. For those who feel the need of a warning, there is one at the end (but it's a total spoiler!)
This story is a sequel to:

*I came upon a child of god
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going
And this he told me
I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm
I'm going to join in a rock n roll band I'm going to camp out on the land
I'm going to try an get my soul free*

*Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe its the time of man
I don't know who l am
But you know life is for learning*

*We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden*.

Woodstock; Joni Mitchell

Whenever he asked, I'd tell him the well-worn story; how I'd been hitching my way west, gotten abandoned in Lincoln, Nebraska, so heavy with him on the way I could barely move. I was luckier than I knew to get picked up by the Blairs; Sally and John - newly-weds, who'd rejected their parent's dream of a safe life, a steady job, a tidy home and a cute car. They were on the road for the first time too, heading for California in a camper van.

I was fifteen years old; pregnant, a runaway - not a hippie yet. I'd lived a cloistered, closeted life in a New England college; a whitewashed world of green lawns and picket fences. My best friends were tweed jacketed professors with pipes and spectacles; I knew next to nothing about the counter culture, the revolution that was happening outside my - apparently - safe little world. John and Sally and I learned to be hippies together as we travelled the road, meeting with others like us; all so young and learning from each other and the experiences we shared.

My beautiful baby was born in their van, somewhere on the road between Carson City and Sacramento, and I'd tell him, with rolling eyes, to make him smile, how he should never believe anyone who told him that natural childbirth was the best way; to take it from one who knew - that no matter how many herb teas you take, how deeply you breathe, how hard you work at finding your quiet centre, natural childbirth hurts.

We did so much, my baby and me, and we did it all together. I mean, I was only fifteen years his senior; more like a sister than a mother. I preferred him to call me Naomi, but he liked to call me Mom, and I grew used to it, even grew to like it.

I was a restless soul, always looking for greener grass. Our first trip together was to Woodstock, in August of `sixty-nine. After that, we lived in the slums of Los Angeles; a commune in San Francisco; an artist's colony in New Mexico; squatted with good friends in Cascade... We were always on the move; we lived in Mexico, Venezuela, Hawaii, Nepal - and I watched my baby switch languages, customs and cultures as easily as he would slip on a new pair of shoes.

I know some criticise the way I raised my child; the lack of stability; of a safe, well feathered nest, but I think it helped make him the man he grew to be. When I look at my son now, I think, whatever else I did wrong, whatever mistakes I made, whatever horrors I went through, there was one wonderful consequence, and that's my son. My baby. My Blair...

OK, so I was trying to sell her. Naomi was coming to town and Jim wanted her to go to a hotel? I mean, come on, this is my MOM we're talking about! I haven't seen her in months and he wants to send her off to some overheated box stinking of stale coffee and cheap carpeting?! So I told Jim all about her, hoping to make him smile; hoping to make him curious. Refusing to take `no' for an answer...

"She's very open, totally new age. One of the original hippies. She even used to date Timothy Leary."

OK, so I told Jim I thought Tim Leary might be my father. Of course, I know that's not true, Naomi did meet Leary, but that was way after I was born. It was just a thing I said sometimes, so I could talk about my dad.

Because I don't.

I can't.

I don't know why Naomi never told me who he was; I only know she has to be holding back for a reason, right? She wouldn't keep something like that back for no reason. She wouldn't be so cruel.

I told Jim that having lots of surrogate fathers was great. Well, sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't; mostly, I just wanted dad - my real dad, even though I don't know anything about him. I didn't really feel the need to have him around; if she'd told me he was dead, I would have accepted that - can't miss what you've never known, right? And Naomi and I, we were happy, the two of us, together - that was how it always was and that was enough, you know? What bothered me was just not knowing; never having seen a picture, heard a story - just this huge gap in my life.

I asked her, of course. Asked a lot when I was younger, but she always evaded, obfuscated; I never got a real answer out of her. She once told me that she couldn't tell me, and, no, she couldn't say why she couldn't tell, either, only that it was just impossible; something she didn't ever want to talk about. I guess, I knew, even then, that if she'd really wanted to just shut me up, she could have told me some fairytale, but Naomi would never lie to me; she just asked me never to ask again, so, I didn't.

But there's still this hole inside. Sometimes it feels like a cannonball went through me. Other times, it's just a pinprick, so tiny I can almost forget it's there.

Almost, but not quite...

I liked Jim from the moment I first set eyes on him. He liked me too, I could see that, but then, men usually do. Sometimes that's a good thing, something I could use to our - me and my baby's - advantage. Sometimes... sometimes it was a very bad thing. Sometimes it was bad enough to make us have to run.

I flirted with my son's partner because it's what I do. Jim was a little bemused by me, I could see that, and I had fun teasing him - I couldn't resist; he seemed so straight, so whitebread, so entirely wrong as a companion for my Blair. How wrong I was about that; about a lot of things. I had no idea, then, that he would ask about my deepest, darkest secret, or that I would end up confessing it to him. Even now, I don't really know why I told him, a man I'd only just met. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts, and Jim seemed so solid, so trustworthy, so safe.

I'd guarded my lonely, sordid little secret since I was fourteen years old; the friends I'd trusted with my story were special and few. Then along came Jim; dependable and stable, gentle and kind - someone I could trust to share my burden. Someone who loved Blair as much as I did.

I knew he was a soldier, a cop; a trained killer - but there's such softness in his eyes, even when he's using that well-practiced glare. Blair says it has the most hard-boiled criminals quaking in their steel-capped boots, but has no effect on him - me either. My baby and I can see past the act; see through to the tender, wounded soul that lurks inside. I guess I knew I could trust him to guard my secret well, and I needed to share, and Jim was there.

I was boiling tongue when my son arrived with his lover, the cop. Blair loves tongue; don't ask me why, I can't remember the ins and outs - it was probably the favourite dish of some beloved professor or other. He grew up vegetarian, of course; his switch to carnivore practically his only act of rebellion.

He'd just gotten back from his first expedition and - I'll always remember the look on his face; half defiant, half nervous as hell, as he ordered a burger, right in front of me. I was going to let it go, till I realised that would spoil all his fun. So I took him to task and he whined how, as an anthropologist, he had to fit in with the cultures he was studying; adapt and make their ways his own if he was going to be accepted by them, and that meant he had to get used to eating meat. I shrugged and said, `whatever, honey.'

Of course, I didn't like it. That burger was the first sign that he was breaking away from our life together; his declaration of independence. We'd been so close when he was growing, I felt the break like something snapping inside me; but he was sixteen years old - older than I was when he was born. He wasn't my baby anymore.

He used to gripe that a lack of animal proteins in childhood had stunted his growth and I'd retort that his natural diet had made him smarter than anyone else around. His father was a small man, so, sorry honey, that's just the way the genes jumped...

I sneezed. What the hell! What was that awful smell?

"She's burning sage, man," Blair said. "To get rid of the bad vibes."

Bad vibes? Our home has bad vibes?

She'd also moved my furniture and was cooking something noxious which turned out to be a large, purple tongue. Blair's favorite, apparently, though I'd never seen him eat it before. But I bit my tongue; held it all in because it was clear from the moment I saw them together that this pair adored each other.

They had a strange relationship, my partner and his mother. Very loving - too loving, almost. Or is that just me talking? I'd be the first to admit, I'm not exactly the poster child for happy families. My own mother was a cold, upper class socialite who left home when I was eight years old. I've barely seen her since; I get the distinct impression that that was fine by her.

But Naomi... what can I say about this woman, my best friend's mom? Young. Too young. And attractive; way too attractive to be a grown man's mother. She shared Blair's sharp vivacity, his generous mouth and big eyes, though her eyes are brown and she's taller than him; tall and elegant. At first, I thought, she must have a thing for smaller men. Later I realized, she had a thing for men, period.

My first impression was that Naomi was annoying, flighty and irritating as hell. As I got to know her a little better; despite the sage, the meditation; the talk of retreats and Harmonic Convergence, I found the woman had a steely interior completely at odds with the dippy-hippie image she chose to present to the world. She kept her real self undercover. I was soon to find, there was much more to Naomi Sandburg than first met the eye.

We were looking at pictures, Jim and me. He wanted to know about Blair; about his childhood, so I brought out the album I carry with me; the record of our lives together.

Jim asked me about the picture of Blair and Magnolia. I told him she was a friend we met in Big Sur in the summer of seventy four. I didn't tell him that was the first time Blair asked about his father. He'd been playing with Magnolia's kids, and, as kids will, they'd got to talking, and Blair had come home in a flood of tears, needing to know if his daddy had hurt me, like Donny and Mikey's dad had hurt Magnolia - "Knocked her out, Mommy! Donny couldn't wake her. She had to go to the hospital and everything!"

Magnolia was on the run from an abusive husband, the father of her children; a man who'd beaten her incessantly since the boys were born. She'd packed her bags one rainy night and hit the road in a Greyhound bus, leaving the bastard behind in New Orleans. He was too lazy, she told me, to bother tracking her down, but she was scared all the same, watching over her shoulder the whole time.

Magnolia clung to me, presuming I was in the same boat; assuming that was the same reason Blair had no father. I thought it simpler to go along with that and never tried to dissuade her, but that night, in the warm comfort of our cabin, my little boy climbed into my bed and curled tight against me under the blankets. I kissed his tears away and promised him that his daddy had never hit me; that his daddy had loved me very much.

"Like you love me, mommy?" he'd asked, and I squeezed him tight and told him; "No, nothing at all like I love you. No one could love anyone like I love you."

And he'd looked at me with those big, grave eyes - his father's eyes - and asked; "But if my daddy loves you, why isn't he here with us?"

How could I answer that?

"Your daddy always loved me, you should know that. He loved me too much, that was the trouble. That's why we had to go away."

There were no more questions then, and no more tears, Blair seemingly accepting the strange explanation, though I knew, in my heart, a child so intelligent, so questioning, would never stop wondering. I was just glad he'd stopped asking. I had no qualms telling him what I did. It was the truth, after all.

We ended up lying on my bed, together, looking at Blair's baby pictures; just having fun, despite the intimate situation. Naomi liked to flirt; she found me attractive, that was obvious, and I liked her, she was a beautiful woman, fun to be with; I could see so much of Blair in her, but there was never the slightest hint of sex between us.

"There are no pictures of his father," I remember saying, pushing it, maybe? I really don't know, it just seemed so strange, this situation; Blair not knowing who his dad was.

"No."

"Why is that?" I asked, laughing then, remembering; "Blair seems to think it might be Tim Leary..." about to tell her the story, but sensing the sudden shift, the tension, where before, there'd been only laughter.

"Don't ever ask about Blair's father," she said, softly.

Now that was weird. Not; `I don't know' or, `I don't want to tell', but - `don't ever ask?' What the hell was that about?

"I mean it, Jim. Please." - She turned pained eyes on mine. "It's not a happy story. Believe me; you really don't want to know."

"You do know who he is...?" I asked, provocatively.

"Of course I know who he is!" she snapped. "Was," she added. "He's probably dead..." She looked away. "He was a lot older than me. What, you think I was so drugged up I didn't know who I was banging?"

"No!" God, no.

"I know only too well who impregnated me. His face... the... incident... is tattooed on my brain. You think I could forget a thing like that?"

God. "Naomi, I'm sorry if I...I don't know..."

"No, you don't, Jim. You have no idea."

OK. So I had no idea. But... "Don't you think Blair has a right to know?"

"NO! God, no! Blair and I have reached... an understanding. I've told him as much as he needs to know. He invented silly little stories, he's come up with a dozen possible candidates; Timothy Leary, Jerry Garcia, even Jimi Hendrix!"

She giggled, sniffing through tears that were just cascading down her face. God. Whatever happened? What had this guy - Blair's father - done to her?

"Jim, Blair must never know the truth, because it would destroy him."

Well, you know what they say; be careful what you wish for, because then she told me the Big Secret; the full, awful, horrendous truth, pouring out of her like a burst dam. I think she was glad to share her tale; talk about the unimaginably horrible, tragic thing that had happened to her - and Blair. Blair too. God. Poor Blair.

"Jim, he must never know," she begged. "Promise me, he'll never hear any of this."

I nodded. What else could I do? I knew he could never know. I also knew, then, the terrible burden that Naomi had passed to me. I'd become the keeper of a truth that could break my best friend's heart.

"He's home," I warned her. "Just getting off the elevator. I can hear him."

She never questioned that I could hear my partner through two walls and fifty yards of corridor, she wiped her face and blew her nose with a linen handkerchief, asked me if she looked OK; `Has my mascara run?' - It hadn't she looked amazing - took a deep breath, composed herself, and, as Blair walked in through the door, started talking about some picture of him when he was a little kid, in his school pageant; popping slivers of cold, boiled tongue in my mouth, flirting with me, laughing, as if the last ten minutes had never happened. Blair came running up the stairs, anxious to see what we were up to up here, and we shared a joke and a glass of wine, and I made some dumb joke about eating oesophagus and all was well and happy. Except it wasn't, and never would be, ever again.

Oh man, come on. Come on!"

"Chief..." Jim said, leaning against the door of the truck, trying hard not to look smug.

"What?" Blair snapped

• Whoops. Not hard enough, Jim thought, working hard to keep the grin off his face. "I thought you were taking the car into the shop? I thought that's where the car was all week?"

"Yeah. Well..."

Jim gave in to the grin as Blair leaped out of his heap of junk - sorry, `classic car' - pulled up the hood and peered inside like that would somehow magically make the engine start. "Yeah well what?"

Blair sighed, put his hands on his hips and hung his head. "I can't afford it, Jim."

"You said that your last pay-check would more than cover it."

"Well it won't, nothing like. I took her over to a friend who said he'd take a look at her. "

"And did he?"

"Said it was beyond what he could fix." He fingered a piece of loose wiring.

"Well Chief, what do you want me to say? I told you to get the car fixed because I won't be here to help out this week. You knew that."

"I know! I thought I had it taken care of..." Blair slammed down the hood and looked for something to wipe the oil from his hands. Jim handed him a rag from the truck.

"Well, you'd better get someone to look at it today, get a crash course in auto shop or start learning to love the bus because there'll be no rides from me after three this afternoon." Jim laid a sympathetic hand on his partner's tense shoulder. "Come on, Blair," he said softly. "Let me pay, just this once."

"No, Jim," Blair almost-whined. "I pay my own way, always have, always will, I told you that, right at the start."

"Yeah, but..." Jim said, raised his hands in bemused supplication. "Partners help each other out. It's not a case of yours and mine anymore, Chief, don't be an ass about it." Blair closed his eyes in defeat and shrugged. Jim slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to murmur in his ear; "I'll have my mechanic take a look at her. OK?"

"OK," Blair sighed.

"If you can get yourself over to the PD this afternoon, you can bring the truck home. That way I know you've got a reliable vehicle."

"Jim! I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"Sure you are," Jim grinned, ignoring the look of exasperated fury Blair shot in his direction. "Get in the truck, Chief."

Jim left Blair at Rainier, with a peck to the forehead that embarrassed him, as he knew it would, the memory keeping him smiling all morning despite the rock growing in his stomach from the knowledge he was going to be thousands of miles away from home, in New York for a week, stuck at a conference he'd been ordered to attend because he was `Cop of the Year' - supposedly a perk, but Jim hated hotels; hated the smells and the air con and the way they over-heated the rooms and sealed all the windows so you couldn't get any air. He really would've rather just stayed home. With Blair

Blair worked the morning through; just admin stuff, a last little bit of grading - late hand-ins that had to be cleared up before summer could begin. He was so looking forward to summer, a whole six weeks of not having to divide his time between the U and the PD; the whole summer working with Jim, watching Jim, touching Jim...

Realising his inner-smirk must've made it on to his face when he saw the look on Howard's face as he poked his head around the door.

"You OK?" his friend asked.

"Couldn't be better," Blair grinned.

Howard laughed. "Those essays that good?"

Blair grinned some more.

"Just wondering if you're free tonight, only, Richie Holmes is having a party tonight, down on Pear Tree.

"Let me think about it."

Blair thought about it for all of five seconds, picturing the empty loft; sitting in front of the TV, trying to prize cold pizza off the box.

Pear Tree Avenue was about five minutes walk from his office. If he stuck at it all day, he could have the grading all done by five and go straight there. Richie would be cool with letting him crash overnight and he could stop by the PD in the morning and pick up the truck. Blair picked up the phone and called Jim, getting the answering machine. He checked his watch; only midday, surely he wouldn't have left for the airport already?

He left a message; "Hey, Jim, look, I've got an invite to go out tonight, just a party, another TA, it's really near the U. and I figured it has to be better than hanging round the loft on my own, so, I guess... I'll come by, pick up the truck tomorrow? Urm... Call me before you go. Take care."

Jim rubbed his face with his palm. He was wiped. Three hours in a meeting preparing for a conference that he didn't wanna attend anyway - realising he wouldn't have time to finish up his paperwork before he left, wondering whether he should take it with him, or do it on the plane...

He turned on his phone to find a message waiting.

"... so, I guess... I'll come by, pick up the truck tomorrow? Urm... Call me, before you go. Take care..."

Jim pressed return, and got Blair's message. He sighed as he waited for the tone.

"Hey, Chief. Looks like I missed you. Urm... I don't know how to say this, I feel really bad, but I've been tied up in a meeting and I've got a mountain of paperwork here that I'm not going to finish before I go. I don't suppose...? Look, if you have time, in the next couple of days, could you help me out here? I'm sorry I missed you. Flight leaves at two thirty. Give me a call, will you, if you can? I'd like to talk, before I go. Love you, Chief; you're the most precious thing in my world."

Jim sat there awhile, drumming at the desk with a pencil, waiting for Simon - they were sharing a cab to the airport; glancing at his computer, checking his watch - fifteen minutes before they had to leave. He rapped out a rhythm with his fingers, glancing around guiltily, like he was afraid of being caught out.

Which he was.

Knowing exactly what he was going to do, knowing it was wrong (after he'd promised so faithfully to do nothing, say nothing). He couldn't help himself. His fingers moved to the keyboard as he glanced around the bullpen... It was lunchtime, hardly anyone was about, no one was looking (why would they be looking at him? And if they were, why would they care?). He began a search, wanting to wrap his arms across the screen to hide what he was doing, like he was back in school. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he googled him...

And goddammit, there he was; retiring professor of Classical Languages at Fulton College, outside of Albany. The page was three years old - he'd had to poke around a little to find it. There was a short piece on the guy's retirement and a brief history of his time at the college. There was a picture; he was smiling happily up at the camera - the bastard!

Jim clicked off the page in despair; gripped his head in both hands and squeezed so hard he thought his skull would shatter, scenting old cigar smoke just a beat before Simon's voice asked, "Jim, you ready? You OK?"

Jim paused; just for a second, just enough time to draw his emotional blinds and fix the expression on his face before smiling up at his Captain. "Got a bit of a headache, is all. I didn't get much sleep last night; maybe I can catch up on the plane?"

"Time to go," Simon grinned, tapping his watch, eager to get underway.

Jim smiled back, shut down the computer, grabbed his suit and his bag and followed Simon out to the elevator.

Jim called Blair again from the airport, possessed with the need to hear his voice. He called the loft, his office and his cell; got messages on all three before he had to turn off his phone and board his flight.

`...Give me a call, will you, if you can? I'd like to talk, before I go. Love you, Chief; you're the most precious thing in my world.'

Damn Damn Damn! - Blair pressed redial on his cell for the sixth time.

"It's the mountains, dude, sorry," Rich slurred drunkenly. "We're in this kinda shadow thing, you know? You have to go down to the bottom of the street. You can usually make a call from there."

Blair checked his watch; it was after five; Jim would be in the air. He'd have to wait till he touched down in New York before they could talk.

Jim spent the day in agony - mental and physical - fidgeting through an eight hour flight in coach, in seats just not designed for a man of his proportions. But the pain in his limbs was nothing compared to the pain inside; the pain that couldn't be eased by taking a walk along the aisles.

He was so chewed up; chewed up, spat out, trodden all over the floor - going quietly and unobtrusively insane with rage and grief. Thank God Simon was napping; if he'd had to make small talk, he'd probably have killed somebody.

All he could think about was Naomi's story. Why the hell had she told him? From now on, he'd have to live with this monster, living in his body, breathing their air, stealing their oxygen until... what? Because Blair could never know. Jim knew he would have to hold this thing inside of him `till the day he died.

He just couldn't wait to touch down so he could call home, needing to hear Blair's voice, needing to know he was alright; that Blair was still safe in his world.

He tried again, from the cab and again from the room, still getting the same damn message.

He put the phone down and sat on the bed, taking a deep breath; trying to beat down this irrational fear. It was still only eleven o' clock back home, it wasn't late. Blair had said he'd be at a party. He must've forgotten to take his phone with him. Jim knew there was no rational reason to be so scared, but... For whatever reason, whatever was buried deep down in his psyche, he needed to hear Blair's voice; needed him to be home, didn't care if he woke him - kinda wanted to wake him and hear his voice, soft and breathy with sleep.

But Blair wasn't home and Jim was wiped. He had to get up and face the living hell known as an inter-state police conference in just six hours.

He fell asleep wondering where his lover was, what he was doing and why he didn't call; willing him to call. `Wanna hear your voice, Chief. Miss you.'

Next morning dawned dark and wet, and, since Blair couldn't find anyone in the house in a fit state to give him a ride, he took the bus to the CPD, arriving in the near-empty bullpen, damp and shivering and in no mood to tackle Jim's paperwork.

"Whoa! You fall in the harbour, Hairboy?" Brown snickered as Blair walked into the bullpen, leaving a wet trail behind him.

Too cold and tired for a witty riposte, Blair settled for an indignant glare as he shrugged off his soggy coat and settled himself in Jim's chair. Henri was still sniggering annoyingly, but Blair decided to forgive him when he set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

"Oh man, thank you! That's really hitting the spot," he sighed, sipping at the hot, delicious, liquid.

"Us early birds gotta take care of each other," Henri smiled, strolling back to his own desk.

"You the only one here?" Blair asked, warming his chilled hands on the mug.

"Till eight thirty," Henri nodded with a wry face. "Phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning. Still raining, huh?" he grinned as Blair mopped ineffectually at his soaked hair with a handful of Kleenex.

Blair rolled his eyes. "You noticed?"

"And Ellison's taken off to the Big Apple and left you to do his dirty work, huh?" Brown grinned, leaning dangerously back in his chair, twiddling a pencil.

"Story of my life, my friend," Blair said, shaking his head. "I'm nothing but the dirt on that man's shoes."

Henri chuckled, then had to answer the phone, so Blair powered up Jim's computer, wanting to check his itinerary; see when would be a good time to call. He badly wanted to talk, hated that Jim had flown to the other side of the country without even a `goodbye, have a great time, come home safe. I love you.'

It looked like Jim'd be trapped in seminars and talks till one; ten o' clock in Cascade. Blair made a mental note to call just after ten, glanced at the deep pile of files on Jim's desk and decided work could wait a little while longer; at least till after he'd finished his coffee. It was good coffee; strong and sweet, with a hint of cinnamon. Wondering if Henri had been raiding Simon's cache, Blair closed his eyes and savoured the moment, feeling the hot liquid slide down his chilled gullet to pool in his stomach, warming him from the inside-out.

He looked over at Brown; still on the phone, busy scribbling notes and, still not in the mood for work. Blair turned to the internet, idly browsing through Jim's history, seeing what he'd been looking at. `OK,' he thought, `so I'm nosy; I'm an anthropologist, it goes with the territory.'

Clicking on the last url Jim had accessed, a page came up for a college in upstate New York. Weird, Blair thought, scrolling one handed, left hand holding the mug to his face as he downed his coffee. Weirder still, it was the page for the Department of Classical languages; there was a report and some pictures - `Retirement of Professor Saul Lieberman'. The highlighting from the search and the information on the Google cache showed Jim had been specifically searching for this Lieberman.

Assuming it had something to do with a case his partner was working, Blair read on, but it was just a regular college bulletin, with a collection of file photos of the Professor under a big picture from his retirement party; Prof. Lieberman, wearing a party hat and streamers, grinning as he held his glass of wine in a toast to the camera. Blair flipped through the pictures, eyes moving from one to another, weighing them up each against the other and coming to an inescapable conclusion. His mouth dropped open and his heart began to pound, his hands pulsing gently with each beat of his heart.

He put the coffee down and reached into his backpack for a floppy, saved the pictures and moved them to his laptop so he could get them up in Photoshop; enhance and enlarge them and get a better look.

OK, so, why was Jim looking for Saul Lieberman, a retired Classics Professor at an expensive east-coast college? Well, clue number one had to be that the guy looked a lot like Blair. His hair was white, the hairline retreating across a smooth, tanned scalp, but what hair he had was a mass of unruly curls. He had Blair's upturned nose, full lips and big blue eyes; he even had the same, slight double chin. The resemblance was startling and undeniable.

Blair sat back in his chair, wiping a sweaty palm across his mouth, wondering if he was looking his grandfather. Lieberman...? Had Naomi ever mentioned a `Lieberman'? Not that he could remember, but then Naomi never talked about her past; never talked about family. Blair knew his mom must have had big problems, being so young - unmarried and pregnant. He'd often wondered; did her father send her away? Try to force her to have an abortion?

What was Lieberman's role in her story?

And how did Jim know?

Naomi. It had to be. Jim made this search the day before yesterday; the day after she left for her retreat. Blair found himself glancing `round the bullpen, suddenly guilty about nosing through Jim's private stuff. But...

What was going on here? Was this guy family, and if he was, why would Naomi share this with Jim and not her own son? Blair found his shock and confusion slowly turning to anger.

He did another search, tried to find a little more information on the guy, but there wasn't much; a long list of papers he'd published, books too - all out of print. The guy hadn't exactly been academically active recently, certainly not since the internet came along. He had no bio online or contact details, but the college website seemed to imply he was still living in the same house, in the staff enclave on campus.

Mind racing, he picked up his mug, downed the last cold dregs of coffee; picked up the phone to call Jim; put it back down. What was he going to say to the guy? He rubbed his hand across his face again; feeling slightly faint. He wanted to go home - no, he wanted to talk to Jim; wanted to talk to Naomi, too - wanted to tear a strip off the both of them.

He looked at the pictures again. Could he be wrong? Was this all just wild conjecture and wishful thinking? But there was no mistaking the resemblance, and why else would Jim be checking this man out? What other explanation could there be?

He snatched up the phone, dialled Jim's cell and got his message. Irritation feeding his temper, he phoned the hotel desk, to be told that Detective Ellison was at a conference and unavailable right now, but if he liked, he could leave a message. Blair slammed the phone down. What he had to say needed to be said in person.

Naomi was out of reach, at a cabin with no phone line, in a remote spot in the Cascades. She was teaching Pranayama and yogic meditation at a retreat run by Sally. When he was little, he'd called her `aunt Sally', but she wasn't really his aunt; he didn't have any. Didn't have any uncles or cousins either, just a big, extended family of Naomi's friends and their kids and their friends, and their kids. But maybe he did have family, after all - real aunts and uncles and cousins. Maybe, in a small town near Albany, he had a grandfather - maybe even, a dad.

God, he needed to talk to Naomi! He briefly considered surprising her at her retreat, but didn't like the idea of driving Jim's truck along those mountain roads; the hairpin bends and three hundred foot drops poked at all his phobias. Instead, he rang the little store in the valley where he knew he could leave a message; told Naomi to call him, as soon as she could; that it was urgent. Then he went online to check on flights to Albany.

Blair knew he was already up to his eyes with his credit card, but his pay had just come in and a small grant was on the way. The last- minute fare totally maxed the card for a one-way flight, leaving him with just enough for a week's stay, somewhere cheap. Blair figured Jim or Naomi would loan him the return fare - he figured they each owed him that much.

He fled the bullpen in a whirlwind and drove the truck back to the loft where he threw some shirts in a bag and headed for the airport - Pausing briefly by the phone, thinking he should try again to reach Jim, but deciding against it; not knowing what he was going to say to him. Blair found himself unaccountably angry with his partner - not as mad as he was with Naomi, for telling Jim stuff she hadn't seen fit to share with him, but hurt and angry with Jim, nonetheless, for going along with it; for keeping secrets.

But...

Dammit. Blair sighed. He knew Jim would be trying to get a hold of him and, knowing Jim, quietly losing it if he couldn't. He checked the time; nine am - midday in New York. Jim'd be at the conference for another hour. Knowing he wouldn't actually have to talk to him made it easier. He called the hotel; left an urgent message to say that he'd be going out of town for a few days and would get back to Jim as soon as he could. He left it at that - no explanations; then, knowing it would be useless as soon as he left Cascade, Blair turned off his cell and tossed it in his bag.

As the conference broke for lunch, someone handed Jim a note; a message from Blair marked `urgent'.

`Jim,' it read. `I'll be out of town for a day or two. Will call when I can. Blair.'

`What the hell...?' Jim stood, gaping at the sheet of paper. Gone out of town? Where? Why? Was something wrong? With Naomi, maybe?

Jim took out his phone and called the loft, then Blair's office and got the usual messages. Blair's cell was still saying `turned off or out of range.' He dialled Major Crime; Rafe picked up - he'd not seen or heard from Sandburg all day, but thought maybe Henri had. Rafe put him on hold for an age, then Brown came on, intolerably cheerful, to say that Blair'd been in early that morning, then took off like a bat out of hell. He didn't know where he'd gone.

"Jim, what's going on?" Simon appeared at Jim's shoulder.

"Blair's missing," Jim said, staring vacantly around the lobby, heart pounding, wondering who to call next. "He's not at his office or the loft. His cell's turned off..."

"Missing? What do you mean, missing? Have you tried the PD? Maybe he went there? Maybe he's sitting at your desk..."

"I already called!" Jim snapped. "'Talked to Henri. Nobody's seen him since this morning. What in hell could have happened? "What if he needs..."

"You need to calm down, Detective! Come on, Jim! I think you're over-reacting here. It's..." he checked his watch. "It's still early back home. Maybe he's visiting his mom?"

Jim shook his head. "He would have said something before he left."

"Maybe something happened, something sudden and he had to leave town?"

Jim nodded, unconvinced. If that were true, surely Blair would've said something in his message which was decidedly terse. It wasn't like he was expecting hearts and flowers and little candy kisses, but a little more information, a little more warmth wouldn't have gone amiss. "He left a message, said he was going away. He didn't say anything about it before I left. Where would he go, so suddenly?"

"Maybe something's happened to Naomi?"

"Why not say so in his message? Why be so mysterious. It wouldn't explain why his cell's turned off, why he hasn't tried to call again...."

"Could be out of range. Wasn't she headed to some retreat up in the Cascades?"

"I guess..."

"Or he could have left his phone somewhere, or forgotten to charge the battery. You know how he is."

Simon's arguments were reasonable, and Jim wanted to calm down, but for some reason, he was gripped by anxiety; by the firmest conviction that all was not well.

"You're just tired, it was a long flight," Simon said easily, laying a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder. "Come and sit down, get something to eat and get a grip, for God's sake."

Jim nodded. Simon was making perfect sense. Blair'd left a message, so he wasn't in trouble; not in danger. Something had come up, was all. Jim pulled a hand across his face, thinking how he seemed to have been coming apart ever since Naomi's visit.

"Look," Simon went on. "We've only got another three hours of this damn conference to get through, then I suggest you get back to your room, have a hot shower and catch up on some Z's. Don't forget you're hosting that seminar tomorrow morning; you need to be at your best. Come and get some hot coffee and some food inside you, and stop worrying about the kid, he's a grown man, he can take care of himself."

Jim nodded, letting Simon lead him to the lunch room. He put his fear back in its box, knowing it was only a matter of time before it chewed its way out again. Something wasn't right. He just knew it.

Exhausted almost beyond endurance, Blair checked into a motel, threw his bag on a chair and himself on the bed and lifted the phone before checking the time; four a.m. `Like I care if I wake the man?' Blair thought to himself. He was so pissed with Jim! After fifteen hours of misery - eight hours on a crowded plane then a long journey in a hire car - with little else to do but brood, he was practically tearful with rage. But...

What was he going to say to him? Blair put the phone back down with a sigh; he hadn't the strength for all that emotion right now and really, he didn't want to fight with Jim. What he really wanted were Jim's arms around him; soft kisses and warm words. What he needed now, was Jim's love. He called the loft; there were no messages.

Hurt was rapidly replacing fury as Blair's dominant emotion. He slipped off his clothes and climbed under the covers, determined to get some sleep, telling himself, they'd talk tomorrow; Jim would explain; there would be an explanation. It would all turn out fine in the morning.

He slept solidly till almost ten, waking groggy and whiskered and feeling like road-kill. He shaved and showered, then tried the hotel once more, to be told that Detective Ellison was giving a talk at a conference right now, but if he cared to leave a message...

He dialled the loft; still no messages ended the call, re-dialled, and waited for Jim's recorded voice to kick in before entering the key code to change the message.

"Urm, hey, urm... This is Blair," he said, making the new recording. "If you're looking for me and Jim, sorry, we're not here right now. If this is Jim or Naomi looking for me, I'm in Albany. If you need to get a hold of me, I'll... I'll call later today with a contact number. Or you can leave a message with Fulton College."

He put down the phone and went out to grab coffee and a bagel, eager to get out on the road.

I've lived much of my life in communes, always gravitating to one or another when I feel the need of the comforts of home. Maybe they represent the family I never really had? Maybe it's just the comfortable feeling that comes from familiarity?

It was a commune that first took me in, when I arrived in San Francisco with my new born son, and it was to communes that I gravitated for years even after they went out of fashion, evolving into artists colonies, or centers of `New Age learning' - Like my friend Sally's place, here in the mountains. She calls it a `retreat'; that makes us both laugh. It's remote and we teach yoga, but that's as far as it goes. It's really just a spa, where the well heeled, weekend-hippie can come to unwind and take a few classes in luxurious surroundings.

Not that I'm complaining; I teach, I'm good at it and in return, I get to relax in this lovely place and enjoy a little luxury. I'm happy to admit that I enjoy a nice hotel, good food, deep baths, free massage - This place is nothing like the ashrams and retreats I attended in India and Nepal with my baby; back then, roughing it was considered part of the religious experience. Blair loved it, loved new people, strange cultures; unfamiliar customs. He was only eight years old when we went to live in Kathmandu - so eager to learn; always learning, speaking fluent Nepali in weeks; the Yogi said he was a very old soul...

There's something liberating in communal life, in collective responsibility; we took care of each other, looked after each other's children. Some people had jobs, some stayed home, some cooked or sewed or created in other ways. We helped each other out. Like Ben Sandburg helped me.

Ben was gay. He told me that he'd come to SanFran from some small town in Illinois because he'd heard there were a lot of homosexuals there and he wanted to `meet his peers', but somehow, we gravitated to one another; we shared a sense of humor; we made each other laugh. Both of us had had a hard time; both of us really needed to laugh.

We married in the summer of `sixty nine. Blair doesn't know I was ever married; there was no reason to mention it to him. It was a short, unconsummated partnership - an act of kindness from a gentle soul who knew my story and wanted to help. He married me to give me a name; a legal name beyond the aliases I'd lived with since running away, so until the first weeks of the new decade, I was Mrs. Ben Sandburg. My new name meant I could get a passport that freed me to run further than ever. Ben ran too, to Canada, escaping the draft. He wrote me just one letter and I never saw him again, but I often think of him. Blair reminds me a little of Ben; he has his step-father's kind heart; his generous spirit.

That was how it was in the commune back then; there was always someone to lift the load from your shoulders when you needed it, like I needed it today. Thank God for Sally Blair. She's saved my life more than once since she picked me up, so long ago, hitching at the side of the road; fifteen, pregnant, alone and scared.

Sally and John Blair have long since split, but they both stayed my friends, and they both know my secret. So when Sally came back from the town with a message from Blair, I didn't know what to think. It was very unusual for either of us to try and contact the other, so I was more than a little scared as I borrowed a cell and drove the truck down the mountain till I could get a signal.

I called the loft first, anxiously waiting for him to pick up. All I got was the answering machine. I was about to hang up when I heard Blair - it was always Jim's voice on the machine, so I hung on, listening;

"If this is Jim or Naomi looking for me, I'm in Albany. If you need to get a hold of me, I'll... I'll call later today with a contact number. Or you can leave a message with Fulton College."

I don't know what I looked like when I got back to the retreat. It must have been bad, because Sally turned transparent at the sight, making me sit, bringing me wine, holding my hand as my tears stained the white silk of my dress.

It was some time before I could breathe, let alone find the words to tell her; "He knows, Sally. Blair knows."

Jim ordered coffee, sat down at the bar, took a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes, thinking, the next time anyone asked him to give a talk, he'd go get some root canal work done, or maybe have his voice box removed; anything - anything to avoid ever having to talk in public again!

And Blair still hadn't called. Jim was getting really worried. He stared at the screen of his cell, hoping a message would miraculously appear, wondering where his partner was.

Maybe he was just out in the mountains or the woods and out of range? Maybe, like Simon said, he'd left the thing behind, or forgotten to charge it. But even so, he'd've tried to get in touch somehow, wouldn't he? This just wasn't like him. Whatever had happened, it had to've been sudden. The more Jim thought about it, the more worried he got.

He checked his cell one more time, just to be sure, downed his coffee and checked with the desk again, making them search, in case Blair's message had been mislaid. He called Blair's cell, and his office again, then the loft - no response... Jim's fear became irritation. Where was he, the little shit? Taking off like that, without a word. Couldn't even do the courtesy of explaining what in the name of God he was up to...?'

The message picked up at the loft; different message, Blair's voice... Shit!

Jim wiped a hand across his face. How in the name of God had Blair found out? Had Naomi told him after all? Is that what all the mystery was all about? As Jim ended the call, the phone rang in his hand. Naomi...

"You bastard!"

"Excuse me?"

"How could you, after I begged with you never to tell a soul. To tell Blair...!"

She was in tears and borderline hysterical. Jim walked away from the lobby, to a quiet corner near the men's room. "Naomi," he said quietly. "I don't know how he found out, but I swear to God it wasn't from me."

"Don't you give me that!" she screeched. "How else could he know? How could you! I trusted you!"

"Naomi I promise you, I didn't tell him."

"Then how does he know?!"

"I don't know," Jim stood, staring into the hustle and bustle of the hotel's lobby, feeling the universe contract around him, mind racing, trying to think... Remembering the search he'd made... Paperwork... Blair... Fuck! Had the kid been poking around on his computer? Exactly the sort of thing he would do, the nosy little bastard. But..."

"Naomi, what did he say to you?"

"He hasn't said anything, I haven't spoken to him." Her voice was thick and choked with tears. Jim could hear another woman's voice in the room, speaking softly, soothingly; trying to calm Naomi down.

"So how do you know...?"

"I got a message from him, asking me to call. I knew it was important, he never calls when I'm away."

"So you called him...?"

"I called the loft, got his message. He said he'd be in Albany, at Fulton. Why else would he be going there?"

Jim couldn't think of any reason, other than the obvious. But all Blair knew, was what he'd seen on a website. "Look, Naomi, don't jump to conclusions here. I think... I'm not sure Blair knows as much as you think he does."

"What are you saying?"

"I think..." Oh man. Confession time. "I think he might have picked up on Lieberman from my computer. I was... I was searching on the guy..."

"So it was you!"

"It looks like it might be..."

"Jim!"

"But I don't think..." Jim cast his mind back to the website he'd found. "There was nothing there to link Lieberman to you."

"Well he's certainly connected the dots, hasn't he, Jim? Why else would he go tearing off to the other side of the country, at a moment's notice?"

"I don't know," Jim sighed.

"He knows!" she wailed.

"Naomi, I really don't think he does. He might suspect something, but he can't know for sure."

"I'm coming out there."

"I don't know if that's the best thing..."

"I'm bringing a friend. She knows, too. She can help."

"OK, I... hear that. I can see why you'd want to see him. I'm going to hire a car and drive up to Albany, if I leave now, I can be there by tonight. Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"Sally and I are leaving right after I hang up; you can get me on Sally's cell until we fly - that won't be till tomorrow morning."

"OK. I'll call as soon as I know what's happening."

"I'll be waiting."

Blair drove north on eighty seven, towards the Adirondacks, following the little map on the tour leaflet he'd picked up at the motel.

He'd called Fulton College; they'd told him Professor Lieberman was in a nursing home near Lake George - told him not to expect too much; the professor had advanced Alzheimers. Once again Blair found himself cursing Naomi for keeping him apart from his family all these years, thinking of the things they could have shared; his life, his studies. Now it looked like it was too late.

He thought about stopping to call the loft, to see if Jim or Naomi'd left a message, but decided to press on, instead - anxious to reach his destination; he'd call when he arrived. He pressed his foot down, wondering, `why didn't you tell me, mom? No matter what he did, what he said; whatever went on back then, you shoulda told me! You should've told me before you told Jim.'

*

The Maple Lawns Clinic, `an Alzheimer's Specialist Care-Center' (as it said at the gate), was a beautiful and well run facility. The staff seemed mostly young, good looking; well paid. Blair was glad to see his Grandfather was being taken care of and wondered who was footing the bill; another long-lost relative, maybe? He paused to wonder that he'd never once questioned that Saul Lieberman was a close relation and doubts flooded in; what if he was wrong, and Lieberman had nothing to do with his family after all?

"You know how he is? That his Alzheimer's is pretty advanced?" the earnest young intern asked, interrupting his thoughts as they walked through the neat gardens together, heading for a sunny patio. He turned to look at her; she was a pretty girl, with a fine boned face and shoulder-length fair hair. A short skirt under her white coat showed off a pair of slim, tanned legs; she was just the kind of woman he would have gone after like a dog off his leash, BJ - Before Jim. That got him thinking about his partner, and that made him sadder than ever. His anger had all dissipated in the anticipation of this visit. Now he just felt depressed; abandoned and excluded and alone. The girl had gone quiet. He realised she was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"The college told me, yeah," he nodded. "They said he was pretty bad."

The doctor nodded gravely. "I'm sorry you're only just catching up with your Grandfather now, when he's so sick."

Blair nodded. "Does he remember anything?" he asked.

She shrugged. "He has good days and bad. Sometimes he comes out with stuff; stories about people he knew. To be honest, I really don't know him well enough to tell, I'm pretty new here. Maybe you'll be able to make some sense of the things he says?"

"I doubt it," Blair answered. "I've never met the guy before. Never even knew he existed till a couple days ago."

She nodded. "That's a shame. According to his students, he was quite a guy."

"You've met his students?"

"They visit all the time. He was pretty popular."

Blair smiled sadly. "I'd like to talk to them, I've missed so much." A lifetime of memories, he mused, miserably.

The young doctor smiled tightly. "You might want to ask around the college. Most of his visitors visit still work or study there." She cocked her head at a white-haired man, sitting in a recliner in a sunny corner. "That's him; that's your grandfather." She looked hard at Blair and smiled. "To be honest, I think I could have guessed who you were looking for, there's a real family resemblance."

"Blair nodded. "It's OK... If I just sit with him and talk...?"

"Take as long as you need," she smiled. "There are chairs just inside, through the French doors. Just put back anything you take, when you're done. Good luck," she smiled, patting his arm, and headed back up the path.

Blair stood awhile, staring at the old man with his wild, white curls and deeply tanned face. He was clutching a plaid blanket about himself. Blair wandered over, kneeled beside his chair and laid a hand on the stick-thin arm.

"Looks like you feel the cold, too," he said, softly, as the man lifted a pair of huge, sapphire eyes to meet his own. "You want me to find you another blanket?"

The old man stared at him, silently, with a look of startled confusion.

"Hold up there," Blair smiled. "I'll get a chair; see if I can't find someone to help out.

He walked through the French doors' plenty of chairs, but no blankets and no one to ask. He dragged the heavy chair outside, setting it down beside the old man who watched his every move with suspicion. Blair took off his jacket, laying it over the old man's shoulders, before sitting down beside him.

Saul fingered the soft, black leather wonderingly, till Blair took his hand, squeezing it; the skin thin and transparent as rice paper. Saul fixed his attention back on his visitor, a strange expression on his deeply-lined face. Lifting his free hand from the shroud of his blanket, he laid it against Blair's face.

"Yacob?" Saul asked, his voice thin and quavering, and with a soft German accent.

"My name is Blair, Blair Sandburg," Blair smiled, laying his own hand over the one caressing his cheek; Saul's hand was ice cold and full of bones.

"Yacob," the old man repeated with a sigh, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "I thought... you died."

Blair's smile wavered. He gripped the man's hand a little harder. "I'm not Yacob," he said softly. "My name is Blair Sandburg, I'm Naomi's son."

"Naomi..." Saul repeated, his hand falling to his lap. Blair lifted it carefully, halting a moment in shock when he saw the number tattooed along the wrist; tucking the chilled hand carefully back inside the blanket. He pulled his backpack to his lap, rooting around inside, taking out a photograph. He held it out to the old man, who was still staring at Blair in wonder.

"This is Naomi," he said, watching Saul hopefully, looking for signs that he recognised the brightly smiling red-head in the picture.

Saul took his hand from Blair's, lifting the picture, holding it close to his nose. He looked at it for long seconds, taking his other hand from the blanket to rub a long, bony finger across the face in the photograph.

"Naomi's my Mom," Blair said, nervously; anxious to fill the long silence. "I think you know her. You know her, don't you, Professor Lieberman...?"

Saul continued to examine the picture minutely, his silence stretched on.

"I mean, I think... I think... I don't know, not really. I mean, she's my mom and I'm pretty sure you're my Grandfather, so..."

The old man made a noise; a stifled, muffled, wet sound, like a sob.

"You OK?" Blair asked, glancing under the trembling photo to see tears running down the old man's face. "Oh! Oh, no, no. Oh, God, I'm sorry. Don't... don't cry, please." He wrapped an arm around the thin shoulders, rubbing the old man's back. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it Naomi? What is it? Professor, please don't..."

"Esther," the old man sighed, the tears flowing down his face as he swept them away with his hand, then patting at his body, as if searching for something.

"What is it, man? A handkerchief?" Blair pulled a little pack of Kleenex from his bag, handing one to the old man who took it, wiped his face and blew his nose as Blair looked on in concern.

"Esther," the old man repeated.

"Esther? Who was she? Your wife? Daughter? This is Naomi, Saul. This is my Mom."

Saul clutched the picture to himself and rocked slightly, weeping and shaking his head, chanting; "Esther... Esther... Esther..."

Blair had had to leave; Lieberman was too upset to continue talking and his nurse wanted him to rest. Blair had left the picture with him, hoping it might help the old man - his Grandfather; he was certain of that, now - to remember.

He drove over to the college, where he bought coffee for students who told him of a laughing, happy man, full of life and fun who had never wanted to retire. It was only the advancing disease, slowly robbing him of his faculties, his memories; his ability to teach - that had forced him to give up the job he adored. He'd been at Maple Lawns for a year, now, deteriorating rapidly; `wouldn't be with us much longer', the students agreed, sadly. Everyone Blair met told him how well-loved Professor Lieberman was, how terribly missed. Everyone remarked on the resemblance between Blair and his Grandfather.

They all agreed him he should see Professor Julius Carter at the archaeology department - Lieberman's best and oldest friend at the college.

Professor Carter turned out to be an energetic Englishman in a tweed jacket, mustard vest and red bow tie who'd known Lieberman since he was a student, working on his doctorate in the seventies when Saul was on his dissertation committee.

"I had some theories about the Bacchanalia. The subject appealed to the old man," Carter chuckled.

"I'm certainly getting the impression he enjoyed life."

Carter laughed out loud; "Oh my goodness, yes! Saul loved a good time - knew how to have one, too. He was no dry academic with a pole up his arse. But then, if anyone deserved a little joi de vive, it was Saul Lieberman. You know he was a survivor; that he'd been a prisoner, in a concentration camp?"

Blair swallowed. "I saw the tattoo."

Carter nodded. "He was in Mauthausen for two years. Most people never even made six months. He was a tough old bird; never talked about it. I suppose he just wanted to forget, put it all behind him. He met his wife there, you know; got married in the camp..."

"No one's talked about his wife."

"Ah, well, I never knew her. Esther..."

"Esther was his wife?"

"Yes. She died some years after they arrived in America. She was only thirty five. Cancer, I believe it was. They say he never got over it. She was very beautiful, apparently; tall and willowy, with a shock of red hair. They say he loved her very much."

"What about their kids?" Blair asked, schooling his face, trying to look like the answer didn't matter.

"Do you know what, I honestly don't know of any children," the professor said, pausing to pondering the matter. "He never spoke of any..."

Blair nodded.

"But of course, he must have had at least one, if he's your Grandfather."

"I thought he might have been my father's father, but now, I`m thinking, my Mom must be his daughter... It's complicated," Blair smiled, seeing Carter's bemused expression.

"Yes, well. It's all before my time, of course, I don't pretend to know anything about his life here before I arrived. You should talk to Wilfred Dennison, the Vice Chancellor. He's on holiday I'm afraid; Turkey, Zeugma - he has a thing for Roman villas. He's back tomorrow, though, if you'll still be here. He's known Saul since he got here in `fifty two."

"Thank you," Blair said, offering his hand as Carter's attention seemed to wander, the conversation winding to a close; "For making time to share your memories with me. I'm very grateful."

"Oh, not at all, Blair," Carter grinned, seizing Blair's hand in a killing grip. "I liked your Grandfather a great deal. I miss him."

"Everyone says that," Blair smiled.

"You look very like him."

Blair laughed. "Everyone says that too."

"Yes, well, you really do, you know." The Professor paused to peer at Blair a moment. "Really, quite remarkable, and I never even knew he had a child, let alone a grandson. He kept that very quiet."

Blair nodded with a tight smile, wondering about that, himself.

"Well, I must be off; dinner with Babbit - chap visiting from Cambridge..."

"Dennis Babbit?" Blair asked.

"You know him?"

"I read his book on identity and cultural memory."

"Of course you did. Of course you did," Carter nodded, vigorously. "You're an anthropology chappie yourself, aren't you? Yes. Well, you're welcome to come along, you know. Babbit would love to meet you, I'm sure."

For a split second, Blair was tempted; he would love to meet D. S. Babbit, if only to prick the idiot's pomposity. His book had enraged Blair with its simplistic assertions and sweeping generalisations - but he knew he wasn't in the mood for academic banter and really hadn't the energy to be civilised over dinner. "I'd love to," he sighed, "but I've got an appointment I really can't break."

"Yes, well, can't say I blame you," Carter sighed. "Babbit's the most awful old fool; a young chap like you would've livened the conversation up no end. Can't blame an old man for trying, though," he chuckled, shaking Blair's hand again. "Well, I'd better be off; got to bathe and change and all that dreary stuff. It was nice to meet you, Blair. Do call again, if you're ever up this way," he called, already on his way, turning to give a cheery wave before marching off across the perfect, striped lawn toward the snow-white, timber-boarded college buildings. Such a pretty campus, Blair thought. Very clean, very New England; very civilised; and all a million miles away from the Mauthausen death camp.

Blair stuck his hands in his pockets against the chill and walked back towards his car, wondering how he was going to spend the evening, all alone in his quiet, Lake George motel; wondering if he shouldn't have taken up that dinner invitation after all.

Wearier than he felt he had a right to be, Blair ran the card through the lock and pushed into his room to find Jim sitting on the bed, watching him. Blair set the bag of groceries - his supper - down on the desk, threw his backpack on to the bed, narrowly missing Jim's head, and went into the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he sunk down on to the toilet seat, running nervous fingers through his hair.

`Shit. Shit, Shit. Shit. Double shit. One huge helping of shit with a side-order of fuck and a super-size extra helping of holy crap for dessert.'

He should have known when he left that message on the machine, that Jim would follow him. He was already in New York after all, not that that would have mattered to Jim; he would have followed him across continents, if needs be.

He wasn't in any mood to deal with this right now. He was too anxious, too upset, too angry. His legs shook as he sat, elbows on knees, head in hands, feeling drained and exhausted and in no state to face the showdown.

Knowing Jim was out there, listening to every gasp and sigh, he stood, lifted the lid and tried to pee; too uptight to let go, it took several tries before he was finally able to flush and wash his hands - watching the face in the mirror; whiskered, dark and tired. He thought about taking a shower - was sure he needed one, but knew he was just prevaricating. He leaned against the sink, closed his eyes, centred himself, took a deep breath, threw the lock and stepped out into the room.

He felt, rather than saw Jim stand and move towards him. He couldn't look at the man as he lifted his coffee, still drinkably warm, took a gulp and started unloading the brown bag of groceries; the picnic he'd bought for himself, thinking he'd have a quiet night in his room, processing his feelings after the monumental events of his day. No chance of that now, though. Jim was at his side. Blair took another angry gulp of coffee.

"Chief..."

Blair held up a hand. "Don't Jim, just... don't, OK? I am not in the mood for this tonight."

Jim sighed. "If you didn't want me to come after you, why'd you leave that message...?"

Blair slammed his coffee down. "I am so pissed at you right now!" he hissed, leaning his arms on the desk, keeping his eyes on his coffee. Jim laid a tentative hand on Blair's arm; Blair shucked it off angrily, turning to face him, pointing a finger; "How dare you!"

Jim raised his hands placatingly as Blair stepped into his space. "How dare you go poking around in my life, Jim? How dare you! How dare she talk about this... to you! Have you spoken to her? Does she know?"

"Chief..."

"She never said a word to me! All these years, Jim and not a word, then... You'd barely even met and she's spilling family secrets, stuff she never bothered to confide to me! Baring her soul to a virtual stranger!"

"She was hurting, I asked a couple of questions, is all... "

"I had a grandfather! All along, and I never knew!"

"Chief. She must have had her reasons..."

Blair flushed purple with silent anger.

"She's on her way, here. But she's not sure she can face you, she's a little afraid..."

"Oh that figures. Running again?"

"Hey," Jim cautioned. "Don't be so hard on her..."

Blair's mouth dropped open.

"...I know you're mad and I understand, I really do, but you have no idea, Blair, no idea what she's gone through; what she's been through to protect you."

"Protect? Me?!"

"Yes."

"Jim, what the hell is going on here?" Blair's voice rose in hysterical fury. Jim made another attempt to take him by the arm. Blair snatched it away, turning, pacing, arms waving; his voice betraying the start of tears.

"All those years - all my life, Jim, she's hidden this from me, and for what? What the hell did he do that was so bad, Jim? Did she tell you?"

Jim rubbed a nervous hand across his eyes, put his hands on his hips, watched Blair pacing, yelling...

"He's a sweet old man. Everyone loves him, Jim, everyone! I haven't met a single person who has a bad word to say about the guy. What the Hell did he do to her that was so fucking awful that she had to hide him from me?"

"Chief..." Jim kept his voice calm, quiet, trying to soothe. "You know Naomi would never do anything to hurt you..."

"I'm not a fucking child! I'm a grown man; whatever it was, I could take it, you know? Why does she still treat me like I'm seven years old?!" Jim held up a hand, tried to interject, but Blair still paced, ranting; tears of rage running, unnoticed, down his face as he worked himself into a frenzy.

"Because she does, you know? You've seen her; you know what she's like. It's like she can't let go. I'm twenty seven, for God's sake...!"

"Chief, can't you accept that, maybe, she had really good reasons? That she just wanted to protect you..."

"And you're just as bad!" Blair screamed, stopping his pacing to jab a pointed finger into Jim s chest. "I'm not a kid, I don't need to be protected, Goddamit!"

Jim reached up and gripped the hand poking him. Blair snatched it back; his face twisted in anger, but didn't move away. Instead, he hung his head and laid the hand he'd snatched, palm down, against Jim's chest. Slowly, carefully, Jim lifted an arm and squeezed the hand against his heart. Blair still didn't move; his breathing was harsh and ragged. Jim wrapped an arm about his waist and pulled his lover, unresisting, towards him. He wrapped long arms around the trembling body, encasing him in a tender embrace, and laid his cheek against Blair's hair. Blair's body jerked with silent sobs as anger turned to tears. Jim tightened his grip, crushing Blair's body against his.

"I was so scared," he whispered into Blair's curls. "I didn't know where you were, how you were, your state of mind..."

"I'm sorry," Blair whispered. "I knew; knew you'd be going nuts. I wanted to hurt you, to get back at you. I was so mad at the both of you..."

"She didn't want to hurt you. She's already on her way..."

"Good," Blair lifted his face away from Jim's body and wiped it with his hand. "That's good, because I want to hear her explain why she lied. I need her to tell me everything Saul Lieberman can't, because it's too late for him. He has Alzheimer's, Jim, there's practically nothing left of him."

Jim closed his eyes and sighed inside; silently relieved. "I'm sorry."

Blair was crying again. "I need a shower," he muttered. "You wanna eat? I bought stuff..." he gestured vaguely at the brown bag sitting on the desk.

"That sounds good," Jim smiled.

Blair shook his head, kept his eyes to the ground. "I don't think I could, not now. I'm so angry... I'm all churned up inside, you know?" He gestured to his stomach.

"You should eat." Jim buried his hand in Blair's hair. Blair lifted his face, gave a wry smile that faded in a moment.

"You're so not forgiven, Jim."

"I know. Just so long as you understand, Chief; neither of us wanted to deceive you, or hurt you."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Jim shrugged, looked away. "I promised."

Blair sighed, nodded. "I'm going to take a shower... How'd you get in here?" he asked from the bathroom door.

"Gotta badge," Jim smiled, shrugging.

Blair nodded. "So now the people on reception think I'm wanted or something?"

Jim shrugged. "Sorry."

"You will be, man," Blair said, snicking the bathroom door shut.

He doesn't know, thank God. He knows Lieberman's his grandfather, but no more. I don't know how I'd cope if he knew the whole, unvarnished truth.

And Blair's so... vulnerable. He'd hate to hear that; he sees himself as capable, strong - and he is - smart and adaptable and brave, but it's the bravery of a child who hasn't learned yet, what a cold, cruel, dangerous place the world can be.

The Blessed protector thing is a joke he throws at me every so often; he'd die to know how seriously I take it - because he does need protection. He's so trusting, so nave; like a puppy, bouncing through life, expecting the world to love him. In so many ways, he's still that big-eyed, beautiful child in Naomi's pictures, the little boy who lived his life, safe behind the walls of a commune; adored, indulged, knowing nothing but love and affection; like a puppy that's never been kicked; he's so vulnerable.

And so beautiful. Looking at him, lying here, head back, that soft, tempting throat - I can't resist a taste; gently worrying at the tender skin there, running lips and tongue along that delicate place where neck meets jaw; so soft, so easily damaged; as fragile as the bloom on a grape and just as easy to damage.

He moans faintly, twists towards me, hips tilting, breath catching; but I don't want him to wake, so I pause awhile, lean back on my elbow and content myself with looking.

He was so angry with me- I doubt if many of those who think they know him have any idea of the extent of his passion. He has a temper, this neo-hippie flower-child. He has depths.

I stroke my finger over the shadows beneath his eyes. He's exhausted. Me too. Both of us collapsed into deep and dreamless sleep last night, the minute our heads touched the pillow. He was stumbling and mumbling when he got out of the shower; I had to help him to bed - The sudden release, I guess. We've both been riding on adrenaline. Tears help, his and mine. He doesn't want to be this way. He wants to be a `man'. He has no idea.

I have to save him from himself. I have to protect; it's what I do. I can't let him be hurt.

Still mostly asleep, Blair muttered a half-hearted curse as Jim ran a chain of tiny, silent kisses along his neck, stroking the tip of his tongue along his collarbone to the soft hollow where throat meets breast, and all the while running a gentle, curious fingertip between the lightly furred nipples.

Every touch, every stroke designed to arouse without waking, Jim transferred his licks and kisses to those perfect nipples, running a warm, dry palm, lightly across the tempting swell of Blair's belly, gently persuading his thighs to part as he slid down the bed and ran his tongue lightly up Blair's swollen penis; base to tip and back, pulling a deeper moan from his lover as he writhed towards wakefullness, eyes fighting to open as Jim pushed a well-lubed finger deep inside him.

"Hey," Blair breathed, watching his partner with heavy eyes.

"Hey," Jim smiled, sliding up the bed to take a slow, gentle kiss, easing his cock home, tearing a low, aching moan from Blair as he arched in pleasure, head rolling to the side, eyes closing; lips swollen and parted.

Jim loved to take Blair like this; not quite awake, pliant and sleepy and deeply relaxed - knew Blair loved it too; waking, aroused from delicious dreams that weren't dreams; coaxed from sleep to find Jim moving slowly inside him.

Wide awake now, those gentle caresses became desperate thrusts that ripped cries from them both, too intense, too unexpected to be prolonged, quickly rising to a rapid, violent, screaming, jerking climax that left both men gasping; heaving breaths, bodies slick and sliding with sweat as Jim slipped from Blair's body, rolling to the side, allowing both to breathe and recover. Blair watched through half-closed eyes as Jim took a Kleenex and cleaned away the mess on Blair's body with gentle, loving care. He laid his hand against Jim's head.

"Hey again," he whispered.

Jim looked up with a shy, uncertain smile and eyes so soft with love Blair thought his heart would burst. "Are we OK now?" he asked.

"I guess," Blair smiled. "You're not off the hook, man. I still want that talk, but I'm considerably less pissed with you than I have been of late."

"OK," Jim smiled; that shy, sweet smile he seemed to keep for Blair alone.

"But you can improve your position further by making coffee."

Jim laughed, rolling on to his back, squinting against the sun slanting through the ill-fitting blinds, sobering as thoughts of what was to come filtered past the happy warmth of being re-united with his lover. "I'm sorry," he said.

"What for?" Blair asked, eyes on the ceiling.

Jim sighed. "That she told me."

Blair rolled up on to one elbow, watching Jim, still lying on his back, one arm thrown over his face, hiding his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"I never wanted this, Chief. I never wanted secrets between us."

Blair sighed and laid back down beside Jim, their heads touching. He slipped his hand between them, taking Jim's in his. "She told you when she was at the loft?"

"We were on the bed, talking. It was her last night in town; we were going out to dinner, but you were late..."

"I got stuck in traffic. You were finishing up the tongue..."

"We were hungry. You were late."

"We missed our reservation. Ended up getting takeout."

"Tandoori."

"Mom loves tandoori. Did I tell you about the time we lived in India?"

"No, you never did."

"We were in Kashmir, then at ashrams at Rishikesh and Amritsar before trekking into Nepal."

"You're full of surprises, Chief," Jim smiled.

Blair sighed. "Yeah, well, we traveled a lot, you know. Whenever things seemed to be getting a little too comfortable, we'd pack our bags and move on." He lapsed into thoughtful silence, gripping Jim's hand hard.

"I take it you weren't always happy to tag along?" Jim asked softly.

Blair paused in thought. "Actually I was, pretty much. It was what I was used to; staying in one place all the time would've seemed weird. It's just, sometimes, you know, I'd make a friend... In India, it was Sky; Skyhawk Coogan," he chuckled. "His mom was at the ashram, studying, like Naomi. There were lots of single women with kids in those places. I always had a lot of friends, but Sky was special; we used to skip class and run into town to buy mango sherbert. I was sad when we moved on. I never saw him again.

"And sometimes, Naomi'd find a really nice guy. Most of them were indifferent; they were interested in Naomi - I was just an inconvenience they had to put up with to be with her, but some were really great. I missed them when we moved on, and we always did - move on. But mostly... mostly, we had great times. You can't miss what you never had, right? And I never had a home in the `burbs, or a bike or a spacehopper or anything that couldn't be bundled into a backpack. Never had a house, but we always had a home. Naomi made sure of that. She was never a bad mom, Jim."

"I know that, Chief. Watching you two together... you have a great relationship. That's something I never had with my family."

Blair turned to look at Jim. "You gonna tell me about that?" he asked.

"Maybe, sometime. Not here."

Blair nodded and lay back down on the pillow. They stared quietly at the ceiling together.

"So... What did she say? About Saul? She talk about my Dad...?" Blair asked, breaking the long silence.

Jim sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Chief, I can't. She asked me... I promised..."

"OK," Blair nodded, sadly. "I hear that."

"Blair..."

"No, really. I understand. You promised. I'm cool."

Jim waited for the rest.

"But she's going to tell me, Jim. I swear to God, there's no way she's leaving here till I know everything."

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Chief..."

"I mean it Jim!"

Jim leaned up to look at him, tilting his chin, making Blair look him in the eye. "Blair," he said, softly. "Have you thought that maybe she's holding back for a reason? That just maybe, the truth is something you don't want to hear?"

Blair looked away; shook his head, vehemently.

"Think about it, Chief. Would Naomi keep a secret like this for no reason? Ever wondered why she never told you about your dad? Ever thought that she had your best interests at heart...?"

"Protecting me?"

"Yes."

"Shielding me from the truth?"

Jim nodded.

The tears were back in Blair's eyes as he nodded. "I'm all grown up now, Jim, I'm not a kid anymore and I think it's time I knew what went on back then."

"No matter how bad it is?"

Blair nodded, wiped at his eyes. "She was raped, wasn't she?" he said, turning to meet Jim's eyes.

Jim closed his eyes, shook his head, anxiously. "Blair..."

"I know. You promised. But that's it, isn't it? She won't tell me who it was because the bastard raped her. And Saul, what did he do? Did he throw her out of the house? Try to force her to have an abortion? Is that it?"

"Blair..."

"That's it, isn't it?"

Jim stayed silent, his face sad, giving nothing away.

"Dammit. I'm sorry, Jim," Blair sniffed, wiping at his eyes. "Sorry she involved you in all of this. She had no right."

"She needed someone..."

"She should have told me, Jim! She shouldn't have laid all this on you. Goddamit, this is my life we're talking about! I have the right to know. She should have told me."

Jim leaned over Blair and stroked a hand down his cheek, wiping away the tears, stroking his hair as he leaned in for a gentle kiss. "She doesn't want you hurt. She's in agony over all of this; she never wanted you to know." Jim lay back down to stare at the ceiling. "And it's all my fault. If I hadn't let my curiosity get the better of me..."

"No," Blair shook his head. "No... I mean, I admit, I was so mad at you, when I saw... on your computer... when I started to put it all together, I could have killed the both of you. Maybe I shouldn't have come running over here, but I'm not sorry that I did." Blair leaned back up on his elbow; Jim turned to look at him. "I'm glad you got nosy man, because otherwise, I'd have gone on in ignorance my whole life, scared to ask Naomi, because the subject always seemed to upset her." He sighed; threw himself down, making the mattress springs bounce, staring at the ceiling again. "I know this is going to be hard on us all, but... I need to know, Jim! This mystery over my dad, this `Big Holy Secret';" he made quote marks in the air - "it's been `there' all my life, you know; the elephant in the room that no one ever talks about and I'm tired of stepping around it. And I'm ready, you know? I'm a big boy now and I think I can take it, whatever `it' is."

Jim took his hand and squeezed it as they both fell quiet, each man lost in his thoughts.

"When's she getting here?" Blair asked, quietly.

Jim shrugged. "They're flying out this morning, their time." He checked the clock by the bed. "They won't have left Cascade yet. You could still reach her, on her cell..."

"Oh no. It has to be face to face."

Jim nodded, sadly. "Don't be hard on her, Chief. She's had a rough ride. Rougher than you."

"I know. It's good, I guess, that I won't see her till tonight; gives me time to process a little."

"She did what she thought was best for you."

"I hear that."

"Blair..."

"No, I mean it, I understand. We were all doing what we thought was right. I see that, I do, it's just... I'm still mad, you know?"

"I hear that," Jim said with forced solemnity.

"You hear that?"

"I do."

Blair chuckled. "OK."

"'We friends again?" Jim asked, squeezing Blair's hand over the blankets.

Blair smiled. "I guess."

"You going over to see him again?"

Blair nodded. "Later this morning; first I'm going browse the library, see if I can't find out more about his time here, maybe find some of his books and papers. And I'm hoping to get to see the vice-chancellor, he knew my Grandfather from way back, but he just got back off vacation. He'll be tired; he may not want to see me. Then, there's Naomi..."

Jim's stomach growled noisily in the quiet room. Blair laughed out loud. "Oh man! All this anxiety and anger and emotion and you're thinking about food!"

"Hey, I haven't eaten since breakfast, yesterday."

"I'm pretty hungry myself. The diner has blueberry pancakes."

"Good?"

"'Haven't tried them yet. You want the shower first?"

"We could save time, shower together."

Blair laughed again. "Have you seen the size of that cubicle?"

"Cosy?"

Blair giggled. "Very. I don't think we'll be having any hot shower sex this trip, man. Not if we want to keep all four limbs."

Jim followed Blair along the neat path to the quietly elegant house. Clouds were lowering, dark and gray, drenching the world in the strange acid light that presages a storm.

Blair had asked Jim to be there, nervous of meeting the man who, everyone said, knew his Grandfather like no other - but he stayed one step behind, supporting, ready and at hand, should he be needed, but not wanting to intrude; this was Blair's show.

Blair gave Jim a shy, uncertain glance as he stepped forward to tap the big brass knocker on the green-painted door - the color of the door was the only truly distinguishing feature of Vice-Chancellor Dennison's house. The surrounding buildings were all of a type - some were larger or smaller, each had a different door or porch-rail or some quirk of architecture; a small watchtower, a dovecote; Dennison's had a curly weather vane with a chicken - but were otherwise very much the same; white-boarded, freshly painted, all sitting amidst well-kept lawns dotted with flowering shrubs and maple trees. Clean, neat, perfect; even the air seemed spotless, with a clear, fresh smell touched with mown grass and wood smoke. It reminded Jim of the neighborhood he'd grown up in; it had that same smug air of contented routine; of well-ordered cleanliness and old money.

"Can I help you?" - A woman answered the door, snapping Jim's thoughts back to the present and the difficult task at hand. She was a small, slender woman in a tweed suit, smelling of ink and ivory soap; a secretary or housekeeper, Jim thought, definitely not a wife. The woman smiled warmly at Blair. "You must be Mr. Sandburg. Please come in, Professor Dennison is expecting you."

They stepped into a spacious, white-painted hall, colored by the light from a stained-glass window on the landing above. A broad, sweeping staircase dominated the room, with doors leading off in all directions. There was a huge, and no-doubt priceless, Pollock on the wall to their right.

"Thank you," Blair said softly, arms at his sides. He was subdued, holding himself in; maybe a little awed by the opulent house. Jim laid a quiet hand in the hollow of his back, offering reassurance. Blair smiled at him. "This is my friend, Jim Ellison," he said, turning back to the woman, with a soft, fond smile.

The woman stepped forward, offering her hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ellison," she said, shaking Jim's hand firmly. Jim smiled, but said nothing, standing sentinel behind his friend, deliberately keeping himself in the background.

"My name is Angela Standish," the woman said, switching her attention back to Blair. "I've been looking after the Professor's affairs for over forty years." She smiled broadly. "I hear you're Saul Lieberman's grandson, Naomi's boy?"

Blair smiled back. "That's right."

"We never knew Naomi had children," Angela said, shaking her head, "but there's no mistaking those eyes, my goodness, but you take after your grandpa!"

Blair smiled tightly; gave a slight nod.

"If you'd like to wait in the library," she opened one of the many doors, "I'll let William know you're here. Would you like coffee? Tea...?"

Blair immediately looked to Jim to respond, he seemed uncertain today; there was none of his usual bounce or enthusiasm. "I could really use some coffee," Jim smiled. "Chief?"

"Coffee would be great, thanks," Blair smiled.

Angela nodded, smiling kindly at Blair, perhaps sensing his discomfort. "Please make yourself comfortable, I'll go get Bill," she said, closing the door after her.

Blair sat down, stiffly, perching on the edge of the worn leather Chesterfield. Jim sat beside him, laying his arm across the back of the couch, placing a warm hand on Blair's neck and rubbing, soothingly. "Everything OK?" he asked.

Blair turned to him; he nodded stiffly.

"Sure? You seem... not your usual self," Jim smiled. "Is it all starting to get to you?"

Blair shrugged. "This guy..." he paused to look around the book-lined room. "He knew Saul; he knew Naomi too..."

"You're worried what he might have to say?"

Blair shrugged. "Is that stupid?"

"Not at all," Jim smiled, squeezing his neck. "I think it's completely natural."

"Only, you warned me... I know you know more than you've told me and, you did warn me; that I might not want to know..."

"Blair, look," Jim laid a hand on his partner's knee. Blair met his eyes.

"I know, I know," Blair smiled. "I do want to know. I think I need to know. But I still feel..."

"Nervous."

"Yeah." Blair looked away; he picked up a book from the table next to him, hefting it in his hand, nervously stroking the smooth leather binding. "Is it really bad?" he asked, casually, pretending to examine the book he held.

Jim sighed. He hated this; hated keeping secrets, hated that look of dull pain in Blair's eyes whenever he asked for more. Is this what it`d been like for Naomi all these years? Why the hell didn't she just tell the kid some lie? She could have told him his dad was dead; he'd've been no worse off for believing that. She could have kept her damn secret to herself; if she had, they wouldn't all be mired in this god-awful mess. But...

A permanent ache seemed to have taken root around his heart; sometimes he could hardly breathe for it. He understood why she'd wanted - needed, to share her terrible secret. "I don't know what to tell you, Blair..."

"I know," Blair sighed. "You promised."

"It's not just that."

"What then?"

Jim leaned his hands on his knees and looked at the rug. "I won't pretend... God, you know, Naomi asked me not to say anything, but I guess she's going to have to tell you..." He looked up to find Blair watching him intently. "It wasn't a good thing that happened to your mom, Blair, there's no getting away from that, but what came out of it... was wonderful." He gripped Blair's knee.

"You're talking about me?" Blair said, flatly.

"There is no way she regrets having you in her life," Jim breathed, holding his gaze.

"So I was conceived, in a bad way? I mean... You know what I mean."

Jim nodded. "I can't... Naomi's gonna have to tell you the details because I did promise, but... she loves you, Blair. And so do I. In the end, neither of us can change what happened, and neither of us regrets it because what happened, led to you."

Blair stared at him; hard, thoughtful - he seemed about to speak when the door burst open in a rattle of cups and a breeze of coffee as Angela returned, pushing a small trolley laden with fine china, cakes and toasted buns. Jim and Blair sprang to their feet, moving to help.

A tall, portly man with long wisps of white hair flowing past his collar and a thick, snowy moustache on a deeply tanned face, walked in behind Angela, holding the door open for her. "Sit down, gentlemen, please," he smiled. "We do this every day. Every day I ask for a simple mug of coffee and Angela turns it into a Martha Stewart moment."

"And if, just once, I did as he asked and came in without his walnut cake, I'd never hear the end of it," she smiled, setting the feast out on a large, glass topped coffee table. "Are you warm enough?" she asked the old man as he eased himself into a large, worn armchair, pulling a plaid rug from the back of the chair, draping it over his knees. "Shall I light the fire?"

"Don't fuss woman," Dennison griped, good-naturedly, clearly loving every second of her attention.

"You just got back from Turkey; you must be feeling the chill."

"I'm fine," he sighed, pulling the rug a little tighter around his knees. But you can light the damn fire, if it makes you happy!"

Angela rolled her eyes and hitched her skirt as she kneeled to sweep out the ashes and make up a fire. Jim and Blair exchanged a smile.

"So, you -" the old man reached out to take Blair's hand in a firm grip. "You must be the Blair Sandburg Julius Carter was in such a funk about when he called me this morning." He shook Blair's hand with a chuckle, letting it drop to lift the plate of toasted teacakes, swimming in butter.

"Bunny?" he asked. Blair shook his head, but Jim took one, catching the butter drips with his hand.

The fire lit, Angela wiped her hands on a tea cloth and passed Jim a plate and napkin, tut-tutting at William, who didn't notice.

"My goodness, but you make me feel young again, Blair, you look just like your Grandfather when he arrived here..." he paused to think. "Almost fifty years ago. My God, who could have imagined? Feels like only yesterday. Dear Me..."

"What was he like?" Blair asked, leaning forward to take the coffee Angela was holding out.

William sighed, sitting back in his chair. "Saul Lieberman was a remarkable man, quite remarkable, and a good friend. I hardly know where to begin."

"He was German?" Blair asked.

"Austrian. From Vienna. When I met him, he was in a concentration camp - Mauthausen; a peculiarly vicious place. It was part of a program devised by Himmler, called `extermination through labor'; people were to be literally worked to death there, in the quarries. And Saul should never have been there at all, he'd been a student in Vienna at the time of the invasion; very smart, precocious; he started his degree when he was just fifteen. He already had his bachelor's degree and was well on the way to a glittering academic career when they banned Jews from the university. But his family was well-heeled and they'd all gotten out to Switzerland before the Nazi's arrived. Trouble was, Saul was smart but he was also a hot-headed young fool. He got himself involved in the resistance, helping others to escape and in `forty three, he got caught and sent to Mauthausen. Your grandmother arrived a few months later; she was one of thousands of Jews transferred out of Holland..."

"Esther, right? What was she like?" Blair interrupted. "No one seems to know much about her."

"Very pretty; vivacious, always laughing at something," William smiled; paused a moment to remember. "She had real red hair, so long; she could sit on it, though she usually wore it up, in a bun," he patted the back of his head, and his eyes became distant, lost in thought.

"She was very, very young," he said, quietly; smiling. "She was always jumping around, waving her arms, clapping her hands!" He chuckled fondly. "Always so excited about something or other. She rode a bicycle, an old fashioned, sit-up-and-beg thing, with a basket on the front that she'd painted to look like it was made of bamboo." He laughed to himself. "Ah, Esther. She was so alive, you know? It was such a terrible, terrible shock..." he shook his head sadly. "She was younger than Saul; there were ten years between them. She was just fifteen when they married, but you could do that, back then, even in some states here in the US. Not that their marriage was exactly official; a Rabbi married them, back in the camp; they had to get it properly sanctioned after the war, to get the paperwork, you know?

"Saul told me it was love at first sight; he knew Esther was too young to marry, but neither of them expected to live. You know, they had a special method of killing in Mauthausen, it was called `Parachuting' - when prisoners grew too sick or weak to work, they'd line them up at the side of the quarry, and each one had to throw the person next to them off the edge. Everyone took each day as it came, and they were very much in love...

"Anyhow, that how I first met your Grandpop. I was with the liberating army; 41st Recon Squad of the US eleventh Armored Division, third US Army. Saul was at the head of the welcoming committee," William chuckled. "A walking skeleton in striped pajamas, but those eyes..." William glanced up to meet Blair's and shook his head in wonder. "Remarkable," he smiled. "Quite remarkable, the resemblance. It's like looking at Saul, young all over again. I'm so glad to have met you, Blair Sandburg. You're making me remember things I've barely thought of in years. Angela, could you get me the album? I think young Blair here would like to see some pictures of his family."

Angela moved to rustle about in a chest of drawers at the back of the room.

"Hmm, these buns are cold," William tutted, looking at the plate, feeling the coffee pot; "Coffee is too. Angela...?

"I'm on it, she sighed, clearing the table of all but the cake, laying an elderly photo album in William's lap and picking up the tray; Jim leapt to his feet to open the door for her, burdened as she was. Angela smiled her thanks, but nodded for him to sit back down.

"Mr. Ellison, come back here, and have some walnut cake," Dennison called. "Angela bakes it, it really is quite wonderful. Don't tell her I said that," he whispered with a grin.

Jim took a slice. Blair was shaking his head, but William was insistent. "Come now, you haven't eaten a thing since you got here."

Blair took a slice of the gooey, many-layered cake, smothered in nuts, took a tiny bite, then another, then a bigger bite. Jim smiled; pleased to see Blair eat at last, glad to see his friend starting to relax in William Dennison's company. And the cake really was excellent. He made a mental note to ask Angela for the recipe.

"Anyway, Saul worked with me, in those early days, just after the liberation of the camp" William said, his mouth half full as he chomped on his cake. "I'd been a young lawyer, just taking the bar when the war started and I got my call-up. I got assigned to interviewing the poor surviving wretches to put a case together for when the few SS and guards we'd managed to catch came to trial. Saul helped with all that. He spoke excellent English and acted as translator. We became very good friends."

"When did he come to America?" Blair asked, popping a last bite of cake into his mouth.

"Not till fifty two. Your Grandfather..." William mopped up the last crumbs from the plate with his finger and popped them into his mouth. "Got trapped behind the lines; Mauthausen was part of the Soviet sector of Austria, it wasn't free till forty-nine; he had to wait till 'fifty two to get a visa. You have to remember, everyone was trying to get out back then; Europe was devastated; the cold war had begun; American, French and British officials were busy deporting Czech, Hungarian, Polish nationals back behind Soviet lines. Fake passports and papers were big business; America was being very choosy who it decided to accept."

"But you helped him?" Blair asked as Angela returned to top up his cup with fresh coffee, placing more cake on William's plate.

"I helped some. I liked Saul. He was a brilliant young man, an asset to the university."

"Thank you," Blair smiled. "For getting my Grandpa out. I guess if it hadn't been for you, I would never have been born..."

Blair lapsed into silence. He sipped at his cup. Jim could tell he was building himself up to ask something big - but Dennison interrupted his thoughts, opening the big blue book lying on the table between them.

"They were special people. You know, Mauthausen was the last camp to be liberated; the war was practically over, and the plan was to herd the remaining few prisoners into the tunnels, set off a charge and bury them alive, but some got wind of it and started work on hiding tools in there so they'd be able to dig their way out. When that didn't happen, because most of the SS fled, a group of prisoners attacked the few remaining guards and seized weapons and killed most of those they could find. The SS did try to re-take the camp, but those people had organized themselves into a self-governing, well-armed body, and they fought `em off. Quite remarkable. That was the kind of people your grandparents were. You should be proud of them, young Blair."

"I am," Blair nodded, solemnly. "I just wish I could have known them; could have talked with them about all this."

Dennison nodded. "Your mother never talked about her father?"

Blair shook his head, eyes on the ground.

"I see. Well, I don't know how much Saul told your mother, before she went away. Esther, of course, died long before you were born. Your mother was just a child then... What am I saying? She was still just a child when she left for New York..."

Blair glanced up at the old man, staring hard. He was holding his breath, Jim could hear it. Jim was holding his, too.

"Ah me. I don't know," Dennison sighed, turning the pages of the photo album before him. "I don't know what happened there, why she left." He glanced up at Blair, eyes sad and faraway. "He never told me all of it, only that there'd been some disagreement, teenage stuff, you know. It was the sixties; children were turning on their parents, running away, joining rock bands, becoming hippies; it was all such a puzzle to us old folk." He smiled sadly. "Saul always shrugged it off, said she'd be back one day, when she'd worked out whatever it was she felt needed to be `worked out'. But she never did come back. Eventually, he stopped talking about her. He took her picture down," William sighed, taking out a big linen handkerchief to wipe at his nose. "We never saw her again. He never said a word, but I think it broke your Grandfather's heart.

He carefully extracted a photo from the album and handed it to Blair; a hand-tinted picture of a laughing little girl with the reddest hair, tied in a top-knot with a green-silk ribbon.

Blair looked up in wonder. "My Mom?"

William nodded. "Naomi; when she was five years old - a lovely child, always laughing, just like her mom - she had every reason to laugh, no one could have been more loved, or wanted."

Blair handed the picture back as William passed him a faded old greetings card.

"That's the first picture I have of her."

Blair took the card; the picture on the front was of a crane, carrying a ridiculously fat, pink baby with huge blue eyes as she played with a pink ribbon that formed the words; `A Baby Girl!' Blair opened the card to find a black and white photograph of a tiny new-born, and writing, in violet ink in an elegant, copper-plate hand;

`The impossibly cute and in every-way adorable Naomi Esther; seven pounds, ten ounces, arrived at the very inconvenient time of three-thirty in the morning, October 10th, 1953. Bill, come see us soon; Naomi's dying to meet her favorite uncle - Esther.'

Blair carefully smoothed the edges of the yellowing little card; he'd been gripping it so tightly, he'd wrinkled the corners. He had a thousand questions but found he couldn't say a word; his throat seemed blocked, like he'd swallowed a walnut complete with shell. He knew he was breathing like a freight train as he tried to hold back tears, overwhelmed, somehow, by this well-thumbed scrap of paper, announcing his mother's arrival; of the deep love her parents and friends clearly felt for his Mom.

Feeling Jim's warm hand laid on his shoulder, he gave up the fight, letting silent tears pour down his face and drip down on to his jeans. Jim reached over and gently prized the little card from Blair's ruining grip, comfortingly rubbing his hand across his lover's back. He took a look at the baby; Naomi, though really, it could've been any baby, they all looked the same when they were born, whatever the parents thought.

"You OK?" Jim whispered softly, squeezing Blair's shoulder. He got a nod, followed by a very wet and snotty snort. William and Angela were sitting so quietly, Angela with a compassionate, understanding smile, William stiffly, pretending to look at the album, obviously uncomfortable with Blair's sudden emotion.

Angela passed Jim a Kleenex; he passed it under the curtain of Blair's hair, giving his shoulder an extra squeeze as he did. A hand appeared, taking the tissue, blowing hard. Jim squeezed again, then laid his hand back on his lover's back, his touch filled with the warmth of friendship.

"OK?" he asked, quietly.

There was another nod before Blair emerged from under his hair, flipping the heavy mane back with one hand, wiping red eyes with the soggy handkerchief. Angela passed him the box with a sympathetic smile; he nodded in thanks; embarrassed. "Sorry," he said, wetly. "I'm not quite sure what happened there."

"Quite alright young man," William blustered, not making eye contact.

Jim reached out to hand back the card, but Blair touched his wrist to stop him, taking the card back, looking at the writing again.

"October `fifty three?" he asked.

"That's right," William said. "Esther realized she was expecting around a year after they arrived here at Fulton."

"But..." Blair sighed. "That means..." He looked at Jim with questioning eyes. "She lied."

"What about, Chief?" Jim asked quietly, stilling his stroking hand in the small of Blair's back.

"Her age. I thought... She told me she was seventeen when I was born, but if she was born in October `fifty three, she was only fifteen. Fifteen! God, that's..."

"Very young," William agreed, sadly. "I guess she found some trouble when she ran away from home."

Blair nodded and sighed.

"Your father...?" William probed, carefully.

"I never knew him. I don't know who he was. She never told me."

"Ah," William sighed, his eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry."

Jim's grip on Blair's shirt tightened with tension. Blair handed the little card back to Dennison.

"You know," William said, as he carefully slotted it back inside the paper corners. "You're welcome to make copies of any of these photographs; I'll make sure they all come to you, when I'm gone."

"Thank you," Blair smiled with genuine gratitude. "That's... That's really kind of you. Not that... I mean, I hope it'll be a long time..."

"You take this with you," William said, closing the book and handing it to Blair. "Have a good look, make any copies you want, there's a very good place right here on campus; they're student photographers, really excellent, over in the theatre block. And I'll be here, I'm happy to answer any questions you might have; you know, when you return the album, please feel free to come and talk again. I mean that."

Blair took the precious book, laying it on his lap, stroking it reverently. "Thank you," he said. "This is... this is really kind of you."

William waved a dismissive hand. "I think we all need more coffee, Angela." - Angela was already on her feet, coffee pot in hand.

"Is that OK?" Blair asked, looking lost and uncertain again. "We don't want to keep you. We've already taken up so much of your time."

"Blair," William smiled. "I'm having more fun hashing over all this ancient history than you can possibly imagine. It's so good, you know, to talk about old friends this way. I so rarely get the chance; everyone on campus is so damn young!"

Blair laughed, still sounding a little wet and wheezy from his crying jag. "Did they ever... Were there other children?"

William shook his head, reaching for the cake knife. "No, Naomi was their only child. More cake, Blair?"

"No thanks," Blair said as the old man cut another thick slice.

"Jim?" Dennison asked.

"No, I'm good," Jim smiled as William plopped the cake, his third helping, on to his own plate.

"Are you sure?" William asked again.

"Certain," Jim nodded.

"Suit yourselves. I'm having some more," he glanced behind him, checking that Angela hadn't come back yet. "Blood sugar be damned. I'm eighty six years old, if I can't have a little extra cake at my time of life... Well, then there's no damn point in being old at all." He bit into the gooey cake with the triumphant air of someone getting one over on his housekeeper.

"Naomi was something of a miracle," William said, swallowing a huge mouthful. "Esther thought she couldn't have any children. I know, because she used to come over here regularly to cry about it with my wife, Sylvia." He glanced up at the portrait of a young, smiling woman, painted sometime in the mid-fifties. "After seven years of marriage and nothing to show, she was worried. She went and got herself checked out by some excellent doctors back in New York; they all reckoned that the privations of life in the camps at such a significant age - puberty and all that, meant that she hadn't developed properly. They told her it was unlikely she'd ever conceive. She and Saul had forgotten about even trying when Naomi came along, but she was the only one; a little gift from heaven, Saul used to call her; a child of God." He put down his empty plate and sighed.

"She was so beloved, that child. She could do no wrong; dreadfully spoiled," he chuckled, sobering to shake his head sadly. "But... I'm trying to find the words... With everything that happened after... It's hard to explain, you have to put yourself in Saul's shoes..." He locked eyes with Blair who watched the old man, wide-eyed; riveted, waiting on his every word.

Angela chose that moment to walk in with a fresh pot of coffee, smiling broadly, about to make some quip, but, feeling the tension - she glanced at Jim who put his forefinger to his lips. She slipped quietly across the room, putting the pot down on the table, sitting down to listen. Blair didn't even notice; all his attention was fixed on Dennison.

"Saul loved Esther in an almost crazy way," William said. "I never saw a couple so much in love; never saw a man who adored his wife like that. Saul worshipped Esther; he often told me that she was the one who kept him alive through the war. She was the world, the sun and moon and stars to that man; I can well believe he made up his mind to survive, just so he could go on being with her. She was thirty two when she first found a lump in her breast.

"A diagnosis of Cancer was pretty much a death sentence in those days. There was very little they could do, though they fought it with everything they had; radiation, mostly. Terrible. She had a very hard time, Blair." William reached out and tapped Blair's knee. "And I know, because Sylvie told me all about it; I know she wanted to give up. The treatments were very tough; she was in constant pain, very sick. She knew it wasn't working and she wanted to just leave it all be and let nature take its course, but she kept on fighting, for Saul.

"While ever there was that crumb of hope for him - because he always believed the doctors would save her. He told me he couldn't believe that God would have gotten them through the war, brought them here to America and given them the gift of a child, only to snatch it all away so cruelly; he wouldn't believe that God could be so cruel. And while ever he believed that..." he slapped his palms down on his own knees and shook his head. "Well, she wouldn't take that hope away from him."

Blair nodded sadly, glancing at Jim to find Jim looking at him; knowing he was thinking the same thing; knowing how it would be if ever one of them were in Saul or Esther's position, and understanding. "She sounds like a very brave woman," he said.

"She was," William said, almost in a whisper, sounding close to tears. He cleared his voice; "Angela," he said brightly, scenting the air. "Fresh coffee, you're an angel. I think we all need a cup, but first," he pushed himself to his feet, waving at Angela to sit back down. "I can do it, I can do it, don't fuss woman," he muttered. "First, I need to make a call."

"Too much coffee will do that to you," Angela muttered, when he'd gone. "He shouldn't drink so much coffee; it's terribly bad for his blood pressure."

"Were you here back then, Angela?" Blair asked. "Did you know Esther?"

Angela sat back in her seat with a sigh. "Not really, Blair. I only met her twice; she was in and out of hospital and I'd only been here a few months when she died, early in sixty six. I know there was the most terrible grief here; your grandmother was greatly loved. It's hard for me to say much about that because I hardly knew her, but from the reaction of everyone, when she passed; I think she must have been a wonderful woman.

Blair nodded. "Sixty six, so Mom would have been... twelve, thirteen? Just a kid."

Angela nodded. "I remember Naomi well. Very bookish little girl, very smart; we all expected her to go on to do great things."

"Her mom's death must have hit her hard," Blair mused, sadly.

Angela nodded. "I think she changed. Like I said, I wasn't here before so I can't say for sure, but everyone talked of Naomi as this bright, brilliant, vivacious little girl, just like her Mom. Well, that wasn't the Naomi I knew. The little girl I saw every day spent most of her time alone, making daisy chains on The Meadowes; always with her head in a book. A very quiet, studious child, she seemed to me."

"Doesn't sound much like Naomi," Blair said, pausing to sip at his coffee. "Angela," he said after a while. "What do you think happened between my Mom and Saul?"

Angela sighed, casting a quick glance at the closed door. "I don't know, Blair, not for sure, but I heard the gossip, from other students, young people, closer to Naomi, maybe - that she was having problems at home; that she'd talked about running away. Those same young people all said Professor Lieberman had changed..."

"It was the strangest thing" - William Dennison's voice cut across the stillness of the room; no one had heard him come in. William walked steadily across the room and sat down in his chair, gripping the arms, not looking at anyone.

"After Esther died, we all expected him to fall apart. They'd been so much in love, so much a part of each other; one soul, two bodies, you know?" He looked up at Blair with watery green eyes. "But he didn't. He was very calm; made the funeral arrangements, did everything with quiet dignity. Sylvie helped a lot; she was great at that kind of thing, knew all the etiquette; very much the socialite..."

He knotted his hands together and laid them on his knees, composing himself; remembering. "And he stayed calm, stayed relatively cheerful for a long while. He really... He was very much the man he'd been before Esther got sick. It was... strange because they'd been so close, you would have expected something, some reaction; sadness, tears... something. And that came, in the end.

"Two years after she was gone something snapped. And I watched it happen. It was like watching an elastic band being pulled," he mimed pulling out a thread between his fingers and thumbs. "Stretching, stretching, thinner and thinner and thinner, and you're watching and wincing, waiting for the moment that you know is going to come when the thing is suddenly going to break, and I watched that happen to Saul, over the space of about three weeks, around the second anniversary of our losing her. I remember it so well; it was in springtime; all the Azaleas were blooming, the cherry blossom was falling like snow; a lovely time of year and he just suddenly - changed.

"He got mean. He was contrary, bad tempered, snapping at everyone; his students were terrified, no one dared go near him; staff too, no one wanted to deal with him, he was just spoiling for a fight the whole time, you know? And Naomi, that poor kid; she took the brunt of it. It seemed like he'd only have to look at her... And she was at a difficult age; fourteen years old, just staring to blossom - a real pretty girl, so very like her mother; and boys were noticing, as boys will and talking and whistling and, if it happened when he was around to see..." William shook his head. "It seemed to tip Saul into the most terrific rages. Drove him crazy.

"And then, he changed again. It really was the strangest thing. Almost overnight, he became the same, sweet, good tempered man I'd always known, walking around with a perpetual smile on his face. But when we asked... When we asked him why he was so happy..." He locked gazes with Angela, and she took up the story.

"We were all pretty worried," she said. "He said he was happy because he'd found Esther again." She looked up to meet Blair's confused gaze. Jim took Blair's hand in his as Angela went on; "I wasn't sure what he meant..." she tailed off, uncertainly, looking at William who was chewing his lip.

"He meant exactly what he said," William said. "He really thought Esther's spirit had returned to be with him. He told me, in all seriousness, that he thought he was going to die soon, that that was why Esther'd returned, you know? To take him with her. And he was so cheerful about that! He wanted to go. He wanted to be with her."

"But he didn't die," Blair said quietly, feeling Jim squeezing his hand so hard.

"No, he didn't. And he stopped talking that way, after a while. I was relieved, I have to say. I was afraid we'd lose him; that he'd either take his own life, or that he'd have to go away to some sanitarium, you know? Because he really was talking crazy there, for a while. We couldn't have let him continue to deal with our students the way he was."

"But he got better?" Blair asked.

"He did. But only after Naomi left, which she did later that same year." He shrugged. "Don't ask me to say what it was that made her run off, Blair, because I honestly don't know. There was no lead up, no warning that she was planning to leave..." Blair cast a glance at Angela, but she just sat very still, staring at her own hands, locked in her lap.

"One morning, we woke up, and she was gone," William went on. "A pity," he sighed. "She was a lovely girl and her father doted on her. I used to wonder if his strange behavior just before, had something to do with it. He really was mad, for a while. But then... thinking about things, in the light of new knowledge... it probably had nothing to do with that at all. Blair, can I ask when you were born?"

"May `sixty nine," Blair said.

Dennison nodded. "Well then," he breathed. "She must have been carrying you when she left. Back then; an unmarried mother and only - what? Fourteen, fifteen? I'm sorry to say, that was a very big deal, Blair. I don't know what went on between your mother and Grandfather, assuming he even knew - but I have to say, it sounds the most likely explanation for her running off. Sad. Very sad. A dreadful business," he shook his head sadly." And coming so soon after losing Esther; I just can't imagine...He seemed to get over it, seemed to recover, but in truth, he was never quite the same. He didn't socialize much, he stayed home a lot. He retreated inside himself. The public face stayed much the same, but inside, he was a deeply lonely man.

"I am sorry," William said, leaning over to tap Blair's knee again, "that you've missed out on your Grandfather's life. He was a most remarkable man. Most remarkable, and you should have known him. It's a shame, a damn shame." He sat back in his chair. "We must go see him, too, Angela. It's been too long."

"You're right," she agreed, smiling warmly at the old man. "We really should."

Jim's cellphone cut into the quiet conversation. He slipped it out of his pocket. "I'm sorry," he said, "I have to take this, it could be my boss."

"Of course, of course," Dennison agreed, lifting the pot, trying to force more coffee on Blair, trying to pour himself another cup as Angela frowned and shook her head; keeping quiet in deference to Jim, who was listening to his caller.

Jim threw a quick, anxious glance at Blair as he spoke; "Uh huh... OK... Well, I can't say... Yeah, well like I said... I think you'll have to work that out for yourself... Alright then... That sounds... We'll see you there." He ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. "That was Naomi."

William shot a glance at Jim. Angela let out a startled little "Oh!" Blair flinched, and looked nervously at Jim. "She and her friend just arrived. She wants to see you, Chief; wants to talk."

Blair nodded, silently.

"Well, my goodness, I'd like to see her myself!" William beamed, heedless of the warning glances Angela was throwing his way. "My God, it's been almost thirty years! How is she? Is she OK?"

"She's fine," Blair smiled, tightly. "I'll let her know you're keen to see her."

William smiled. "You do that. Well, I guess, you'll be wanting to get off and see your Mom," He stood, reaching out to shake Blair's hand. "It's been good, Blair, I've really enjoyed talking with you. I don't get the chance, much, you know? Pretty much everyone who knew Saul and Esther back then are gone, now. I've spent a wonderful afternoon, reminiscing. Some sad things, to be sure, but a lot of happy stuff, too. I hope that's what you'll take away with you; the good things, the happy things, because that's who Saul and Esther were; joy personified. Such a beautiful, loving couple. Remarkable people, Blair, never forget that. Quite remarkable."

Blair?"

Leaving Jim to deal with the desk - there was a message waiting for them - Blair turned to find Sally walking towards him across the motel lobby. It had been almost five years since he'd last seen her; noticing, for the first time, how deeply lined her tanned face was. Her sun-blonde, waist-length hair was now cropped short and steel-gray - she must have been dyeing it for a long time. Sally was older than Naomi; it was the first time he'd noticed how his Mom's friends were growing old; Naomi herself, was no longer young.

Sally threw her arms around him, squeezing tight; kissing him hard. "It's so good to see you," she gasped. "It's been so long."

Blair clung to her, needing the connection, taking comfort in this sudden remembered love of his mom's best friend - breaking the hug to hold her at arm's length so he could look her in the eye. "Naomi?" he asked, feeling Jim appear at his elbow.

"She's gone ahead," Sally said, raising a hand to smooth a curl from his eye. "She went to see your Grandpa..."

"Making up for lost time?" Blair asked, dryly.

"Blair, don't..."

"I thought she wanted to talk to me. What happened, lose her nerve?"

"Blair..."

Suddenly, it was all just too much to bear. "Sally, it's OK..." he said, softly, closing his eyes for a moment. He knew too much, more than he should; now he was the one with secrets to protect. For a second, it overwhelmed him and he had to shut his eyes against the onslaught. When he opened them again, to see Sally, looking so concerned, and Jim, with that sad, knowing, worried look - all the fight went out of him. There was no more anger, just a big, hollow ball of grief.

"She's so scared, Blair. She knows you're mad at her," Sally blurted, her voice tinged with tears and panic. Blair looked into her bloodshot eyes, thinking of Sally and his Mom; together, they'd woven this web of uncertainties to wrap him in and keep him safe. Now it was all coming apart, too fast to be fixed. His heart went out to his Mom; he had to see her, reassure her, let her know it was OK now, that she could finally stop running.

"I'm not mad, Sally," he sighed. "Not any more."

Sally met Jim's eyes over Blair's shoulder, throwing him a questioning glance. Blair saw them, catching Jim's solemn shake of his head as Sally took Blair's hand, drawing his eyes back to hers. "You have to understand, honey, he hurt her very badly."

"I know..."

"Chief, Saul's not well," Jim interrupted, laying a heavy hand on Blair's shoulder as the storm broke; a sharp crack of thunder that split the air above them. Jim paused a moment, his hand tightened on Blair's shoulder. Blair reached up and laid his hand over Jim's. Jim recovered, composed himself, handed Blair the note he was clutching, a note from the desk. F Sally found any of this strange, she said nothing. Rain began bouncing off the pavement outside.

"He had a bad night," Jim said, quietly as he could and still be heard over the rain. "He's pretty sick, Chief. They don't know... The clinic's been trying to contact you all day..."

"They called the Motel looking for you, right after we got here," Sally said, holding tight to Blair's hand. "Naomi went straight over to the clinic; I've been waiting for you, to tell you..."

"He's dying isn't he?" Blair said, noting the quick glance they shared, irritated by the conspiracy of kindness between them, knowing it was irrational - feeling the tears rising in his throat and stamping them down. "God knows, I've had little enough time with him... I need to see him."

Sally clung to his hand, desperation in her eyes. "I promised Naomi I'd explain..."

"I think that's her job, Sally," Blair said, looking up at Jim; hating the concern in his eyes.

"She knows that, Blair. She's ready to talk to you, but... She doesn't want to fight, she loves you so much. Everything she's done - no matter how wrong it all seems to you right now, it was all done out of love, honey."

"Protecting me."

"Yes."

"Everyone wants to protect me. Well I don't need protecting, I`m not a child anymore." He threw a defiant look at Jim. "It's about time everyone around here realized that I can look after myself; I've been doing it for a long time now. I don't need any more lies, no matter how well meant. I just want the truth."

"Blair," Jim said, quietly. "No one wants to lie to you. I don't know what to say to you, to make this right..."

"You don't have to say anything, Jim. That's Naomi's job."

"Chief, everyone's just trying to do their best here."

Blair took a deep breath, clenched his fists; got a grip on his confused emotions. "I know that Jim. I know... that none of this is easy, not for you, not for anyone. I don't want a fight with my Mom," he said, quietly. "I just want to talk; I want to hear her story."

Sally finally let go of his hand. "Be kind to her, Blair," she half-whispered. "She's been through so much grief, because she loves you."

Blair gave a tight nod, stroked a conciliatory hand down her arm, turned and walked out of the door.

As Jim turned to follow his partner, Sally took his wrist. "He doesn't know, does he?"

Jim shrugged. "He knows that Saul's his grandfather; that Naomi left here pregnant; that something very bad happened between his Mom and Saul. Blair's smart Sally, he knows there's a lot more to this story than he's been told so far."

She nodded. "I'll call Naomi; let her know it's OK..."

"Don't you think he ought to know?" Jim interrupted, his voice hoarse and tight.

Sally looked up at him. "You really think he needs to go through life with that in his heart, the way Naomi has? I've lived with her pain for almost thirty years, Jim. I can promise you, knowing won't make Blair's life any easier or happier."

"He's not a child!"

"You think a man can't be hurt just as easily?"

"I'm tired of lying to him. He's right; we're trying so hard to keep him safe from this... thing. Maybe he doesn't want to be safe. He's stronger than you think, Sally. Maybe it is just time to come clean and let him deal with it."

Sally glanced away, thinking, shaking her head a little, she turned back to Jim. "It's such a big thing to have to deal with, and it's not our decision to make, it's Naomi's."

"You're going to call her; let her know how things stand?"

Sally nodded, taking the phone from her pocket. Jim went out to join his partner.

Fat raindrops obscured the view through the windshield as Jim climbed into his rental-car. The heating was turned up too high; the warm, heavy air catching in his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He sat down beside Blair, rolling his window open just a crack, letting fresh, cool air pour inside; he leaned his head against the window and breathed it in. Blair sat unmoving; quiet and still, his eyes on his hands which were pressed together between his knees; his jacket steamed lightly in the humid air, he smelled of wet wool and misery.

"You don't have to do this; talk to Naomi, see your Grandfather..." Jim said, quietly.

"Of course I do." Blair sat stock still. His response was quiet, controlled; keeping his eyes down.

"Just say the word and we'll go right back to New York."

The rain fell faster, snapping angrily against the car. A distant boom of thunder rolled through their silence. Jim leaned against the wheel and pinched the bridge of his nose, unsure how to proceed, how to reach out to his wounded friend.

"My grandfather's dying, Jim. I can't just walk away."

"And your mom? Have you thought about...?"

"What I'm going to say? I thought.... I don't know," he said, his voice small. He sighed, heavily. "I guess I'll wait to hear what she wants to tell me, take it from there. Unless you're ready to talk to me, now?"

"If it's what you want. I'm not afraid of it, anymore."

Jim turned and met Blair's eyes; they were bloodshot, like he'd been crying, though he hadn't; Jim couldn't smell tears. Blair watched him intensely for long moments, clearly thinking; weighing options, coming to a decision - a certainty passed across his eyes and he looked away, staring through the raindrops at the stormy motel car park.

He slipped his hand into Jims. "This has been hard on you, hasn't it?"

Jim sat staring at their joined hands, saying nothing.

"She had no right to lay all this on you," Blair whispered. "It was unfair."

"She needed to share."

"I was there, too."

"Blair..."

"I know."

Jim wiped his left hand over his damp face, staring out of the window, not able to meet Blair's eyes. "I meant what I said," he said, his voice hoarse.

Blair gripped his hand a little tighter. "I know and I'm grateful," Blair sighed. "But the ball's in Naomi's court now."

"It's hard on her, too, Chief. Hardest of all on her."

Blair squeezed his eyes tight shut, took a deep breath. Jim could hear his heart pounding. "What do you want me to say, Jim?" he whispered. "It's hard on us all."

Jim leaned across the seat, took his lover by his trembling shoulders and kissed him deeply. He tasted of tears. Jim broke the kiss to hold Blair tight as he clung to him. Blair was crying quietly; there were no sobs, just an endless stream of tears flowing down to wet Jim's shoulder.

"It's been a tough time for everyone," Jim whispered thickly. He felt a nod, running his hand into Blair's hair, holding his love's head against his own, rocking him slightly, willing comfort as Blair muttered;

"Fuck him, Jim. Fuck him for hurting us all."

A dull ache tore at Jim's heart; saying nothing, holding tight.

"I'm so mad at him for being sick;" Blair's breathing was thick and wet, his heart hammering. "I know that's stupid, but I need to hear his story and I never will. I need to hear why he hurt her so much. I can't imagine what she went through. She was fourteen years old, Jim, she was a child! And, I respect her so much, now, because she had options, you know; she didn't have to have me, didn't have to keep me. And Saul... I want him to tell me... Because he wasn't a bad man, Jim. Everyone says. He was..."

"Remarkable," Jim breathed, just holding on, overwhelmed with love. "I guess it runs in the family."

Blair pulled away slightly, to wipe at his eyes. His face was pale and swollen, his eyes bruised, puffy and half-closed. Jim laid a palm against his face, rubbed a thumb across the wet cheek. There were a dozen things he wanted to say in that moment, but decided; "I love you," fit the bill best.

"You do, huh?" Blair sniffed, a tiny smile starting to break.

Jim smiled.

"Yeah, well. I love you, too."

"That's good."

They looked at each other a long while, Jim stroking gently at Blair's cheek, Blair with that look in his eyes again; that weighing, thinking, deciding look - then Blair glanced away, running thoughtful fingers down the window to his side, following a raindrop as it trailed a hesitant path down the glass. "I'm sorry this has upset you so much," he said softly, without turning around. "I wouldn't hurt you for the world, Jim, you know that. If there was something I could say or do that would make it right for you, you know I would, don't you?" He turned to look at Jim. "But this is between Naomi and me, now."

Jim gave a single nod, put on his seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, pulled the car on to the road and headed for the clinic.

Sally would accuse me of `flittering'. I know I am; continuously pacing around this tiny room. If Sally were here, she'd yell at me. She's so much more grounded than me, `flittering' annoys her. She'd tell me to sit down and light a cigarette. I stopped smoking twenty-five years ago, but I'd kill for a cigarette now.

I can't be still. I feel like I'm about to shatter, like I'm made of glass. I can't sit in that chair by the bed, watching him, lying there. The last time he opened his eyes he smiled and called me Esther. I should call a nurse. I should do something. But I can't. I have to see this through.

Seeing him again - it changes everything.

For years, I thought I hated him. I worked on trying to forget, but there was always Blair; beloved Blair, my angel, the centre of my world. And Blair is so very like him. How could I forget the old man, when I had his living image bouncing around me, laughing and talking a mile a minute?

Eventually I stopped trying to forget and just tried to deal. I traveled; journeyed to ashrams and retreats, sampling philosophies like chocolates, seeking out this new religion, that new guru, the latest hot thing in therapy, dancing through life, always on the move, scared to touch down and become grounded.

And always with a new man; afraid to hold down a relationship which, my current therapist tells me is a classic reaction for a woman with my particular background of abuse - Unable to form close relationships with men, unable to trust; always ready for betrayal, rejection; punishment.Feeling crazy, feeling different, feeling unreal, creating fantasy worlds and new identities. Re-inventing myself all the time...

She's good. She's a keeper. She's got me all worked out. Running, always running; bags all packed and ready for a quick getaway; to Canada, California, Mexico, Hawaii, Bali, Nepal and on and on. Me and my baby, always on the run...

And I see - like Sudden Enlightenment (which is the true essence of Buddhism), blinding me with serendipity,that everywhere I've been, everything I've seen, all the things I learned, have been leading me here. Nothing in this universe happens randomly and Karma has a twisted sense of humor. Suddenly, I see that it's time I faced my fears. This is not a disaster. This is the Universe, telling me it's time. Sinking into a hard, hospital chair that has become my Bodhi tree, I contemplate this unexpected revelation.

OK, I'm sitting down. I'm taking his hand. I can do this. I've worked hard on myself, studied many philosophies. I have learned to stop hating.

And I have. I truly have. A long time ago, at an ashram, in Dolalghat, I looked inside myself and discovered that self-pity is as destructive as hate. That we can learn to live with our pain and replace it in our heart with empathy and compassion, return evil with good and so transcend the status of victim. Life is a journey and the journey is about learning to let go; detach with love, move on and grow. And if it's taken me a lifetime of traveling, seeking, meditating and learning just to get me to this point, where I can sit by this old man's bed and hold his hand as he passes from this life to the next, and do it without judgment, without hatred - with compassion and understanding for who he was and is and forgive - then every moment of my long journey has been worthwhile.

"Papa, you hurt me, but I don't hate you anymore. I was living a life filled with pain and anger. I had to let it go and see it for what it was - and I did that, and that was healthy but I still couldn't love you. Don't think I didn't think about that. I thought about it often, coming over here, making peace, letting you know Blair, letting him know you - but in the end, it was always too hard, too painful. And I had to protect Blair. He asked so many questions. I couldn't risk him finding out how he came to be.

"So here I am, sitting by your bed, looking inside myself again and wondering what it is I'm feeling. And I think, what I'm feeling... is calm. I truly am at peace now. I'm sorry for the terrible things you went through. You were a victim too, and, though I hate what you did to me, if you hadn't hurt me, then I wouldn't have Blair, and I can't hate Blair. I can't ever be anything but thankful that I have Blair.

"So I guess, what I'm trying to say, is `goodbye, Papa.' I guess, what I'm doing here, is detaching - with love."

Blair glanced into the room again, watching Naomi, sitting by Saul's bed, holding his hand and talking - too softly for him to hear through the little window in the door, peeking at his mother as he paced, up and down in the corridor, half wanting to go inside, half wanting to run and not stop till he got back to Cascade. His knees were shaking slightly. He was a mess of confused emotions, wishing, now, he'd not left Jim in the cafeteria. He'd thought he needed to speak to Naomi alone. Now he wondered if it wouldn't have been better with Jim's quiet strength to lean on.

But...

Draining the last of his cinnamon latte, he crushed the cup, dumped it in the trash and pushed open the door.

Naomi sat very still, in the chair by the bed, her back to him, holding Saul's hand.

"It wasn't hard to do what I did; turn my back on him and walk away," she said, as Blair made his way to the corner of the room, put his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. He felt safer here; there was distance between himself, his mom and Saul, and he could see the whole room - all four walls, the window, the door; like a trapped animal, he needed to see what confronted him; he needed the wall at his back.

"He was so angry," Naomi went on, her voice flat, emotionless - keeping her back to Blair; speaking softly, for his ears only. "Furious at God for taking everything from him. He'd lost it all, you see; home, family - all he had was Momma, then God took her too, and there was no one left at all."

"He had you," Blair croaked, his throat dry and hoarse with un-shed tears.

She hung her head and squeezed Saul's limp hand a little tighter. "I was always second best. His heart was so full of Momma, there wasn't much room left for anyone else."

"Didn't that hurt?"

She shook her head. "I'm not saying he didn't love me, he did, very much. They both did. But they were the sun and moon to each other. I think I always knew that; hoped I'd find a love like that myself, one day."

"Mom..."

"Let me tell you what happened, Blair, and then we'll talk, OK?" She turned her head slightly, but still didn't look at him; couldn't see the tears that were coursing down his face.

"He was never a violent man. Never lost his temper, never spanked me. But he had a lot of sadness hidden in his heart, Blair. He'd been through terrible times..."

"I heard about Mauthausen, from Bill Dennison..."

"Is he still alive?" she asked, interrupting him. "Oh my. I should go see him. He and Sylvia were very kind to me..." She lapsed into a silence; suddenly agitated, staring at the wall, apparently thinking, she shook the hand in hers a little. "Where was I?"

"Mauthausen."

She nodded and paused a while, deep in thought. "He never spoke to me about that. Momma did, a little, sometimes. But I was such a little girl; I don't think either of them wanted me to know too much. Momma would speak to me in German. She'd tell me fairy tales and little things, proverbs and the like that her mother told to her, but Papa never spoke his native tongue at all. Momma said it was too hard for him. It made him think of things that were gone; happy times that could never come again. It made him unhappy to hear the old language."

She went quiet again. Blair just sat on the floor, saying nothing, waiting; trembling uncontrollably.

"Momma was so sick, and for so long. It sometimes seems, when I look back, that my whole childhood was filled with her dying. Papa wouldn't face it; he was furious with the doctors when they told him there was no hope. I'd never even seen him lose his temper, until then. After... when she was gone, he put a brave face to the world, but he changed. Everyone knew, knew how much it had hurt him... They were all so kind. But then, a couple of yearsafter Momma'd gone, he changed..."

"Did you talk to anyone? Tell them what was happening?"

"Who could I have told?"

"He needed help, mom! And so did you..."

She shook her head. "The only people I knew were elderly Professors and virginal students..."

"He was hurting you! You could have gone to the police..."

"The police? Tell the police?! How could I do that? They would have destroyed him. He wasn't in his right mind. And who would have believed me? Honey, it was all so different then, you have no idea; and a part of me still loved him. Everyone loved him. He was very easy to love."

"But what about you mom?!" Blair's tears were falling freely now; his voice was drowning in them.

"I did the only thing I could do. I ran away. "

"You were fourteen years old!"

She nodded.

"You were just a child!"

"No," she sighed. "No, I don't think I was, baby. I'd had to grow up very fast when Mom was dying. After, when she was gone... I was older than my years and had been for a long time when I got on that bus to New York. I had a good friend there, not much older than me; she'd been a student at Fulton, but she dropped out to go to some acting school in the city. I thought I'd link up with her, maybe go to that school myself, be an actress, make a new life. I knew she'd help me... get rid of you."

Blair nodded to himself; Naomi was keeping her back to him. "I see that," he said, quietly. "I understand why you'd do that." He looked up at her, still sitting, as she had the whole time, head down, shoulders bent, nursing Saul's hand. "So, what happened?" he prodded. "What made you change your mind?"

She shrugged. "Marcie was good to me; she took me in, let me share her bed, got me a cash-in-hand job at the local diner, found me a back-street abortionist, even offered to lend me the money." She went quiet again. "I didn't... I was scared. It felt wrong. I didn't know what to do..."

"Mom, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, honey, don't..."

"You were so young, and all alone."

"No, honey, no," Naomi sighed. "I was never alone, never. We always had friends, good friends; people who loved us."

"You always said that we were lucky to have so many good friends. That friends were better than family, because you get to choose your friends. I guess a lot of what you said back then is making a lot more sense to me, now."

Naomi turned to him and smiled, meeting his eyes for the first time. "But at the core, honey, right at the core, it was always you and me. We always had each other. We've always been such friends, Blair." She patted the bed, inviting him to sit.

Blair pulled himself up from the cold floor, moving stiffly to sit beside her, on the bed, looking down on Saul's face. The old man was smiling gently, his long white curls splayed around him on the pale, cream pillows.

Blair took a long, hard look at Naomi; she'd been crying; there were dark circles around her eyes. She looked older; he could see gray roots under her red hair. He felt a shivering inside; the painful aftershock of hurt, deep within his heart; the pain of hidden scars from wounds he didn't even remember getting.

"That love was there, from the first," Naomi went on, taking his hand. "I felt it that day, when Marcie gave me the money and an address, scribbled in red ink on a scrap of wrinkled paper and knew I could never go through with it. I wanted love; the unconditional love that I thought only a baby could give me." She let go his hand to touch his cheek. "And you didn't disappoint."

"Oh Mom..."

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Blair. You took all that hurt and replaced it with love."

"Mom. What you had to go through..." He didn't know what to say; what could he say? `Mom, I know everything;' how could he do that to Naomi, when she'd been through so much to protect him from it all.

"But baby, it's OK;" she smiled at him. "It all worked out. We took that hate and pain, and turned it into love. It's Karma, honey. After the hurricane, the bamboo still stands when the oak tree has fallen. I bent with the wind. Bend or break, honey. We can't help what life throws at us, all we can do, is deal with it the right way."

"Karma," Blair sighed.

Naomi nodded. "Karma's not what happens..."

"It's how you deal with it."

"Honey," she said, gently, drawing his eyes back to hers, holding Saul's hand out to him. "Come say goodbye."

Blair took the old man's hand, shocked eyes meeting Naomi's. "He's cold!"

She nodded, smiling softly, sadly. "He left, just after I got here. He thought I was Esther," she said, looking down on her father with ineffable sadness. "He smiled and said, he'd been waiting for me, then he closed his eyes and slipped away." She looked up at Blair, her face wet with still-falling tears. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry he didn't wait for you, I know you've grown to love him."

Blair lifted the wizened, age-spotted hand; full of bones, skin like paper - and clasped it in his, rubbing gently with both hands till he'd willed some warmth back into the cold flesh. "He looks... happy," Blair said, softly, noting the soft smile on the old face, its wrinkles softened in the lax peace of death. "Do you still hate him?" He asked, unable to meet Naomi's eyes.

She shook her head. "I can't hate him; he was a victim, too. And if he hadn't hurt me, I wouldn't have you, and I'm not sure what my life would have been, without you."

Blair kept his eyes on the bed. He couldn't look at her; was scared of what she'd find in his eyes. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing it, rocking it; his hand in Naomi's, Naomi's on Saul's; the three of them joined, linked, through Naomi. Poor Naomi, who'd suffered so much, and come through it all...

He looked up to find her smiling. "We traveled far and wide together, didn't we, honey? And wherever we went, people would ask me about you, who your father was, where you came from; always curious about you; they could tell you were special. And I'd tell them, you were a child of God; stardust; golden."

"At least you didn't call me that; Stardust Sandburg. Man! Like Blair wasn't hard enough to live down."

Naomi gripped his hand a little tighter, chuckling through her tears. "I love you, Blair."

"I love you too, Mom."

"All I ever wanted was, that you'd never be alone as I was, never abandoned; that you'd be loved, all your days."

"And I am, Mom."

She nodded. "I know. Where is he, by the way? I owe him an apology. Last time we talked, I was calling him every name under the sun."

"I'm sure he deserved it," Blair smiled.

Naomi shook her head. "He's a good man."

Blair nodded. "I should go get him. I should go get a nurse, you know..." he stroked a finger across Saul's hand, his throat aching with tears.

"I'll deal with them," Naomi whispered, squeezing Blair's hand again. "You go find Jim."

Blair nodded; he stood, stiffly, laid a hand on Naomi's shoulder. "Are you OK?"

She nodded. "Yes. I feel good, actually. Better than I have in a long, long time."

"Catharsis," he breathed.

She nodded, bending an arm to take the hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, honey," she whispered.

"No, thank you, Mom, for everything." He bent to kiss the top of her head, breathing; "I love you," into her graying hair. She squeezed his hand a little tighter, then let go, to hold on to Saul's again.

I placed a stone on my Grandfather's grave. It's tradition; a calling-card to tell the dead that you paid them a visit. There are lots of stones on my Grandfather's grave. He had a lot of friends. He was loved by many.

It's been hard, trying to separate the man I tried to get to know, the man his friends and students knew and the man Naomi fled from. So many contradictions.

The funeral was nowhere near as hard as I'd thought it might be. A lot of people came; we had to set up loudspeakers outside. Lots of people got up to talk about his life as we sat, holding hands; Mom on one side, Jim on the other, supporting each other.

These past few days have been... difficult. I thought, after everything that had happened, everything I'd learned about Saul; about myself... I thought I might just... crack, like a glass on a hot-plate. But I didn't. I stayed calm; unmoved, un-tearful as we rained earth down on the casket of Saul Lieberman, dearly departed; My Grandfather, and my father, too.

I can't help thinking about all that love. So much pain and grief and anger and all coming out of love; the love of an old man, insane with grief for his lost love, with a child so like his dead wife, he might think she'd come home to him; so crazy with the pain of his loss, he could rape his own daughter, mistaking her for his beloved.

And how do I feel about that? I've been looking inside myself for the past three days, waiting for a reaction; tears, something, and there's nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just kinda... numb. Maybe I'm in shock? Maybe, but I feel strangely unshocked. I guess... I can easily imagine that deep a love; loving someone so much that losing them is like losing your own soul. I can see that. I know how that would feel.

Jim's asleep, snoring softly beside me, drooling a little; I feel like I'll explode, sometimes, I love him so much. Naomi's sleeping too, her head on Sally's shoulder. Sally's reading a book - sees me looking and smiles; I smile back. She's been a good friend to us both. Sally, Naomi, Jim; I'm still stunned by the depth of their love, how hard they've tried to protect me...

I can feel their concern. I've seen them watching me since Saul died, giving me those sideways glances, exchanging looks. I know they're worried. They know I know. They know I know they know, you know...?

Suddenly I'm giggling; hysterical. Shit. I can't cry, Jim will sense it; he'll want to talk - Looking at the big putz sitting next to me; aisle seat, because there's no way he could keep those long legs penned up in an airline chair for eight hours. It's hard enough for me, and I'm not exactly a giant... I'm small; short and small-boned, curly hair, blue eyes. Like my Dad...

"You OK?"

That soft voice; so concerned. I love his voice. He heard my heart racing, maybe smelled my upset; caught me on the edge of panic. It woke him. My panic woke him. That's... weirdly comforting.

"Yeah," I whisper, throat too tight to speak any louder and I know he'll hear me anyway, over the engines and the voices and the wailing baby behind us. And he gives me a look that says; `I know you're not, but that's alright, we'll work it out later;' then he traces a finger down my cheek to my lips; the gentlest touch. And his eyes... his eyes are so soft. Some people - lots of people; his co-workers, perps, my colleagues at the U., Mom, even Simon - they think Jim's a hard-ass. Those people; they've never really looked at his eyes.

"It's been a tough few days," he says, the slightest of smiles on his face.

I nod and look away. I don't want to talk about this. Not now, not here, on this overcrowded tin can, thirty thousand feet over Nebraska. I lean back in my seat, turn away from him, lay my head on the window, looking out at the clouds - keeping hold of his hand.

"Tired?" he asks. I nod. I can't talk any more; don't want to answer the questions I know he needs to ask. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. He knows I'm not sleeping, but he doesn't press it. I feel him trying to stretch his long limbs out, hear him sigh. He keeps a tight hold of my hand.

I can't talk to any of them. Not just about... that... About anything. The words just won't come. Maybe I'm screaming, deep inside, somewhere. Maybe that'll all come out later, when the numbness has worn off, when we're home and safe. But not here. Not now.

I've been so calm since I figured out just what the Big Secret was. I don't know what I expected to feel. Anger, maybe? Tears, recrimination - but all I have is this echoing, empty silence inside. I know I should be angry. I should be angry. But I'm... just... not. Naomi's forgiven you, Saul, so I guess I have to, too...

If you hadn't raped your own child (I have to keep saying that. Have to keep reminding myself that that's what you did.) I would never have been born. And Mom loves me, that much I do know, and so does Jim and I'm glad I'm alive. Does that mean I'm glad my Grandfather raped my Mom?

Jim's looking at me, checking me out; he can hear my heart beating a tattoo on my ribs. I can hear the cabin crew rattling around up front. Jim looks at his watch, sighs, rubs the back of his neck.

"God I hate flying," he grouches. I nod, smiling.

"What?" he asks

"Nothing," I whisper; God, it's hard to talk. "I was just thinking about - how much I love you."

"Oh, that," he mutters. I just sit there, smiling at him. I know I look like a goof; I don't care. Then it all washes over me again and I have to duck my head and lay my forehead on the window, but you can't hide tears from a Sentinel. He takes my hand and nurses it in his lap, stroking my arm, up and down, wrist to elbow, trying to take the pain away. It's what he does.

"I'm sorry," he croaks after a little while.

"Don't," I whisper. My throat is so tight.

"I just wish..."

"Jim. Don't." I turn and look at him. He's so... distressed. He wanted to protect me and he thinks he failed. In some strange, convoluted twist of Ellison logic, he's blaming himself for all of this.

"Not your fault," I breathe through the tears that are clogging up what's left of my voice. "It's all good, man," I snuffle, wiping at my face with the napkin I saved. It's quickly overwhelmed by the damn tears that are just flowing out of me now, when I don't need them. He hands me a Kleenex.

"I never wanted you to be hurt," he starts to say. I hold up a hand to shut him up while I blow my nose.

"Don't shut me out," he gasps. "I want to help."

"You can't," I sigh.

"Can't I try? - I love you."

"I love you too," I whisper. "I don't want to talk about it, Jim. Please."

He tries to object, but I won't let him. "Pain begets pain, Jim. The only way to get out of the circle of hate and revenge is to let go and forgive. It's called dharma..."

"I know what it's called. I studied Eastern philosophy too."

Well that's new. Jim studied Eastern philosophy? Storing that away for later, I go on; "Well then, you'll know about the concept of necessary suffering and bodhichitta..."

He doesn't answer.

"Loving kindness..."

He still doesn't speak; he's looking away, watching the steward handing out juice and snacks, jaw jumping like it's going to snap, so I tell him about when we lived at the monastery in Katmandu.

"You know, when I was a kid, in Nepal," I say quietly, "a really horrible thing happened. It was during the festival of Wesak, the Buddha's birthday, which is a really cool festival; they hang flags everywhere and flowers and candles and everyone dresses up and there are parties, the streets fill with people, singing and chanting and drumming and the temples are full of colored lights and smoke. It's supposed to be a time of total compassion, animals and birds are freed from the markets and you only eat vegetarian food, it's all totally amazing..."

Jim's still not looking at me. Is he even listening?

"Anyway, you're supposed to refrain from drugs and alcohol, but some of the parties get a little wild, and one time..." I take a breath. This is hard. This is not a good memory. "The year Naomi and I were there, someone started shooting in the crowd; never found out why, just some guy, drunk, crazy - whatever, and everyone panicked and there was a stampede. We were OK, `cause we were up high on the temple steps, but fifteen people were killed, lots more injured. It was awful."

Jim's looking at me now, with those soft, sad eyes, like he thinks I'm going to break. That couldn't be further from the truth and I grip his hand tighter, so he knows I'm strong, I'm OK. "I was just a kid. I couldn't believe that something so terrible had happened, at the time of `ultimate compassion'. I asked Monshin, my teacher, what it was all about, and he explained to me that shit happens." I can't help but chuckle at the look on Jim's face. "Well, he told me in Nepali and he put it a little differently, but that was the Zen Essence of what he said."

It's my turn to take Jim's hand into my lap. "Everything happens for a reason," I explain, quietly. "For reasons we can't always see at the time, but there's always a purpose in our pain. There are no coincidences. It's called Necessary Suffering when it leads to something wonderful; something that couldn't have happened without the pain, something that makes it all worthwhile."

I nudge his attention over the aisle, to where Naomi and Sally are sleeping together. "Sally is Naomi's oldest, truest friend. Whenever we were in trouble, needed a place to stay, or a shoulder to cry on, Sally was there for us. If Naomi hadn't been out on that road, hitching her way west, pregnant with me, they'd never have met; never have known the other existed.

"So many friends we'd never have known if Naomi hadn't run away. Who's to say how many people met and had beautiful lives, had kids together, because they knew Naomi?"

"And you," he says, interrupting my flow.

"Me too," I agree. "I kinda like being alive, you know?"

"I kinda like you being alive too," he smiles.

"All that love, Jim. You, me, Naomi; all that love, came out of one really bad, terrible thing. "

Then Jim totally throws me for a loop by reciting; "No path, no knowledge, no attainment."

"You know the Heart Sutra?"

And Jim gives me this sweet, smug little smile and says; "The desire for enlightenment is one of the greatest obstacles to enlightenment, because it makes one wish that things be different from how they are, and acceptance of how things really are, is itself enlightenment."

"Wow. You know Zen?"

"I told you, I studied Eastern philosophy. Not such a caveman throwback as you think, Sandburg."

And a pain shoots across my heart as it starts to sink in. "Not Sandburg," I whisper. I don't even know where that name comes from. I do know, now, that it's not mine.

He leaves go my hand to grip me round the shoulders and pull me in close. I still can't look at him.

"If we get to choose our friends, Chief, why not our names? You'll always be Blair Sandburg to me. It's the name your mom chose, and it's beautiful, just like you."

I can't help chuckling. "Oh man," I sniff. Oh God, I'm not sure if the wet patch on his shirt comes from my eyes or my nose. I wipe at it with my damp Kleenex, which only makes it worse. "That's just..." I don't know what it is. Corny, or sublime? I know it's made me cry again.

The steward is here. He's looking at us oddly. Can't say I blame him. I'm in floods of tears, my face buried against Jim's chest, snuffling and red-eyed with Jim's arm locked around me - I can't see Jim's face but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he's got that over-protective, over-possessive, carved-from-granite, `step away and no one gets hurt' look on his face. The steward clearly wants out, but first he has to present us with his gifts of pretzels and orange juice. Jim accepts the offerings with a glower and the steward moves on.

"How soon before we'll be in Cascade?" I ask, snuffling again. Jim hands me the pack of tissues. "Thanks," I say as he inspects the map in the in-flight magazine.

"Couple hours."

"Good," I sigh, trying to stretch.

"You wanna walk around?" Jim asks, scooping a whole bag of pretzels into his mouth and easing his legs back out into the aisle with a sigh.

"Naw, I'm just fine where I am." I snuggle a little deeper into his side. "I never knew anyone like you, Jim; never had a friend like you," I whisper into his shirt. "I love you so much."

Jim wraps his arms back around me. I feel loose, now, lax and floating; all the tension gone with the tears. I know there'll be more, lots more, when the numbness wears off and I start to really feel the pain - But I'm not scared. I know Jim will be there to catch me.

"When the mind attains its composure in its abode within the heart, this is the true essence of karma." - Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi

WARNING: This story concerns rape and incest.

End

A Child of God by Panik: maya.paneka@gmail.com
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