From: bewalton17@aol.com (BEWalton17)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative
Subject: QL: The Enemy (Epilogue)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 05:20:57 GMT
Message-ID: <19981202002057.27332.00000961@ng-fc2.aol.com>




                         EPILOGUE: NATE
The United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland.  2000.
     Al didn't have to wear dress whites to get a military flight
to D.C., where he'd rented the car to drive to Maryland; utilities
would have been enough for regulations.  But there was something
about this trip that seemed to call for ceremony.  He didn't know
what the steps of the ritual would be, or even if it would end
successfully, but he knew that it would be wrong to treat it as a
casual visit to his son.
     The Annapolis campus never *seemed* to change, but it was
always changing somewhere.  There were new academic buildings, new
technology centers, even a NASA training module.  Nate's dorm was
a new building, Powell Hall -- and if the naming of a Navy dorm
after an Army man wasn't proof of changing times, Al wasn't sure
what *would* qualify.  He took a deep breath, and went up the
stairs to the front door.
     "Input security card," the computer said.
     "Override," Al told it, and input his security code on the
worn keypad.  The door unlatched, and he went inside.  Nate lived
on the fourth floor, but he couldn't remember which room (or maybe
that bit of information hadn't settled yet).  There was an elevator
across the hall from the door, and he stepped into it.
     It was typically clean and sterile; the Academy would have
none of the graffiti and litter that would mark such an elevator on
a civilian campus.  Al had never missed it.
     The doors opened on the fourth floor as a middie stepped out
of a room on the other side of the hall, a towel draped casually
over one shoulder.  He saw Al and stopped dead, straightening his
shoulders and saluting.  "Admiral, Sir!"
     "At ease, Midshipman," Al said.  
     The boy's shoulders relaxed very slightly, and he placed his
feet slightly apart from one another.
     "What's your name?"
     "Midshipman Andrew Simon, Sir.  First Classman."
     Al nodded.  "I'm looking for Midshipman Calavicci."
     "Nathan Calavicci, sir?"
     "He's my son."
     "Yes, sir.  Last door, left side of the hall."  He gestured
down the hall to his right.
     "Thank you, Mister."  Al started to walk away.
     "Sir?" he heard behind him.
     "Yes?"
     "Permission to speak freely?"
     "Granted."
     "You'll want to knock.  Sir."
     Al laughed.  "Gotcha.  Thanks for the warning."
     The middie stood at attention, waiting.
     "Go about your business, Mister," Al dismissed him.
     "Thank you, sir."  He saluted again, and went on to the shower
room.
     Al shook his head, tried to remember if he'd ever been that
young, and turned right.  He arrived at Nate's door (a small poster
of Misi and her partner at Nationals had been taped to it, with the
neatly printed legend "My sister" beside it; an arrow pointed to
Misi, presumably so that no one would think he was referring to
Derek), straightened his uniform, and raised his hand to knock.
                               ***
     Tamara Rosenbaum had never particularly liked tall men.
     Part of it was that tall men had never needed to develop the
expansive, energetic personalities that short men developed to
assert themselves, and so tended to be either friendly bores or
pumped up neandrathals.  Their size had made them overconfident
with women, so they had never really learned to relate, and Tamara
had no use for them.
     Mostly, though, it was simpler:  Tamara was five-two, and she
loathed the thought of having face to abdomen talks with her
boyfriend while they slow danced.  Nate Calavicci was five-seven,
and one of the many reasons she loved him was that her chin fit
neatly on his shoulder when he held her -- and she didn't even need
to wear heels for it.
     Another reason she loved him was that he painted in his boxer
shorts.  No artistic statement, he said.  It was just easier to get
oil paints off his skin than out of his clothes.  It also made less
work for Tamara when she decided that she had posed long enough. 
She stretched sensuously on his bed and said, "This is getting old,
Nate."
     He leaned out from behind his easel and smirked.  "Do you
think Mona Lisa said that to DaVinci?"
     "I've *always* thought," she said, sliding one hand down her
shirt as tauntingly as she could, "that DaVinci stopped long enough
to give Mona Lisa something to smile about."  She pulled a condom
out from under her bra.
     Nate laughed.  "I love you, Tamara.  But if we keep stopping
to work on that smile, we're both going to be old and gray before
we're finished."
     "So what?  Are you planning on leaving me before then?"
     He crossed the room and sat on the bed beside her.  "Not a
chance."  He kissed her lips gently, and caressed her left hand,
where the small diamond ring he'd given her three weeks ago rested
comfortably on the fourth finger.  She hadn't needed time to think
about whether or not to accept it.  Nate was a good man, and their
relationship managed to be hot and exciting at the same time it was
warm and cozy.  They were both dedicated to the institution of
marriage and family; both of them had been through the pain of
divorce, the confusion of step-thises and half-thats, the "quality
time" that was so often a bribe for their affections, which, once
gained, were usually discarded.  Tamara harbored a private hatred
of Nate's father, whom she had never met, for the embarrassments
and disappointments the Admiral had put his son through.  She
supposed it was no worse than what any other divorce-child
(including Tamara herself) had to put up with, but he was not any
other divorce-child; he was Nate, and Tamara hated anyone who had
ever hurt him.
     They planned to start a family of their own as soon as
possible (the Navy, thank God, had plenty of assignments that a
pregnant woman or a mother could take, so there was no need to wait
until her obligation had been fulfilled, as she had at first
feared).  It was partly because it would make Nate a little less
attractive to Intelligence than he otherwise was -- he was a gifted
linguist and a sharpshooter, with a well-trained body and very few
family ties, and Intelligence had already approached him once,
luckily before he'd made any commitments to go along with their odd
ideas -- but mostly because they genuinely wanted to bind
themselves to each other in the most basic way the human race had
ever found.
     Nate brushed her hair behind one ear and kissed the tip of her
nose.  She smiled.  He touched one finger to her lips.  "There it
is."  He stood and went back to his easel.
     He was just starting to mix a new shade of paint when there
was a knock at the door.  He closed his eyes.  "Damn."  Tamara put
a sweater on while he went to answer it.
     When he opened the door, she saw his face change.  First,
there was the almost unconscious hint of a smile, the kind of smile
that a kid would offer to a sports hero or a movie star.  It faded
into wariness before it could take hold, and the wariness was
replaced with a sort of helpless, resigned love.  
     The door was blocking Tamara's view of the hall, but she
didn't really need to see.  She knew it from Nate's face.
     The Admiral had arrived.
     "Pop," Nate greeted him.  "What are you doing here?"
     The voice that came from the hallway was low and gravelly, a
voice that would be equally at home barking orders at lower
officers in a time of crisis or bluffing its way through a penny-
ante poker game.  "I wanted to talk to you.  Can I come in?"
     Nate sighed (Sam Beckett would have recognized that sigh, but
Tamara didn't) and shook his head.  "Do I have a choice?"
     "Not really."
     Nate gestured for him to enter.  He came around the doorway,
and Tamara got her first view of Nate's father.
     She was struck first by the similarities between them.  The
Admiral was maybe two inches taller than his son, and of course he
was older, but the resemblance was striking.  They had the same
thick curly hair, the same tan skin, and the same dark deepset
eyes, with the same unquenchable spark behind them (the Admiral's
eyes were brown while Nate's were blue, but the difference was
hardly noticeable if you weren't looking for it).  Tamara imagined
that the Admiral had once been very like Nate.
     Too bad he hadn't stayed that way.
     He saw Tamara and stopped awkwardly.  "I'm sorry for
intruding," he said.     
     Nate shrugged.  "I was just painting."  He stretched one arm
toward each of them.  "Pop, this is Tamara Rosenbaum.  Tamara, this
is my father."
     Tamara saluted him coolly.  "Admiral."
     Nate came over to her and kissed her forehead.  "I think Pop
wants to talk to me alone."
     "Okay," she said dubiously.  She didn't like the look on the
Admiral's face; it looked like bad tidings were on the way.  She
trusted herself to help Nate through them more than she trusted his
father, who was probably the cause.  Still, the man *was* his
father, and Tamara figured she had no choice but to acquiesce.  She
kissed Nate's cheek, and whispered, "Call me if you need to talk
later."
     He smiled.  "Thanks, Tam."
     She gathered the books and clothes she had brought over with
her, and left Nate's room, sparing the Admiral one more icy glance
before she went.
                               ***
     "She seems like a nice girl," Pop said.  Nate wasn't sure if
he meant it sarcastically or not; Tamara had not exactly made a
secret of her feelings.  Nate loved her more than he'd loved anyone
in his life, but he thought she was going to have to learn to
control her temper a little bit.
     He nodded, opting to assume sincerity.  "Yeah," he said. 
"Tamara's great.  Mama loves her.  I've been meaning to take her
out west to meet you, but... "  He tried for an excuse, but the
truth was, he hadn't been in any hurry for Tamara to meet his
father.  He was afraid, among other things, that his father would
hit on her.
     "It sounds serious."
     "It is," Nate said, without elaboration.  The idea of talking
to Pop about a serious relationship with a woman was, if not
completely laughable, somewhat pathetic.  The only serious
relationship he'd had had been over for nearly thirty years, at
least for the woman involved in it.  For Pop, Nate supposed, it
would never be over.
     A breeze from the hall reminded him that he was half-naked. 
He grabbed his pants and went behind the open door of his closet to
pull them on.  "So," he said over the top of his makeshift screen,
"what's going on?  You finally decide to marry Trini the Teeny-
Bopper?"  He zipped the pants, and came out into the room to look
for his shirt.
     Pop sighed, but answered patiently: "Her name's Tina, she's
not a teenager, and no.  I'm not marrying her."
     Nate was not surprised.  He thought his father's era of casual
marriages was over.  Just in time, unless it was already too late. 
"Did some long-lost half-sibling come out of the woodwork?" he
asked.  "Or... "  A horrible thought occurred to him, all the more
horrible because it was far too possible.  "Oh, my God, don't tell
me there's one on the way."
     "No."
     Nate found himself inordinately relieved, even though he knew
he had no right to resent such a possibility.  If Pop decided to
have more kids (*real* kids, not half-baked adopted steps, his mind
insisted on qualifying) with his Susie Co-ed girlfriend, that was
entirely up to him.  Unfortunately, Nate was not exactly a model of
restraint about expressing his feelings, either, even when it
didn't serve any purpose.  "That's good," he said.  "That would be
too weird.  But I'm running out of theories, here.  Help me out."
     "Do you think you could take me seriously for a few minutes?"
     "I don't know, Pop.  Every time I decide to take you
seriously, you do something that makes it impossible."
     "Will you try anyway?"
     There was something in his voice, a set to his eyes, that
frightened Nate suddenly, bringing back all the half-formed fears
that he had lived with since childhood.  Pop wasn't a young man
anymore, and hadn't been for most of Nate's life.  "You're not
sick, are you?"
     Pop shook his head, tired.  "No, I'm not sick."
     But the fear remained for Nate.  He sat down on the edge of
his bed, the sarcasm gone out of him.  "What is it really?"
     "I've been thinking about you a lot lately," Pop said, not
moving from his spot near the door.  "I can't tell you why.  It's
tied up with the project I'm working on, and it's classified.  But
I... Things aren't good with us, Nate.  They haven't been for a
long time."
     "You needed some mega-billion dollar government project to
figure that out?" Nate asked, his mouth racing ahead of his brain
again.
     "I guess I did.  I've always been a pretty lousy excuse for a
father."
     "Oh, no," Nate said, more uncomfortable than he had ever been. 
Whatever Pop was getting at, it was coming too close to... well, to
admitting things that Nate thought were better left unsaid.  "Not
always."  He caught himself.  "I mean -- "
     Pop smiled.  "It's okay, Nate.  I know what I've been.  I've
embarrassed you, I've confused you, and I've ignored you.  And I've
put the blame for it on a lot of people and a lot of things  --
'Nam, Beth, my parents, just about everything except me.  But the
truth is, I was your father, and you had a right to expect more out
of me.  I let you down.  There is no excuse good enough for that."
     "How do you want me to answer this, Pop?"
     A pained look crossed Pop's face.  "I don't know."  He turned
back to the hallway.  "I don't know why I'm here.  This is a
mistake."  He ducked outside.
     Nate closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
     It was his move.
     Whatever endgame Pop was playing, Nate knew perfectly well
that it was his move, and that the stakes were high.
     He stood slowly, and opened his door.
                               ***
     Al was about halfway to the stairs when the door opened
somewhere behind him, and Nate said, "Pop?"
     Al turned slowly, not sure what would come next.  He knew he
had forced an issue that could have lain dormant for years, maybe
forever, but now was open and hurting.
     Nate was standing in his door, and for a moment Al was
convinced that he would just go back inside.  Then he swallowed
hard and spoke tentatively.  "Mama wanted me to go to art school,"
he said.  Al didn't think for a moment that it was out of context. 
"I think she had her heart set on going to all those fancy wine and
cheese gallery openings."  Al didn't answer; Nate looked around his
surroundings, shrugged, and offered him a smile.  "I didn't go."
     Al returned the smile, just as tentatively.  "You probably
should've," he said.
     Nate laughed, and some barrier between them began to crumble. 
"Yeah, probably.  And you probably should've resigned your
commission and gotten a job flying for Delta."  Al wrinkled his
nose.  "But see, when I came here for my interview -- I don't even
know why I did it, but I did -- I could see you all over the place. 
And I really felt like your son, instead of some kid you sent money
to and tried to make friends with between wives and live-ins.  It
was like when I was little and you were invincible."   
     Al shook his head.  "That's not a true image, Nate."
     "Yes, it is.  Sometimes I think you're the only one who
doesn't know that."  Nate smiled.  "Didn't you ever wonder why I
never changed my name?  Not even when Mama told me, you know, about
being adopted and all... I almost did.  But I couldn't.  I didn't
want to."
     Al didn't know what to say.  This game was over; they had both
won, and neither of them could decide what to do next.
     Finally, Nate rolled his eyes and left his doorway.  He came
to Al, and hooked an arm around his neck, leading him back down the
hall.  "Can you stay long enough to have dinner with Tamara and
me?" he asked.  "It's probably about time you got to know her. 
She's... going to stick around awhile."
     "No kidding?"
     "No kidding."
     "That's great... only I don't think she likes me much."
     Nate cocked an eyebrow.  "Oh, come on, Pop.  I have yet to
meet a woman you can't win over."  He gave Al a suspicious look
that was only half-fake.  "But don't try *too* hard, okay?"
     Al laughed.  "Aye, aye."
                               ***
Chicago, 1984.
     Sam had called in sick early in the morning, and Ruthie had
kept Nate home from school as well.  The three of them drifted
around the house, trying to avoid each other.  Nate had gone up to
his bedroom at around noon and cried himself to sleep.  Ruthie went
into her studio a few minutes later, and Sam heard a loud sob.  He
tiptoed to the back of the house, and looked in on her.  She was
sitting at her chess board, which had been neatly re-set in opening
position.  He'd left her to her own mourning.
     He spent most of his last day in Sid's life in the study,
reading, doodling on a piece of scrap paper, watching the small
black and white television with a tin-foil adorned rabbit-ears
antenna, waiting...
     He didn't think that Al would come back to this place before
he Leaped.  Whatever was happening was happening far away.
     He hoped that he wouldn't Leap from Sid into a situation where
he needed Al's help right away, but, even if he did, he wouldn't
begrudge it.  
     Sam made dinner a little after five.  Ruthie and Nate joined
him, and ate in silence.  He tried to touch Ruthie's face, but she
pulled away.  There was healing to be done here, but it would have
to wait for Sid Weiss to return to his proper place.  Sam Beckett's
work was done.  What was left was for Al, and Sam would just have
to wait for him to finish it.
     It was after dinner, when Ruthie and Nate had gone back
upstairs and the house was quiet and dark, that the feeling of
completion came to him.
     It was hard to express, this sense of closure, but he knew it
when it appeared.  After five years, he knew it well.
     He leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and Leaped.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barbara