By Kel and Michelle Kiefer
ckelll@hotmail.com and msk1024@yahoo.com
 

Category:  Pre-XF
Rating: R
Archive:  Just ask.
Disclaimer:  Not ours.  Sigh.
Summary: Bermuda, 1965. Two women, two men.  Two sons, one father.

Authors' Notes: This story would not have been possible without the help
of many wonderful people. Thanks to Joann Humby and Linda for advice.
Thanks to Syntax6 for her wonderful beta and support and to MaybeAmanda
who always has fabulous suggestions and an eagle eye. And special thanks
to Marasmus. She was the drill instructor who took in our aimless young
story and gave it a sense of direction.

We both had a lot of fun reliving 1965. No cable TV, no VCRs, no
mousse, no microwaves, no Velcro.

But that was okay. We had the Beatles.

Teena Mulder and Cassandra Spender were beautiful young wives back then, and
their husbands were men on the move. What could be more glamorous than a
weekend in Bermuda?
 

~~~~~~~

Moongate
By Kel and Michelle Kiefer
 

The sand on Bermuda's beaches was pink.  She'd
thought it was just her husband's advertising ploy to
get her to come here, but, truly, the sand was pink.
Craig told her its hue came from the red skeletons of
the coral.  How ghastly and yet how incredibly
appropriate.

Cassandra had been surprised that Craig had
felt the need to talk her into this trip.  They both
knew their roles, and hers was to do as she was told.
Apparently, he needed her along but in a cooperative
frame of mind.

Bringing her cigarette to her lips, she took a long,
satisfying drag.  As she exhaled, the ocean breeze
stole the smoke, carrying it out over the sand.  The
water had always calmed her, centered her with its
elemental pull.  But these days, nothing--not the
sound of the seabirds, not the endless march of the
waves upon the shore--could relieve the constant
edge of anxiety that burned in her stomach.

She hid her fears from Craig.  He considered
fear a weakness, tolerated no frailty.

This weekend conference at the Moongate Inn was
putting a monumental strain on her already frayed
nerves.  The bungalows had two bedrooms and two
baths each, along with a lounge, dining room and
small kitchen and housed two couples comfortably.
Unless the other couple was the Mulders.

She was out here because Teena Mulder, pregnant with
her second child, couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes.
Even Craig cooperated, stepping out onto the veranda
when he needed a smoke.

Cassandra couldn't remember the last time her husband
had been considerate of another's comfort.

Reluctantly, Cassandra inhaled one last time.  She'd
been out here too long for a quick smoke, but the truth
was, the atmosphere in the bungalow was uncomfortable.
Something was in the air--almost an electrical charge.

Maybe it was the incredible competition that existed
between Craig and Bill Mulder, but it felt as if
positive and negative ions were crackling against
each other when they were in the room.

More likely, the source of the disturbance was Teena
Mulder.  She disarmed men with her doe-eyed beauty,
but Cassandra wasn't fooled.  Teena's luminous brown
eyes surveyed her surroundings with a shrewdness that
would make Machiavelli weep with joy.

Pinching the cigarette butt to extinguish it, she
turned and walked back to the bungalow.  Sand gave
way to manicured lawn and brick path.  Cassandra
passed under the moongate to enter the garden.
Bermuda was dotted with these circle-shaped stone
arches.  The one that lent its name to the resort
looked very old, the stones weathered by the wind.

The car was gone from the driveway.  She still
marveled at the car.  The only vehicles that
visitors to Bermuda could rent were bicycles or
motorbikes.  Tourists zipped around or peddled
around or took taxis, but Craig had obtained a
large black sedan with air conditioning and
power-steering.

Pushing the door open, she stepped into the kitchen
and surveyed the remains of breakfast on the counter
and table.  Though lunch and dinner had been eaten out,
the two couples had eaten breakfast at the bungalow.

Mornings were apparently not kind to Teena, and
Cassandra found herself doing the lion's share of
cooking.  Judging from the fact that she hadn't
needed to bolt from the breakfast table, Teena
seemed to be feeling a little better this morning.
Cassandra had hoped the kitchen would be tidied up
when she got back from her morning smoke.

As she gazed around the room, though, Cassandra
saw that the butter still sat on the kitchen table,
its edges blurred from the warm air.  Toast crumbs
dotted the placemats and a blood red jelly smear
marked the white formica.

"Is it getting hot out?" Teena asked from the hall.
She was wearing a blue terrycloth beach cover, her
arms and legs bare.  She was five months along, but
barely showing, her body as trim and firm as
it had been the first time Cassandra had seen her.

"Not too bad," Cassandra said as she began to
stack the dirty dishes.  "There's still a nice
breeze.  Craig and Bill went out?"

"They all went to the golf course," Teena
answered.   "Sorry I didn't get a chance to tidy
up in here. I was feeling a little nauseous.
Damn morning sickness."

"Maybe you should rest," Cassandra said, crossing
to the sink with the dishes.  She placed them in
the dishpan and turned on the water.  "It won't
take long to wash these up."

She was grateful to have something to do.  Keeping
busy was a way to quiet the jangling of her nerves.
All the time for "relaxation" this weekend had had
the opposite effect on her.

"I think you're right," Teena said.  "I'm going to
lie in the sun for a while."

"Enjoy yourself," Cassandra said as she covered the
butter dish and put it and the jelly back in the
refrigerator.  She brought the frying pan over to
the sink and filled it with hot soapy water, watching
the bits of fried egg swirl around amid the suds.

The breeze lifted the curtains over the sink, cooling
Cassandra's warm face.  She watched Teena move along
the brick path and down the steps toward the beach.

************

Bill presented it as an invitation, but she knew
better.  It was a summons.

"You need a vacation, Teena.  You're exhausted all
the time and you're white as a ghost."

Her husband spoke about days on the beach and nights
dancing under the stars.  A break from the constant
demands of a small child, a chance for some
sophisticated adult company.

As if she'd rather rub elbows with shady men and
their timid women than take care of her own son.

Bill used the same approach with their little boy.
Fox was big enough now for a sleep-over with his best
friend.  Wouldn't that be fun?

Fox grew very serious, and Teena knew he was going
to balk.

"Daddy, did you forget?  I'm the one who gets Mommy
her vitamins."

Bill smiled.

"Tell you what, son.  I'll bring Mommy her
vitamins, okay?"

"I get the crackers and the washcloth for her head."

"*I'll* take care of Mommy.  You need to be a big boy
and stay at Chip's house so Mommy can get a nice rest,"
Bill said heartily.

Bill Mulder lived in a dangerous world of whispers and
shadows.  He insisted he did it for them, for her and
their boy, to protect them from unimaginable dangers.
Teena believed in his intentions, but not in his ability.
There was a softness to him that undermined his resolve.

Fox's head was down.  Bill tousled his hair and continued
his pitch.  A whole weekend with his best friend!  Maybe
Chip's dad would take them camping!  Maybe Chip's mom
would bake cookies!

"Come back tomorrow?" Fox asked.

"Don't you know what 'weekend' means?"

Teena could read the signs.  Fox was tugging at his ear
and chewing on his lip, but in a minute he'd be sucking
his thumb and sniffling.  Bill's kindness would turn to
anger and Fox would burst into tears.

Fox looked up, real confusion on his face.

"But you're coming home tomorrow?"

Bill sighed heavily, and Teena felt a surge of impatience.

"You heard your father, Fox.  You will stay at Chip's
house for three days while Daddy and I are away."

Fox brightened.

"And the doctor will take the baby out?"

"Not yet."

His face fell.

"You'll miss Mr. Ed.  Our favoritest show," Fox
whined.

They watched every week. Fox bounced with joy from the
first note of the theme song.  Teena spent thirty minutes
watching her son.

"I will miss it very much.  But you'll watch with Chip
and tell me everything when I come home."

Fox always knew when she meant business, and now it was
his turn to heave a huge sigh.

"Will Chip's mom watch with us?"

"Of course she will," Teena said.

Three hundred dollars was a lot of money to someone
like Mrs. Mitchell.  She'd watch Mr. Ed standing
on her head, if that's what Teena told her to do.

Now Teena settled onto a chaise longue and smoothed
moisturizer over her pale arms and shoulders.  A tan
would make her look healthy and attractive, and these
things were important.  For a woman, beauty was cold
currency, something to be guarded selfishly until it
could be exchanged for power.

It was the opposite for men, wasn't it?  It was their
power that made them beautiful.

A memory stirred, a hotel room, a fling with Craig.  Now
she asked herself why she did it, but four years ago she
asked only Why not?  Craig was confident, strong, sexy.
It was exciting  when he called her, wickedly delicious
to sneak into his bed.

Bill would never know.  He was moody and preoccupied, so
self-absorbed most of the time that he probably wouldn't
even care.  These were the lies she told herself, lies
that fell apart the very next day.

Bill's accusation, her remorse, his forgiveness.  A
process that should have taken months or years was
telescoped into a tense week of tears, promises, and
confrontations.

They didn't have the luxury of time, Bill said.  It
turned out he was right.  Teena was pregnant.

And Craig was proud.  She felt his gaze upon her even when
she could not meet his eyes.  She was pregnant, and he was
glad.

When the baby was born, Bill asked Craig to be his godfather.

They were rivals, allies, teammates, friends.  Would Craig
have even wanted her if she wasn't Bill's wife?

If she was as free as Cassandra Spender, Teena
would run like the wind while there was still time.
But she had a baby back home and one more on the
way.  Soon she'd be even more ungainly and helpless,
and she needed all the protection she could muster.

Soak up the sun.  Be pretty and charming.  Try not
to vomit.

********************

It always started with the shakes.  Cassandra would feel
the trembling start from her knees until her whole body
shook like an unbalanced washing machine.  The shakes
were traditionally followed by damp palms and a good
drenching of flop sweat.

It didn't take much these days to set her off.
Certainly a command performance before the wives'
cabal was good enough for a breakdown.

She really couldn't stay up here much longer.  They
were due at luncheon in five minutes and yet here she
was barricaded in the bathroom.  Cassandra tried
to control her breathing, wiping her wet palms
along the sides of the green linen sheath that had
been so crisp when she put it on.  The dress was
rapidly turning into a crumpled dishtowel.

"Cassandra!" Teena knocked on the door.  "Are you
almost ready?  We're going to be late."

"Almost ready," Cassandra answered, hoping her
voice didn't betray the panic coursing through
her.

"I'll wait for you outside.  But hurry up for God's
sake."

Cassandra pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from
screaming as Teena's footsteps receded.

God, she wished she had a Miltown, but she'd made
a point of leaving the bottle of pills at home.  She
hated the way they made her feel, disconnected and
passive.  More than that, she hated that they were
Craig's answer to everything:  "Calm down for God's
sake, Cassandra.  You need your medication."

With shaking hands, she poured a glass of water and
downed it in one long gulp.  She stared at her pale
reflection in the bathroom mirror.  The bright blue
and acid green scarf looped around her neck served
only to make everything else about her seem even
more faded.

Well, she couldn't avoid this any longer.  Time to
face the dragons.

Cassandra turned the lock, the doorknob slippery
under her damp palm.  Craig was waiting for her
in their bedroom.  She tried to gauge his mood, but
as usual, he let very little show on his pleasantly
calm face.

"Sorry," she said, reaching for her handbag on the
bed.  "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"I thought you understood how important this trip
was, my sweet," he said, gripping her elbow.  His
voice was quietly intense, his eyes drilling into
her.

"I know," she replied.  His hand on her arm was
just short of painful, just short of bruising.

"You have to project the confidence my wife
would be expected to exhibit.  For god's sake,
Cassandra.  Pull yourself together.  I don't
need a pathetic, hysterical wife."

"It's getting late," she said, pulling her arm
out of his grasp.  She looked up into his eyes,
chilled at the contempt she found there.

Cassandra opened the bedroom door to find Teena
on the other side.  Teena gaze was cool and far
too perceptive for Cassandra's comfort.

"I was getting ready to knock again," she said.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Cassandra said,
hoping her voice didn't quaver.  She brushed
past Teena, keeping her eyes down as she walked
through the living room where Bill Mulder tossed
back the last drop of scotch in his glass.

"Haven't you had enough?" Teena asked quietly as
she reached her husband's side.

"Try not to appear as gauche as usual, darling,"
Craig said at Cassandra's ear.  Teena's eyes
flicked in their direction.

"Let's go," Teena said as she slipped on her
sunglasses and walked out into the bright Bermuda
sunshine.  She looked cool and elegant in her navy
and white two piece outfit, her hair smoothly
arranged in a low chignon.

"Why don't you sit up front, Teena," Craig said,
opening the passenger door.  "It will be more
comfortable for you."

"Motion sickness," Teena said, turning to
Cassandra.  "It doesn't bother me as much from
the front seat."

Craig handed Teena into the car, smiling slightly
as his eyes roved her body.  The tenderness in
his expression stung Cassandra far more than the
naked lust.

Cassandra smelled liquor on Bill Mulder as
she got into the backseat.  While the women lunched,
Bill and Craig would be playing cards with several
of the other men.  Like the wives' luncheon, this
card game was undoubtedly more than a recreational
activity.  Bill Mulder obviously needed dutch courage
to play a little poker.  She didn't want to think
about what that meant.

Hell, maybe he was drinking because his wife
was a tramp.  Damn Teena.  For all her claims
of nausea, she still glowed with health and
vibrance.

She tried to remember Craig when she first met
him, how handsome and assured he seemed.  To a
girl with no family to speak of, treading water
in the secretarial pool, he was too good to be
true.

It had been exciting in the beginning.  Craig
exuded power and that was almost intoxicating
to Cassandra.  "Little Miss Nobody from
Nowhere," Craig had affectionately called her.

He swept her off her feet, as the saying went.
They married at City Hall on a Wednesday morning.
Cassandra wore a white silk suit.  Craig took her
to lunch at a nice restaurant and went back to
work in the afternoon.

The honeymoon was short.  Craig worked long hours
and even when he was home, seemed distracted.
There were tense phone calls late at night and
lots of business trips.

Craig seemed to forget that he even had a wife.
When he came home, he'd look at her as though he
couldn't quite place the tall, skinny blonde in
his kitchen.

They'd been married for six months when they
decided to start their family.  It had been her
idea, of course.  Cassandra had feared Craig would
balk, but he'd agreed rather easily.

But after three years, Cassandra cried as each period
arrived with unerring regularity every twenty-eight
days.  Dozens of tests showed nothing--no impediments,
no adhesions, no infections, no damn problem the
doctors could point to.  Just vague advice to "relax
and it will happen when you least expect it."

Cassandra was on her third gynecologist before
anyone suggested testing Craig.  He'd laughed at
the absurd concept that the problem might be with him.

"I'd be happy to go for testing if I thought it would
help," he'd said. "But in this case the problem is
entirely your own."

She'd assumed it was just his male ego talking,
refusing to believe there was any possibility that
his swimmers couldn't get the job done.  But now,
watching him take his eyes from the narrow, winding
road to look at Teena, the jagged pieces of a puzzle
began to fit together.

Cassandra hadn't been able to quite categorize the
smug look in her husband's eyes when he gazed at Teena.
Maybe she'd just been afraid to put a name to that
look, but now it was far too clear.  To the casual
observer, it might look like desire, but it was
something more like ownership.

*********

Teena wondered if it would be any different if Bill
worked for IBM, or Chase Manhattan.  Probably not.
There would still be conferences and dinners where the
wives had to prove they could stand behind their
husbands and mind their manners.  Cassandra had
confided how much she dreaded these events.  Teena
wanted to tell her to grow up, but instead she had
nodded sympathetically and promised her support.

The little ninny would need it.  Craig's performance
back at the cottage was enough to sour anyone's self
confidence.

The Moongate's clubhouse was decorated like an indoor
garden party.  Small tables were set with fine china
and topped with festive arrangements of local flowers.

Teena mingled among the other tight-lipped women,
asking and answering the expected questions.  Then
it was time to take their seats.  There were no place
cards, leaving her free to avoid some of her more
irritating counterparts.  She was quite pleased to
find herself at a table with Pamela Bishop, by far
the most interesting and intelligent of the wives.
Or perhaps it was only the English accent that made
her sound that way.

"Are you quite ready to be educated, or do you need a
drink?" Pamela asked, after they had exchanged their
yearly update about family matters.

The ladies' luncheons usually featured a speaker, and
the topic today was "Chiang Kai-shek:  Our Partner in
Democracy."  It was a little joke they shared, that a
dry martini made the presentations more amusing, but
Teena's queasy stomach forced her to decline.

"They have us bunking with the Martins this year.
Somebody has a sense of humor," Pamela commented
dryly.  Pamela and her husband were the epitome of
refinement; Paul and Grace Martin were as rough and
gritty as a downtown pawnshop.

"We're sharing with the Spenders."

"Oh, good lord!"  Pamela took a sip of her sherry.

A smiling Oriental man in a summer weight tan suit
approached the lectern and tapped experimentally on
the microphone.  Most of the women had found seats,
but Cassandra stood frozen in a corner, clutching a
glass of wine and staring fearfully from table to
table.  There was an empty place to Teena's right.

"Cassandra!" Teena called.  "Won't you join us?"

"We saved you a seat, dear," Pamela added.

There was simply no excuse for Cassandra's display.
Craig was a man on the move and she was entitled to
sit anywhere she chose.  The ladies' club was a
minefield, but the best way to survive was to ignore
that fact.  Look at Daisy Kasimir, or rather, don't
look--she wasn't here.  They were accustomed to her
whispers and warnings but last year she'd been
positively delusional.  And this year?

"Visiting relatives," they were told.

Cassandra picked her way between the tables, a bright,
frozen smile on her lips.  Pamela clucked under her
breath as she approached.

"She's been crying.  That bastard."

"Allergies," Teena corrected her.  Crying wasn't
appropriate for a wife in this circle.

"Allergies," Pamela agreed.

Cassandra arrived at the table and dropped into the
empty chair.  Pamela signaled the waiter.

"A martini for Mrs. Spender, please.  Anyone else?
Teena, perhaps a ginger ale?"

Quite appropriately, the three junior wives at the
table declined.  Teena accepted a soft drink, sipping
slowly to settle her stomach.

The Chinese man began his speech, a familiar drone
about Sun Yat-sen and his dream of democracy.   His
fluency seemed to decline when his talk turned to more
recent events, and he actually stammered, but the
smile never left his face.  Another captive performer.

The first course was served, an unadorned plate of
sliced fruit, and Teena felt well enough to hazard a
taste.  It was too late in the day--too late in the
pregnancy--for morning sickness, but Teena's morning
sickness followed its own schedule.

"You've done beautifully with keeping the weight off,"
Pamela commented, to Teena's satisfaction.

"Only eight pounds," she said, proud of the
achievement even if constant nausea was the
secret of her success.

"Just wait.  The last months are the hardest,"
commented the woman across from her.  The talk of the
table turned to pregnancy, birth, and babies.  The
female answer to the men's war stories, Teena
reflected.

"Emergency cesarean section..."

"They just couldn't get my milk to dry up..."

"Colicky for six months..."

Spinal headaches, hemorrhage, hemorrhoids, hair loss.
Exactly the kind of talk one didn't want to hear as
one faced another delivery.

"Stalwart people, the Chinese."  Pamela's crisp voice
cut through the babble.  Teena was grateful for the
new topic, but when she looked up she saw that Pamela
was fixed not on her but on Cassandra, who was bowed
over her fruit salad, eyes scrunched shut.  Perhaps
she wasn't used to martinis, or maybe they didn't mix
well with whatever pills she was taking.

"Cassandra?  Quite stirring to hear of Chiang Kai-shek
and his stand against Communism," Pamela prompted.

"So brave, that one little island standing up to the
whole mainland," somebody murmured from across the
table.

Cassandra snapped to attention, that bright, tight
smile back on her face.

"They're not even Chinese, you know," she announced.

The junior wives nodded politely.

"I read about them in National Geographic, the
original inhabitants of Taiwan.  First the Dutch
invaded, and the Spanish, and finally the Chinese
moved in.  And the gentle aborigines took to the
mountains, a minority group in their own country."

Cassandra's cheeks were flushed and her eyes
glittered.  Fever could explain that, Teena thought.
It would certainly be a good excuse.

"History can be cruel," Pamela observed in her
beautiful accent, sounding wise and philosophical
instead of cynical.

"So true," one of the junior wives agreed.

Conversation stopped as the waiters began to serve
the next course.

Teena had read the same article in National
Geographic, but Cassandra had learned the wrong
lesson.  Yes, some of the aborigines had fled to
the mountains.  Many more had mingled with the
newcomers, intermarried, assimilated.  No one
should ever chose to be marginalized and powerless.

************************

"Sometimes I wish Paulie had a girl on the side,"
Grace Martin said as they walked along the white
stone driveway that led from the clubhouse.  They
were going to the bungalow the Martins shared with
the Bishops, where the men had been playing cards.

"Grace!  You don't mean that," Pamela said.  Her
fine English complexion colored a little.  Her tone
said that she couldn't get used to these
Americans who would say just about anything.

"Well, maybe not.  But, you know, with three kids
under eight, all I want to do in bed is sleep."

The stones pinched Cassandra's feet through the thin
leather of her sandals.  She didn't blame Grace for
not wanting to sleep with Paul.  There was something
coarse and common about the man, with his bad teeth
and worse breath.  More than that, his expressionless
face and monotone speech were unnerving.

Cassandra snuck a glance to Teena, whose expression
remained amused.

"I think a lot of men have mistresses," Cassandra
offered.  The women turned to look at her, as if
surprised that she'd spoken.

"I don't suppose it matters, really," Pamela said.
"They all come back to their wives.  That's what's
important."

Cassandra was relieved when they rounded a bend and
the cottage came into view.  Their shoes clattered
on the wooden steps as they entered the bungalow.

Voices drifted into the hall, their tone loud and
insistent.

"We've got to be careful.  If they even suspect
we're working against them--"

"We haven't got a choice.  The issue isn't do we
cooperate or not cooperate--it's do we survive or
perish."

The voices stopped at the sound of the screen door
slapping shut.

"Hope you haven't lost the family silver, darling,"
Pamela called out gaily as they walked into
the cool front hall.

The air in the lounge was blue with smoke and scented
with liquor.  Bill and Paul seemed a little bleary-eyed,
but though Craig's eyes were hooded, he was as alert as
an eagle waiting on its prey.

"They were fierce, but I held them off," Edward said,
rising from the table.  "Have you had your fill of
Indochina?"

"Taiwan, actually.  Fascinating speaker, very
educational."

"Are you ready, Bill?" Teena asked as she crossed
over to her husband and took the tumbler out of his
hand.  "I want to lie down before dinner."

"Come on, Bill," Craig said, taking Teena's elbow.
"Your wife needs to rest."

After Teena had her long afternoon nap, they drove along
the winding, flower-lined road to St. George.  It was
almost impossible to get reservations at Greenleaves,
so naturally, that was where Craig insisted they had
to go.  And naturally, they were seated within moments
of their arrival.  Obstacles seemed to melt away in
the face of Craig's determination to get what he wanted.

The restaurant was elegant to the point of stuffiness.
Cassandra hated places like this, where the waiters
looked down their noses as if you were using the wrong
fork.

The menu was, of course, all in French.  Cassandra
stared at the foreign phrases, amazed at the pretension,
unable to choose an entree.  The others had placed their
orders with Monsieur Snootee while she sat there,
paralyzed with indecision.  She looked up to see
amusement on Bill and Teena's face.  Craig's look was
barely restrained anger.

"Is there some reason why the simplest tasks are
beyond you?" he asked.  "Just choose something for
God's sake."

"The coq au vin sounds good," Bill said.

"That's chicken," Teena pointed out, helpfully.  Damn
her for thinking Cassandra was a bumpkin who didn't
know coq au vin from a chili dog.

Craig snorted, obviously amused by Teena's comment.

Cassandra's eyes blurred, making it difficult to see
the words before her.  Finally, she did the equivalent
of sticking a pin into a map to choose a destination
and blindly ordered the first item that swam clearly
into view as her tears abated.  Straightening in her
seat, she gave the waiter her order in the most
impeccable French she could muster.

She'd been afraid the evening would consist of Craig's
barbed comments and her own painful embarrassment.
Her husband never failed to surprise her though.
After a few more digs in her direction, Craig settled
into a long evening of flirting with another man's
wife.

When they left Greenleaves, Cassandra was praying
that the evening would be over and they could go home.
She suggested that Teena must be tired.  Craig would
have none of it, though.

"Teena had a nice long rest this afternoon," he pointed
out.  "You're not tired, are you?"

"I feel fine," Teena said.

Under the table, Cassandra's hands were white-knuckled
fists, her nails digging sharply into her palms.  Damn
Craig for the way he was acting and damn Teena along
with him.  Anger swirled in her, but she pushed it
down firmly.  Craig held the cards.  They all knew it.

Craig insisted they go to a nightclub he'd been told
about, where they could listen to music and dance.
It quickly became clear that the last person he wanted
to dance with was his wife.

Cassandra lit a cigarette, and took a sip of her
Dubonnet as she watched Craig and Teena on the dance
floor.  A piece of paper wouldn't fit between them.
Craig bent to murmur something in Teena's ear; her
bell-like laugh could be heard over the blaring music.

Across the little table, Bill Mulder took a healthy
swig of his scotch.  With a weary smile, he raised
his glass in salute to Cassandra.

"Doesn't that bother you?" she asked, her gaze
still locked on her husband.

"That?" Bill asked, following her line of sight.  His
eyes flashed anger for a split second before being
masked again with blandness.  "It doesn't mean
anything."

"How can you say that?" she asked, incredulous.

Bill took another swallow of his drink and sat forward,
tracing his finger through a water ring on the table.

"Teena loves me...but it's complicated."

She wanted to laugh.  He was a fool if he thought his
wife loved him.  Cassandra had never known anyone to
be so cool and calculating.  She doubted Teena loved
anyone but Teena.

Then again, Cassandra thought, it wasn't like she was
an expert on love.  She'd loved her husband once, in
some stupidly naive fantasy of marriage.  But reality
had killed that fantasy, and her love had been a
casualty.

She knew Craig didn't love her.  She doubted he ever
had.  Looking back, Cassandra couldn't figure out why
he'd ever married her.  One thing was completely
clear, though.  Craig did everything for a reason.

*********

Teena allowed herself to skip breakfast the next morning,
saving her from Craig's advances, Bill's dark silence,
and Cassandra's spiteful glare.  Her reprieve was short.
Pamela Bishop had organized an excursion for their little
circle, to enjoy the fine shopping in Hamilton.  By ten
o'clock they were outside the bungalow waiting for
their taxi.

"I'm going to grab a ciggy before we get in the cab.
Cass, you coming?" Grace said.  Cassandra followed her
a short distance down the driveway.

"I can't help it if cigarette smoke turns my stomach,"
Teena said defensively.  Downwind Cassandra and Grace
were sharing a match.  She could hear Grace's sharp
laugh and wondered what Cassandra might have said.

"No one's blaming you," Pamela said.  "Let them have
their smoke and then we'll drive into town."

No one was blaming her, yet Teena felt accused.  She
never meant Cassandra any harm.  Whenever she could,
she protected the silly goose.

Grace chattered throughout the short ride to
Hamilton.  Cassandra was silent.

"Pam, I want you to help me shop for Paulie.
Something to give him some class," Grace said as
they strolled the bustling Front Street.

"I'm not sure what you have in mind," Pamela answered.

"I don't know, maybe some silk hankies?  An ascot?"

Teena turned away, fighting back a laugh, and found
Cassandra engaged in the same exercise.  Their eyes
met and then parted.

"Let's have a look in here," Pamela said smoothly,
leading them into a shop full of luxury woolens.

Even Teena, who viewed shopping as a necessity rather
than a pastime, was overwhelmed by the selection of
beautiful cashmere and soft merino.  Many of the
sweaters featured intricate cables, but even the
unadorned garments were elegant in design and detail.

She found a beautiful little Aran Island sweater, but
then she pictured Fox wriggling through the grass
hunting for toads or digging one of his holes to
China and she decided it wasn't practical.  She needed
a gift for Mrs. Mitchell, who was taking care of Fox,
but clothing would never do.  Better something for the
home, like an ash tray or a candy dish.

"Maybe a jersey, Grace," Pamela suggested.

"He's a big Steelers fan," Grace offered uncertainly.

Teena  drifted over to the baby items.  Between Fox's
old outfits and the gifts she could expect, she really
didn't need anything, but one item caught her eye.
Hat, jacket, and overpants.  She didn't need any more
in blue, and she didn't dare buy pink, but this was
white.  Booties and pants all in one--now that really
was practical.

When she picked up the little jacket and felt how
silky it was, she knew she would buy it.

"A pram suit, they're cute," Grace said.  The store
was large enough that the women could have spread
out, but they remained in a cluster.

"It's charming," Pamela agreed.

"How about you, Cass, when are you going to start a
family?" Grace said.

"We've been trying," Cassandra said haltingly.

Teena didn't know which was more remarkable, that
Grace was enough of a boor to pose the question or
that Cassandra was enough of a doormat to answer.

"Oh, do look at this," Pamela enthused.
"Cassandra, it's you."

She held up a soft blue cashmere sweater.  It was
simple and understated, but there was something
luxurious, almost liquid, in the way it draped
over her arms.

"It's lovely," said Teena.

"Gorgeous.  You should get it," Grace agreed.

"You simply must," Pamela said.  "It matches your
eyes."

***********

To find evidence of the increased isolation of her
life, Cassandra need look no further than the
meager results of her shopping trip.  One small bag
held the sterling silver cigarette case she'd bought
for Craig.  Another contained a little bottle of
perfume made on the island--a gift for the neighbor
who was collecting their mail.   The largest bag held
the cashmere sweater Pamela had insisted she buy.

No tiny outfits, no toy soldiers or wooden horses,
no trinkets emblazoned with "Bermuda" for friends and
family.  With so few connections to another soul,
sometimes Cassandra wondered if anyone would
miss her if she vanished.

Her feet hurt after a day spent tagging along after the
other women.  Teena, Grace and Pamela had come back
with shopping bags filled with souvenirs.  A day of
small talk and forced civility had been just about
all Cassandra could stand.  Keeping up the appearance
of cordiality with Teena Mulder had exhausted
Cassandra.

The two women had retreated to their rooms as soon
as they'd arrived back at the bungalow.  Teena, of
course, needed an afternoon nap, what with her
"delicate condition" and all.

"Delicate," Cassandra snorted under her breath.  That
woman was as delicate as a viper.

It wasn't only Craig's stupid infatuation with Teena
that caused the ache deep inside.  She was more
humiliated than hurt on that account.  Something else
was responsible for the pain deep in her heart.

She was jealous of Teena Mulder.  Not of Craig's
attention, but of her seemingly effortless fertility.
Cassandra wanted a baby more than she'd ever wanted
anything in her life.  As each menstrual cycle passed,
confirming yet again that she wasn't pregnant, a
little piece of her heart died.

Cassandra held no hope that a baby would "save her
marriage."  Back in her secretary days, she'd had a
coworker who confided that she hoped her husband would
finally stop drinking now that a baby was on the way.
Even then, Cassandra had known that was foolish.

No, she didn't want a child to cement her union with
Craig.  Cassandra had no illusions about that.  She
would remain married to Craig as long as it suited
him.  It wasn't something she had any power over.

But she'd have someone to love.  A child would fill
her heart and her life.  And someone would need her
and miss her when she wasn't there.

In the distance, she heard the front door open and close.
Craig and Bill must have returned from their meeting.
Cassandra stowed the bags in a dresser drawer and
listened for other signs of life.

After a few minutes, she heard voices in the next
room.  Bill must have roused Teena when he came into
the room.

"How was the meeting?" Teena's voice was husky with
sleep.

"It...ah...didn't go well," Bill replied, his speech
slightly slurred.  The discussion continued, but
the volume level dropped as they perhaps became
concerned about being overheard.  In spite of whatever
was going on between Teena and Craig, the Mulders
seemed to have a real sense of intimacy between
them.

Yet another thing to envy Teena for.

She'd changed out of her sundress when they got back
from shopping, in favor of a loungy pair of slacks and
a sleeveless top.  Even without the excuse of pregnancy,
a nap was a wonderful idea, so she stretched out
on the bed.  The murmur of indistinct voices from the
next room was almost restful.

Cassandra startled out of her dozing state when the
door to the room swung open.  Ice clinked in Craig's
drink as he crossed the room and dropped into an
easy chair.

"I hope you brought something suitable for the
dinner party tonight."

She'd forgotten about the party tonight.  The prospect
of trailing after Craig as he showered Teena with
attention was unbearable.

"I don't want to go," she said, closing her eyes.

"I don't recall asking if you wanted to go."  His voice
had a dangerous edge to it.  She ought to be frightened,
but anger surged in her and tamped down the fear.
Cassandra pushed herself off the bed and walked over to
Craig.  He put his drink down and drew himself up to
tower over her.  "You'll go to the party."

"Why do you want me there, Craig?  To humiliate me
while you hang all over Teena Mulder?"

"Cassandra, I'm worried about you.  I really am.
You're imagining things again.  It's unfortunate
that you forgot your medication at home."

"I don't need drugs."

"You need to pull yourself together.  If you're jealous
of Teena, maybe it's your own inadequacy that's the
problem."

"You're making a fool of yourself, Craig, and I won't
stand by and watch."

His hand shot out so suddenly, she didn't see it coming
as he slapped her.  Cassandra reeled back, as much from
the shock as the pain.  Craig could have knocked her down
with his fist, but his open hand had been enough to send
the message that she was powerless in the face of his
superior strength.

"You'll do as you're told," Craig said, reaching into his
pocket to extract his cigarettes.  "I need a smoke."

********************

A crystal pitcher for Mrs. Mitchell.  Teena had considered
but rejected a silver martini shaker.  Who even knew if
the Mitchells drank martinis?  Anyone could use a
pitcher--assuming the damn thing made it home in one
piece.

Argyle socks for Bill, selected on impulse.  Duty-free
single-malt scotch--he'd appreciate that.

Most of the purchases were for Fox.  He wouldn't care
about the rugby shirts or the dark green sweater, but
she hoped he would like the toy soldiers.  An army of
redcoats and cannons.  Teena frowned to herself.  She
didn't allow Fox to play with toy guns. But this was
different, she decided.  Soldiers and their artillery,
that wasn't the same as air rifles or cap pistols.

Fox was continually on her mind, but she tried not to
mention him.  At breakfast that first morning, Craig
had asked about "that fine boy of yours," and Bill's
face had fallen in shame.

Craig never doubted he was Fox's father, and his outwardly
innocent question was a barb.  Bill accepted the public
opprobrium of the lie, silent and ashamed.

When Fox was born, Teena would study his features,
searching for the answer.  He was a beautiful, healthy
baby, but that wasn't enough.  Finally she asked the
pediatrician to test his blood type.

It was Bill who opened the letter from the lab.

"Type O, like me," he told her. "Craig is AB."

He had sworn to her that it wouldn't matter, that he was
the baby's father by law and by love, but she could hear
the relief in his voice, and Teena was relieved as well.
Let Craig glory in his arrogant delusion, and let him
use his power and cunning to protect her boy.

She, Bill, and Craig were like those nesting dolls,
with layers of lies and insinuations.  Only Cassandra
wore her heart on her sleeve--and a sign on her backside
that said "kick me."

Teena carefully arranged the pillows before she lay
down on the bed.  She had four more months to go, and
already she needed to prop up her knees so her lower
back wouldn't spasm.  Her body betrayed her at every
turn, demanding naps and restrooms when she needed
to be as strong as a man.

She fell asleep quickly and deeply, despite her cares,
and it seemed like minutes later that she felt Bill's
hand on her shoulder.

"Teena?  Honey?"

Reluctantly she forced herself awake.

"How was the meeting?" she asked, but she knew the answer.
He wouldn't wake her up to tell her everything was fine.

"It...ah...didn't go well."

He was drinking more than ever.  She could hear it in his
voice and smell it on his breath.

"You knew it wouldn't be easy," Teena said.

"It's suicide, Teena.  Treason.  Those bastards..."

"You'll find another way.  I believe in you."  It wasn't
a lie, not really.  She believed in his decency and his
intelligence.  If only those things were enough.

He looked at her with surprise, perhaps gratitude.  She
made room for him on the bed, and he sat down next to her.

"Craig's going over to their side," he said quietly.

"And you will too," Teena said.

"You don't understand."  He moved toward the end of
the bed and took her feet in his lap.

"They won, Bill.  What choice do we have?"

He answered slowly as he massaged her aching feet.

"What if Hitler won?  Should I join his team?"

"You drink too much,"  Teena said.  She knew that
her accusations accomplished nothing, but she couldn't
help it.  Alcohol was clouding his judgment and making
him weak.

"I'm under a lot of pressure," he mumbled.

Teena sat up, swinging her legs off the bed.

"What if Hitler won.  And you had a choice.  Join him,
or march into the gas chamber."

"There's another choice.  Continue to fight."

"But first you have to join him, because you can't
fight when you're dead!"

It was a heated argument conducted in whispers.

"You can't fight him when you're just as bad as he
is.  You can't sign over the world and tell yourself
you're saving it."

"Forget about the world!  Forget about the world for
once and think about your children!"

He turned away as she glared at him.  She had never
seen him cry, but sometimes he'd turn silent, refusing
to meet her eyes.

"I don't know if I can take it," he said finally.

"You will do what you have to do," she said.  Firmly,
because sympathy would unhinge him.

"What you're doing with Craig...letting him treat you
like he owns you..."

What she was doing she did for her family.  Bill knew
that.  He spoke of unnameable perils and decisions in
smoky rooms.  If people had to suffer, if children had
to die, let it happen to other people.  Not to her.
Not to her children.

Bill gave his consent, not in words but in action.  He
didn't try to stop her from sleeping with his rival.
He just didn't want them to be seen together in public.

Teena loved Bill, but more and more she couldn't
make herself respect him.

"Let's go home," Bill said suddenly.  "Let's pack
up and get out of here."

"One more night, honey.  We can do it."

"The talks are over.  Tonight it's just the party.
I'm supposed to smile and shake hands and show
everyone I'm willing to go along with their madness,"
he said.

"That's important."  If he wasn't drunk all the time,
he'd understand just how important it was.

"I won't do it, Teena.  We're going home."

"You're a fool," she snapped, but then she regained
her composure and softened her tone.  "You've had a
rough day.  You'll feel better after a shower."

Bill's shoulders sagged.  Teena watched him, torn
between tenderness and contempt.

"I'm going to be at that party.  Don't make me go
alone," she said.  It was a threat and a plea.

Teena dressed quickly and left the bedroom.  If Bill
cared about their marriage, if he cared about their
son, then he would pull himself together and do what
he had to do.  If he was going to wallow in self pity
and drown himself in liquor, she didn't want to watch.

****************

The door to the Mulders' room was shut, the murmur of
voices even lower as Cassandra passed by on her way to
the kitchen.  Mercifully, it remained closed when she
returned to the bedroom with a dishtowel full of ice.

Craig was not there when she got back, and she blew out
a sigh of relief.  The ice stung against her cheek as
she drew the shades and dropped down on the bed.

Hot tears cooled as they reached the ice pack.  She
didn't try to stop them; she had earned this cry.

Craig returned, bringing the scent of scotch and
cigarette smoke with him.  Hands on hips, he looked
down at her with a mixture of exasperation and pity.
The bed dipped as he sat down next to her.

Pushing the ice pack aside, he studied her face.
"I don't think it's going to swell," he said, his
voice rumbly and low.  She fought a flinch as Craig
grazed a finger along her jaw.  "You'll look fine
with a little makeup on."

Cassandra placed the ice back against her face,
turning her eyes away as Craig sighed deeply.

"Look, I'm sorry.  It's just that you make me so
angry.  Tonight is important, Cassandra.  We need
to present a united front."

Craig snapped on the lamp and she closed her eyes
against the brightness as he rooted around in the
closet for a fresh suit.  She listened to the
rustling of fabric as he upwrapped a clean shirt
and quietly dressed.

"I hope you brought your blue dress.  You always
look good in that color."

***************

The living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke,
and Teena traced the odor to Craig's jacket, lying
across the back of a chair.  Turning her head away,
she carried the garment to the hall closet.

The trick would be to get Bill in and out of the
party as quickly as possible.  She'd have to keep
him moving or he'd park himself in a corner and
brood.  As soon a they made the rounds to show
everyone they were still loyal soldiers, she
would take him home.

As for Craig, it was time to push him away.  She
would say she was afraid Bill was starting to
suspect--no, too ridiculous.  Craig was arrogant,
not stupid.  She'd say she couldn't stand to see
the pain in Bill's eyes.

Teena sat on the sofa, waiting and listening.  If
Bill was getting ready, he was doing it very quietly.
She could hear nothing from either of the bedrooms.
Consulting her watch she realized with a pang that
"Mr. Ed" was over.  And "Lassie," and "My Favorite
Martian."  Sunday night TV was one of the highlights
of Fox's week, and she had missed it.

One more night, and then they could go home.

She heard movement from the area of the Spenders'
bedroom, and then Craig's footsteps.  As he entered
the living room, Teena saw that he was as tired and
strained as everyone else in the bungalow.  He sat
not on the couch but on the adjacent wing chair.

"It's a party, for god's sake.  Is that too much to
ask?" As he spoke he patted his pockets for his
cigarettes.

Craig was the practical one, the tactician.  He
didn't feel defeat the way her husband did because he
didn't have the same sense of morality.

"A party.  Then it really doesn't matter, does it?"
she asked stonily.  She would be damned if she'd join
him in criticizing Bill.

"Ah, *you* understand.  Cassandra has no sense about
these things.  Survival takes dignity and strength.
It's suicide to show your weakness."

So it was Cassandra who didn't feel like socializing.
Teena could hardly blame her.

"This hasn't been easy for her," she said.  She didn't
mention Craig's role in Cassandra's difficulties.

"She's jealous of you," he said.

"We can't go on like this, Craig.  We're hurting
people."

"She's been trying to get pregnant for years.  Meanwhile
you have a fine little son and a baby on the way."  He
smiled down at Teena's abdomen, and she felt a wave of
nausea.

Craig was most unsettling when he was tender, she realized.
His anger was less menacing than his affection.

"Do you know the most important thing you can teach a son?"
Craig asked.  "To persevere.  Sometimes you get knocked
down, but you have to come up swinging."

She had used deceit and treachery to convince him that
Fox was his son, but she couldn't bear to hear the pride
in his voice.  Damn Bill for hiding in his room when she
needed him here.

"Would you mind getting me a glass of water?" she asked.

"Certainly," he said, rising at once.

Bill wasn't coming, she knew that now.  He'd had plenty
of time to change for the party or at least get himself
into the shower.  Teena pictured him sitting on the edge
of the bed just as she'd left him, head in hands, silent
and stubborn.  He asked her to distance herself from
Craig, but at the same time he made it very plain that
she couldn't count on him for support or protection.

Craig returned with her water.  He'd even taken the time
to add some ice cubes.

"I can't imagine what's taking Cassandra so long," he said.
"Is Bill ready to go?"

"I don't think he's coming," she said.

"Damn," Craig dropped back into his chair.  "I thought
Edward would be the problem," he said thoughtfully.

"I asked him to come.  I urged him to come," Teena said.

Again Craig patted his pockets absently, before he
remembered that he couldn't smoke inside.

"We'll just have to say he's too drunk," he said.
"That's believable."

Craig was brilliant, in his own way.  Nobody would hold
it against Bill if he drank until he passed out.  Teena
would never have thought of using that as an excuse.

"We can say that Cass just wasn't feeling well," Teena
suggested.

"Cassandra will be there," Craig asserted.

Teena had always dismissed Cassandra as a little mouse
that whimpered a bit and then did as she was told.
Craig's icy tone made her consider that Cassandra would
have to be tougher than nails to stand up to her merciless
husband.

"You know how we women are.  Take forever with out hair
and makeup," Teena said.

Her timing couldn't have been worse.  Her words hung in
the air when Cassandra entered in her rumpled slacks
and top.

She eyed Teena with undisguised hostility.

"You look beautiful, Teena.  Just a goddamn glowing
Madonna."

"Cassandra, you have five minutes to make yourself
presentable," Craig said.

She turned her glare on her husband, and Teena noticed
something.  Cassandra's left cheek was red and puffy.
God, you could even make out the finger marks.

"I mean, darling, that it's time to go.  So you need
to get dressed," Craig said.  There was a wheedling
uncertainty to his voice that Teena had never heard
before.

"I'm not going," said Cassandra.  She turned and
walked away before her astonished husband could
think of another word to say.

*********************

With Teena out of the house, there really was no
reason for Cassandra to be smoking in the garden.
Beyond the trees, the moongate stood sentinel, its
stones unearthly in the moonlight.  The scent of
flowers in the evening air mixed with the roasted
nuts smell of her cigarette soothed her jangled
nerves.

Her face throbbed as she took a drag.  Despite what
Craig had said, her cheek was going to be black and
blue tomorrow.  He'd forgotten how easily she
bruised.

Earlier, she'd heard the voices in the living
room--Craig's deep baritone and Teena's alto.  She
hadn't heard Bill's raspy voice.  Later, she'd
heard the front door close and the car engine roar
to life.  After that, all was quiet in the house,
and Cassandra finally ventured from the bedroom to
come out to the garden.

Cassandra sat on the picnic table, her feet on
the bench.  The red-gold glow from the end of her
cigarette danced in the darkness as her long
fingers shook with residual nerves.

"I didn't know anyone was here."

She jumped at the sound of Bill's voice,
unnaturally loud in the quiet evening air.

"Sorry I startled you," he said.  "I saw
your cigarette in the darkness and wondered if
we had a prowler who'd walk a mile for a Camel."

"I thought you went to the party," she said.  Bill
hoisted himself onto the picnic table, close but
not touching her.

"I didn't feel much like celebrating tonight," he
replied.  Bill gestured toward the cigarette in
her hand.  "Can I bum one off you?"

Cassandra found her pack on the table next to her
hip and shook until one cigarette slid forward
above the others.   Bill pulled it out, placing
the cigarette between his lips.

"I used the last match," she said, handing
him her cigarette, careful of the glowing end.

The little flare that bloomed as he ignited his
cigarette from hers illuminated their faces for
a moment.  Cassandra pulled her gaze from Bill's
eyes as she took her cigarette back and took a
desperate drag.

"You don't deserve this," Bill said, touching her
face gently.  "Craig is a fool."

She laughed, mostly out of nervousness.  "Maybe
we're the fools."

"You're not a fool, Cassandra," Bill said, softly.
"But I fear I've been the worst kind of fool--the
kind that tries to hide from the truth."

He sounded so lost, so broken.  Cassandra felt
something tear apart inside her at the pain in
his voice.  He was hunched over, his elbows on
his knees.  She placed a gentle hand on his
shoulder.

"You're not a fool, Bill.  You're a good man in
a bad situation."

"I think back, sometimes, to when we first
started," he said, his voice hollow-sounding.
"I had hopes back then that I'd be able to make
a difference.  And now--it's all fallen to hell."

Cassandra realized that Bill wasn't talking
about his marriage anymore.  Or at least not
only his marriage.  Something big had happened
at that meeting--she'd sensed it in Craig's
attitude.  What must have been said, she
mused, that would send both Craig and Bill
into their respective spirals.

"You can't give up," she said, bending close
so he could hear her.

He turned to her, a sad, bitter smile on
his face.

"No point in kidding myself.  I've lost
everything."

She could smell the scotch on his breath, and
the cigarette smoke.  His eyes glittered in the
moonlight.  Cassandra closed the distance
between them, her lips brushing his lightly.
For a heartbeat, she was afraid he'd pull away,
but he didn't.

She kissed him, tasting whiskey and smoke and
sorrow.  His hands came up to cradle her face,
careful of her tender cheek.

Bill broke off the kiss, resting his forehead
against hers.  "This is wrong," he whispered.

"I don't care," Cassandra replied.  She didn't
know what was right anymore.  She only knew that
she needed to be touched tonight.  She needed to
be held and made love to or she wouldn't survive.

She slid off the picnic table and turned to face
Bill.  The look in his eyes told her that he, too,
balanced precariously on a ledge of desperation
and need.

Bill's hand felt warm and solid in hers as they
walked to the house.

End