Artist: Dante Gabriel Rossetti (English, 1828–1882)
Date: 1871-1872
Medium: Oil on canvas
Collection: Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, IL, United States
Description
Both a poet and a painter, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a circle of Victorian artists united in their appreciation of medieval aesthetics and the “primitive” style of pre-Renaissance art. Rossetti found inspiration forBeata Beatrix in La vita nuova (The New Life), written by his namesake, the Italian poet Dante Alighieri, in 1295. Rossetti’s scene draws a parallel between Dante’s love for the late Beatrice and his own aff ection for his recently deceased wife and muse, Elizabeth Siddal. While the picture is a tribute to Siddal, Rossetti was adamant that it does not represent her death; rather, the work portrays her as if in a trance or other spiritual state.
The soundtrack for this chapter is Right Place Wrong Time, by Dr. John, from his 1973 album In the Right Place. This song peaked at #10 on the Billboard Hot 100 in June 1973.
November 25, 1973
Chilmark, Massachusetts
Bill Mulder had been home for thirty minutes now, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone in his family. Scully found it unsettling.
From the stairs on the landing, she could see the back of his head, his dark hair, emerging from behind a leather chair in the den. Scotch sat at his hand. A halo of cigarette smoke curled slowly around him. The evening news played idly on the TV, more details about the unfolding Watergate scandal in the White House.
Scully offered to help set the table with Samantha and the boy, so they were placing thick earthenware plates at each spot, bracketing them with silverware. Teena Mulder, busily moving around casserole dishes in oven mitts, seemed perfectly steady on her feet now. Her lips were set in a neutral, unreadable expression.
When the table was ready, Teena surveyed it with a little nod. “Go tell your father dinner’s ready, Fox.”
In an obedient burst he bounded around the corner into the den. “Dad,” Scully heard him say. “We’re ready to eat.”
There was a sudden catch in his breath.
Scully didn’t have to think. She was so alert to his signals, even at this age. She rounded the corner behind him in three steps.
What she saw first was Bill Mulder, bemused, standing up to look at his son.
What she saw next was her own face on the TV screen. It was her 3rd grade school picture. Not her favorite photo from childhood: bangs and pigtails and wide, wide overbite smile. Underneath, in scary capital letters: DANA SCULLY, SAN DIEGO GIRL MISSING FROM HOME SINCE THANKSGIVING DAY.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bill Mulder was saying to the boy.
“She- she just looks like someone I know,” the boy said, eyes on the screen. To his credit, he didn’t turn around, didn’t give a whisper away. Scully took an unsteady step closer so that she could hear the TV.
“...authorities continue to treat the case as a possible abduction,” the reporter’s voice was saying. “Meanwhile, the Scully family asks for help from the public.”
The image cut to Scully’s parents standing together in front of a microphone on the front steps of the San Diego police station, Bill, Melissa and Charlie huddled close next to them. Bill stared straight into the camera, stoic, no flicker of expression. Melissa was burying her face in her mother’s arm. Charlie, who was very small, never lifted his eyes from the ground.
“We ask that if anyone has any information about Dana,” her father said into the microphone, “anything at all, that they don’t hesitate to come forward.” His voice broke. “This has been so hard on our family. Please help us bring our little girl home.”
The screen jumped back to the anchor in the studio. Scully stood completely still, all breath gone from her body.
She had done that. That damage, wrought all over her mother’s face, all over her whole family’s faces, was her handiwork.
“That’s sad,” the boy’s voice was raspy, almost a whisper. He glanced over at Scully. “That’s really sad.”
No one said anything. Scully sensed the tension rolling off the boy, who was shifting restlessly from foot to foot beside her. The news cut to a commercial for cigars. It’s the quality taste of tobacco, for a man who knows what he wants out of life.
“Yes, it is sad.” The ice in Bill Mulder’s scotch glass tinkled as he brought it to his lips and back. “But sometimes sad things happen, son,” he said, dully. “You have to try not to feel everything so deeply.”
The boy’s eyes cut immediately to his father’s. “Dad, a missing kid. Something like that … some things really should be felt deeply. Don’t you agree?”
Bill Mulder let out a ragged sigh. “Well of course, ideally. But if you go through life like that, well, you’re going to get knocked around. It’s an unpredictable world.”
All the horror Scully felt at seeing her face on the TV changed direction, channeling suddenly towards Bill Mulder. She felt herself swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet, filled with a sudden surge of fury at his words, at their implications.
It’s a lot more of an unpredictable world than you fucking know, Bill Mulder. You and all your suited associates, who think you understand all the variables at play. None of you even know my name.
Stubbing out his cigarette and sighing heavily, Bill Mulder didn't pay any attention to Scully at all. He didn’t ask who she was or why she was there for dinner. Not the way Bill Scully would have treated a guest in his home, greeting a stranger in a warm and booming voice, extending his hand and telling a joke. Bill Mulder just walked over and turned off the TV, and strode right past her to the dining room table without giving her a second look. As if she were a ghost.
And wasn’t she a ghost, she thought, standing there staring at the empty TV screen? Wasn’t she all that remained of the real Dana Scully, a little girl with bangs and a big smile – a vibrant little girl with a family who loved her, whose biggest problem was bickering with her sister?
All that was left was this … hollowed-out adult. So colorless, so grim. Who floated around in a time she didn’t belong in.
The boy was just standing there gaping at her. When his eyes found hers, he pointed emphatically at the TV and silently mouthed the word: “You?”
She nodded. Lightning fast, she wiped her eyes, but she suspected not fast enough; he’d likely seen the tears there.
His eyes slowly grew rounder, as if he were understanding something. They were such soft and wide versions of her Mulder’s green eyes. They were far, far too easy to imagine on an infant’s face.
“Maybe you can go try to explain to your family,” he whispered, “so they don’t worry?”
“Maybe,” she nodded. “After the mission.”
What happened to her family had also happened to him, she realized with a chill, following him back to the dinner table.
Or, more accurately, it had happened to her Mulder.
She had known this all along, of course, but the real horror and trauma of it now stared her in the face. What her family had been like on TV: that had been what Mulder lived through, what he had already survived for as long as she had known him.
But he had done it alone. Unlike the members of her family, her Mulder had no one else to cling to, no arm to bury his face in. He had wept and wept for his sister, and he had been told by his father not to feel things so deeply.
Berkeley, California
100 Hours After Scully Vanishes
1999
A little hope had done Mulder a world of good. At last he had been convinced to visit his much-neglected hotel room and take a shower, which was pretty much a necessity at this point. It had been cruel to the graduate students to keep smelling as he did. Newly clean, shaved, in fresh clothes, he even managed to collapse on the motel bed and sneak in a short nap.
He woke up with the sound of Scully’s voice in his ears, the crisp ends of her consonants just fading away. The memory of the hush of the ocean.
He lay on his back for a moment, trying to restart the motor of the memory, but he couldn’t piece the dream back together. He told himself not to worry. It seemed like a good omen to dream about Scully in any case.
As he pulled his own motel room door shut, he paused to let his eyes rest on the nondescript door directly next to his, the door to the room that belonged to her. He wondered if he should try to go inside and gather up her belongings, move them into his, and officially check her out of the hotel room. No doubt the Bureau would prefer that. It would save them money.
He decided against it. Screw the Bureau. He didn’t want to risk ruining his relatively upbeat mood. If Georgette had her way, Scully would be back to pack her own damn bags before long anyway.
When he arrived back at the lab, resolute with new purpose, he had his arms full, precariously balancing a stack of pizzas and keeping steady a cup of coffee. As he backed his way through the glass doors at the entrance, he nearly collided with Skinner.
“Mulder.” Skinner looked him over quizzically, taking a few of the pizza boxes for him. “You’re looking … better. Much better.”
“The team and I have been making good progress,” Mulder said lightly, moving to the conference table with his boxes. “I’m encouraged. So encouraged I brought pizza. Young people still like pizza, right?”
“That’s great news,” Skinner nodded, giving Mulder his kindly sympathetic look, that look that always made Mulder feel a little embarrassed. “Mulder, I was wondering where you got – that.”
“What, the coffee?” Mulder looked down at the fragrant cup still steaming in his hand. “Some very Berkeley café a few blocks away. Brewed Awakening? Human Bean? I know it had a coffee pun in the name.”
“I meant that,” Skinner had set his pizza boxes down, too, and was now pointing at the notes scattered all over the conference table. “That looks like Hays’ notes.”
“Oh,” Mulder shrugged. Keep this vague, he thought. “Yeah, the grad students have been recreating what parts of Hays’ work they can.”
“To what end?” Skinner said, arching an eyebrow. “Do they actually think they can…?”
“Maybe,” Mulder said, carefully. “It’s a possibility.”
The lab appeared empty, he noted. Just untidy computer stations and the constant hum of power running under everything. But he could hear little sounds in the back hall. Faintly, possibly the echo of the music the students were perpetually listening to. Maybe the students were gathered in the lounge, taking a break. He hoped they stayed put. The less anyone told Skinner at this point, the better.
Skinner gave him a knowing look. “Okay, Mulder,” he said. “Just make sure you remember that it was only a matter of a few weeks ago the inside of your head was on the outside.” He opened up a pizza box, helped himself to a piece. “That is to say, don’t do anything stupid to compound our problems.”
“Never, sir,” Mulder said blandly. “Is there any update about Hays?”
“That’s what I came here to tell you,” Skinner sighed, chewing on his pizza. “He’s stopped talking altogether. And eating, too. He says he’ll only give us information if we allow him full access to his lab, no guards.”
“No way,” Mulder felt his jaw set and shook his head. “No telling what he has in mind if he does that. Maybe he thinks he can travel into another multiverse himself.”
“That was my read,” Skinner agreed, “although there are some at the Bureau who … think another approach is warranted. Who aren’t as convinced the lab is a danger.”
“You have to convince them,” Mulder said. Or at least hold them off a little while longer, he did not add. “Hays – he’s a wild card. If we can convince him to help us, he could be useful. But if he’s given access to what he has here, I’d say he’s a flight risk.”
Skinner took another thoughtful bite of pizza. “It’s good,” he said, chewing slowly, looking down at the slice. “The pizza. A step up from that crap you and Scully order all the time at work.”
“I won’t stand here and listen to you insult Mama Nina’s like that, sir.”
“I’ll do my best with Hays,” Skinner gave a short nod, turning to go. “You’ll keep me updated on whatever the hell you’re doing here?”
Mulder blinked. “Of course. I’m just working with the graduate students.”
“Yeah,” Skinner said. “That’s going remarkably well, huh? When this is over, maybe you should really spend more time teaching at Quantico. Or I should get you some interns. You’ve got a certain … rapport with them that surprises me.”
“Eh, I’m just doing what it takes,” Mulder said uncomfortably.
“I’m taking this with me,” Skinner gestured with the slice of pizza. “Stay out of trouble, Mulder.”
“Have an excellent day, sir.”
That was apparently a shade too polite. Skinner turned back to give him one more concerned, suspicious look before heading out the door.
Mulder exhaled, cradled his fancy coffee in his hands, and rolled his head around in a deep circle, his neck making some promising pops and cracks. All he had to do was hold off the pressure from the Bureau until he could get her back. Nobody could argue if she simply showed up again, could they? It just meant that they didn’t have the luxury of unlimited time.
“Is your boss gone?” called Anish, his head appearing through the back hallway door.
“Were you hiding back there?” Mulder said in amusement. “I’m the only one who needs to hide, you know.” He folded himself into one of the swivel chairs, took a deep swig from his coffee, and watched as the whole team made an unwieldy reentrance. Georgette was carrying her laptop and an enormous stack of papers, which no one helped her with. Marshall had a pillow and a map of imprinted red lines over his face. Paolo looked like was holding a yoga mat and a CD player.
“You shaved!” Anish said. “I’m overjoyed. And you brought pizza?” He turned around. “Guys, Agent Mulder brought us pizza.”
“I feel loved,” Eujung said, coming in. “Did you shower, Agent Mulder? Because that’s what would really show your love.” Anish elbowed her as they both reached into the box to grab some pizza.
“Can Agent Mulder solve the music dispute?” Marshall said testily, also grabbing a slice. “Because I think three hours of The Roots is unreasonable. Agent Mulder, do you think three hours of the same album is conducive to a good working environment?”
“Marshall, no one wants to listen to your music,” Paolo snapped back. “Including Agent Mulder.”
“Nobody even knows what kind of music Agent Mulder likes, Paolo, because no one has been consulted about music except for–”
“Hey.” Georgette cleared her throat. “Okay. Can we do this? I’m ready to get started. Everyone get your pizza and sit down.”
Marshall and Paolo, eyeing one another sulkily, slunk into chairs and started wolfing down pizza as others filled in around them. Mulder normally wasn’t put off by immature behavior from brilliant minds; he had, after all, once seen the Gunmen practically reduced to tears in a knock-down fight over who ate someone else’s mozzarella sticks from their communal refrigerator. But he still felt a flicker of anxiety. He needed to be able to trust these kids completely to help bring Scully home.
“I have an update,” Georgette said, once everyone was settled. Her laptop was set up in front of her, her papers in a meticulous spiral at her fingertips. He had to admit; she, for one, did inspire confidence.
“We’ve been combing through Hays’ most recent notes,” she said, “and we think we understand now what he was working on. We feel ready to do a test run.”
Mulder sat up straight so quickly he jostled his coffee, and he moved quickly to wipe it up. “A test run?” he said, his voice sounding slightly unsteady to his ears. “What does that mean?”
“It means we send someone back to the same approximate point in time, 1973, but only for a matter of seconds. We want one limited electrical stimulus to that region of the brain, one that can sustain a trip there and a trip back, no more. So this will be very limited in scope.”
“How does it work?”
“The person needs to visualize the right day,” Georgette said. She frowned, picked up a pencil absent-mindedly. “The destination time originates from your own will, your own mind, or at least that’s what Hays believed.”
Mulder said nothing. That raised the question of how Scully ended up in November 1973 in the first place. Why November 1973 would be so much on her mind. It had to be because of their argument, didn’t it? She was thinking of the mission, of his desire to find out what happened to Samantha? That meant this was his fault in an entirely new way. He tucked that thought away, to think about later.
“Then, once the test subject travels back to 1973, we believe they will take the place of their 1973 self. Because, as you were able to confirm with the San Diego PD, there doesn’t seem to be any 9-year old Dana Scully floating around 1999. She seems most likely to have been replaced – temporarily, we hope – by her time-traveling adult self from another multiverse. So our test subject is going to travel via their own 1973 body.”
“Tell him about the personnel problem,” Anish urged.
“Right,” Georgette nodded. “So that raises a personnel problem. Because it means that our test subject needs a 1973 body to travel into. And most of us don’t have one.”
“I don’t follow,” Mulder said. “Why don’t most of you have one?”
“We weren’t born yet,” Georgette shrugged, as if that should be obvious. “Most of us–” she made an inclusive gesture around the table “–were born in the mid-1970s. So we would have no body existing yet to jump into.”
Mulder ran his fingers over his newly smooth shaved chin. “Right,” he said, contemplating this. “You’re young. I get it.” He leaned forward on the table on his elbows. “But … it doesn’t matter anyway, Georgette. It’s clear that it should be me. I have a 1973 body, and my 1973 body is actually with her, so potentially, I’ll even be able to somehow communicate in those few seconds, give her an idea of what is going on.”
The graduate students looked at one another, clearly a little nervous, and then at Georgette.
“I agree it makes some sense. But…” Georgette began delicately, “wasn’t there something about you just recovering from brain surgery? I didn’t hear all the details.”
“Eventually, when we do this for real,” Mulder said, “it has to be me who goes, Georgette.”
“This is the Messiah complex thing? He thinks he’s Jesus?” Georgette said to Anish.
“I really don’t,” Mulder said. “Well, not in this particular circumstance. And you know I’m right, Georgette. My brain … it’s a risk, but this is a risk that’s worth it. I’m the only person who’s in the right place at the right time.”
The other graduate students turned solemnly to Georgette. Mulder could hear the persistent tapping of her foot like a tiny countdown clock. Her lips unmoving, she raised an eyebrow in question towards Anish, and his head did a little dip in return that Mulder couldn’t decipher.
“All right,” Georgette said slowly to Mulder. “Let’s say it’s a go. We need to begin immediately working on the test run. We have a lot to do, because I want to do it this afternoon.”
Mulder felt like leaping out of his seat. “This afternoon?”
The possibility of seeing Scully, even for a moment, so unexpectedly soon.
“Why not? No time like the present,” Georgette said dryly, stacking her papers.
“Ha,” Eujung said, rolling her eyes and biting her pizza. “No time like the present. I get it.”
November 26, 1973
Chilmark, Massachusetts
Monday was a school day. Why wouldn’t it be? No one but Scully knew it was the day before Samantha was scheduled to disappear.
No, Scully corrected herself. Someone knew. Somewhere, someone was planning for it. But the tragedy hadn’t touched the Mulder family yet. They woke up and took showers and got dressed and ate a quiet breakfast at the kitchen table on that dark November morning.
The boy’s improvised cover story —that she was a visiting teacher from California— required that Scully be dropped off at school with him, although she didn’t need to stay there. After a fitful night’s sleep, she had showered and dressed this morning in her stolen woolen pants, another turtleneck sweater, her 1999 boots, her 1999 bra. Her weapon and the body cam were both holstered discreetly to her.
She had looked herself over in the small mirror over the vanity in the Mulders’ guest room. Did she look plausibly like a 1973 teacher? No one better be paying so much attention to her chest in the turtleneck to notice the period-inappropriate bra. The weapon and camera were not too lumpy, as the waist of her pants were a little loose. The ends of her hair were now curling haphazardly around her face because she had showered last night and not blow dried or styled, and she had no make-up or jewelry at all, besides her cross necklace. It felt unpolished by her personal standards, but hopefully, it came across as a natural look.
There was a knock on the guest room door.
“Samantha caught the bus to her school,” the boy said, standing in the door frame, awkwardly, appearing to be all legs and arms. “Mom’s going to drop you and me off in a few minutes. After that you can go … wherever you’re planning on going.”
“All right,” she nodded. “I’ll get my coat.”
“Agent Scully?” he said.
“Scully,” she corrected.
“I was thinking. This event that happens? It’s got to do with Samantha, doesn’t it?”
Scully paused midway through putting her arm through her pea coat. She looked at him, leaning against the door frame.
“You wanted me to do her recital so badly. You didn’t say anything about what she did in 1999. You looked … kind of sad when I talked about her and me being a team.”
“Yes. You’re right,” Scully said matter-of-factly. She finished putting the coat on, began buttoning it up. “But it doesn’t matter, Fox. Because it’s not going to happen here. Not to you and her.”
“It’s tomorrow, right?” He stood up straight. “Shouldn’t you be telling us what to do soon? Shouldn’t we be … going over the mission?”
Scully nodded. “After school today. I’ll work it out.”
He didn’t meet her eyes, his eyes shifting downward. She could see a crease in his forehead, above his eyes, that she recognized, although she had not yet seen it on his younger face.
“Mul– Fox. Look at me,” she said. She put her hand on his small shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m used to watching out for you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or Samantha.”
He smiled a little halfheartedly.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would lie to make me feel better,” he said.
Scully found herself huffing a laugh, unexpectedly. “No,” she said. “I’m really not.”
***
While the Mulder siblings were in school, Scully checked out Chilmark – as best she could, in a limited way, on foot.
It was too much to hope for, she supposed, that she would see Spender sitting ominously in a black car, or that she might spot a fleet of unmarked vehicles parked a distance away from the Mulder home. She deduced that whoever took Samantha must have had access to their own transport off of Martha’s Vineyard, either boat or otherwise, and if she had 1999 Bureau resources at her disposal, she might have tried to track down all the possible ways to leave the island besides a ferry. But as it was, she could hardly do that on her own with no vehicle and no F.B.I. badge to flash.
By the time the school day was over, a plan had begun to emerge in her mind, the plan that would most effectively keep the Mulder siblings out of harm’s way without requiring much material support.
It wasn’t … ideal. And she was going to need their buy-in.
Teena Mulder drove Scully and the boy home from school that afternoon, and Scully was relieved not to be asked any questions about how she spent her day as a visiting teacher.
Once again, Teena Mulder seemed distracted. Not impolite, and not as disoriented as she had been the first day, but as though her mind were somewhere else. Her eyes seemed perpetually fixed on a distant point. The question was, Scully wondered, how distant, exactly?
Samantha had to practice piano, and when they arrived home, she was already dutifully banging out “Fur Elise” somewhere in the house. So the boy and Scully waited for her in his room, where he sat on the floor cross-legged and methodically unpacked school materials from his backpack, in that selectively systematic manner Mulder always had.
“You’re in sixth grade?” Scully said, curiously, watching him.
“I’m in seventh,” he said, flipping through a binder. “I should be in sixth, technically, given my October birthday, but they moved me up due to my great intellect.”
“And you do well in school?”
He looked up and sighed. “Academically? Sure. But I think everyone thinks I could win more friends and influence more people.”
Scully smiled slightly. “Ah, well. That’s overrated.” And it will surely get easier, she thought. Being tall, good-looking and athletic never hurt any boy I ever knew in high school or college. She moved to the window over his desk and pulled back his curtain slightly with the tip of her finger. “You can see the ocean a little from this window, can’t you? I would have liked that, when I was your age. To always be able to have eyes on the sea.”
“It’s Squibnocket Beach,” the boy said. He had stopped unpacking the backpack, and was now still, tilting his head, studying her in a way she found unnerving.
“What’s wrong?” She smoothed back her hair self-consciously.
“In the light from the window there, you look just exactly like ... someone from a painting,” the boy said, appraisingly. “I didn’t notice it before, but now I really see it.”
Scully gave him an apprehensive look, stepping away from the window.
“You look like Beatrice, in that famous painting by Dante Rossetti. You know the one I mean?”
“No,” she said. That wasn’t quite true. In her teens she and Melissa had collected postcards of artwork featuring redheads, which she had made into an impressive collage on their bedroom wall. She did have some vague image, in the back of her mind, of the painting he meant: of the red-headed heroine, leaning back, in a divine trance. “You know about art, Fox?”
“My mother and my grandmother,” the boy said, “are big fans. And donors. The Met in New York, mostly. My grandparents, my mom’s parents, live in New York, so we go all the time, just about every month.”
“That often?”
“At least,” the boy said. “I mean, I like to go. We go see shows, to the zoo in the park. My grandfather takes us to games – the Yankees, the Knicks.”
“Oh,” Scully said, that information clicking in place. Mulder had never mentioned these New York trips specifically. She suspected they stopped after Samantha’s disappearance, and she wondered why.
“My grandmother loves the Pre-Raphaelites,” the boy said seriously. “We have a picture of the Beatrice in a book in the study. Do you want to see?”
“Sure,” Scully said, faintly curious.
He hopped up, giving her his eager-to-please quirked smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Scully smiled, too, and turned to look out the window again at his little fragmented view of the beach. The boy was exactly what she might have expected in many respects. Yet there were sides to him that deeply surprised her, bright threads running through his personality that were much more muted in 1999 adult Mulder.
And then … there was already more of a melancholy streak than she might have guessed, she thought, pulling the curtain back in place. A darkness that predated Samantha’s abduction. She had assumed all sadness in Fox Mulder sprang originally from that one formative event. Adult Mulder seemed to believe that to be true, too; it seemed integral to the story he told her on their first case together, the story that he thought made him who he was. But now that she saw this version of him, she wasn’t as sure.
She heard him step back into the room, and turned to see the boy standing there, his expression wooden, Samantha standing uncertainly beside him. He had no book in his hand.
“Did you find the book?” Scully said, concerned.
“No, I —” His face was ashen.
"Fox?"
“Something happened. I was in the study, and – then I wasn’t. I think I must have passed out.”
Scully moved to him right away, placing her hand on his back. “Do you feel dizzy? Sit down on your bed. Have you had water this afternoon?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting, wobbly, lowering himself on the edge of his bed. “I mean – I don’t know, I guess? No more or less than usual.”
Samantha looked at Scully, her eyes fearful. “He was standing in the hall, like he didn’t know where he was,” she whispered, although the boy could clearly hear her.
Scully willed her face to reveal nothing, but she felt her stomach clenching. Lost time. Disorientation. She didn’t like the sound of this. It also didn’t seem consistent with any account she had ever heard from Mulder of the time of Samantha’s abduction. “Has this ever happened to you before, Fox?” she said gently.
He shook his head. But Samantha swallowed.
“Agent Scully– when I came into the hall, I thought I saw a man there,” Samantha whispered hesitantly.
“A man?” Scully repeated, urgently, leaning in towards her. “What kind of man?”
“A man standing in the hall,” nodded Samantha anxiously. “A man I didn’t know. I ducked my head around the corner, and when I looked back, all I saw was Fox.”
Scully felt, almost without thinking, for the outline of her weapon underneath her clothing. Feeling its presence there allowed her to relax, just slightly.
“All right,” she said, calming herself down, too. “All right, I have an idea. After we give Fox a moment to get his feet under him again, why don’t the three of us go for a walk before dinner? Maybe to the beach? Squibnocket Beach, you said, right, Fox?”
The boy and Samantha looked at each other. “Yeah,” the boy said. “Squibnocket.”
“That will be a good place to talk,” Scully said.
“It’s going to be windy.”
“That’s okay. Once we’re there, I can keep an eye on … things,” Scully said. “And I’ll tell you what the three of us are doing tomorrow.”
Samantha frowned, her small face looking from Scully back to the boy. “Are we going some place tomorrow?”
Berkeley, California
105 Hours After Scully Vanishes
1999
Success, declared Georgette. The test run was an unqualified success. There and back without incident.
“So that’s it then?” Mulder said, following her around. “You’re satisfied?”
The graduate students were sprawled everywhere, drinking red Solo cups full of champagne they definitely weren’t supposed to be drinking in the lab. In the background Marshall and Paolo were arguing about what music to put on. Mulder, who had a slight headache from his lighting-fast time travel experience, put his hands over his ears subtly. He hadn’t had a sip of his champagne at all.
“I’m overjoyed,” Georgette drank deep from her own Solo cup. “This is gonna be huge.”
“And then what’s next?”
“You know what’s next,” Georgette said. She was beaming. “The real thing. We’ll go over our data again tonight to double check, but this is definitely some Apollo 11 moonwalk shit we’re doing here, Agent Mulder.”
“You’re giant leaping like nobody’s business, Georgette,” Mulder agreed, sitting down in a swivel chair, beginning to lightly apply pressure to his temple.
“Enjoy yourself — and rest up,” Georgette smiled, going to refill her cup. “You’re our Neil Armstrong.”
Truthfully, he thought to himself, massaging both temples, from his very limited Mulder point of view, the test run was disappointing, small steps indeed.
Like Scully, he had started here in the plastic chair in 1999. He had received the electrical stimulus to his brain. Unlike Scully, he had been very intentional about what he was visualizing: Scully herself, in his parents’ house, shortly before November 27, 1973.
And then suddenly he wasn’t in the chair any more. The sensation of the plastic seat was gone from beneath his ass and legs. He was … standing somewhere, in the darkness.
No, not darkness. Mulder just hadn’t been able to see. He had become aware he was holding something in his hands, and it occurred to him it was a book.
He aimed his face downward, in the direction of the book, and slowly, painfully, bright spots began to blossom in front of his eyes. He blinked once, twice, a dozen times. And suddenly he could make it out.
Mulder recognized below him, on the page, the image of Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix, and right away he had known what book he was holding. It was the coffee table book on the Pre-Raphaelites. It had originally been his maternal grandmother’s, but she had loaned it to him for most of his boyhood; it now sat on a shelf somewhere back home at Hegal Place.
At once he could guess why his child self had been getting the book off the shelf and opening it to this page.
Thinking back on it now, at that point he should have shouted, made more noise, but his reaction was to rotate around in open-mouthed wonder, to take in the dark, wood-paneled study of his childhood home, all the books, the model ship, all of which was painfully and eerily familiar. There was no one else in the room but him.
He was overwhelmed by the sensory experience of it. It smelled like home. It smelled like dinner. He could smell something cooking from the kitchen: the piquant oregano edge of his mother’s spaghetti sauce.
He shook his head, knowing there was no time. He needed to find Scully. He needed to tell her what was going on, that they were working to bring her home.
He strode into the hallway quickly, ready to find her wherever she was in this too-familiar house.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
It was too late. His precious seconds of the test run were gone. In a flash he found himself staring up again at the fissured office ceiling of the lab in 1999, and he was greeted by the raucous cheers of the graduate students all around him.
Now, as he sat at the conference table with his temples under his fingertips, he wondered what the young 1973 version of him experienced.
Did the young Fox Mulder remember feeling displaced? Did he just … lose time? Was it painful? He hoped it wasn’t. Would he talk to Scully about it?
He thought about the young Fox Mulder and the book about the Pre-Raphaelite artists. It gave him a strange and unsettled feeling trying to imagine what the young version of him might be telling her. What he might think was appropriate to say. Could his child self inadvertently reveal aspects of his adult psyche he would prefer to keep private? He feared it was possible. He knew he had been a tiresomely adult-oriented kid.
When Scully first was assigned as his partner, he had thought about that book. About Rossetti’s Beatrice. Of course he had. He had looked through his grandmother’s book five thousand times as a kid; it was his grandmother’s favorite, so it was his, too. Later, as a university student, he visited the painting in person at the Tate in London. It always made him think of his grandmother, whom he had once been very close to, who they stopped seeing very often, after Samantha’s disappearance. When Scully first showed up in the basement, how could he not see the resemblance? Scully looked like Beatrice in the painting. And like Beatrice, she was beautiful.
But that’s all a bit ... much to say to a new co-worker, and especially one so determined to be taken seriously, and Mulder had wanted to get their partnership right.
Later, when he and Scully were closer, when he might have reasonably said it in some casual way — perhaps leaving out the “and you’re beautiful” part — he just didn’t have the stomach for the comparison any more. The model for Rossetti’s painting, Elizabeth Siddall, had been Rossetti’s beloved wife, who had died young, wasted away. Elizabeth Siddall was most famous for being the model for tragic heroines. For drowning Ophelia and dying Beatrice.
And after abductions and serial killers and cancer, Mulder just didn’t want to compare Scully to a tragic heroine anymore. He didn’t want her steeped in pallor and draped in rosemary and shrouds and ethereal light and dying in some beautiful and romanticized way.
He wanted her living, flawed, cranky, sarcastic, warm, with flyaway hair and coffee breath and a gun in her hand, aimed at the threat in front of them. He wanted real, living Scully. God, how he wanted her.
Ignoring the sounds of the graduate students’ music now thumping around him, Mulder bore the weight of his head fully in his hands, and felt the weight of his worries start to fall upon him, too.
What would happen if Scully were there when Samantha’s abduction happened? What would happen if she were unable to stop Them, if she put herself in danger, too?
My lady makes all gracious with her gaze:
bearing the Lord of Love within her eyes,
what she looks upon she dignifies.
You try to watch her pass: her glances faze
the heart. It is impossible to raise
your death-pale face. Regret releases sighs
when she takes pride and rancor by surprise.
Please help me, women, honor her with praise.
All humble thought, all lovely lyrical
emotion’s born in him who hears her speak—
and therefore he who saw her first is lauded.
How she appears when smiling: you’re besotted,
speech falters and your memory’s too weak
before this new and noble miracle.
“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter”
“An artist should create beautiful things, but put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be some form of autobiography. We lost the abstract sense of beauty”
I just wanted to talk about this theme of quotes in The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. It links perfectly to Pre-Raphaelite ideas of art. The hard, graphic style the Brotherhood used, mainly inspired by William Blake’s style of illustration, signalled clarity in their paintings, opposed to the unclear, ambiguous lines of oil paint. The whole movement was routed in a desire for historical accuracy so Wilde’s statements that art should be separated from the artist are terribly Pre-Raphaelite of him.
(The picture is Beata Beatrix, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
