The Velocity of Strained Carrots

Eruption

I've had this story in my head for years. I first started it three years ago, and recently dusted it back off to see where it wanted to go. Yes, it's finished - the second two chapters need some tweaking before they're ready to be posted. But hey, its Ship Day, so I've got to post something new, right?

And so I present to you, for your reading pleasure (I hope), the latest glimpse into the life of Glinda Baldrich.

Surely, Murphy's Law had a codicil for situations such as this.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to prepare for all possible circumstances. She wasn't a complete naïf, nor was she a simpleton. The first time that Benjamin had spit up on her shoulder, she'd been wearing a ruched silk blouse that had been hand dyed in India. Apparently, spit-up defied all laws of laundry care, as nothing Glinda had tried had removed the stain. Ever since then, she'd worn only machine-launderable clothing in her Official Grandma Duties.

She hadn't counted on the carrots. Or the sneezing. Who knew that one small child with a ticklish nose could propel such a huge quantity of partially-pureed orange root vegetable with such velocity? How was it possibly to be known that the same child could produce such an impressive splatter pattern? There had been carrots on the high chair, on the counter behind her, and even little smudges of it all the way across the kitchen on the refrigerator, but the majority had hit Glinda directly. Luckily, she'd still had on her reading glasses, so her eyes had been spared the blast. The rest of her person, however, had not been as fortunate. Glinda didn't doubt that she'd be finding bits of it in her hair for hours yet. She had, however, acquired a sense of humor about these moments, as well as a healthy appreciation for them. After all, as Sam had pointed out one evening, Ben had never thrown up on anyone that he didn't absolutely adore.

And that was what made these moments sweet, rather than disgusting. When one loved the vomiter, one didn't much mind being the vomitee. The same could be said for sneezing, she supposed.

She found herself smiling as she wiped bits of dried carrot off her face with a wet washcloth in the upstairs second bathroom. The tub was draining, the collection of toys dripping dry in a clever net hung with suction cups to the tiles in the corner. Ben, liberally scrubbed clean of all offending particles, had long since been dried and dressed in a soft sleeper. She'd combed his hair and brushed his teeth (at least, as well as he'd let her), and then snuggled in a wicker rocker that sat in his room as she'd read him his favorite book. 'But Not the Hippopotamus.' Glinda had regaled the O'Neill progeny with it so often over the past few weeks that she could recite it from memory.

A hog and a frog do a dance in a bog . . . but not the Hippopotamus.

A bear and a hare have been to the fair . . . but not the Hippopotamus.

From Ben's delighted giggles, you'd think it was Shakespeare. Ah well - there was time for that when he was older. For the time being, Sandra Boynton would stand - sure-shod - in the Bard's place.

Glinda found a splotch of carrot embedded in her left eyebrow, and another just below her ear. A particularly large glob had landed—and then dried—exactly beneath the curl that always escaped her careful coiffure to hang over her forehead, and she attacked it with zeal before moving onto the fine spray that colored her right cheek. Stretching her chin upward, she bathed her neck of offending residue, dipping the washcloth just below the neckline of her shirt before lowering it to rinse at the faucet.

She'd just wrung the last of the orange-tinted water from the cloth when her cellphone vibrated in her pocket.

That was where Murphy and his pesky laws muddled themselves into this particular circumstance.

Drying her hands on the towel hanging near the mirror, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the device, flicking it open and pressing the 'send' button. "Hello?"

"Hello back, Glin."

"Good evening, William."

"So, are you ever going to call me 'Bean'?"

"Why should I?" She smiled into the phone, assiduously not looking at herself in the mirror. Glinda knew, with absolute certainty, that the reflected expression would be both juvenile and silly. Conversations with William McBean always reduced her to something she barely recognized. In recent weeks, for example, she'd become a creature capable of giggling, for heaven's sake. She might as well have grown antennae and joined an alien race somewhere out in the galaxy. Now that she knew, without a doubt, that such beings existed, the scenario didn't seem all that far-fetched. "You have a perfectly good first name."

"Which no one but you ever calls me."

"Exactly." Darned if she hadn't learned to be a bit coy, as well. The man was impossible.

His low chuckle told her that he'd figured that out already. "Am I to understand that you like calling me something that no one else ever calls me?"

"You seem like a smart man, Mr. McBean." Glinda made her way out of the bathroom and flicked the light off. "My guess is that you could make the correct connections, there."

"Correct connection?" This time, he snorted. "I think I made that one already. You might remember it—you were there."

Who was the woman who answered? Surely not Glinda Baldrich. But she felt her mouth move as she tweaked a brow upwards. "I'm sure I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Come on. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid you may have to enlighten me."

Something thunked in the background, a book on his coffee table, perhaps, or a mug on one of the hand painted trivets that his grandchildren had made for his last birthday. But his voice dripped with honey as he answered her with a teasing, "Who knew you could be such a flirt?"

"At my age, one is not allowed to flirt. I'm merely asking because I'm afraid that my aged memory is fading."

"Aged memory. What a crock. You know full well that I'm referring to the elevator at the hospital."

Of course, she knew that. "Oh? Is that right?"

Serious, now, his laughter had been replaced with a deep sigh. "You know, sometimes I wonder what might have happened had I not hurried to catch that particular car that day."

To be honest, Glinda had, too, but she hadn't ever vocalized her thoughts. "I'm sure we would have met in the O'Neill's suite. You came in several times, as you must recall. And I seemed to be determined to make myself a nuisance there."

"Nuisance, my eye. They need you, Glin." He'd said that several times before. "But seriously, what if I hadn't?"

Automatically, in a sing-song voice from her childhood, she responded. "'If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we'd have a Merry Christmas.'"

For a moment, an uncharacteristic silence stretched across the connection. Then he shifted on his chair and chuckled again. "Of course you'd say something like that."

It was Glinda's turn to sigh. "My grandmother used to say it when I was a child. Farm wisdom or some Old Wives' Tale. Maybe I should have said, 'it's no use borrowing trouble'."

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'." At his groan, she laughed a little. "I'm sorry, William, I just couldn't resist."

"Forgiven." Immediate, as always. William McBean seemed to have a talent for absolving Glinda of any number of failings - usually her inability to keep dates with him. Murphy, and all that.

Standing in the hallway, Glinda glanced towards the door behind which Ben was presumably sleeping before heading towards the stairs. "The General and his wife aren't home quite yet, I'm afraid. I believe she said that they were going to some sort of meeting. To be honest, I expected them a half hour or so ago, but they haven't returned as of yet."

"So, the movie is a no-go."

"Unless there's a later showing."

"On a work night?" Feigned astonishment leapt in his tone. "I can't usually keep you out past ten when you have to be in the office the next day."

"I like to be bright-eyed, Mr. I-don't-have-to-be-anywhere-because-I'm-retired."

"You know me." A wild, lazy yawn colored his tone. "I just sit around all day. Eating bon-bons and watching my stories on the idiot box."

Glinda smiled at the image. William accomplished more each day than any other single individual she'd ever known. "Fibber."

"Well, you know, I might sit still once in a while." He'd grown more serious. "If I could get you to sit there with me."

Glinda didn't know what to say to that, so she made a noise in the back of her throat, and let the man on the other end interpret it as he would.

After a pause, there came a drawled, "Anyhow."

Glinda pounced upon the chance to change the subject. "Yes, please let's move on."

"So, you were saying about tonight?"

"Well, I mentioned the O'Neills' tardiness."

"The 'O'Neills'."

"That is to whom I am referring, William."

"Funny, but I thought she'd kept the 'Carter' when they married."

"Well, yes. She did, as a matter of fact."

"Yet, you referred to them as the 'O'Neills'."

Glinda furrowed her brow, her confusion a proper motivator to forget about wrinkle prevention. "Of course I did."

There was a note of incredulity in his voice when he responded. "So, it should be said that 'General O'Neill and Colonel Carter' are delayed. Not that 'the O'Neills' are late."

"William." This particular tone used to be quite adequate on General Bodine. It hadn't been as effective on General O'Neill. But then, neither were other common inhibitors like fear and common sense. Glinda waited for a fraught moment for the man to show some contrition, but by the amused sigh on the other end of the line, she came to the unenviable conclusion that her previously go-to tone would have nary an effect on Mr. McBean, either. Apparently, Bean was more O'Neill than Bodine, a thought which made Glinda take a bit of pause. That was a thought to be thunk, for sure.

She sniffed. "Grammar."

"Hey-it's not just grammar." Bean sipped something. "It's life itself, sweet woman."

"It's efficient to refer to them thusly."

"Yet not completely correct."

"I would not speak of a grouping of nuts by referring to them individually as 'Mr. Almond' and 'Mrs. Peanut'. I would simply refer to them as 'the Nuts'."

His answer was immediate, and obviously given while choking back laughter. "Well, of course you wouldn't say that. A peanut isn't a nut. It's a legume."

"Bean!"

He inhaled the rest of his guffaw. "Yes, dear?"

There was nothing to do but start again, since the original conversation had become so horrifically muddled. "I mentioned that Ben's parents have apparently been delayed?"

"Yes."

"What I failed to mention, is that I'm completely covered in pureed carrots at the moment."

He caught his snort before it could become too vociferous, but it still took him a moment to respond. "Barf or sneeze?"

"Sneeze. And how did you guess?"

"It's happened to me more than once." His tone said that the memories weren't all unwelcome. "Little beggars can spew hazardous waste further than any military device ever invented."

Glinda found herself smiling into the phone again. "Well, Ben had just taken a huge mouthful and then it erupted all over me. I'm afraid that my blouse is quite ruined, and I have carrots in my hair."

"You know, I could help you wash those out."

She smiled, even though she knew full well that she should have been offended by that. In all honesty, she had no idea how to respond. For months, now, they'd been hovering on the brink of something, edging ever-nearer a precipice that Glinda had never crossed. Even her relationship with Bruce Gillinsby, which she'd thought to be so heated, had only been punctuated by hand holding and a single kiss on the cheek. William McBean was more patient than Glinda herself could have even imagined, having thus far been content to allow her to set the pace for their physical relationship. Thus far, she'd been progressing just as quickly as one of the Pacific Plates. Somewhat chagrined, she drummed up some sass. "You're getting fresh, young man."

"Oh no. We haven't even approached 'fresh' yet."

Glinda rolled her eyes. "Anyway. I guess I should have expected it—he's only nine months old. How should he know to cover his mouth when he sneezes?"

"He'll learn."

"But until then, I am now covered in emulsified vegetables and my blouse is—" Glancing downward, she allowed herself a rueful smile. "Well, I'm afraid it's ruined."

"Well, we'll postpone then." Resignation—a sentiment that sat well in his gregarious tone. "But call me when you get home."

"I will."

"'Bye."

Glinda murmured a response before pulling the phone from her ear and clicking it off. Slipping the device back into her pocket, she carefully descended, stepping off the bottom stair and turning back towards the alcove in the hallway that served as the O'Neill's laundry.

To wash or not to wash? That truly was the question. Looking down, Glinda pulled the sodden blouse away from her body, angling to see the true extent of the mess in the dim lights of the hall. Orange. Spots of it all over her front, although the majority of the much was located at the spot directly between her - she paused to find the right terminology - bosoms. She took a little sniff, and then grimaced. While carrots were one of her favorite of the root vegetables, regurgitated and then nostril-enhanced carrots sat somewhere lower on her list.

A chime sounded as the hum of the dryer's tumbling came to a halt. She had meant to fold the laundry and stack it neatly in a basket, but the thought of clean clothing momentarily held Glinda's full attention. It would be lovely to not be wearing the dregs of Ben's dinner. Perhaps she could just borrow a tee-shirt. Nothing fancy. Just something unsoiled that she could wear home, launder and then return the next time she came.

Bending, she popped the door open and emptied the laundry into the waiting basket. It took a minute to find a suitable garment, and a moment more to slip into the guest powder room just off the living room to strip off the carrot-covered blouse and pull the clean one—still warm from the dryer—over her head.

She'd just checked the fit in the mirror when she heard the tell-tale sound of the back door opening. With a final look downward, she reached out to open the door.

The tone that met her stopped her cold.

"Sam, I'm not saying that education's not important."

"Well, then, Jack. What is it that you are saying?"

Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor in the back hallway before the click of the door locking echoed in the corridor. "I'm just - it's just - I think that he's a little young to be thinking about this already, isn't it? I mean, he's not even a year old."

"And I think that we should give him every opportunity to succeed."

"Well, yeah - of course."

Sam paused for the briefest moment before responding. "Then what's your problem with this?"

Silence. Tense, urgent, angry silence that was palpable even through the powder room door. They'd been arguing since long before they'd arrived home.

Glinda frowned. Turning her back to the door, she caught her reflection in the glass above the sink. She'd missed a spot of carrot - right there next to her nose. Scowling, she glared at it in the mirror, hoping against hope that focusing on it would help to calm her nerves. Of all days to borrow an article of their clothing without asking! She'd heard the O'Neills disagree before - but this sounded different, somehow. More. She faltered for a word, and failed to come up with one. More something.

"I guess I just don't see the need for it. I mean," General O'Neill snorted a bit before continuing. "I didn't go to all these high-faluting schools, right? And I turned out okay."

"You didn't attend them, Jack. But I did."

"So? What are you saying?"

Glinda could hear her own heart beat in the stillness of the bathroom.

When the Colonel didn't answer, O'Neill spoke again. "What - exactly - are you saying?"

"Don't you want more for our son?" The Colonel's voice sounded earnest. Intent.

The General didn't answer verbally, but Glinda could practically see his expression. Hard. Set. His jaw more square than normal, the fine line of his mouth angled downwards. She'd seen this look many times during her association with him. Usually after he'd received a call from Cheyenne Mountain.

"More than what?"

"I just want more opportunities for him." Sam sighed. "More choices than we had."

"More than just the military."

"Well, yeah." Sam's voice rose. "Don't you want our kid to be able to do whatever he wants to do? Be whoever he wants to be?"

"And what if he wants to be a garbage man? What if he wants to be a welder?" A sharpness tinged his words, half a step away from a shout. "What if he wants to be a Marine?"

She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a cry. "But if we start him off right, he could be so much more."

"More than me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just what you meant by what you said." His tone had gone dead. "That what we do - what we did - what we've done - isn't good enough."

"That's not what I said, Jack. Not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I? How? Because there's plenty to prove otherwise."

"Like what? Like the fact that I married you? Had a child with you?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

An exasperated groan made its way through the powder room door, and Glinda imagined the Colonel, her vivid eyes flashing. "Don't play the 'alternate universe' card, Jack. Just - don't."

"There are parallels to this conversation."

"Like hell there are."

When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm. "Do you regret it? Do you regret not sticking with pure science?"

Her voice, on the other hand, wasn't. It echoed sharply - sarcastic and biting. "About as much as you regret doing some of the things that you've done."

Silence, then the creak of hardwood flooring. "Well, then. Now we know."

It was a condemnation more than a statement. Glinda caught a view of herself in the mirror and immediately looked away. How many times had she thought just that about herself? That she was just a secretary? She'd never once considered the fact that this wonderful, strong, irascible man could possibly think the same way about his own career, about himself. Especially not after the things he'd done.

From the hall, the Colonel's answer sounded carefully controlled, but Glinda knew she was teetering on the edge of her temper. "I didn't say that, Jack. You know I wouldn't."

"Could've fooled me." A slight squeak sounded in the hall. He'd turned. His footsteps reached the tile near the back door before Sam's voice stopped him.

"Jack."

"You do what you want, Sam." More footsteps, and then a click as he flipped the lock. "Since you're obviously so damned much smarter than me."

There was a drawn, tense sort of silence, and Glinda could imagine them studying each other, both so angry. So hurt. So proud.

And then the back door slammed closed, and she knew that he was gone.