X-Men: Dark Mirror (25 page)

He led them to a small tree that grew behind the house. Jean could barely see it in the darkness. She touched the leaves and found them smooth and cool.

"Lilac," James said. "Her favorite scent. She waited all year for this thing to bloom."

And then he pointed at the ground and they began to dig.

He was right: the ground was hard. They rotated jobs; Jean and Kurt worked with the pickaxes first, breaking up the ground, and then the others went in with the shovels, hacking and scooping, steel ringing as it occasionally hit rock. James sat on the side and watched. Every now and then he left to bring water, and when one of them had to rest he took up the slack and worked until the weary could start again.

"What did you all do before you found the road?" James asked.

Scott stopped chipping at the earth. "I suppose you could say we were in the profession of helping people."

"Or not," Logan added, with a smile. "Some people need to be helped
in ...
different ways."

James smiled. "Milly and I knew people like that, but they left us alone after a while. Got tired of it, I guess. Or maybe they grew up."

"Some never do," Jean said.

"I suppose. There were others, like her, who also treated us impolite. I took her to the city, to places where they had all kinds. I thought it would be better for us there. Less lonely for her, anyway. But Milly was too unique, even for them. I think that hurt her more than just about anything, so we came back here and never left."

"That's not right," Rogue said.

"That's the way it is. Those other kind, like Milly, they look different and they got different skills, but they're human where it counts. They're human in all the ways that make us mean and hard, loving and kind. Why else do you think this world has so much conflict? It's because when we look at people like Milly, or heck, all those hero folks on TV, we know we're looking at ourselves, and we know all the dirty things we'd do if we had that kind of power. Now Milly, she just looked different. She could also do miracles with sweet potatoes, but I think that was another gift entirely on its own."

Jean laughed, and James said, "Good. I'm glad someone can smile when I talk about her. She was a sweet woman. She deserves smiles."

It took them until midnight to dig the grave. James went into the house and spent a long time there. Jean and the others lay in the grass, stargazing while they waited for him.

After a time, they heard a whistle. James stood at the back door. He had a suit on, and a nice hat.

"She's ready," he said. "Maybe you could help me carry her."

James had wrapped Milly in a white sheet. She looked smaller, bundled tight, and Jean picked her up before anyone could offer help. Milly was heavier than she looked, but Jean bit back any complaints and carried her from the house to the grave. There, it took some effort to lower her into the ground. Everyone got on their stomachs and grabbed a sheet corner. Careful, slow, they let her down, deep into the earth.

And then they stood, and listened to James say his last words to his beloved wife.

They did not discuss the promised transportation. It seemed inappropriate. James told them to go into the house and get something to eat, to clean up if they wanted because there were plenty of clean towels and a lot of soap. James did not go back in with them. He sat on the ground at the foot of Milly's grave, staring at the fresh- turned pile of dirt. Dog stayed with him.

"That poor man," Rogue said, slumped at the kitchen table. A wet towel lay over her shoulders. She sipped coffee.

Jean sat beside her, also drinking coffee. She had taken her shower first, and it was good to be clean— though rather startling to see herself naked. Logan, the last of them to bathe, was still in the bathroom.

Jean thought of James, sitting alone in the dark at the grave of his wife. She thought of him and Milly, living their lives in isolation because the only place they could find true acceptance was here, with each other. Perhaps that was enough for them. James, certainly, did not seem to have many regrets. Jean, on the other hand, tried to imagine herself in their shoes and could not. People consumed her life and that was fine, because despite her gift, she did not like to be alone.

"I'm going to go check on James," she said. "Maybe he'll want something to eat."

The night air felt colder than she remembered, though digging deep holes in the hard earth tended to distort one's perception of temperature. She stumbled along in the dark, and knew she was getting close when she heart Dog whine.

She tripped, and even as she fell to the ground she recalled the sensation of her foot catching something soft, and no, that could not be true, she hit the ground hard and did not stop moving, just rolled and got to her hands and knees, crawling to the soft lump she had missed seeing in the darkness, and she called his name but he was quiet, and she felt his neck and for a moment there was nothing, but then she moved her fingers and felt a pulse, sweet, and she called his name again and James finally stirred, whispering, "I was trying to die. Now is a good time when I have someone to bury me right."

Jean lay on her stomach, breathless. "Do you want to die?"

"No," he said. "I feel like I should, I loved her so. But I don't want to die."

"Then don't try," Jean said, and watched him hold something up in his hands. "It's too dark, James. What is that?"

He gave it to her. It was a syringe. "An air bubble kills you quick. Goes right to your heart."

"Death is a bad way to fix something that's broken," Jean said, her own heart pounding.

"I know." He took a deep breath, still staring at the stars. "I've seen the way you look at that girl. Mindy is her name? You love her?"

"We're married," Jean said. "We ... grew up together."

James smiled, slow and bitter. "Milly and I were the same. She never did look quite like the others, but it wasn't until her teens that she made the full change. It was real hard on her. Hard on me, too, I guess."

"But you made it," Jean whispered.

"Sure did. She wouldn't want this. Me, thinking about dying. I can't help it, though. I'm alone out here, and those people in
town ...
even if one of them did find me, they wouldn't bury me here at her side. They would take me away to the cemetery. Heck, I don't even know what to do about Dog." He looked at Jean so very solemn she wanted to cry. "Be careful, son, when you get older. Take care of the people you love. Find some good friends. The kind who will watch over you after you've gone. You don't want to end up like me."

"Was it such a bad life?" she whispered, trying to imagine James and Milly, both alive and full of love in that little four-room house.

"No," he breathed. "I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Early the next morning, James drove them to
Bismarck, a fairly sizable town in the middle of North Dakota. He bought them breakfast at a truck stop. He tried to pay them money for their night's work, but Scott refused. It did not seem right to take anything for burying a man's wife.

"I was going to give you my car," James said. "I didn't think I would have much need for it after you took care of my Milly."

Because I was going to have you bury me, too.

James did not have to say it. They all knew the truth; James had given Jean permission to tell them.

Scott borrowed some paper and a pen from the waitress. "Here's our address in New York, and this is the phone number we can be reached at. It's, uh, not working right now, but it should be up and running in a couple of weeks. If you ever need anything—
anything—
contact us and we'll be there for you. You can even come live with us if you want. You might like it."

James examined the address, reading off the list of names that were not the ones Scott and the X-Men had given him, and then he said, "Xavier's School for Gifted

Youngsters? That sounds familiar to me, for some reason."

"It's a good school," Jean said. "We teach there."

James studied them. "I thought you were homeless."

"It's complicated," Scott said. He thought James would press him for more, but after a moment's quiet contemplation, he smiled.

"Fair enough," he said, and asked for the check.

They walked him back to his truck. Dog poked his head out the passenger window and Scott scratched his neck.

"I'm sorry I can't do more for you folks," James said. "Especially after all you did for me. I
just...
I just can't stay away from Milly for that long. Long enough to drive you home, anyway."

"We understand," Jean said. 'You take care."

James climbed into the truck. He looked tired. Dog leaned up against him.

"Sure is going to be strange," he said softly, and Scott could only imagine he meant home, that empty little house that still bore his wife's touch. James started the engine, put the car in gear, and waved good-bye as he drove away. Scott watched him go, and could not muster a shadow of disappointment or frustration that another stone had been thrown in their path.

"So now what?" Logan asked. "Walk?"

"Let's look around," Scott said. "Maybe someone will give us a ride."

"I see a bar across the street."

"No."

Logan grinned. "No gambling, I promise. It's the best place to scope a ride, though. Give me a little money, sit tight, and I'll see what I can dig up."

"It won't be much, looking the way you do," Rogue said.

"Why don't you come with me, sweetheart. You can charm the men with your aging assets."

"Sweet talker."

But she did go with him, and while Scott used a pay phone to call the Mansion, Jean and Kurt sat on a bench outside the truck-stop restaurant to watch for opportunity in whatever form it might take. Scott was not very optimistic.

He was even less so when all he got was a busy signal.

He scowled and slammed the receiver back into its cradle. It terrified him, the idea that five X-Men were being impersonated. Walking and talking, using their bodies, their powers. He was scared to check the news, but he bought a newspaper and brought it back to the bench.

Much to his surprise, there was barely a mention of any mutant-related criminal activity or catastrophes. Just a side note about the conference in Geneva, as well as a small mention about the mutant-rights march planned for the day after in New York City. Scott knew all about it The X-Men were scheduled to attend—not as participants, but as security.

"What is it?" Jean asked.

"What's what?" he replied absently.

"You look like you just had a bad thought." She reached and touched his forehead. "You're all wrinkled."

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers. "That mutant-rights march is mentioned in here. Remember?"

"How could I forget? The children are dying to attend."

"We're supposed to be there," Scott said, looking at her and Kurt. "What if we are?"

"Why is it,
mein freund,
that I do not think you are referring to present company?"

"Because I'm not." Scott shook his had. "I don't know why I'm even thinking about it. Because really, it wouldn't make sense. Why would someone steal our bodies just for that event?"

"You're right," Jean said. "It doesn't make sense. Maybe our counterparts aren't even planning to go."

"Then what are they doing?" Kurt leaned forward, clasping his hands. "I have prayed a great deal about this, but so far, God has not yet provided me with any insight."

Jean pointed. "They're coming back."

Not just coming, but running. Rogue's expression, a combination of red-faced embarrassment and anger, alarmed him.

"What happened?" Scott asked.

"No time," Logan said. "There's a guy who's leaving in two minutes. He works for a manufactured-home company and he's transporting part of a house to Minneapolis."

"An actual house?" Kurt asked. "That sounds much better than stealing a car."

"Yeah, I think this one classifies as breaking and entering. You guys ready to go?"

They followed Logan out into the vast parking lot, which seemed more like a way station for an army of semis. Toward the center, surrounded on both sides by two trucks bearing the sign
oversized,
they found one half of the manufactured home. The other side of it squatted several wide spaces to the left.

"Does it really matter which one we take?" Scott asked.

"Guess not." Logan pulled a pocketknife from his jeans—a gift from James,
who
had also given them clean clothes, some food to carry,
and
a backpack for their few belongings. Scott could not take money, but those other things seemed less . . . offensive than cold hard cash.