Season's Greetings: A Carol Christmas
By Tigger, 
copyright 2000, all rights reserved.

Author's Note: 

Based on the characters and situations presented in "Seasons
of Change" by Joel Lawrence, Copyright 1989.  This story is
archived in its entirety at Fictionmania (go to search by
authors and select Joel Lawrence)

This story takes place approximately one year to a year and a
half after the conclusion of "Tales of the Season: Darla's Story"
in the branch of the "Seasons of Change" Universe that I started
with "A Losing Season", also archived at Fictionmania.

Of course, this is a play on Charles Dickens' "A Christmas
Carol", the entire text of which can be found at:
http://www.stormfax.com/dickens.htm

And now, the story. . . . 

-=================-

Darla, or as her junior colleague was wont to call her, Darley,
is a boy: to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that. 
The certificate of his birth was signed by the delivering
physician, the hospital administrator, and the local county
attorney.  Young Darley is as masculine as rats and snails and
puppy dog tails.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what
there is particularly masculine about rats or snails or the tail
appendages of juvenile canines. I might have been inclined,
myself, to regard the masculine nature of any of those particular
creatures to be disputable, as I have, in my experience, had the
acquaintance of female dogs and rats.  And while I am not certain
how one would ascertain the gender of a snail, I am convinced
that there must be at least some of the creatures that are
female. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile and I
shall not dispute it. You will therefore permit me to repeat,
emphatically, that Darley is, most definitely, as masculine as
rats and snails and puppy dog tails.

Did her young colleague know she was male?  Of course he did not.
How could it be otherwise?  Darley's partners in this enterprise
decreed and ensured that this would remain unknown to the new
student.  Even as they imposed the same masking of his
masculinity upon him as had been earlier been imposed upon
Darley. . . that is, upon Darla.

The mention of Darla's masquerade brings me back to the point I
started from.  There is no doubt that Darley was and is male. 
This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come
of the story I am going to relate.

Once upon a time, three people sat down to table in order to
break their fast. . .


The First of the Final Confrontations:


*It's as if she's decided this one is a lost cause,* the petite
blonde girl thought bleakly as she picked without much interest
at her own breakfast. *Lord, she gives me a harder time about
such things when there is no one but the two of us here and I'm
not really her student anymore.*

Jane Thompson, an elegantly handsome woman, sat at the head of
the dining table, her eyes fixed on the third diner, another
blonde whose attention was fixed on the huge plate of food in
front of her to the exclusion of anyone or anything else.  A look
that was half disgust, half some other emotion crossed the older
woman's face as she regarded the silent student.

*She isn't even calling the twit on that abominable display of
poor table manners,* Darla thought. *My god, I guess we really
have failed this one.*

Surreptitiously, the shortest of the three figures at the table
glanced at the object of Jane Thompson's annoyance.  Carol Morris
was tall, an attribute that Darla envied greatly, and she was
almost pretty - she *would* have been pretty had her makeup been
more subtly and appropriately applied. *Not that it truly is
poorly applied,* Darla mused, *Actually, it is a superb job if
one is going out clubbing or trolling for guys, or even if this
was a scene from some theatrical play that necessitated such high
color which I am certain was precisely her intention.  One thing
Carol has learned here is how to apply cosmetics skillfully, but
she just refuses to wear it appropriately because she knows that
showing up for breakfast made up that. . . blatantly pisses Jane
off.*

Darla stifled a sigh.  Jane's little cadre had had such great
hopes for this student.  In fact, there had been the generally
accepted opinion that if someone had set out to create the ideal
model for a successful Jane Thompson project-student, Carl Morris
would have matched that profile almost perfectly.

Physically, Carl was ideal for Jane's forced feminization
treatments and subsequent training.  Tall, leggy, slender and
relatively narrow-shouldered for a male, and possessed of high
cheekbones and eyelashes a supermodel would covet, he'd been
passable soon after his arrival, unlike the previous student who
was not really suited to the masquerade.  Jane had expected to be
able to pull out all the stops with this one, putting him in
situations where preserving the secret of his masculine gender
would force him to behave like the sweet, obedient and submissive
girl Jane intended he become in every way possible short of
surgery. 

Secondly, Carl Morris was an egotistical, super-macho asshole
whose overblown self image should have crumbled like chalk before
Jane's scathing tongue and iron will.  He had been sent to
Seasons House after having been suspended twice and finally
expelled from his suburban high school for sexual harassment -
escaping civil charges only through the offices of his uncle, a
powerful congressional staffer.  He had an extremely insolent
attitude towards women and felt no compunction about expressing
his offensive opinions about the feminine sex loudly and vulgarly
- often in public.  The last two times he'd been in trouble at
school, he'd gone beyond talk and had physically intimidated two
girls. *Without that damned uncle of his, he'd have been charged
with threatened assault, and put in a reform school!* Darla
thought darkly.

The damned fool had even made an overt and offensive pass at the
frill-bedecked Darla on the train platform, and when Jane had
reprimanded him for his behavior, had told her to get the hell
out of his face.  When she'd agreed to take on the role of
mentor/secret informer for this student in Jane's program, Darla
had expected to feel sorry for her little 'sister' during those
first admittedly brutal hours in Jane Thompson's keeping, but she
hadn't felt the smallest tinge of sympathy - not for this one. 
Not after Carl's first greeting to her had been a lewd comment on
her lips and completely obscene suggestion about where he thought
those lips might do him the most good.  Oh, Darla had positively
salivated at the prospect of watching Carl Morris' first days at
Seasons House. 

Except the expected breakthrough, or rather, the expected
breakdown had never occurred.  Somehow, this chauvinistic idiot
had managed to take Jane's best shots without so much as denting
his overweening masculine pride or his even bigger ego.  A not
insignificant accomplishment, Darla had to acknowledge.  Even
Kenneth, who had amazed Jane, Marie and Darla with his incredible
self control and composure under fire had paid a heavy price
physically and emotionally in doing so, and he'd only had to keep
that up for a few days until Jane found out he'd been sent to her
under false charges.  Carl had been with Jane for almost six
months, all the while following her orders precisely, just as he
had promised, but never showing the slightest indication he was
weakening.

And Jane had tried everything, including some tricks she'd sworn
off following Michael/Michelle's attempted suicide.  She'd used
the long-duration, high color cosmetics on him and then taken him
to a Providence shopping mall in effeminate, at best androgynous
clothes as a boy.  He'd laughed off the masculine derision the
teenaged contingent hanging out there had tried to heap on him. 
Then Jane had turned Sandy and Caro loose on him, in particular
releasing any constraints she had placed on Sandra's dark side,
again to no avail.  The cross dressed punk had actually laughed
at his reflection in Caro's mirror at the end of his first trip
to Marisha Chalet.  Naturally, that reaction had put paid Jane's
plan to have him be the model for Caro's Wednesday afternoon
cosmetics class for the local teenaged girls.  He'd even managed
to spill hot tea on Evelyn White, ruining a favorite antique-
laced outfit.  Only quick action by Jane had saved the society
matron from a trip to the emergency room burn center.  Not
surprisingly, Carol had not been honored with invitations to any
of the society events that the redoubtable Mrs. White controlled.

Worse yet, none of Jane's disciplines or punishments had elicited
the expected results from this student, either.  Not once, in the
six months he'd been here, had Jane been able to reduce Carl to
tears.  On the plus side, he hadn't evidenced any violent
tendencies either, and except for his request for oral
gratification on the train platform, had not harassed Darla
further. However, their continued failure to unearth any softer,
gentler emotions in her charge had upset and frustrated Jane,
Marie and Darla.

*It's as if he is marking time, for some reason, waiting for
something to happen that only he knows about,* Darla thought, not
for the first time. *Odd, too, that after all these months, I
still think of him in the masculine tense.  It takes real effort
to remember to use feminine pronouns in relation to this one. 
Guess that is the true measure of just how badly we've missed the
mark.*

At that moment, Carol wiped her mouth on her napkin and deposited
it in the middle of her plate.  "Well, that does me.  Excuse me,
Ms. Thompson, and I will go get ready for whatever games you want
to play today."

Darla watched as Jane simply stared at the smirking, girlishly
dressed boy for nearly a minute.  "I think, Carol, that we will
dispense with any further lessons.  Obviously, they aren't doing
you any benefit as you are still the same obnoxious, ill-mannered
immature little boy you were when you first arrived in my home. 
Since this is Christmas Eve, I think we all would enjoy our
holiday fare more if you were to take your meals in your rooms."

"Nothing else has worked so we're going to try solitary
confinement on bread and water, eh?" was the snide reply. "What's
next?  Harsh lights and rubber hoses?"

"You will treated with the same courtesy and concern for your
health and physical well-being as you have enjoyed since your
arrival," Jane replied in as cold a voice as Darla had ever heard
from her.  "You will find the accommodations in your room will be
unchanged and that you will be fed the same food that Marie will
serve in the dining room. You simply will no longer be tolerated
at table.  That way, you may behave as disgustingly as you please
without ruining anyone else's appetite for Marie's holiday
cuisine.  As to confinement, we've already discussed that issue,
have we not?  You will continue to behave yourself in accordance
with your promises to me, or I shall be forced to call Deputy
Beale again."

Carol glared at Jane for she recalled, all too vividly, the
evening when she'd overstepped herself in baiting this old bat
and her blonde lackey.  The deputy who had responded to
Thompson's call had promised that the next time Morris went too
far, the cop would happily toss his ass - panties, petticoats,
ribbons, makeup and all - into the overnight holding cell with
all the drunks and petty crooks waiting for morning bail court.
"And since you and I both know you're a boy underneath all that
pretty girl stuff, well, I'd just have to toss you into the male
holding cell."

"All right, MS Thompson," the femininely dressed boy retorted,
putting heavily sarcastic emphasis on the 'Ms.', "I shall remove
myself from your august presence and wish you. . . an oh-so-VERY
joyous Christmas Eve.  Let me know, won't you, if you exercise
your womanly prerogatives and decide you actually do want to play
some more?  Far be it from me to deprive you of your little
pleasures - it being the holidays and all."

With that, he stood and strode from the room using a masculine
gait that Darla would have thought impossible in the three inch-
heeled mules Carol had worn to breakfast.  Darla turned to see
Jane gazing into the now empty passage as well, a look of
fatigued sadness on her face.

Finally, Darla could no longer deal with the oppressive silence. 
"No more exercises, or just no more until after the holidays?"  

Marie had told Darla that Jane tended to 'ease up' on her
students around the Christmas holidays.  Actually, what she did
was find a reason to fade into the background and let Marie play
Mother Christmas with the beskirted boys while Jane watched from
a distance in secrecy, enjoying their pleasure vicariously.  This
ensured that her authority and the boys' fear of her remained
largely intact while permitting them to enjoy the holidays.  It
also, Marie told Darla, provided her boys with contrasting
experiences that made the rigorous re-establishment of Thompson's
Law all the more effective after the short, but very welcome
respite.

"No more, period," Jane said softly as she filled her cup from
the silver coffee pot.  Darla thought she could see Jane's hands
tremble slightly as she poured.  "There isn't any point in
carrying this farce any further.  I don't know what more I could
do with *him* anyway.  Admittedly, I remain baffled by his
continued lack of response to what should be emotionally
traumatic experiences, but that just makes me even less capable
of helping him.  I cannot safely deal with a personality I don't
understand.  Perhaps a public unmasking might get his attention,
but even so, it is a step I cannot, in good conscience, take with
him.  That could follow him the rest of his life and affect him
in ways I am not willing to take the responsibility for causing. 
Besides, based on his reactions to date, I'm not sure that would
have any more effect on him than any of the scenarios I have used
with him."

"Even you can't remember to speak of him in the feminine tense,"
Darla thought aloud.

"Because he isn't feminine, for all he can be as lovely as any
student I have ever taught.  With all my other boys, they reached
a point where their feminine selves began to shine through the
emotional walls they built around themselves - I can't describe
it better than that, but I could always clearly see in them the
balance of the feminine with the masculine coming into alignment;
the feminine tempering and gentling the masculine even as it
fulfilled the integrated personality.  As perfectly as he has
learned every nuance of looking and acting like a young woman,
there is none of the truly feminine with this one.  The skirts,
the cosmetics, even the body language are nothing more than a
disposable masquerade for Carl."

"It's hard to believe that someone can disdain women that much
and do so well with the trappings," Darla replied.

"All part of his male arrogance," Jane sighed.  "I asked him
about that recently, and he told me that he did it because his
father impressed upon him that he always had to be the best at
anything he did.  So he excels to prove that, being a real man,
he could do all this womanly bull. . well, you get the idea, and
do it better than you or I do it, and that the doing does not
really affect him in any intrinsic way.  Essentially, he strives
for perfection because doing less offends his pride.  I just wish
I knew why he's never truly feared being unmasked in public. 
Clearly, he doesn't see that as a threat."

"So, now what do we do with him?"

Jane shook her head, making her shoulder length, silver-shot
auburn tresses dance about her face.  "He's not a court-referred
case, so he doesn't have reform school hanging over his head.  It
was probably a mistake on his uncle's part to settle that civil
court case before it went to trial.  Maybe if we'd had a court
judgment against him as primary punishment and our program as the
alternative, we might have made progress with him, but we didn't
have that leverage.  So, we send him back to his uncle who will,
I am sure, send him to that harsh military boarding school."

"When?"

Jane laughed, but it was a sad, mirthless sound.  "I'd send him
back today if I could, but I wasn't able to make reliable travel
connections to get him expeditiously back to Washington until two
days after Christmas.  I tried trains, buses, planes - I even
tried to charter a limousine - without any success.  The only
option would be for one of us to drive him there and I refuse to
let him ruin our holiday more than he already has."

"You going to let him go back into guy stuff, then?"

"And let him know he's beaten me? Hell no!" Jane snarled,
shocking her foster child with both the words and her ferocity. 
"I have failed with him, but that little snot failed right along
with me.  He never even tried.  I will be damned if I am going to
change him back one second before absolutely necessary.  And
don't think I haven't given a good deal of thought to packing him
onto that train dressed like Raggedy Anne.  However, that is
unworthy of me and what I try to accomplish here, so Sandy will
be here two hours before we have to leave for the station to do
the tear down.  I just hope the process is at least moderately
painful for him."

"You never did try using the letters you showed me when we were
first trying to figure out why he wasn't reacting the way we
expected,"  Darla reminded her mentor.  "Surely those would make
an impression on him."

Jane shrugged.  "I considered it, but he never gave me the
slightest indication that he might be open-minded enough to
understand what they say.  I have discussed his case generally
with Eric, and specifically about those letters. He reluctantly
agreed with me.  In that boy's state of mind, he'd conclude that
those letter were just one more of my schemes."

"What are your plans for the rest of the day, then?"

Somehow, Jane's visage became sadder still.  "Allie's surgery is
scheduled for later today.  I don't want the child to be alone so
I will go to the hospital to stand in for the parents."

"No luck on getting them home?"

"None," Jane sighed.  "They're afraid that if they request
humanitarian leave, they will be given humanitarian discharges
for the convenience of the service.  Then they'd be out of work
on top of everything else."

"That's unbelievable!" Darla raged.

"But within the realm of possibility.  The services continue to
downsize.  Soldiers who cannot go where they are needed take up
quota numbers that could be filled by soldiers who can.  I
checked and found that the numbers bear out what they told me. 
Their commanding officer is on their side, but the bean-counters
who would make the final determination are evidently taking a
very hard line on this type of thing."

"That really sucks," Darryl's voice growled.  "Oops, sorry, Aunt
Jane." 

Jane stood and walked over to put a hand on her ward's shoulder. 
She squeezed gently.  "That's all right, this time, dear," she
said bending over to plant a kiss on Darla's forehead.  "In this
case, your assessment was nothing but the sad, stupid truth. 
Will you be okay here today?  With him?"

Darla snorted.  "Of course.  That punk only thinks he's tough. 
I'll be fine, Aunt Jane."

"I'll be back in time for dinner, dear.  They've scheduled the
anaesthesia for four o'clock."


Christmas Yet to Be:


The stately Victorian mansion seemed hollow and empty as Darla
moved about the first floor public rooms later that morning.  For
all the bright holiday color and decorations, Seasons House felt
dull-gray and lifeless to the young man in girl's clothing.  

Darla (originally and still sometimes Darryl) Smith had lived
through gray and grim holidays before.  All of them, actually,
before a benevolent judge had sent a troubled, abused boy to Jane
Thompson thinking he had been a voluntary party to several crimes
perpetrated by his sadistic older brother.  Darryl Smith had
never even had a birthday party in his entire life prior to his
coming to live with Jane Thompson, but every birthday or holiday
since that magical moment had been . . . well, a dream come true
for the love starved adolescent.  

*And that is a big part of why you are so pissed off with Morris
right now, m'dear self,* Darla admitted to herself. *Our failure
to make any progress with him is casting this damned pall over
the holiday season, and since last year you tasted how sweet a
family Christmas is, you want to lash out at the obvious cause.*

The femininely turned-out boy was still arguing with himself over
the relative fairness of that outlook when the cause of this
internal conflict came into view.

For a moment, Darla could not quite believe the evidence of her
eyes.  Carl. . . Carol was sprawled on the parlor davenport, one
leg flopped over the back of the sofa, the other draped along the
cushions' edge with her foot resting on the floor as she read the
morning newspaper.  Unfortunately, she was wearing a skirt so her
position put her petti's, garter belt, stockings and panties on
full display.

"Dammit, Carol, sit like a lady!" Darla snapped, her anger
bubbling over.

Perfectly made up, but hard gray eyes turned to gaze up at
equally perfect blue ones.  "But I am not a lady, Darla," was the
quiet reply.  "If I were in fact female, I think I would much
prefer to be a slut, if that bitch Thompson is the model of what
is required to be a lady." 

Darla's hands fisted so hard she felt her nails cutting into her
palms.  "You agreed to follow Jane's orders," she hissed,
striving for self control.  "And that means you are to be a lady.
. .HER kind of lady and LADIES do not lay about upon divans with
their legs akimbo like some damned tramp waiting for her next
john!"

Carol gave a cold bark of laughter, but rolled off the sofa to
her feet, very daintily arranged her skirts and then reseated
herself with caricatured feminine grace.  "You were saying?"
Carol asked, fluttering her lashes.

"Why?" was all Darla could manage to get past the fury-driven
lump in her throat.

"I promised *MS* Thompson, that I would do my best to follow her
orders.  As I am not really a girl, that is my best."

"That's bull and we both know it!  You haven't given anything
even approximating a real effort to get with the program since
the day you arrived!"

"Why should I? *This*," Carol shot back, running a long-nailed
hand down her bodice and skirt, "Is bullshit!  She wants to make
me like women better by having me try BEING a woman?  What is
that?  Walk a mile in her spike heels and learn her righteous
point of view?  Crap!  She's just another bitch of a woman trying
to tell men what to do.  Well, I've taken everything she can dish
out, and I still say, 'Screw her!'"

"Don't you think there might be a possibility that you are wrong,
about women in general and about Ms. Thompson specifically?  If
you don't listen or do as you told, how will you ever find out?"

"There's nothing you or that woman can teach me, chickie.  As to
the other, well, I've done what I've been told to do, when I've
been told to do it, how I've been told to do it."

"And not a damn bit more!" Darla accused hotly.

"To what purpose?  I've already told you what I think of this
idiotic learn-by-doing program here.  Besides, I'm out of here in
a couple of weeks anyway and there's not a damned thing you or
your MS Thompson or even my uncle can do about it!"

"So you turn eighteen.  Big deal.  Your uncle has told you there
isn't any money for you until you pass muster with Jane, which
you won't if you don't straighten up."

"Straighten up?  Isn't being 'straight' a little hard when she
rigs me out like this?  And my uncle is in for as big a surprise
as your sainted Ms. Thompson.  He's not the only relative I had,
and the inheritance he runs as trustee supposedly for me isn't
the only one I have coming."

Darla was about to ask what Carol meant by that when the front
door bell chimed.

*Who can that be?* she wondered.  "We need to finish this
discussion.  Don't disappear!"

"Sure, sweetcakes.  Whatever you say, short-stuff."

With a barely stifled growl, Darla spun on her heel and strode to
the door.

~------------~

Darla glanced through the glass surrounding the heavy oak front
door to see a man she had never met before.  The heavy trench
coat he wore against the blustery chill of a December day in New
England hid all but his face in its bulk.. *One of Jane's
business colleagues making an unannounced holiday visit?* she
wondered as she opened the door.  "Hello," she said through the
still-chained door, "May I help you?"

The man gave her a considering look before nodding and passing a
card through the cracked-open doorway.  "Yes, please.  Is Ms.
Thompson at home?  My name is Donald Madden."

"Who is it, dear?" Marie's voice called from the hall.

"Is that you, Miss Marie?" Madden called.

"Who?" Marie asked surprised as she came up to look out at their
visitor.  "Donna. . .aallld?" she suddenly stuttered out.

"Yes, ma'am," the fellow said with a little half smile.  "I
wondered if Ms. Jane was home?"

Marie gently elbowed Darla out of the way.  For several moments,
she stared at the man as if deciding what to do next.  Finally,
she sighed and unchained the door.  "She's not here, Donald," 
the older woman offered in a coldly uninflected voice that Darla
had never before heard coming from the gentle Marie. "Won't you
come in for a moment and take the chill off?" she asked.

"Oh, all right.  Just for a moment, though," he replied
hesitantly. 

*Whatever is bothering her about this guy,* Darla mused. *Marie
actually wants him to stay.* She watched as Marie put her hands
out to their visitor only to pull them behind her back after a
brief handclasp. *Not only that, but she more than halfway wanted
to hug him, but stopped herself.  What on earth would stop Earth-
Mother-Marie from pulling someone to her loving heart?  Whoever
this guy is, and whatever is causing Marie to give out such mixed
signals, he is not merely another of Jane's business
acquaintances.*

"You'll stay and have a cup of tea, Donald," Marie ordered
briskly as she divested him of his heavy coat.  "Why, you're
chilled to the bone.  Go make yourself comfortable in the morning
room and I'll get the tea.  Darla, you and Carol keep him
company, please."

Left to play hostess, Darla started to guide their guest into the
sun-warmed morning room on the southeast corner of the huge
house, only to find him already halfway down the hall toward the
room. *Maybe he just knows classical Victorian architecture?*

"Come along, Carol," Darla ordered wishing there was something
else she could do with the delinquent student, "And be on your
best behavior."

"Of course, dear," Carol replied in a catty purr, "Don't I
always?" she asked before adding, "In public?"

They found their visitor strolling about the ornately decorated
room, a strange smile on his face.  Darla took this opportunity
to take the measure of the man.  He was not tall, perhaps five
feet eight or so, but not much more, and slightly built.  Male
pattern baldness had begun to thin out the light brown hair on
top of his head while his face was clean shaven.  

He stopped his wandering at a display of nick-nacks.  Smiling, he
reached out a single finger to pet one of the menagerie of
crystal animals arrayed on a table positioned before a window to
catch the sun.

"Hardly anything changed," he murmured to himself before looking
up to smile at Darla and Carol.  "Marie ran off before she could
introduce us.  I've already told you my name.  You two are?" 

Blushing, Darla automatically dipped into a curtsy.  "I do beg
your pardon, Mr. Madden.  My name is Darla Smith and this is my.
. . friend, Carol Morris."

Donald Madden quirked an eyebrow in response, particularly when
Carol pointedly did not emulate Darla's formal greeting, and then
came over to clasp each girl's hand in turn.  Just then, Marie
bustled in, weighed down by a heavy silver tray. *My goodness,*
Darla thought, *She is using the formal silver tea service. 
Tante Marie is really pulling out the stops for this guy!*

"Here, let me help you with that, Marie," a smiling Donald Madden
offered as he took the tray from her.  He settled the tray on the
large coffee table that Jane used for precisely that purpose in
her lessons with students, and then politely waited for the
ladies to seat themselves.  "Shall I pour, Marie?"  Marie nodded,
but Darla could see the tension in her eyes as she watched their
guest's every move.

"This room hasn't changed a bit," he said to Marie.  "Do you
still insist on dusting the crystal creatures yourself?"

Marie blushed, but before she could answer, Carol trilled, "Oh,
the only time Marie gets at all upset is if we so much as look
cross-eyed at her glass pets."

Donald regarded the tall, blonde beauty for several moments with
an intensity that made even the haughty Carol look away.  "I take
it you two are Jane's current students in residence?"

"So she says." "Yes, sir." were the simultaneous responses.

Nodding, Donald turned toward Darla.  "I assume, then, that you
are the big si. . .that is, the experienced mentor student?"

Understanding hit Darla with icy clarity. *He KNOWS!* Perhaps it
was the shock of that realization, but Darla answered him without
fully considering her words.  "Yes, sir, but I'm not very good at
it, I am afraid."

"I see," was all he said as his gaze shifted back to Carol.

"So, Don. . ald, tell me what you are doing up this way?" Marie
leapt into the break, her voice still wary.

For her part, Darla watched and listened with interest as Marie
tried to divert the conversation away from Carol. *There is no
doubt in my mind that he knows about Jane's teaching practices
and that he believes that both Carol and I are really male under
our dresses and pretty undies.  The only way he knows those hard
little truths is if he is a parent or relative of one of Jane's
former students, or one of Jane's supporters among the law-types
or social services folks, or. . . .or he's a former student
himself,* Darla wondered about that, and then recalled the
comment about Marie's possessiveness of the crystal zoo. *Only a
former student would know that only Marie is allowed to so much
as look at those things with a duster in hand.  Not only that,
but Marie stumbled over his name - twice - each time nearly
calling him Donna.  Therefore, I think I can safely assume that
Donald is one of Jane's boys, and that was his 'femme-name'.* 

The conversation turned to Donald's current activities, but he
sidestepped those questions. *Wonder why he doesn't want to talk
about himself?  Because he simply doesn't want to answer Marie's
so-very-pointed questions about himself?  Or might it be because
Carol and I are here and he's afraid he might give away one of
Jane's secrets to our detriment?  I wonder. . . Marie is really
of two minds about him.  Nervous and wary, yet somehow pleased
and hopeful..  But I've been here when a former student has come
to visit before, and Marie was not nearly so reserved or cold as
she is trying to be with Donald Madden. Could he be one of the
two infamous Thompson failures?  If he is, he must be the
corporate raider because the other fellow is in prison, serving
life-without-parole as a three-time loser.  Isn't this
interesting?*

Darla's thoughts were broken when the man turned back to Carol. 
"Tell me why Miss Smith believes she is not doing a good job as
your mentor," he ordered.  "You seem to have acquired all the
appropriate social skills and graces."

"Donald. . ." Marie tried to intercede, but it was too late. 
Darla saw something change in Carol's demeanor, saw her eyes
become hard.

"Because there is nothing she and that Thompson woman have to
teach me that I care or need to learn."

"And how long have you been here?" the man's voice was suddenly
very soft.

"It will be exactly six months tomorrow.  Merry frigging
Christmas!"

"CAROL!" Marie snapped.  "That will be ENOUGH of that language. 
Apologize immediately!"

Madden held up a hand to Marie.  "No, don't apologize unless you
mean it," he said, his eyes still fixed on Carol.  "Do you know
why I came up here?"

Setting her cup down, Carol sat back in the chair.  "I am sure I
don't really care," she retorted, no longer playing the game.

"I can see you don't, but I will tell you anyway.  I came here
because I did not want to face another Christmas like the fifteen
I've suffered through since I was Jane Thompson's student.  I
came here because, surrounded by people, in the midst of a
hundred parties, I was unutterably lonely."

Carol gave a derisive bark of laughter.  "So why did you come to
this armpit of the world?  There's not that many people here."

"Because for all the mistakes I made while I was here, and they
were legion, I wasn't ever lonely here," he said simply.

"Oh, so you are like Barbie's little friend Skipper here," Carol
disdained, pointing theatrically at Darla, "one of Ms. Thompson's
perfect little society boys and girls; a credit to her sadistic
little program."

"I think you owe both Miss Smith and Miss Thompson an apology,
young lady," Madden said coldly.  "But you wouldn't mean them
either, so again, please don't bother.  To answer your challenge,
no, I am not one of Jane's successes.  After seven months here,
she finally had to admit that I wasn't going to come around and,
very sadly, sent me home."

"Good for you!" Carol cheered.  "It's good to know that she can
be had after all."

"You really are a fool, aren't you?" Madden said, his head
shaking in what seemed to be disbelief.  "You haven't listened at
all, but I will put it to you again, this time in simple words. 
I screwed up here.  I was so sure I was right and she was wrong
that I only went through the motions.  Oh, I learned all her
lessons because there wasn't any way not to, but I never
internalized them.  I left here the same foolishly proud,
arrogant asshole I was when I arrived."

"You don't look like you've done so poorly.  That's a hand-
tailored suit you're wearing and those shoes you're wearing cost
as much as some cars."

"I've been successful," he admitted.  "And many people have
suffered a very great deal for that success.  As a result, nice
people either fear me or dislike me, and the only ones who are
willing to pretend to be friends with me are those who want to be
friends with my money."

"Who needs friends?" Carol waved that away disdainfully.

Sighing, Donald rose to his feet and offered his hand to Marie. 
"I had better go," he said with real sadness in his voice.  Then
he turned back to Carol.  "I asked that very same question
fifteen years ago when I was Jane's student.  I know the answer
now - *I* need them.  Someday, you'll need them, but you won't
believe that now.  You're too much like I was - proud, arrogant
and stupidly sure of yourself for no real or valid reason.  In
fact, I think in fifteen years, you too will find yourself alone
and worse than just alone, you will find yourself lonely, despite
any apparent success you might achieve, despite however many
hangers-on you have around you pretending to be your friends. 
Look at me, you adolescent fool, and see your future if you don't
mend your ways and start listening to people who have only your
best interests at heart."

With that, Madden spun on his heel and left the room.

Marie, a distressed look on her face, rushed out after him,
followed by Darla.  They caught up with him as he was pulling his
coat from the foyer closet.  "I am sorry, Marie, for losing my
cool that way.  She's just so much like me, making the same
damned mistakes I made."

Marie only put her arms around him and hugged him.  "I'm glad to
see you, again, Donna, and so glad you cared enough to come back. 
Jane would love to see you, too."

"I can't stay long, and I don't think it would help for me to see
that one again," he said sadly.

"Mr. Madden?"  Darla interjected.  "Carol will not be eating with
us tonight by Jane's order.  Perhaps you would join us for
dinner? Say about 6:30?  Jane could really use the company, I
think, because, well, as you can tell, things are not going well
with Carol.  Maybe . . .maybe seeing you would help improve her
spirits."

"Yes, Donna, please come to dinner," Marie urged.

There was a look of wistful longing in the man's pale blue eyes. 
"All right, I'll try.  But I will call first to make sure it is
all right with Aunt Jane."  He finished buttoning his coat and
gave Marie a kiss on the cheek before offering his hand to Darla. 
"And I don't think you've anything to be ashamed of with respect
to your performance of your responsibilities as big sister, Miss
Smith.  Some . . . some of us just don't know when we're being
helped or when we're well off.  Good day."


Christmas Present:


Deep in thought, Darla returned to the morning room to find Carol
still munching on one of Marie's cookies.

"Nice try," Carol said cheerfully, raising her teacup to Darla in
a mockery of a toast.

"Huh?  I beg your pardon?"  Darla asked.

"Better watch that 'huh' stuff, Darley.  Good old Auntie Jane
might decide that 'huh' is a curse word and wash your widdle mouf
out wif soap," Carol taunted.  "I said, 'nice try.'  I have to
admit that last plot of Jane's  was pretty good, bringing that
loser in to act like a charter member of what I am sure is the
huge Jane Thompson failure club.  Even better for him to try to
draw connections between his alleged time here with my own deeply
regretted experiences, but guess what, blondie?  It didn't work! 
If that is me in fifteen years, I will be MORE than satisfied
with my life.  You won't find me griping about my lifestyle or
worse, coming back to this pit to cry about being lonely."

"You think that he was a plant?  That he was putting on an act?"
Darla asked, disbelieving.  "For YOUR benefit?

"If you're going to try to play, how did he put it?  Oh yeah,
mentor for Thompson's future students, then you are going to 
need some serious acting lessons, Darley," Carol chided.  "You'll
never sell anything like that.  Of *course* it was an act.  Had I
bothered to give it any thought, that is just the type of dirty
trick I would have expected next.  Her sadistic little games
didn't work, so now she tries to scare me into playing along with
her."

Raw fury lanced through Darla and her fists literally itched to
smash that sarcastic grin off Carol's face.  "That is the second
time you've used that word in regards to Ms. Jane," Darla hissed,
"And if you had the brains God gave a jellyfish, you'd know there
is a huge difference between deviant sadism and the kind of tough
love expressed by Jane Thompson.  Yes, she's rough on us. 
Sometimes, she's even mean, but that's what it takes sometimes to
get people to take a hard, honest look at themselves."

"Oh, I find it very hard to look at myself in the mirror right
now without losing my lunch," Carol mocked.  "Come off it,
Darley.  Even if I were to concede that this whole program has a
real and truly noble purpose beyond Thompson getting her jollies
dishing out humiliation - which I *don't* - I will never believe
that woman understands any more about love than any other woman I
have ever met.  Womanly love is one of the universe's great
oxymorons."

"Maybe it is just that you are about as lovable as . ."

"Ah ah ah, blondie," Carol scolded.  "I've already warned you
about those naughty words once today.  Besides, as my mentor,
aren't you are supposed to be setting a properly genteel and
ladylike example for me?"

There were times, Darla fumed, when counting to ten just wasn't
enough.  Unfortunately, she just didn't have time for the ten
thousand or so she'd likely need to control her temper. *If only
Jane were here instead of at the. . .waitaminute! That's it.*
"So, you think womanly love and caring, particularly womanly love
and caring expressed by Jane Thompson is a contradiction in
terms?"

"Actually," Carol responded, sounding serious for the first time,
"I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing as love, period,
but I definitely believe that dried up old bat has not the
slightest understanding of that concept in any way, shape or
form."

"Get you coat.  I'll be right back," Darla ordered before
slipping out to find Marie.  They were all going for a ride.

~-------------~

With steadily growing trepidation, Marie watched the two young
women staring into the critical care unit through the viewing
gallery's large window.  For her part, she couldn't bear to look
upon a child in such a condition, forced to suffer such intrusive
indignities and pain, but that was just another area where Jane
Thompson was stronger and more courageous than she was. 
Moreover, Marie had more than a few reservations about this plan
of Darla's.  The pediatric oncology unit at Children's Hospital
was Jane's special cause, and not one she had ever shared with a
student before. *I hope this was the right thing to do, and if it
wasn't, I hope Jane understands.  Lord above, but that girl is
just as strong willed and determined as her mentor once she gets
a notion in that head of hers.*

Darla had one eye on the tableau in the hospital room, and one
eye on her recalcitrant 'little sister'.  For her part, Carol's
attention was totally focused on the two figures below them. 
Truth to tell, it was difficult to tell that those figures were
people.  The one on the bed was in an isolation bubble, his or
her features blurred by the way the plastic form refracted light. 
All one could really tell was that the child was small and very,
very frail.

The other figure was swaddled in a complete set of bulky surgical
greens, complete to gloves, a hood and a surgeon's mask.  A
single hand passed through a glove-like extension into the
isolation bubble so that the doubly gloved hand could gently
caress the unmoving child.

"She had to go through a complete decontamination cleansing
before putting on that outfit," Darla murmured, "And even then,
she cannot touch the child directly because the little one no
longer has any resistance to diseases."

"Poor kid," Carol replied, her attention still fixed on the two
figures in the room.  "What's going on?"

Encouraged, Darla explained about Allie's condition and what was
going to happen today.

"How good are the chances of a recovery?"

"The docs say 70/30 in favor, maybe better.  Jane says they were
able to get a pretty good match from this donor.  It'll be touch
and go for the next few days.  They pretty much won't know for
sure until a week from now."

"Where's the kid's parents?  Where's the 'loving' mother?"

"We couldn't get them turned loose from their stations over in
the middle east, not without threatening their careers."

"Figures," Carol snorted.  "Kid comes last."

Darla resisted an urge to retaliate, and with great effort, kept
her response measured and rational.  "Assuming Allie makes it
through the critical times to come, they're going to need their
jobs, because it still won't be over.  I don't know the whole
story, but as I understand it, the only way the government would
let them out of what they're doing is by terminating them.  No
pay, no benefits, no healthcare.  Kind of hard to choose, I'd
think."

"Government workers or contract types?"

"Government."

Carol only hummed in her throat.  "If it wasn't for the eyes, you
wouldn't be able to tell it was the old bat," she said
distractedly.

"It's Jane," Darla affirmed coldly, but Carol didn't say another
word.

They stood there in silence for almost half an hour until the
hospital room door opened.  Several more green-garbed figures
filed in, led by one whose bountiful feminine endowments even the
formless medical garments couldn't quite hide.  She walked over
to Jane, putting a gentle hand on the seated woman's shoulder. 
They exchanged words that those watching from observation gallery
couldn't make out, and then slowly, with obvious reluctance, Jane
removed her hand from the glove-bag and stood.  Suddenly, she was
in the arms of the nurse, her head and shoulders heaving in
racking, emotion-ridden sobs.

"Jane is proud," Darla said softly, "And Lord knows that Jane is
also determined and forceful, but she is also loving.  Would a
sadistic woman take time, go through that awful decontamination
process, just sit with and try to comfort a frightened child?"

Carol again said nothing, only looked from Jane to Darla and then
back again.  Finally she shrugged.  "Are we through here?" she
asked as she turned to leave the room without waiting for an
answer.


First Interlude:


Carol had not said a word during the drive back to Seasons House
leading Darla to hope that she might be reconsidering her harsh
assessment of Jane Thompson and her motives for taking on
troubled young people.

That hope was dashed when, the moment they reentered Jane's
mansion, Carol went straight to parlor sideboard and snatched up
a crystal decanter filled with brandy.  She'd already downed the
first swallow when Darla caught up with her.  "You shouldn't be
drinking that," she reprimanded.

"After slipping me that mickey finn the first day I was here so
that she could steal my luggage, I don't think Ms Thompson has
anything to say to me about this," Carol retorted, taking another
injudiciously deep swallow from the snifter and choking as the
fiery liquid burned its way down to her stomach.  "How much do
you figure she had to pay the hospital to play along with that
little melodrama?"

"I beg your pardon?" Darla asked, shocked.

"That was just too perfect - particularly on the heels of the
supposedly prodigal student earlier today - life doesn't happen
that way unless you count bad movies and Charles Dickens' novels. 
Look, Darley, I know she's rich as hell - she couldn't live in
this place, drive those cars, dress us in clothing of this
quality unless she was rolling in it, okay?"

"So what?"

"So, I figure she needs tax sheltering.  Hospitals are good for
that purpose and they always need money.  Why, I bet they were
*really* accommodating to a woman who offered them ten, maybe
twenty-five thousand to help cover their latest project or cost
overrun.  Heck, she probably got the parents of that kid to play
along for a few hundred or so."

Speechless, Darla could only stare as Carol helped herself to
another splash of Jane's brandy.  "You. . you. . "

"Now, now, Darley, remember the lessons of the great Thompson. 
To paraphrase, one should always engage brain before activating
mouth," Carol taunted, "Think of what you want to say before
trying to speak."

"You have the pure, unmitigated. . .I don't know whether to call
it gall or stupidity, to think that what happened at the hospital
was staged?!??"

"Oh, come off it, bitch.  At the risk of sounding repetitious, of
course it was staged!  Thompson is a female, isn't she?  Of
course it was a just another damned female trick.  Another
attempt to make me think she is REALLY trying to do something
that benefits someone.  Well, stuff it!"

"You really have terrible image of women, don't you?" Darla
breathed.  "My god, what is it that made you that contemptuous of
women?"

"Experience, my dear, simple hard experience.  I have never had a
woman in my life who didn't try to screw me.  Some managed, some
didn't.  In recent years, fewer have managed because I have taken
to heart the inverse Golden Rule - Do unto others as they would
do unto you, except do it first."

"But your mother . . ."

"Was the first and the best. . . or the worst, depending on your
point of view, to let me down."

Darla thought of the letters Carl's uncle had forwarded to Jane
in the hope that they might help turn him around . . . letters
from a mother to her son.  "But your mother was killed when you
were just a kid. . .a drunk driver I think I heard Jane say."

"She LEFT me, okay?  With HIM, okay?"  Carol was becoming
agitated, and was showing more real emotion than Darla could
remember seeing once he'd regained his equilibrium a couple of
days after his arrival.

"With who, Carol?"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT, DAMN YOU!  MY NAME IS CARL!" 

"Who did your Mother leave you with, Carl," Darla asked gently.

"My father, dammit, with his belts and his hard hands and his
harder words."

"Then why don't you hate men instead of women?"  Darla asked,
wishing Jane was here for this emotional event and feeling
inadequate to the task.  *But he's talking, at last.  Maybe. .
maybe. . *

"Women should have helped me, protected me because I was just a
kid who couldn't do that for myself!  The teachers who never saw
the hurts and injuries. The principals who only saw the homework
that wasn't done and sent notes home to him so he'd have more
excuses to get out the belt.  The social worker who couldn't
prove her case and get me the hell away from him and who pissed
him off so that things got even worse because he became more
careful.  My MOTHER who should have taken me with her when. .
when. . " Carol's voice broke, but then she recovered.  "When she
ran away the last time.  You know what?  I just remembered - that
was Christmas Eve, too."

"Isn't that the night she was killed in that accident?"

"So?" Carol snapped.  "If I'd been with her, she might not have
been at the intersection when that drunk ran the stop light."

"Or she still might have, and you'd have been killed, too."

"She always drove more slowly when I was in the car," Carol
replied stoutly.  "Sometimes I think she was the one responsible
for that accident, that she was. . was. . "

*Oh god, why wasn't this information included in Carl's file?  We
ALWAYS get reports of child protective services investigations,
even if they find nothing.  DAMN his asshole of a father and his
connections!  But, is that the truth or is he playing me the way
he claims Jane is trying to play him?  Damn, but I am not
qualified to deal with this, but I am the only one here.*

"You think she was trying to kill herself?" Darla asked and
watched Carol closely - looking for some indication of what the
teenager was really thinking.  Her only answer was a very jerky
shrug.  "Jane has contacts in the police departments.  We could
probably get you a copy of the actual police report.  At least
that way you'd know for sure."

A look like none Darla could remember seeing on Carol's pretty
face flitted across her visage - a look of uncertainty - before
her features hardened again.  "What would it matter, anyway?" she
asked, attempting disinterest.  "She still left me.  She still
cared more about herself than she did about me."

The bitterness in Carol's voice was palpable, and Darla knew
there was nothing she could say that would get through the
student's rebuilt walls. *But, maybe, just maybe, her. . his
mother can get through them.  It's worth a shot, isn't it?  Jane
is going to send him home in two days anyway.* "Wait. .  I have
something I want you to look at."

It took only a few moments for Darla to find what she wanted from
Jane's office.  She returned to find Carol refilling her snifter. 
"That stuff will put you on your cute pantied butt," she said
without thinking.

"An excellent idea," Carol said, making her voice intentionally
slur drunkenly.  "Now that I have remembered why I hate Christmas
Eve, getting smashed has a certain appeal."

Darla picked up the decanter with one hand and held out a ribbon-
bound packet with the other.  "Well, the bar just closed.  Here,
these were always intended for you.  You might find them
interesting."

"What are they?"

"Letters from your Mother.  Evidently, she used letters like most
folks use a diary because she didn't want to keep one at home. 
She'd mail them to herself - to a mailbox she kept at a
storefront post office.  Your uncle found them when he was
executor of her will."

"Even if they aren't just another of Ms. Thompson's little ploys,
there can't be much in them. Otherwise some hotshot lawyer would
have tried to use them to get me away from my father."

"I don't know about the lawyer, but for what it is worth, you
have my word of honor that these are legit - the real deal."

Hesitantly, Carol held out a fine, perfectly manicured hand for
the packet of letters.  "What the hell," she said diffidently. 
"They might be more amusing than the other junk your Ms Thompson
provides.  Might be worth a few laughs."

Darla watched as Carol turned and began to leave the room with a
greatly exaggerated hip-swing that would have sent Jane through
the roof, and had several times in the past six months.

"Carol?  I mean, Carl?"  Darla called out.  The femininely
dressed young man stopped and turned about, lifting one finely
shaped brow in both inquiry and challenge.  "You might think
about something.  If your father was really that. . .awful to
you, why are you working so hard to emulate him?  Okay, women
have let you down, but do you have to become your father all over
again, just because you don't want to repeat the women's
failures?  Can't you be better than both, and not less than
either?  I promise you, that is all Jane truly wants from you and
for you."

"Oh really?  Then why does she do her level best to embarrass and
humiliate me at every damned turn, eh?  Well, let me tell you
this, blondie, the reason she hasn't gotten to me is my father. 
My father would NEVER have let a bitch like Thompson get the
better of him, and neither will I because I refuse to be less
than he was.  I don't need her, or at least I won't in a couple
more weeks.  So the only other hold she has on me is that threat
of humiliation and public ridicule, and *I* am the one who
controls that lever because I REFUSE to relinquish it to her." 

The two teens stood there, stares locked for several long
moments.  Finally, Carol broke the stare-down grinning broadly.
She then toasted Darla with the snifter and left the room.

"God, let me not have made things worse.  Please?"


Second Interlude:


After her day at the pediatric oncology unit, Jane returned to
Seasons House weary in mind, body and spirit.  More than anything
else, she wanted privacy for her spirit, a hot bath for her body
and a large snifter of brandy for her mind, but she was Jane
Thompson, and she had responsibilities.  Thus, she rapidly found
herself in her downstairs office, discussing the day's events
with her two assistants.  In truth, it was almost more than she
could deal with in one day.  A student she had been forced to
admit she'd failed, the totally unexpected return of one of her
other two failures and the discovery that one of her few real
secrets, her special cause, had been revealed to one of her
students.

Tiredly, she shook her head to clear it. *I should be glad they
caught me before I reached the decanter.  No way would alcohol
help me deal with all this.* "Well, I suppose it is just as well
that he will be reliant on his uncle's largess for a few more
years.  That should encourage him to keep his mouth shut. 
Bribery ought to work as well with him as it did with Donald."

"Ummm. . Aunt Jane?" Darla put in.  "I don't think Carl is really
going to need his uncle's money."

"Why do you say that, Darla?"

"Because during one of our set-to's this morning, Carol let slip
the possibility that she might have an inheritance from another
relative - one that she comes into on her eighteenth birthday.  I
don't think it was a lie."

"Well, that would put the fox among the chickens, wouldn't it?  
I will call his uncle and ask him to check.  Anything else happen
today?"

"Well. . ." Darla started, then hesitated.  Jane resisted the
urge to groan and instead gave the girl a 'let me have it'
gesture with her elegant hands.  "I gave Carol the letters."

For a moment, Jane said nothing as her fatigued brain tried to
work her way through the possible ramifications of that act, but
finally she gave up.  "Why, may I ask?" she asked, her eyes
closed against the first twinges of an incipient headache.

Darla's shoulders drooped.  "I got her talking when we got back. 
Actually, I think she got herself drunk because by the time I
found her, she was throwing back your brandy like it was fruit
juice."

"Wonderful.  Another violation of our agreement," Jane noted.  "I
told her that she might be served wine at table, as that is the
custom in many families, but that the stronger spirits were off
limits.  I'm sorry for interrupting, dear.  You were saying that
you had her talking?  About what?"

"Why she dislikes and distrusts women, and specifically about her
mother.  Did you know her father was abusive?"

Jane nodded.  "It's strongly hinted at in some of the letters
Carl's mother wrote to herself.  Unfortunately, powerful men can
hide such things from the authorities, or worse, with the help of
the authorities.  By the time the uncle had enough to go after
Carl, the boy was old enough to express himself in court and told
the social worker he would prefer to stay with his father."

"He said that the social worker failed him!" Darla exclaimed.

"I'm sure he felt that way.  I suspect that he was too afraid of
his father to do anything else, and the social worker didn't
pursue it any further.  In her defense, she had a heavy caseload,
kids who really needed to be moved from obviously brutal
situations, and by all accounts, Carl's father was smart enough
not to leave much in the way of evidence."

"Oh," was all Darla could manage.  "Anyway, he blames his mother
most of all, for not taking him with her the night she was
killed.  So, I gave him the letters hoping he'd read what her
real intent was from that last letter."

"You didn't point it out to him?"

"No, I figured that he'd take that as one more instance of Jane
Thompson's manipulations.  I was sort of hoping that he'd find it
himself and maybe, just maybe, believe they really are his
Mother's words.  I'm sorry if I messed up."

Jane reached out and lovingly stroked the soft blonde hair, a
gentle smile curling the lips of her full mouth.  "You did fine,
dear.  I'm very proud of you for not giving up, for continuing,
even in the face of all our setbacks with this student, to try to
find a way to reach him."

Jane stood and went to her desk where she produced a business
sized envelope.  "I was planning on giving you this tomorrow
morning as a Christmas present.  Perhaps now is more
appropriate."

Darla took the envelope and carefully opened it and removed the
one page document.  Her first thought was that it was some type
of award certificate as it was made of a heavy parchment paper
and had some type of seal embossed in the lower right hand corner
of the page.  Then she opened it, and felt her head begin to spin
as she read aloud the words at the top of the page.

                    Proclamation of Adoption
                            Case of
                 Jane Thompson and Darryl Smith
                                
The signature at the bottom of the page, embossed by the great
seal of her state, was of Aunt Ruth - Judge Ruth.

"Omigod," Darla exulted.  "It's approved?  It's real?  I'm your.
. you're my . . "

Suddenly, Darla was wrapped in two pairs of loving arms, and was
being hugged tightly.  "You're my son, now," Jane said softly,
"And God help you, dear, I am your mother."

Darla reached out with both arms to pull the two older women even
closer as all three shared kisses and tears.  "He already did,
Momma-Jane," Darla/Darryl whispered over the lump in his/her
throat, "The day He sent me to you and Marie."

They stood there for several minutes, basking in the warmth of
the mutual embrace and in their shared love.  Finally, Marie
pulled back first.  "I have to get dinner finished.  Darla did
invite Donald to join us and I think the two of you need to go
clean yourselves up and dress for dinner."

"He may not come," Darla noted, very reluctant to let go of
either woman. 

"And then again, he might," Marie replied.  "Now scoot, the both
of you, or my Christmas Eve dinner will be spoiled."

"Very well," Jane replied.  "But Marie?  Set four places, please. 
You will also be joining us at table tonight."  Marie started to
protest, but Jane cut her off with a single raised hand.  "Not
another word, Marie.  Whether Donald comes or not, I want to
celebrate tonight with my family."

"Me too," Darla said, trying to inject a touch of sass into her
voice.  "So THERE!" whereupon all three began to giggle.


Third Interlude:


Carol wished she dared slip back down stairs to refill her now-
empty brandy snifter.  The booze made reading these blasted
letters a damned sight easier.  She didn't want to believe they
were from the woman who had given birth to Carl Morris - simply
didn't want to because they were true.  That would mean her
entire outlook as Carl had been a lie and that . . . well, that
the Thompson woman might be right.

She'd never admit it to Little Miss Perfect-Panties-Darla, but
the visit to the hospital had rocked her opinion of the Thompson
woman.  She'd jerked Darla's chain pretty hard after they got
back to the house, but the truth of the matter was that seeing Ms
Thompson and that poor kid had done funny things to her inside.

"And that's just bullshit," Carl's voice snapped out.  "Just like
she's got me thinking of myself in the feminine tense when I'm
not careful.  Cripes, but this is going to be a colossal pain in
the ass when I finally turn eighteen and Granddad's trust starts
paying the bills.  Guess I will just have to drop out of sight
for a few months while I practice being a guy again."

A knock sounded at the door.  "It's not locked," the be-skirted
boy called out before adding sotto voce "On this side of the
door, anyway."

"It's Marie with your dinner," a muffled voice called.  "Could
you open the door for me?"

A very unladylike stomach growl immediately ended any inclination
the unhappy teen might have entertained to give Marie a hard
time.  "At least the food is good," she thought as she hurried to
open the door.  

Marie swept into the room carrying a huge tray which she set on
the window seat beside the bed.  "Now I gave you seconds of all
your favorites and an extra big piece of the pie.  There's hot
tea in the thermos, but I can bring up milk if you'd prefer."

"That . . that . . . tea will be fine, Ms. Marie," the surprised
student stuttered out.

"Well, enjoy your meal.  If there is anything you need or want,
give me a ring after the usual dinner hour.  Jane wants me to eat
with her and Darla tonight."

"Th. . thanks.  A lot."

Marie shocked the youngster to the core when she went up on her
toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  "Bon Appetite,
cheri."

Uncertainly, Carl/Carol walked over to the tray and removed the
lids from the various dishes.  "Good grief, she really DID fix
all my favorites.  She noticed?  And cared enough to still
prepare them for me?  After the way I acted today?  What the hell
is going on here?!?!"

The question went unanswered so she/he settled down to eat.  The
fact that his/her table manners, including seated posture, and
her/his use of the napkin and all the flatware were impeccable,
even by Jane Thompson's high standards, went unnoticed even by
the sole occupant of the room.


Fourth Interlude:


"I guess I am the last person you ever expected or perhaps even
wanted to see again, Jane."  Donald Madden said as he sipped his
after dinner coffee in the Seasons House music room.

"Let's say that you have often been in my thoughts and let it go
at that?"  Jane replied.

"Especially now, I would bet."

"How so?"

"I met your junior student today, Jane.  Other than the fact that
he makes a much prettier and more believable girl than I ever
did, it was like deja vu.  What happened?"

Jane sighed.  "Same thing as you - he knew something his uncle
and I did not.  Basically,  he had a financial parachute in the
form of a legacy that he takes control of in two weeks.  His
guardian, the uncle who sent him to me did not know about that
inheritance until Carl let it slip this morning to Darla and I
called him to ask about it."

"Truly deja vu.  Me all over again."

"Except I won't tell Carl the truth about Darla.  I told you
about your big sister . . Lord what was her name?"

"Martha. . .I mean, Martin," Donald supplied.

"He's a doctor now, by the way. In any case, I revealed the truth
about Martha to you in the hopes that you might understand what
we were trying to do with you - in hope that you might decide to
straighten up and become a big sister yourself."

"I was too sure I was right and you were wrong."

"Well, nothing I've tried with Carl since those first few days of
shock-treatment has touched him in any way I can determine.  Now
I know why, but I am not going to reveal to him that all of my
other students were cross-dressed young men, too."

"I was a bit surprised by that young person, Jane.  She. . .he
seems, I don't know, almost like a . . well, a younger version of
you.  Star pupil?"

"My son, Donald.  The adoption papers arrived today.  He is very
special."

"Well, I let you down fifteen years ago, but is there anything I
can do to help with, what did you name him?  Carol?  You name it,
I'll do it."

Jane regarded her guest for several moments.  "I cannot imagine
why you would make such an offer, or given your opinion of me
when you left here, that you actually mean that 'you name it'
part."

"Try me."

"In all honesty, Donald, I am afraid there is nothing that can be
done with him at this point except cut all of our losses and try
to move on.  I've already made arrangements to send him back to
his uncle after Christmas.  I am curious, though, what has
changed your outlook so radically."

"What usually causes a man's world to get turned upside down?  I
fell in love."

"Congratulations."

"Save them, Jane.  I took over her family's company for the
patents it held.  Met her when my team arrived to start the
demolition and the world as I have always known it ended in a
single flash of emerald green eyes.  Unfortunately, she can't
seem tolerate me for all the myriad reasons you impressed on me
when I was Donna."

"So what are you doing now?"

"I am fighting to save her company from my own investors using my
own money.  It will be close, but I think I have the deal just
about done.  Then I plan to appoint her as CEO and set up a sale
plan so she can buy it back from me."

"Do you need another investor?"

"You?  I didn't come here to hit you up for money, Jane.  I just
came to. . .well, tell you I wish I had learned some of these
hard lessons fifteen years ago, when they didn't hurt so much."

Jane smiled.  "Well, when you win your lady, bring her to visit."
and then her smile changed to one Donald and almost a hundred
other young men would recognize with more than a little frisson
of fear and trepidation.  "I will show her the family pictures."

His mouth literally dropped open as the full implications of that
promise became clear.  "You would, wouldn't you?" Donald laughed.


Christmas Past:


Reading the letters had only become more difficult for Jane's
junior student. *I wouldn't put it past that Thompson woman to
have forged the lot of them from a sample of my mother's
handwriting,* Carl thought as he reached for the last letter in
the pile. * but somehow, I think these letters are the real
McCoy.*

Already in bed, he opened the simple white envelope, extracted
the single page and began to read.

          December 24, 1986
          
          Dear Me,
          
          Well, he found and destroyed the presents I
          bought for Carl, just like he promised he'd
          do.  Except this time, I have evidence of his
          cruel little games.  Hopefully, my brother
          will be able to use his new influence as
          staffer to that congressman to help us
          escape.
          
          I'm going to drive to Washington tonight and
          give John the pictures I took of him
          destroying Carl's presents.  Surely some
          honest judge would consider that an act of
          abuse.  Maybe my boy and I can be free before
          Christmas is over.
          
          God, I wish I dared bring Carl with me, but
          the bastard would be suspicious and might
          stop me from leaving, or get his good buddies
          in the local police department to have me
          stopped and arrested.  Detained, he'd call
          it.
          
          I have to do something, though.  Every day, I
          see my happy, outgoing little boy becoming
          more unhappy, more guarded.  I just hope John
          has the power he says he does.
          
          Maybe, just maybe, my son and I will sing
          holiday carols yet this year.
          
          Dorothea Madden.

Tears burned at the back of Carl's eyelids.  That letter had been
written the day his Mother died.  Suddenly, the dam broke and the
tears came became a deluge as harsh, wracking sobs overwhelmed
him.  He hadn't cried since his mother's funeral - not since his
father had promised him something to cry for unless he stopped -
and now he couldn't stop.

And he didn't stop until exhausted, he fell into a troubled
slumber.

~---------------~

Carl woke up from his nap and slipped out of bed.  He tiptoed
down the hall and found, much to his surprise, his Mother seated
in her old rocking chair, smiling at him.

"Hello, sweetie.  Don't you look pretty in that dress."

Carl looked down and was surprised to find himself in a dress -
in Ms. Thompson's little girl, Raggedy Anne punishment dress. 
"Why am I dressed like a girl?" he asked himself.

"Because you are," the image of his Mother said in complete
seriousness as she reached down to stroke a blonde curl back into
place.  "Maybe because here in this special place of dreams, on
this most magical night of the year, you need to be a girl more
than you need to be a boy.  I must say, though, that you do look
nice as a blonde, and the pigtails are very cute, too,"  A sad
yet sweet smile warmed the almost forgotten face of Dorathea
Madden.  "You know?  I used to wish you'd been born a girl
because then your father wouldn't have taken any interest in your
upbringing."

"But I was. . am a boy," Carl countered.

"So you were . . .are," his Mother agreed.  "But since you're
dressed as a girl right now, you'll have to sing soprano when we
do our carols tonight." 

Still confused, Carl was further surprised when his Mother stood
up, and literally towered over him.  Smiling, she reached down to
take his child-sized, white-gloved hand in her adult-sized one. 
"Come along, dear.  Your father will be home soon and you know we
have to be finished with our secret church service before he
arrives."

"I must be dreaming," Carl murmured to himself.

"Maybe, dear, and maybe you're remembering things you haven't let
yourself remember since the night I. . . had to leave you."

"Since the night you DIED!" the very little-girlish boy accused. 
"Why couldn't you take me with you?  It's been hell here with
him."

"You have a great deal to do in the world that is good, my love,"
his Mother assured him as she led him down into the basement of
their old house to a door Carl suddenly recognized.  "Things that
will, in part, make up for the bad things your father did in the
world."

"Me?" he demanded, his voice breaking as it had not done in over
four years.

"You.  If you get your act together and listen to Ms. Thompson,
that is."  A single, unshielded incandescent light flared in the
hidden little room, revealing a small Christmas tree and a little
china Nativity scene on a low table.  Carl examined the little
scene and rubbed his eyes vigorously. *Why does Mary look like
she's wearing surgical greens, and why is the Child wearing
bandages instead of swaddling clothes?*

Carl turned to ask his Mother only to see her putting an old
fashioned LP record on a cheap little stereo turntable. 
Immediately, a familiar holiday carol began to sound through the
attached speakers.  His Mother began to sing along, and from some
deeply buried, long-forgotten memory, the words came to Carol,
and she too began to sing.

          Said the night wind to the little lamb,
          "Do you see what I see?
          Way up in the sky, little lamb,
          Do you see what I see?
          A star, a star, dancing in the night
          With a tail as big as a kite,
          With a tail as big as a kite."
          
          Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
          "Do you hear what I hear?
          Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,
          Do you hear what I hear?
          A song, a song high above the trees
          With a voice as big as the sea,
          With a voice as big as the sea."
          
          Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
          "Do you know what I know?
          In your palace warm, mighty king,
          Do you know what I know?
          A Child, a Child shivers in the cold--
          Let us bring him silver and gold,
          Let us bring him silver and gold."
          
          Said the king to the people everywhere,
          "Listen to what I say!
          Pray for peace, people, everywhere,
          Listen to what I say!
          The Child, the Child sleeping in the night
          He will bring us goodness and light,
          He will bring us goodness and light."
          

Carl found himself eagerly waiting for the next song when a huge
shadow fell across the two carolers.  "I told you what would
happen if you disobeyed me again on this, Dorothea," his father's
voice boomed.  "I don't want the boy being fed this "Peace on
Earth, Good Will Toward Men" drivel.  He needs to learn how to be
tough, hard and ruthless, and you need to learn to stop defying
me," Both mother and child watched as the dark shadow unbuckled
his belt and slid it from his torso with an evil hiss.  "He's
going to be like me if I have to beat the steel into his weakling
spine."

The belt licked out and his Mother screamed in pain.  Raw fury
boiled up inside Carl and he seemed to grow instantly back to his
normal height.  With surprising ease, he caught his father's arm
in one hand while his other took his throat.  For just a moment,
his hand flexed about the throat it held.  It would be so easy,
he mused, so easy, but then his Mother's words came back to him,
and the words of the carol they had just sung together.  ". .
.make up for the evil your father did. . " and the promise of
"goodness and light."

"I am NOT going to be you, old man, or even anything LIKE you!"
he hissed into the dark, still-featureless face, his grip still
firm on the throat.  "I REFUSE to be you!  Everything you were, I
will be the opposite; everything you did, I will undo and by far
most importantly, everything you destroyed, I will recreate."

~-----------~

". . . I will recreate. . .recreate. . . recreate. . WHAT?!?!"

Carl came awake with a jerk, his eyes wide and the muscles of his
hands rigidly gripping. . . . nothing.  Breath came in deep,
heaving gasps as his head swivelled about, taking in the now
familiar features of his room. . . or rather of Carol's room at
Seasons House.  A quick glance at the bedside clock told him it
was a little after three A.M.

Shivering from more than the room's nighttime chill, Carl made
his way to the private bath off the main bedroom.  Two glasses of
water later, the shaking at last began to subside.  "Lord, what a
dream, and yet, it was so bloody real."

Quickly, he padded back to the bed and slipped beneath the heavy
comforter. *I don't believe in messages from beyond,* he told
himself. *Things like that don't happen to real people.  Only in
movies or novels.  But, darnit, I remember that room beneath the
house and although our Mary didn't really look like Jane
Thompson, I remember that Nativity Scene, too.*

"Oh god, this is really, really crazy.  I have to think this all
through, but I think I just promised . . . well, certainly myself
that I'd . . that I'd. . . oh man, *I* am going crazy."

Sleep eluded the beautifully gowned young man for the remainder
of the long, lonely night.


The End of It:


The sun had yet to rise when Marie slipped down from her third
floor apartment to begin fixing her special Christmas morning
breakfast.  Given Carol's imminent departure, and moreover, the
reasons for her being sent away, this would not be the most
joyous of holidays, but Marie was still determined that the
traditions would still be followed.  

As she entered the dining room, her sensitive nose caught the
first whiff of "Coffee?" *Blast it!* she thought sadly. *It must
be Jane. Obviously she couldn't sleep because she's fretting
about Carol, too.*

Only it wasn't Jane, Marie soon discovered, it was Carol and she
working some type of dough in a bowl.  "What are you doing,
child?" Marie asked, her eyes blinking hard against the sudden
glare of the brightly lighted kitchen.

"Cookies!" the skillfully made up young person said happily. 
"It's Christmas Morning and I decided we needed Christmas
cookies."  Then, seeing the look of shock on Marie's face, the
pleasure fled from the bright eyes.  

It had been a long, painfully-reflective night for young Carl. 
The dream had indeed been a catalyst for the retrieval of
memories long suppressed.  In the harsh light of those mental
images, his behavior over the past years had shamed him deeply. 
He'd been forced to acknowledge that he'd been a thorough-going
bastard, that he HAD been his father all over again, and that
recognition shamed him and humiliated him as nothing Jane
Thompson had done with him ever could do.  Obviously, he could
not possibly keep his promise to his dream Mother and to himself
without some significant changes.

Only problem with that decision, Carl had concluded at about four
thirty, was that he didn't know how to be any different.  That
was when another of his dream-Mother's words had come back to
him.  "If you get your act together and listen to Ms. Thompson,
that is."

That was the solution, he'd decided.  Well, he'd learned the easy
lessons already - it was the hard ones he'd resisted by his
ridicule and sarcasm.  Now, he. . no, *she* was determined to
become the best student Jane Thompson had ever taught.  And since
she'd gone a long way towards messing up everyone's Christmas,
she'd figured the first place to start making amends was by
trying to restore some of the cheer her abominable behavior had
cost Jane Thompson's family. *But from the look on Marie's face,
it appears I have overstepped myself.  DARN!* "Umm. . .I guess I
should have asked, first.  I'm sorry about the mess, though.  I
will clean it up right away!"

Marie had been around Jane's boys for almost twenty years, and
she knew something had changed with this one.  Whether this
marked the bare beginning of the long prayed for breakthrough,
she didn't know, but it probably wouldn't hurt to indulge the
child and see what came of it.  Besides, Marie had a secret sweet
tooth.  "No. . no, child.  Keep on as you were going.  You're
right.  We didn't make cookies this year.  Have you found my
special holiday cookie cutters?  No?  Okay, let's see."

Soon, the French Canadian woman and the girlishly pretty boy were
working side by side, turning out dozens of brightly colored
sugar cookie Christmas trees, snowmen, Santas and angels.  As the
last batch went into the oven, Carol (for that is definitely how
Marie was thinking of her), asked Marie if she could make a call
home, to her uncle.

*I guess there is very little purpose to keeping her
incommunicado now that Jane has already decided to send her back
home in two days,* Marie decided.  "Use my phone, dear," she
offered as she unlocked her kitchen phone.  Determined not to
eavesdrop, all she heard as she slipped from the kitchen was "Hi,
Uncle John, it's me, Carol . .I mean, Carl.  Yes, I know it is
very early, but I was wondering if you could help . . "

~------------~

At seven o'clock, Jane came down to find a Carol she'd never seen
before.  The outfit was bright - a red corduroy jumper over a
green silk blouse - but the girl had long had the skill to dress
and present herself beautifully when it suited her own purposes. 
No, it was her demeanor that was new - that and her attention to
details that had previously been ignored.  

For one thing, her hair was done in a very complex array of curls
that required several barrettes (nicely color-coordinated ones,
Jane noted) to hold in place.  The arrangement was actually more
suited to an evening gown than her current sassy little outfit,
but it represented the first time the young person had ever made
such an effort on her own.  She had even tried accessorizing,
although the fine gold chain bracelets and the necklace of tiny
pearls she'd chosen were overwhelmed by the bright holiday
outfit.  Still, she had tried, and done fairly well.  She
actually looked about as demure and as ladylike as any student
making their first independent dressing.  Suspicious, Jane warily
asked, "Yes, Carl?  What do you want?"

Carol swallowed hard, and forced herself to make eye contact with
the stern-faced teacher. He. . no, make that *she* had used every
trick *she* had learned in her tenure in Seasons House getting
ready for this moment. *I don't know how to look more girlish
than I do right now,* he. . . *she* thought even as she fought
the urge to run and hide.  Only her dream-Mother's words and her
own promise gave her the courage to stand up under that cold
stare. *Think girl,* she told herself sternly.  "I was wondering,
Ms. Thompson, that is, I wanted to ask you, do you think we could
go to church?"

Stunned, Jane was momentarily speechless but finally managed a
"Church?"

The shy smile that lit the perfectly and appropriately made up
face was nearly as surprising as the request for church.  "Yes,
Ma'am.  One with music if that is possible, please."

"With music," Jane repeated, feeling very much like someone had
just pushed her through Alice's rabbit hole. *Okay, who are you
and what have you done with Carl Morris?* she thought.

"Yes, Ma'am.  Please?"

*I have no idea what he is up to now, but since I was going to
attend services anyway. . * "All right, Carl, you may go to
church with Darla and me, but let me warn you.  Any disruptions,
any acting out and I will call Deputy Beale.  I think you can be
very sure precisely how little he will enjoy having to deal with
you when he'd rather be with his family on Christmas morning."

"Oh, thank you, Ms. Jane!" the changeling cheered.  "I am very
grateful."  She turned to head out of the room, but stopped and
looked back to Jane, but this time was unable to hold eye
contact.  Her eyes fell to her own toes, and she literally wrung
her hands before managing to rasp out emotionally, "Oh, and even
though I have that inheritance coming, Ms. Jane?  Darla did tell
you about that, didn't she?"  Carol looked up in time to see 
Jane's sharp nod, then continued.  "Anyway, I'd like to stay -
here with you and Marie and Darla - until you think I am ready to
go out on my own.  I know you expected to be rid of me, but I
promise to really do my best from now on.  My word of honor."

"Stay?  Here?"  Jane eased down into a nearby chair.  "Ummm. . .
.we'll. . well, we'll discuss it.  Later.  After church."

"Great.  Thank you again, Ms. Jane.  I'm going to go get ready
for church."

Instinct took over, and Jane-the-teacher momentarily reasserted
herself.  "Excellent notion.  Change into something more
appropriate for church, please.  We leave in forty minutes."
*Let's see how she handles that direction, now.*
 
"Okay, .. I mean, Yes, Ma'am. And thanks again," Carol told her
just before turning toward the foyer.  Still reeling, Jane stood
back up and watched as her 'failure' dashed up the stairs.

When she came back to herself, Jane turned to find a grinning
Marie standing next to her, a plate in her hand.  "Christmas
cookie, Jane?  Carol made them this morning."

"They don't say 'Eat me', do they?"  Jane asked with a wry smile
on her face.  "Tell me, Marie.  That was Carl, wasn't it?  I
mean, that girl who just was here talking to me?  Beautifully
dressed and for heavens sake, smiling?"

"One and the same, dear.  I was surprised, too.  I thought
perhaps you and Donald might have talked to him last night."

"No, we didn't.  I checked on him about midnight, and found him
clutching one of his Mother's letters as he slept.  You don't
suppose they made the difference after all, do you?  I really
expected him to just say 'bah humbug' if I offered them to him
and ignore them as he had ignored everything else we've done with
him. . her."

~---------------~

Jane had refrained from making any comment on Carol's 'Sunday-Go-
To-Meeting' selection, but it had been difficult.  Certainly,
with any other junior student, she would have made at least one
or two very pointed observations intended to make the be-skirted
boy want to die of embarrassment. *It certainly wouldn't be
difficult to find things with which to tease him just now,
either,* Jane thought with a smile.  Evidently, Carol (*Or was it
Carl?* Jane mused) had decided that the appropriate ensemble for
church strongly resembled the frilly, pink-on-white, overly-
feminine outfit Darla had worn to the train station the day Carl
arrived.  Right down to the boxy little veiled hat, the fussy
beaded purse and the opaque white stockings decorated with pink
roses.

*So that is what he. . she would look like as a big sister,* Jane
thought as they went out to the car. *It really wasn't necessary
for her to put on *two* petticoats with that dress. That sort of
thing is really only for in-house practice. And I would not have
insisted on quite so much heel when the pavement might be slick
with ice, but she does look very nice.  So, what happens next?* 

Walking into the pretty little non-denominational church looking
like Disney's Alice-in-Wonderland going to her First Communion
had been the hardest thing Carol had done in a very long time,
but she'd done it.  Being Carol was, she had decided during the
long hours of pointed self reflection before dawn, the first step
in keeping the promise she'd made to her Mother. . . and to
herself.  When no one looked at her in shock and disgust, she
relaxed a little.  When the singing began, she relaxed totally
and let the music take her away.

               Said the night wind to the little lamb,
               "Do you see what I see?
               Way up in the sky, little lamb,
               Do you see what I see?
               A star, a star, dancing in the night
                . . ."
               
Jane, still off-balance from the morning's surprises, suddenly
became aware of a slight catch in Carol's voice as she sang. 
Turning to look at her student, she was rocked yet again.  Carol
was crying - still singing - but crying at the same time. *This
is the first time, since the moment Carl walked off that train,
that I have seen this child in tears.  Why???*  

Maternal instincts that most junior students would swear were
non-existent overwhelmed Jane, and she gently put her arm about
the sobbing girl who buried her head into Jane's shoulder.

"Child," Jane whispered, "Whatever is the matter?"

"My. . my mom. . .," Carol quietly choked out past the tears,
"she. . .she loved that carol.  How could I have forgotten that,
Ms. Jane?  What's wrong with me that I could forget something
like that?!?"

"You remembered now," Jane replied gently even as she continued
to wonder  *Maybe I should call Bill Beale.  I do have Carl's
fingerprints somewhere.  I think.*

~-----------~

Jane parked the Lincoln in front of Seasons House and joined the
two girls on the walk.  "Where did you learn to sing like that,
Carol?" she asked as they walked up to the walk to the main
entrance.

"My Mom sang with me when I was little, Ms. Jane.  I had
forgotten that and I had forgotten the pleasure of singing in the
years since my Mom di. . .since my Mom's accident."

*That is the first time, in my experience, that Carol or Carl has
referred to his Mother as 'Mom'.* "And you just remembered?"

Carol reached out an uncertain hand to squeeze Darla's shoulder
gratefully.  "Darla gave me my Mom's letters yesterday.  They
sort of jogged my memory for me. . . about a lot of things.  And
good old Darley also said something else that struck awfully
close to home."

*Darley?!?* "May I ask what that was?"

"She asked me - not precisely in these words - why I was becoming
the very thing I hated most in the world - my father.  I wanted
to tell her I wasn't, but after talking to Mr. Madden yesterday,
and well, after seeing you with the little boy at the hospital, I
realized that was exactly what I was doing."

Jane was still thinking about what to say or do next when Marie
flung the door open waving a piece of paper like a flag before
sweeping an unprepared Carol into a tight hug.  "Carol! Your
uncle sent you a fax.  You did great, honey."

"What?  Why would he send you a fax?  Let me see that, Marie,"
Jane ordered.

Her eyes went wide, and then Jane began to read the document in
her hands.

"From: The Office of the Honorable James McIntyre, Vice Chairman
of the Senate Armed Services Committee

To: Office of Legislative Affairs, Department of Defense

Please inform me at the earliest possible date of any reason that
the following personnel cannot be granted humanitarian leave
without loss of rank, seniority, or other benefits, in order to
be with their child who is undergoing radical, hopefully
lifesaving bone marrow surgery at Children's Hospital at
Providence, RI. . . ."

Jane looked up to stare at a suddenly embarrassed Carol.  "You
asked your uncle to intervene for Allie's parents?"  Carol could
only nod.  "Lord, why didn't I think of that?  I'll call the
hospital and tell them to have the parents call me.  I will make
sure they have tickets and a place to stay if the leave is
awarded.  Even if it isn't, thank you for trying, child."

"It wasn't anything difficult, Ms. Jane.  My uncle did all the
work, and as you say, it's not a done deal yet."

Jane leaned over and planted a firm kiss on Carol's blushing
cheek.  "You tried when you didn't have to try."

"I have important promises to keep, Ms. Jane." Carol said very
seriously before turning to Marie.  "Will you be bringing my
lunch upstairs soon, Miss Marie?  Singing makes me hungry."

"No, she will not, Carol," Jane said firmly.  Carol stared at
Jane, worry filling her eyes until Jane smiled gently.  "It would
give me great pleasure, Miss Morris, if you would accept my
invitation to have Christmas dinner with my new daughter and me."

"New daughter?" Carol squealed, her eyes slewing to a broadly
smiling Darla.

"Yes, my daughter.  Darla's adoption papers came through
yesterday."

"Way to go, Sis!" Carol cheered, and soundly thumped Darla on the
back, nearly knocking the smaller girl over in the process. 
"Oops, sorry," she apologized, looking very abashed.  "I am
really happy for you, Darla, because one thing I did learn here
is how much you love Ms. Jane."

"You know it," Darla smiled back, her eyes sparkling.  "Momma-
Jane is the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"Come on, you lot," Marie ordered.  "I've got a light tea laid in
the music room to tide you over until dinner."

"Good idea.  I think it is time Carol started piano lessons
anyway.  Anyone who sings like you do, dear, should be able to
accompany herself on a suitable instrument."

Tears Jane realized were liquid joy started to well again in her
student's lovely dark eyes.  "Oh, do you mean it, Ms. Jane?  I. .
.I really have wanted to learn.  My mom was going to teach me,
but she. . she never got around to it."

"No time like the present, Miss.  Now, come along.  Oh, and
Marie?  If you'd call the travel agency to cancel those tickets
for me?  I don't think we'll be needing them.  Not right now, in
any case."

"Ms. Jane?" Carol asked, her voice hesitant.

"Yes, Carol?"

"Ummm, if you're going to be 'Momma Jane' to Darla, could I maybe
call you 'Aunt Jane'?  Please?" 

The look of longing on the young person's face struck at Jane's
hidden soft heart.  Fighting for control, she managed what she
hoped was a matter-of-fact smile.  "Well, I did tell you that was
an acceptable form of address your first day, did I not?  You
were the one who chose to call me Ms. Thompson or Ms. Jane, but
in answer to your question, yes, you may call me Aunt Jane."

Carol's "Thank you," was barely audible.  "Excuse me," she said
suddenly, "I have to fix my face." and then fled for the powder
room, leaving the three other women smiling behind her.

Jane watched as Darla and Carol chattered over their tea and
cakes. *There's still a good deal of the old Carl in there,* she
decided, *but for the first time, there is also really a Carol
there, too.  And the child is trying, really trying for the first
time.  A little too hard, of course, but they all go through that
stage of trying to be perfect.  She'll slip occasionally, and I
will be able to use those missteps to begin the healing and
rebuilding process.  Oh, thank God, I *haven't* failed her!  No,
that's not quite right.  WE haven't failed her.*

"Heavens," Carol said later, "But I feel like a combination of
Tiny Tim and Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Oh?" Darla asked.  "How so?"

"I want to say "God Bless Us, Everyone,", but then, I feel like
He already has.  Except he had Marley, and I have Darley."

"Could we lose the Darley-thing, please?"  Darla asked sounding
mightily put upon.  "It sounds like the name of a yuppie beauty
contestant with big hair, bigger. . umm. . teeth and a tiara, or
worse,  your favorite mongrel dog."

"Oh, if I must," Carol answered in the same tones.

Jane and Marie laughed with the two young people.  

"Merry Christmas, Carol," Darla said softly.  "Welcome to the
family."