Blood of Abraham – Chapter Twelve

Author's Notes: This chapter is for Eli, Celeste and Gail. You know who, and you know why.

by Mik

"Mulder, I don't like this."

"Scully, if you're going to have a problem with this, just give me the baby." I reached for him again.

Scully responded by shifting to another corner of the bed, Bram clutched against her surprisingly fussy white suit. "Mulder, this is a clinical procedure," she kept insisting. "It should be done in a clinical setting. Your dining room doesn't qualify."

"Scully, I hate to do anything to challenge your doctor-as-savior complex, but men have been undergoing this 'procedure' for thousands of years without doctors or clinical settings."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Oh?" I barely refrained from smiling triumphantly. "Arguing with your own Bible, Dana Katherine? See Genesis, chapter seventeen."

"Well..." she chewed on her lower lip. "That's Old Testament law. It's not required in the New Testament. See Colossians, chapter two."

On a strictly Biblical standpoint, she had me there. "But he's an Old Testament kid." I reached for him a third time. "Now, if you're not going to cooperate, hand him over."

She pulled back. "Couldn't you at least have a doctor do it? I've done them, Mulder, I could -"

"If you were a rabbi, I might – might - consider it."

"At least let me supervise -"

"Scully, you've met the man, you've examined his instruments, you know he's had all the necessary training and is using the best equipment possible. Now, stop being a doctor." I patted her shoulder. The material of her outfit was unfamiliar to me; soft. Not her usual style. "Just be a friend."

"How can I even do that? You won't even let me be in there. It's ridiculous."

"It's religion." I picked up the small suede disk, fingered it thoughtfully, and slid it into place. "Ironic, isn't it? For years you've been trying to inject your religious philosophies into my scientific pursuits. The one time I try something religious, you go all technical on me." I worked a pin through my hair, and tested the kippah to see that it was secure. "Stop worrying. The kid's going to be fine."

Scully had an argument on her lips, but the sight of me pinning a yarmulke into place must have done something to the clockwork, because all she did was make the first sound of the first syllable of the first word, and stopped short, like her spring broke. "Something wrong?" I asked, pulling my suit jacket on.

"It's that... wrong? No. I just never..." she paused again, looking a bit sheepish. "I've always known you were Jewish. I've just never seen that you were Jewish."

I grinned at her. "You've seen me naked."

"Mulder!" she remonstrated, shocked.

I gave her a conciliatory nod. "Okay. Look, I have to go make sure the Gunmen know what they're doing and go over everything with the rabbi. And you're going to behave?"

"Behave!" she repeated indignantly. "And why am I not going to be there? I should be -"

"It's part of the tradition. This is a thing men do. Women don't participate. It's... indelicate."

"Indelicate? I've seen him naked. I've seen you naked."

I laughed at her. I don't know what was funnier; her outrage or her irreverence, but I loved both. "Sit, Mother. You promised you'd take this role for me, so... behave." I shook a finger at her.

She shifted on the bed, and slid her hand over Bram's skull. "You won't hurt him, will you?"

I stopped smiling. "Oh, Scully." I felt a lump in my throat. It wasn't tears. It was terror.

There was a tap at the door. Frohike, his borrowed yarmulke askew, poked his head in. "He's here."

"I'm coming," I said. I looked at Scully. "They'll come for him in a minute." I shut the door behind me.

We were using the dining room simply because it had the most unused space. The table itself had been carried out into the living room, and the chairs were lined against one wall. One chair had been arranged in a place of honor - the seat of Elijah - and the rabbi was lighting candles around the room, while the Mohel organized his instruments on the counter in the kitchen.

There were supposed to be at least ten Jewish men present, the rabbi had told me, so he brought some members from the local Synagogue to make up the numbers. It made the place pretty crowded, but it was both comforting and intimidating to see those wise, old, bearded men standing around, talking to my friends.

The rabbi saw me and came through the knots of people to ask, "Who will be Sandek?"

I glanced around. There he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, looking Administrative and in control. Scully might have surprised me, showing up in her church drag, but he looked the same as always. "There. Walter Skinner."

"And the Kvatter?"

"Those two, Melvin Frohike and Ringo Langly." I didn't see Byers. He must have been in the kitchen watching the Mohel.

"Very well, let's begin." He nodded at Frohike. "Places, everyone."

Langly looked at me. "How's he keeping that hat in place?" he whispered.

Frohike looked over at Skinner and then whispered, "Duct tape."

"Shhh," I said sternly so that I wouldn't laugh. "Go get the baby."

Frohike was in the bedroom so long I was starting to worry that Scully had either shimmied down the fire escape, Bram's blanket clenched between her teeth, or at the very least was arm wrestling Frohike for his clothes so she could sneak in to supervise.

Finally the door opened. Frohike appeared, holding Bram, wrapped up in a lot of pale blue stuff that Scully had brought for him that afternoon, and looking both proud and scared. Behind him, I could see Scully peeking through a crack in the door.

The rabbi made a signal, and we all began to pray aloud. The old men knew the prayers and began them with enthusiasm as they felt befitted the occasion, but the Gunmen, Skinner and I had to consult the pages the rabbi had given us and mostly just murmured along. "Blessed is the one arriving! Blessed is the one arriving! Happy is the man You choose and bring near to dwell in Your courtyards..."

During the recitation, Frohike passed the kid to Langly, who bounced him a little and made a face before handing him to Byers. Byers, looking very solemn, carried him to the chair designated for him, and put him down on a pillow. The Mohel moved in front of him, and in a voice that must have originally been intended for the Met, he intoned, "This is the Seat of Elijah the Prophet, may he be remembered for good." As he continued, I began to appreciate more fully the awesomeness of such a step and wondered if I had the right to participate in this ritual, considering the possibilities behind Bram's birth.

I wanted to stop it then, to send everyone home, to turn Bram over to authorities who would find him a good, loving, ignorant-of-his-circumstance home. But the Mohel was instructing Byers to pick up the baby, and for Skinner to take the chair. Byers brought Bram back to me. There it was. It was up to me to put this stranger, this inexplicable creation of my own genes, in the hands of a God with whom I had no formal relationship.

For a moment I hesitated. Skinner was seated, waiting to take him from me and hold him through this rite. The Mohel was standing nearby, waiting to complete the bris. Scully was hiding behind the bedroom door, waiting for me to change my mind. I moved. Uncertain, maybe even unwilling, but I put Bram down on a pillow Skinner held in his lap. Skinner looked up. I guess he saw my hand shake or something, because for a fraction of a second, he put his hand on my wrist, and squeezed. I could only answer with a nod and backed away.

The Mohel approached, a small stainless steel curved blade in one hand, a small covering to catch the spilt blood in the other. He continued with his petitions and prayers as he unwound Bram from his clothing and diaper. The room was a little cold and Bram began to fuss as he was robbed of his warm covering. I could hear the bedroom door open just a little further. Frohike and Langly had both turned away from the scene, eyes shut. Even I winced, but I think more out of fear that the kid would start spurting green acid instead of red blood. I tensed and waited for cries of alarm; either from Bram or from the Mohel.

But there was no cry of any nature. There was only silence. I risked opening one eye. The Mohel and the rabbi were looking at me expectantly. The rabbi made a little gesture with one finger.

"Oh, right." I reached into my pocket for that sheet of prayers we'd been given and looked for the one that was marked for me. "Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to enter him into the Covenant of Abraham our father."

And all the men replied, "Just as he has entered into the Covenant, so may he enter into Torah, into marriage, and into good deeds."

Byers leaned over Skinner and the two of them got him wrapped up in that blue stuff again. He didn't look quite as tidy and folded as when Scully had dressed him, but he was covered again. Byers held him while Skinner got up from the chair and Frohike and Langly went to get wine and cups from the kitchen.

I know I must have looked completely lost at that point because, as he took the blue bundle back from Byers, Skinner turned a fraction of an inch in my direction and gave me what I believe was meant to be a supportive smile.

Byers held up his cup and began, with a mournful and somber voice, "Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine." As he continued, the rabbi moved nearer to me. "Who will give him his name?"

"His name? It's Bram."

"His Hebrew name."

I looked at him helplessly. "I didn't plan that far ahead," I confessed. "Skinner can - I mean, Walter Skinner can do it." I began scrambling through my mental filing system for an appropriate Hebrew name.

The rabbi nodded and returned to Skinner just as Byers finished the blessing for the wine. They had a brief consultation, and the rabbi held up a copy of the prayers and blessings. Skinner, his arms still full of Bram, leaned over the baby to study the instructions. Then he began to speak and there was just something so safe and familiar about his voice that I began to relax at last. If Skinner was involved, it was all right. It was going to end up fine.

"Our God and God of our fathers," he began, slowly and precisely, "preserve this child for his father and..." he paused, flicked a glance at me and said, "for his father, and his name in Israel shall be called..." he looked at me again, this time prompting.

"Jonathon," I told him.

The rabbi smiled, as if he understood.

Skinner was a bit taken aback, but went on gamely. "Jonathon, the son of..." Again he looked to me with a question in his eyes.

I consulted the page I was given, wondering what confused him. "I don't have a Hebrew name," I explained. "I mean, I'm sure I do I just don't know... oh, just use Fox."

"Jonathon, the son of Fox. May the father rejoice in his offspring."

There was a lot more, about Covenants and Isaac and the Temple of God, but my mind was stuck on one phrase; Jonathon, the son of Fox. I tried to imagine how my father had felt at this moment. Had he been as terrified as I was? Had he been proud? Had he been disinterested? Had my mother been peering through a crack in the door, indignant that she was removed from this sacred moment? Or had she stayed away from the ceremony in protest that he had made this decision that was so far removed from her own beliefs?

And had that other man been there? In the shadows? Watching, a twisted little smile of amusement curling like cigarette smoke over his lips?

At that moment, as Skinner drank the wine held up for him, my life had gone full circle. Now it was time to start the circle again, and maybe this time, do it right.

There were more prayers and blessings. Some for the Mohel and I to say together, and one he recited that made me smile and think of Scully. "May He who blessed our fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Moses and Aaron, David and Solomon, bless this tender infant Jonathon, the son of Fox, because Jonathon the son of Fox pledged charity for his sake for bikkur cholim. In this merit, may the Holy One, blessed be He, hasten to send a complete recovery to all his two hundred forty-eight bodily parts and three hundred sixty-five veins, and raise him to Torah, to marriage, and to good deeds; and let us say, Amen."

And while we strangers to the ceremony murmured it, the old men of the synagogue pronounced "Amen" so heartily that Bram startled in Skinner's arms and began to cry. Langly, at the urging of the rabbi, took him and gave him to Frohike, who carried him back into the bedroom. I didn't have to follow to know that Scully already had him on the bed and undressed to look at the surgical site and make sure he was all right.

Since a festive meal was part of the tradition, Byers, Frohike and Langly had made arrangements, and while the men from the synagogue moved the table back into place and rearranging chairs, the Gunmen began bringing out tinfoil trays and paper plates. I'm not sure that enchiladas, refried beans and spicy rice are necessarily traditional mitzvah foods, but no one uttered a demurer.

Skinner resumed his place against the wall, while the Gunmen and the gentlemen who had come as witnesses arranged plates and talked loudly and cheerfully. It was a positively surreal scene watching those ancient and so orthodox men making jokes and spooning beans onto plates.

I went into the bedroom and found Scully just as I expected to find her. She had Bram completely undressed and was examining him from head to toe. "Well, Mother?" I teased.

"He looks to be all right. But he cried. I heard him cry," Scully insisted.

"He cried when they undressed him. That was before he ever picked up the knife." I brushed her hands away from the baby. "Go get something to eat. I expect none of those men will faint if they have to eat with a woman in the room. Watch out for the one with the red letters on his yarmulke. He might be a pincher."

Scully went, but reluctantly. At the door, she paused. "Are you all right?"

I was sitting on the corner of the bed, looking at the kid. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'm fine." I waited until I heard the door click shut, and then lifted him, very carefully. He didn't cry. He just looked at me gravely, as if he understood what a solemn thing had just taken place. "What do you think, kid? Am I all right?"

He answered me with an enormous yawn.

I dressed him, and put him down in the crib. I didn't quite understand how I was feeling; a cross between relief, and fear, dressed lightly with hope, and all of it wrapped in a numbing cotton, like the bandage on his foreskin. "Well, Bram Jonathon Mulder, son of Fox Mulder, you're in for it now."

He didn't appear terribly concerned.

My living room had become a Yiddish party. Even Scully was laughing. Wine was being passed around in blue plastic cups and everyone had a plate of Mexican food. I felt out of place in my own house. Someone handed me a cup of wine, I don't even remember it happening, but I decided I didn't want it, and went to the kitchen for coffee, instead.

But Mr. Administration had the idea before me. Skinner was pouring himself a cup, and turned when I entered behind him. "Congratulations, Mulder," he said quietly. "It was a fine ceremony."

I nodded my thanks, not quite ready to trust my voice with him. I put the wine down and got another cup from the cupboard. "Thank you for standing in like that," I finally managed. "Especially on such short notice."

"It was an honor," he assured me, filling my cup. "I was proud to do it." He must have sensed at least part of the reason for my disquiet, because he put the pot down and put his hand on my shoulder. "He's a lucky child, Mulder. You're going to be a good father. Not a perfect father, but a good one."

I let all my tension go in one long breath. I could be honest with him. I could make him comprehend my doubts. "We are the fathers our fathers make us, Skinner." I shook my head. "With the father I had, what chance have I got?"

Skinner smiled at me. A smile that almost seemed to convey affection, but it definitely conveyed pride. "The chance to change and be better than your father." I felt his fingers tighten a little on my shoulder. "And to make Bram better than you."

Frohike ambled in and scooped up the other bottle of wine from the sideboard. "Great little party, Poppa," he said with a grin. "Those old guys are a hoot."

"Aren't you gone yet?" I growled, in mock irritation.

He put his free hand on my other shoulder. "It was beautiful, Mulder. Thank you for letting me be part of it." He sounded as if he truly meant it.

I put my free hand on his arm. "Thanks for being part of it." I truly meant it.

He shrugged me off. "Enough male bonding, there are enchiladas to consume." He got as far as the door. "I just have one question. I thought his name was Bram?"

"It is." I rested a hip against the counter. "It's just that he had to have a Hebrew name as well."

"Like a Baptismal name," Skinner explained.

"And Jonathon is a Hebrew name?" Frohike's brows went up, making his lopsided yarmulke shift on his head.

"Yes." The rabbi had come to the kitchen behind Frohike, and his look cut across the room with a knowing smile aimed at me. "In Hebrew, it means the Gift."

End Chapter Twelve

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