Chapter Text
1984
Another Failure.
I sigh, grabbing the bridge of my nose in desperation. I hear Stan kick the nearest metallic thing he can reach, a toolbox. Followed by a curse, Stan slams his hands onto the panel, eyeing the journal that was propped.
I jolt.
For the 27th time, we met another letdown. I keep my sobs to myself, knowing Stan’s adamant decision to stop for the night if he sees the state I was in. “We have to find the other journals, Irma.” I stand facing away from him and am thankful he can’t see my shivering plight. I give him a sound of acknowledgment, gurgle but somewhat coherent. “Do you think you can remember where Ford left the other two?”
“No. He never trusts me enough for this kind of stuff.” Stan winces in response, understanding. Silence ensues for a moment before Stan sighs his brother’s name. I recompose myself before looking at the portal.
What is so important to build this portal? What are you trying to prove, Stanford?
“What are you trying to find out with this portal, huh, Pointdexter?” Another point in my mind, that Stan completely let be heard in the open.
It was something important that piqued his interest, to study, and create a portal to a destination of something. Ford wanted to debunk the mysteries in this town. Why this town, specifically? Maybe, that’s it? But why build a portal for it?
Without Fiddleford, I can never know why. I haven’t heard of him for a while. I can’t reach Emma-May through the phone. Even if I could, it would be a miracle if she wanted to talk to me again, not after what happened between Fiddleford and her, and I couldn’t convince F to take a break from working.
But, I have to find Fiddleford to know anything about the two previous journals. If Fiddleford is even in town, anymore. Or if Ford really trusted F with any information that might lead to the journals.
A hand was placed on my back. “Hey, you okay?” Stan looks nervous, his brows furrow in concern. “ I just don’t get it.” I absent-mindedly let out. All of this is confusing, his journal doesn’t make any sense, or the state of the house after I came back.
I know I’m not special in Science or Engineering. I know I cannot understand some of the findings Ford dedicated his life to. But, Am I not trustworthy enough to hear all of this? It feels useless to…
“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” I move to the front of the panel, pushing Stan out of the way. “No. Grab the physics for beginners, and engineering for intermediate.” I command as I flip the journal to scan for any more clues on how to open the portal.
Stan nods.
January 1987
Stan drinks. I don’t. Occasionally, I do, but Ford and I don’t usually, except for a bottle of cheap wine that we could afford for our 2nd anniversary. Stan drinks beer. I’m not fond of beer.
The living room is in better shape than the last time. With our collective efforts, the Murder Hut’s novelty paychecks, and my job in the hospital, we can somehow stay afloat with just enough money to buy a box of pizza for New Year’s, a case of beer that will last Stanley at least through March, and a grocery-stocked fridge.
I sat on the front porch, watching the different colored lights flickering in the sky. “Want some?” Stan hands me a cold beer, grinning. I accepted because It’s New Year, and wallowing to the thoughts of Ford seems counterproductive in welcoming the year hopeful for his return.
Stan sat on the porch steps, a couple distance away from me. Looking up, he sighs - a cue that made him reminisce and frown, a bad combo of welcoming the year.
“I don’t know why my life became like this. I imagine my life surrounded by family. Maybe a wife, and two children. You know the picket fence dream.” Stan’s voice scratched a humorless hum, nursing his by-now warm beer.
If it is because of the season’s blue or I don’t know, Stan’s dedication to acknowledge my presence because I was am his brother’s partner, I should think Stan is not a guy to initiate a heart-to-heart.
But, I appreciate it. It made searching not lonely, not friendless.
I opened the beer with a spritz from the can, holding it to my lips. I grimace from the taste. What even is that, it tastes like straight-up ethyl alcohol. “I imagine if you’re gonna be a dad…You’re gonna be a girl Dad.” I said, looking up at him.
“Huh, what’s that?”
“I don’t know actually. Something my mom says to my dad.” The beer is growing on me, I took another sip as I tried another awful impression of Mom's “You’re a real Girl Dad, Robert. I swear to god!”. Stan pats his knees, laughing as he shakes his head in disbelief. He told me how ‘goddamn, terrible my mother sounds’.
Another firework exploded accompanied by cheers from the townfolks. “Anyway, from the sound of it, it’s cherishing your daughter…children?... wholeheartedly. Wholesomely. I can see you being that, you’d love it.” I gave him a teasing smile.
Ford’s brother looks away, the tips of his ears reddened. It reminded me of Ford.
The beer in my stomach threatened to spill to my lips. I held it off, thankfully.
“How about you? And..uhh…Him?”
Even Stan knew he threaded into an unwanted territory, biting his lips guiltily. I reassure him it’s fine, no harm done. I clear my throat. “Us? No.”
Why didn’t we? No. that’s a scary thought.
I shake my head. “We...We never talked about having children. I think we act like children enough sometimes, that we don’t need them. But, when he gets back home, maybe…uhh…maybe we’ll talk about it?”
That wasn’t awkward, right?
Yeah, no.
Silence, once more. I break it off.
“You know your Ma almost forced us to get married.”
“Wait, now, hold up!”
“It’s true! Your Pa…Well, he’s unimpressed.”
“Ha! That’s just his auto-response.” My laughter echoes out to the woods when Stan stands up, places his beer on the wooden floor, and claps the dust off his hands, proceeding to act like his Pa with a recognizable glint of disappointment, and an unimpressed stoic face. Even the way his Pa crossed his arms, Stan can mimic.
From the way the light was hitting Stan’s face, I can see how his face contorts into Pa’s face. Chilling.
Their Ma’s nice, though. A bit…bold, but she always gave me advice on how to cook Ford’s favorite food whenever I asked.
It was the summer after graduation that Ford had the guts to invite me to their house, shyly handing me a bus ticket and telling me to pack bags for three days and two nights. My dad wasn’t amused to know I was staying with Ford’s family, but I was adamant about going. (Don’t get me wrong, Dad loves Ford, my Mom’s a bit skeptical, and my sister doesn’t care as long as she got my room when Ford and I moved into our apartment).
Caryn Pines hugged me in delight as soon as we stepped inside the house, immediately forcing me to call her ‘Ma’ or Caryn. Ford steered to greet his father with an indistinguishable look on his face, more reserved. I heard him greet Filbrick Pines with a ‘ sir’ before walking toward me, holding my hands, and looking expectantly at his father.
I couldn’t see his Pa’s expression from his glued frown, and blinding tinted glasses. It was kind of uncomfortable to be examined as if contemplating if I was good enough to be in a relationship with his son. I heard him hum sharply before Caryn could cut off the interaction, leading us to the dinner she prepared.
Supposedly, there was a toddler in the Pine’s family, but Ford never interacted with him, closely. The toddler was asleep for the night.
“Your Pa gave him a suit. For the wedding, I guess. But Ford’s been saving it for awards, and stuff like the Nobel prize.” I slipped in, holding my cheeks to ease it from hurting. Stan rolled his eyes at Ford more than me.
“What did you see in that doofus?” A rhetorical question, I suspect, but I can’t help but answer. “Everything was just so simple. Ford and me in college, in this house. They say relationships are hard work, but I didn’t believe it until I actually was in one. Some days we worked really hard for it.”
The fireworks seem to stop and the busy creatures in the woods are having their own celebration of New Year. I see Stan cover his mouth as he yawns, after, he reaches for his beer. “How many boyfriends did you have before him?” Weird question.
“Ford’s my first.”
Stan gives me a ‘Are you kidding me?’ look on his face, sipping the can of beer.
“Believe me. I met him through Fidd– … a mutual friend. Awkwardly had a crush on each other until he shot his shot to ask me to be his study partner for one semester.”
The man with a mullet snorted.
“What? That’s lame!” He reacted in disbelief.
“Nuh-uh, it was sweet. I asked him for lunch which turned into an early dinner on how much we sparred about Henderson’s postulate.” I counteracted, closing my eyes to straighten the last drops of beer into my mouth. At least, that’s finished.
“Did him and you go for breakfast too? Sparred with his postulate? Hah!” He chuckled at his crude joke, seeming proud of it. “Shut up. And it’s ‘you and him’, Stanley.” I cringed, jokingly reprimanding him after.
He faces me unamused. “Eugh, Grammar. Shgrammar.” I smile at him. Having a light bulb moment to turn the conversation to him, I ask, “You and Carla? Carla McCorckle? You talked about her once.”
He shrugs, opting to sit with his legs open and his cheek resting on his left palm, facing me. “Yeah… We never got back together.”
Oh.
“Well, her lost.”
“There were a few hook-ups here and there.” He grins, knowing my exact reaction to it. “No, eww. I don’t want to hear about that. You’re like my brother, Stanley.” I swat the air as if the thought magically appeared right before me.
That’s disgusting to witness and imagine, personally.
“I never thought of that,” Stan calls out to no one in particular.
“What?”
“That if ‘Ma really forced you and my brother - and believe me, that woman can con anybody - you know, to get married. You’d be like my sister-in-law.”
Yeah. That would be nice. That’s not bad.
I nod at the sky. “It’s nice to have you as a brother. I never had one before. Believe me, my sister’s a menace. You’d fit right-”
“No one said that to me before, it’s been long.” Stan can be a real tough guy, but he’s still a guy that cherishes his family. If his eyes were starting to red, I didn’t mention it, instead, I smiled at him.
I start to ruffle his brown hair, chuckling.
“Hey, we’re going to be fine, Stan! We’re going to bring him back. And he and I will get married and I’m going to terrorize your children with facts, us nerds only know about. We’re going to be fine, we’re family, now.”
He placed his hand on my head and started to mess up the pencil holding up my hair.
1984
Stan fakes his death in a car crash. I don’t fathom how it happened, but sometime this morning I found a newspaper with his name in the headline. I immediately ran to check on him to the basement. I slipped on the floor on the way, hitting my knees.
That’s going to bruise tomorrow.
My heart is pumping, and I feel my tears threatening to spill.
As soon as I saw a body standing in front of the laboratory, I tackled him to face me. Stan’s face appeared shocked and scared at the same time. “Oh, Moses! I thought... I thought something happened to you!” I pushed the newspaper into his face with a quivering pace, my breath out of place. “I thought you died, Stan!” He places an awkward hand on my back, patting it for comfort.
His other hand holds the newspaper, adjusting it to read, eyes scanning the headline and then, the rest of the news. A manic grin stretched on his lips, looking at me. “I can’t believe they believe it. Yes!” He turned around and swung his fist in the air in joy.
“No, hold on!” I was still in my quaking state. “W-Why?”
He told me his criminal record, and then, his plans to take Stanford’s name. I grabbed the newspaper then, started to hit him with it - for giving me a heart attack, and for planning to borrow Stanford’s name.
He reassured me of his plans. I still hit him with the newspaper for good measure.
“What about your funeral?” Stan tilts his head, confusion is evident in his brows.
“What funeral? No one will come, Irma, be serious.”
Turns out, his ‘Ma did, and a government agent, that creepily whispered into Stan’s closed casket. I kicked out the agent out of the funeral, furiously. Caryn hugged ‘ Stanford’, crying in his shirt with weak knees.
His bastard of a father didn’t attend.
I almost convinced Stan to, at least, tell his mother the truth, but Stanley didn’t want her into this. “It’s enough that you’re into this.” He whispered with tension. That hurt, to be honest. As if, he’s treating me like a nuisance instead of being a part of the plan and helping him.
I didn’t talk to him for the rest of the funeral and continued to hold Caryn in my arms as she wept her son’s name.
1985
I almost scream at Stan not to move the fish tank situated in the living room. He surrenders with hands in the air saying “Geez, woman”. We purchased a second-hand couch from a garage sale and decided to move furniture around as Caryn brought some memorabilia from their childhood house.
Sick of me to wish it was Ford and I moving the furniture around.
Stan sits on the couch, letting his head hit the backrest. With the remote near him, he chose to open the TV we found slightly used. The news is on, but neither he nor I are listening. I was still calming myself down when he spoke. “What is it with the fish tank?”
“I’m still waiting for Frilliam to come back.”
“And who the hell is Frilliam?” My glare made him wince. My head is killing me today, and I’ll be apologizing to Stan if it wasn’t for the headache and the talk about Frilliam, and Stan being difficult today for being the haggler that he is.
“Frilliam’s an axolotl our mutual friend brought for Ford.” I quietly told Stan as I scooted him over to sit and grabbed the remote to browse the channels. I settled for a telenovela, which annoyed him with a tch from his lips. Still, the man with a mullet turned to me as if he finally got it why am I so angry. “Ohhh, Are you jealous of the mutual friend that brought Frilliam for my brother?”
“What?” I blinked, confused. “Frilliam’s a gift from F, Stan. And yes, F’s the one that brought Frilliam, but I was the one who took care of him. I don’t know why Ford would… never mind.”
I forced myself to watch a woman in a wedding dress, running away from the handsome-looking groom, her mother I suspect hysterically calling the woman. I found Stan oddly enjoying the random telenovela soap opera I somehow stumbled upon. After a while, the commercial appeared and he remembered what we were talking about.
“Irma, what’s an axolotl?”
I told him what an axolotl is to the best of my ability, explaining the general morphology of the creature.
October 1987
My head is aching a lot more severe than yesterday. The weather is starting to harshen, the wind almost made our roof fly, and the rain comes and goes. Stan had the flu a few days ago, he says that no wonder we were getting sick, the insulation of the house is poor, better than a few years ago but still poor, and the unkind weather is a pain in the ass .
It’s funny, sometimes, Stan’s New Jersey accent would peak out when he’s cursing.
It reminds me of him and he rarely curses, a true curse, not like made-up curses from a book we found in the library 'gags and jokes' section at Backsupsmore. Even when he’s angry, he bites his lips to try to contain himself but after a while, he throws his hands in the air and mutters a relatively not too bad of a curse.
‘It’s not a good example of me as a man of science, Irma.’ He would whine, furrowing his brows whenever I ask him 'Why won't you do it?'
And I would lean into him, kiss his cheeks, and chuckle, saying ‘Well, be careful, too much of your cursing and you would turn into a bonafide sailor.’ He would pout.
Moses, I miss him.