The last time Nathan did anything for Father's Day besides call or send the old man a card he was about twelve years old. He can't remember if his mother had filed for a divorce yet. The separation and the shuffling living arrangements and the nights of his sister screaming instead of going to sleep stand with the beginning of seventh grade in his memory but memory is a fallible thing and no one in their right mind would trust a twelve-year-old's memory.
Last week he called to make sure his father wasn't doing anything today. Wonder of wonders: he wasn't planning on it. They've been to the Denver Art Museum already. Nathan managed not to have a panic attack in the car. He's been going to the VA hospital every other week since his arrest to talk to a therapist. Of course he lies to the therapist. The therapist doesn't need to know about the dead people who flock to him incorporeal or otherwise. He has enough on his plate. Post-traumatic stress takes up a lot of room.
Maybe Carole dumping him came up already. If he's upset about it he's keeping the upset to himself. He doesn't want to think about Carole when he's at the photography exhibit at the DAM with his father.
He gave him a photo album with several rolls' worth of shots born of Michael Amherst's camera. Teddy can see the progression of his kid's eye as the setting goes from the train station to random people on the street to other veterans in the VA hospital's corridors. Most of the subjects are unaware of his presence. He developed the film himself.
At lunch he has the hostess seat them at one of the wrought iron tables on the patio because it's nice out and he's supposed to try and do more things outside.
The waitress comes over and reads off the specials and Nate manages to ignore the fact that she is obviously flirting with his father without slouching down in his chair like he tends to do when he wants to disappear. He orders a glass of red wine because his therapist hasn't told him he ought to be in AA. Just - you know, Nathan, maybe don't drink to the point that you're punching people in the face on the sidewalk.
At the end of all that he asks:
"You see the paper this morning?"
TheodoreTheodore hadn't sounded touched over the phone. He'd sounded surprised to be reminded that it was father's day. No: That's a lie. He didn't sound surprised. He'd been surprised but Nathan couldn't hear it. He'd sounded pleased and a touch amused. He'd wanted to know what exhibit was going that Nathan wanted to see. Sunday came, and whatever Theodore did and with who for breakfast he met his son alone, no companions to get in the way of their bro-time.
Theodore. A handsome older man, silver threading his hair, green eyes sharp and a suggestion of weariness in the shadow around them, but not in their expression. Could've been a real bastard when he was young; could be one now. There's a certain intensity in his bone structure, that widow's peek; the way his eyes have of being wry and discerning at once. A rakehell. He's dressed nicely, as many people do when they go to a museum. There's no dresscode, but people seem to feel it's an occasion or a chance to dress nicely, but always remember to wear the comfortable loafers, because that's a lot of walking. He wears his clothing well; it has a whiff of money about it rather than eau de starving academic. Law is lucrative.
He'd smiled a pleased smile at the photo album once he'd realized what it was. Because he was pleased. Pleased and perhaps a touch melancholy, or thoughtful. Thinking about his own father. Hard not to think about Michael and father's day when it's father's day. Thinking about Michael and his own situation with his own kids has always meant this has never been a good day for Theodore, not since Michael died and his oldest kid was twelve. Eleven. Who knows.
"Thank you," and he'd been sincere. "Although there seems to be a derth of beautiful women," and he'd put it aside, smirking.
The waitress flirts and Theodore is classy enough to not flirt too noticeably back. He orders a Crazy Ivan and a Marilyn Monroe.
And then Nathan wants to know if he saw the paper.
"I did," in the tone of one wondering what story Nathan wants to discuss. There was something about a cold case, still unsolved twenty years later; something else about the governor and military service; something else about a duck, because why not; and then something else about police corruption.
The World Cup.
Are they going to talk about the World Cup? Theodore raises an eyebrow. He'd ordered an iced tea, no alcohol today.
NathanNobody ever pays attention to the names of the people writing the articles in the Sunday paper unless they're specifically looking for someone they know. The bylines are small compared to the rest of the article and Nathan's haven't made the front page since a car exploded downtown.
He's a crime reporter. Most of his articles stay on the website.
His father's tone is subtle but that eyebrow lift isn't. As Nate draws a breath now he looks nervous for the first time all day. Could be because they're sitting outside and he hasn't particularly liked being outside since he got back from overseas. Something about snipers shooting at him when he was twenty years old.
"Did you notice anything about the article about the guy they arrested," he asks, "the one they think raped and killed that high school girl?" Such a cheerful profession his son has chosen. "Like maybe the name of the person who wrote it?"
Theodore"He's being represented by a thug," Theodore says, answering first what it was he noticed before moving on to the next strange order of business. Nathan is nervous. Theodore watches him, and he's a man who can see a lot, isn't he? He's a man for whom clarity has always been a curse. Maybe the name of the person who wrote it.
"Yours, I take it. Is the article up for an award?" This slight frown; it's one of concentration not of displeasure, although perhaps faintly critical. It wasn't a groundbreaking piece of crime journalism, after all. Standard enough.
Readiness to congratulate Nathan is waiting.
NathanUgh says Nathan's face. What little pride he has in general he funnels into his work. If he is nominated for anything this year it's either going to be the work he did in the wintertime uncovering a money laundering scandal that left his hands when it reached the state level or his coverage of the Dogwood bombing.
"Jesus," he says, "I hope not."
Get to the point, kid.
He clears his throat and sits up straighter before he goes on: "Uh... I changed my name. My last name. I don't have Ron's anymore. Today was the first time they ran something I wrote with the... uh... not 'new' one, but... you know."
Theodore[Manip + Subt. Let's see how this goes.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 8, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )
Nathan[i want to see what would have happened if shira did this roll]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Nathan[and now a real roll:
perc + subterfuge oH SHIT]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 5 )
TheodoreTheodore has won his [un]fair share of poker games. The poker games were not just of the 'strip poker' variety where his opponents soon ceased to care about whether or not they were winning or paying much attention to the game at all. He is usually in control of his facial expressions. His poker expression is just a steady, searching sort of look, green eyes untroubled and avid, but no more than a promise of comprehension. Everything is restrained; but not restraint.
Nathan, in a moment of blinding clarity, sees through enough of Theodore's calm obfuscation to get a glimmer of or at least guess at how Theodore really feels.
He's not stupid; Nathan's better at expressing himself on paper, but Theodore gets it. But Theodore: it's been a sore point for so long, Marszalek attached to Nathan's name. He remembers the arguments which lead up to Nathan being named Nathan to begin with. He remembers the pleasure when they finally settled on it. He remembers holding Nathan in his arms for the first time and Shira saying his full name. He remembers saying it himself.
It's been a sore point for so long; he doesn't let himself absorb it. The suggestion sits on the surface. Not quite believing, you see, because it's too much a thing he'd like to believe.
"Good luck with the IRS next year. They'll take the opportunity to bleed you dry," he says, followed by -- well, nothing. He doesn't know what to say. Nate can see that.
NathanTurns out the restaurant they're at doesn't serve booze. Nathan didn't order wine. He ordered root beer. Root beer is fucking delicious.
So here's their server with the iced tea and the root beer. Nathan wasn't ready to order food when she came over the first time and now that she's back and hovering he decides instead of sending her away while he stares at the fucking menu some more to kill time by picking it up and asking her what the worst thing on the menu is, calorie-wise.
The worst thing on the menu is a panini with avocado and bacon and Swiss cheese with ranch dressing.
"Sold." He surrenders the menu. "Thank you."
That just bought his father nearly sixty seconds of time where Nathan wasn't paying attention to his poker face. Now that she's gone he futzes with his silverware roll. Flips it over once twice and then picks up his root beer.
"The IRS," he says now. "Yeah..."
TheodoreHe still doesn't know what to say. He isn't a man who turns gruff when he doesn't know what to say. He just goes silent.
Usually Theodore knows just what to say. The waitress has already whisked his menu away and she already knows what he wants. He's not paying much attention to her now, although he doesn't ignore her.
Nathan's dad is still silent (speechless).
NathanNathan isn't a big fan of uncomfortable silences. He doesn't have children and has never been married. Can imagine possibly because Nathan isn't incapable of empathizing with other people but his father's silence is a bigger thing than his own decision to get rid of Ron's name.
He picked the wrong year to quit smoking. He hasn't smoked the electronic cigarette the entire time they've been out and he isn't about to start now. He's in control of his impulses even if he isn't in control of his sweat glands, damn it.
He wipes his palms on his jeans. Clears his throat. Oh hey. Root beer. Yes.
"Are you alright?"
TheodoreTheodore looks Nathan over. Nathan wants to know if Theodore is alright. Theodore takes a sip of his iced tea and then his expression changes, a sublte thing, no time to say a word when something has him clutching his left arm and then he clutches his heart and this is no drill.
That's what the narrative might say if Father's Day fell on Friday the 13th and if the gods were cruel, but the gods aren't (always) cruel. He doesn't clutch his left arm and he doesn't clutch his heart and he doesn't start to have a heartattack. He looks Nathan over. He thinks about Nathan. He thinks about Nathan telling him today and he thinks about the photography and he thinks about Michael the saint.
Hard to live with saints. Hardest to live up to saints. He thinks about Michael's name and he realizes, with the faint flick of a smile, one touched in equal parts by wry and melancholy and gladness, that the old man got him after all. He just had to be old himself for it to be true. He clears his throat, and blinks his eyes, and he says, "Yeah. I'm sorry, that IRS remark was a poor thing to say. I just didn't expect ... I'm glad. Your grandfather would have been glad."
He misses his father.
"Why'd you make a change?"
NathanLife doesn't pick sides. If it were all good all the time or all bad all the time human beings would be boring creatures. It would mean the gods had a vested interest in their fates. This isn't a Homeric saga. The gods may exist in this story but they don't give a shit about what humans are doing.
Nathan has had mostly bad in his life. Even if things never get any better though at least he's still got his health and a degree of freedom. He missed his father for a long time but at least his father is still alive.
He had no expectations of how Theodore would react because the two men are still learning how to read each other. They don't email each other like they used to. Nathan isn't in the Marines anymore. They can be in the same space together. That's a lot different from writing emails and it's sure as shit a lot different spending time with a parent when you're in your twenties than it is when you're twelve.
Why'd he make a change.
"Uh..." Again with the futzing. "Other than it's going to give the DoD a headache if they decide to call me up again?"
Oh right. They don't just let you ride off into the sunset when they give you an honorable discharge. If too many communications specialists get blown up or commit suicide between now and 2017 the kid could be going back to Afghanistan. Speaking of remarks that are poor things to say.
"No, I just..." He's talking to the silverware roll instead of Theodore. "I never wanted the name in the first place, but I was still seventeen when I went to talk to the recruiter and everything happened so fast after I graduated high school, I was moving around a lot and didn't have time to think about what they were calling me. And then, you know, after I got out, with the physical therapy and school and everything, I was still moving around too much. I started researching the process and everything after I'd been here six months, but, uh. You know. The car crash." He clears his throat and starts spinning the silverware around counterclockwise. "Besides, Hannah says they're getting divorced, so."
TheodoreTheodore listens to Nathan. He doesn't make a face when Nathan conjures up the ghost of the Department of Defense. He watches the kid talk to the napkin.
Nathan's looking down, so he misses whatever expressions Theodore is having now.
And before he says anything, the waitress comes back with their salads and wraps-or-paninis, and it smells pretty damned good. Will that be all? Yes, ma'am, that will be all. A meaningful look.
And then, because Theodore has never said anything bad about Shira or her ability to be a human being capable of emotion in front of his son or his daughter, he says, "Ah? I imagine that will be rough on you and Hannah."
NathanThe waitress startles Nathan. He's overstimulated with all the cars driving past and the Sunday lunch crowd chattering away and the conversation he's having with his father about changing his surname from his soon-to-be ex-stepfather's to the one he had the first thirteen years of his life. She comes up from behind him with her slip-resistant shoes making no sound and he hears her super cheerful voice before he sees her and he jumps hard enough that Theodore can see his son has that heart-in-the-throat sensation for a few seconds but his son is also used to that sensation so it doesn't completely ruin his day.
She apologizes but it's a perfunctory apology. That meaningful look isn't lost on her. She smiles and tucks the tray under her arm and leaves them alone again.
With a deep breath Nathan unwraps his silverware. Doesn't put the napkin on his lap. He isn't that cultured. Now that the hard part's over he's looking at his father instead of at his now-dismantled toy.
"I don't care," he says. "He's not my fucking father." Nice, Nathan. "Hannah's... I think she'll be alright. We've been talking a lot, about it. It's not like..."
He doesn't say it's not like when you got divorced. That might have been where he was going. Theodore and Shira's divorce was terrible.
"It's not like it's a surprise. Before my second deployment, like... five, six years ago, I was back in Omaha, and Ron was talking... we were outside drinking beer kinda late, he was talking like they were just waiting for Hannah to go off to college before they split up. She's, uh..." He clears his throat. Waits until his father isn't in choking danger before he finishes his sentence. "She's coming out this way in a few weeks. Actually."
Huge bite of his sandwich.
TheodoreTheodore doesn't gloat at Nathan's clear dislike for the replacement. Perhaps Nathan e-mailed him some about Ron; Theodore knows that Nathan doesn't have a warm relationship with the man. It doesn't give him (much) pleasure. Theodore does put the napkin in his lap. He's dressed nicely. He is used to nice dinners at nice restaurants where the napkins are cloth. There's a place, Caesar's, maybe it's open by now and he's already been and been pleasantly surprised by the wine selection, but Italian places know how to do such things properly. His mother was french, he has been told, or was at least french-blooded, and he is partial to french wines.
And when Theodore is not in choking danger, he does not guffaw or make any sort of gesture that would indicate he'd've choked if he'd been drinking. He raises both eyebrows in surprise, a certain sharp neutrality in place.
"Oh?"
NathanRon Marszalek is the son of Polish-Jewish immigrants. They came to this country very young and grew up here and were naturalized American citizens. They're nice people. Ron wasn't a bad guy. Just had the unfortunate distinction of meeting and falling in love with Shira Feld-Amherst after her divorce took the -Amherst off her name.
All Nathan has ever cared to say about Ron came after his father found out about his enlistment and reached out to him. Choppy emails at first but even at eighteen Nathan had a distinct way of expressing himself in writing. To-the-point but conversational. Hey how's it going I'm fine I'm finished with basic they're sending me to Fort Meade to do a basic public affairs specialist course Mom's pretty mad about it but Ron says all that public school newspaper experience should come in handy now haha.
He can't say anything bad about Ron. Won't say anything bad about his mother. Especially not when he's bringing up her impending visit and blinking startled like he hadn't expected his father to actually want to hear more about it.
Chew chew chew chew chew chew. No not done yet. Chew. Swallow. Set down the sandwich half.
"Yeah, she called last month to tell me court's not in session on the fourth and she wants to come out to see how Hannah's doing. Make sure my house wasn't built over a sinkhole or something, I don't know."
Theodore"How long is she staying for?"
Nathan"She's coming out Thursday night and flying back on Sunday."
A thought occurs to him. Theodore can see when his kid's eyes go a shade wider before relaxing again. His eyes always seem like they're wide open dark brown against pale skin anyway.
"Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up."
Take another big-ass bite of food Nathan that should stopper anything else for a few seconds.
TheodoreTheodore smiles. The smile is a warm thing, a stitch between his eyebrows. "It's all right, Nathan. Shira has a way of surprising. I'm glad this time I won't be surprised if I happen to run into her down at the club."
NathanHe is in the process of masticating the quarter of the sandwich he just shoved in his mouth when his father smiles and reassures him that he hasn't misstepped. When he cracks what sounds like a joke about running into his mother at the club something about that statement strikes him as being inordinately funny.
Nathan hasn't laughed much the last few months. Longer than that. Even when Shannon was still alive she accused him of having dialed the chain-smoking urban reporter image up to 11. Like someone would think he'd cracked up if they caught him smiling.
Years of wolfing down meals around smart-asses means he manages to swallow just before he reacts. It comes out as a recovering smoker's cough and by the time it sublimates into proper chuckling he looks bemused.
"I will be," he says.
Theodore"Does she know about the name change?"
NathanLaughter gone. All traces of it. Now he looks like he's never laughed in his life. Nathan considers the question and picks up the last bit of that half of his sandwich and puts it in his mouth like it's no more savory than ash-cake. Chews because he has to chew to get it down his throat. Chews because that means he'll have more time to think of how to phrase a response because if he just says No then his father is going to ask Why not.
Chew. Swallow.
"No," he says.
TheodoreNow it's Theodore's turn to laugh. He does.
Nathan[manip + subt: you started the poker face game]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 5, 7) ( success x 1 )
Theodore[perc + subt, maybe? temporarily?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )
NathanIt is kind of funny if you stop and think about it. Nathan doesn't laugh at first even though it is funny. He is amused by Theodore's reaction but on top of that he's tired. Looks like maybe the relationship he has with his mother is exhausting. Looks like he's trying to keep that to himself because it's bad enough he has to talk about his relationships with his therapist.
Definitely looks like he feels guilty not just about not telling her about the name change but about everything. Like he's keeping on a brave face because that's how he is. He doesn't want his father knowing how he feels.
He forces a laugh after a few seconds. One of those single-shot mostly-air laughs that Nate is known for before he wipes the grease off his hands with the napkin.
"Yeah," he says, "she's... not gonna react when I do tell her, so I figured I can just hang onto that one for a while."
Theodore"Your mother - " Theodore begins to say, and then he pauses. He knew Shira well (enough) once upon a time, but they weren't what they should've been or what they would've been if they were living in a world where certain things were true. Like: parents love each other, always, and love conquers all, and other such cartoon platitudes. He knew Shira well enough, but she might have changed. The Devil goes through fashions. " - will have a reaction."
Oh, comforting. Theodore's eyes still have lines around them, the green touched by something lucent, bottle-glass green, and amusement lingers even if it's not directed now.
"So what's your next big project?"
NathanNate snorts at the assurance come after the pause. Sure she will have a reaction. Her reaction to his enlistment was to spend the last six months of his high school career hardly speaking to him unless it was to announce some fact about Iraq as their paths crossed in the kitchen. Her reaction to his move to California was to remind him of how long six years and four thousand miles are when maintaining a relationship with a girl. Her reaction to his move to Denver was to stop talking to him.
At least he's not moving this time. He's just getting rid of Ron's last name. So is she. They'll have something in common there.
What's his next big project.
"I'm writing a book," he says with the same enthusiasm he'd exhibited while ordering his sandwich. "Same subject as the blog, interviews and photos and shit like that, only I want to research... you know, what the cost of war for the VA's going to be in like thirty-forty years. The last report I could find came out a few years ago and it only used VA data, it didn't factor in guys who don't use government services when they go in for treatment."
Theodore"Interesting. Why did you decide to do that?" Theodore asks.
Nathan might take it as criticism; why are you dwelling? Aren't you going to do something important with your life? Easy to take what a father says to his son, especially one so at ease with his own authority as Theodore, for criticism.
But his tone is, if not light, searching. For a man who isn't a very good father and, if he hasn't checked his watch this time around, does check his watch when they're out sometimes, not to measure the time but because his life is busy, Theodore's interest is genuine.
Bite of sandwich.
NathanSometimes he takes criticism where none has been offered. Most times he's impervious to it. If the divorce did anything to him it forced him to be self-reliant. Not look to his mother to fulfill a dwindling need for encouragement. He had to take care of his little sister during the custody battle and then he looked after her once Shira dragged them out to Nebraska and it's hard to take care of your five-year-old sister if you can't take care of yourself.
It just sounds like a question to him. It's a valid question.
"Because I've been writing these essays since I got back from overseas and every time I need to cross reference something I find on the Internet I have trouble finding primary sources that didn't come from a government organization. There are a ton of books about, you know, the history of the regions and the political agenda surrounding the invasion... uh, the economic impact. I found a ton of memoirs."
He starts fiddling with his silverware again.
"It might help other people. Some of us come back all fucked up and think they're alone and some of us come back and aren't fucked up and still think they're alone. A lot of guys came back from Vietnam way fucked up and they were alone. I don't know. It might help someone and it's not like I've got anything better to do."
Theodore"I was with you until 'it's not like I've got anything better to do,'" Theodore says, wry, but only after a pause (contemplative [brief]). What kind of 'some of us who come back' is Nathan? "Those aren't words a man should ever say about something he's doing."
"That aside, it sounds like you've hit upon a very relevant and rewarding project. Certainly is a big one. Have you shopped around for funding?"
NathanThat wryness gets a bit of a smirk out of the kid. He's still futzing with his silverware so he doesn't have to look at his father as he talks about the project he's started. Some writers are private creatures. They don't like to share what they're doing until it's done and even then they aren't happy until it's perfect and there's no such thing as perfect. Nathan doesn't think of himself as a writer yet. He barely thinks of himself as a journalist. He's just a crime reporter. That's been his mantra the last year that he's been at the Post.
The smirk disappears with the advice. He looks back up at his father. If he'd ever looked to him for guidance he was younger and more impressionable then. Doesn't mean as Theodore addresses him now he's talking to someone else's kid. Nate hears him and he frowns and nods. The yes sir silent.
Has he shopped around for funding.
"Thought I should get the first fifty pages not looking like shit first. Maybe have an outline written. I don't really know where to start, so."
TheodoreTheodore isn't wearing glasses, but he has perfected the art of looking down as if he were looking over the rim of glasses. It might be something he learned when he was still serving as a judge and had to look at the lawyers a certain way so they'd get a move on. There's a ritual to law and a reverence that should hold and that he does not hold. How to keep ahold of that when you know how the system works? What it's used to do?
"A first chapter and a general outline should do for most of the applications you'd be filling out. What you want to focus on is the cover letter," with the assurance of a man who knows business and paperwork. "Will each chapter be a progression of the ideas presented in the chapter prior or will each chapter be more episodic in nature? A collection of ideas or one overall thesis?"
A pause. A faint smile. "Or did you mean to say you don't know where to start looking for grants?"
Nathan"Both."
A laugh propels the confession and he kills his root beer after his throat's clear of it. He'd managed to kill his sandwich while his father was talking. One of the upsides to having a loquacious lunch companion.
"I, uh. Have this vague idea of how I'm going to organize it. That's what I've been doing when I come home from the office, is working on an outline. It's... yeah. It's good." He clears his throat and sits up straighter. His tone brightens. "So, what's next?"
TheodoreBoth of Theodore's once-gave-him-a-devilish-air (still-does-sometimes) eyebrows wing upward. He's chewing and he's swallowing. Chew, swallow, chew, swallow.
"Next?" he says. This is what it feels like, Nathan.
NathanOh Theodore. You're so fucking funny. Look at your son he can hardly stand how fucking funny you are. He slouches down in his chair and lifts his eyebrows in an imitation of his father's. Nathan isn't enough of a bastard to really get the tone of the expression down.
"Mm hmm."
Theodore"I thought you had the whole day planned out," Theodore says, eyebrows still lofted. He sounds a touch bemused and he finishes his iced tea and the ice clinks, what ice there is that remains, catching light in cold and making it waver.
He's new to father's day, all right? He doesn't forget he has kids. Never has. Never does. Never does on this day, traditionally a day of debauchery or melancholy, but kids who are around? And apparently want to or plan to spend time with him? The fuck is this reality?
Nathan"I mean, I do, I just..."
Why would Nathan assume his father meant it when he agreed to spend the entire day with him on Father's Day when his mother could barely remember when Mother's Day was. Sounded surprised on the occasions he could call because he wasn't getting shot at out in the desert somewhere. Like he'd interrupted her doing something else.
Oh Shira fucked their kids up but good didn't she.
"... wanted to double check."
Theodore"All right." The eyebrows lift a touch higher then drop.
He still has sandwich left. He picks it up. He takes a bite. He's a neat eater. Nothing gets on his chin or his mouth and his cheeks don't puff out more than necessary. He chews more on his left side than his right side. Details, details. Good thing nobody has Auspex. Eating people must be disgusting for ghouls and vampires with Auspex.
"So... What's next?" A bit of gentle humor, or perhaps something more complicated, more restrained. Love. Under a layer of wryness.
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