(no subject)
Who: David Fisher (Papa Bear) and NPC Mathúin Fisher
What: An unexpected phone call
When: Thursday evening, 04.17.08
Where: David's apartment and his parents' house in Boston MA, respectively
Rating/Status: PG-13/Finished
Telephone rings.
"Hello?"
Silence. A gruff, patronizing voice on the other end. "Well well, the Superstar's finally home."
A lengthy pause. "...How did you get this number?"
Forced jocularity. "Is that any way to greet your old man?"
Another lengthy pause followed by equally forced civility. "Hi, Dad."
"That's better. To answer your question, I got your number from James' widow." Pause. "So what have you been doing with yourself, boy?"
"What do you want."
"I called you a few Fridays ago."
"I'm not always here."
"Also called early Monday morning."
Silence.
"Where were you, David Gwynn?"
Annoyance at being treated like a child and the use of his embarrassing middle name, he snaps back a retort. "I was at an AA meeting."
"AA huh? You should have done what I usually do and just cut back for a few days."
Sarcastic. "Thanks, Dad. I'll remember that for my next crutch."
A long silence. "I heard about Aileen."
"Not my problem anymo-"
"Marriage, David Gwynn, is a vow before God."
"Yeah, well so is monogamy." He lashed out.
"Call Aileen up, I'm sure she'd forgive y-"
"I'm talking about you, Dad."
His father's words remained clipped, laced with barely hidden anger. "...What goes on between a man and woman is their business, it's their God-given right."
Patronizing. "Like the right to chase other women as long as you provide for your family? Is that the sort of right you're talking about, Dad? What about the right to kick your seventeen year old son out and sever all communication with him for nearly twenty four years, only speaking to him again when you want to bring up his bad marriage."
The reply is harsh and powerful. "David Gwynn, I'm still your father and I won't stand to be smart mou-"
Unable to stop, he begins to grow more furious and bitter with every syllable. "A father's supposed to teach his son right from wrong. But all you taught me was how to cut corners, that fists are for anger and the bottle is for fear, and here I am, afraid out of my mind that I can't use the one tool I know. Now, you spread lies about me to my nieces and the Donnellys." A pause, tone tired and desperately seeking an answer. "Please... Please tell me that somewhere in your heart you have a place for your son, for me, that when I was a kid you loved me, even if for a second."
Anger rose in his voice, assuming the role of enforcer just like when David was a child. "I'm not going to lie, boy. I see is an Irish Catholic who had a good marriage and a family. Then I see him wasting it and consequentially getting divorced, shaming our good name in the eyes of the Church; and you want to talk about LOVE and LIES, David Gwynn?" A pause. Tone disappointed. "The truth is you were and will always be nothing, I didn't have to spread any lies because here you are in the flesh: a complete failure and a waste of space." A few moments silence before he speaks up again in a painfully flat voice. "When it comes down to it, you should have been in that wreck instead of your brother."
David froze, a sizable amount of numbness creeping up his body and prickling at his flesh as the love that was never there was finalized between father and son. Vaguely, David felt like a child again, forever in his father's shadow and even now trying to gain the man's elusive love only to be pushed away repeatedly. After a few minutes, David finally spoke up, voice alien with emotional strain and crumbling fake cheer. "Thanks, Dad... You always did know what to say." A slight, pained smile into the telephone coupled with swallowing a large lump that had lodged itself in his throat prior to his statement.
Unresponsive, Mathúin hangs up, a click and the line is disconnected, leaving David with the monotonous buzz of the dial tone vibrating in his ear.
After what seemed like ages, David finally set the receiver back on the phone's cradle, standing from the living room's couch. Upon walking into the kitchen, he reached up towards the cereal cabinet, opening it and removing two boxes. With numb determination, David began to dig farther into the cabinet, rewarded finally as he lifted out a dusty half empty bottle of scotch. Palming it, David stared sadly down at the amber liquid inside the glass bottle and in a sudden flurry of movement, he righted the bottle and unscrewed the lid. Sniffing, he rubbed at his nose briefly before lifting the mouth of the bottle up to his mouth.
Two months without a single drink had been an awfully long time for David, especially considering just how long he had been drinking in his life thus far; stealing nips of his father's beer during the Pats games on Sundays when he was eight, boozing when he was a teenager and well into his college years, the grim cycle continuing into adulthood.
Now, faced with a life altering decision, the cold glass against his mouth, David shut his eyes, willing the bottle to tip back, pausing only when it didn't respond.
Eyes reopening, David pressed his mouth closed into a frown, holding the bottle against his chest. Taking the two and a half steps over to the kitchen sink, he turned the bottle slowly upside down, placing the mouth of it in the drain. Tossing the cap onto the counter, David left the bottle propped up and emptying. Turning from the sink, he gave his watering eyes a brief rub, a bitter, shaking smile darkening his features. Lifting a hand up, he turned out the kitchen light and drowned the apartment in darkness, the sporadic drip of liquor in the sink almost deafening in the silence.