Sports Night fic: Children Won't Listen
Title: Children Won't Listen
Fandom: Sports Night
Characters: The Family Rydell (pre-canon)
Rating: G
Category: Gen
Word count: 1,000
Summary: Jacob Rydell counts the stages of mourning.
Notes: Written January 2008 for picfor1000. Many thanks to lomedet for the crash course in comparative theology. Title stolen from Sondheim, of course.
Prompt picture:
There are five separate stages of mourning. Or so Jacob Rydell understands. Well-meaning friends and relatives bring literature when they visit, books and pamphlets on dealing with loss. It never seems to occur to them that he might not want to deal with it, that his grief is all he has, that it's all that now remains to him of his son, his Sam, his youngest and his most-loved. It's not enough to say a prayer, to light a candle; Jacob never was a devout man, and this blow has robbed him of what little faith he ever had. The god of his fathers was always stern and vengeful, demanding sacrifice as his due, but this was no sacrifice, freely and willingly given. This … what can this be called but waste? No. Jacob wants no part of that god, never again.
Visitors come. He can hardly stop them, short of building a moat and a drawbridge, and Jacob hasn't the energy. He treats these intruders with all the courtesy he can summon - he feeds them, brings them drinks, answers when they speak - but it's hard to remember the rituals of social behaviour, harder yet to care. They'll talk about a mutual friend, and he'll struggle to recall a face to match the name. They discuss politics and the weather, admire the garden, ask after Hannah and, eventually, go away content, telling one another that Jacob Rydell is a wonderful man, so strong, he's bearing up so well, although (in a whisper) it's a shame about his poor wife …
Idiots.
The mask slips only once, when a distant cousin tries to tell him that Hannah's sorrow is unhealthy, that to mourn so bitterly for so long is to show disrespect to the dead. He's on his feet before she's finished speaking, hands clenched, jaw set, and when she looks up her voice dies away with a stutter. But he remembers himself, pastes on a smile, and merely says, "These things take time. I'm sure you understand."
She leaves very soon thereafter.
"You're blessed," he's told, "that you have other children. What a comfort they must be!" Jacob chokes down a laugh. It's true, David does drop by once in a while. "How was the drive?" Jacob will ask, and David will launch into details of what route he took, how the traffic was, how everyone else on the road drives like a madman, how his new car has been nothing but trouble. Jacob listens patiently, then asks after his grandchildren. "Fine," David says, "the girls are fine," and sometimes he'll remember some detail, a good grade, a karate or chess trophy, a ballet recital. Don't, Jacob wants to tell him, don't be like me! Care for your children, notice them, listen to them; they're the greatest treasure you will ever have, and they can be torn from you so easily, gone in a minute without warning, gone and lost forever. Love them! he wants to tell David, but men don't speak this way, and the words die in his throat. Instead they'll watch a game, whatever's in season, or, on fine days, drive out to the club, play a few rounds, stop for a beer or two, then home.
Karen? She writes - or, rather, faxes, on office stationery, her name in full above an impressive string of letters. Dear Dad, How are things? she'll begin, then some remark about her current caseload, then, Marcia sends regards (Jacob has never met Marcia, never intends to) and, finally, Love to Mom! He wonders, bleakly, if Karen's secretary types these for her, or even writes them. It wouldn't surprise him.
As for Danny … Danny phones once a week, talks for forty minutes, says nothing. He stayed at Dartmouth last winter; dragged himself home for Passover, stayed three days, kept to his room most of that time, was edgy and silent when he emerged. Jacob was relieved to see him go, glad that he shows no sign of wanting to return. He has nothing to say to Danny, not any more. All that had to be said he'd said after the funeral.
Jacob clings to his memories, he clings to his sorrow, and he turns away from any words of comfort.
Left alone, he haunts Sam's empty, dusty room, opening drawers and closets at random, trying to find answers to questions he never knew needed to be asked. Rifling the bureau, he finds the ephemera of a young life full of promise - kindergarten projects bearing shiny gold stars, class papers all graded 'A', certificates and prize ribbons, notebooks filled with chickenscratch handwriting that strains Jacob's eyes and which he knows, even if he could read, he wouldn't understand. In among the academic achievements are old trading cards, broken toys and mascots, scraps torn from magazines, photographs of sportsmen, rock stars, supermodels, evidence that Sam was, after all, just a boy. Will now, forever, be only a boy.
He'd found and burned the crumpled bag of herbal matter, searched thoroughly for anything else, found nothing. Poor quality stuff it was, too, all seeds and stems, the dregs of someone else's stash palmed off on an unsuspecting newbie, not worth a fraction of Sam's allowance. Enough; it had cost enough. He'd paid for it with his life.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. What stage, Jacob wonders, has he reached now? He's past denial; he knows Sam's never coming back. He'd sidestepped bargaining: he'd be a better person, then - what? Anger … he'd been angry for a long time. Danny'd caught the brunt of that, and that's regrettable, but if it teaches him a lesson, if it makes him mend his ways, then it's worth the distance between them now. Depression? Hannah has that covered for them both. It's up to him to maintain the illusion of normality.
As for acceptance …
He will never accept this. Never.
There's another stage to mourning, one that all those books and papers have forgotten. Endurance.
Jacob endures. What more can you ask?
***
Fandom: Sports Night
Characters: The Family Rydell (pre-canon)
Rating: G
Category: Gen
Word count: 1,000
Summary: Jacob Rydell counts the stages of mourning.
Notes: Written January 2008 for picfor1000. Many thanks to lomedet for the crash course in comparative theology. Title stolen from Sondheim, of course.
Prompt picture:
There are five separate stages of mourning. Or so Jacob Rydell understands. Well-meaning friends and relatives bring literature when they visit, books and pamphlets on dealing with loss. It never seems to occur to them that he might not want to deal with it, that his grief is all he has, that it's all that now remains to him of his son, his Sam, his youngest and his most-loved. It's not enough to say a prayer, to light a candle; Jacob never was a devout man, and this blow has robbed him of what little faith he ever had. The god of his fathers was always stern and vengeful, demanding sacrifice as his due, but this was no sacrifice, freely and willingly given. This … what can this be called but waste? No. Jacob wants no part of that god, never again.
Visitors come. He can hardly stop them, short of building a moat and a drawbridge, and Jacob hasn't the energy. He treats these intruders with all the courtesy he can summon - he feeds them, brings them drinks, answers when they speak - but it's hard to remember the rituals of social behaviour, harder yet to care. They'll talk about a mutual friend, and he'll struggle to recall a face to match the name. They discuss politics and the weather, admire the garden, ask after Hannah and, eventually, go away content, telling one another that Jacob Rydell is a wonderful man, so strong, he's bearing up so well, although (in a whisper) it's a shame about his poor wife …
Idiots.
The mask slips only once, when a distant cousin tries to tell him that Hannah's sorrow is unhealthy, that to mourn so bitterly for so long is to show disrespect to the dead. He's on his feet before she's finished speaking, hands clenched, jaw set, and when she looks up her voice dies away with a stutter. But he remembers himself, pastes on a smile, and merely says, "These things take time. I'm sure you understand."
She leaves very soon thereafter.
"You're blessed," he's told, "that you have other children. What a comfort they must be!" Jacob chokes down a laugh. It's true, David does drop by once in a while. "How was the drive?" Jacob will ask, and David will launch into details of what route he took, how the traffic was, how everyone else on the road drives like a madman, how his new car has been nothing but trouble. Jacob listens patiently, then asks after his grandchildren. "Fine," David says, "the girls are fine," and sometimes he'll remember some detail, a good grade, a karate or chess trophy, a ballet recital. Don't, Jacob wants to tell him, don't be like me! Care for your children, notice them, listen to them; they're the greatest treasure you will ever have, and they can be torn from you so easily, gone in a minute without warning, gone and lost forever. Love them! he wants to tell David, but men don't speak this way, and the words die in his throat. Instead they'll watch a game, whatever's in season, or, on fine days, drive out to the club, play a few rounds, stop for a beer or two, then home.
Karen? She writes - or, rather, faxes, on office stationery, her name in full above an impressive string of letters. Dear Dad, How are things? she'll begin, then some remark about her current caseload, then, Marcia sends regards (Jacob has never met Marcia, never intends to) and, finally, Love to Mom! He wonders, bleakly, if Karen's secretary types these for her, or even writes them. It wouldn't surprise him.
As for Danny … Danny phones once a week, talks for forty minutes, says nothing. He stayed at Dartmouth last winter; dragged himself home for Passover, stayed three days, kept to his room most of that time, was edgy and silent when he emerged. Jacob was relieved to see him go, glad that he shows no sign of wanting to return. He has nothing to say to Danny, not any more. All that had to be said he'd said after the funeral.
Jacob clings to his memories, he clings to his sorrow, and he turns away from any words of comfort.
Left alone, he haunts Sam's empty, dusty room, opening drawers and closets at random, trying to find answers to questions he never knew needed to be asked. Rifling the bureau, he finds the ephemera of a young life full of promise - kindergarten projects bearing shiny gold stars, class papers all graded 'A', certificates and prize ribbons, notebooks filled with chickenscratch handwriting that strains Jacob's eyes and which he knows, even if he could read, he wouldn't understand. In among the academic achievements are old trading cards, broken toys and mascots, scraps torn from magazines, photographs of sportsmen, rock stars, supermodels, evidence that Sam was, after all, just a boy. Will now, forever, be only a boy.
He'd found and burned the crumpled bag of herbal matter, searched thoroughly for anything else, found nothing. Poor quality stuff it was, too, all seeds and stems, the dregs of someone else's stash palmed off on an unsuspecting newbie, not worth a fraction of Sam's allowance. Enough; it had cost enough. He'd paid for it with his life.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. What stage, Jacob wonders, has he reached now? He's past denial; he knows Sam's never coming back. He'd sidestepped bargaining: he'd be a better person, then - what? Anger … he'd been angry for a long time. Danny'd caught the brunt of that, and that's regrettable, but if it teaches him a lesson, if it makes him mend his ways, then it's worth the distance between them now. Depression? Hannah has that covered for them both. It's up to him to maintain the illusion of normality.
As for acceptance …
He will never accept this. Never.
There's another stage to mourning, one that all those books and papers have forgotten. Endurance.
Jacob endures. What more can you ask?
***