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“Mike’s really throwing them back tonight,” John remarked as he opened the door to the master bedroom. “Is this part of a recent trend or a one-hit wonder event?”
Paul merely sighed in response. He walked into the room behind John, Mary in one arm and his other hand rubbing at his temples. His brother had been driving him up the wall all evening. That there was just over an hour until he left was little blessing, and it certainly wasn’t enough to make up for this evening. Paul loved his extended family, but Mike’s inebriation was hardly cause to love their presence on Christmas Eve. At least everyone else was being pleasant enough.
“You’re having that much fun, hmm?” John teased. He set to preparing the bassinet for Mary while Paul set her on the
changing table.
“No follow-up questions, please,” Paul grunted, mimicking the response John used to give in particularly poor interviews.
John smiled in sympathy, then leaned over to deliver a peck to Paul’s cheek.
“Just an hour to go, right?”
“I suppose,” Paul forced an obviously fake smile, causing both of them to laugh. It worked a bit to break up the uninvited tangent of emotions in his head, and Paul returned the kiss, this time to John’s lips. That touch helped a bit more.
Going through Mary’s bedtime process should have helped even further, especially when John was next to him. Normally it was comforting for all of them: wipes, nappy, pyjamas. But it was doing nothing to soothe Paul, and Mary seemed to notice. She began to fuss, kicking a bit when Paul tried to button her small pyjama onesie. Paul withdrew his hands, another sigh escaping his lips. When that failed to resolve the tension in his brow, he forced more steady breaths through his mouth in hopes of exhaling the nerves away.
“Macca?” John paused in his search for her nighttime dummy. “What’s wrong? Is Mike’s drinking that stressful for you?”
“I don’t know,” Paul groaned. He turned toward John, and the latter opened his arms with ease. “I doubt it’s just that. Could be anything at this point in the year.”
“That seems like an awful lot of things to be stressed about darling,” John hummed, squeezing Paul gently. “Maybe we can sit up here and sort through them for you?”
Paul shook his head. “Not right now. We’ve only an hour left, after all. I feel bad enough as it is leaving Dad and them downstairs with him. Hosting duty calls.”
“You sure? Everything will be alright until then?”
“Yeah, everything’s alright,” Paul repeated back. “Everything’s alright for you, too, Moo.”
They both knew she couldn’t understand him literally, but having children had taught them that kids were always more attuned to things than their young age let on. He hoped smiling and giving her playful kisses as he finished buttoning her into her pyjamas would reassure her that any tension she’d felt from him was merely temporary. That nothing was really the matter.
“It’s Christmas Eve and Daddy’s right next to me,” Paul continued, setting her down in the bassinet. “He’s taking care of both of us tonight. We’re going to read your favorite story, too!”
At that, John fetched a small book from the bedside table. Then he lay down on the bed in such a way that when he opened it, Mary could see the pictures from her bassinet. Paul sat beside the little crib, rocking it gently, listening along to the gentle creaking and to John’s steady voice.
He was such a good narrator, and he read it with gentle animation, too. Mary’s eyes widened at parts with particular emphasis, and she looked at the pictures with rapt attention. Even as her eyes began to flutter shut, she was following along to the best of her ability.
Soon her breaths were soft and steady, but John finished the story all the same, smiling at the last few pages. Even though it was a children’s book, it still touched his heart. Paul loved it, too, and he crawled up on the bed, curling up against John with a pleasant hum. He finally felt calm, for the first time all night.
Sure, he wasn’t pleased with the quantity of alcohol his brother was drinking in the downstairs parlor, but he had John next to him and their baby girl was sleeping soundly. It reminded him of last Christmas, when they’d driven up to Friar Park and Heather had fallen asleep on the couch, drooling across Ringo’s bright red sweater. Thank goodness they’d be having Christmas Day with him and George tomorrow.
No. Paul shouldn’t have been thinking such things. He should have been grateful that he was spending today with his extended family. They saw precious little of each other as it was. But Mike was proving to be a reason that Paul might not want to see them again for a while.
Paul had no qualms with Mike’s wife, Angela, and the couple’s two daughters were too young to be of any problem at all, really. Truthfully, Benna played well with Heather and Julian, enough so that she was a benefit to any family gathering.
Paul delighted the most in seeing Jim, of course, close as they were. His wife, Angie, and her daughter, Ruth, were nice to be around, even if Paul was still quietly testy about the remarriage. Angie made Jim happy and treated him well and Ruth was both bright and well-mannered, so Paul did his best to keep his lips sealed on the subject, only occasionally complaining to John about Jim’s decision.
All in all, it should have been a rather pleasant Christmas, if not quite thrilling. And yet there Mike was, the black sheep in the nativity stable, so to speak. Paul didn’t know if this was a recent trend or a one-off thing, like John suggested. He’d heard nothing from his dad or Angela about it, and he hadn’t noticed it the few times he’d seen Mike in the past year. Maybe it was the stress of the year getting to him, just as Paul was feeling a bit overwhelmed.
Regardless, Mike had started downing drinks almost upon arrival to Kenwood, and now that the evening was nearly over, he was embarrassingly incapacitated. Angela, Jim, and Paul had all made attempts to dissuade him, even pouring out his glass when he wasn’t looking, but it did little good. Not if his sprawling position on a couch in the main parlor was anything to go by, at least.
Ruth had kindly escorted her step-nieces and -nephews, excluding Mary and Theran, to the playroom and engaged in their various imaginative games. As long as Mike didn’t burst into that room swearing or performing any outrageous activities before his small clan left in an hour, presumably with Angela behind the wheel, all would be fine. Paul crossed his fingers in reinforcement.
He still didn’t feel quite ready to return to the parlor, though, despite his superstitious aids. John pulled him a little closer, planting a few kisses on his forehead. He hummed a few bars of their favorite carols into his ear, too, before suggesting they tidy up the bedroom a bit, just to calm Paul’s urge to control things.
Paul nodded gratefully. John always knew how to soothe his anxiety. The two of them set things in order, putting the book on the nightstand and straightening the bed covers out. They were small things, but Paul could control them, correct them, fix them. The relief at seeing them sorted was more welcoming than he felt comfortable admitting, even to himself.
He was trying, really trying, to reign in his recent spike of controlling behaviors. The perfectionist in him wanted things done well, and the competent part of him knew he could do some things better than others could. Watching people do things differently — and sometimes worse — than he would was still as difficult as it always had been. John was being incredibly patient with him, though, and that made it easier from time to time.
John’s presence at his side made Paul feel a little easier now, too, and the knot in his chest loosened to some extent. Just an hour until the two of them could have some more time to themselves and tuck in their other children for a quiet end to Christmas Eve.
It would all be fine.
“Sleep tight, Moo, and Happy Christmas! We love you so,” Paul whispered when they finished tidying. He kissed Mary’s forehead and John pulled the blanket a little snugger around her. She was just learning to sleep without a swaddle and still liked to feel cocooned.
“We’ll be back so soon, little one,” John promised. He delivered a kiss of his own. “Sweet dreams and lots of love!”
John found Paul’s hand as they looked down at her once more before leaving the room.
“Her first Christmas, Johnny. Let’s take a picture of her, just with the polaroid, shall we? We can put it in her baby book.”
John fetched it from the bookshelf, and they snapped a quick photo, her little head and dark hair poking out from under the Christmas print blanket. An as yet unnamed stuffed fox, once again gifted by George and Ringo, was snuggled next to her.
It would all be fine.
They slipped from the room, Paul gathering a breath crossing his fingers again. One more hour. Of course, he had to get through that hour, every painstaking minute of it. He could already feel the needling of the second hand on his watch, almost teasing him with its sluggish and measured ticking. It reminded him of a waning amp, its sound quality reduced to such a degree that it produced a scratched and fuzzy skipping noise.
He paused at the top of the stairs: 59 minutes. Fifty-eight minutes and 55 seconds. Fifty seconds. John tugged him forward, ever so slightly. It would all be fine.
Sounds from the playroom — laughter and muddled words of imagination — replaced the irksome ticking of his watch the further they descended the steps. He wished he could join in, encouraging his children and eldest niece in their fun, but he resigned himself to the role of the attentive host and manager of a drunk brother. Hopefully Mike hadn’t caused any issues in his absence.
Upon arrival in the parlor, it seemed all was well. Jim was sat in an armchair, flipping through a coffee table book. Angie was settled on one of the two couches, where John had been entertaining her with some banjo chords before he and Paul had gone up to tuck in Mary. She knew piano quite well and had been enjoying the small lesson of comparison between the two instruments. She looked more than happy to continue when John rejoined her.
Angela had settled herself in a corner of the other couch, Theran in her arms, looking like she was doing her utmost to shrink away from her husband.
Said husband was exactly as he had been when John and Paul left: sprawled across his chair, hair rather disheveled, glass in hand against his thigh. Paul wasn’t entirely sure he was awake, to be honest. Angela didn’t appear to know either, but her eyes showed that they didn’t trust to hope. The nearest thing Paul could relate the expression to was forgone melancholy, and he couldn’t blame her.
Paul couldn’t recall the last time John had been drunk. It was certainly before Julian had been born, and now Paul couldn’t imagine either of them being truly intoxicated around their kids. Even when they went out for an evening to themselves, like they had in New York to see George’s concert, they always made sure to return sober enough to walk and talk and attend to their children with clarity and care.
Paul didn’t want to think about what he’d do if John suddenly became as hammered as Mike was. It would hurt to watch, undoubtedly, but it would also be incredibly difficult to manage the house and tend to the kids on his own. Even just for an evening. That’s why marriages had two people. It was a team, a partnership. Paul was more than grateful he and John had found that in each other, especially tonight.
No, Paul couldn’t blame Angela at all.
“I can take Theran for a while if you like, Ang,” Paul offered, doing his best not to sound pitying. That wasn’t what she needed right now.
“Oh, it’s alright, she’s settled down for the evening I think.” Angela nodded to the bundle in her arms.
“You sure? Not just to give you a chance for a stretch? I’m in child-mode at the moment, anyway.”
“There’s a surprise,” a voice muttered. Mike.
He’d been making snide remarks since he reached a certain state of drunkenness, but this was the first one directed at anyone in particular. Perhaps he was irked at Paul’s attempts to step between him and the bottle. Paul did his best to ignore it.
“It’s a tempting offer,” Angela smiled, playing a similar game of ignorance. “What do you think, sweetie? Would you like to spend some time with Uncle Paul?”
Theran gurgled sleepily, clearly as settled as her mother had said. She merely yawned when she was gently transferred to Paul’s arms. She was close in age to Mary, and the contrast between the two was quite striking. Mary was nearly a perfect copy of Paul, while Theran resembled Mike’s baby photos almost exactly.
Paul’s heart twitched the thought. When Benna had been born, looking rather like Angela, Mike had joked they needed to have another child so they’d each have a child resembling them. Now, Paul wasn’t sure if Mike had even spent time this evening with his look-alike daughter.
“I’ll be back in a tip,” Angela said, standing and smoothing her skirt. She called over her shoulder as she left the room: “Just give a call if she gets fussy!”
Paul didn’t miss how she left Mike out of the entire equation. Perhaps for the best, though. The longer Mike stayed quiet, the less time there was for the evening to erupt into chaos. He’d always been a rowdy drunk.
Seeing Jim losing interest in the coffee table book, Paul moved over, swaying Theran with practiced ease.
“Didn’t enjoy ’Teapots of the 19th Century’, then?” Paul teased, catching the title of the book as Jim closed it.
“On the contrary, it was too riveting for me to handle,” Jim responded with a chuckle. “Don’t tell me you picked it out yourself.”
“Oh no, it’s something of a joke gift. George gave it to John as a birthday present. It has a pop-up tea set in the back. Something about John having broken one too many of George’s teapots.” Paul winked over at John, who rolled his eyes lovingly in the middle of a banjo solo.
“Ah, well hopefully the trend doesn’t continue,” Jim sympathized with humor. “How is George these days, anyway?”
“He’s doing well. Ringo, too.” Paul sat himself in the armchair next to Jim’s. “They’re coming down for Christmas Day tomorrow.”
“Give them our best, will you?”
“Gladly,” Paul assured. “They’ll be glad to hear it, too. Always ask after you.”
“They’re good lads. Especially George. I was sorry to hear about his mother last year. On Richard’s birthday, wasn’t it?”
Paul hid a smile at that last bit. Jim always insisted on calling Ringo by his full, real name. But now was not the time for highlighting that quirk.
“It was on his birthday, yes,” Paul recalled sadly. “I don’t think anyone expected it. At least the families celebrated his birthday a few days before. And all together, George and Ringo and both their pairs of parents. I think that helped a bit. But he still misses her, certainly. I know I do. She was so thoughtful. She’d picked out Julian’s Christmas present before she passed, months in advance. And of course, it was the perfect thing. He plays with that train set every day.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. He was a man of few words when it came to somber occasions. He moved the conversation forward.
“Julian’s a fine lad, too. He has your mannerisms. Just like your mum that way.”
“Doesn’t look a thing like her, though.” Mike again.
Paul’s brow twitched once. That didn’t seem to be a comment about Paul keeping him away from liquor. It seemed more… targeted. Paul didn’t dare look at him. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“He’s done quite well in nursery so far,” Paul continued, knowing Jim liked to hear about success in school. “John’s reading short little chapter books to him every day. Remember when you and Mum would read to us before bed sometimes?”
“I do,” Jim’s eyes softened at the recollection. “It’s one of my favorite memories as a parent with her. I’d get annoyed when one of you kept pronouncing a word wrong, but she always kept her temper. She was much more patient than I was!”
“She had to be, with a son like Paul.” This time there was a true callousness to it. Deep and definitely targeted.
Paul swallowed. He knew better than to answer back, no matter how it stung. Mike was just doing it to get a rise out of him. And Mike was drunk. He didn’t mean it, whatever he was trying to say. Best just to ignore it all.
“Mike, I don’t think I should have to tell you not to talk about your brother in such a way,” Jim said reproachfully.
Startled, Paul looked at his father. In their teenage days, he’d said he was done breaking up their verbal barbs. Unless their arguments were disturbing a family gathering or his personal reading time, Jim stayed out of it. Now, he was telling Mike off for being rude? It was hardly in character.
Neither this unusual action nor the content of the remark had an effect on Mike, though.
“Come on now, Dad,” Mike drawled, looking as far from apologetic as Ringo was from being tall, “you must know how hard it was for her to have a son like him. So dainty and delicate. He’s always been a bit of a Nancy, y’know.”
Everything went icy still. Only later would Paul realize that part of the coldness was John’s sudden ceasing of the banjo, but regardless, all cheer vanished from the room. Instead, it was replaced with an aura of slurred and tainted words, shifting around Mike like a broken kaleidoscope.
What had he just said? Never in his life, never once in all their time together, had Paul heard Mike insult homosexuals. When Paul finally told Mike about him and John, perhaps in late 1963, Mike had been nothing but supportive. When the two of them got privately “married” a few years later, Mike sent along a picture of himself so he could jokingly serve as ring bearer.
And now this. It felt like a betrayal, like everything he and Mike had formed from childhood was somehow a cruel farce, designed to be yanked away at this very moment. The foundation was gone, and Paul’s world was careening into somewhere he couldn’t control, down Forthlin’s stairs and through the kitchen where they would cook with Jim in the evening, past the cafe where they used to sit with Mary and drink small bottles of milk through straws. Past things Paul could barely recognize but knew were important. He wanted it to stop, to slow down so he could see what they were and where he was. But they wouldn’t. He couldn’t make it stop. Blood pounded against his temples. It had to stop, it had to stop!
“Mike McCartney—” Jim’s tone rose in extreme disapproval, but Paul interrupted him, desperate to avoid anything that resembled an argument, to make it all stop.
“Dad, don’t, please,” he began, only to be interrupted himself, this time by someone physically rising to their feet.
“Would you like to repeat what you just said about your brother?” John had set the banjo on the couch, next to Angie — who didn’t look pleased about the comment either — and was facing Mike with square shoulders.
The bolt of his jaw was set, and his thumb nail was pressed hard against the pad of his index finger. He looked like a rough and tumble teddy boy again, Hamburg alley and a handful of drunken dock workers ahead of him and Paul safely behind him.
“John, please, just leave it,” Paul pleaded to him this time, rocking Theran simultaneously, hoping the commotion didn’t disturb her.
“What are we leaving?” All eyes, except perhaps Mike’s, looked to the main door, where Angela was standing, voice waveringly cautious.
Paul opened his mouth, trying to concoct some poor explanation to smear across everything that was breaking apart. Everything that was suddenly, incredibly, far from being fine.
Mike beat him to it.
“We were just discussing how my brother, ” Mike emphasized the word with a snark-filled glare at John, “was such a disappointment to our dear departed mother.”
Voices all cried out at once. Paul heard Angela begin some distraught reprimand of her husband and Jim’s tone border on outrage. John’s sounded like the cocking of a gun. But one stood out from all of them, quieting them into murmurs, then silence.
“Dada? Dada, why is Daddy yelling?”
Paul’s heart leapt into his throat and his nerves spiked into rigid paths. There was only one person who that could be. Julian. Oh Lord, it was Julian. Not now Lord, please. Paul hurried from his chair, barely registering how Angela kindly took Theran from his arms as he did so, and knelt down next to his son.
“Jules, let’s not be in here right now, alright? Can you go back to the playroom for me?”
“But Daddy’s yelling,” Julian’s voice quivered. It ripped at Paul’s heart, and he knew John must have been hurting, too. “Daddy never yells. That means something really bad is happening.”
“It’s alright baby, everything is alright,” Paul vowed, hoping somehow his words would make it true. “Please just go back to the playroom for me, yeah? For me and Daddy?”
“No, he should stay and hear this,” Mike cut in, cruel humor clear despite his slightly slurred speech. “He should know what his grandmum had to say about his dad. He deserves to know he’s growing up with a parent who’s a dirty que—”
“Peter Michael McCartney!” Jim was out of his chair, standing much like John was already. But, as John was already up, he was already speaking, too.
“Paul, take Julian and Heather upstairs.”
“John, don’t,” Paul begged, fearing that the whole scene was going to descend into some kind of pre-Boxing Day boxing match, the same way it had in Hamburg.
John turned away from Mike for the first time since the conflict started and met Paul’s eyes with the softest look Paul could imagine.
“Please darling, for them. For our little ones.”
Tears were pooling in Paul’s eyes, and he nodded as he blinked them away. He didn’t have time to process everything yet. Instead, he scooped up Julian, who was still confused and now growing upset, and turned from the room. He felt Angela accompanying him, no doubt on her way to get Benna and take her out of earshot as well. The last thing he heard before someone closed the parlor door was the leveled determination of John’s dangerously cold anger.
“I’m furious enough that you said that to my husband, to your brother, but that you said it in the presence of my child is unbelievable. I don’t expect your impaired mind to understand. But let this be absolutely clear: I want you out of this house, now. I won’t say it again. Get out. Now.”
Nothing registered in the same way after that. Paul recalled taking Heather from the playroom and telling Ruth there was an argument in the parlor and that it was best not for her to go in. He knew he was carrying both kids upstairs and that Julian was becoming even fussier and kept asking why John had been yelling. He couldn’t quite remember where Angela had taken Benna and Theran, but it didn’t seem to matter that much once he and his own kids were ensconced in Julian’s room.
“It’s alright Jules, Daddy’s not mad at you,” Paul explained when he set Julian and Heather down on the bed. “He was just having an argument and it was private, yeah? Sometimes things need to be kept private.”
“But he was arguing with Uncle Mike!” Julian protested. He was much more invested in this than Heather was, who had hopped down from the bed and scooted over to Julian’s bookshelf. “I thought Uncle Mike was nice!”
I did too, Paul thought, but he knew better than to say it. “People don’t always agree, even if they’re both nice. Daddy and I argue once in a while and you love both of us, don’t you?”
Julian nodded vigorously, then paused. “But why were they not getting along?
Paul bit his lip. He couldn’t tell Julian the real reason, could he? That was a decision to be made with John. But what to be done now? He couldn’t lie to Julian, so maybe the best thing was to sweep it all under the rug. Pretend it wasn’t serious. Was that fair to him? Maybe fair didn’t matter so much at the moment.
“It was just a little tiff. But it’s private, remember?” Paul hurriedly added. “We have to respect that. Everything will be okay, I promise.”
Julian didn’t seem convinced. “Daddy never yells. He wouldn’t yell if it was small.”
Paul sighed. He and John hadn’t yelled out of anger in a long, long time, and probably never around the kids, if the kids had even been born yet. Might as well just tell it like it was.
“Uncle Mike said some things about me that weren’t very nice, and Daddy got mad. But Uncle Mike didn’t mean it. He was just in a bad mood.” Paul hoped that was true. He didn’t really want to think about the consequences of his brother actually hating him. “Everything is going to be alright, though. Daddy will be up soon to tuck you in. And it’s Christmas Eve and Santa’s going to come! Uncle George and Uncle Ringo will be here tomorrow, too!”
Julian’s eyes lit up a bit at that. He had been looking forward to Christmas since Halloween and had been talking about seeing his favorite uncles for almost that long.
“Dada, reading please?” Heather suddenly asked from the bookshelf.
Paul gladly accepted the diversion. “That sounds wonderful, sweetheart! What do you think, you two? Should we read a Christmas book?”
The question was responded to with enthusiasm and Paul let Heather pick a Christmas story from the shelf. Then she hurried back over to Julian’s bed, climbed up, and nestled next to him. Paul was relived they got along so well, especially now. He didn’t think he had the strength to stay strong through any kind of conflict at this point. He’d have been a wreck if he was still in the parlor, listening to whatever horrible remarks Mike was slagging him off with. Thank heavens they were up here.
“Once upon a time, deep in the woods of the North Pole,” Paul began.
The kids listened with the same attention that Mary had to her book earlier, following along and reacting at moments of concern or joy. Paul wished so badly John could be here reading to them. He was such a better reader than Paul was. Not to mention that Paul was more than a bit worried about the verbal altercation in the parlor.
Julian and Heather didn’t show any worry about the argument or any dissatisfaction with Paul’s narration, though, and they happily sat through the story. In fact, when Paul finished it, they asked for another, then two more. They were fading fast when the fourth one ended, and Paul couldn’t believe that they were falling asleep so easily on Christmas Eve. He didn’t even have any trouble convincing them to put their pyjamas on. The only resistance the kids put up was to sleeping in their own rooms: both wanted to stay in Julian’s because “it’s Christmas and you need to be cozy on Christmas!”
Paul gave in with a smile. Julian was in another phase in which he disliked sleeping alone, and both parents were working to make him more comfortable with it. He didn’t really see the harm in Julian bunking with Heather tonight, but he would have liked to ask John about it. Not as if John was available, though…
Through all four stories, Paul had listened for any commotion from downstairs, but the bedrooms weren’t above the parlor. In whatever manner the argument had ended, Paul was in the dark as much as his children.
It wasn’t until both kids had their teeth brushed and were settling into Julian’s bed, Fritz the Horse and Charles the Panda Bear in their small hands, that Paul heard something helpful: a car engine starting in the parking area. The crunching of gravel under tires and the vague clicking sound of their gate rolling signaled someone’s departure. Paul couldn’t imagine it being Mike leaving under his own power, but perhaps Angela or Jim was driving him out, following through on John’s ultimatum. Or maybe Mike was still here, too drunk to move.
“Dada? Is Daddy going to come say goodnight?” Julian yawned. His eyes were drooping, but they had concern in them all the same. He rarely went to bed without being tucked in by both his parents.
“Of course, baby,” Paul promised, realizing it meant he had to follow through on it now. He had to get John up here. But that meant going downstairs. He felt a growing tide of nerves. What if Mike was down there? But he had to try. “I’ll just go grab him, shall I?”
“Yes please!” Heather joined in with Julian’s request.
“I’ll be right back, so don’t get up to any trouble,” Paul teased them, forcing himself to stay cheerful for them. “Keep your eyes out for any reindeer, too!”
He shut the door behind him amid eager chatter of which reindeer they might see. At least they were having a normal Christmas Eve. That was all Paul could ask for at this point. That and not suddenly fainting. His knees felt weak as he retraced his steps to the top of the stairs. A shiver snaked up his spine at the memory of coming up them, almost an hour ago. An hour.
An hour was the unit of time in which everything was supposed to be alright. At the end of an hour, an hour ago, things were supposed to be fine. The only victory in all of that was the brunt of the conflict had fallen away from the children. But so much else had happened in an hour. So much he couldn’t control. He needed John. Where was John?
“Johnny?” Paul called down the stairs, hesitating to descend them himself, alone. He winced when he realized he’d used one of John’s nicknames. If Mike was around, he’d surely make a mockery of it. Paul called again, more formal this time. “John?”
“Paulie?” A voice answered him. Somewhat muffled. John’s. He was using nicknames, too. Mike must be gone, then. That was good. John’s voice became clearer with the sound of a door opening and a few footsteps. “Where are you, darling?”
“Johnny? I’m just up here…” Paul’s voice trailed off as John came into view at the bottom of the stairs. He looked to be in one piece, thankfully, but his eyes were tired. So tired. His poor John… Nonetheless, a gentle smile broke onto John’s face at the sight of Paul.
“Ah, there you are, love,” John sounded relieved. “You doing alright up there?”
“Um, yeah, alright,” Paul managed. He felt oddly removed from where he stood. He felt uneasy. “Jules and Heather, they’re just in bed now.” He took a step down the stairs only to find himself stumbling. He grabbed at the handrail and felt a yanking in his shoulder.
“Paul! Oh my Lord, Paul!” John hurried up toward him, quickly wrapping him in his arms and steadying him on the step. “Goodness, you gave me a fright! Did you get dizzy there, love?”
Paul’s head spun and he tried to nod in answer, only to find himself leaning even more against John.
“More than just dizzy, I take it,” John murmured, more to himself than to Paul. He then kissed Paul’s ear and whispered to him directly, though. “I’m so sorry, love. I wanted to protect you from things like this, protect you and the kids. I wish I could have done it better. You’re safe now though, you’re alright. It’s going to be alright.”
“Is he still here?” Paul asked through muddled thoughts.
“Jim and I sent him home in a cab,” John reassured. “He’s gone now, love.”
Paul felt himself being lifted up. “But someone just left…”
“That was Angela. She’s gone to a friend’s house for the night. She’ll be alright.”
Paul tried to find John’s eyes. He couldn’t feel the ground. He’d been picked up, right? “Is Dad still here? I wanna see him.”
“He’s leaving soon, Paulie. I don’t think that’s a good idea for you to talk to him anyway,” John said gently. “You need some rest right now.”
“No, I wanna talk to him!” Paul felt like Julian, protesting as he was carried to his room. “I need to ask him about mum!”
“Shh, love,” John quieted him, pressing a kiss into his hair. “You’re not in a state to talk about that right now. You need to trust me, alright?”
“No Johnny, please, I need to know what she thought! Please Johnny!” Paul felt himself struggling in John’s arms and recognized his voice coming out in sobs.
He continued to cry into John’s shoulder as he was carried somewhere away from the stairs. Everything in his chest hurt, everything in his heart. It was all too much, too much that he couldn’t control. It was crashing down around him just like it had when Mike said all those things, those things about their mum.
Why had he said that? She never knew he was queer, certainly not when Paul had no idea what that meant when he was 14, long before he ever met John and began to feel something. But it hurt all the same. It hurt so badly, and the tears continued to fall as he pressed himself further into John’s arms.
He only realized they’d actually gone somewhere specific when John set him down on a small chair. It was too small for him, and the feeling of sitting in it reminded Paul of having tea parties with Julian and Heather. A child’s chair, then. He blinked a bit as John shifted away, just slightly, and saw they were in the master bathroom. He was seated on the small chair the kids used to reach the sink, and John was knelt in front of him.
“Deep breaths now, love, that’s it,” John soothed, rubbing a hand up and down Paul’s arm. His quiet demeanor inadvertently calmed Paul, at least quieting his cries. “So good for me. You’re so brave Paulie, so strong. There we are.”
Paul sniffled in response, trying to keep his breathing level. Everything hurt still.
“We’ll talk about this, I promise,” John continued. “But you’re not in a state for that right now. You need rest, sleep. Are you going to try to sleep for me?”
“Right here?” Paul hiccupped, looking at the chair.
“Not in the loo, no,” John gave a light chuckle, relieved to see Paul joking, even weakly. “But we can’t go in the bedroom until you’re calmed down a bit more. We don’t want to wake Mary up, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Paul forced out, still focusing on his breathing. The mention of Mary reminded him of their other children. “J-Jules and Heather want to see you. They’re in his room.”
“I’ll go in and see them in a minute, they’re fine for now. We’re getting you settled first, alright?” John pushed some of Paul’s hair out of his face. “Should we wash you up a bit, maybe scrub years ears?” He leaned to either side of Paul’s head, kissing the tips of his ears.
Paul smiled in spite of himself. John used to kiss his ears like that in their first apartment together, back in Liverpool. Everything had been so much simpler then, it seemed.
“After my ears,” Paul coughed as he laughed a bit, “you promise you’ll tuck them in? Jules really wants to see you. He was so nervous when I brought him up. “Paul coughed again, clearing his throat from tears and nasal drip.
“I promise. And then after that I’ll come back to our room and be with you all night. All next morning, too. Forever.”
Paul nodded, eyes completely trusting. If John said it, it would be true. He was always true to his word about these things. So Paul relaxed under John’s touch, let him wash his face and comb his hair and give him a glass of water and change him into his flannel pyjamas. He listened as John told him that Jim would call tomorrow and they could talk then, and that George and Ringo would arrive early in the morning. When John said Mary had loved him and would have no matter what his sexuality turned out to be, Paul believed him. If John said it, it was true.
Finally quiet and drowsy after the scrubbing and reassurances, Paul followed him into their bedroom, climbing under the covers when John pulled them back.
“There, all settled. Everything will be alright, love. I’ll be back soon.”
“Everything will be alright?”
“I promise, Paulie.”
Paul hummed in response, nerves once again quieted. He closed his eyes when John kissed his forehead, and a while later he vaguely registered John returning, slipping behind him in the bed and pulling him close against his chest.
Everything would be alright.