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Virgil stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows in the corners shift as car headlights filtered through the curtains. He missed his old bedroom. Not that he minded sharing with Scott–sure, he tended to get on his case about him leaving his art supplies lying around, and was ruthless about ripping off his blankets in the morning; but he liked being able to fall asleep listening to his older brother breathing just a few feet away.
Scott wasn’t in the room now, though–he still hadn’t come up to bed, despite the late hour. Virgil wondered what he was up to down there. He’d heard him picking on his guitar a while ago, just after Virgil and John had first gone upstairs, but it’d been silent since then.
He pushed back his blanket and climbed out of bed, slipping across the room and into the hall. He didn’t like LA very much–it was so much louder and uglier and more overwhelming than Gran Roca–but Grandma’s house was pretty cool, with its big mezzanine hallway and open-plan living area below.
(They’d moved in with her last year: three days after they’d returned home after the … accident, their father had announced that they were going to California. The excuse he’d given was that he needed to be closer to JPL; but John had found him sleeping on the couch instead of in his bedroom each one of those three mornings, and they could all see the giant dark bags–suitcases, as Gordon had put it–under his eyes. And Virgil understood, mostly–it was easier not to constantly think about Mom when they weren’t living on her ranch, where every square inch of battered hardwood held a memory.)
Scott was on the couch, tablet in his lap, stylus in his hand, his math textbook propped up on the arm of the sofa next to him. Virgil crouched down against the railing and watched as his big brother typed and submitted something, then grimaced and muttered to himself. Math had never been Scott’s strong suit. John had offered to help him, several times, but the older boy’s pride had rankled at the idea of being outdone by his baby brother, and he’d shrugged off any assistance. It would probably help, Virgil reflected, if he didn’t leave his homework until–he glanced at the wall clock–11:37 PM. But then, he hadn’t exactly had a chance to do it earlier–the three eldest had all ‘helped’ (code for ‘taken over from’) Grandma at dinner–and then Scott had wrangled Alan through his bedtime routine as Virgil and John did their own homework, and Grandma helped Gordon with his–and then John had realised he’d grown another half-inch and had a panic attack about potentially becoming too tall to be an astronaut and Scott had spent thirty minutes talking him down–and then he’d helped Virgil practice for his piano recital tomorrow. (Virgil winced guiltily at that last thought. He hadn’t, strictly speaking, needed the help. But Mom had always gone through the music with him, the night before a performance–it helped with the nerves–and Scott had volunteered.)
He was still dithering between dragging his yawning older brother up to bed or leaving him to it when the front door clicked open and Jeff Tracy stepped inside, with his work bag slung over one shoulder and his jacket over the other. Scott looked over his shoulder. “Hi Dad.”
“Hey.” Jeff dropped his bag and coat onto the coffee table and sank into the armchair opposite Scott. Virgil was pretty sure he hadn’t seen him lurking on the mezzanine. “What’re you still doing up?” His voice was quiet enough that it wouldn’t disturb anyone behind a door–well, except maybe John, he was a notoriously light sleeper–but Virgil could hear them clearly enough.
“Math homework is kicking my a–butt.”
Even from a distance, Virgil could see the amused twitch of his father’s mouth at the hasty self-censorship. “Language.”
“I didn’t say it!”
“Uh-huh.” Jeff leaned back and stretched. “Start your homework earlier in the evening from now on, all right? You need your sleep.”
How? thought Virgil, bristling on Scott’s behalf–and, sure enough, his big brother stiffened, looking back down at his tablet with tightened lips. “Yes, sir.”
Their father didn’t react to the silent resentment–Virgil doubted he’d noticed. Instead, he yawned, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Anything I can help with?”
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s nearly midnight, kiddo.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
Jeff’s eyebrows went up at that. “Watch your tone, son.”
“Sorry,” Scott mumbled, not sounding particularly repentant. Virgil shrunk down closer to the floor, one hand wrapped around the railings. He’d detected a subtle but growing tension between his father and his brother, the past few months–but this was the closest he’d ever witnessed to an open conflict. He really didn’t like it.
Jeff watched his eldest levelly for a moment, then stood. “Come on. Up to bed. Better to get up early and finish it then than to try and fight it out now when you're exhausted.”
For a moment, Virgil thought Scott might rebel–but then he sighed and put his tablet down on top of the textbook. “Okay. Do you want me to collect Gordon before Virgil’s recital tomorrow, or do you want to?”
Jeff winced. “Ah.”
A pit suddenly formed in Virgil’s stomach.
“You forgot, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Scott’s tone was blandly calm, but his body language was anything but.
“I’ve got a conflict–meeting with a prospect at Caltech. I’ll make it up to him.”
The pit shifted in an all-too-familiar lurch of disappointment.
Scott muttered something; it was too quiet for Virgil to catch, but apparently just loud enough for Jeff. “I beg your pardon?”
Scott stood, arms folding protectively across his chest. “Just saying you’ve been doing an awful lot of forgetting lately. And not an awful lot of making up for it.”
Okay, wave the checkered flag: open conflict had officially begun. Virgil curled in on himself–he didn’t want to see this, but not watching, knowing it was happening, would be even worse–and intervention was impossible, because he wasn’t sure he could physically speak if he tried.
Jeff sighed. “Scott, if this is about your flying lessons, I promise, we’ll sort it in the summer–”
“It’s not that. If it were just me you’d been blowing off, I could live with it. But Virgil’s been preparing for this for weeks–it’s the first thing I’ve seen him actually excited about since–” Scott’s knuckles went white against his sleeves. “Gordon was begging to go to the beach with you for months after we got here. He’s stopped asking now, of course. And you promised John you’d chaperone his school observatory trip—then pulled out at the last minute—and trust me, when you’re in junior high and you’ve promised your class the first man on Mars, showing up with your grandmother is a one-way ticket to social ostracism. You can’t buy your way out of that with a new telescope. Not that you’ve fulfilled that promise, either.” Jeff stood up, opening his mouth, but Scott wasn’t finished. “When’s the last time you put Alan to bed? Do you know why Grandma banned us from using nicknames? What did we eat for dinner tonight? Why didn’t I start my homework until nearly ten? Oh, right, you’ve got no idea, because you weren’t here.”
Their father’s shoulders were absolutely rigid. “You need to understand that I have certain responsibilities–” Scott made a scoffing noise. “–and I don’t appreciate having my parenting criticised by my fifteen-year-old! You do not tell me how to raise my children!”
“See, that’s the problem–you’re not raising them! I am!”
Jeff Tracy flinched as if slapped.
For a long moment, father and son stood frozen. Virgil, still undetected, was equally rooted to the spot. Their voices probably hadn’t been raised enough to wake anyone; but to him they might as well have been screaming.
“Scott–” said Jeff unsteadily; but his son brushed past him and headed for the stairs. Virgil unfroze and bolted back for his bedroom, diving into his bed and pulling the covers up over his head right before the door slammed open again.
He listened to Scott flop onto his bed with a pillow-muffled noise halfway between a groan and a sob–then shaky breath after shaky breath–then the noise of him rolling over, exhaling as he won the battle with his tears.
“Virgil,” he said, finally, softly. Virgil hesitated, clinging to his last shreds of plausible deniability. “I know you’re awake, I saw you in the hall.”
So much for stealth. Virgil pushed the covers back and sat up. Scott was stretched out on his back, head tilted to look at him, tear-streaks just visible in the low light. Virgil bit his lip briefly. “Are you okay?”
Scott smiled weakly and gave half-a-nod. Blatant lies. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you until it was too late–I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Virgil realised belatedly that his own cheeks were wet. “‘M all right.” More blatant lies.
Scott made a gesture of invitation–and Virgil clambered out of his bed and hopped onto Scott’s, curling against his brother’s side and burying his face in his t-shirt. Scott wrapped an arm around him and pressed his lips to the top of his head.
A minute later, the door clicked softly, near-silent footsteps crossed the carpet–and a third body joined them, climbing carefully over both his brothers and settling onto Scott’s other side. Virgil’s eyes opened just long enough to meet John’s; he shut them again and reached for his little brother’s hand. Scott shifted, adjusting his embrace to accommodate the new arrival.
Virgil didn’t sleep until he felt them both relax.
Jeff took another gulp from his mug and swiped to the next page of blueprints. His coffee was cold. He was tempted to grab another one, but that would bring him to eight fresh cups before 4 PM, and that seemed a little excessive even by his standards. It would be a stretch to say he hadn’t slept at all the previous evening, but he certainly hadn’t slept well. It’d been his worst night since he’d attempted to use the master bedroom at Gran Roca after … after.
“You’re sure about the top speed? Seems mighty optimistic.”
The postdoc–what was his name again?–nodded enthusiastically, leaning against the lab table. “A-absolutely, Mr Tracy. If anything, it’s an underestimate. I’ve independently verified the c-calculations.”
“How come no one else has snapped this up? I would have thought the GDF would be all over this.”
“I tried, back when I was at C-cambridge. But it was c-considered a risky b-budgetary choice.”
“I’ll bet.” Jeff put his coffee down and leaned forward, scanning the designs. The jet wasn’t particularly elegant, but that wasn’t the primary concern–it was fast. Or would be, if they could get it to work. “All right, I’ll bite–I’ll fund a prototype. On one condition–you keep this quiet. You make one peep about this plane or a contract with Tracy Aeronautics on social media or to the press, and we’re done.”
“With respect, sir–do I look like the k-kind of p-person who is active on social media?”
Jeff looked up and took in the boy’s thick Coke-bottle glasses and oil-stained jacket, and chuckled. “No, I guess not. But you’ll forgive me for organising an NDA anyway.”
“I’d expect n-nothing less.”
“Good.” Jeff stood and offered his hand, and the kid–yikes, he was turning into Lee, he really had to work on remembering names–returned the shake firmly. “You can start next week; I’ll see to it that you get the lab space.”
“I-is next m-month okay? I have a trip booked to s-see my mother’s family in Amritsar.”
Something stuttered in Jeff’s chest, guilty and hot. “Sure, that’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, Mr T-tracy–it’ll be an honour, sir.”
“Call me Jeff.”
The kid blanched slightly. “Do I h-have to, sir?”
“... no?”
His relief was obvious. “Thank you, M-mr Tracy.”
“Thank you–” And now he was hesitating, because for some reason the name still wouldn’t come.
The boy’s face was carefully neutral, but there was a definite glimmer of humour under the surface. “Hiram, sir. Hiram H-hackenbacker.”
“Thank you, Hiram. My office’ll be in touch with the contract details.”
Hiram grinned, gathered up his equipment, and said his goodbyes, leaving Jeff sitting alone in the conference room with a lukewarm and half-empty cup of coffee.
He’d just handed this kid the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance most Caltech postdoctorate students would kill for, and he’d asked to postpone it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jeff wasn’t going to argue the point, of course; but Hiram couldn’t have known that–and a lot of businessmen Jeff knew would have. The engineer had risked his reputation, his career, without hesitation–to keep a promise to his family.
Scott was right.
The admission sat heavy in his chest. He’d known it, deep down, even as his son had flung the accusation–even before–but he’d bristled in reflexive self-defence anyway–then tossed and turned for most of the night as he’d wrestled with it.
He could have moved this meeting. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the power to. But he’d blazed on ahead with his agenda with the single-minded focus that had always driven him crazy in his own father–and now here he was, the apple landing right next to the treetrunk. Because every time he looked at his boys he saw her, and it ached, deep down in his bones–and it was so much easier to have grand altruistic ideas, to bury himself in plans and research, to tell himself he was acting for the good of the world, than it was to just be a good dad.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, the memory of Scott’s face the previous evening welling up before him, hurt buried behind the harsh whispers–John, fingers twisting in his shirt as the dam of grief finally broke–Gordon, begging him to watch him cannonball into the pool–Alan, squealing in delight as he tossed him in the air–Virgil, shyly showing him a sketch.
Virgil, whose school recital had started ten minutes ago.
He stood and sprinted for the parking garage, ignoring the startled yelp from the receptionist outside the conference room.
Los Angeles traffic did not extend any mercy: the late afternoon jams were doubling what should have been a twenty minute trip. Finally, half-a-dozen blocks out from the school, Jeff gave up and pulled into a loading zone–he’d deal with the fine later–and ran . Fortunately, he hadn’t slacked on his fitness routine since leaving NASA, so he was in good shape for it, despite his suboptimal footwear; unfortunately, LA had decided now was a great time to drop a month’s worth of rain in one afternoon, and by the time he reached the steps of the school auditorium, he was both winded and soaked.
He dashed up the stairs and into the foyer, mumbling an apology to the startled security guard. The lobby was empty, and (somewhat screeching) strains of violin were playing through the speakers–the show was definitely underway. He headed for the auditorium door and slipped through, standing at the back. Up on stage, a preteen boy was determinedly torturing his instrument. Jeff looked around unobtrusively for a program, but either they didn’t exist or no one sitting near the back had one. If he was very lucky, they were ordering the performers alphabetically. Preferably by first name.
A few kids cycled through–guitar, another violin, flute–and Jeff watched impatiently, shivering at the combination of air conditioning and wet clothes. If he’d missed it–
But he hadn’t. Virgil came out after the girl with the flute, music folder tucked under his arm, cheeks pink with nerves. He didn’t look at the audience–just headed straight for the piano and hopped up on the stool, propped his music on the stand, and began to play. Jeff sucked in a breath.
It was Einaudi’s Nuvole Bianche.
Lucille’s favourite.
And the processional at their wedding.
He pressed a fist firmly against his mouth, eyes fixed on his son. He didn’t know enough about music for objective critique–but, for once, that was the furthest thing from his mind. He watched his baby boy’s fingers fly back and forth, blinking over and over as his vision repeatedly blurred.
It was so beautiful it hurt.
And it was over far too soon. Jeff started at the applause, cutting off the lingering echo of the final note. He couldn’t join it–couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes off his son. Virgil stood and bowed shyly, then headed back towards the wings, scanning the audience; a sudden smile sprang across his lips, and Jeff followed his gaze down to the stalls–and yes, he could make out five familiar figures–red, blond, grey, and brown hair.
And then he looked back at Virgil, who had, abruptly, stopped in the middle of the stage. And was staring directly at him.
Jeff raised his hand in a tentative wave, and Virgil grinned, face blossoming into the most genuine smile he’d seen from any of his boys in months. He waved back gleefully–then seemed to remember his surroundings and rushed into the wings.
Jeff looked involuntarily back down to the stalls. One of the distant figures–Scott–had turned around to see who Virgil had been looking at–but it was impossible to make out an expression in the low light. Belatedly, Jeff realised that he wasn’t the only one who was staring at him–there were quite a few audience members craning their necks. He backed out hastily through the double doors and into the lobby. Outside the hall, the deluge had eased off, clouds interspersed with strips of light.
“Dad!”
He turned, and a hundred pounds of Virgil barrelled into him, skinny arms circling his waist.
Jeff dropped to one knee and wrapped his arms around his son, squeezing his eyes shut as tears returned. “Hey there, kiddo.”
“You came,” Virgil whispered, face buried against his shoulder, apparently unconcerned by the damp.
Jeff swallowed. “I promised I would, didn’t I?” A promise he’d almost broken, along with so many others. “That was–that was incredible, son. I had no idea you could play like that.”
“I’ve been practicing a lot,” Virgil said proudly–and wasn’t that a condemnation, because somehow Jeff must’ve managed to avoid every single moment of said practice sessions–then he pulled back and looked his father in the face, a kaleidoscope of emotion flickering across his expression that looked far too complicated for a child of thirteen. “Grandma said we could go for ice cream, after the show. Are you coming, or do you have to leave again?”
“I’d love to come,” Jeff said sincerely, hands still on Virgil’s shoulders. “If you’ll have me.”
“Uh, yeah.” Virgil glanced past Jeff’s shoulder, and the blinding smile made another appearance. “Guys, Dad’s coming with us for ice cream!”
Jeff turned. The rest of his family had emerged from the auditorium–his mother holding Gordon’s hand, John at her other side–and Scott, just behind them, Alan propped on his hip.
“Awesome!” Gordon fist-pumped triumphantly. “How come you’re all wet?”
A rough chuckle escaped his lips. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Gordon, it’s been raining cats and dogs out there.”
“Looks like it’s stopped,” Sally Tracy observed. She met her son’s eyes briefly, the rapid interplay of emotion on her face even more complicated than Virgil’s. “Do you need to go home and change first?”
“I’ll be fine. Although I did abandon my car a few blocks back, so I’ll have to go back for it.” Jeff hoisted himself to his feet, and, finally, made eye contact with Scott. The teenager shifted from one foot to another, eyes darting away, and Jeff’s stomach plummeted. He was not forgiven, not yet. Which was … fair, honestly. A proper talk was the least he owed the kid. “Scott, come with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Scott agreed, but with clear reluctance, depositing Alan on the floor next to Virgil. Jeff made quick arrangements with his mother to meet them at the ice cream parlour, and father and son exited the auditorium together, careful not to slip on the slick steps.
“Scott,” Jeff said hesitantly, after they’d walked in silence for half a minute. “Thank you. You were–right, last night. I’m sorry.”
Scott looked up at him, eyes widening–then his dimples finally made their appearance, a smile sneaking onto his lips. “Is that a pig I see in the sky over there?”
“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”
“Just give me a sec.” Scott made an elaborate show of pulling out his phone. “Gotta check the weather forecast in hell.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Jeff reached out and ruffled the teen’s carefully-gelled hair, and was rewarded with an indignant squawk. “Less of that sass.” He slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and Scott willingly moved closer, pace matching his. “I mean it. You were right. I’ve been neglecting you, all of you. It’s … it’s been hard.”
“I know.” Scott’s hand gripped the back of his jacket. “It’s hard for us too.”
“Yeah.” The guilt in Jeff’s chest stabbed a little deeper. “I–I know there’s no excuse. I just–I miss your mom so much, I–” His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly. He was not going to cry on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry, son. I’ll do better. I promise.”
Scott turned, stopping them both in their tracks, and hugged him tight. “Make that a promise you keep,” he whispered fiercely, and Jeff squeezed him back.
“I promise,” he repeated. “And if I look like I’m backsliding, you have my permission to call me out on it. I won’t get mad. And if I do, call me out on that.”
“You got it.” Scott released him, but stayed close, still under his arm as they resumed walking. “So, about those flying lessons–”
Jeff laughed. “All right, all right. How about I take you up this weekend?”
“Yes please!”
Jeff made a mental note to call the airfield. And to clear his schedule–for a couple of days, at least. Or even a couple of weeks. If Hiram–that name really did not suit the kid–wasn’t going to start until next month, he had a window before his plans progressed any further. Plans that it was probably time he told Scott about, come to think of it. But that was a conversation that could wait until the weekend. Right now, he was just going to enjoy his family for a bit.
He tightened his fingers on the boy’s shoulder; and they walked in companionable silence the rest of the way to the car.
That evening, Jeff had dinner with his family on a weeknight, for the first time in … longer than Sally cared to remember. Then Gordon begged for a movie night, so they settled in on the couch and watched Maverick (again–John accused Scott darkly of having rigged the vote). And it was both heartbreaking and unsurprising how quickly the boys surrounded their father on the couch, as if he'd disappear if they didn't pin him down–he was sandwiched between his two eldest, Alan and Gordon both in his lap, John on the floor with an arm wrapped around his leg. And, his mother noted with amusement from the armchair across the room, he was definitely falling asleep, each blink several seconds longer than the last.
She wasn't sure exactly what had happened to bring Jeff out of his workaholic fugue, but she had a fair guess. She’d been woken by the sound of a door slamming just before midnight, and had slipped into the hall–and had heard Scott crying, and had seen her son slouched in an armchair, head in his hands. Whatever the ‘discussion’ had been, it had worked–just in the nick of time, too, because if Jefferson had kept the avoidance up much longer she would have had to intervene herself, and that would likely have been … messy. She knew all too well the agony of widowhood, had felt–still did, occasionally–the burning, chest-hollowing ache, and she'd hesitated to give her grieving child a scolding that almost certainly would not have been received well.
Jeff’s head slumped against his eldest son’s shoulder, his expression at last going slack; and Scott leaned against him in return, cheek pressed against his hair. Sally watched them for a moment, eyes stinging behind her glasses, then turned back to the television.
Her boys were gonna be okay.