Work Text:
1971
"Dad."
"Sally." She can hear him swallow, hear the ice clink against the walls of the hi-ball. "When?"
"Two days ago."
"Jesus, you're just calling me now?"
Sally takes a breath, biting back the harsh comment she wants to make. 'It's not about you, Don.' Instead she says, "Things moved pretty quickly. Henry talked to the funeral home, and Uncle Bill arrived and…. It's all being taken care of. But I knew you wanted to know."
"When's the service?"
"Thursday. I told Janine already. She said she'd put it in your calendar."
"Tell me anyway."
She gives him the details. "That's assuming Pauline doesn't try to take everything over," she adds with no little contempt.
"Do you want to come here for a few days?"
"No. There's too much get done. Dad?"
"Yes, Sal?"
"She...she wanted you to have the fur you gave her. And a few other things. Come on Saturday. Henry's taking the boys to the zoo. Because apparently it doesn't matter if your mother dies, as long as you can go look at monkeys."
"I'm sure he's doing his best." Shit, she's got Don defending Henry. That wasn't what she wanted him to say.
"Well, his best is pretty lame," she says. "Anyway. If you come then, I can give you everything she wanted you to have."
"You should keep them."
"It's what she wanted."
"Sal. It's okay to take time with this. I don't need them, if you want to--"
"I don't need them, either. If you don't want them, they'll go to the Salvation Army with the rest of her clothes."
Don's silent for a minute. She hears the exhalation of breath after he swallows more rye. "Do you want me to come over on Saturday?" he asks.
"Only if you--" she starts to say. She had determined not to take this like a child, but it's been nearly three days, to say nothing of the preceding months while Betty went steadily downhill. She's tired. And sometimes, a girl needs her daddy. "Yes," she admits, blinking away tears.
"Okay. I'll see you and the boys at the service. I love you, Sal."
"I love you, too. See you Thursday."
-------------------
After Betty's funeral, Henry took a position back in the private sector. He told Sally it was to provide a better, more stable life for her, Bobby, and Gene, but she's fairly certain he doesn't think he can campaign well as the twice-widowed father of one grown daughter and step-father of three younger children.
Sally tried to assure him that they'd be fine even if he spent long days on campaign. She's 16, old enough to look after things for Bobby and Gene. Hell, hasn't she been doing it already? But Henry didn't really listen, because Henry, she realizes, doesn't really want to do it anymore. He wants to think he's being a supportive, present parent.
Bullshit.
Bobby has trouble sleeping and when he is awake, he disappears into comics and games with friends at the arcade. Gene practically stopped talking after Betty went to the hospital for the last time. He seeks Sally out at almost any large gathering, clinging to her hand. It's weird for an eight-year-old, but then, Sally thinks, she was pretty weird at eight, too, without anything like his excuse.
Henry doesn't notice any of this. He's too busy locked in a hell of his own making. She can hear him at night, in the room he and her mother shared. He's not weeping, or anything. It's like he's…talking.
One month after the funeral, he tells her she should probably go back to boarding school. Sally refuses. She's not even sure why, but she holds out for the rest of the term, to get the boys through the holidays. He agrees, reluctantly.
-------------------
1972
"Hang on, your brothers want to say hello," Henry says. There's a rustle as he hands the receiver over.
"Hi, Sally," Bobby says.
"Hey, squirt. How are you?"
"I hate Social Studies. It's boring."
"Yeah. How about science?"
"Chemistry's fine but biology? If I never have to memorize genus or phylum again, it'll be too soon."
"King Philip Came Over From Greece Stoned!" Sally recites, and they both laugh. They talk a while more, mostly about nothing. Bobby's fourteen and hasn't mentioned a girl yet. She wonders if maybe he's gay, but that doesn't exactly figure; she knows he's brought home Playboy at least twice and once, over a holiday, she heard him and his friends on a sleepover, discussing breast sizes lewdly. Maybe he's just shy. Or maybe he doesn't want to talk girls with his sister.
Finally, after a few minutes, Bobby mentions a girl at school with blonde hair. Of course, she would be blonde. He doesn't go into much detail, though. "Are you going to ask her out?" Sally asks.
"What? No, we're just friends." Then: "Sally, have you ever…." Bobby trails off.
"Have I ever what?" Wondered why Dad's such an asshole? Thought about Henry getting married a third time? Wanted to get back in touch with Megan? Thought about calling Mrs. Harris (or Ms. Holloway, since she's calling herself that now) and asking for advice on how to navigate life?
"Nothing. Nevermind."
"Okay." Right. Because Bobby's never had a worrisome thought in his life.
That was unfair, and Sally knows it. But she's not in the mood to take it back, even in her head.
"Are you sure? You can tell me, you know," she offers instead.
"Nah. I'll figure it out."
"Figure what out?"
"...A math problem. It's okay."
"Ask Henry."
Bobby laughs. "Yeah, right. Here's Gene."
Gene's talk is all about school, too, but he's far more social than Bobby. He's got a whole bunch of friends and their games are uncomplicated. The kind where the only thing to fight about is whether the ball touched you as you dove for the safe zone or whether you flinched on "Red Light." Sally listens until Henry repossesses the phone.
"I miss her, Sally," Henry says. It's the sort of weak, predictable thing he would say, and Sally feels a flash of anger. He's supposed to be the strong one.
"We all miss her, Henry. Should I come home over winter break?"
"Only if you want to."
She doesn't want to but now, if she doesn't, Henry will take it personally. "Okay. I'll catch the train that Friday. It's the 23rd. Will you remember or should I get a taxi from the station?"
"Call my g--my secretary," Henry corrects himself. Sally can't help a small smile. Dad makes the exact same mistake all the time. "She'll put it on the calendar."
That's not a guarantee he'll remember, but it's as good as she's going to get. "Okay. Well, I gotta go, Henry. Kiss Gene for me."
-------------------
"Dad."
"Hey, Sal. How are you doing?"
She shrugs, realizes he can't hear it. "Okay, I guess. Considering."
"Yeah."
"Listen, I'm home for a week and…. Well, maybe I could bring Bobby and Gene into the city."
"That'd be great." There's a pause. "What do you need?"
He doesn't say it with suspicion--more like, he's eager for a chance to do something. Which is fine by Sally, because she's been trying to figure out just what she does need. Or what Bobby needs.
"Bobby...has questions, I think."
"Questions?"
"Yeah. Girl questions. And he won't talk to me about them and I don't think he wants to talk to Henry, either."
"Oh." Don takes a shaky breath while Sally twists the receiver cord on the hallway payphone, wraps it around her fingers and drops it again. She's thinking, Please, Dad, for once, be a mensch. "Sure, I can try to talk to him. Maybe we'll go to a...a game or something, so there's time."
"Sure," Sally says, rolling her eyes. She's lost count of the number of times she gives thanks that telephones don't have video screens, too. She'd rather scoop her eyes out than go to a basketball game, but she knows Bobby and Gene will love it. Just another small sacrifice for family.
Maybe she can talk Don into giving her money to go shopping, instead.
"How do you know it's girl problems?" he asks.
"Well, I don't. But we were talking on the phone last week and he did mention one girl at school, a blonde. But then he skipped off it right away, like he was embarrassed. And yesterday, I just happened to catch him looking through Henry's closet. Some of Mom's things are in there, that Henry wouldn't get rid of. And Henry's...you know. His, uh, stash?"
"Henry smokes pot?"
"Ha-ha. No, you know...he has some magazines and stuff."
"You know where your step-father keeps his porn? You know that your step-father even has porn?"
"Oh, chill, Dad. I bet you'd have had some, too, if it wasn't so easy for you to get the real thing."
There's dead silence.
"Dad--"
"No, it's okay, Sal."
"I'm sorry--"
"It's okay." His tone is mild, as if to say, "I deserved that," but there's an undercurrent of gravel, like his throat has gone dry. Or he's fighting how much it really hurt. She hears the click of ice in a glass. "So, uh...how about Friday, you and the boys come into the city? I'll meet you at Madison Square Garden."
"Sure, Friday'd be great. Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Really. I didn't mean--"
"It's fair, Sally. You know...you know that didn't have anything to do with you, or even with your mother. Right? It was the same with Megan. It was all me."
"Yeah. I know." She blinks back tears that she hadn't even felt coming, and wonders why she's crying when she doesn't care. "Stop reading the parenting books, okay? I know it's not my fault." It's an attempt at a joke and although it's a bad one, he gives it to her.
"Maybe if I'd had a guide to parenting with you, things would be different. Like you wouldn't sass your old man so much," he answers in a similar half-hearted wisecrack.
"Hadn't you heard? My generation is all about sass. And not trusting the Man."
"Uh-huh. Bought a Coke recently?"
She rolls her eyes again. "Never ever going to let that go, are you?"
Tension relieved, they both chuckle. "Hey, listen, Coke is going to get you and your brothers through any school you want, and then some."
"I know. Look, I gotta go. See you Friday."
"Love you, Sal. See you Friday."
-------------------
"So?" Sally asks on the phone the next week. There hadn't been an opportunity to talk to Dad alone with the boys around. Particularly not when Bobby's probably on alert for them to dsicuss anything about him.
"You know, maybe I should be using the parenting guides more with Bobby," Dad tells her with a twist of irony in his voice.
"So, he's totally jerking off to Henry's porn, then?" Sally concludes. She knows the phrasing will both shock and amuse her Dad, but it's the only way to power through how uncomfortable this is for her. Bobby's her goddamn brother, and she doesn't want to be the one giving him dating advice or whatever.
"Hey, now. No, actually...I don't think that's it. Sal, have you...have you talked to him about your mother very much?"
Sally frowns. This is somehow about Mom? "What do you mean? We talked a lot when she was sick, about what was going to happen and--" she chokes back a sudden tightness in her throat. She thought she was done with that, but she wasn't prepared for Don to bring up Betty so casually.
"Yeah, but I mean...how she used to dress, or do her hair? Little things. I think he's afraid to start forgetting her."
"More pop psychology?"
"No. He…." Don fixes a drink. Sally plays finger games with the coils on the cord, wrapping them around her right index until it's covered in avacado green plastic, then unwinding them slowly. Repeat on middle finger. Don begins again. "Remember I told you about Anna?"
"Yes." She doesn't want to hear about Dad's "first wife," even though he's explained it wasn't like that.
"This is going to sound crazy. But, when she was--was dying, I had a dream that I saw her go. And your mother...for two days before you called, I'd been having dreams about your mother. It's sort of spooky. But it's always happened to me."
"You mean, seeing dead people? Or dying ones? Dad, maybe you should get a crystal ball or a Ouija board."
"Ha-ha. I'm serious, Sal."
"Well, who else have you 'seen,' then?"
"I saw my--you know what, it doesn't matter. What matters is, I think Bobby's seeing Betty. Or he's imagining he is. And he's understandably embarrassed about it."
"Well, yeah. He didn't think he could tell me?" It's weird, how she'd been prepared for the likelihood that Bobby would keep secrets, and yet she feels a sting at the reality.
"Hell, Sal, he barely told me. In retrospect I'd have preferred to talk to him about porn."
Sally giggles. She can't help it. "Okay. Well. What do you think I should do?"
"Talk to him. About Betty."
"Dad…." Her breath catches.
"Yeah. I know."
"Seriously." It's half question and half objection. He can't expect her to do this.
"Seriously."
"This is not my job."
"Sally, listen to me. This is not about being his parent. It's about being his sister."
She bites her lips. For once, Don's both insightful--and correct. She doesn't have to be Bobby's mother to do this. She doesn't have to be anything other than what she is.
"Okay. Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah, Sal."
"Thanks. I...I love you."
"I love you, too, Sally. It was good seeing you. Call me next week?"
"Okay."
-------------------
1974
"Hey, Sal," Bobby says. "How's college?"
"Sucks. How are your applications?"
Bobby grunts, sounding a lot like Dad. "Don't remind me. But it beats Vietnam."
"Damn right. Henry still think you should enlist?"
"He thinks not enlisting is unpatriotic," Bobby answers. It's clear what he thinks of this opinion. "I told him going to the moon is a lot more patriotic."
"Bet he loved that."
"Eh, Henry's okay. He's getting tired."
"Retiring?" Sally asks with a sudden frisson of unease. It's odd to think of Henry aging, but every time she comes home, he's greyer. Surely there will come a day soon when he will think Sally and Bobby can take of themselves. Gene, she knows, is as much his son as Don's. Perhaps more. It's the saving grace that keeps them all together.
"No, not that he's mentioned. He really likes the firm. Plus, he's said if he can hold out for ten more years, his stock options will fully fund trusts for the three of us."
"Yeah," Sally says with relief. She should have known. Henry's far too loyal to abandon them without some plan in place. Sometimes she wonders if his sense of obligation is all that has kept him anchored since Betty died. "Henry's always thinking ahead. Hey, do yourself a favor: Don't say you want to take pre-law."
"No worries."
"And don't talk about pledging to anything. Especially not Phi Kappa."
"Well, I wasn't thinking of going Greek at all," Bobby tells her. Sally's surprised. She was sure he'd think joining a frat would be a good way to fit in, to show that he'd contribute to campus life.
"Is something wrong, Bobby?"
"Not here," he says enigmatically. Then, before she can question him, he continues: "Hey, have you talked to Dad this week yet?"
"Ummm…. He's in Atlanta, with Coca-Cola. He said he'd call this weekend. Why?"
"No, I just...thought maybe he could ask Uncle Roger to write a recommendation letter for me."
"Oh. Maybe. You should call him yourself, though. You interned for him last summer."
"Yeah. Actually, he asked me to ask Dad to ask him."
Sally tries to follow that statement and fails. "What? Who asked you to ask Dad--"
"Uncle Roger asked me to ask Dad to get back in touch with him. With Uncle Roger."
"Wait, why?"
"I dunno. He said he hadn't heard from Dad since New Year's."
"Well, Dad's been busy with a new Coke commercial. New jingle, new spot...lots of cuts from films and TV. Loads of rights to obtain, I guess."
"Yeah? Well, Uncle Roger could help with that, couldn't he?"
"I guess. But why does he want you to ask Dad to ask him about a recommendation for you?"
"Sally, you don't understand anything. He wants him to ask so he'll have an opening to consult on the account."
"Oh," Sally says, the situation coming clear. "Sure. I guess that makes sense. He doesn't want to beg for a job out of the blue."
"Anyway. I thought you could--"
"Oh, now that's just stupid, Bobby. If you want to get involved in one of Uncle Roger's schemes, fine, but do it yourself."
"Okay, okay, I just thought I'd ask. Jeez."
"Seriously, I'm not getting involved."
"Fine." Bobby sounds defeated. And there's something else.
With sudden insight, Sally asks: "Is he going to write the letter whether or not Dad gets in touch?"
"Oh. Yeah, I guess."
"Robert..."
"Fine, fine, I'll make sure."
Sally rolls her eyes. Maybe Bobby should take pre-law. It'd teach him to think ahead for a change.
"Sally, uh…. Did you and Eric break up?" Bobby asks abruptly.
"Why, did he call you to tell you to talk to me, too?"
"What? No, I just--you're so touchy. God."
"Oh. Well. Yeah. I guess I am. I mean. Yes. We did."
"That explains the 'don't pledge' instruction." Bobby teases. "Oh, and the pre-law."
"Jerk."
"Me, or him?"
Sally grins despite her annoyance. "If you have to ask…."
"Ha-ha. Well, look, he's not worth biting my head off, all right?"
"He's not worth a nickel," Sally shoots back. "But, okay. Sorry."
"No problem. Just had a... feeling."
"What kind of feeling?" Sally asks, sitting up. Unbidden, she thinks of conversations she and Don have had about Bobby and the spooky sorts of visions he may or may not have inherited.
"I dunno. Just a feeling that even my big sister might need her brother now and then."
"Yeah, well, you're psychic," she tells him, wondering if it's really true.
There's a pause. "Why would you say that?" he asks warily.
"Because...well, didn't you ever--" she breaks off. This seems like too much an invasion of Bobby's privacy. If he wants to tell her about his visions, if he's even still having them, then she feels like he should do so on his own. She figures it's the effect of the first few Psych classes she's been taking, but she really likes some of the practices as regards privacy and disclosure, and building trust. It reminds her of the time she had someone to talk to--before Betty tried to screw it all up. Eventually, though, talking to Dr. Edna had helped her figure out how to work around Betty when she was at her worst. So perhaps she can find a way to tell him it's okay. "I mean, did you ever feel like you could...sense things that weren't necessarily there?"
Bobby laughs. "Oh, man, you've been watching too many reruns of 'Twilight Zone,' Sal. You and your friends holding seances or something?"
"No," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm not talking about parlor games. I mean…." she trails off, unsure how to even say it without sounding crazy herself.
"What?"
"Nothing, I guess. Just forget it."
There's a pause. Then: "Do you want to talk about what happened with Eric?"
Sally sighs. "No. Like you said, he's not even worth it."
"Okay. Are you coming home for Spring Break?"
"Not if Henry lets me go to Cabo."
"Like Hell," Bobby laughs. "See you in March, then."
"Okay. Hey, Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For calling. I mean it. Love you."
"You too, sis."
-------------------
May 29, 1977
"'Use the Force, Luke'? Jeez, what a stupid movie," Sally says, as she, Bobby, and Gene walk out of the theatre.
"Are you kidding? It was GREAT!" Gene shouts.
"Okay, okay, keep your hair on." She gets her keys out in anticipation of unlocking her car. "But next time, I get to pick the movie. And no, not The Rescuers," she insists, citing the poster they'd seen along the wall.
"The Rescuers is for kids, Sally. I want to see this again!" Gene pipes up, mock-offended. Her tease about the animation worked as expected. He's thirteen now and Sally thinks, Yeah, this movie is exactly meant for his demographic.
In the end, she'd wound up majoring in Psychology and she hated to admit it, but she was thinking about going into a graduate program in Marketing. She found herself constantly thinking about target audiences, media share, market penetration, and segmenting. Understanding people meant understanding how to appeal to them. Understanding how to appeal to them made it easy to manipulate them. It made her understand both her parents a little better.
She still talks to Don at least once a week. She prefers their relationship by phone; it's easier to talk to him that way. He's thrilled she's thinking about a career in advertising. She has to correct him that she's interested in market research, not creative like him. She doesn't want to sell the products with gimmicks and slogans; she just wants the products to reach the right audience.
"Well, I liked it, too. Especially when Obi Wan walked Luke through blowing up the Death Star," Bobby says. "I'll drive."
"No, I know you snuck beer in with you, and yeah, you probably would like that part."
"Why? What do you mean?"
Sally sighs. Bobby, now 20, is home for the summer before his final year at Northwestern. In all the years since Betty's death, they have stayed close, through phone calls and holidays, but Bobby seems to have gotten over his weird visions. He's inherited their parents' good looks, and his father's chiseled jaw and fantastic hair, but, Sally thinks with relief, seeing dead people was probably just a phase. Still no steady girlfriend, though. Maybe he really is gay. "Nothing," she answers. "If you don't remember, it's probably not important."
She drives them back to Henry's house, listening while Bobby lets Gene recap all the best parts of the film. They burst through the door ahead of her, already recreating light-saber duels or blaster fights. As she follows, she glances into the living room. The foyer's chandelier casts long strips of light over the back of the sofa, and she thinks she can just see a man sitting on it. At first, she thinks it's Henry, but she immediately sets that aside. This man's hair is black and although he's seated, she can see he's broader at the shoulders. His expensive haircut ends at the thin white line of shirt collar, and the black collar and shoulder of his elegant suit blend almost imperceptibly with the back of the sofa. She realizes he has one arm draped over the sofa back, where the cuff of his sleeve pokes out, brilliant white. What light there is bounces off the shirt cuff and the glint of a gold cufflink. His hand rests easily on the cushion. She sees another flash of white: his cigarette. Faint red light glows from its tip. Smoke curls off it, but there's no odor.
Henry doesn't smoke. Sally used to sneak cigarettes at school, but she gave it up immediately when Betty got sick.
"Henry, do you have a visitor?" she calls up to the office.
There's a muffled reply, followed shortly by footsteps on the stairs. Meanwhile, Bobby breaks off his mock-battle with Gene to stand beside Sally in the hallway. She darts her eyes to his face and sees, with relief, that he's staring at the same point in the living room as she is.
The figure hasn't moved, hasn't even acknowledged that there are people in the house. Brother and sister look at one another again, then back at the enigmatic black haircut.
"Dad?" Bobby says, tentatively. Sally's not sure whether he's asking the man his identity, or asking her if she thinks that's who he is, or asking if she's thinking what he's thinking, which is the worst of the possibilities.
Henry walks in. "Hey, I thought I heard you. What did you say? How was the movie?"
Gene starts to gush about the film and his happy chatter nearly carries Henry back to the stairs.
"I said, did you have any visitors?" Sally asks, subtly changing the question.
"No. Oh, but Don's secretary called while I was out at dinner. She left a message asking you to call her back. Was he traveling or something?"
Her last phone call with Dad comes back to her. He'd come to her graduation two weeks ago; they had dinner but he wasn't going back to New York with her. He called her two days later from his hotel. Dad was in Kentucky or Cincinnati or somewhere, on business. Some swanky club; he said it was hilarious because he'd been to the real Beverly Hills and this place was nothing like it. "Yeah, traveling," she said, because it was all she could manage to say.
Sally grabs Bobby's hand, grips it hard, suddenly. Henry doesn't notice.
"Well, call her in the morning, okay? Gene, it's still a school night; let's get you to bed." Gene continues to protest bedtime, and babbles all the way to his room. His incessant, happy review recedes until the door shuts it out.
The figure on the sofa stubs out his cigarette and stands languidly. Without turning, the man buttons his jacket, straightens his cuffs. Makes himself presentable. One hand smooths the back of his hair.
"Dad?" Bobby asks more confidently this time. Now, it seems, what he means is that he thinks he recognizes the figure before them.
The man pivots, sees them, smiles brilliantly. Bobby's right: the handsome man is unmistakable, from his straight teeth to his pocket square to the cant of his hip as he puts his weight on one foot. Sally's eyes fill and her vision blurs, but Bobby squeezes her hand and points at Dad's face. His smile is not for them; it's for someone behind them.
They turn, hand in hand, and see Betty in her best, bluest evening gown--one Sally remembers vividly from the closet in Ossining--walking toward their father. Don closes the distance--walking through the couch, Sally realizes, and though the image is ridiculous, it's too bizarre for her to laugh, to do anything except watch in amazement. As the couple meets, Betty slides her arm through the crook of Don's elbow, and they turn away from their children. Oblivious, they stroll into the living room together, toward the hearth's deep shadows where the hallway light makes ribbons of their silhouettes. They disappear through the fireplace, and like that, they're gone.
Bobby finds his voice first. "Wow."
"Yeah."
"You did see that, right?"
"Yeah."
"Dad?" This third, final time, it's clear that he's asking her if she's thinking what he's thinking.
"Yeah. I'll call--what's her name? Lucy? Eve? Anyway. I'll listen to the message and call her in the morning. Get the details." Knowing Dad, it was a car accident, or maybe a jealous husband. Hell, it could have been lung cancer that he never told them about.
No, that's unfair. Something must have happened. Anything else, and he would have told her.
Surely he would have trusted her. Over the years and all their phone calls, she got the feeling that she's the one thing--the one person--he trusts most in the world. Maybe even more than Peggy.
The thought of Peggy jolts her into a tailspin of practicalities. In an instant, her mind is already racing through the steps. Call Don's secretary; contact the coroner and the undertakers; bring the body home; go through his Rolodex; contact Joan Holloway and Roger Sterling and Peggy Olsen-Rizzo. Oh, God, how is she supposed to write an obituary? Does she write it for Don Draper, Dick Whitman, or both? Peggy will know what to do, she thinks, and she's suddenly certain that Peggy will know. Everything.
"Sal?" Bobby's voice brings her back.
"Yeah?"
"I can't believe you saw it. I never told you but...I used to think I was crazy or something. Seeing Mom."
The shock and sadness will hit her, she knows, later. Once it's confirmed. Once it's real. This part, this is now. She can do this. Because all Bobby needs is what she already is: his sister. "Nope," she says, and to his surprise, she engulfs him in a big hug. "Turns out, I guess, it runs in the family."