Chapter Text
Despite the glow of the stained glass windows, Tommy’s face is darkened by his brother’s shadow.
His hands are folded neatly before him, fingers interlaced between one another. Unvarnished wood digs into his knees. The harmonious voices of the assembly blend together, both the deep and the sharp, like a chorus of frogs at twilight. It hums through the church.
“Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred and strayed from your ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws.”
Tommy’s hands tighten, the maroon sleeves of his jacket crumpling at his wrists. Regret rises to the surface of his mind; he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of every little sin from the past week—getting upset at someone for bumping into him, lying to his school friends about being busy so he wouldn’t need to study with them. And then he goes through the usual failings, the things he’s been repenting for every week for years, the things that come with his own personality. Pride. Apathy. Selfishness. Self-Indulgence.
Like he said.
The usual.
He ties up this package with as much reverence and contrition as he can muster, and catches up with the prayer.
“We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us.” The church seems, as a whole, to take a breath. “Oh Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou them, Oh God, which confess their faults.”
On his left, his father’s voice fades out. Tommy jostles their shoulders together. Dad startles, and presses back softly, and his voice joins the others once more.
What does he confess? What does he regret?
Does he regret forcing Wilbur to put his violin away after sundown, even though it never bothers anyone? Does he regret snapping at Tommy last Tuesday? Does he regret his plan to take away Tommy’s hope of college in favor of apprenticing him to some menial job? Does he regret separating from Tommy’s mother?
“Restore thou them that are penitent; according to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesu our Lord.”
All respect to Christ Jesu our Lord, but maybe don’t restore Dad so quickly. Let him stew in his sin a little while longer, let him keep on repenting.
Tommy hurriedly apologizes for that brief bout of blasphemy.
On his right, fabric rustles, and the wooden kneeler creaks loudly as his brother shifts his weight.
Tommy glances over, catching a flash of Wilbur’s eyes, blatantly and unceremoniously open, before his brother reaches up to fix his dark hair and dips his head in prayer once more. Blue light from the stained glass window flashes off his glasses.
“And grant, oh merciful Father, for his sake, that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life . . .”
And what does Wilbur confess?
Wilbur is kind. Funny. His laughter can be cruel rather than inviting, but they are brothers —w hat does Tommy expect? He may repent for impatience, perhaps. They are all guilty of that. Or morning grumpiness. Or a horrid habit of leaving dirty clothes on the floor where Tommy is likely to trip on them.
“. . . to the glory of thy holy name, amen.”
Their heads all rise. Tommy crosses himself, and vaguely acknowledges Dad doing the same a second late. Wilbur doesn’t bother, easing back into their pew. There is a series of loud thumps, like a thunderstorm is right on top of them, but it’s only the banging of the kneelers being pushed up into their slots.
“The peace of the Lord be always with you!” The priest cries. Tommy can’t help but smile a bit as he stands and replies, “And with thy spirit!” It is a joy to bless.
Wilbur grabs Tommy’s hand and shakes it powerfully. “Peace be with you, Mr. Craft!” He says, grand and magnificent.
“Peace be with you,” Tommy agrees readily, shaking harder. “Mr. . . . uh, Finglesmont.”
Wilbur grins. “How’s your wife?”
“Oh, they’re—she’s, uh, well.”
“They?”
Tommy just goes with it. “Yup, all of them. All of my numerous wives.”
Wilbur’s laugh is bright like fire. “I see. And your dozen children.”
“All down with flu. Every one.” Tommy shakes his head sadly. “What about you? How’s your . . . how is your mother?” Wilbur pauses, but Tommy barrels on, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Oh. Didn’t she pass away a few weeks ago?”
Wilbur laughs again, but before they can continue, Dad pulls Tommy away and hands him to a lady one pew behind, looking to shake hands. Tommy pretends not to see his father’s disapproving wrinkled brow.
“Peace.”
ↂ 𖠁 ↂ
It is Wilbur’s turn to cook dinner, which means Tommy is helping every step of the way. They all know that the meals Wilbur cooks unattended are barely edible; Tommy is the only one who really cares enough to step in and save their taste buds.
“Dad!” Tommy calls, standing on tip-toe on the third step and knocking on the ceiling. No answer. He bangs again.
“I’m coming, Tom, don’t do that!”
Tommy gallops back down the stairs and tries to turn into the kitchen before he blows past it. He ends up crashing into the doorway.
“You’re going to give him a heart attack someday,” Wilbur comments idly, lifting the soup pot off the cast iron stove. He ignores Tommy’s groans of pain. “Open the windows! It’s boiling in here.”
“Ow,” Tommy grumbles, rubbing his aching arm and retreating to the front room in a most destitute fashion. He throws open the windows with enough force that the frames bounce back against the outer walls. Summer means more daylight, and their house faces east and they won’t bake while they eat dinner. Summer also means longer days, and the clopping of horse hooves and snippets of conversation often drift in on the wind.
Back in the kitchen, Wilbur is fanning himself with a sheaf of old, handwritten recipe cards as he waits for the stove to cool.
“Did you wash the spoons last night?”
Wilbur pauses guiltily. “On the off chance that I forgot . . .”
Tommy groans melodramatically. “Will.”
“Just use teaspoons! This once! It’s not that much trouble.”
He scowls. “Fine, but you’re washing both sets after. It’s your fault we haven’t got tablespoons.”
“Oh, no, you can’t really expect me to make an awful deal like that,” Wilbur says with a self-indulgent smile. “I’m already making dinner. You ought to wash last night’s spoons in return.”
Tommy’s mouth drops open. “That is not fair. We both know I’ve done half of this cooking myself.”
Wilbur shrugs noncommittally, and goes back to fanning himself.
Whatever.
Tommy can fight with him about it later. He’s hungry. God knows they shouldn’t argue on empty stomachs, so he sets the table, and finishes just in time for Dad to sit down in his usual spot and for Wilbur to set the pot in the center of the table on a singed hot pad.
“Will you pray, Dad?” Tommy asks, softening his voice. But Dad still sighs and brushes off the responsibility.
“Will?”
“Yes.” Wilbur claps his hands together in prayer. “God, thank you for this food. Bless this upcoming week, and let it not be horrid if you please. Amen.” he throws a rakish smile to Tommy, who tries to return it. He can tell it comes off shaky, though—and really, he doesn’t try overhard to hide his dissatisfaction in Wilbur’s prayers.
“Amen,” Dad agrees, and ladles soup into his bowl. He looks, confused, at the teaspoon settled on his napkin. Tommy and Wilbur exchange a glance chock full of animosity. Dad wisely chooses to not mention it.
Tommy has only gotten a few bites in before the conversation turns in an unfortunate direction.
“Techno’s looking for a helping hand at the tannery,” Dad says calmly. Too calmly. “You remember he took the company from his father?”
“Yes,” they both chorus. Tommy treads carefully.
“He’s overloaded with work over there. It’s a lot harder to get things done with half the city on strike, and he’s spending more time trying to keep his family’s company afloat than actually working. He could use a hand.”
Oh, Tommy can see where this is going. “I know the strikes are meant to improve people’s lives, but it just feels like they’re making everything worse,” he says, stuffing another teaspoon of soup into his mouth. The slice of zucchini that he wants keeps falling back into his bowl.
“Well . . . when you deep-clean, the house gets messier before it gets cleaner,” Wilbur puts in pensively.
Tommy wants to argue that sometimes deep-cleaning doesn’t feel worth the mess it created, but saying something like that would ruin his reputation as the neat one of the family. Well, neat est. Wilbur is satisfied with substandard living conditions, and Dad’s too scatterbrained to keep track of inconsequential things like tidying up. Tommy can be, and often is, a mess, but at least he knows where everything in his mess is.
“D’you think you could help Techno out, Tom?” Dad asks. “It would be a steady job. After all these years, I doubt Techno’s going to get married or have kids of his own. He would probably apprentice you.”
Tommy bites back the sharp reply. Leather tanning? Really? Surely Dad thinks better of Tommy’s above-average education. Leather tanning kills your brain, Tommy is sure. Based on Techno, at least.
“Wilbur.” Tommy changes the subject with incomparable elegance. “Do factory owners have apprentices?” Dad’s shoulders drop, and Tommy almost feels bad. Almost.
“They don’t really need them, do they? ‘S far as I’m aware, factory-keeping doesn’t take much skill. Or brains.”
Tommy’s slight doesn’t seem to affect Dad for long, if at all. He says, “They’re like fat bees, buzzing around looking busy. Absolutely useless.”
“Greedy,” Tommy says darkly, more to be a part of the conversation than out of real conviction.
“Epicurean,” Wilbur comments.
“What’s that?”
Wilbur is about to answer—and longwindedly, too—when Dad interrupts. “Don’t worry about it. Really, Tommy, you should think about working for Techno. I know he’d be an honest boss, and you’d still have time to get into your usual trouble.”
“Will stopped having time once he started work,” Tommy argues, retreating into his chair like a turtle.
“Not true! It just took me a while to get back into it. And don’t talk with your mouth full.” Wilbur pushes his bowl away, and the teaspoon spins once around the rim before clattering into the bottom. “Look, I started work at thirteen, and sure, I wasn’t great at handling it then, but I was the merest child. Naturally I got it wrong. It’s been nine years since then, and look at me now. I go to vaudeville shows, I’ve even gone to the movies a few times. And I’ve kept practicing violin; you need free time for that.”
Dad puts in, “And Tommy, you’re sixteen. It really is time—”
“Can I go with you to the movies some time? Please?” Tommy interrupts, to Wilbur. It’s another desperate attempt at a subject change.
Wilbur smiles and nods. “You’d love them, Tom. It’s so real, like watching a play, but—but everything looks more solid, like you were watching it out of your own eyes. You don’t have to suspend your imagination. It’s just there. And they’re able to show so much with barely any dialogue at all. The music . . . you’d like that, too.”
“Imagine how stupid it would be without music. Just a bunch of strangers sitting silently in a dark theatre together.”
“The fancy theatres have a whole orchestra. The local one is just piano, but . . . I can imagine. Once, they had a pair of violinists, too.”
Tommy grins, tilting his chair onto its back legs. “Hey, Dad, maybe that’s what I’ll do. Play piano at the theater. I bet I’m good enough.”
“Absolutely,” Wilbur says fondly, and Dad laughs, and it is not mocking. For a moment, Tommy thinks about the possibility—playing music for a living—but he can’t imagine Dad agreeing, not long-term, anyways.
“And Will, you could play violin with me. We’d be amazing.”
Wilbur shakes his head. “I’d get bored too easily. They never play anything interesting.”
“Just . . . make it up. Let the scriptwriters deal.”
Dad laughs again. When he’s in a good mood, he laughs at everything, and Tommy can almost forget how often he says nothing at all and ignores them. “Yeah, Will. Just write the music yourself.”
Wilbur does not laugh, but he smiles—a small, pleased, secretive smile. When Tommy and Dad quiet down, he says softly, “I think I could do it.”
“What, write music?”
“Yeah. With a story, maybe. Like . . . like opera. That would be . . .”
“Like Gilbert and Sullivan?” Tommy asks, letting his chair fall onto four legs. He props his chin in his hand.
“Will . . .” Dad starts. “Mate, I don’t really see that . . .”
“Why not? I just have to come up with a story, and put it to music. It can’t be that hard. Melodies have always come easy to me. Just . . . imagine it. A whole orchestra, playing my notes. A dozen actors, singing my words. One of those big posters drawn in flowing lines with Wilbur Craft along the bottom.” He pauses to evaluate his audience. “I’ve written things for the violin and piano before. Tommy and I play the duets I’ve written all the time. I can write stories. Whatever skill I need to learn, I’ll learn! Come on, you know I could do it. If I really put my mind to it.”
“That would be amazing,” Tommy agrees, breathless with excitement.
“One opera won’t feed you,” Dad argues, fidgeting with the ends of his blond hair. “Five won’t, either.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes. “A full time job doesn’t feed us. At least this would be fulfilling. I’d be happier, and that’s what the money’s supposed to do, too, right?”
“You don’t know that it would make you happier. You can write as much as you want, but that doesn’t mean anyone will like it. Maybe you’ve only got one story in you; what happens after that’s written? What happens if your motivation dries up? Art is not always enjoyable.”
“Maybe not for you,” Wilbur snaps. “Just because you gave up on your dreams at the first sign of negative feedback doesn’t mean everyone does. It doesn’t mean I will.”
“Wilbur,” Dad warns.
“What?” Wilbur looks between them hotly, and then his tense shoulders fall. His face eases, a little, and he takes off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. “Nevermind. I—nevermind.”
Dad blinks, frowns. He catches Tommy’s gaze meaningfully. They both know that this is about as close to an apology as Wilbur gets.
“I really want to do this, Dad. I really, really want to do this.”
“I can tell.”
There is tense silence for a moment. Tommy nearly opens his mouth to speak up in his brother’s defense, but Wilbur can defend himself.
“Don’t you think I could do it?” Wilbur tries again, his shoulders rounding. “If I tried . . . I know I wasn’t great in school, but this? I have a chance at this.” He’s pleading. Tommy has always been the book-smart one, but Wilbur wants praise, now.
“You could,” Tommy encourages. “You’d be amazing.”
“Thanks, Tom. Dad?” Wilbur brushes him off. He doesn’t need a brother’s support right now. Not in this.
Dad just looks at him. He’s torn, it’s obvious, but he’s hesitating, which is more than he might give on the usual. He looks at Wilbur and speaks, but it is resigned. “I think . . . it’s possible. You could do it. But possible is not probable. Art is a competitive business, sometimes more so than production. Don’t expect the moon.”
It’s not what Wilbur wants. He hides his disappointment, face clearing of emotion almost instantly. There’s no way Dad doesn’t notice.
And so Tommy steps in. “Do it, Will,” he says, putting on the voice that makes people listen to him. “And if it doesn’t work out, you have a world of other opportunities to choose from. Just because you choose it now doesn’t mean you have to choose it forever.”
It doesn’t raise Wilbur’s spirits as much as he’d intended, but Wilbur does listen.
“What will you write about?” Tommy prompts.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe it’ll be a fairytale retelling, like Orpheus in the Underworld.”
Dad chuckles and sighs at the same time. “Really? That’s your inspiration?”
“It’s good,” Wilbur protests; they’ve had this argument before. “It has some . . . parts, but my operas won’t be like that.”
Dad stands and takes up his empty bowl. Wilbur keeps talking, going on and on about melodies and instruments and theme development, and dad crosses behind him. He touches Wilbur’s shoulder.. “Thanks for making dinner, Will.”
“‘Course, Dad.” He offers a smile up at their father.
Tonight will be quiet.
“Can I play piano in your opera?” Tommy asks, leaning over the table towards his brother.
“Of course.” Wilbur’s eyes are bright with excitement. “You can play in all of them, Tom. Promise. As long as you stay with me, you’ll be in them.”