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Freddy’s very first memory involved his parent’s Boston apartment. He could still smell the place when he closed his eyes; wine left in expensive glasses. The alien smells of his mother’s lab. The way the cold glass coffee table felt against his small hand.
“Freddy!” His father called, scooping him up into his lap. He could remember, years later, the tone of mild alarm in his father’s voice. He couldn’t have been older than two, but he still remembered the smell of Frasier’s cologne and the ton of voice he used to scold not his son, but the Boston Philharmonic ticket booth employee on the other end of the line.
“No, I will not settle for dress circle seats, are you mad?” He sat Freddy in his lap and continued to rant into the phone – back then it was completely hampered in by cords. Freddy didn’t remember what, if anything, he said in response – but his father had been there, cradling him, all the same. That was his dad, loving and wise but also distracted by the art-laden but glorious mess that was his life.
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His parents’ divorce was the weirdest thing Freddy had gone through. His father just left one day for Seattle, and Freddy spent his time with his loving, odd, mainly patrician mother.
But soon enough he had a gang of friends all his own, and started to pull away into his own world. Freddy soon knew he wasn’t like either of his folks. First, he was too much of a geek. Then, he was too much of an athlete – though this part of the bargain delighted his grandpa Martin, who hoped he would become the family’s first baseball star. Close, but not quite.
His father loved him, but didn’t understand how to deal with all of the changes his new interests brought to life. Yet the love was there. He would visit his dad as much as he could, and every time Frasier would make a desperate grand gesture to impress Freddy. An action figure he killed himself to find; a beautiful cake that Aunt Daphne had spent all afternoon turning into a rock. Awkward football and baseball games that his father squirmed his way through. The taller Freddy got, the more ridiculous the memories got. How could he forget his own Bar Mitzvah? He knew that part of it was a simple attempt at appearing smart in front of his friends. But the caring? Freddy did recognize that, even as his father embarrassed him with Klingon.
The religious training didn’t solve his mild confusion about his parents and their eternal competition for his heart. His dad was proud, caring, a good gift-giver even in the worst of times. To his mother, he was smart, perfect – an unyielding angel.
Religion in general didn’t take for him. Over time, he’d become a nonpracticing Jew and a nonpracticing Catholic. Right down the middle, in his own way.
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One of the last things Freddy’s grandfather did was tell him he was proud that Freddy was dropping out of college to become a fireman. So did his Aunt and Uncle, who were busy preparing David for his SATS when it happened. Freddy was the first Crane since his father to leave college for a physical profession. His father hit the roof, as he predicted he would.
Freddy, however, wanted his freedom more than he wanted to be considered smart by strangers. As a fireman, he felt like he had a purpose in life, that what he wanted to do was good and important. His grandpa the cop understood that. His dad the psychiatrist…well, it made him struggle with his own worth.
Christmas was, predictably, dramatic. There was an overturned punchbowl and an argument between Eve and Simon. His father had hidden away and Freddy and David had cleaned the mess up before dispersing – usually something that never bothered Freddy’s father. On days like these, he wished his grandfather were here, to help him unwind the messy tangle of it all. He still felt guilty about avoiding the funeral. He probably always would. But his father understood his reasons now, even if Freddy sometimes didn’t understand himself.
But he wasn’t alone. He still had his dad. His dad, who currently smelled like a brewery from all the way across the room.
Freddy hit the living room light, having abandoned the dirty dishes in the kitchen for someone else to cope with. “Dad, it’s midnight on Christmas, why are you getting drunk?” Freddy asked.
“Oh, I was simply in a melancholy mood. I was thinking about the party, and my plans for it, and how they fell to pieces..." His father let out a sigh. “I am well aware that I am a mess.”
“Nah, you’re not…”
“I am exactly what I say I am. A hot mess. As Eve would say – a hot mess express.”
Oh boy. His dad was kind of drunk drunk. “OK, dad, let’s get you upstairs.”
“Oh, poppycock,” said Frasier. “Just lie me down on the floor to rest and I’ll be fine.”
“How does the couch sound?” asked Freddy
“Better,” Frasier admitted. He’d lifted men far heavier than his father as part of his training; it was no problem at all to hoist him onto the cushions. He pulled down a throw pillow for his dad to sleep against, then tucked him in. His father was out like a light before he could shut the TV off.
He didn’t tell Frasier he loved him, but he smiled down at his dad. Frasier – half awake though he was – smiled back before drifting off into sleep.
A weird feeling of peace swept through Freddy as he shut off the lights. This was his home; David and Aunt Daphne and Uncle Niles were his family, too. So was his mother, the loving hidden volcano she was. And Eve and the baby, and his dad’s weird friends.
And his father. His fussy, needy, attention hungry father.
Freddy smiled. He wouldn’t want Frasier to be different, even if he had the chance to change him.