Ice Castles

by MJ Mink

Peter and his father struggle with anger and misunderstandings as each tries to find a place to fit into the other's life. PG13 rating for Peter's occasional curses.

Ice Castles

by MJ Mink

PART ONE

PROLOGUE (Shadow Assassin)

PETER

My name is Peter Caine.

I'm a cop. It's what I do.

It's who I am.

Water runs down my nose and drips into the basin. I grab one of Lo Si's small towels off the rack next to the sink and wipe my face. The cold water has done some good. I'm calm. Calmer. I can focus on what I need to do.

I need to be a cop, not a son.

I lift my head and look in the mirror. Under the dull yellow light, my face has a sallow tinge -- I immediately think of my Chinese heritage. I don't look Chinese, but it's there, running under the surface of my thoughts like an underground river. Sometimes that river is storm-tossed and turbulent; other times it runs smoothly, full of tranquility -- but those moments are rare and short-lived. If that's the Chinese part, I could sure use a lot more of it.

I re-hang the towel and turn my back on the mirror, leaning against the small vanity. My dad oozes tranquility, but what has it cost him? Nothing seems to disturb Kwai Chang Caine anymore; everything slides off him like raindrops. When we were reunited, Pop smiled, and that expression disturbed the serious set of his features. It told me that my father has become a man of little happiness. That insight saddens me, because my memories of him at the temple are strong. I remember his frequent, brilliant smiles. I remember that he laughed and played and fought -- even got angry. In those days, he did everything to his fullest capacity. He was the king of our world.

Now he speaks in a soft voice. He is humble, and his eyes are frequently downcast like those of a beaten man. Did losing his temple create this change in him, this terrible void that I can sense but not name?

The longer I know my father, the less I understand the man he is today. For so many years, I wanted him resurrected. I had endless dreams for us: I'd show him the new world I'd found outside the temple, I'd be his guide into the twentieth century...and in return, I'd be loved again.

But I haven't done those things yet, and now our time is running out. Lo Si says my dad is going to die tonight, facing someone he believes is a Chi'Ru master, a man I know is a serial killer. A ruthless murderer who will have no qualms about slaughtering a priest.

My father is going to die and take my dreams with him. We'll never know each other, and I'll never have his love again.

It won't be like the temple; there'll be no resurrection. This time he's really going to die, but this time I won't be left behind. Either I stop him...or I go with him.

I turn around and look at myself in the mirror. For a moment, I'm a stranger with wild, desperate eyes. A stranger who can pull a gun on a man he loves.

I look down into the clean white basin and concentrate. I can do this. I can threaten him -- if necessary, I can wound my father to save both our lives.

I can do this. I'm a cop.

It's who I am.

* * *

CAINE

I feel that he is coming.

He is terrified. My...son...is terrified.

Again I remind myself that this young stranger truly is my child. There are moments when I see Peter in this man's troubled eyes, brief interludes when I can sense his spirit, strong and fiercely independent. Occasionally, his defiance brings a smile to my lips, for I remember his childish mutinies against the temple regime and my rules.

But he is also a stranger.

I have spent fifteen years among strangers. I have worked alongside them, helped some of them, left all of them. Some I called friends, a few I called lovers. Until now, there was no one I called son, though I searched for Peter's essence the length and breadth of this country.

Then he appeared, in this city, leaping upon me like the unexpected gift of a tiger cub. He is all claws and snarls; rarely do I perceive the mewling kitten beneath his feral surface.

There was no warning that I would find him, no premonition. It disturbs me that I could not sense him until he stood in the hospital room, and then it was not so much a sensing as it was a seeing. His eyes.... He said mine have changed, but surely not as much as his. His eyes are still wide and dark and familiar, but the artless curiosity is destroyed; in its place are fury and disillusionment and years of living with ghosts. I wonder, did the destruction of our temple do this to him? To lose his safe harbor, the only security he had ever known, to be thrust into a cold world that is not kind to lonely, wandering souls....

I feel grief and rage over the loss of my boy-child, for his replacement by this sad, damaged man. I do not allow these feelings to overcome me. I cannot, especially tonight. Tonight I almost certainly face my death.

I am ready for it, readier than I have been before in my life. For now I know that Peter Caine lives, he is safe, he is grown into manhood, he has a life and a family. The Caine line will continue. Yet if I die tonight, the only gift I could have given my son, the restoration of our family honor, will not come to pass. I will have failed Peter and his children and his children's children.

I slap my hands on the leather blocks, focusing my concentration. I will use these hands on the Chi'Ru; I will use all my skills. I do not wish to die, but if it is my destiny, I will be ready.

Peter arrives.

I cannot allow this distraction. I do not have the energy to spare. I cannot deal with his despair and fear, I cannot lose my concentration, I cannot take the time, I cannot--

I can do no less. Though he is a stranger, he is also my son.

I turn when I hear a noise that has become familiar of late. Peter, drawing his weapon of death. He points it at me. His hand shakes; he cannot hold it steady. He cannot meet my gaze. His emotions wash over me. Besides the fear, I feel something I...cannot believe.

Love?

But he cannot love me; he does not know me. He has only a memory.

That is what he loves -- the memory of the father I once was...

...as I love the memory I have carried within me for fifteen years, of the boy with shining eyes.

The warmth of compassion fills my heart and heats my body. Precious child, I wish to say to him. I wish I could hold him and comfort him as I did when he was small and tearful. I wish that again I could cure his miseries by singing a song, tucking the blanket under his chin, and laying the worn teddy bear alongside his face. I wish I could be the father he remembers. But I have changed, and he is a man now, with a man's ways and a man's pride. He does not want or need
such comfort from me. I am as much a stranger to him as he is to me.

He has said it. I have felt it.

I take the pistol from his loose grip; he does not resist. His fear is clear; his body trembles, tears are hiding behind his lashes. I cannot resist touching his sweet face and pressing my lips against his cool cheek. He is my innocent, my child, my creation. But I do not understand.

Who is Peter now, that he could contemplate using violence to stop me from facing my destiny?

He has lost his Shaolin ways and abandoned his heritage.

He is a stranger. He does not hear my words, he does not want my direction, he refuses to heed my teachings. If I live through this night--

Where can I fit into his life?

* * *

THREE MONTHS LATER

PETER

"Got a minute, Captain?" I sidle into Paul Blaisdell's office. He glances up, then returns to his paperwork.

"Whatever you want -- no."

I grimace. "You haven't heard the quest-- Well, actually, it's not a question."

"You want to do something I'll disapprove of. You don't need my permission, but you'll ask for it. You won't get it, and you'll go ahead anyway."

Shit. I stuff in my hands in my jeans pockets and look up at the ceiling, considering how to present my case.

Paul sighs and puts down his pen. He leans back in the chair and rubs his eyes. "What is it?" he asks wearily.

I must be a royal pain. If my foster father can't put up with me, how the hell will Kwai Chang Caine cope? "It's about Christmas."

"Oh?" Paul is plainly surprised. I know he expected something else, like a request for a dangerous undercover assignment or to follow up some outrageous, fully unsupportable lead on a dead-end case.

"I know I, uh, usually spend it with you, but...um...my father, you know, he...we don't celebrate Christmas, so I thought we'd...that is, my father and I...thought we'd spend the holidays together. I've got some days off coming, you know, so.... I mean, thanks for the invitation -- and thank Annie, too, but, uh...."

"You want to spend Christmas with your father." Paul easily sums my stammering into a simple statement. "I'm disappointed, but I understand. Are you planning anything special? Going somewhere?"

"I'm not sure." The announcement over, I'm eager to leave the office. Paul has a way of making me feel guilty for wanting to be with my pop. I resent feeling guilty, which makes me feel guiltier. "Whatever. So, I'll.... You have a good Christmas -- give my love to Annie and the girls," I finish in a rush. Behind my back, I'm fumbling for the doorknob. I find it and open the door, giving Paul an awkward smile.

"You, too." Paul returns his attention to the file on his desk.

I slip out, pulling the door closed behind me. Involuntarily, I heave a sigh of relief.

In the squadroom, Skalany grins. "Safely out of the lion's den? What were you in for -- disobedience, disrespect, or just general dissing?"

"Very funny." I return to my computer. A few more entries and this report will be history.

"So what are you doing for Christmas?"

"Isn't it time for you to leave?" I mumble under my breath.

"What?"

"Spending it with my father," I reply at a normal level.

"Really?" Skalany comes and sits on the edge of my desk. She's wearing perfume today, and I find it distracting. "Maybe I'll stop by with holiday...wishes. And a batch of mistletoe."

Oh, great, that's just great. "We don't celebrate Christmas. My father's a priest, he wouldn't know what to do with the mistletoe." I punch in the last line, save the file, and log off.

"I'll be happy to show him," Skalany says.

Her smile is nearly irresistible, but Peter Caine is immune to such feminine wiles. I stand and grab the jacket from the back of my chair. "Gotta go. We're heading out of town -- sorry, Skalany. Why don't you bring your mistletoe into the office and see if you have any luck."

"Thanks for the offer, Peter!" she calls as I stride away.

"That wasn't an offer," I mutter, but I'm already out the door and into the cold evening air, so I know she can't hear me.

Just as well. She'd make me pay. I have to hand it to Skalany, she's good in the revenge department.

I drive directly to the kwoon and park in front of the door. Then I sit. The wind is bitter; I can tell by the way the few pedestrians hug their collars around their necks and try to retract their heads like turtles. But fear of the cold isn't the reason I stay in my warm car.

I haven't figured out how to extend the invitation so I won't be turned down.

Dad has been back from the dead for months now. I've seen him teach and fight, I've seen him arrested for murder, I've seen him gamble and win -- both in pai gow and with his life. My father is invincible, a role model for everyone. Everything in his life is perfect, except for his flawed son. And my dad is totally independent. I have no place in my father's life. I'm not needed.

It's taken me a long time to realize it. There were a few times when I felt so close to my dad...especially during the struggle through Tan's hellish labyrinth. I shared a memory that was special to me -- and my father remembered; it meant something to him, too. For a few minutes we connected, we were one again. And then the moment was gone.

I've finally come to terms with the understanding that our brief, bright flashes of affinity happen when I act like a child, a twelve-year-old who is dependent on his father for guidance and deliverance. When I act like an adult, he doesn't recognize me.

I was angry when I figured this out, but my anger has dulled. Why should he know me? We're strangers to each other. We share a name and a distant history, nothing more. We're different in every way: in what we believe, the way we live, the futures we have planned. Not that I have a clue about my father's future. Does he have plans? Is he anxious to be on the road again? Does every sunset call his name, does he yearn to walk toward it?

"Why the hell do you stay here, Dad?" I wonder aloud. "It can't be because of me. It's something else."

I suppose that one day whatever my dad is waiting for will come or go or be born or die. Then the waiting will be over, and Kwai Chang Caine will move on.

I wonder why I even try to make this work. Why should I get to know my father when he'll only leave me again? I should drive on right now and forget this holiday crap. I put my fingers on the key that's still in the ignition. I glance at the kwoon.

My father is standing outside the door, dressed only in light silks and sandals, hands folded, watching me.

"Christ!" I pull out the key and jump from my car. Frigid air is sucked into my lungs, and I gasp, half-running to the door. "Dad, get inside! You'll catch your death out here!"

I hustle my pop into the candlelit warmth of the kwoon, shoving the door closed behind us. The wind rattles the glass as if determined not to let its potential victims escape unscathed.

"I never get sick," my father says smugly, and I have an almost irresistible urge to slug him.

"One of these times," I threaten, shaking my forefinger.

My dad cocks his head and gives me a questioning look.

I grin; I can't help it, even though there's nothing funny. It's just that damned look, it tickles me and makes me furious, both at once. "You're gonna drive me crazy," I declare.

He raises one eyebrow. "Ah. A risk I will take."

I study his face, but there's no smile to be seen. I have my usual problem: I can't tell if he's joking or not. His expression is always so serious, there's no humor apparent in his eyes, but the things he says.... "Yeah, right."

Pop turns and walks away. Through the rice paper wall, I see him mounting the stairs. I assume I'm invited -- no, that's wrong. My father doesn't issue invitations because he believes in allowing people free will. Fine. Peter Caine's free will is to follow his father. "There'll be no escape for you this time, Your Highness," I mutter in my best Darth Vader impersonation.

I find Dad in the narrow strip that passes for a kitchen. There's a pot on the stove that I suspect is rice and a wok in which my father is heating oil. "Your Highness?" he asks.

He couldn't possibly have heard me! "How did you -- ? Oh, forget it. You never answer me anyway." I shrug off my jacket and drape it over a straightback chair. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"You will join me."

So much for free will. "Okay," I agree without enthusiasm for what I suspect will be his usual menu. I watch while my dad stirs sliced carrots into the wok. I look closer and see broccoli and snow peas and some beige strips on a chopping block. "Want me to run down to the grocery and pick up a pound of beef to throw in there?"

My father stops stirring and looks at me. I try to keep my face expressionless. Two can play this game, Pop, I think, and I'm satisfied when he shakes his head and returns his attention to the wok. With great care, he adds the broccoli to the oil, then the beige things.

A rush of affection takes me by surprise. I suddenly want nothing more from this moment than to go to my father, slip my arms around his waist, lean my face against his strong back, hold him and protect him and be loved in return. I want the last fifteen years to disappear.

Quickly, I turn away and stare out the small window. The city lights are blurring, and I swipe one hand across my eyes. "Cold night," I observe casually.

There are a few heartbeats of silence. "Not in here," my father says. After a brief hesitation, he adds, "You are disturbed, my son?"

I turn around just as the snow peas go into the wok. The mixture is stirred a few times, then my dad tips the wok and slides everything onto the platter. I take it and carry it to the small wooden table. Already on the table are two plates, two cups, and a pot of tea.

I shake my head. "Are you expecting company?"

"Yes." He arrives with a large bowl of rice. "You are here."

"Yeah, I'm here," I acknowledge with a sigh. This used to drive me crazy as a kid; I could never get away with anything.

My father pulls out a chair and sits. I remain standing. "You know...Christmas is in a couple days. I have some time off. I thought maybe we could...spend the holidays together. If you're not doing anything."

He looks up. "You have...become Christian?"

"What?" I run my fingers through my hair. "No. I just -- I have time off now. I thought.... But you're probably busy. Sorry, I should have asked earlier."

My father raises one hand. "I would be honored to spend time with my son."

"Okay. Tomorrow morning? I'll pick you up. We'll go...uh, somewhere for a few days." This is what I want, it should please me, but there's a bad taste in my mouth. I stare at the second place setting. It bothers me. "If you knew I was coming, why'd you fix rice? You know I hate it."

My father says nothing. After a pause, he scoops rice onto his own plate, then covers it with a small serving of the vegetables.

I pace to the window. Snow flurries are blowing along the street. "I can't stay. I got things to do, get ready. I'll see you in the morning. Early -- so be ready."

I don't look at my father again, just rabbit out of there. A shock of icy air hits me in the face when I step onto the sidewalk, and I glance longingly over my shoulder, abruptly sorry to leave the warmth of the kwoon and my father.

And in the flash of a moment, I'm angry again. He should have stopped me, should have asked me to stay, should have apologized for the fuckin' rice.

He should have said something.

* * *

CAINE

I listen until I hear the engine of Peter's vehicle. I hear him pull it away from the curb, too quickly, careless of the slick conditions of the street. The tires spin, then the motor noise lessens and continues at a slower, steadier pace.

Its sound melds with the other sounds of the street and is gone.

Peace has returned to my home. It is very quiet.

I pick up chopsticks and grasp a small amount of rice between them. He does not understand that rice is all I have. Perhaps one day I will continue my apothecary work and charge small fees to those who can afford them.

He does not understand. He allows his burden of anger to weigh him down. He does not know how to release it...and he will not listen.

He does not respect my ways. He has become a modern Western man. To him, I am...a relic, an anachronism. I wonder that he is not embarrassed by me...but he is not.

I ponder that knowledge. In front of others, he generally shows me respect and behaves properly. It is when we are alone that he changes. Things I do...or do not...upset him. He hides so much; I wonder to what extent I have disrupted his life. I try not to insinuate myself into his affairs, but sometimes...I cannot help my instincts.

Perhaps this time we will spend together will be beneficial. Perhaps I will understand more of this mystery who is my son. Soon, I know, our greatest challenge will come. Soon we will be called upon to redeem our family honor. He will assist me, of that I have no doubt. His sense of honor is great. The integrity of the Caine line will again be unsullied, and my path will be complete. Then I can withdraw from Peter's life, and he will remember me with respect and gratitude.

I stare at my chopsticks, then eat the rice. I have no desire for food, but the body must be sustained. My purpose must be fulfilled, and I require physical as well as spiritual strength to complete it. So I eat half the rice and half the vegetables. The rest belongs to my son, though he has said he does not want it. I cover it and store it in the refrigerator. It will stay there until he changes his mind or it is no longer edible.

Then I will throw it out.

* * *

Peter arrives the following morning at eight o'clock. I have been ready for three hours. I sit patiently in the kwoon, cross-legged with my satchel and flute case on the floor beside me. I have not been idle; I have practiced tai ch'i and meditated. My mood is serene, as it must be when I spend time with my son.

Winter enters the door with Peter. It is crisp and fresh; I enjoy its cold embrace.

Peter is scowling. "Ready?"

I rise and pull my duffel and case over my shoulder. I place my hat on my head.

"Where's your winter coat?" Peter demands.

I know he will be annoyed to learn I have given away the heavier coat, so I say only, "My jacket provides adequate protection."

He sighs. "That's okay, the car's warmed up."

I follow him outside. He gives me an annoyed look and goes back to lock the door to the kwoon. I do not understand his need for such devices of protection. My most precious possessions I carry with me, either in my heart or physically -- the journals, the talisman given to me by the Dalai Lama, our family ring, the pendant of my father. There is nothing in the kwoon that I would not give to one who asked.

But I say nothing; I adjust to his peculiarity. He goes around to his side of the vehicle while I stand on the sidewalk. I see him lean over and unlock the door. I open it and place my duffel and flute case on the back seat, then I sit on the front seat. There are a few snowflakes on my sleeve, and I look closely at them, watching as they melt.

"Will you hurry up and shut the door, Dad? That wind is freezing!"

I close the car door and look at him. I do not know what he reads in my look, but he flushes slightly. "Where do you want to go?" he asks as he begins driving.

I shrug.

"How about Florida?"

I nod, and he laughs and slaps the steering wheel with one palm.

"That was a joke."

I look at him again. "Ah."

We pass through Chinatown into other parts of the city, into an area where buildings brush the clouds. "Don't you have any ideas?" Peter asks.

"The desire for this journey comes from you," I observe carefully. "At any rate, the destination is not important. It is the journey from which we learn."

He sighs again. "Dad, can you stop tryin' to teach me for a few days? We're not going someplace to learn, we're just going to spend time together. Okay?"

I see no difference. If we are together, we will learn from each other. I stare out the side window. The snow is scouring the city clean.

"Fine. Okay. I'll just drive. Jesus Christ, Pop, you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes."

I turn my head and stare at his profile.

After several seconds, he becomes uncomfortable. "What?"

As he does not wish to hear my teachings, I am uncertain what I may say. But I will not allow his language to go unchallenged. "Your words are disrespectful."

He is silent for many moments. We stop at a light that has turned red, and he glances at me. "Sorry, P--Dad. It's just -- you bug me sometimes."

That is something I have noticed. "I was referring," I say carefully, "to your use of the name of a deity of others in an irreverent manner."

"Oh."

The light changes colors again, becoming green, and Peter moves the vehicle. Traffic signals have always fascinated me...small mechanical things that demand and receive obedience from millions of human beings, both on foot and in vehicles. It is puzzling, this anonymous control over the natural flow of life.

We leave the city behind. It has been many months since I have seen the gentle slopes of the countryside. The snow from the sky has stopped, and it lies in a thin layer on the fields. Clouds of deep blue rest low on mountains that trail long cloaks of white.

I am happy.

I study my son's profile again. His mouth is tense. I curl my left hand into a fist and rub its knuckles across his cheek. He glances at me. His face relaxes and he smiles. I leave my hand there for several moments, then I return it to my lap. Peter sighs, very softly, under his breath. He enjoys being touched by me, so I wonder if he has not been loved enough. He has another family, the Blaisdells. I have seen Paul Blaisdell touch my son's shoulders. I have seen Annie kiss
his cheek. I have seen Peter with young women, displaying the signs of intimacy.

He is touched, he is loved. Why then does he wish to have displays of affection from me, a man he thinks of as a stranger? I do not understand, and I know that should I ask, he will not tell me.

So I do not ask.

There are small animals in a pasture on our left. "Look," I say to my son.

"Llamas," he guesses, shooting quick glances out the window. "Or alpaca, something like that. Emus?"

"Emus are birds," I say sternly.

He laughs, and I see he is again teasing me. He teases me into being a teacher, though he has said he does not wish to learn from me.

We drive for several hours. We stop in a small restaurant. Peter orders pancakes. He shows me the picture on the menu; the pancakes have purple berries and syrup on them. The waitress tells me they have no rice, so I request a cooked sandwich of cheese. It is a delicacy that I occasionally enjoyed during my travels.

Peter orders two chocolate shakes. He grins when I look at mine, and I know he thinks I do not know what it is, that I have never had one. I have, but it has been a long time. I remember that I liked it very much, though it seemed a foolish indulgence. Still, to please him and to play a small game, I cautiously sip it. It is very cool and frothy and sweet; it is as I remember. I feel that some coolness remains above my upper lip, so I lick it off. Peter laughs.

I watch him while he laughs. The tension eases, and his eyes become very young. I laugh with him, and suddenly we are together.

He stops laughing and bites his lower lip. He watches me. He is still smiling when the young waitress brings food to our table.

I think that Peter is beginning to love me. Not the quixotic image he has held in his heart for so long, but me, the man I now am.

I am...pleased.

I am...confused.

I try to fathom his mind and heart, but he remains a stranger. He is my son. He is a blessing, he is a burden. I love the idea of him, and I am striving to love the man of him. But I do not know how to fit into his life, nor do I know how to fit him into mine.

We watch each other as we eat.

We speak only of small things.

* * *

PETER

I pick up the check. While we wait for service at the cash register, my father reaches into his pouch and pulls out a wad of bills. He holds them in his open palm and presents them for my inspection.

"Put that away," I hiss, glancing around. There are few customers in the diner, and no one is paying attention to us. I take a closer look at the money. The bills are all ones, and I hide a smile. "This trip is my idea, I'm paying for everything. Put your money back in your piggy."

"Piggy?" my dad repeats.

"It's an expression." Our waitress comes to the register and I hand her a twenty. "Where you keep your money, a piggy bank."

"Ah."

From the change, I pull out two dollars and drop them on our table on the way out. My father touches my sleeve and I stop. "Buddha is my piggy," my dad says solemnly.

"What?" I ask, grinning.

"The money," he says, and I see he still holds it in his hand. "Buddha is hollow. He holds the money when I do not require it."

"Dad, isn't that sacrilege?" I unlock the car door and hold it open for him.

"I do not think so," my father says, but looks worried.

I slam the door and run around the car. This trip didn't start auspiciously, but I feel better about it already. My dad is here, wants to be with me, is being a good sport about eating strange food -- yeah, this trip is a good idea. My dad has been back for half a year, but he's still an enigma to me. Maybe if we spend more time together, I'll figure him out.

I get in the car and start the engine. My father raises one finger and points at the diner.

"What?" I squint at a poster propped in the window. "A Christmas ice festival in Manchester -- you want to go there, Dad?"

He nods once.

Well, why the hell not? "Okay," I say agreeably. "It's only a hour or so from here."

My father smiles and settles back in the seat. We travel in silence, but it's not awkward. I feel comfortable with my dad, something I don't always feel. I like it. I like the way my dad stares out the window in fascination, sometimes craning his neck backward to get another look at a wonder we've sped past.

"Anytime you want to stop, let me know," I state expansively. He nods but doesn't tell me to stop, not even when we pass the giant chicken.

I'm disappointed. I want to tell my father the story of the giant chicken, who built it and why, but he doesn't give it a second glance. Maybe in fifteen years of traveling, Dad's seen a lot of giant chickens. I've heard rumors of a giant Babe-the-Blue-Ox in Minnesota and an oversized shrub trimmed in the shape of Mr. Potato Head somewhere in the Northwest, so a giant chicken is probably insignificant to a seasoned traveler. I decide to skip the story and say nothing.

But it's a good story.

Manchester grows suddenly out of farmland, a cluster of low buildings and a surprising amount of cars and pickups. "A regular metropolis they've got here," I observe.

There is a traffic jam in the few blocks that seem to be the downtown core. Cars are backing out of parking places, more cars are waiting for the spaces, pedestrians are chatting with the drivers and passengers, refrigerated panel trucks are blocking the main intersection. "Jes-- uh, gosh," I say. "What a mess."

I roll down the car window and lean my head out. I can see two motels with red blinking 'no vacancy' signs. "I don't believe this! Dad, we're never going to find a place to stay here -- and it's hours to civilization! Maybe we should go back to the city."

"Turn right," my father says.

I pull my head back in the car. "Why?" I raise the window. It's damn cold out there.

My father says nothing.

"All right." With a sigh, I pull out of traffic and into a street that's really an alley. "Have you been here before?"

"I have not."

I like the way my father says some things. Not a common, simple 'no'. My dad's words are very precise and proper and clear...at certain times. "Then how do you know where we're going? Is it a Shaolin thing?"

My father swivels his head and looks at me. "It is a sign."

"A sign? You mean like a divine sign?" I lean forward and look at the sky.

"A window."

"A window? You mean the poster in the restaurant," I interpret.

"Yarn."

"Yarn?" I echo. "You know, you weren't always this obscure, Pop -- sorry, Dad. I used to be able to understand you...at least some of the time. Now you're always cryptic."

"Now, you do not listen," my father states.

I check the rearview mirror. No one is behind us -- well, why would anyone in their right mind drive down this narrow, grim little street lined with dumpsters and empty boxes? I brake the car and face my dad. "Are you pis-- um, annoyed with me?"

He gazes at me. The hazel eyes hold no expression. Their empty serenity makes me fidget. "No," my dad eventually decides. "Drive. Turn there." One finger points to the left.

With another sigh, I put the car in gear and continue. I turn at the appointed corner. We're a block, maybe two, from downtown. The houses are small and storybook pretty, Victorian Queen Anne style if I remember correctly from my brief enthusiasm about architecture.

"Stop here."

I obey and find we're in front of a small, two-story white house. I get out of the car. By the time I reach the passenger side, my dad is already out and has his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Is this somebody you know?"

My father opens the short white gate and walks up to the house. The sidewalk has been shoveled clean, the house looks neat and well-kept, but-- "Dad...?"

He doesn't respond, so with a grumble under my breath, I follow. When my pop reaches the front porch, the door opens.

"You saw my sign!"

I swear I've seen this woman before, maybe on a box of cake mix. She's plump and white-haired, with little round glasses that rest near the tip of her nose. She's wearing a blue floral dress, bulky shoes, and is wiping her hands on a ruffled white apron.

"I'm Bea Westmore," she exclaims, beaming at us.

"I am Caine." My dad bows to her, then gestures to me. "This is my son, Peter."

Mysonpeter, that's my name. I'm not complaining though, because I was nobody's son for a very long time. "Ma'am," I acknowledge, feeling my face heat. "Uh...what sign?"

"The sign in my yarn shop. Oh, I know, this house isn't big enough for a bed-and-breakfast, but I did so want to give it a try! You're my first visitors! Welcome, please come in, don't stand out there and freeze."

"I'll get my stuff," I say, backing away a few steps. I lower my voice and mutter, "You could've told me you saw a sign, Dad."

He raises an eyebrow, then turns back to Bea. They go inside and shut the door.

I dash down the steps, snatch my bag from the trunk, grab my dad's flute case from the back seat, and hurry to join them.

The front door has been left unlocked. I bolt it behind me, stamp my boots on the mat, then rush to find my pop. "Did I miss anything?" I demand anxiously when I locate them in a warm, cozy living room that is far too small for the huge Christmas tree it holds. I drop onto the sofa next to my father.

"No, dear." Bea smiles at me then turns back to Pop. "My, what a fine, tall son you have."

My dad gives her a nod. They both look at me.

"Uh...I'm a cop," I blurt. This woman makes me feel ten years old.

"It's what you do," my father says, and I stare at him.

"And what do you do?" Bea inquires pleasantly.

My dad bows again, and I begin to wonder if he has to bow every time he's asked a question or given a compliment. "I am a Shaolin priest."

"It's who you are," I say smartly.

Dad looks at me, then cuffs my chin. I rub it and grin.

"Oh, aren't you two sweet," Bea exclaims. "You remind me of my dear Fred. He and our son used to tease each other all the time."

"The love between a father and a son," Pop says slowly, "is a very fragile thing."

I flush, but this time my dad isn't looking at me. He's focused on Bea, and he takes her hand.

"They have both moved on?" he asks her gently.

She blinks a few times, and I hope she isn't going to cry.

"Yes. Fred, six years ago, and Davey...he was our surprise, a late baby, you know. We lost him in Viet Nam."

I look around the room. There are photographs on the mantel above the fireplace -- an old-fashioned wedding portrait of a serious couple, a gray-haired man and a grinning boy, a young man in uniform --

Christ. Sometimes I just want to stay away from people, don't want to get close to anyone. It all hurts, every fuckin' thing hurts, nobody's happy, nobody has any peace! My dad was right to take me to a monastery, we should've stayed there, locked away, kept the world out.

We could have stayed there if he hadn't let Tan destroy it.

"Let me show you to your room. You'll want to freshen up before you walk down to the festival. It's just beginning, you know. Tomorrow morning they start carving."

"Room?" I mumble, trying to focus on Bea's words. "Just one?"

"Oh, I hope that won't be a problem!" Her blue eyes land on me; they're full of worry. "I know the house is too small for a B and B, but I'd hoped--"

"One room will be fine," my father says, shooting me a warning look.

"Just fine," I agree, forcing a smile. Christ, I want to get close to my dad, but not that close. Pop will probably burn incense and chant all night, or tell me not to snore, or sit on the floor by my--

--cot. I remember it very clearly. Moonlight slanting through the narrow windows of my room when I'd be pulled from sleep by nightmares. My father would be there, in lotus on the floor, radiating safety and comfort. I could go back to sleep because my dad would protect me, keep
my world safe, always be there for me....

What happened, Pop? You failed and we lost everything....

Now you're back, and you're nothing like you were. Whoever you are, you don't love me the
way my father did.

Father, where are you?

* - * - *

PART TWO

CAINE

We spent a quiet day. In the afternoon, we walked to the town where Peter insisted on buying gloves for me. I selected a pair that was sturdy and well made, and a good match to my jacket. Peter bought a heavy sweater for me, too, and demanded that I put it on in the store, beneath my jacket.

I am amused, but touched by his concern. I am pleased that the man he has become is good and generous to others, though confused about his own path.

This afternoon, for himself, Peter bought several bags of 'snack foods', crispy things that make much noise when chewed. Some, I know, are called 'chips' and fashioned from potatoes, but they bear little resemblance to that noble vegetable. I have never eaten one, and I decline when he offers me a taste. He lies on his bed, pillows propped behind his shoulders, his mouth in constant motion either talking or chewing. He has turned on the television, but he does not observe it in silence; he comments about the hockey game that is being broadcast. At times he becomes very enthusiastic.

I wish he felt such enthusiasm for other things.

Suddenly he picks up the small black box and points it at the television. The picture and sound vanish.

"You're starin' at me," he accuses.

That is obvious, so I do not respond.

As frequently happens, my silence aggravates him. I consider that at other times my words annoy him. I see no third path that is open to me, so I am resigned to his reactions.

"What? What is it?" Peter demands. "What is so fuckin' wrong with me?"

His words sadden me on different levels. First, that he speaks so disrespectfully to his elder. Second, that he believes I am constantly critical of him. Most importantly, that he does not believe in himself.

I fold my hands. I would draw out my flute and play soft notes, but I know Bea sleeps, exhausted by the excitement of visitors. Her resting mind plans a full breakfast menu, which I realize I must eat to assure her of her capability as a hostess.

It is easy to know what she needs. What Peter needs is complex and thus far remains beyond my grasp.

Peter noisily folds the bag of snack food and tosses it on the bedside stand. He lies down and turns his back to me. "Will you turn off the lamp so I can get some sleep?"

His voice is tight with anger. I rise and extinguish the light that stands between us. I pull the blanket over his shoulder, but he does not acknowledge my act. I decide to meditate, so I sit on the floor and pull one ankle onto the opposite thigh. I can no longer assume full lotus; my joints are not stiff, but they are aging, as am I.

Though I am quiet, my movements annoy Peter. He says nothing, but I feel waves of rage radiate from him. I do not know what to do. He was happy for most of the day. I review what transpired between us, but can find nothing I have done to warrant such resentment. Regretfully, I acknowledge that this is my son's self-inflicted pain; he is saturated with anger and allows it to build until it randomly explodes. It wounds whoever is in its path, without regard to identity, yet it seems especially to center on me. I wish to help him, but Peter reaches for me no longer. He resents my clumsy attempts to teach him, he sees my desire to give him peace as withdrawal.

He believes I do not understand his rage, but I do, for there is a small, solid core of anger inside my heart that I have not been able to disperse. In that way, Peter and I are the same. I too feel the old bruises caused by the loss of my mother and the desertion of my father. Deeper still is my fury over the loss of my child, though he is returned to me.

If it were within my power to divert further grief from Peter's path, I would, for he has received more injuries than most suffer in a lifetime. He has not yet learned all he can from those losses, but surely more pain will not serve his spiritual and emotional development.

I study his head and the rigidity of his back. I used to sit thus, watching him, in our temple. Some evenings there would be shadows in his eyes, and I would know that the coming night would be difficult for him. So I would sit and wait and chase away the Demon of Fear that haunted him.

Now there are always shadows in his eyes, but his demons will not face me so I cannot know and banish them. Perhaps I should not even if I recognized them. He is grown, no longer my small son. He has his special demons, bred during the years when I was not here to teach and comfort him; I cannot share them.

I can only remain quiet and attempt to dispel the fury that swirls around the room.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Peter suddenly says between clenched teeth, "will you quit with the goddamn meditating and just go to sleep?"

I am Shaolin, at peace; still, his words pierce my heart like a sword. I rise and lie on my bed. After several moments, he rolls onto his back and exhales, his breaths trembling.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I don't know what's the matter with me."

I feel his remorse and nod, though he does not look at me and cannot see the motion. I turn onto my side so I face the wall. I say nothing, for there is nothing to say.

He needed me once. I failed him, and so I lost him.

Now I have found him again, and that finding is my punishment, his anger is my penance.

* * *

In the morning, I am not refreshed. My sleep was restless. When I wake, Peter is not in our room. I carry my clothes to the large bathroom down the hall. I shower in water that is much hotter than that which flows in my apartment above the kwoon. I enjoy this luxury. I dress in the steam and return to the room.

Peter is there. He stares at himself in the mirror above the wooden dresser. He is wearing my satchel. It is strapped across his chest in the manner I wear it.

The towel I am using to dry my hair slips from my grasp. I catch it and clutch it to my heart. For a moment, I envision a future, and I wonder if it will come to pass. He turns and sees me.

"Sorry!" he mumbles, tugging the pouch over his head. He lays it gently on my bed. "I was just...uh, looking. I didn't mean to...." His words trail off, and his face colors.

"Everything I have belongs to you," I answer carefully, hoping I do not offend him. Were he less sensitive, I would say that someday the pouch may belong to him. But that merely is a wish and may come to nothing.

"Yeah, I know -- 'course, you don't have much!" He tries to laugh, but quickly sobers. "Father, I'm very sorry for my behavior last night," Peter says formally. "I have no excuse."

I ache to comfort him, but I do not know how. "Your heart has many scars," I murmur.

He looks down at the floor, then up at me. For an instant, I think that he will come to me and embrace me. But the moment passes, and he does not.

I put aside the towel and comb my hair. He waits. When I finish, I go to the door and open it. "Breakfast is waiting," I say.

He gives me a look that I do not understand. It seems almost to be one of disappointment, but I have done nothing to disappoint him. Then he smiles and nudges my shoulder, directing me to go first.

"Yeah, I smell the bacon! You eat bacon, Dad? Pancakes? Scrambled eggs? French toast? I'll bet Bea didn't make you a 'sandwich with cooked cheese'." He laughs and adds, "Or rice."

I scowl at him, but he only laughs again because he senses I am amused. When I do not move, he darts around me. "Race you," he challenges and runs down the stairs.

I walk through the doorway, and his essence clings to me. I consider how volatile and fragile this man is and how much he disturbs me...his behavior, the destructiveness that is focused within...and, mostly, the emptiness I often see in his eyes.

I wish I could fill it. Then I would move on, leaving him to live his life and me to live mine.

Once we had a life together, but it is over.

As it should be, for my son is a man now.

* * *

PETER

I scuff my boots along the sidewalk, kicking up bits of snow. The day is relatively mild, without wind or blowing flurries. There are dark clouds to the north that threaten to bring more snow, maybe later in the day. I sneak a look at my pop who is walking beside me.

His head is held high. He gazes forward with confidence and walks with a long stride. He doesn't seem angry or disappointed, so I feel relieved...but still guilty. I don't know where last night's anger came from. I was suddenly just so mad at my dad. I wanted something from him and didn't get it. And whatever I want, I can't put into words, either to him or to myself. My dad is supposed to know. He knows everything.

It's early, but the carnival is already underway. There's a carousel, a small ferris wheel, and a few other rides that look equally uninteresting. There's a shabby fortune teller's booth and a cotton candy stand that also sells corndogs and popcorn.

"A gastronomical heaven," I declare, trying to be cheerful.

My father smiles widely, and I'm relieved to see that his mood has improved. We got off to a shaky start this morning. I know I shouldn't have snooped through my dad's pouch, but I was curious to know what was in it. I'm none the wiser now, because there were only books, dried grasses, and vials of other stuff that I didn't recognize. And then I got caught trying on the pouch -- just out of curiosity, wondering how it felt to be Kwai Chang Caine, roaming the country with only what I could wear and carry.

Pop's hand grabs my forearm. I like it when we touch. It gives me a sense of security -- a false sense, probably, but it's better than nothing at all. Besides, when I feel his touch, I know he's real. "What?"

My dad points to the right. I peer around him and see ice sculptors at work. "Yeah, they're having a contest. Judging is later today. Wanna go look?"

With a nod, my father takes off and I follow. Pop studies each sculpture for a very long time. I'm drawn to one work, a half-nude mermaid.

"I've dated a few of those."

My dad gazes at me quizzically.

"Ice maidens," I joke.

He rolls his eyes, gives the bare breasts an incredulous look, and moves on. We pass an arched bridge, a dolphin, what is apparently a fruit basket, and then my dad pauses at a very elaborate rendering of a walled village. The carver picks up a saw and whacks off a chunk from an exterior wall.

"May I?" Dad asks, picking up the rejected piece.

The man glances at us through goggles that are sprayed with shaved ice. "Help yourself."

My pop holds the ice in front of my face. "This," he says, "is a heart."

I say nothing. Dad removes his gloves, opens his pouch, reaches inside and pulls out a small knife. I wonder how he finds anything in that mess. It's worse than a woman's purse.

"Inside one's heart is one's path."

He starts slicing away at the ice. I'm certain this is going to be a lesson. I don't want a lesson, I specifically told him, no lessons! but there's no stopping Kwai Chang Caine once he gets started.

"What you are making?" I ask hopefully. Maybe it'll be a good luck elephant or something without a great meaning.

"I am making nothing." My father gives me a Significant Look, and I stifle a resigned sigh. "I am merely peeling away the layers to discover what is inside."

"Wow, I can't wait to find out," I respond flippantly.

The knife slips. A small chunk of ice goes flying. A narrow line of blood wells up along my dad's thumb. My breath catches. "Be careful!"

"The warning arrived after the accident," my father says. He ignores the cut. "Sometimes a blade that wounds deeply will also reveal the truth."

Despite my misgivings, I watch intently as a figure begins to emerge. After several more minutes, a shape is revealed -- a tiny, imperfect Buddha. It brings back memories that I'm not ready to face.

"Well, that's a great lesson, Dad, but I don't think there's a Buddha in my heart."

"There is Buddha in everyone's heart."

I heave a big sigh.

My father adds earnestly, "Within your heart is your path. You will not find it until you begin to look, to...peel away the layers. All that we are, all that we wish to be, all the responsibilities we truly have -- they exist only in our hearts."

I snort, biting back the anger that starts to rise inside me again. "That's kind of a heavy-handed message. What are you really saying?"

"I have said it." He looks into the sky. "It is a lesson for both of us. Sometimes our paths are revealed or become clearer...or change. A path is not static. One reaches a point of attainment, then discovers new vistas to be explored."

I shiver and shove my hands into my pockets. "What are you trying to say, Dad? Lay it out. You've got more vistas to explore?"

My father shrugs. "We all do. Change is part of life. Expect the unexpected."

You're leaving, I think, but refuse to give voice to the thought and make the threat real.

And it's not so fuckin' unexpected. I've expected it all along. Ever since my dad showed up, I've been waiting for him to disappear.

"We can't take your Buddha back to our room. He'll melt into nothing."

"Into water," my father corrects, "which sustains all life."

"Thank you, Mr. Science."

My dad kneels and builds a small mound of snow. He puts Buddha atop it. I quickly move away, my emotions in turmoil. I stop at a reproduction of a giant insect.

"Do you hear the grasshopper at your feet?" a voice says behind me.

I whirl, wondering how the hell my dad caught up with me so fast. He's smiling, but his eyes are serious. I stare into them and fall someplace, back in time where my father is telling a story about Master Po. By force of will, I pull myself free and shake my head. "This grasshopper is frozen solid, he isn't saying anything, Dad."

The brown hat tilts to one side as my father studies my face. "Nothing that you allow yourself to hear."

"Enough." I raise my hand. "We're spending time together, that's all. This isn't a classroom and you're not my teacher anymore."

My father gazes somewhere beyond me, and his expression becomes vague. "Perhaps," he says maddeningly, and walks off.

I stare after him. His stride isn't as firm as it was earlier, and there's no purpose in his direction. I bite my lip. My father expects too much. He demands perfection. Well, Peter Caine isn't perfect, so my dad can damn well take me the way I am -- or not at all.

Hell.

"Wait up!" I call and run through the snow after him.

* * *

Of course, my dad doesn't stop and wait. He marches directly to the concessions booth, and I watch in disbelief as he orders cotton candy. The thready pink sugar is spun around a paper cone. My dad hands the guy a dollar and looks very surprised when he is required to produce another dollar.

"Inflation," I explain. "Dad, cotton candy before lunch? What am I gonna do with you -- you're getting wild."

"You have had this before."

"Sure." I think of all the times Kelly and Carolyn dragged me to carnivals to as their escort.

"No." My father plucks off a wisp of the candy, then hands the cone to me. "Before. Do you not remember?"

Yeah, I remember, though I've tried to forget. One Fourth of July in Braniff, a circus came to town, and the boys begged to be allowed to go. What I remember most is that even dressed in plain clothes, our bald heads gave us away as freaks from the temple. I remember the taunts and the fight. I don't remember any cotton candy.

"Yeah, I remember." I catch a swirl of cotton with my teeth and tug, unraveling a long strip that I stuff into my mouth. Pink sticks to the fingertips of my gloves. "This is disgusting. But good," I add, when I glimpse his expression. "Thanks, Dad."

My father's hands reach up and tug the collar of my jacket closed. He used to do this at the temple. I'd try to sneak out without my jacket -- when caught and forced to wear it, I'd try leaving it unbuttoned or unzipped or unwrapped. But he always knew, and eventually I started fastening the jacket on my own, just to avoid my dad's chastising look.

Now I'm grown up, and you don't know what to do with me...except be a father in the only way you know.

I blink and pull free of his hands. "Let's look around."

We manage to kill a couple more hours at the carnival. Carollers show up and belt out a few tunes. I worry that all this rampant Christianity will bother my pop, but he listens intently to the singers. We spend more time looking at the ice carvings, but I notice my dad avoids the walled city. Maybe it reminds him of China. We wander back into town for lunch in a restaurant that is crowded with giggling children and frazzled adults.

"Christmas," I say absently. "It's always chaotic."

My father glances around the restaurant, then focuses his gaze back on me. "You celebrated this holiday in your foster home?"

"It was hard to avoid," I answer, feeling that I have to apologize. "I didn't celebrate it...but they exchanged gifts, so I had to, you know, give gifts, too. I didn't go to church with them or anything like that."

My father is still staring at me. I squirm. I gulp my cola, then tap the unused straw on the formica tabletop. I tap a little too hard and it goes flying, landing on my dad's shoulder.

I reach over and snatch it back. "Sorry."

My father's head tilts, and the dark eyes remain fixed on me.

The waitress saves my sanity by arriving with my burger and fries. My dad gets a small salad and a fruit cup. I tear off a chunk of burger with my teeth, feeling like a killer carnivore. Well, damnit, I'm not going to let my dad make me feel guilty about what I eat! "This is great," I declare while I chew. "How's yours?"

For a second, I think my father's not going to answer, but then he says: "It is nutritious."

"Oh, and mine's not?" I retort.

My dad puts aside his fork. I grab the catsup bottle and hold it above my plate. I pat it hard a few times, and catsup gushes out. I swirl fries in the red puddle, deliberately messy.

"You had better table manners when you were six," my father murmurs.

I flush and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

"What did you wish for this trip?" he asks.

"Wish?" With my knife, I spread some of the catsup on my burger. "I just wanted us to spend time together."

My dad's brow wrinkles. "Yet...you are angry with me."

"Look, I apologized for last night. Can we just forget it? Eat your salad." I grab more napkins from the table dispenser and wipe the grease from my fingers.

"You do not wish to be with me."

"Yes, I do." Christ, I'm trapped here. I can't walk out on lunch without proving my dad is right. I can't curse because there are all these excited kids, the waitress is wearing jingle bells on her uniform, they have a skinny tree by the door -- everybody's happy, and Peter Caine has no reason for acting like such a bastard.

I take a deep breath and look across the table at my father. "I want to be with you, I just.... I don't know how to please you. Everything I do or say comes out wrong."

"Peter." He shakes his head. "You do not need to *try* to please me. Your existence pleases me. You do not need to do more."

"That's not what I see," I reply in a low voice. "You say you don't judge me, but you do. I see it in your eyes. You're disappointed in me. I hear it in the things you say."

He closes his eyes briefly, then refocuses them on me. "You must learn to see with more than your eyes. To hear with more than your ears. That is how you will find the truth."

I shake my head. "Dad--" I lean forward and stare into my father's face. "If that's true, maybe you should follow your own advice. You don't hear me, and you don't see me. I'm...nothing to you. Less than a stranger." I think of my father's student, the one who still can open the barely-healed wound in my heart. "You know Jake better than you know me."

I return my attention to my burger, though it's tasteless now. I feel sick inside. I've got my father back, but it's be-careful-what-you-wish-for time. What I've got is not what I had. This father isn't the one I remember. This father is grim and joyless, full of regrets, overflowing with lofty values that are impossible for a cop to attain -- or maintain. This father tries to love me...but that love has to struggle against my 'flaws'.

I was never the perfect son you remember. I never will be. You'll never be proud of me.

"We have become strangers to each other," my father says, startling me from my thoughts. "We must...relearn each other."

"What's the point? Look, I've had enough of this -- the burger, I mean. Are you finished?"

The salad has barely been touched, but the fruit is gone. Without a word, he slides out of the booth and exits the restaurant. I drop money on the table and nod to our waitress. Outside, the wind has picked up, and I hastily button my jacket. I'm glad I got my dad that sweater, or he'd be frozen solid right about now. After a few minutes of searching, I find him across the street, in the small town square where a fir tree sparkles with white lights.

"Maybe we should just go home," I suggest gruffly. "If we leave now, we can get back to the city before dark."

My father studies the tree. "Mrs. Westmore has planned a special dinner," he states. "Tomorrow we will leave."

"Fine. So what're we going to do with the rest of *this* day? Talk about a dead town! There's nothin' to do here," I complain, stalking away. "Maybe we can find a movie to--"

Something very cold and wet hits the back of my head. I whirl around, brushing at my collar. Snow, my dad threw a snowball? We haven't had a snowball fight since the temple. "Dad?" I look up just in time to duck. "Hey!" I protest, outraged and laughing. I scoop up a handful of snow and mold it into a ball. Hell, I'll never be able to hit my dad -- how do you nail a Shaolin? But I throw it anyway, not waiting to see it miss before I grab more snow. If I keep shooting them fast enough, he won't be able to dodge them all.

Unfortunately, when I'm busy making snowballs, I can't dodge them. I'm covered with white blots by the time I manage to score one on Kwai Chang Caine. "Gotcha!" I crow as I run over to inspect my strike. "Square in the chest -- bull's-eye!"

We laugh together, and for just a minute I think that maybe my dad likes me. That he doesn't just love me because I'm his son and he's obligated. Even though I'm a cop and a killer and I'm not Shaolin anymore...maybe my dad is starting to like me.

* * *

CAINE

For Christmas Eve, or perhaps to celebrate her first guests, Mrs. Westmore serves a very large dinner. To my incredulous gaze, it appears to hold more food than I consume in a month. My son, however, is quite pleased and eats heartily. I enjoy watching his genuine pleasure.

After dinner, I retire to our room, leaving Peter deep in conversation with Mrs. Westmore. I sense she enjoys his youthful observations. I feel that she sees her son in him. I find it ironic that she can easily perceive that which I struggle and fail to discover.

I make an entry in my journal. Since being reunited with Peter, I have neglected writing in it. It seems I have been too busy living life to record it.

But today my son made an observation that I must heed. He says I do not see, I do not hear. I have always struggled to be open, to watch, to understand the flow so that I may be prepared for circumstances the future may bring. For years, it has been my greatest wish that never again will I watch a temple burn while I stand surprised and helpless, held captive by a fate I could have avoided. Never again will I lose a loved one through my arrogance and lack of perception.

Yet now I have my son back, and it seems I may yet lose him through those very virtues I have prided in myself.

I am confused and uncertain. I look, I listen, but he says I do not see or hear. Does he hide his needs so well, or have I lost the ability to touch his heart?

I do not know him. I do not understand him. But he is my son, and I must learn to do both.

I need peace and time for quiet contemplation. I must find a way out of this puzzle-box we are in. I will not lose Peter a second time. I cannot.

Then I wonder: Can I lose what I have not found?

The answer is simple. Peter waits for me to find him. If I do not, at some point he will simply give up. He will remain my son in name only. We will never be together as we once were. The notion fills me with great sadness.

I close my journal. Putting my thoughts into written words has always assisted me in making the correct choices and choosing the correct path. I know that the opportunity to redeem our family honor is rapidly approaching; whether we succeed or fail will irrevocably alter our futures. I do not know how it will change, where I will go, what the repercussions may be.

But I know I must find Peter.

I am weary. I fall asleep.

* * *

The next day is Christmas. It is sunny and very cold. Snow that has fallen during the night crunches under our boots as we walk to Peter's vehicle. Before we leave, Peter shovels Mrs. Westmore's sidewalk. She kisses his cheek and gives us a bag of food left from the previous night's feast. She is wearing a red dress and a pin made from holly. She is expecting guests, so it is good that we are leaving.

Peter puts my duffel and flute case in the trunk with his luggage. He puts the bag of food on the floor behind the front seat. We have had a breakfast, but I am certain that Peter will wish to eat again before the morning is over.

We drive away from the small house.

"You know," Peter says, the first words he has directed exclusively to me this morning, "we don't have to go back to the city. We could just drive. North, maybe."

"Yes," I agree without hesitation.

He glances at me. "Great. Let's swing by the festival before we go. I want to see the sculptures again."

"The ice maiden?" I ask lightly, and he grins but does not reply.

Instead he says, "I had a long talk with Bea last night...about some of the problems between her son and husband. They had bad ones. And she said they didn't always understand each other, but...they had a lot of love and it got them through the...difficult times."

I gaze out the side window, surprised. I turn my head and look at Peter. He looks at me. He gives me a bashful smile and shrugs. I smile because he has inherited that shrug from me, even though we were apart. I continue smiling because his words have warmed my heart.

When we reach the ice garden, several people are there. Peter parks his vehicle, and we walk toward the display. I see immediately that many of the sculptures have been destroyed.

I sense Peter's dismay. He exclaims "Oh shit!" and rushes to see the ruins, striding like a police officer about to make an arrest. I watch him as he inspects the damage with a professional eye.

"Why would somebody do this?" he asks when I join him. His arm sweeps in a wide arc. "They must've used shovels or axes -- what a stupid waste!"

He is upset. "Beauty is transient," I gently remind him, aware that my simple teaching may rouse his wrath. "That is why we must fully enjoy it while it exists."

Peter glances at me, then stares at the damage again. He nods.

We join others who are walking the length of the display, paying homage to the passage of grace and creation. I stop at the walled village. It was incomplete yesterday when we admired it; today I see that it is less a village than a moated castle. Its walls are thick and sturdy; vandals succeeded only in snapping off the highest tower...the watchtower from which danger could be observed and braced against.

I freeze in place as though I am a sculpture myself. The ice wavers, trembles in my vision like a heat mirage. It is a symbol and I reach for it -- but again, I fail to grasp its meaning. My path is obscured, my purpose lost, my needs unfathomable.

Warmth thaws through my ice. Slowly I turn my head. Peter's hand is on my back.

"Let's go, Dad," he says. "There's nothing more to see here."

His hand slides up to my neck and squeezes. He releases his hold as we walk back to his vehicle.

He drives. We pass through Manchester. I look at the colored lights in many windows and on many eaves. I am very cold.

Gradually, the interior of the vehicle warms. "That's better," Peter declares. "It's colder than a witch's-- Well...it's really cold." He glances at me. "Do you remember that giant chicken we saw on the way here? There's a great story that goes with it. See, there was this farmer named MacDonald -- that was his real name, he got teased a lot because of it -- you remember, the Old MacDonald song? Anyway, one day he decided--"

I rest my left hand on Peter's shoulder and listen intently as my son shares his story.

We drive north, toward a place I have never been.

END