The Dying of the Light
Disclaimer - I do not own the Thunderbirds. I also do not own the poem that starts this chapter, which inspired the title to this story. It's not a total downer story, I promise. Do you know in tarot cards, death doesn't mean dying, but change? Maybe the death in this story is the changes that will be occuring.
Nah - I'll probably end up killing someone.
This is being posted today because it would have been my Dad's birthday. Happy birthday, Daddy - still keeping my promise.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Alan Tracy was happy, he was excited…life was good.
In less than a month, Alan would be graduating from Wharton Academy for Boys. The summer would be spent on his island home, the first summer he would have as a full-fledged Thunderbird. Dad had always had him as a probie until he turned eighteen.
And today he was eighteen.
"Happy birthday, Alan!"
Alan smiled over at one of his best friends, Tomo Wattamee had organized everything and the groups of almost thirty young men – either current or former Wharton's students – were gathered in the small movie theater that had been leased for the afternoon.
"H-how d-did you g-get your d-d-d father to agree to this?" Fermat asked as he sat down next to Alan.
"I pointed out to Dad that last year had been kinda a bust, and with two small children, getting the whole family up here may not work that well," Alan said reasonably, smiling at the waitress who was serving the grilled shrimp salad he had ordered. "And with most of the track team, or my other friends, graduating, this could be our last chance to hang out. So this is perfect – a private showing of a movie I've been dying to see and some pretty good food, everyone gets an afternoon off campus, and I'll get the family party when we get home after graduation."
"Shouldn't that be a graduation party?" Mario Gomez asked as he sat next to Alan.
"It will be," Alan sighed, "a graduation party for me and Fermat, and an eighteenth birthday party for me and Tin-Tin. Oh, and Jason's first birthday, re-done. Kate is at her parents' this weekend, since we are having the big blow-out in June."
"Well, here is to the future," Tomo said with a grin, raising his glass in a toast. "To Alan at Harvard, Fermat at Cal-Sci and Mario at Cambridge – and if you thought New England was cold and damp, Gomez, wait until you hit England."
The teens all chuckled at that.
"Excuse me," the theater manager interrupted. "We'll start the movie in a few minutes, so everyone can eat while watching the first reel. We'll serve the cake during the intermission, but I thought you would want to, um, or do you think…"
"He'll have the candles and we are singing," Tomo said firmly.
As the manager moved out of the room, Alan groaned. "I'm eighteen, Tommy! Come on."
"Big brother privilege," Tomo said firmly.
"Don't I get to claim that?" a new voice said.
Alan spun around, grinning as he was pulled into a firm hug. "Gordo! What are you doing here?"
"Just didn't feel right to have no family here with you on such a momentous day," Gordon said with a tight smile. Pulling up a chair, he smiled at the waitress who brought a matching shrimp salad to Alan's.
"I told your father I had it under control," Tomo said softly.
"Yeah," Gordon shrugged. "But I'm just being a good big brother to my one and only little brother. Besides, the elders all have their hands full - Scott with Jason, John with Elizabeth and Virgil with Chuck."
"Chuck?" Alan asked, warily eyeing the manager who was personally rolling the cake into the room. His friends were all leaving their tables, anxious for the chance to embarrass Alan one last time.
"Upchuck," Gordon grinned as he sipped at his soda. "Act surprised when Sarah Jane tells you."
Alan grinned. "Sarah's pregnant? That's great! Just so long as I don't have to deliver this one!"
Everyone laughed before the cake was rolled up next to Alan. He knew Kate had ordered it from Carlo's Bakery and it was a replica of the track at Wharton's – complete with Alan crossing the finish line. But instead of "finish" being on the breaking tape, the decorator had written "eighteen at last!".
Tomo nudged Mario and all of the Wharton boys stood to sing.
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday, dear Alan…
Happy Birthday to you!
We hope you get some tonight!
We hope you get some tonight!
We hope you get some birthday cake tonight!
We hope you get some tonight!
Even Gordon laughed as Alan went red before the newly minted eighteen year old stood up and blew out the candles.
"Did you make a wish?" Gordon teased.
"I didn't have to," Alan said softly as they rolled the cake away to be cut up and served during the intermission of the three hour plus sci-fi thriller. "I already have everything I ever wanted."
On that note, the lights dimmed and the group settled down to enjoy the day.
Katherine Eppes Tracy – better known to most as Kate – was relaxed, happy and undoubtedly amused...life was as close to perfect as it got.
"Which goofy little boy has you smiling?" her cousin, Edward, asked as he handed her a glass of ginger ale.
Kate giggled. "Dad does look pretty silly, doesn't he?"
"Uncle Don has chucked all dignity – but then so has your husband," Edward chuckled at the sight of Don Eppes and Scott Tracy both sitting on the grass, the newly one-year-old Jason Tracy emitting contagious baby giggles at the silly faces the men were making.
"Don has been waiting a long time to spoil his grandson," Charlie Eppes sternly admonished his son and niece. "We haven't seen you since the holidays."
"Dad understands," Kate protested. "Work keeps me busy, and I send a lot of pictures."
"And it's not like Uncle Don isn't busy at his job," Edward defended his cousin – just as he had since they were children.
"Your father is retiring," Robin Eppes said as she slid in next to her daughter.
"Seriously?" Kate asked in surprise.
"Shouldn't that be "it's about time"?" Charlie questioned.
"What is about time?" Scott asked as he carried his son over to the family.
"I think news of my pending retirement has leaked out – at least within the family," Don said as he snagged his grandson out of his son-in-law's arms.
Bouncing his grandson, Don shot a look at his wife who only smiled. "Both of the boys are engaged, I'm hoping for a few more of these down the road. Katie may live pretty far away, but I want to be able to be the kinda grandfather Dad was – there for my babies."
"Does this mean you are going to learn to make Grandpa's peanut butter chocolate cookies?" Edward asked with a grin.
"Katie knows how," Don shrugged before kissing Jason's head.
"Honey, you've been holding out on us," Scott teased.
"Like Onaha lets me near the kitchen that often," Kate defended herself.
"We have a kitchen in our house, too," Scott laughed.
"Yeah, like I would let you near there," Kate grumbled. "When you tried to make me some tea when I was pregnant with Jason, you almost burnt down the place."
The family just laughed before they began to exchange culinary disaster stories. Kate's cousins and siblings, along with Aunt Amita and some other "connections" drifted over, laughter being the universal draw.
Scott lifted Jason up so that the baby's ear was next to his mouth. "And you thought your dad's family was nuts."
Kyle Westcott looked around the small, dismal room that he now called home. It was a far cry from the suite of rooms he had had in his father's home in an upscale Chicago suburb.
A year to the day that his life had gone to Hell in a hand basket.
He had been arrested by the Massachusetts State Police, a charge of drug trafficking pinned onto him. Most of the charges had eventually been dropped when Kyle had produced his records on his computer. But he had still ended up doing six months in prison, most of that in solitary.
Convicts didn't like stool pigeons. The savage beating he had taken the day after being incarcerated had shown him that.
And now, Kyle was out, forced to report to a parole officer for the next four and a half years.
Any violations, and he would be back in prison, and the full sentence of five years would be enforced. The Department of Corrections had arranged for him to live in this half-way house and had arranged a job for him with a food service company. It was a far cry from the future he had lined up, having made good use of his father's connections to get himself into Berkley. Now, he was considered a high school dropout, having been arrested weeks before graduating from Wharton's.
A knock on the door roused Kyle from his morose thoughts. He opened the door to see a huge black man giving him a hard look.
"Westcott?" When Kyle nodded, the man's face relaxed somewhat. "I know you were a first timer, and things weren't easy. But you got a chance to start fresh. My name is George. I run this house. Everyone here is non-violent offenders. We have an eighty percent Christmas card rate."
George chuckled at Kyle's confused look. "That means after they leave here, I never hear from them again except for Christmas cards. You start work with TJS Food Services tomorrow. I think they are sending you to the café at either the Museum of Science or the Museum of Fine Arts. You have a preference."
"Science," Kyle said faintly, knowing he was less likely to run into someone from his old set there.
"I'll see what I can do," George smiled. "Oh, and the police said these things could be returned to you. If you want to sit for GED's, let me know. I know you were close to graduating, and a high school equivalency could help in the job market. "
George handed Kyle the box, reminding the nineteen year old of the rules he had been given prior to his arrival, and telling him that dinner was at five. "You don't have any duties this week, but check the bulletin board Wednesday; I'll have the chore schedule up for next week by then. Swapping is ok, but make sure whoever you switch with is approved by either me or Marty – he's the senior resident."
Closing the door, Kyle opened the box, digging through and finding what was there. Most of his belongings had been shipped back to his parents; God only knew what they had done with them. There was his older computer, the one he had kept his games and school work on. The police must still have the good one, where his list of contacts had been. Gone were his expensive electronics, his e-reader, his designer clothes. Just some casual clothes, his school books, and –
What the hell? A copy of the Wharton Ledger, the school paper, mainly delivered to most students via their in-boxes…It must have been used to line the cardboard box. Pulling it out, he glared at the picture on the front page.
"Wharton's brings home Fall Track Championship," Kyle read out loud. "Alan Tracy was…" Kyle bit off his words as he glared at the youngest Tracy son, surrounded by his teammates in one picture, while breaking a finish line tape in another. That picture said that Alan had won that event, beating a high school boy's record, previously held by his brother John. The school must have sealed up the box when he was actually sent to prison at the beginning of November.
Looking at the paper again, he saw the web site for the electronic edition. Turning on his computer, Kyle tried his old log-on and password, smirking when he realized the school had never locked him out.
As he read past editions of the paper, Kyle's blood began to boil. He lost count of the number of times Alan Tracy was referenced in the paper…
"Tracy, Tracy, Tracy!" Kyle snarled. "I don't know how, I don't know when, but your perfect life is going down. Do you hear me? Down, down, down!"
A/N - Yeah, Kyle is back. Jerk.