Chapter 1: Fourteen
Alistair Fitz entered the house through the front door. He was 14 years old and had just come home from school. He knew that his mother, Guinevere, would be at work still, and she would remain there until later in the evening. Hopefully she wasn't working a night shift. He didn't see his father, Samuel, but knew that he would probably be sitting upstairs watching TV or sleeping. Useless, as usual.
Alistair went into the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge, although he already knew what he expected to find. Empty. He rummaged through the cabinets, but nothing to munch on there either, unless he felt like just eating ground pepper.
He decided that he could wait until dinner and went to his room in the basement to do homework. He preferred staying in the basement to the rest of his house because it allowed him to forget that the rest of the house existed for a little while. He could forget the broken door hinges, the empty kitchen, his absent mother, his useless father, everything.
After a few hours, he heard the doorbell ring. He heard his father's footsteps go to answer the door and when he heard the voice of the person at the door, he knew he shouldn't listen in on the conversation. He'd almost surely end up doing something that he would regret. The man at the door was Martin, his father's financial advisor. Alistair had forgotten that Martin would be coming today. Or maybe he had just repressed the memory. Anyways, there was no point in overhearing this conversation. He knew that their finances were in complete and utter turmoil. His father never had enough money to support the family and borrowed loans from all kinds of people with no way of ever paying them back. Yet from what Alistair could see, and he saw a lot for his age, his father never took on extra jobs and he never worked harder at a job he did have to try and get promotions. His father seemed content to stay exactly where he was in the world while his family barely scraped by. Samuel was a gentle man who believed that it was enough to be kind to people in order to receive something in return. He didn't have the harsh strength necessary to pull himself up in anything, let alone a workplace or career.
By now, his father would be groveling, begging for some way to make everything work. Just the thought made Alistair want to punch something. "I'm doing the best I can!" Samuel had once said to Alistair and his mother. But as Guinevere comforted his father, telling him that she knew that and it wasn't his fault, Alistair had glared at his father in resentment. Not his fault? It wasn't his father's fault that his mother had to work two jobs with incredibly long hours so that they could keep the house and put food on the table? It wasn't his father's fault that Alistair had no college fund to speak of and would have to scramble for even the chance to go to university? It wasn't his father's fault that Alistair had already been working for a year, even though he was technically too young? Everything was his father's fault.
Martin didn't stay long. Alistair wasn't entirely sure why he still came, but Martin was still a friend of Samuel's, so maybe he felt obliged to give some kind of support. He knew better than to loan money, but he could watch Samuel cry and pat his back or something. Alistair didn't care much, but sometimes he felt like Martin knew the truth about Samuel too: Samuel was just too lazy to do anything about his finances.
After Martin left, Samuel remained in the living room. He played his old ukulele, as he did every day. Many times, he would play it in the square, trying to earn some money as a street musician. Alistair knew, though, that a good portion of the money he made that way would soon be spent on alcohol. Samuel took 'you only live once' very seriously. So most of the time he decided to enjoy himself in the present, forgetting each time that there would be a future that would catch up with him.
Dinner that night consisted of Chinese takeout that Guinevere had picked up on her way home. The table was quiet, save for the occasional noises of cutlery scraping against the containers. Guinevere knew about the meeting with Martin, but she didn't have any advice either. There was nothing she could say or do.
Finally, Samuel broke the silence. "Look, I know that you're not happy with me…"
Alistair looked up at him, glaring with fury and Samuel broke off, almost looking scared at the raw anger shown in his son. "Not happy? NOT HAPPY? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE FOR US?" Alistair was on his feet now, unable to contain his rage. "Do you have ANY idea what it's like for us while you SIT AROUND and play your stupid UKULELE?" He tried to calm his voice down, wanting to make sure that his father heard and understood each and every word he was about to say. "Ever since I was a kid, you've been telling me that if I don't ruffle people's feathers, they'll like me and they'll help me. You said that the best way to be successful is to be kind. You said that if you pray for something and you don't do anything wrong, you will be handed success. So…HOW HAS IT WORKED OUT FOR YOU?"
He stared long and hard at his father, but Samuel wouldn't even meet his eyes. "WELL? Oh, come on. How has it worked out for you? Are you successful? Do you live happily? Do we live happily? What has your entire life of 'gentleness' led up to? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You have nothing to give now, you'll have nothing to give later, you won't have anything to give even after you die."
He was about to turn and walk away, having given up on his father, when Samuel said sadly, "I suppose you're more of a man than I ever was. You have a strong will and a proud heart. You will survive failure. You won't find despair. You won't have time for despair. You're going to make something of yourself, Alistair."
Alistair didn't look at him, and when his father had finished speaking he simply walked away. His father's words, rather than making him feel even a bit closer to his father or more sympathetic, had actually made him feel more angry. His father hadn't said anything that he didn't already know. He was just irritated that his father knew it too and, rather than using the ideas to make himself stronger and more useful, he just used it to talk some more.