July 1, 1936, London
Arthur Kirkland paced in his living room as doctors rushed to and from his bedroom. Curse those blasted in-home doctors! Yet she had repeatedly demanded not to go to a hospital. She had insisted on having as few people in the room as possible as she gave birth, insisting that Arthur stay in the living room, not wanting him to see her like that. Though he could hear her screams as clear as day.
His hands itched to open his bedroom door. He wanted to hold Mei's hand and tell her that everything will be okay. He wanted to assure her that nothing was going to wrong, which she had been so terrified of since the moment she had found out they would be getting a new addition.
Everything was like a blur. Arthur eventually drank a little rum to calm his nerves, which worked for a small while until the screams faded into the background. It was only when he heard a second, softer set of screams that the realization hit him. He was a father.
Mei's screams cut short moments later. They didn't fade. They didn't calm. They didn't quiet. They just stopped. Something was wrong.
Arthur was through that bedroom door within moments, still hearing the screams of the child, but looking wildly around for the mother. His eyes soon found her. His beautiful Mei was laying on the bed in a pool of blood. Her body was limp, eyes slightly opened but glazed over. Her chest neither rose nor fell.
He weakly stumbled over to her as if in a trance. "Mei," he mumbled to her, brushing his hand along her cheek. There was still some warmth, but he could feel the warmth leaving her body as his hand remained on her face. Arthur's emerald eyes filled with tears. This wasn't happening! This couldn't be happening! He was eighteen, for God's sake! He knew nothing about children!
The doctor stepped over behind Arthur. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland. There was nothing we could do. It was sudden and unexpected."
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. "Why?" he simply said, trying to control the fire of rage burning inside of him. "Why didn't you do anything for her?!" he shouted, whirling around on the doctor. "How the bloody hell could you have let this happen?!"
The doctor bowed his head. "There were more complications than you were aware of," he simply said. "Things she wished to remain secret." He took a deep breath and sighed. "She knew this would happen all along, yet didn't want you to worry. All she asked before the procedure was that you knew she loved you and that you take care of the child."
Arthur fell to his knees, screaming. The person he loved most in the world was now gone. The only person who could console him at a time like this was dead. His head felt like it would explode! Was this just a nightmare?
"Wake up!" he shouted at himself, clutching his head. "Wake up, Arthur!"
The doctor placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Mr. Kirkland, your late wife did leave you with a healthy son."
Arthur wiped away the tears he hadn't felt fall from in eyes. In fact, it wasn't just the tears he didn't feel. His entire body was numb. He felt nothing at all. His eyes went to the bundle of blankets in the in-home nurse's arms. "A son?" he asked.
The doctor helped him stand and ushered him out of the room and into an armchair. "Mr. Kirkland, would you like to hold him?"
"Yes," Arthur answered absently. He sat back in the chair, dazed. His eyes went to the newborn infant who was soon placed in his arms. The child's eyes were closed, but they were the same shape as Mei's. His hair was dark like hers. It put his stomach in a knot.
"Did you have a name for him?" the doctor softly asked Arthur. He stood next to them. "The late Mrs. Kirkland did mention names."
At the mention of Mei, Arthur nearly lost it and gripped his son tightly to him. He was all that was left of that beautiful Chinese goddess. His eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to accept the reality that she was gone now and had left him all alone with a little boy who looked too much like her. He felt his chest tighten and his heart sink into his gut.
"Mr. Kirkland, be careful," the doctor warned. "You don't want to hurt the baby."
Arthur's eyes opened. No. He couldn't hurt him. His gaze went to the sleeping child in his arms. "Leon," he softly said. "If it was a boy, we would have named him Leon Kirkland…"
The doctor looked at him. "So is that the name you choose?" he asked. Arthur absently nodded. "That's what we will put on the certificate then."
Arthur stared at the sleeping infant. "Leon," he softly said, looking at the child who looked more like his mother than his father. "Please don't leave me too."
.
Late January, 1942, London
Arthur stared down at the glass of rum in his hand. How many of these had he drank in the past hour? He raised his eyes to look around the pub where he usually drank the afternoons away while Leon was at school.
"Hey, Arty, how old's that kid of yours now?" the bartender asked him. "He must be getting up there in age by now, eh?"
Arthur stared at the bartender. "My name is Arthur," he corrected. "And he's five now. Will be six in a few months." He drank what was left of the rum in his glass and set the empty glass on the bar. "I need a refill."
"Honestly, you've had enough," the bartender said. "That would make seven today. You should get home. Your son will probably be coming home from school soon, you know. Shouldn't you be there to greet him?"
Arthur exhaled, almost laughed. "He's fine. That kid is very self-sufficient. Besides, his nanny is there. She's only off on Tuesdays."
The bartender let out a deep sigh. "Arthur, it is Tuesday."
"Oh really?" Arthur asked as if it were all news to him. His eyes widened a little. "And what time did you say it was, old chap?"
The bartender looked at the clock on the wall above the bar. "It is nearly four," he stated.
Arthur leaned heavily against the bar. Leon had been home alone for nearly an hour. "I should go," he quickly said, getting up from his usual bar stool. He stumbled to the door and left.
"Should someone help him?" a person at the bar cautiously asked, watching Arthur exit.
The bartender shook his head, rolling his eyes. "That poor, drunk bastard will be fine," he sighed. "He only lives next door. He should be fine."
Arthur burst through his front door, eyes taking in the front room. It was just as clean as he had left it. "Leon?" he called out, looking around. He stumbled down the hall and to the boy's room. His bedroom door was open, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. "Leon?" he called once more. He made his way to the living room and froze.
Leon sat at the coffee table, working on homework. His dark hair hung in his face as his left hand clutched his pencil. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he bit his lip, something Arthur had done when he was young.
Leon wasn't what had caused him to stop dead in his tracks in the doorway. It was the pair of blue eyes that watched him from the couch. The blue eyes that were behind a pair of wired-rimmed glasses. The man they belonged to was tall and blonde. He wore an American military uniform, yet his cap and jacket were placed neatly next to him on the couch.
Arthur felt his face flush in fury and embarrassment. Just who the bloody hell was this bloody American who sat on his bloody couch in his bloody living room?! And why was he even here?!
Leon looked up once the atmosphere changed in the room. "Daddy!" he cheerfully said, spotting Arthur. Anyone who looked at the child couldn't even tell there was a drop of English blood in him. He looked purely Chinese, but those who knew him knew that he had inherited his father's personality. He rose to his feet and ran to Arthur, hugging him.
"Leon, what have I told you about running in the flat?" he scolded, placing a hand on Leon's shoulder. He could barely bring himself to look at the boy half the time. He looked too much like Mei.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Leon responded, pulling away and looking at his feet.
Arthur's eyes flickered back to the blue-eyed man on the couch. He couldn't stand how the man's blonde hair stuck up in one place. It irritated him. He wanted to march across the room and flatten that one spot while demanding who he was and what he was doing in his bloody flat. But he stayed anchored to his spot on the floor. "Who is this?" he asked Leon, his gaze never leaving the man on the couch.
Leon smiled over at the man. "That's Private Jones of the US military!" he excitedly said. "He's all the way here from America to fight in the war!"
"That's all very well, but what is he doing in our flat?" Arthur asked tiredly. The rum was starting to go to his head by this point. He wanted the man to leave, but first he wanted to know what the man was doing spending time with his five-year-old son.
"I'll answer that one, little guy," the man, Private Jones, answered, standing up and walking over. He stuck out an eager hand, a broad smile on his face. "Alfred F. Jones at your service."
Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Arthur Kirkland. Pleasure to meet you," he muttered.
"He's a hero!" Leon exclaimed in excited awe.
"That still does not answer the previous question," Arthur sighed. He was getting very tired of this conversation and was close to just throwing his gentlemanly ways out the window and kicking that stupid American out.
Alfred looked closer at the British man. "Are you drunk?" he finally asked.
Arthur glared at the American. "That is none of your concern," he stated.
Alfred looked down at Leon. "But you have a child," he finally said.
Arthur had nearly had enough. "And what is your point there? You think I'm not aware of my own offspring?" If looks could kill… "Don't you have some important military obligations of some sort to tend to or something?" he coldly asked. "My son is none of your concern."
The American soldier furrowed his brow. "I did not mean to step on toes," he calmly stated. His Midwestern accent infuriated Arthur. The pronunciation was weird and he didn't like it. Alfred smiled down at Leon. "Be good, kiddo." He patted the small boy's head.
Leon grabbed Arthur's hand once Alfred had left the room. "Daddy, he was only helping me," he said. "Some of the kids from school were following me home and calling me names again."
Arthur's stomach tightened. He knew that Leon was bullied at school for being Chinese, the only child at the school who wasn't Caucasian. His jaw clenched. "What did he do then?"
"He told those kids to leave me alone," Leon said. "And then he walked home with me. When you weren't here, he said I shouldn't be by myself. I tried to tell him that I would be fine, but he told me a child my age shouldn't be home alone."
Arthur sighed. "Leon, I'm sorry that I wasn't home when you got home," he apologized. "I forgot what day it was."
Leon sighed. "You always do."
The British man looked down at his son. "Was he nice?"
The boy looked up at him. "Private Jones?" he asked. Arthur nodded. "He helped me with my homework. And he told me stories about where he's from."
Arthur raised his large eyebrows in surprise. "Oh?" he asked. He wondered if Alfred had left yet. "I supposed he can join us for dinner tonight if he's still here. I'd like to know more about this man."
Leon grinned widely and took off toward the front door. "Private Jones, wait!" he called loudly, causing Arthur to cringe. Too loud.
.
It was awkward at the table that night. Arthur and Leon didn't have guests often, but Alfred sat in the nanny's chair that night. Arthur had made soup that night and had sobered up by dinnertime.
Alfred took a bite and smiled. "This is actually pretty good," he admitted. "I'd heard rumors that British food was terrible, but this isn't bad at all."
Arthur had to bite his tongue to keep from saying what he really wanted to say. Instead, he replied with, "Oh, really? Thank you." Were all Americans this ignorant?
Alfred smiled. "No problem at all." He was taller than Arthur and rather muscular. Maybe that was a reason why Arthur hadn't said what was really on his mind the whole time Alfred had been around.
"If you don't mind me asking, just how old are you?" Arthur asked Alfred. He couldn't even guess, considering the fact that he was terrible with these sorts of things. That, and also the fact that Alfred may be bigger than Arthur but had a young-looking face.
"Oh, me?" Alfred asked.
Is there any other bloody American in this room?! Yes, you! Arthur bit his tongue to keep from saying it aloud, especially in front of a child. "Yes," he slowly said.
The American smiled proudly. "I'm nineteen years old," he stated as if that were the most important age. Arthur almost laughed at how arrogant he was about it. At that age, he already had a son, and was a widower… "What about you, Art?"
Arthur clenched his jaw at that dreadful nickname. "Arthur," he said through his teeth. He was quiet for a moment. "I am twenty-three."
Alfred blinked in surprise. "That old?" he asked, his eyes widening.
"I beg your pardon," Arthur scoffed.
Alfred shook his head. "It's nothing," he said. "Sorry." He finished eating. "Thank you kindly for your hospitality, Arthur," he said, grinning at him. "But I'm afraid I must be getting back to the base."
Leon frowned. "What? Already?" he whined.
Arthur shot Leon a look. "Leon," he warned. The boy shut his mouth.
Alfred noticed the exchange between the two. "Hey, maybe I'll see you again sometime, kid."
"Can he come back again sometime?" the boy asked his father, eyes pleading.
Arthur let out a sigh. "I don't see why not."
Leon smiled brightly. "Will you come back again soon?" he asked excitedly.
Alfred looked up at Arthur. His expression was strange and caused Arthur to look away awkwardly. The soldier smirked. "Yeah, I'll be back, Leon," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow, if I have the time."
Arthur forced a smile to his face. "Well, we hope to see you again tomorrow."
"I hope the food is as great as it was tonight," Alfred said with a smile. He put his hand up in a salute and grinned. "See you two again soon."
Arthur's stomach turned. "Until then," he said with a nod before seeing the American to the door.
.
Arthur sat on his usual barstool the next day. It was a quarter after one. Suddenly a person was sitting next to him. No one ever sat next to him. He glanced over and noticed Alfred. His stomach sunk and he nearly dropped his rum.
"Hey there, Arthur," Alfred greeted. "Thought I would find you here."
"H-How?" Arthur stammered.
"Closest pub," Alfred said, looking at the pub around them. "What are you drinking?"
Arthur eyed him over the glass as he took another sip. "Rum," he answered flatly.
Alfred made a face. "That doesn't sound the best." He called over the bartender. "Can I get a bourbon?" Arthur scoffed. "What?"
"You made that face at the mention of rum, yet you order that toxic stuff?" Arthur asked, amused. He shook his head. "I guess they really mean it when they say, 'Pick your poison'."
Alfred seemed almost amused. "Oh really now?" he asked.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're still a kid," he sighed. "You don't need this stuff."
The American stared at him. "Oh really? And what were you doing at my age?"
"Raising one." Arthur finished his glass of rum and set it on the bar.
Alfred looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. Instead he accepted the bourbon when it was handed to him and drank it. He placed his money on the bar and stood up. His expression looked hurt as he said, "You know, Leon's a good kid. Don't ignore him, because before you know it, he'll be all grown up." With that, he walked out of the pub.
Arthur glared after him. What did he know anyway? If that stupid American knew what was good for him, he'd keep his nose out of things that didn't concern him. Yet at the same time, the pained expression on his face made him wonder.
