Disclaimer: I do not own "Falling Skies."
A Good Man
If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear it—the clink of wine glasses and tinkling of women's laughter drifting along the wood-paneled hallway from kitchen. If he inhaled deep enough, maybe—just maybe—he could even smell the pot roast from that night as it was pulled from the oven. Then Mr. Simmons would make a joke laced with anxiety and ringing of half-truth about his wife being the best cook as they "adjourned" to the dining hall, leaving him to stand with his glass of scotch that was proffered to him by the man as he looked at the painting hanging over the mantel for a moment longer.
Almost glaringly vivid with stark color that he had lain laboriously upon the canvas for days to reach the right or rather overwhelmingly thick consistency, he had tilted his head, trying to see what Mr. Simmons and his wife Jennet had seen in the piece the week before as they cut him a check after the gala. He wondered what his own wife had seen in it as she suggested putting the piece in the show at all. It had been an exercise—not his best work by far, but yet, it was the piece that had sold when the other dozen had not. Out of irony or bad taste, Lee Glass had no idea, but that did not matter because there would not be any adjourning to the dining room or awkward small talk and not even pot roast or even his wife, Anne's, secret smile, reminding him to be nice as they sat opposite each other and broke bread with the lovely Mr. and Mrs. Simmons.
There was only dust, lying thicker than the gobs of paint on the canvas as it covered every surface of every room of the house. The house's days of glory were long gone, having passed six months ago when the sky fell, and even the manicured lawn outside had nearly all but been reclaimed by plant life. It was not a surprise to find the Simmons long gone either, and Lee knew they were dead most likely. Of the four people that had dined on pot roast that night, Lee was the only one standing, and he stared harder at the offending painting as he thought of Anne. He reached up and ran his finger upon the stroke of black paint barely visible in the frame that represented her, and he smiled wryly as he remembered why he never held a fondness for the painting.
He had lied when he told her who it was, claiming it to be the two of them, and the cover had worked since they indeed had walked down the lane lined with trees and bright lights at night often. It was just around the corner from their apartment and leading to the park that they frequented with Sam in tow. In reality, it was Anne and her father, talking to her in whispered tones as once again he tried to convince her to leave him as he did every time he visited. He was beneath her—a painter and an art teacher by day just to have a source of income that would never compare to her salary as a pediatrician. To her father, he was a joke, and Lee realized the man had finally gotten what he had desired for so many years.
Anne had left him.
She had loved him every day until then, and sometimes late at night, Lee believed he could still feel her arms snake up around his neck. He longed more than anything to open his eyes and find her brown eyes, bright and loving, staring at him. Instead, he had Sam's identical eyes staring at him warily as the first days had seeped into months. The more time passed, the more often Lee found himself withdrawing from his own son, wondering if his father-in-law had been right all along. He was not good enough for Anne—not good enough for his own son, wondering why Anne had ever chosen him to begin with.
"You bailing?" The question startled Lee as he turned to face the intruder upon his thoughts.
Instead of one intruder though, he found an entire group of them, standing nonchalantly as they faced him and looking every bit out of place next to the wainscoting. Their assault rifles and utility knives coupled with their resigned expressions and clenched jaws were a far cry from the Simmons' pleasant demeanors. The man who had spoken, Tom Mason, fidgeted with a crystal glass that he observed, having picked it up from the parlor's bar as he moved closer to Lee. The others did well to keep their mouths shut respectfully, and even though he was expected to answer, Lee kept his mouth shut as well, simply turning back to the painting.
"It's nice," Tom commented, glancing between the painting and Lee.
"Thanks," Lee murmured, and he caught the realization spread across the man's face.
"You're a painter."
"I was," Lee shrugged.
"And now?" Lee ignored the question, and Tom explained. "We saw you duck out of the mass…left Sam with Uncle Scott and Aunt Kate."
"He looks like her," Lee admitted in a shuddering breath. "My wife Anne, she was a pediatrician…she was at the clinic…downtown."
Tom nodded and swallowed hard, "Downtown took quite the brunt of it."
Lee turned to face Tom, snorting in dry amusement, "You know the last man to stand there was all about pleasantries as well…of course he did offer me a drink first."
"Suit yourself," Tom shook his head and walked away.
The others near the door took that as their cue to disband, and Lee watched his group made up of men that had covered his back as he covered theirs silently walk away. Tom lingered momentarily after the door was shut, and Lee looked back to the painting, waiting for him to leave as well. However, the door never opened, and he heard the scuffle of Tom's shoes. Lee stared at the painting though, thinking upon his failures. Not a breadwinner, not an intellect, a man that could barely look at his son—he sighed to remember Sam's arms wrapped around his neck like Anne's would as he saved his son that fateful day.
"It'll pass," Tom spoke suddenly, exhaling loudly, and if Lee dared to look, he knew he would find the man's eyes threatening to glaze over with tears.
"She always stayed," Lee shook his head in confusion. "I had nothing to offer her—not then and not now to him…"
"Nothing to offer?" Tom protested, shaking his head. "I've seen the way he runs to you every time we return. He loves you, and I know she loved you as well."
"You can't possibly know that," Lee countered.
"I can…You're standing here. Aren't you?"
"Because this is where I should be," Lee explained. "It should have been me not her. She was beautiful. She was everything…Sam needs her—not me."
"Sometimes, I nearly convince myself of the same thing," Tom said, and Lee turned to face the man, curiously seeing him face his own demons. "After…after I lost my Rebecca, I held the gun to my head for hours. She was better at this than me—better with the boys…She knew how to make everything good."
"Why didn't you pull the trigger?"
Tom stared at him, gesturing at the gun Lee had all but forgotten was in his right hand, "The same reason you haven't. You were a good husband Lee—a good father. You still are. Good husbands, good fathers—they don't give up. They don't fail their families."
"Good husbands and fathers don't need to have another man talk them out of their own death."
"Then by that standard, I'm guilty," Tom nodded solemnly, and Lee eyed the man suspiciously.
He had seen the man with his two sons and heard his promise to them in the quiet of the night to avenge his wife and find his third, lost son. Tom Mason was a good man—a better one than he. He had no idea what it was to fail his family and want nothing more than to leave the world behind if it should bring some justice however insignificant to the world.
"It was Porter," Tom admitted, and Lee had no choice but to believe the man because good men did not lie.
"And you're it for me?" Lee laughed.
"Yes," Tom nodded resolutely.
Feeling his finger wriggle over the trigger before falling away entirely, Lee pulled his eyes away from the painting and opened the clip, staring at the single bullet before pulling the others from his pocket and replacing them in their proper spots. Tom watched, and Lee closed his eyes, feeling Anne's soft hand over his as he slid the clip back in. He could do this. Perhaps, he considered; he always had. Every day he had awoken to find his wife's beautiful face nudged close to his, and every night he had kissed his son's head, pulling the airplane comforter close to his chin as the little boy yawned widely.
He had been the luckiest man in the world, and thinking of Sam, his little souvenir from what had been, he realized he still was. Perhaps, there was truth to Tom's declaration. Perhaps, there was fault in his and his father-in-law's perception of himself. He did not entirely know, but whatever the truth, he had the power to be who he wanted to be today. He had the power to step away from the doubt that was afforded him by the painting, and with Anne's gentle hand in his as always, Lee vowed to not fail his son. He vowed to no longer torture himself. He vowed to not let Anne's death be in vain. He vowed the same promise to Sam that he had vowed to Anne though her father had never agreed he was worthy—forever. He vowed for forever to love him as he had her.
He followed Tom from the house, and in a block, they caught up to the mass that had never noticed his desertion or Tom's absence other than their own fighter group that paid them a brief nod of acknowledgment. Before stepping forward, Lee held his hand out to Tom who shook it in understanding. No words were exchanged, but the message of gratitude was understood by both before Lee stepped forward, leaving the man in his wake.
He found the object of his search exactly where he should be—tucked securely into the back seat of Uncle Scott and Aunt Kate's station wagon, and Lee slowed his pace to fall in line with the crawl of the vehicle. Sam sat quietly at first, unnoticing of his presence as he flipped the pages of a children's book, and with pride, Lee watched Sam's little finger run across the words until the very last page. The boy closed the book and turned his head, bringing his eyes to meet his father's.
Sam simply stared before throwing him a half-hearted smiled and raising his hands up to the glass and blowing a kiss between them with his cheeks puffed up before pulling back and giggling. Lee laughed in response before knocking on the window, earning his son's laughter as he rolled down the window. Lee claimed his son's chubby hand in his, holding it simply as they moved forward along with the mass. The little boy rested his chin on their clasped hands as he looked up to meet Lee's eyes, and Lee smiled down upon his son.
His child had suffered through so much already, and Lee berated himself for even thinking that he could abandon his little boy. He could still see the question, the fear and sadness, lingering in Sam's eyes, and he knew that Tom had been right. Good husbands and good fathers never gave up. They never pulled the trigger. They may have their weaknesses—their moments of overwhelming pain that blighted out reason, but they always moved forward, vowing to not be the one who transgressed upon their family's happiness and protecting them from those who did.
"I saw you leave," Sam said suddenly, and Lee's heart clenched.
"You did?" He asked, feeling the guilt wring his self.
His son nodded, "You came back."
"I did," Lee confirmed with a sad smile.
"Why did you go without telling me?" Sam asked with his little eyebrows furrowed, and Lee replied, knowing in his heart that it was the truth.
"Because I was coming right back."