Chapter 2 – Innocence and the First Fall
"My son, hear your father's instruction and do not forsake your mother's teaching." – Proverbs 1:8
Now – if the Vorlons intervened on my behalf because they were looking for a modern Messiah, a perfect sacrifice, then they were about to be sorely disappointed. Even if they envisioned me a driven man who would feel himself striving toward a bigger, better destiny all his life, a perfect soldier – I expect they spent most of my early life shaking their encounter-suited heads wondering if they'd made the right choice; wondering where they'd gone wrong.
And they wouldn't have been the only ones.
I had an unremarkable childhood. I was an average student, much to my father's chagrin. At 5 years of age, I broke my collarbone falling out of a tree. (Some 40 years later, it would be broken again… Dr. Franklin would remark in its repair that it appeared to be a re-fracture of an old wound; that it would not have been so brittle in the hands of my captors had it not suffered prior damage. Funny, that.)
When I was almost 7, my sister Lizzie was born – in December, three days before Christmas and entirely too close to my own birthday for my liking. Before her first birthday, I employed several techniques to attempt to get rid of her – early displays of my blossoming strategic planning skills that would eventually serve Earthforce – and the Vorlons – well.
Admittedly, at this early age I was definitely still honing those skills. My tactical strike attempts included: sending her down the drain in the bathtub; selling her to our elderly neighbors; feeding her to the dog; bargaining with the woman at the local thrift store; and good, old-fashioned prayer that she would just go away. I said several times in my career as a soldier that I do not believe in the undefeatable enemy, that everyone has a weakness; this has not always been true. At 7 years old, Enemy Number One was my baby sister, and as far as I could see, she had no weaknesses at all. (Truth be told, I'm glad I was unsuccessful. She turned out to be pretty OK, and I'd hate to think where I would've ended up if the woman at the thrift store had agreed to buy Lizzie for $2.50.)
At 8, I would write on a classroom survey that my favorite subject was recess. I had problems with attention span, concentration and focus, and it challenged and unnerved my teachers and parents alike. But never let it be said that I had no ambitions. Many years later, when I told my parents of the position that had been offered to me as President of the Interstellar Alliance, my mother, with much glee, produced an essay I had written at age 9 in which I declared that I was going to grow up to be "a detective, a mechanic and a professional baseball player." She shared this essay with Delenn – and I am proud to say the woman still married me, though she did advise me to "not quit your day job" and that she would hire a qualified Worker Caste Minbari to fix our flyers when they broke down.
When I was 11, my father was promoted and became a diplomatic envoy, and I, in turn, became a reckless brat. You've likely heard of Army Brats… it was like that, with a little extra edge of "and my daddy will fly me to Proxima and back over lunch" arrogance. The truth was that this job kept my father very busy, and where before my birth he spent extra time at his office to avoid his wife, he now wished with every fiber of his being he could spend less time with his work and more time with his family.
I sometimes think I know exactly how he must have felt. In those moments, usually late at night when I'm up to my ears in paperwork and I know David is waiting for me at home, I feel terrible for the way I treated my father. I hope he forgave me eventually for my behavior; and I try very hard in return not to begrudge my son his own moments of rebellion.
But that's now. That's after… everything. At 11 years of age, I rebelled in his absence. I'm not sure why. I think I was testing my mother's limits. When my father was home, I refused – with mounting confidence and vigor – to follow his rules. We began to fight. He had a temper, well hidden beneath his gentle exterior; it appeared I had inherited it.
At 12, I said, "I hate you."
I was a fool. On some level, it was a trait I would never outgrow. I didn't hate my father; that wasn't the problem. But we didn't know each other very well at all. What's worse? I realized about this time… that I had no idea exactly who I was.
"Johnny, your father's home!"
John heard the call come through the woods. He heard, he just didn't care. There was a difference. Besides, he was busy… and he had no great desire to go home when he knew he'd be greeted by a lecture.
His mother had likely told his father about the fight before she'd called for him, and now his father would make him sit in a chair while he yelled and screamed until he was blue in the face, at which point he would say "go to your room." John did not wish to be in his room. He was, as already stated, busy.
He'd been inspecting this tree every day for a week… yes, it was perfect. It grew just over the shallow ravine he'd been exploring for nearly a year, observing it in all its seasons, poking in every hidden nook and cranny. He met forest animals, most of which were not excited by his rambunctious presence, but they were always there when he came to visit, so he assumed they only scampered away a short distance to observe him, and that they took back their habitat the moment he was gone. He experimented with the echo of his voice off the trees above the ravine, and then… then, when he was certain there was nothing new in the ravine to be discovered or explored, he headed for those trees. He climbed the tall ones as high as he could, perching himself in the branches ten and twenty feet above the ground. He climbed them in the spring and the summer and the fall, and watched the leaves change from one day to the next. He imagined that he was a king, and everything below him – the ravine, the animals, the plants, the ground, everything – was his kingdom. He ruled the world from the branches of these trees.
In late fall, he began to form a plan in his little mind – a plan for an adventure in this little corner of the world of which he was king. He would mount an expedition to explore the sky as well.
The hardest part had been selecting the starting point for this expedition. It had taken a week of experimenting, but he'd finally found the perfect tree. It had one straight, sturdy branch that jutted out from the trunk lower than all the rest. If he shimmied up the trunk carefully, he could reach the branch just well enough to secure a rope around it – as he was doing right now – and tie a knot. It had to be a strong knot – John inspected his handiwork. He didn't know very much about knots at all, but he'd looped the rope around the branch at its strongest point three times, and then had tied four knots one on top of the other, until it was bigger than his fist. That had to be strong enough to hold his weight. With a resolute nod, he shimmied back down the tree trunk, one end of the rope in his hand.
From where the knot was tied, the rope would hang down over the ravine and dangle without touching the ground if he hadn't pulled it back to the side along with him. As it was, he could only hold the very end of the rope and still keep his feet on the ground. But that was fine – that was enough. It was enough that he could swing clear of the ravine, let go, and fall weightlessly for a few seconds before his feet came down on the other side of the ravine.
He glanced one more time up at the branch, giving the rope a tug. He nodded again to himself as the branch barely moved, and then, both hands wrapped around the rope, he took several steps back so that he could get a running start.
"John J. Sheridan, just what do you think you're doing?"
The bellow of his father's voice came from probably 30 yards behind him, near the edge of the woods. John paused for only the briefest of moments – long enough for David Sheridan to notice, to know his son had heard him. And then the boy took off running, rope in hand, face contorted with new determination and a hint of defiance. He yelped as he swung out over the ravine, hands wrapped around the rope like a lifeline. "Don't look down, John, don't look down," he whispered to himself, eyes clenched tight.
Like all of John's early strategic planning attempts, he had failed to think it all the way through to its end, and so he was not prepared for the rope to swing out over the ravine… and then much too quickly back in the direction from which he'd come, but not quite far enough to set him down firmly on the ground. And then out over the ravine again, and then back, then out… he heard the branch moaning under his weight. A look up and he could see it straining, bowing… it was only a matter of time before it snapped.
And he was suddenly very, very glad for his father's intrusion. "Dad?" He called out, eyes clenched tight again. He was still swinging like a pendulum, through his momentum had slowed considerably and he could tell that when he stopped – if he stopped before the branch broke – he'd be left dangling out over the ravine.
"Right here, John. I'm right here."
"I'm so sorry, Dad."
"It's OK, John. But you're going to have to let go."
"I can't!" He'd climbed up the rope in his effort to hang on – he was a good 15 feet, maybe more, above the ground. "I'm afraid!"
"That branch is going to break, and I can't come up and get you. You have to come down on your own."
"And you'll catch me?" He chanced opening his eyes just a little. There was his dad, standing calmly next to the tree, arms outstretched.
"I'll catch you."
John clutched the rope in both of his sweaty hands, heard the branch breaking slowly overhead. He looked up… and then back down at his father, who had positioned himself directly below John in the ravine. A momentary prayer that the older man would be more merciful than this tree in which he'd sought safety, and John let go of the rope.
He got his moment of weightlessness – about ten feet more than he'd bargained for – and his father's arms caught him securely, holding him for the briefest of moments before he put the boy on his feet.
Reality set in, then, as John felt the solidity of the ground beneath him. "I'm sorry."
Silence followed. David strolled ahead of his son, who refused to meet his eyes. He put his hands in the pockets of his fall jacket – it was getting a bit cold even for that as evening fell. The days were getting shorter and colder, as always happened this time of year. To be home early enough to catch a sunset in the woods with his son was a rarity these days, and he thought on that fact as he ventured to the edge of the ravine. "We need to have a talk, John." It was setting in for the boy, bit by bit, that his father hadn't called him Johnny since he'd ventured into the woods. And then he added, "Man to man," and John knew he'd never hear his father use that nickname again.
He'd never be Johnny again, not to his dad. Something had happened. A line had been crossed. His boyhood was fading. With a brave sigh that caused his thin shoulders to rise and fall, he ventured forward to stand beside his father at the edge of the ravine. Still, he couldn't look up to meet the older man's eyes. "OK." It came out in a much smaller voice than he intended.
"What you did was dangerous. If I hadn't been here, you could've fallen into the ravine. You could've broken a leg or an arm… or worse." The last two words came in quieter, and David brought a firm arm around his son's shoulders, pulling him against his hip. "I should be very upset with you."
"I know."
"But as it is, I'm just glad you're OK." He bent down, squatted in front of John and lifted the boy's chin on one finger. "But don't you ever, ever do anything this foolish again, do you hear me?"
"Yes Sir." John was trying to assert himself, but his voice would only come out in the quiet, reserved tone he used to respond when he knew he was in trouble. That's what this was. It was trouble. There was always trouble when grownups wanted to "talk."
A nod from David and he sat down on the edge of the ravine, patting the spot beside him. John hesitated a moment before taking it, and father and son looked out toward the sunset together in silence.
"Your mother told me about the fight."
John had known this was coming. His defenses went up immediately. "Hadley always gives me his orange from his lunch. Today said no and he gave it to Shelly. A girl." He said the word with contempt, hoping his father would understand the sticking point.
"And so you hit him."
"Yes."
Another long silence. John hated when his father was so quiet. Nothing good ever came of it. "Oh, John," he sighed finally. It sounded almost as if he was giving up, and he brought a firm hand down to pat his son's shoulder. "It was wrong."
"But he—"
"No. No excuses. What you did was wrong." A pause, brow furrowed in thought. "You said Hadley always gives you his orange?"
"Yes." John nodded feverishly. He wasn't sure why his father had asked that, but it seemed they were still in the negotiating phase – they hadn't reached the handing down of the sentence, and so anything that seemed favorable, John would readily agree to.
"Why?"
"Because I like oranges." It seemed an obvious point to John, but he knew better than to say so outright – though he was sure he failed to keep it out of his tone. "And his mom always packs him one. I eat his orange and he does my math homework."
"That doesn't sound like a very fair trade."
John had the sense that this negotiation was not going very well, so he went for his last-ditch effort. He sniffled, lowered his eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Me too, Boy." David sighed heavily and pulled his son closer, hugging him to his chest with one arm and bracing the other behind his body. "Me too." A long, sad silence and John felt again that something between them was changing. Still, his father's next words were the last thing he expected to hear. "You're a bully, John."
"I am not." John couldn't keep the indignant tone out of his voice. He wrenched out of the hug and looked at his father with angry eyes.
The look was returned in kind, and David had had 30 more years than John to perfect it. Still, John didn't shy away. "You hit a boy in the school cafeteria over a fruit. You're a bully. And I… I feel like I'm somehow responsible." Another heavy sigh from the elder Sheridan. "You're not a little kid anymore, John, and I think there's some things about growing up, some things about being a man, that I haven't been teaching you very well." John said nothing. He stared at his father, uncertain of what to say or where this was going. "So I'm going to try to do a better job at that. And the very first thing… the very, very first thing I want you to learn from me about being a man is that you don't start fights. Ever."
"But he—"
David held up a single finger to silence his son, and as with all fathers and their sons, it was the ultimate stealth power move. John closed his mouth. "You started that fight, and tomorrow you will apologize to Hadley, and you will not take his orange, and you will do your own math homework from now on. Starting tonight – and every night, for as long as it takes – you and I will do your math homework together. And from this day forward, wherever your life takes you, remember this. You never start a fight. Not with Hadley, not with your wife, when you have a wife, not even if it seems the other guy is mighty deserving of a good left hook. You never start a fight."
Now it was John's turn to take a long, pensive silence, and his father allowed it, watching the boy carefully. "What if someone else… starts a fight with me?" came the eventual response.
"Well then." There was a bit of laughter behind David's tone, and he rubbed where goosebumps were appearing on his son's right arm. "That's the other part of this lesson. You never start a fight… but if someone else strikes first, you always… always finish it."
More silence. Finally, "OK." And John looked up to find his father smiling down at him. He smiled back.
"Good." A playful hand ruffled the boy's hair, which had in recent years turned slowly from blond to brown, another sign that he was surely aging out of childhood. "You're still grounded, though."
"But—"
The one-finger silencer again, and John sighed as his father handed down his sentence. "One week for the fight," he said, "And another for this stunt with the rope – and for ignoring your mother when she called for you."
"Two weeks?"
"Plenty of time for me to teach you things. Plenty of time for you to think on them." Another ruffle of John's hair. "Come on. Let's go home."
