Chapter II: 108 Pack And Flock

Here.

The sounds coming from the kitchen tell me immediately that it's Saturday morning. Furthermore, they tell me that my Mother is awake and that she's fixing breakfast. Breakfast smells wonderful as ever when it's her cooking. There are other sounds, though they're slightly more distant, blending and bleeding into the noise of meat frying on the stove. It takes me a second or so to place these other noises: they are the sounds of my Father. My Father who is humming to himself and walking over to me to check if I'm awake. I recognize the tune very dimly as a song that's been on the radio a few times before. It must have gotten lodged in his brain.

As he gets nearer, I almost consider faking sleep, just so that he'll let me lie in for a few more minutes. I don't really feel like waking up, because waking up means doing chores and homework, but something about the sound of his voice – something in the cadence of his voice makes me decide otherwise and I open my eyes, head turning to where I believe he is.

His tail trails the ground, as his half-open eyes peer down my way. "Hey," he says – his slow drawl making the word sound longer than it really is. "It's good to see you're awake." His paws are stuffed into his pockets. He looks completely relaxed.

This particular pose: tail dragging, eyes half-lidded, paws in pockets – this is one of his favourites. I've seen him slouched just so against a wall as he shares a tall tale or two with a friend. But, more importantly, it's his "I've got a little secret" pose. Sitting up in bed, my ears prick forward as I watch him grab a chair. Carefully – fluidly – he turns the chair so that he can rest his arms along the backrest, those lazy eyes taking me in. "I think I maybe found a place," he says.

And I know exactly what he means. My eyes go wide at this bit of news. We're sharing a secret. A secret that Mom maybe suspects, but doesn't really know about.

"If you do your chores and you finish your homework, I can show you, but..."

I groan and flop back into bed, dramatically. That bargain. But he's always good to his word and in a second, the bargain is forgotten as I shoot up again, sitting bolt upright, curious.

"Where is it?"

He shakes his head and smiles, that infectious grin turning to laughter – a warm, gentle rumble that fills the room – before he answers:

"You think I'm a pushover and I'm just going to give you information like that at the drop of a hat?"

I nod. That's exactly what I think.

"Naw," he says, shaking his head, "it doesn't work like that. Chores and homework. Deal?"

"Yessir!" I reply, my belly feeling a pleasant sort of warmth at sharing this secret with my Dad.

Here.

I know the house. I know the people. I know exactly which floorboards creak and which doors are easy to sneak out of at night. I know the neighbours and the streets. I know the secret pathways that will get me to school faster if I'm late. I even – though I shouldn't – know where my Father keeps his stash of cigars.

A part of me – a phantom part that's viewing this all as a kaleidoscope of memory – doesn't trust what's happening here. That part of me pushes against the gauzy fabric of time, leaving ghostly impressions.

I...know what day it is.

Exactly what day it is.

And adult me – the part that remembers this – has a bowling ball in my stomach. This is where it all begins. This is exactly the point where my father – for want of a better term – starts being pummeled and crushed by the city he loved so very much. The colourful, vibrant place that he wanted to offer himself to.

I want to warn him. Reach through the shrouded fog of decades and attempt to steer him on a different course. But it's just like a movie and he will never hear me. He will never take the advice I have to offer, because this is a memory.

It starts off happy and then…

Well. Let's just say it doesn't have a good ending.

The day drags.

I wash dishes. I sweep floors. I do Arithmetic homework and study history for a test I have on Monday morning. I don't plead with my Mother to let me go, because my Father is here, too. Doing his fair share. We're not well off and many paws make light work.

That tune he was humming turns into a whistle as we hang wet clothes outside on the line, and all the while I try to goad him into telling me about the place that he's found, but my father's a firm believer in the long game. He is all about show and not tell. Which, I suppose, is why he's such a good tailor.

He listens to you, hears what you want him to hear, then understands and without too many words, he will take that understanding and turn it into a fine dress, or a beautiful suit. One that – with minor alterations – always seems to fit the occasion and the mammal it's for perfectly. Back when I was still learning from him, He explained it as something akin to observing the substance of the mammal you're listening to. Seeing through them and seeing exactly the things they're longing for, and that's the moment where you can line up material, find the perfect pattern and discern the combination of colours.

It all sounds like pseudo mysticism to me but there must be something to it, because often a customer that came in for a wedding comes in five years later asking for a first school outfit for a son or a daughter, or maybe they're just looking to renew their vows, or maybe they just enjoy well-made clothing.

The problem is that my Father has outgrown his little store out in Fox Hollow and it's time to find somewhere bigger to ply his trade and the only place that will really do is Zootopia, and this is where my Father's secret comes in. He hasn't told Mom, yet. But soon…

Lunch comes and goes – a ritual of togetherness for us – and almost right after, Mom tasks Dad with going to get the groceries. There are social rounds to be made, cubs and kits to be admired, gossip to catch up on. Mom's certainly earned her reprieve and Dad just smiles a lazy smile, his tail flitting to and fro as he puts his paw behind the back of my head, ushering me to my room so that I can go and get a coat.

It's time.

The day blurs by.

It feels like seconds between waking up and being on the train. Instants rushing by as my Father escorts me from the station. Memory serves me well: this is a trip that takes half an hour. As we sit opposite each other, Tundra Town goes by in a vague, white blur as, at long last, his day-long silence turns to animated laughter while he attempts to describe the location of the place he's found. He tries going into detail, telling me about the mammals and the sights and the sounds. But I can't help myself. There are so many questions. Eventually, he gets me to be still and I feel like I'm right there with him as he has the revelation about the building. This One True Place.

It is on the corner of Pack Street and Flock Street.

My Father, at this point, can no longer really contain his enthusiasm. Me? I'm a little skeptical. The building looks ancient. Run down, even. I can't exactly see what he sees in it. I tip my head from one side to the other, ears following suit. I walk up and down the street a little way to see if – maybe – he has somehow confused this building with some other building. But no. This is the only one with a red and white For Sale sign in the shop window.

It is also 108. Exactly like my Father described it.

Stairs, railing, facade and all.

My Father must see my skepticism, because his enthusiasm wanes a little. His eyes betraying his confusion. Surely I must see the greatness that he sees?

He is momentarily flummoxed, at a loss for what to do to get his idea across to me, but then that grin of his shows up again, and that pose is struck. He has me on a string and he knows it.

He steps forward, slow as you please, his fingers tugging out something white and small. A little tube? My head tips again, staring at him as he hides what he's doing from me for a moment. I stare up. I can make out the word "tailoring."

He's writing again, but lower down this time, his body all-but-obscuring the words. It takes a few seconds for him to shift away, revealing our surname scrawled across the glass. "Wilde." A pause. A plus sign. Another pause. He's absolutely drawing this out for all it's worth. Then, three simple letters. "Son."

He turns to me, his eyes no longer bewildered. Instead, they are full of fierce, simple pride, and I get it. I completely do. This place is a place for us.

Here.

This building.

108 Pack and Flock.

Time slows down and I stare at it for what seems like hours. My body trembling like a leaf. I am wound tight – wound like a spring. My Father is looking at this building and he doesn't know what it means. Doesn't understand the significance of what he is seeing. But I do.

And I am powerless to stop it.

Powerless to prevent him from losing himself.

Here.