Chapter 3: Dark Side of the Force

"Where is your jacket?"

Jim raised a brow. Well this was not happy-go-lucky Wendy from this morning.

"So how was school?" he sarcastically asked.

"Terrible!" Wendy marched through the snow. Her boots crunched with every step. "I got detention!"

"Really?" Jim considered congratulating her. Wendy was a stickler for rules, which clashed with Jim's belief that he was above them. "No wonder you didn't show at Pirate's Point. Mom was freaking out. She sent me to find you."

"Why?"

"She wants to talk to your dad. Remember -?" Jim mimed a lightsaber blow. "Star Wars?"

Wendy clicked her tongue, irritated that she still didn't understand the Star Wars references. "I certainly do."

Jim extinguished his imaginary lightsaber. "So what's wrong?"

"What's wrong with what?"

"You're in a bad mood." Jim swerved to avoid a line of carolers. "That part back there where you bit my head off? Kinda a red flag. So what's wrong?"

"Well for one thing –" Wendy eyed his hoodie. "You're not wearing a proper jacket."

Wryly, Jim raised his hands. "Wearing the mittens."

"Congrat-ulations, Mr. Hawkins!"

"Okay, Jesus Wen!" Safely in the outskirts of Center-Point, Jim spoke firmer. "So you got a detention, big deal. Quit freaking out. God you're acting like a girl."

Wendy mumbled darkly – something derisive about 'not looking like a girl.'

Jim frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Just – " Wendy paused. Inhaling a gallon of cold air, she flicked her hands. "Nothing. I am fine. Completely, perfectly, fine. After all...he's just a silly boy."

"Wen - what?" Jim said.

"Nothing." Wendy wiped her nose. Jim noticed that it was pink. A pink nose wasn't unusual, especially in the cold, but he became suspicious as Wendy attempted to hide a sniffle.

"Nothing at all." With a big huff, Wendy recalibrated her emotions. "I'm sorry Jim."

Jim regarded Wendy. He glanced back at the school. Students loitered on the castle steps, but they were too far away to discern.

"You sure you're okay?" Jim asked, striding alongside Wendy.

"Yes." Wendy said.

"Back from the Dark Side of the Force?"

"I don't know what that means."

"Don't worry. You will – Star Wars."

"Oh. Yes."

Jim slung his hands inside his hoodie pouch.

"Anybody you want me to beat up?"

Amused, Wendy snuffed. "Not this close to Christmas."

Jim grunted. "I think my juvie record might qualify for the naughty list anyway."

They laughed. Spirits lifted. And as they approached her house, Wendy remembered Ariel's note.

"I told a girl in my class about your lightsaber." Wendy handed Jim the crumpled snowflake. "She wants to see it."

Jim read the note. At first he was emotionless, eyes tickering back and forth like a typewriter. Then, his mouth twitched. He hmphed, which was his closest attempt to laughter.

"What?" Wendy asked.

"Funny."

"What's funny?"

"This girl. What type of batteries does she run on?"

Wendy reassessed Ariel's note. Although she didn't think it was nice for Jim to call Ariel funny, she could understand his comment - Ariel's penmanship practically danced off the paper.

"I suppose she's rather energetic." Wendy admitted, "But I don't know her that well, actually."

"Why not?"

"Why not?"

"Yeah. She seems cool. She likes Star Wars. Plus – she knows what a purple lightsaber means."

"What does it mean?"

"It means the jedi draws from the light and dark sides of the Force."

"Force?"

"Wen – " Jim flipped the snowflake, reading the post script. "You really gotta watch Star Wars. What's the dance?"

Fleetingly, Wendy's butterflies reemerged. "Dance?"

"Yeah." Jim displayed the snowflake. Wendy squint. On the underside, she read Ariel's post script

p.s. You should totally take Wendy to the dance on xmas eve! Bring your lightsaber! Bye!

If she could, Wendy would have drizzled into the snow.

"I – I - " Bright red, she ducked up the walkway and into her home. "I don't know! But it sounds silly and I don't want to go. Come along – my father and your mother are inside!"

Jim crinkled the snowflake. "Wen – "

"Did you want me to watch Star Wars or not? Hurry up!"

Jim lowered the paper snowflake. Smoothing the cutout edges, he ran a thumb over the girl's signature.

"Ariel..." Jim folded the snowflake inside his hoodie pouch. Hunching after Wendy he murmured. "Cool name."

... ... ...

"Detention, young lady? Detention?"

Sarah Hawkins literally bit her tongue. Withholding a reproof that would have cracked George Darling's glasses, she ushered Jim to the adjacent room as Wendy was scolded.

"In here, Jim."

Jim resisted, eyes on Wendy. "I don't have to – "

"Jim." Sarah steered her son through the doorway. "In here. Give them privacy."

Jim untangled himself. Sourly, he retreated to the living room rocker. "I can still hear them."

Sarah frowned, but as she began a reprimand of her own, John Darling (Wendy's nine year old brother) entered with Michael. Michael was two. John looked flustered.

"He's crying." John stroked Michael's little head. "He won't stop. Where's Wendy?"

Jim glared. "That's not her job."

"Jim." Casting daggers, Sarah passed Jim and swept Michael into her arms. Magically, he stopped crying. Sarah smiled – mother scent. Piece of cake.

John seated himself on the canapé, opposite Jim. After scrutinizing each other like scientists, Jim glowered and John departed, clearly with unfavorable opinions.

"Jim." Sarah bounced Michael on her knee. She leaned as Michael played with her locket. "You lighten up, right now. Lose the attitude or we are going home."

Jim huddled into his hoodie. "Whatever."

Sarah's eyes flashed. "James Pleiades Haw – "

THUD. Both Jim and Sarah jumped. Inside the kitchen, Wendy whimpered.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Thud. Thud again. Again Wendy whimpered as her father berated. "Sorry's are poppycock in a crock pot! They do nothing but stew! Young lady I am mortified! Threatening children in school with – with a watcha-ma-goo? A – "

-shuffling of papers –

"What the devil is a lightsaber?"

Sarah rounded on Jim. Jim looked moderately pleased.

"Jim." Sarah hissed.

"Wendy Darling!" Mr. Darling reproved from the kitchen. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"...I'm sorry."

THUD.

Sarah shifted. Manners aside, she spied. Wendy was sitting with her head down and hands tucked under her legs. Although she wasn't crying, she flinched every time her father thud a glass on the table.

"Sorry's—"

Thud.

"Don't—"

Thud.

"Change – "

Thud.

"What – you've – done!" Mr. Darling scolded. "Sorry's don't change the past! Sorry's don't make it better! Sorry's don't...bring back to life..."

Sarah clenched Michael. Although the baby did not understand, she covered his ears, wishing she could do the same for Wendy. George had alluded to Mary – Wendy's mother. Mary Darling had been murdered only a year prior, and the hurt was still unhealed. Especially for George.

"Wendy Moria Angela Darling..." Mr. Darling spoke through blood-shot eyes. "I am ashamed of you. Absolutely ashamed. Detention? Ashamed. Do you think a detention should be rewarded with a special sleepover?"

"...no."

"Don't mumble. Speak so I can hear you."

"No."

"No. Neither do I. Young lady – I am ashamed. Your mother...would be ashamed."

They could hear Wendy's heart break.

Jim rose from his chair. Sarah intercepted.

"Jim, you sit. Stay there." Hefting Michael, Sarah entered the kitchen. "George. Sorry to interrupt. But Michael needs changing. Wendy – honey maybe you could help out while I speak with your father?"

Wendy waited for her father.

"Go." Mr. Darling said. "Up to your room. Take Michael with you. Go on."

"Father...I'm sorry..."

"Go."

Shamefaced Wendy retreated. Carrying Michael, she hurried upstairs.

Jim immediately followed.

"Jim." Sarah called. "Jim – "

Jim disappeared, ignoring her warning. As Wendy's door shut, Mr. Darling slumped into his chair.

"Can't you control that vagabond?"

Sarah pulled a chair. Twisting the glass from Mr. Darling's hand, she smelled.

"Alcohol, George?"

Mr. Darling straightened. Cattily he took the glass. "Shouldn't you be leaving? With your son?"

"Shouldn't you be trying to comfort your daughter?" Sarah retorted as Mr. Darling crossed to the sink. "Instead of belittling her with Mary's memory?"

Mr. Darling stopped. Standing over the sink, he choked.

"Get out. Leave my home."

"This is a house George." Sarah motioned to the barren walls. "Not a home. No Christmas decorations? No presents? No music? No tree?"

"My children will be spending Christmas with their great uncle." Mr. Darling opened the cupboard. He fumbled for the aspirin – nestled beside a bottle of whiskey. "My relative Georges Hautcourt. He is a well positioned lawyer for that retired opera singer Madame Adelaide Bonfamille. My children will have Christmas there."

"And you will be?"

Mr. Darling replaced the aspirin. His fingers traced the whiskey bottle.

"With Mary."

With Mary. The cemetery.

Sarah was sympathetic: but she met Mr. Darling with a steely gaze. George Darling had loved his wife unconditionally. Unconditionally. Their bond outshone any fairytale romance. But when Mary passed, George could not untether their bond. And Sarah could see that he was slowly slipping into Hell.

"George." Rising, Sarah closed the cupboard. "George. I know we've clashed. But Mary was one of my best friends. More than anything, she wanted children – and she would want Michael, John, and Wendy to be with their father on Christmas."

Mr. Darling jerked. He turned his head, pressing a tear.

Sarah waited. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"George. It's okay. But the drinking...the yelling...it needs to stop. George – let me help."

Mr. Darling breathed into his hand. He bowed, shook his head –

"Take her." he breathed, shirking from Sarah's hand. "Michael and John will go with my uncle. Take Wendy for Christmas. I...I'm going...I need...to be...with Mary."