Content Warning: Homophobia

Fathers and Sons

July 1931

"Easy there, Sam," Shirley cautioned from the rear seat of the plane. He shouted to be heard over the whir of the propellor as he tried to calm Muggins, who was standing on his lap with her front paws on the instructor's controls, slapping him with her wagging tail. "You want to turn in a wide, controlled arc. Nothing too sudden."

Sam Blythe stuck a pointed pink tongue through his lips, biting in concentration as he brought the plane around at the end of the landing strip. It wasn't a flashy aircraft, just a simple parasol-wing homebuilt that Shirley had fitted with a modified Ford Model A engine. But designing, building, and testing it had occupied Shirley's attention for several years, which was a blessing.

It was more than that, though. With the economy still in tatters and not getting any better, there were far fewer tourists on the Island. Add to that Nova Scotia's repeal of Prohibition in 1930, and Blythe Aviation's cash flow had slowed to a drip. Shirley would not have been overly concerned on his own account, but there were rumblings of belt-tightening at the newly renamed Department of Fisheries as well, and a 40% pension was nowhere near enough to support three adults. That's why the homebuilt had a hollow section and a big enough fuel tank to reach the States, where Prohibition was still the law of the land.

No rum-running today, though. After a suasion campaign that had been going great guns since the craft was still a sketch on his drafting board, Shirley had finally agreed to let all his nephews have a go taxiing to and fro on solid ground, on the condition that they follow his instructions scrupulously. Sam, Gil, and Wally had grinned their delight, then tripped over one another racing for position, wriggling into the front seat like a pile of puppies with Muggins yipping at their heels. Sam had claimed the seniority of his eleven years, a tactic to which Wally had long ago resigned himself, but which Gil Ford resented openly.

"You're doing it all wrong!" Gil shouted over the whirr of the propellor. "Just look at where your feet are!"

Shirley craned his neck to see over the boys. Gil was quite right — Sam's foot position was atrocious — but it wasn't Gil's place to instruct him.

Shirley reached forward and tousled the golden hair roughly. "Your turn next, Ace," he called. Then to Sam, "Watch your feet, Blythe!"

Sam adjusted, straining with concentration until the sweat pouring down his neck was not merely the result of the midsummer heat. The plane jolted a bit on its way back toward the hangar, a feat, Shirley thought, considering that there wasn't a single stone or divot anywhere on his runway. But Sam brought them in safely, even when Shirley's attention was captured by the tall man standing in front of the hangar, stance wide and combative, arms folded resolutely over his chest. Muggins spotted him as well, placing her paws on the lip of the cockpit and barking util Shirley hushed her.

"You did it!" Wally shouted as Sam brought the machine to a halt.

Even Gil congratulated his cousin, though he looked up sharply when Shirley cut the engine. "Wait, don't shut 'er down, Uncle Shirley! It's my turn!"

Shirley did not answer, being too preoccupied with the visitor, whose steely gray gaze withered any joy Shirley had felt in the lesson.

"Gilbert!" Ken Ford called to his son. "It's time to go."

Gil's elation crumpled into dust. "Aw, rats, Dad! It's my turn next! Can't I just stay a few more minutes?"

"No backtalk, young man," Ken warned.

Shirley didn't want to interfere, but his heart went out to the boy, who had been vibrating with excitement since the moment Shirley had promised him a go. "Maybe tomorrow, Gil," he said, hoping to soften the blow.

Ken looked up into the cockpit, meeting Shirley's eye with a glare of such unexpected loathing that Shirley recoiled. "No, not tomorrow either," he said. "You're spending entirely too much time out here alone, Gil."

"I'm not alone!" protested outraged Gil. "I'm with Uncle Shirley! And Sam and Wally and Mugsy . . ."

"Go get in the car," Ken said in a tone that Gil recognized as unassailable.

Disentangling himself from his cousins, Gil climbed down from the plane, scowling but silent. Shirley followed, motioning for Sam and Wally to stay where they were. Similar admonishments had no effect on Muggins, who leapt to the ground to twine herself through Gil's legs as he slunk over to his father's Cadillac.

"The boys are just having a bit of fun, Ken," Shirley said.

"Well I don't like it," Ken said, rounding on him, voice low and dangerous. "Them spending the whole summer all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. With you."

He said no more, but his meaning was clear. He held Shirley's eye and did not look away, his glare an open challenge and an accusation.

If there had not been so many little eyes on them, Shirley might have taken a swing at him. The injustice of Ken's implication was enough to make the edges of his vision turn molten, but there was nothing he could do about it without making a bad situation worse. It might be satisfying to sink a fist through the center of Ken's face, but it wouldn't help Gil any.

Instead, Shirley took a large step backward and plastered a grotesque smile over his features.

"Good to see you, too, Ken," he said heartily, loud enough that all three boys could hear. Then, waving to Gil in the car, "Bye, Gil! You're welcome to come back any time!"

Ken stalked toward the car, pausing at the door to cast one more baleful look at Shirley.

What had happened? Had there been some high-profile arrest in the news? Had someone made a joke that rubbed Ken the wrong the wrong way? Impossible to say.

Shirley was quite certain that all the siblings had worked out the truth years ago, and Cuba had rather confirmed things. Heck, Di assured him that Faith had known about her and Sylvia since college days, and had run interference for them when Nan got inconveniently curious. But this was different. Whatever had spooked Ken, he would raise Gil as he saw fit, no matter the injustice.

Shirley kept on waving until the Cadillac pulled out into the road, Gil's golden head pressed against the window. Muggins ran after, barking as the car raised a cloud of red dust in the drive. Shirley turned back to Sam and Wally, attempting to maintain a cheerful demeanor. There was confusion in the hazel eyes and the green, but no way he could explain what had just happened.

"Well, I guess it's your turn, Wally," Shirley said. "Are you ready?"

Wally's freckled face cleared as he scooted to the center of the seat. Sam turned to squint once more at his uncle, but received only bland pleasantry in reply.

Shirley did not drop the act until the propellor was roaring and the boys hooting with delight as Wally joggled the plane down the grassy runway. He had always hated dangers that couldn't be fought, but how did you fight an insinuation? It wasn't even a slander, just a filthy, unspoken lie. The vibrations of the aircraft resonated on the frequency of his rage, but he tamped it down, swallowed it, tried to clear his mind even as fury writhed against his ribs.

"Uncle Shirley!" Wally called. "Am I doing it right?"

"You're doing fine, Wally," he answered. "Just hold steady. You'll be alright."

It was past ten o'clock when Shirley's reading was interrupted by a distant knock from the downstairs office. Muggins hopped down from the bed and bounded across the little apartment, whining and barking as she paced before the door. Shirley marked his place in Popular Mechanics with the latest German postcard — this one featuring a nightclub called Eldorado — and hurried down the stairs to investigate.

Shirley was not certain who he had expected to see when the door swung wide, but it certainly wasn't Gil Ford, carrying a bulging knapsack, stormy face red with Island dust and tear tracks.

"Gil!" he exclaimed in surprise.

"You said I could come here if I wanted," Gil sniffed. "I'm never going back. Never!"

Shirley stepped backward, letting his nephew step into the office. He gestured toward the low blue couch in the waiting area, but Gil was already halfway to the stairs. Before Shirley could assemble an objection, he was up and through the apartment door.

The initial confusion was wearing off and Shirley's mind was beginning to outline the contours of this delicate situation. Gil Ford was in his apartment, late at night, alone, and upset. Oh, this was very bad.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Shirley followed Gil into the apartment, swinging the door open to its limit and leaving it that way.

"Why don't you sit down, Gil," he said, motioning to the kitchen table with one hand and reaching for the heavy fisherman's sweater hanging behind the door with the other. It was absurdly warm to wear at sea level on a summer night, but Shirley pulled it hastily over his undershirt and suspenders, wishing he had several more.

Gil obliged after a fashion, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, legs splayed and arms thrown across the tabletop. Muggins took up watch at his side, ears twitching nervously as Gil spat the grievances he had rehearsed on his star-lit bicycle ride.

"My dad hates me," he declared, convinced of both the truth and the singularity of this revelation.

"I don't know about that," Shirley said, going the long way around to get Gil a glass of water without passing behind his chair.

"He does! He says I can't learn to fly. That it isn't safe. I'm not afraid!"

Well that makes one of us.

"You can't go against your father, Gil," Shirley said, the words forced and gritty on his tongue.

"But he said I can't come here anymore! How will I ever be a pilot if I can't learn to fly? Can't I live with you, Uncle Shirley?"

Shirley set the water glass down in front of Gil and followed it with a plate of shortbread from the glass dome.

"Have a snack," he said. "I need to make a phone call."

Standing with the receiver in hand, Shirley thought absurdly of the war, and of the empty-bellied suspense of the seconds before the person on the other end of the line spoke. Would Susan still be awake? Maybe Faith? Jem would be alright . . .

The receiver clicked and a calm, familiar voice said, "Dr. Blythe speaking."

Any port in a storm.

"Dad. Hi. It's Shirley."

"Shirley?"

"Yeah. Listen: Gil Ford just turned up on my doorstep. Seems to be running away. I thought Rilla might have called you looking for him."

The line crackled, the space between the receivers bright with tiny explosions.

"No. She hasn't," Dr. Blythe said. "They must not realize he's gone yet."

"Alright, well, can you come get him?"

"He's there right now? With you?"

Shirley gritted his teeth. "Yes. He's sitting at my kitchen table."

"Alright. Keep him there. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Gil Ford was not, in fact, sitting at Shirley's kitchen table. He was on his feet, goggling at his uncle, red-rimmed eyes filling with tears.

"You sold me out! Snitch!"

"Gil . . ."

"You said I could come here any time! And now you're sending me back?" The boy was distraught. Incredulous.

"Gil . . ."

"I thought you would understand! I don't wanna go back! He never listens to me!"

Tears streamed down Gil's face and Shirley wanted nothing more than enfold him in a hug, reassure him that fathers didn't always know best, that he, of all people, understood that, and that things wouldn't always be the way they were right now.

But someone would ask — Ken would ask — did he touch you? And if Gil said "he hugged me," that was it. They were done. It would be fists or prison and certainly never Gil again, shrieking with joy as the wind whistled over their wings.

Shirley wrapped his arms around himself instead and tried to sink into the wall.

"I know he doesn't, Gil. And I know it's hard. But you have to get along with your parents, at least for a few more years."

"But it's not fair! Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith let Sam and Wally come here anytime they like. I didn't even get my turn!"

Affection for the child swelled like an inrushing tide. His innocent outrage was as heartbreaking as his belief in justice. Shirley wished he could be honest, but any hope for the future had to pass through this particularly sticky wicket.

"You're right," Shirley said. "It isn't fair. I don't want to send you back, but if I don't, there's no chance of changing your dad's mind."

"He won't change his mind, no matter what," Gil muttered.

"Maybe not. But you won't be ten forever. I know it seems like a long time, but you'll be grown soon enough, and make your own choices."

Gil glowered, stormy petulance drawing his golden brows together and twisting his cherubic face into a scowl that desperately wished to be fearsome. "I wish I were grown right now! Then I'd never have to do anything I don't want to do. Like you, Uncle Shirley."

There was nothing to do but laugh. God, what a farce.

"What's so funny?" Gil asked, perplexed.

Shirley tilted his head back, still laughing, unable to explain the overwhelming absurdity of this guileless assessment. That Gil's simple faith in a better and freer life should find its concrete model in Shirley's own was both gut-bustingly hilarious and completely uncorrectable.

"Don't grow up too fast," Shirley said, wiping away a tear with the heel of his hand.

"Why not?"

Shirley sighed, searching for a way to buy them time. "Because I need someone to keep me up to date on Flying Aces. Tell me, what's the latest with the Hell-Cats?"

Gil brightened. There had indeed been a new installment of the Hell-Cat novels in his most recent issue of Flying Aces. He had lent it to Wally, but only after committing the plot to memory in such detail that he was still explaining it when headlights flooded the dark stairwell beyond the open door.

Shirley's parents swept into the little apartment, his mother dressed in an old flannel shirtwaist, her hair in a loose braid that was still bright red, though threaded through with silver. She hurried past Shirley to embrace her grandson, patting him soothingly and asking after his comfort.

Dr. Blythe stayed with Shirley by the wall. He was silent at first, watching his wife check Gil over for any overt hurts. Not finding any, she took the seat beside him and began to prod for the story of his troubles.

Dr. Blythe cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Shirley kept his arms folded across his thick-sweatered chest, testing his rusty voice against the years of silence. "Just what I told you. Gil knocked on my door. I let him in, then I called you right away."

Please believe me. Please believe me.

The wheels of his father's mind were visible in his furrowed brow. "You're an awfully long way from the old Elliott place," he said slowly. "Why did Gil come here instead of to Ingleside?"

"He likes planes, Dad. That's it."

Dr. Blythe was silent, looking his son up and down. Shirley consciously dropped his arms to his side. He'd done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide.

"Yes," his father said at last. "He does like planes, doesn't he? Any idea why he ran away in the first place?"

Shirley relaxed a fraction. "There was . . . an incident. This afternoon. I was letting the boys taxi the plane. Ken showed up and dragged Gil off. From the sound of things, he's forbidden him from returning."

Over the table, the same story in a rushed and childish voice: ". . . so Sam got a turn and then it was supposed to be my turn 'cuz I'm next oldest, but then Dad came and said I had to go right that very minute and it's so unfair . . ."

Dr. Blythe frowned.

Please believe me.

"It's awfully late," Dr. Blythe said. "We should take Gil home."

"I wanna stay!" Gil pleaded, looking to Shirley, who only shook his head. The boy dropped his gaze, but not before Shirley glimpsed the misery of his rejection. It didn't matter that it was the only way.

"It's alright, Gil," his grandmother soothed. "We'll talk with your parents. You won't be in trouble."

Gil allowed himself to be coaxed from his chair, too dispirited to pat Muggins goodbye. He shuffled toward the door, pausing only to give his uncle one last look of dismal reproach. Dr. Blythe followed, patting his grandson on the shoulder and nudging him toward the Cadillac waiting in the drive.

"Thank you," Anne said, wrenching Shirley's attention from Gil's disappearing form, "for keeping him safe."

"Of course."

"You did the right thing calling us. Your father will smooth things over with Rilla and Ken."

She stepped toward the door, and Shirley knew that as soon as it closed behind her, the matter would be completely out of his hands forever. Whatever the fathers decided in their paternal council would be the law of the land.

"Mum?"

She turned back, surprise written clearly on her delicate face. Shirley wished he had a more persuasive petition to offer, but he could do nothing but throw himself on her mercy.

"He likes planes, Mum. That's all."

His mother hesitated before she crossed the floor, paused before she reached up to kiss his cheek. The touch was light as the brush of a butterfly's wing, but he felt it long after she had disappeared into the night.

Shirley stood at his kitchen counter brewing a pot of coffee. It was not like him to sleep late, nor to require a jolt of caffeine, but he had lain awake until nearly dawn. Would it do any good to go over and try to reason with Ken and Rilla? Probably not; it might even escalate things. But how could he just abandon the kid? Gil's look of despair at his betrayal had cut deeper than anything Ken might insinuate. Not even Muggins' hopeful tail-wagging seemed to help.

Shirley had just taken the first bitter, bracing sip from his cup when he heard the unmistakable crunch of tires in the drive. Muggins raced for the door, scrabbling with excitement. That was unusual enough, the little terrier being somewhat skittish around clients, but then again, it was getting on toward mid-morning and she'd been cooped up inside all night. Shirley pulled on a clean shirt and followed Muggins down the stairs to the office, buttoning as he went.

The big picture window at the front of the office gave Shirley a fine view of the Cadillac that had just parked in the sun-baked drive. Not Ken's, though.

Dumbfounded, Shirley cracked the door and Muggins pushed her way through, barking eagerly as Gil Ford tumbled out of the passenger's seat. She couldn't have pulled him to the ground without his enthusiastic cooperation, but Gil was happy to oblige, tussling with the little dog as if she were a worthy adversary. The older man unfolding himself from the driver's seat grinned at his namesake's boisterous energy, then turned toward the door.

"What's all this?" Shirley asked.

His father removed his hat, ruffling the steel-gray curls beneath. It was impossible to pretend that this was a casual visit, but he did a creditable job.

"I heard that Gil here didn't get his turn to drive yesterday," he said. "I talked to Ken a bit last night. He won't budge on Gil being out here unsupervised. So I volunteered to chaperone."

Shirley's desire to launch Ken Ford into the sun was tempered by this unexpected development. The insidious accusation was still there, and he hated to dignify it through compromise. On the other hand, Gil was here, rolling in the red dust with Muggins and laughing like a loon.

"Chaperone? What does that mean?"

Shirley's father reached in through the open window of the Cadillac and drew out a folded newspaper.

"I've got my newspaper. If I recall, you have a couch in your office?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, I'll just catch up with the election results while you and Gil have your joyride. News from Charlottetown is that Premiere Lea's out and the Conservatives are in."*

Shirley stepped aside wordlessly, letting his father pass into the dim cool of the office. Dr. Blythe made himself comfortable on the couch in the little seating area where clients waited for their lessons and planned their tours, propping his feet on the coffee table and unfurling the exuberant headline: Great Victory Achieved.

Shirley peered past the resolute visage of Premiere-elect James D. Stewart, glowering from the front page.

"Dad?"

His father lowered the paper, brows raised in question.

Shirley cleared his throat. "There's coffee. Upstairs. If you want it. I just made a pot."

Dr. Blythe's shoulders relaxed. The hazel eyes glimmered with something fervent, though he restricted his actual words to the refreshments on offer. "Thanks. I'll get myself a cup. You boys have fun."

Shirley stood in the door, poised between wanting to say more and not knowing where to begin. But perhaps they already had.

"Come on, Uncle Shirley!" Gil called from the sunshine. "Mugsy says she wants to ride in front with me!"

Notes:

*PEI provincial elections were held August 6, 1931. The Liberal party suffered major losses, in part because of their ineffectual response to the Great Depression. The Conservatives captured 18 of the Island's 30 ridings (previously they had held 6). James D. Stewart became the new Premiere, replacing Liberal Walter Lea. Turns out the Conservatives weren't any better at handling the Depression and the Liberals captured all 30 seats in the election of 1935.