*******************
Friday, December 13th, Manhattan
"So that's all of it?" Jack asked, eyeing the two still recovering agents across from him.
Danny was cleared for light duty starting Monday, the 16th. He'd been riding a desk all week and that news made him smile. Martin had two more weeks coming, thanks to his headaches, blackouts and ribs. Today was the first chance Jack had had to talk to the both of them together about the incident. For over thirty minutes they spilled out details, argued with each other over procedure, and exchanged a few curses, but Jack knew they were okay. They were partners now, and they'd fight and bitch with each other, but they'd found 'it'. That mystical, indefinable element that is born to lawmen who happen to bond as partners and a lot more.
"Yeah," both said and nodded.
"You know you shouldn't have gone for his gun," Jack warned the squirming blue-eyed agent. Physically, he looked better. But the scars from the hell of over twenty years before ran deep. Jack hoped this weekend away with the older Fitzgerald would help those wounds to heal.
"It was the right move," Martin defended hotly, "I'd do it again. They were gonna kill us. I heard the old man say so."
"That's very true, but that hot-dog move you pulled almost got your partner killed. Not to mention the hostage. He was a civilian. What if your shot had hit him?"
"I...I..." Martin stopped, his jaw half open. He hadn't thought of that. "I saw an opening. I reacted to..."
"You've got good instincts, Martin, and sometimes that will pay off. But this time, it wasn't the right call. If you hadn't made that move, neither one of you would have been wounded."
"No, we'd be dead." Martin spat back a little too cockily.
"LET ME FINISH!" Jack commanded, spinning his chair and leaving it. He walked around the desk, sitting on the edge, facing the testy young man. "Instead of bleeding all over the kitchen floor, you should have been working together to defuse a hostile situation. Your rash action put every person in the diner in peril. There's no I in the word TEAM, Martin."
"Jack, it's water under the bridge," Danny tried.
"Don't cover up for him," the older man edged, "a few inches over and I'd be visiting you in the stone garden." That got a reaction, as Fitzgerald flushed in guilt. "Good. Maybe that sank in. Martin, do you remember what I told you in the helicopter about why you were chosen?"
"Yeah."
"Good, you hang onto that while you're away. I meant every word. You think about this case and work out a more positive solution. Because you're not wearing a red 'S' under there," he tapped the cadet blue sweater, "Got it?" He flicked a gaze to Danny, who stood and nodded. He paused, wrinkled his brow and touched the back of the white knit shirt beneath Fitzgerald's sweater.
"Hey, nice, Harvard. No starch."
"Shut the hell up!" Martin shot back, pulling away, "Don't be touching me."
"You gonna be okay?" Jack asked when they were alone, spotting the heat rising in the sky eyes.
"I don't know," Martin replied of the meeting with his father, "I'm all mixed up inside, like the tide during the storm."
"It's not often you get a second chance." He spoke quietly, seeing uncertainty rising. "Use these three days with your dad to iron it all out. You tell him how he hurt you and how it affected you. It's a start."
"Yeah," Martin sighed, raking a hand through his hair, and stood. "I better get moving. I don't want to hit traffic." He paused at the door, "What you said in the chopper, Jack, it made the difference." He offered his hand and took the strong grip. "It's not much, compared to what you gave me."
"Oh, I'll think of something," Jack smiled, with a glint in his eye.
*************** Early afternoon, upstate New York, in a cabin by a crystal blue lake.
Victor was late and he hoped Martin wouldn't be upset. He pulled the jeep in front of the well-built structure and saw a body rise from the rocking chair on the porch. He eased his form from the car and strode over, uneasy and unsure. He extended his hand, appraising the healing body. He'd looked so frail the day he left.
"It's good to see you son, you --"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Martin demanded, fists clenched, "You arrogant son-of-a-bitch! Who the hell do you think you are? You had no right fuckin' with my head like that!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"John Harrison!" the blue-eyed storm shouted, "Ring a bell?" He noted the color draining quickly. "I shot a man dead. I was only seven. You didn't think that would haunt me? All these years, all the nightmares," he raged, raising his fisted hands, his body trembling in fury. "You saw me suffer. You lied, said it was all my imagination."
"Son, you don't understand --" Victor's words were cut off by a fist that sent him to the ground. He rubbed his jaw and looked up at the explosion of emotion that was his only child.
"Fuck you!"
"Martin! Martin wait!" he called out, watching the young man stalk to the lake, hands thrust in his leather jacket pockets.
By the time Martin came into the house, the fire was going and dinner was ready. A roasted chicken with crunchy brown potatoes and carrots was waiting along with hot rolls and cold beer. Victor put two platters down, two bottles followed and he slid onto a chair at the pine table. He chose his words carefully, watching his wife's features on her son's face by the fire.
"You remind me so much of her, your mother."
"Don't you talk about her. She loved me!"
"And I don't?" Victor asked and winced at the derisive snort. "Please sit down. Before you judge me, you will hear my side."
"Your side?" the young agent shoved off the hearth and stalked over, not sitting down. "You lied to me, that is your side. If I weren't graced with a man as fine as Danny Taylor for a partner -- a friend," he corrected, "I'd still locked in Hell."
"I gave her my word."
"What?" Martin screwed his face up. His father didn't reply as he cut his meat, ate it and two pieces of potato as well. "What does that mean? Who?"
"Sit down."
Sighing hard, the frustrated man obeyed. He ate without tasting, spearing the food like tortured test subjects in a lab.
The meal ended, Victor took the plates to the sink and ran water and suds on them. He got two new beers and sat back down, shoving one over.
"Why didn't you come to my play? Do you know how hard I worked on this?" Martin pulled the poem from under his sweater. "Weeks. I wanted it perfect...for you! I wanted you to be proud."
"I was always proud of you, from the day you were born!"
"Fine way you had of showing it!" the hot blue eyes shot back.
"I gave you the best education, good schools. I tried."
"I needed YOU! Not a bunch of bullies who beat the snot out of me and prick- happy teachers who loaded it over me about who my father was and how I lucky I was." He chugged the beer, swiping foam. "Lucky!" he snorted in contempt, "I was the loneliest fuckin' kid in that school."
"I was coming, Martin, to the play. That storm that hit you on Wednesday came in quickly. I was stuck in O'Hare, no flights in or out. I paid a pilot a king's ransom to fly a charter, but we couldn't make it. We got as far as Coeur d'Alene," he noted of the Idaho resort, "We had to set down. I tried, honest to God I did."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"I was afraid if I did you'd remember what happened that night. I couldn't risk that."
"The truth? You drilled that into me from the time I could crawl. Honesty and Integrity," he locked his fingers together.
Victor blew out an air of frustration and shook his head.
"When I got to Seattle, it was late, almost midnight. I went to every Red Cross shelter. You weren't anywhere. I searched high and low. Then I looked over that windy, rough water and...something happened. For the first time in my life I was scared, choked with fear. I got a cold chill in my gut, and I knew you'd never made it over. Something...I don't know what...told me you were in danger. So I made a few phone calls and got a bureau chopper okayed. I called in a few favors, no questions asked. They dropped me off. I was only in the house about ten minutes when I heard that banging sound. Then I heard you scream --" his voice broke then and he dropped his head, feeling his eyes burn. "Every parent's worst nightmare. I could hear you but couldn't find you. Then I saw those boot prints in the kitchen and heard the banging again. I pulled the door open and you weren't expecting it."
"Daddy," Martin rasped, suddenly seeing a younger Victor in slow motion, a ghost-like image from the foggy past. "I fell," he felt himself tumble.
"The door, it opened inward. I didn't know you were so close. I tried to grab you, we both took a tumble down the stairs. In the fall, I dropped the gun," he rubbed his side, "I never saw him. I felt the knife, fell down hard. He hit my head. Then I heard the shot..."
"He was gonna slit your throat!" Martin blurted, seeing the image explode in full color. "God, he had...he laughed at me...he...he..." he puppeted the motions, seeing them lost in time, an arm arcing above his father's helpless throat.
"You never hesitated, I didn't even know you had the gun."
"I don't remember anymore," Martin said distractedly.
"What is the next thing you recall?"
"Uh, Mom's quilt. That old one, with the faded colors that was so soft. Her smell. Her arms around me, rocking, peaceful. I ..I...was...s...safe."
"You were catatonic for over a week. I kept you with me in the hospital. Then we went to Sedona to see your mother. I carried you inside and she held her arms open. She was in a rocker, the quilt was on her lap. She held you close, kissed your eyelids, your forehead and wrapped you up tight. She rocked and began to sing."
"Amazing Grace!" Martin shot out of the chair, wrapping his arms around his chest. He felt her so strongly it shocked him.
"Among others, she loved hymns. She had a beautiful voice. My God did she love you," he walked to his son's side by the fire. "You opened, " his voice broke, "your eyes. For the first time since that shooting. You looked at her...touched her face with your hand...brushed her tears...you said, 'Mommy, don't cry'," then he laughed a little, "then you asked to go to McDonald's. You couldn't remember any of it. You thought you'd gotten hurt in the storm." He turned the fine-featured face then, nearly getting lost in those wide eyes. "I wanted to tell you. She was so frightened, Martin. You know she wasn't strong, emotionally. She was troubled, depressed, lost. That was before we knew what we do today. The doctor...when you went catatonic...he didn't know if you'd recover. She blamed herself."
"Aw, shit," Martin felt like a mule had kicked him. He choked back tears, seeing her kind face and feeling those loving arms.
"After you went to sleep that night, we talked about it. She made me promise never to tell you. She was so scared, son. She thought if we told you you'd collapse again and we'd lose you. She was protecting you, I guess." He sighed, "I thought, maybe, when you got older.. But then, after she died, the dreams stopped and so many years passed, I didn't know how."
"They didn't stop," Martin admitted, "I just stopped telling anybody. They didn't get brutal until this case. I saw those pilgrims and Thanksgiving stuff on the walls, then that scared boy reading the poem..."
"Nothing Gold Can Stay," Victor whispered painfully.
"It grew and festered inside. The dreams were real, they terrified me -- caused me to lash out on my job. That damn near got me and Danny killed." He turned to the fire again, letting the flames bake his face. "If God hadn't graced me with a partner -- friend," he corrected, "as fine as Taylor, I'd be dead now. He gave a damn."
"I'm sorry," Victor choked, gripping the back of his son's neck, "Try to understand, Martin, how much I loved her. As you got older and stronger, she got weaker. I couldn't tell you -- I was afraid for her."
For awhile, both men let the hypnotic flames entrance them and they toyed with their own thoughts. Victor left first, heading for bed.
"I think," the older man said, resting a hand on his son's troubled shoulders, "that maybe Mister Frost was wrong. I hope so. I found gold the day I held you for the first time. I need to find it again and it will stay this time, I promise. Goodnight, son."
"Goodnight."
Martin remained by that fire for hours, revisiting his childhood. Was his father right? Was the poem wrong? He thought on his childhood and his father's role. A man who was guilty of loving his wife too much? Could the pressures of his demanding job and the frailties of the woman he loved been too much?
His healing body finally moved him to get some sleep. He paused by his father's bed, spotting the poem by the nightstand. He thought again on those words.
*"...found gold the day I first held you. I need to find it again...again...again."*
"You'd better keep your promise this time," he vowed, then found his own bed.
His body tossed fitfully, he was lost in a dream. Black water churned restlessly beneath a tattered boat. Gale force winds and driving rain pelted his tiny body like knives. He fought hard, but the crashing waves were threatening to send his seven-year-old body into the water. Then he saw a hand on the boat's side and he ran to it, clutching his poem. His father had come! He was here!' Then his face fell when the beast returned.
"Nooooo!" he moaned, twisting in his bed.
The dream shifted, he was running in the basement again, the killer behind him. The acrid smell filled his lungs and his small legs gave out. He clutched the doorknob as the beefy hand grabbed him. He saw the knife; his heart gyrated wildly.
"DADDY!"
Then the sea turned calm and the sky was a brilliant shade of light blue. A hearty sun sent rippling light onto the water, creating liquid gold. The ship was strong and sure, sailing on the breeze. He saw his new family and felt the shimmer start. He heard Jack's gruff words and the glimmer grew. Then he slipped on the deck and a hand latched onto his own, his ears catching a warm voice.
"Yo, Harvard!"
He saw another figure waiting by the helm, not sure of where to go. He caught the man's eye and saw the hand offered. He heard the gulls call, felt the breeze kiss his face and the sun cloak him. He turned back, smiled and took the hand of his father.
The worst of it seemed to be over and Victor moved from the side of his son's bed. He fixed the tangled covers before pausing. He eyed the poem across the room and felt the loving care that had gone into every gold felt leaf and crooked letter. He bent and kissed his son's forehead, then laid a hand on the sleeping man's face.
"I love you, Martin and I'm proud of you."
The soft sigh that met those words told him, somehow, the worst of the storm had passed. He sat in a chair by the bed for awhile, just enjoying the simple pleasure of watching his child sleep. He knew that they would still clash, argue and disagree. But for the first time in many years, the sun was riding high in the sky, shining brilliantly.
As brilliant as the gold leaves that framed the poem crafted by a child's loving hands.
"He was wrong, son," the older man noted of the words. He saw a shimmering light ahead and he wouldn't let it dim again.
"I promise."
THE END
Friday, December 13th, Manhattan
"So that's all of it?" Jack asked, eyeing the two still recovering agents across from him.
Danny was cleared for light duty starting Monday, the 16th. He'd been riding a desk all week and that news made him smile. Martin had two more weeks coming, thanks to his headaches, blackouts and ribs. Today was the first chance Jack had had to talk to the both of them together about the incident. For over thirty minutes they spilled out details, argued with each other over procedure, and exchanged a few curses, but Jack knew they were okay. They were partners now, and they'd fight and bitch with each other, but they'd found 'it'. That mystical, indefinable element that is born to lawmen who happen to bond as partners and a lot more.
"Yeah," both said and nodded.
"You know you shouldn't have gone for his gun," Jack warned the squirming blue-eyed agent. Physically, he looked better. But the scars from the hell of over twenty years before ran deep. Jack hoped this weekend away with the older Fitzgerald would help those wounds to heal.
"It was the right move," Martin defended hotly, "I'd do it again. They were gonna kill us. I heard the old man say so."
"That's very true, but that hot-dog move you pulled almost got your partner killed. Not to mention the hostage. He was a civilian. What if your shot had hit him?"
"I...I..." Martin stopped, his jaw half open. He hadn't thought of that. "I saw an opening. I reacted to..."
"You've got good instincts, Martin, and sometimes that will pay off. But this time, it wasn't the right call. If you hadn't made that move, neither one of you would have been wounded."
"No, we'd be dead." Martin spat back a little too cockily.
"LET ME FINISH!" Jack commanded, spinning his chair and leaving it. He walked around the desk, sitting on the edge, facing the testy young man. "Instead of bleeding all over the kitchen floor, you should have been working together to defuse a hostile situation. Your rash action put every person in the diner in peril. There's no I in the word TEAM, Martin."
"Jack, it's water under the bridge," Danny tried.
"Don't cover up for him," the older man edged, "a few inches over and I'd be visiting you in the stone garden." That got a reaction, as Fitzgerald flushed in guilt. "Good. Maybe that sank in. Martin, do you remember what I told you in the helicopter about why you were chosen?"
"Yeah."
"Good, you hang onto that while you're away. I meant every word. You think about this case and work out a more positive solution. Because you're not wearing a red 'S' under there," he tapped the cadet blue sweater, "Got it?" He flicked a gaze to Danny, who stood and nodded. He paused, wrinkled his brow and touched the back of the white knit shirt beneath Fitzgerald's sweater.
"Hey, nice, Harvard. No starch."
"Shut the hell up!" Martin shot back, pulling away, "Don't be touching me."
"You gonna be okay?" Jack asked when they were alone, spotting the heat rising in the sky eyes.
"I don't know," Martin replied of the meeting with his father, "I'm all mixed up inside, like the tide during the storm."
"It's not often you get a second chance." He spoke quietly, seeing uncertainty rising. "Use these three days with your dad to iron it all out. You tell him how he hurt you and how it affected you. It's a start."
"Yeah," Martin sighed, raking a hand through his hair, and stood. "I better get moving. I don't want to hit traffic." He paused at the door, "What you said in the chopper, Jack, it made the difference." He offered his hand and took the strong grip. "It's not much, compared to what you gave me."
"Oh, I'll think of something," Jack smiled, with a glint in his eye.
*************** Early afternoon, upstate New York, in a cabin by a crystal blue lake.
Victor was late and he hoped Martin wouldn't be upset. He pulled the jeep in front of the well-built structure and saw a body rise from the rocking chair on the porch. He eased his form from the car and strode over, uneasy and unsure. He extended his hand, appraising the healing body. He'd looked so frail the day he left.
"It's good to see you son, you --"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Martin demanded, fists clenched, "You arrogant son-of-a-bitch! Who the hell do you think you are? You had no right fuckin' with my head like that!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"John Harrison!" the blue-eyed storm shouted, "Ring a bell?" He noted the color draining quickly. "I shot a man dead. I was only seven. You didn't think that would haunt me? All these years, all the nightmares," he raged, raising his fisted hands, his body trembling in fury. "You saw me suffer. You lied, said it was all my imagination."
"Son, you don't understand --" Victor's words were cut off by a fist that sent him to the ground. He rubbed his jaw and looked up at the explosion of emotion that was his only child.
"Fuck you!"
"Martin! Martin wait!" he called out, watching the young man stalk to the lake, hands thrust in his leather jacket pockets.
By the time Martin came into the house, the fire was going and dinner was ready. A roasted chicken with crunchy brown potatoes and carrots was waiting along with hot rolls and cold beer. Victor put two platters down, two bottles followed and he slid onto a chair at the pine table. He chose his words carefully, watching his wife's features on her son's face by the fire.
"You remind me so much of her, your mother."
"Don't you talk about her. She loved me!"
"And I don't?" Victor asked and winced at the derisive snort. "Please sit down. Before you judge me, you will hear my side."
"Your side?" the young agent shoved off the hearth and stalked over, not sitting down. "You lied to me, that is your side. If I weren't graced with a man as fine as Danny Taylor for a partner -- a friend," he corrected, "I'd still locked in Hell."
"I gave her my word."
"What?" Martin screwed his face up. His father didn't reply as he cut his meat, ate it and two pieces of potato as well. "What does that mean? Who?"
"Sit down."
Sighing hard, the frustrated man obeyed. He ate without tasting, spearing the food like tortured test subjects in a lab.
The meal ended, Victor took the plates to the sink and ran water and suds on them. He got two new beers and sat back down, shoving one over.
"Why didn't you come to my play? Do you know how hard I worked on this?" Martin pulled the poem from under his sweater. "Weeks. I wanted it perfect...for you! I wanted you to be proud."
"I was always proud of you, from the day you were born!"
"Fine way you had of showing it!" the hot blue eyes shot back.
"I gave you the best education, good schools. I tried."
"I needed YOU! Not a bunch of bullies who beat the snot out of me and prick- happy teachers who loaded it over me about who my father was and how I lucky I was." He chugged the beer, swiping foam. "Lucky!" he snorted in contempt, "I was the loneliest fuckin' kid in that school."
"I was coming, Martin, to the play. That storm that hit you on Wednesday came in quickly. I was stuck in O'Hare, no flights in or out. I paid a pilot a king's ransom to fly a charter, but we couldn't make it. We got as far as Coeur d'Alene," he noted of the Idaho resort, "We had to set down. I tried, honest to God I did."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"I was afraid if I did you'd remember what happened that night. I couldn't risk that."
"The truth? You drilled that into me from the time I could crawl. Honesty and Integrity," he locked his fingers together.
Victor blew out an air of frustration and shook his head.
"When I got to Seattle, it was late, almost midnight. I went to every Red Cross shelter. You weren't anywhere. I searched high and low. Then I looked over that windy, rough water and...something happened. For the first time in my life I was scared, choked with fear. I got a cold chill in my gut, and I knew you'd never made it over. Something...I don't know what...told me you were in danger. So I made a few phone calls and got a bureau chopper okayed. I called in a few favors, no questions asked. They dropped me off. I was only in the house about ten minutes when I heard that banging sound. Then I heard you scream --" his voice broke then and he dropped his head, feeling his eyes burn. "Every parent's worst nightmare. I could hear you but couldn't find you. Then I saw those boot prints in the kitchen and heard the banging again. I pulled the door open and you weren't expecting it."
"Daddy," Martin rasped, suddenly seeing a younger Victor in slow motion, a ghost-like image from the foggy past. "I fell," he felt himself tumble.
"The door, it opened inward. I didn't know you were so close. I tried to grab you, we both took a tumble down the stairs. In the fall, I dropped the gun," he rubbed his side, "I never saw him. I felt the knife, fell down hard. He hit my head. Then I heard the shot..."
"He was gonna slit your throat!" Martin blurted, seeing the image explode in full color. "God, he had...he laughed at me...he...he..." he puppeted the motions, seeing them lost in time, an arm arcing above his father's helpless throat.
"You never hesitated, I didn't even know you had the gun."
"I don't remember anymore," Martin said distractedly.
"What is the next thing you recall?"
"Uh, Mom's quilt. That old one, with the faded colors that was so soft. Her smell. Her arms around me, rocking, peaceful. I ..I...was...s...safe."
"You were catatonic for over a week. I kept you with me in the hospital. Then we went to Sedona to see your mother. I carried you inside and she held her arms open. She was in a rocker, the quilt was on her lap. She held you close, kissed your eyelids, your forehead and wrapped you up tight. She rocked and began to sing."
"Amazing Grace!" Martin shot out of the chair, wrapping his arms around his chest. He felt her so strongly it shocked him.
"Among others, she loved hymns. She had a beautiful voice. My God did she love you," he walked to his son's side by the fire. "You opened, " his voice broke, "your eyes. For the first time since that shooting. You looked at her...touched her face with your hand...brushed her tears...you said, 'Mommy, don't cry'," then he laughed a little, "then you asked to go to McDonald's. You couldn't remember any of it. You thought you'd gotten hurt in the storm." He turned the fine-featured face then, nearly getting lost in those wide eyes. "I wanted to tell you. She was so frightened, Martin. You know she wasn't strong, emotionally. She was troubled, depressed, lost. That was before we knew what we do today. The doctor...when you went catatonic...he didn't know if you'd recover. She blamed herself."
"Aw, shit," Martin felt like a mule had kicked him. He choked back tears, seeing her kind face and feeling those loving arms.
"After you went to sleep that night, we talked about it. She made me promise never to tell you. She was so scared, son. She thought if we told you you'd collapse again and we'd lose you. She was protecting you, I guess." He sighed, "I thought, maybe, when you got older.. But then, after she died, the dreams stopped and so many years passed, I didn't know how."
"They didn't stop," Martin admitted, "I just stopped telling anybody. They didn't get brutal until this case. I saw those pilgrims and Thanksgiving stuff on the walls, then that scared boy reading the poem..."
"Nothing Gold Can Stay," Victor whispered painfully.
"It grew and festered inside. The dreams were real, they terrified me -- caused me to lash out on my job. That damn near got me and Danny killed." He turned to the fire again, letting the flames bake his face. "If God hadn't graced me with a partner -- friend," he corrected, "as fine as Taylor, I'd be dead now. He gave a damn."
"I'm sorry," Victor choked, gripping the back of his son's neck, "Try to understand, Martin, how much I loved her. As you got older and stronger, she got weaker. I couldn't tell you -- I was afraid for her."
For awhile, both men let the hypnotic flames entrance them and they toyed with their own thoughts. Victor left first, heading for bed.
"I think," the older man said, resting a hand on his son's troubled shoulders, "that maybe Mister Frost was wrong. I hope so. I found gold the day I held you for the first time. I need to find it again and it will stay this time, I promise. Goodnight, son."
"Goodnight."
Martin remained by that fire for hours, revisiting his childhood. Was his father right? Was the poem wrong? He thought on his childhood and his father's role. A man who was guilty of loving his wife too much? Could the pressures of his demanding job and the frailties of the woman he loved been too much?
His healing body finally moved him to get some sleep. He paused by his father's bed, spotting the poem by the nightstand. He thought again on those words.
*"...found gold the day I first held you. I need to find it again...again...again."*
"You'd better keep your promise this time," he vowed, then found his own bed.
His body tossed fitfully, he was lost in a dream. Black water churned restlessly beneath a tattered boat. Gale force winds and driving rain pelted his tiny body like knives. He fought hard, but the crashing waves were threatening to send his seven-year-old body into the water. Then he saw a hand on the boat's side and he ran to it, clutching his poem. His father had come! He was here!' Then his face fell when the beast returned.
"Nooooo!" he moaned, twisting in his bed.
The dream shifted, he was running in the basement again, the killer behind him. The acrid smell filled his lungs and his small legs gave out. He clutched the doorknob as the beefy hand grabbed him. He saw the knife; his heart gyrated wildly.
"DADDY!"
Then the sea turned calm and the sky was a brilliant shade of light blue. A hearty sun sent rippling light onto the water, creating liquid gold. The ship was strong and sure, sailing on the breeze. He saw his new family and felt the shimmer start. He heard Jack's gruff words and the glimmer grew. Then he slipped on the deck and a hand latched onto his own, his ears catching a warm voice.
"Yo, Harvard!"
He saw another figure waiting by the helm, not sure of where to go. He caught the man's eye and saw the hand offered. He heard the gulls call, felt the breeze kiss his face and the sun cloak him. He turned back, smiled and took the hand of his father.
The worst of it seemed to be over and Victor moved from the side of his son's bed. He fixed the tangled covers before pausing. He eyed the poem across the room and felt the loving care that had gone into every gold felt leaf and crooked letter. He bent and kissed his son's forehead, then laid a hand on the sleeping man's face.
"I love you, Martin and I'm proud of you."
The soft sigh that met those words told him, somehow, the worst of the storm had passed. He sat in a chair by the bed for awhile, just enjoying the simple pleasure of watching his child sleep. He knew that they would still clash, argue and disagree. But for the first time in many years, the sun was riding high in the sky, shining brilliantly.
As brilliant as the gold leaves that framed the poem crafted by a child's loving hands.
"He was wrong, son," the older man noted of the words. He saw a shimmering light ahead and he wouldn't let it dim again.
"I promise."
THE END
