Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own 'em, never have, never will. And the lyrics to "That's An Irish Lullaby" do not belong to me either. Who'd of thunk it?
AN: Okay, I uploaded slightly (and I do mean slightly) revised chapters of the last 2 chapters. A big thank you to Tom Stiles, who pointed out that if Rafe didn't go that he would be considered AWOL. So, basically if you're not going to go back and read the other chapters (LOL, which I don't expect you to) Rafe was just considering going to the Air Army Corps, but he never applied or anything. Other changes were just some spelling/grammatical stuff. Nothing major. There'll probably be more in this chapter as well.
Also, I'm sure many of you have read the early draft of the script to Pearl Harbor online and a portion (let's be honest, a HUGE hunk) of this chapter is based on parts of that script. Don't want to spoil it for you, but I'm betting you'll know what I mean when you read on.
A huge thank you to all of you who reviewed! You guys are too sweet. Expect a little personal thank you via email (if you have one listed on your account) from me sometime soon. And as always I appreciate constructive criticism, so let me know what you really think.
And now onto the chapter! Enjoy!
Edit: Below is the newly revised chapter 3. All the other disclaimers and notes still apply.
Tennessee 1934
It had happened just last week. Clay Walker had bought some cheap whiskey and drank the whole bottle on his way home. But he never made it. Instead he passed out on the tracks that led out of town. The train never even saw him lying there. He had been killed instantly.
Danny stood in silence, the rain falling steadily upon him and Rafe. His hands remained in clenched fists at his sides, Rafe's arm resting lightly across his shoulders. Tears streamed down Danny's handsome face, mixing with the cool raindrops already wet upon his cheeks. Not a word was spoken as Rafe slowly, led Danny away from the grave.
"Don't worry Danny," Rafe said uncertainly as they walked through the rain. "Everything will turn out alright."
Danny nodded, numbly as he followed his friend.
"I ain't," Rafe drew in a ragged breath, "I ain't going away no more. At least not for awhile anyway."
"Oh," Danny whispered wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Yeah," he replied. "I figure I'll stick around for a bit and, you know, help out Pop."
"Rafe," Danny stopped and looked at him. "You don't have to stay for me. I'm gonna be fine."
"I know you are Danny," Rafe gave a weak grin. "And I'm not staying for you. I just don't think that Long Island is ready for the world's best pilot."
Danny didn't laugh.
They continued walking without another word until they reached the old farmhouse. Mr. McCawley stood on the front porch, his hands shoved uncomfortably in his pockets.
"Hi there," he greeted them solemnly.
"Hi Pop," Rafe returned.
Mrs. McCawley rushed through the door at the sound of her son's voice. She quickly hurried them all inside from the wet and cold. Drawing both Rafe and Danny near she hugged them tight.
"Welcome home boys," she said softly.
Elizabeth watched from a distance, her small hands wrapped around the edge of the doorframe as she peered into the room. Her emerald eyes caught Danny's, but he avoided her gaze. He offered a forced grin to Mrs. McCawley before releasing himself from her loving grasp.
"If you need anything Danny," Mrs. McCawley cradled his chin with her thin fingers.
"No. Thank you ma'am," he nodded briefly before trailing slowly to Rafe's—and now his—room.
"I should—" Rafe started, but Mr. McCawley placed his arm out before him.
"No son," he said. "I think you should let him be for awhile."
"Sure Pop," he agreed. Him and Rafe shared a painful look. Then his father pulled him into a fierce embrace as if because Danny lost his dad that he would surely loose his son.
Lizzie quietly tiptoed into her brother's bedroom, where she found Danny sitting stiffly on the bed, his hands folded neatly in his lap. She tentatively sat beside him, gently taking one of his hands in her own. The room was dark, but even in the dim light, Elizabeth could see Danny's sad eyes. It was a look, she was sad to admit, that she had seen often.
"I'm so sorry," she told him in a hushed tone.
"What for?" Danny asked.
"Well," Elizabeth looked at him questioningly. "For your father."
"It's not like you did anything," he hung his head low as if trying to hide from her.
"I'm still sorry that you're hurting," she turned to him, shifting closer, almost half in his lap. Her weight was oddly comforting. "I know you loved him."
"Yeah," Danny scoffed. "But I don't think he loved me. He didn't even care. He decided that drinking was more important than his life. Was more important than his own son," Danny's voice wavered as he bit back the tears. They fell quietly and Elizabeth kissed them away, leaving no trace of the wet trails down his cheeks.
"You don't know what it's like Elizabeth. To come home every night and find him passed out cold. But sometimes I'd pray for those days. A man dead drunk can't hit you, you know?"
Lizzie didn't know at all, but nodded empathetically. She leaned in again, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, but he pushed her away.
"I think I need to be alone," he murmured.
"Danny," Elizabeth soothed. "You have people who love you now. People who care."
"You?" Danny inquired, cynically.
"Just maybe Daniel Walker," she answered. "Just maybe," Lizzie echoed encircling him in her small arms.
"Maybe is better than nothing," he stated halfheartedly.
"Goodnight Danny," she whispered.
Elizabeth stood and smiled sadly. She ran her fingers through his messy hair before kissing him briefly upon the lips.
"Goodnight Lizzie," he replied.
She exited the room as soundlessly as she could, but as she closed the door behind her she was met by the eyes of her brother. His mouth pulled into a slight scowl as he folded his arms across his broad chest.
"I was checking on Danny," Elizabeth explained. Rafe's expression softened a little.
"How is he?" he asked.
"Alright I suppose," she half shrugged as if she didn't know the answer to his question at all.
"Damn drunk," Rafe cursed under his breath.
"Rafe—" she placed her hand on his arm.
"Listen," he huffed. "I'm sorry, but that man…" Rafe trailed off.
"I know," Elizabeth's mouth turned into the same upset frown as Rafe's.
"Yes sir," she stood on tiptoe, kissing Rafe lightly on the cheek. "Night Rafe."
"You ought to be getting some shuteye too son," Mr. McCawley said.
"Yeah," Rafe agreed. It had been a long day, and Rafe had a feeling that the night wasn't going to be any better. "Goodnight Pop."
"Sleep well Rafe," his father told him.
"Daddy?" asked Elizabeth in a somewhat small voice. She stood in the doorway to her room, dressed in her nightgown, a sad look playing upon the pretty features of her face.
"Yes?" He turned to her, his hand sweeping across his dark beard.
"Could you tuck me in?" Lizzie questioned.
"Of course," Mr. McCawley answered, a light smile on his face.
Elizabeth crawled into bed, a yawn tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her father sat down beside her and pulled the handmade patchwork quilt up to her shoulders. He ran his fingers over her golden curls before dropping a kiss upon her forehead.
"Remember," he began, "when you were just a little thing, and I'd come in her every night. Tuck you in and sing you sleep…"
Elizabeth nodded, of course she remembered. Her father's warm soothing voice would wash over her like a warm blanket.
"Over in Killarney, many years ago. My mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low," Mr. McCawley started in a thick baritone. "Just a simple Irish ditty in her good old Irish way. And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me this day."
It was no wonder they called them lullabies. Elizabeth's eyes slowly began to close as her father sang so lovingly. "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby."
"Goodnight Lizzie Grace," her father whispered, kissing her again, this time lightly on the cheek.
"Daddy?" Elizabeth asked for the second time tonight, although now her voice was laced with the lethargic tone of sleep. "Thank you."
"I love you Elizabeth," was his simple response.
He left quietly and not a moment after he did, Elizabeth's eyes once more closed. A nagging feeling of guilt tugged at the back of her mind as Mr. McCawley's voice still echoed through her head. She knew that Danny's father wasn't the best man in the world, probably far from in it, in fact. But still, he was a part of Danny, someone that Danny had dearly loved and now he was gone. A tear slid down Lizzie's face. She wasn't quite sure if it was for Danny or for herself.
Danny didn't sleep that night. The second his eyes closed the image of Clay Walker would flash before him. His fist landing hard across Danny's jaw. The way he'd hold his bottle of beer at the ends of his fingertips, as if performing a balancing act. His crooked smile, that Danny's mother had insisted her son had inherited.
Drenched in sweat, and shivering with a mixture of sadness, fear and the cold, Danny leapt out of the bed. Quickly, he made sure that his sudden movement hadn't disturbed the already sleeping Rafe. But Rafe only turned on his side, groaning slightly. He tiptoed out the room, trying to be quiet.
As he entered the hallway, Danny stole a glance in the direction of Elizabeth's room. She, too, was sleeping contently. Her hand rested lightly on her cheek, her lips parted, her chest rising with every breath she took. When she stirred, Danny continued to walk down the hall. He didn't want to wake her, especially when she seemed so peaceful. Danny briefly pondered what she might be dreaming while she slept and silently hoped it wasn't anything like his nightmares.
He stopped at the kitchen, opening the icebox and searching for the bottle of milk. Finding it, he poured himself a glass.
"Daniel?" he heard Mr. McCawley's gruff voice ask.
"Yes sir," Danny responded.
"What are you doing up son?" he inquired.
"Couldn't sleep…" Danny feebly told him.
Mr. McCawley frowned, and took a seat at the table. Danny looked back at him, before sitting down himself.
"We're here for you Danny, if you ever need anything," Mr. McCawley offered the same words his wife had earlier that evening.
"Thank you sir," he replied.
"It's James, or at the very least, Mr. McCawley," he told him, with a smile.
"Oh," Danny said uncomfortably.
"Don't worry son. You're home here," Mr. McCawley grinned again, before standing up. He gave Danny a light pat on the back, then tightened his robe and stifled a yawn. "Night Danny."
"Goodnight Mr. McCawley," he returned.
Home. He was home here. Danny liked the sound of that.