2

A rough first encounter.

He hadn't had to leave Europeimmediately after the funeral. Already well accustomed to dorm life, Gordon was able to stay in Madrid until the end of the summer swim season.

One Tuesday evening, after an exhausting series of kick sets, but before the warm-down, he got summoned over the intercom, to the coaches' office. The men's swim team weren't the only lot who practiced at this complex, nor was Kevin McMahon the only coach. There were divers, water polo players, the girls' team, and the synchronized swimmers to be scheduled around. Big as the European Union's Natatorium was, the various teams and their coaches were still packed in, cheek by jowl.

Gordon was a little surprised, then, that precious training time would be wasted on some sort of conference. Hauling himself out of the east pool and into a fluorescent-lit babble of shouts and splashing and shrill whistles, Gordon glanced over at his best friend, Royce. The other boy was two years older, of Jamaican extraction, and a full head taller.

"Dunno, Mate," he said, in response to Gordon's questioning look. "Could be ee's decided t' switch y' back t' butterfly. 'Ang on a bit, I'll come along."

Gordon waited, hoping that an assignment change was, indeed, McMahon's purpose. The other possibility, that the murky legal custody issues he'd suddenly landed in had finally resolved themselves, didn't weigh as heavily as his dread of being cut from the team.

A hasty towel-off and brisk walk later, they'd reached the office. McMahon stood by the door, arms akimbo, the steel whistle that hung about his neck flashing with each agitated posture-shift. Bristling grey hair, permanent scowl and fireplug build; that was Coach McMahon.

Jerking a thumb at the crowded pool deck, he gave Royce a flinty stare, snapping,

"Go on with you, Fellows. Back t' work. Y' ve not turned in a decent IM time, yet, y' lazy damn slacker. Now, move y'r arse before I drop it t' the lassies' squad."

"Yessir. Sorry, Coach." Royce gave Gordon an apologetic shrug, then left again. They'd talk the matter through, later.

The younger boy continued forward, praying hard that McMahon would be equally loud and irascible with him. When their coach became polite, the news was bad.

McMahon lifted a hand, his dour expression shifting about, as though he were trying to resettle it into something less juttingly aggressive.

"Someone t' see you, Lad. In th' office. One o' them relatives o' yours, from the States." He hooked his stubby thumbs through his over-stressed belt, while Gordon waited, feeling suddenly cold.

"Ee's summat t' say t' you..., but before y' go in... Well, I've known George Casey, out in California, f'r long enough t' have some influence, if y'r interested in swimmin' f'r the US. If not, th' commute ain't beyond a committed team member. I'll keep y' on th' roster, Lad, till y' ve decided."

"Yes, Sir," Gordon responded numbly. "Thank you, Sir."

McMahon nodded once.

"Right. In with y' then, Tracy, and good luck. I might be just outside th' door f'r awhile, adjustin' the rotation schedule."

He appreciated the thought, or would have, if he hadn't been so damn nervous. With a final nod to his coach, the red-haired boy put a hand to the door knob, and went on in.

A man stood in the cluttered office, making it seem somehow shabby and cramped with his tall, expensively dressed and perfectly groomed presence. He had grey hair, brown eyes, and an angular face. His dark blue suit and fine leather shoes exuded the sort of casual wealth that Gordon associated with fox hunts and blooded royalty. Ill at ease, and hard-put to conceal it, Gordon began gamely enough,

"How d' you do, Sir. I'm..."

"Gordon. I know." The tall man cut in, shaking his rather hesitantly proffered hand. "I'm Jeff Tracy, your father."

However the older man thought he'd take such an outrageous statement, he was terribly, disastrously, wrong. A hot, angry flush coursed clear through the boy, causing his heart to pound, his fists to clench, and his breath to come in rapid, shallow gusts.

"My dad was Joe Tracy," Gordoninformed him, staring the man down, "My mum was faithful t' his memory all her life, and you're a damn liar if you're suggestin' any different!"

What the man said next only worsened matters.

"You've been misinformed, Gordon, which is mostly my fault. Kathleen Tracy raised you, but she wasn't your mother. Luci..."

Gordon jerked away from the hard hand that Jeff had clamped on his shoulder.

"You're bloody mental, an' I've heard enough of this rubbish!"

He started for the door, only to be whipped around again and shoved into a chair by Jeff, whose towering rage seemed to quite fill the little office.

"Sit your ass down, and pay attention!"

Jeff raked a hand through his iron-grey hair, calming himself with a visible effort.

"Maybe I've mishandled this," he began again, voice low and hoarse. "Lord knows I've screwed up before, starting with the news of your conception. You were a surprise to begin with, and your mother had her work cut out, making me happy about it. Then I fumbled the ball again, in Geneva, after the accident. Should've brought you home then and there, but... I guess I wasn't man enough to break another heart."

Gordon opened his mouth again, making as if to stand up. Jeff leveled a forefinger at his chest.

"I said, shut up, Gordon. I'm pretty sure I can find some duct tape, if I really need to!"

They crossed stares again, and it was Gordon who finally looked away. Jeff continued, seeming at once angry, and desperate to explain.

"I let Kathy have you, and I let my family think you'd vanished. God can judge me for it, in His own time, but I'll be damned if I'm going to take it from you!"

Gordon so very badly wanted it to be a lie. But his mother, pale and fragile in her hospital bed, her beautiful copper hair no more than a few brittle wisps, had said,

'I'm so sorry, Love. There's somethin' I must tell you... but I can't stand f'r you t' hate me. Jus'... please, when they come back f'r you... listen, and don't blame me too much. You and Joe were my life.'

Gordon hadn't understood, then. Now, he did, a little; but he still couldn't bring himself to hate her, any more than he could disobey her final wishes. Jeff went on, sounding like a man who'd long ago resigned himself to emptiness and loss.

"This time, I'm going to do the right thing, whatever the cost."

Then, he did something that Gordon found totally inexplicable. Clearing his throat a bit, he added,

"I've brought you a few supplies, for the trip home. Didn't know what you already have, or what you might need, but it's a long flight, so I put something together."

From an airport gift bag on McMahon's desk, he quietly pulled out a stupid blue teddy bear. Like Gordon was a baby, or something, he set the toy on the arm of the chair.

Too upset to be reasonable, or even to try understanding the gesture, Gordon back-handed the inane little thing. It flew across the office, landing upside-down against the far wall.

Jeff stared at the teddy bear, recalling its counterparts in a hospital garbage can, and a coffin. Then he took a deep breath, squared his broad shoulders, and said,

"I've got some paperwork to take care of, at the American Embassy. We'll be flying out in two hours. Pack your things, and be ready to go."

And with that, Jeff Tracy left his son.