DISH!
by Daria
Disclaimer: All Thunderbirds characters are the property of ITV/Granada Ventures; all rights reserved. The references to "Wendy," "Neverland" and the "Lost Boys" are from "Peter Pan" by J. M. Barrie, from the version published by Charles Scribner's Sons, copyright bequeathed to the Great Ormond Street Hospital For Sick Children by Sir Barrie. This work of fiction is solely for non-profit entertainment. Please do not republish this work without notice to and permission from the author.
"So THIS is where you're hiding," is my subtle---hardly---way of making an entrance upon him, the young man in question being my friend Jeff's son, John. At this moment, the intriguing, elusive twenty-four year old towhead stands before me, arms immersed in dish washing foam which skims the edges of the kitchen sink like the mouth of some rabid animal. Dark blue eyes peer at me in response, casually surveying me before any response is made. Apparently, this is John Tracy's style, as I'm beginning to learn.
"Lady Penelope," he eventually nods as a greeting, a hint of surprise and curiosity in his voice. "Were you...ummm...looking for another...cup of punch? Is the bowl empty already?"
"Errr, no, actually," I reply, checking my petite, crystal cup before putting it down on the counter next to where I stand. "I have been speaking with your charming brothers and suddenly realized that I'd only encountered four out of the five handsome faces depicted in those lovely portraits hanging in the lounge. I wondered if you were trying to avoid getting to know me, so I had a bit of a walk 'round and found myself here. I hope you don't mind."
"Ummm...no," he answers, hesitantly so, his cheeks warming to a bright peach glow.
I could let this go, but I choose not to. "'No' you don't mind or 'no' you weren't trying to avoid me?"
He again takes a while to reply, seemingly lost in the rinsing process of a rather large steel pot. He looks most at home at doing this, what with the long hose and pistol-shaped spraying nozzle looking like some sort of video game implement. Boys do love their toys, even in the kitchen.
Tree-top tall, bean-pole lean and movie star dashing, John seems to be the sort of boy behind whom you'd see a long line of girls standing with their hands clutched together at their chins, little cartoon hearts bubbling about their heads. At least that's my current impression of him. My prior assessment of him was a bit different this morning as my chauffeur, Parker, and I arrived on Tracy Island via the Tracy's private jet, hull packed full of my perfectly matched luggage and clothing bags. As we prepare to launch International Rescue within the next week, our founder, billionaire philanthropist Jeff Tracy, has invited me to come to his reclusive island home---far out in the South Pacific---to meet his sons, the young men who will make up the key rescue agents of the organization. Each of the boys has a specialized expertise which will add strength to their efforts, while my function is of a more covert nature. I happily accepted his invitation and immediately prepared for my departure. It isn't everyday that one is invited to visit paradise on Earth in style and comfort, and getting to know Jeff and his family better is essential to my role within this fledgling outfit.
Though a widower from the time his youngest was a baby, Jeff managed to raise five well-mannered, obedient children, not an easy feat to be sure, and now those young men have chosen to take on a most valiant mission, that of putting their lives on the line to rescue those of others in peril. It had intrigued me what type of youngsters Jeff's sons are to have agreed to take on such a burdensome vocation, so I've been looking forward to my visit to find this out. The other boys were easy to speak with and to get to know, but this one...? This one is a hard nut to crack, especially when he'd barely lit in the same room with me for all the time I've been present in their home today.
"No, Lady Penelope," he finally states in a borderline snide manner, "I haven't been avoiding you. I simply wanted to help out Grandma and Papa K---Tin-Tin's dad---with the heavy cleaning up. They're a bit too advanced in years to be expected to lift and wash all of these large pots and pans and they shouldn't have to ask for help."
"Much agreed, and that's very good of you," I reply, "but I must say that I'm that surprised to see an enterprising, well-to-do young socialite up to his elbows in Fairy Liquid when he could be relaxing by a tranquil, limpid pool in the middle of the Garden Of Eden."
Looking rather bemused, he rinses a menacingly large Fiestaware bowl and smirks. "Forgive us, Your Ladyship. We're American nouveau riche. Dad's family have been wheat farmers for generations and, before that, Irish potato farmers, until the famine drove them to America. We haven't mastered that 'above it all' thing yet. And I'll take it that your impression of me has changed since this morning when you and Parker figured me to be the 'help' and lumbered me with all of your luggage merely because I was wearing an old t-shirt and dungarees."
Ouch. "Well, that was a rather silly error on our part, John, knowing that you Americans tend to be a more casual sort entirely, but as your father pointed out, it would have been wise, not to mention polite of you, to have introduced yourself at that moment."
He dismisses the comment, much as he did when his father pointed this out to him once introductions were eventually made and my cheeks had gone from peach to red. Thankfully, I hadn't been rude to the boy or attempted to tip him, but Parker, in his usual churlish manner with those he considers to be beneath him, had ordered John about in a gruff voice as if he were the ruddy pool boy! To his credit, John had been thoroughly gracious and accommodating, never attempting to object or to correct us. He dutifully fetched a trolley and caddied all of my many pieces of luggage into the funny little circular guest house, and, in a further kindness, he placed fresh cut roses in an ornate vase on a carved teakwood bookcase in my bedroom as he aired it out. Most impressive and patient of him, indeed, and not what I would expect of the rough and tumble boys Jeff had described to me.
Sensing ruffled feathers, I search for a common ground to smooth things out between myself and Jeff's son. "You must admit that you were more than a tad mussed this morning, John. It's not at all what I was expecting of any of Jeff's sons, the way he brags about all of you."
John's shoulders drop and he seemingly softens a bit. "I had been gardening, Lady Penelope," he states in a mild, sing-songy voice which lags along like a little boy forced to explain why he's done something wrong. "That's why I was down near the landing strip when you arrived. I went out early this morning to plant some iris bulbs and forgot the time. Papa K is always telling me that I should remember to put my communicator watch in my pocket so I can be reached when I forget myself. But...I always forget it on my nightstand. And...I don't usually want to be found while I'm gardening anyway."
"You're not much like your brothers, are you?" I ask, curious about that last remark. "They are all so...oh, I don't know...outgoing, charming and...communal, I suppose is the word. Scott is so mature and quite interested in travel, from what we spoke of. Virgil spoke at length of culture and art, and Gordon and Alan are so effervescent and amusing. You don't seem that way at all, at least from what I've seen. How does a girl get to know you?"
He sighs, pausing to blow a draft of his breath upwards from a stuck-out lower lip so as to push a languid, billowy, flaxen curl out of his eye. I'll take it that he used that particular method rather than to use his wet arm to brush it out of the way. I'd rather believe that than to think he's further annoyed with me.
"No, I'm not much like my brothers: I'm the quiet one," John sighs in a reluctant response. "Is that why you searched me out...in the kitchen? Because I'm the weird one?" he puzzles, his blonde eyebrows knit together. "I suppose I should be honored at that; most folks wouldn't go to that kind of trouble. It's my bet that you don't know where your own kitchen is in that big mansion of yours, no offense meant. It's also my bet that you don't know Parker's first name or your cook's last name." He stands there, a wily smirk crossing his face. "Come on, humor me, Your Ladyship: what's her name?"
"Cook? Lil?...Lil?...ummm. Well...I...I can't just recall what her last name is," I stammer, flustered by the question. "You see, my bank manager pays the household staff, so I...well...hmmm. You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my dear young man." It's the best I can do. "However, Parker's name is 'Aloysius.' Satisfied?"
He smiles broadly, leaning forward toward me and drops his voice to speak sotto voce. "Forgive me, Your Ladyship. I seriously didn't think that members of the peerage troubled themselves with piddly little things like the forenames of the help, so I am impressed. And no one's first name is really 'Aloysius' in this day and age. I'd fear he's putting you on."
"No, it's on his rap sheet, I'm afraid," I counter him, folding my arms and shifting my weight to one leg for emphasis. "I was chief agent at the Federal Agents Bureau, London division, and worked closely with New Scotland Yard, dear boy, so I am aware of such things, I promise you."
Impressed enough to shrug and raise an eyebrow, he giggles and dunks a platter into the soapy dishwater. "So, I should take it that 'Cook' hasn't run afoul of the law, with the exception of the occasional burnt entree I've heard tell about...?" With that attempt at humor, the ice seems to have broken between us and we collapse into a case of the giggles together.
After a moment or two, he seems to relax enough to warrant me trying to have a real conversation with him. "So, what's the John Tracy story, might I ask?" I broach the subject with interest. "I'd offer you a chair, ma'am," he advises as he dries the platter, "but I'd expect you won't stick around long enough to need one. My 'story' isn't very interesting, for one thing, and I'm not used to completing a thought without Alan or Gordon crash-landing right in the middle of my sentences anyway. I've gotten to the point where I stop habitually...expecting them to jump in. "
"It's not easy being 'piggy in the middle,' is it, John?" I ask, as, having been an only child who never had such worries, I really wouldn't understand. Frankly, I was spoiled rotten by my doting father and took great advantage of that, so I couldn't hope to understand this boy's plight if I tried, I'm afraid.
"It's not easy being anything, is it?" he responds in a more serious tone. "It sure wasn't easy for Scott, having to grow up so fast to help Father take care of the rest of us. It wasn't easy for Virgil to help him out or to deal with how our dad had trouble facing him for awhile. See...Virg looks the most like our mom of any of us. That had to be really tough on him after she died. And the brats? It was never easy for them being raised without a mother, no matter what Father did to compensate for it. No one has it easy. I've got nothing to kick about. There are millions of people in the world who have it far worse than I ever could."
"That's a thoroughly sensible way to look at things, I'd say," I reply, surprised at his sudden candor. "Still, being the middle child has its own set of ups and downs, I'm sure. Did you enjoy it when you went away to school? Harvard, wasn't it?"
A big, broad grin envelops his face and he smiles wistfully at me. "YES!" he yelps. "I loved it! It was the first time in my life I was just me---just John---and not a younger version of Scott or Virgil to my teachers or the older brother to grab when Alan and Gordon got into trouble. But I sure missed them and hated that our little family was spread all over the globe for a while there, Tin-Tin included. I missed her an awful lot---she's the coolest."
"A bit like having a sister, I'd suspect," I add, thinking of the missing young daughter of Jeff's friend and confidant. "Yeah," is his only response. He then looks a bit sad and goes back to what he's doing at the sink.
"She is on her way home from school for the spring break, isn't she?" I ask, hoping to revive his interest in our conversation.
He stops what he's doing, looking a bit thoughtful before answering. "She's supposed to be, but I know her too well."
"Meaning...?" I begin to ask, but then I stop, wondering if I should probe further.
His head drops a bit and he talks into the bubbles below him. "She's got some jerk of a boyfriend who didn't like her taking off to come home, and she can be kind of...girly...when it comes to standing up to him. I've tried to talk to her and she says 'I know, I know,' but then she gets caught up in his sweet talking and blows off coming home. He doesn't have a close family and doesn't care for the fact that she has. She did that at Easter last year: she didn't come home. It hurt her father so much and it really bothered my dad, too. He just adores her; she's like a surrogate daughter to him. I don't think she understands what she really means to us. I used to think of us as 'Wendy and the Lost Boys,' and it's just not Neverland without our Wendy-Lady."
As if on cue, the 'Wendy-Lady' arrives. We both turn toward the window as a small red plane with ladybirds painted along the side glides down onto the landing strip at the edge of the island. "No worries that the boyfriend won out this time, eh?" I state to him, motioning to the image of the plane through the window. "Guess we got lucky," he replies in a low voice, looking to me like a fragile child whose world rests too heavily on his shoulders.
Moments later, the belle of the household stands in the lounge hugging her father and greeting all of the Tracy family gathered around her, with Alan being noticeably missing. "They are about the same age, Alan and Tin-Tin, aren't they?" I ask John who stands at the back of the gathering awaiting his turn.
Talking out of the side of his mouth as he commonly does with a lowered voice, he quips, "Yep, and that's the closest that they've come on much of anything after all this time."
When Tin-Tin turns to see John, he folds his arms as if he's cross with her, but the act doesn't last for long and she is not fooled. Within seconds they are hugging each other with abandon, genuinely thrilled to be together again. "You've gotten taller still, John! I don't believe you're going to stop any time soon!"
He laughs in a boyish way that belies the more serious person I spoke with earlier as he hugs her tightly. "You've gotten more beautiful still, and I don't believe you'll stop that any time soon, either," he tells her. "Gosh, I've sure missed you, kiddo! I'd have been so angry with you if that ape had talked you out of coming home, you know, what with..."
"Yeah!" interrupts Gordon, the most boisterous of the five brothers, his reputation preceding him. "What's happened with that creep? Did you tell him I'd knock him six ways from Sunday if he opened his yap about you coming home?" He shakes a sturdy crutch tucked under his right arm, a device he's been forced to rely upon since severely injuring himself in a hydrofoil race several months ago. The shaking makes him a bit unsteady and he wobbles on his less than reliable left leg, detracting from the ire of his threatening pronouncement.
"Gordon!" Tin-Tin cries, only pretending to be angry with him, for soon afterward she is hugging him. "You needn't have worried, any of you. That's all over with, I promise." Jeff nods to Kyrano and smiles, both men looking relieved.
In the background, I happen to hear Alan's voice answer, "Oh, is SHE back?" in an off-handed, calculated manner aimed at making sure that the girl had heard him. I assume, then, that his grandmother has just advised him of Tin-Tin's presence. I note the shrug and that he seems to be less than interested in joining the throng around the pretty Amer-Asian girl with the huge green eyes. I also note that he can't take his baby blue eyes off of her.
Eventually, John, Mrs. Tracy and Tin-Tin retreat to the kitchen, and out of curiosity I follow. Americans seem to consider the cooking area a suitable gathering place, a bit of a surprise to me. I'm not accustomed to this habit, finding it rather strange that they'd rather meet there than in the far more tranquil plush lounge or patio areas. Since they didn't object to me joining them, I pull up a chair at the breakfast table and settle back. John pours coffee for each of us, then turns a chair toward himself and saddles it backwards, lanky legs curling cowboyishly around the base of it. Tin-Tin makes up a plate of small savory sandwiches, chips and chocolate and ginger biscuits and sits next to him, talking in such a quick and excited manner that Mrs. Tracy has to remind her several times not to eat and talk at once. The girl nods politely and apologizes, yet proceeds to do the same thing again and again, much to Mrs. Tracy's amusement. When able to, "Grandma," as she is called by everyone in the household save Kyrano, comments on the girl's use of make-up and new clothing and starts Tin-Tin off into a gallop of sentences in another direction. I find that she and I have a passion for the same French designers, a fact which leads us to a fast friendship.
Surprisingly, John doesn't seem lost in the 'girl talk' and pleases her by being just as aware of the latest in fashion trends. Noting the expression on my face, Tin-Tin giggles and throws an arm around her surrogate elder brother. "Oh, don't mind Johnny, Lady Penelope," she coos in her blended Anglo-Franco accent. "He's as close as I've ever gotten to a big sister. He has got the steadiest hand with eyeliner and taught me loads about accentuating my eyes and cheekbones! He learned so much about that in theater classes and it's certainly helped me when I've needed it. He's brilliant at makeovers, too!" Somehow, I can't see Jeff being too thrilled about this fact, being the macho man type, but after the look of pride in his eyes as he'd viewed Tin-Tin in the lounge upon her return, I can't see him denying the girl anything, especially not the friendship and aid of one of his sons.
"So, what should I know about these Tracy men, Tin-Tin," I ask, curious as to her perspective on what I'd managed to deduce about this family. "Oh, they are everything they appear to be," she giggles, "only more so. You have to mind yourself around Gordon. He's the 'merry prankster' of the bunch, though Alan can be just as bad when it comes to practical jokes and gags, I'm afraid. They'll drive you nervous with that sort of thing. Best to keep a stun gun handy if you're forced to be in their company." John smiles a sideways grin and dryly adds, "I'd recommend chloroform, early and often."
"Well, a few jokes here and there must keep things interesting, I'd think," I comment, helping myself to a lump of sugar for the coffee John sets before me. "That's not the worst of Gordon," John states, that snide side of his voice evident. "He's a whiz at wasting money on gadgets of all sorts---especially if it's water related. He's an awful flirt with the girls, too. Back when we were in high school, there were times where he'd have three dates at the same time because he couldn't bear the thought of a girl who liked him sitting at home alone on a Friday night. Heck, he only said 'no' to a girl once, and that was only because he didn't hear the question in the first place!"
"Oooo, poor thing! He certainly seems a cheerful sort, that one. And what of Scott?" I venture, after our laughter dies down. Tin-Tin sighs and responds, "Oh, Scott's usually quite steady and reliable. You can trust him with your life," adding, "Any girl would be lucky to get him. He's dreamy, in the 'Mount Olympus' material sort of way. Mr. Tracy loves all of his boys, to be sure, but Scott is his 'right hand,' as his grandmother would say. He's so dependable that you can set your watch by him."
"Pity is," Mrs. Tracy interjects with her Kansas plains accent clearly evident, "he can't be trusted with the baked goods. Heaven help him if he marries a girl who can cook. He'll be as big as a house before he's thirty-five!" Laughter surrounds us as we picture a corpulent Scott in our minds, no one more tickled than Mrs. Tracy. "But she's right," she adds, waggling a finger at Tin-Tin. "That boy is as steady as they come. Virgil, too. He's a smart boy and so very talented!"
Tin-Tin joins in, "Yes, he's quite artistic, and though people speak about 'artistic temperment' as if it were a bad thing, there's none of that angst or impatience in Virgil. He just has a resolve to be the best that he can be at everything he puts his hand to, but he's never snotty or unkind about it."
Tin-Tin pauses briefly to sip her coffee, then continues, "I use to sit next to him on the bench and turn his sheet music for him as he played piano. I don't read music as fast as he does, so I was often nervous about the possibility of missing a cue to turn the page. Because of that nervousness, I'd developed a bad habit of swinging my legs to-and-fro. One time when he was playing Chopin, I knew I'd messed up because he looked a bit annoyed and then he'd reached up and slapped the page over rather sharply. I didn't want to upset him, but I was having ever so much trouble catching up with where he was in this difficult piece. Well, the more I fought to catch up, the more I swung my legs. Finally, he took advantage of a momentary dramatic pause in the music, leaned into my ear and softly said, 'If you're going to kick, honey, then please keep time with the music.' Then he kissed me on the top of my head. Can you imagine his amazing patience with me!"
A long laugh later, I ask them, "How about Alan? What's he like, then." Tin-Tin looks bemused at the question, then nudges John to top off her coffee as he's closest to the pot. "Alan's a dear boy," his grandmother states matter-of-factly. "It's just hard for him to settle down from that race car driving lifestyle of his. Land sakes, I don't know how he's going to stand being out here on an island where he can't ride something fast."
With a sigh, John chimes in. "Don't worry about that, Grandma," he assures her, patting her hand as he does. "He got Dad to buy him an off-road buggy on which he's already broken the axle...twice...while exploring the hillsides. He's still racing; he's just not getting a trophy for it!"
"I think it's dangerous and reckless, but that's Alan," Tin-Tin says, not daring to look up at his adoring grandmother. "But he'd never hear any of it. He won't be happy until he breaks his neck, and even then he'll love it as long as he wins a prize at it!"
John nods and rests his chin on his folded arms across the top of the chair back. "Guess you missed that limp he's got, then, huh?" he asks, sure that he already knows the answer. "He did nearly break his neck yesterday afternoon as he drove his three-wheeler on the beach. A wave came up and 'whoosh!' He was lucky Virg and Scott were nearby. We told him to be careful driving in the sand, but he never listens. But he's happy!"
A cloud of worry creeps over Tin-Tin's face, though she's trying desperately to hide it. "He's not...not really hurt, is he?" she questions, tugging at John's shirt. "Ehhhh...he's not bad enough for an emergency ward, but he could use a stint in the infirmary, I think, just to keep him out of trouble. If Father knew what he'd done, that's exactly where he'd be. But don't worry, kiddo, he'll live." Having said that, he raises his eyebrows toward me and his grandmother, certain that Tin-Tin hasn't noticed his expression.
"What about this one, my dear," I ask her in aid of breaking the silence while reaching over to pat John's hand as it rests in the crook of his elbow. "Is he a good catch?"
Tin-Tin looks a bit distracted for a few seconds, then stops to think for a moment before being overtaken by a broad smile. "Ooooo, John is a treasure: he's talented, kind, clever, genius material, infinitely patient, sweet and shy and an excellent cook as well. He's a whiz at tai chi, which Father taught him, and he's a wonderful dancer because he's quite agile and graceful. He moves like a gazelle, very fluid and lovely. Oh...and he loves to skin dive and usually comes back from a dive with dinner in hand, so you can't beat that. I've had a crush on him from the moment I met him, back when we were children. I made him promise to wait for me when I was ten and he was fifteen, but he kept growing anyway, the meanie!"
"I tried my best to stop, hun, but my body wasn't having it!" John teases her, nudging her head with his own. "I'd never find anyone better than you, dear, so I've never bothered to look."
She swoons in a mock manner, placing her forehand to her forehead, patting her heart with her other hand. "You see the trouble I have, Lady Penelope?" she questions, blushing violently. "All of these perfect men about me. What's a girl to do?"
Mrs. Tracy taps her teaspoon on the rim of her cup, then sets it down definitively. "What you do is work on the one who isn't perfect, child, and help to make him so. Land sakes," she drawls, "In my day, women knew that all men need a bit of fixing up, just so as to make them suitable companions for us women-folk. 'Fact is that it's only the sons of Adam that we've got to choose from; that's our lot in life. Best hitch up your britches and make the best of it."
Before Tin-Tin has time to react to her remark, Gordon runs through the kitchen, banging into John as he does so. He's running as if Hell itself were chasing him. Apparently, in this case, Hell itself is his younger brother. "I'll teach you to push me into the pool!" we hear Alan screaming as his wet and frantic form flies past us in a blur. "You don't have to teach me! I already know how!" Gordon yells back to him, slamming a door between them as they exit to the far end of the room and take the chase to the hall.
"Sorry about that, Lady Penelope," John apologizes, looking obviously embarrassed. "I reckon that boys will be boys, and crazy boys even more so." Smiling, I dismiss his unwarranted apology. "Oh, it's quite all right, John. I suppose that you boys will need your high-spirited ways to survive in your chosen task ahead."
John's face noticeably drains of color a bit with that remark, his eyes dropping to study the table. "Speaking of which..." he says solemnly, "you kind ladies will have to excuse me. It's been...real." With that, he rises, gives a gentle squeeze to Tin-Tin's shoulder, blows a kiss to his grandmother and nods gallantly to me. "Come on, Alan," he calls out down the hallway behind the kitchen. "Shake a leg."
Soon afterward, Jeff comes to collect us to shepherd us to the viewing deck of the Cliff House which rests over the landing strip opposite Tracy Villa. He directs my view to the Round House, the guest facility where I'm residing which is a curiously designed flat doughnut of a structure set off from the main house. "What is it I'm looking for, Jeff?" I ask, searching the grounds for signs of activity. "I can't see anything..."
Chuckling in that good-natured manner of his, he points forward. "The launch of Thunderbird 3, our space ferry, Penny," he states, reaching over to take his mother's arm. She suddenly looks so frail and worried and I'm surprised by that change in her when compared to the sturdy farm woman and proud matriarch of a few moments ago.
"They're just children, son...just boys," Mrs. Tracy sighs. "I'm worried sick for them," she says as she shakes her gray-tressed head which she then rests against Jeff's arm as they embrace. "They are men, Mother," he corrects her stoically. "They are the men of International Rescue. They are well-trained and experienced in their fields. They can handle this, Mother. They've got to."
I turn to see John, Alan and Scott dressed in their pert blue uniforms and respective sashes standing just behind us, poised to leave aboard the space ship. "Good, boys; very good," Jeff states as he inspects them. Like youthful cadets, they dress their line, arms straight at their sides. They stand erect for his approval, their eyes focused just above his head. I'm struck by their military-like decorum, especially since only Scott and Gordon, as I'd learned, had actually served in any sort of real military organization, with Scott having achieved the rank of Captain in the US Air Force and Gordon having been a cadet in the World Aquanaut Security Patrol. They look to me as if they've been Jeff's little soldiers for all of their lives.
Satisfied that his sons seem to accept the gravity of the situation, Jeff announces, "At ease," and the boys relax. A round of goodbyes commence, with Scott shaking hands with his father and younger brothers and Gordon and Alan trading rugged punches back and forth to each other's arms.
After a quick handshake and a hearty hug with Brains, the talented young scientist who designed the magnificent ships and equipment for our organization, John steps forward to me, removes his uniform cap and bows politely. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Ladyship," he offers. "I hope you'll enjoy the rest of your stay on the island. It'll be nice working with you. Wish me luck...and I'll see you again...someday."
Maybe I'm not grasping the subtly of what's happening here; he's made it all sound so...final. Passing me, he gives Tin-Tin a long, lingering hug, kissing her cheek as they sadly break away from each other. I hear him whisper to her as they part, "Give him a chance, kiddo. He's worth it." To Kyrano, he puts his hands together and bows his head; they then break their formality and hug each other. Before they part, the elderly man places both hands on John's cheeks, his thumbs leveled lightly against the boy's forehead, then closes his eyes, bows his head and whispers what I assume to be an earnest prayer in his native Malaysian tongue.
John then moves to his grandmother, tears now freely flowing from her eyes. "Now Grandma, you promised, dear," John sighs, hugging her tightly, so much taller than she that he's forced to bend down to do so. "I'll be fine, Grandma, honest! I'm more worried for you than anything. Be safe getting back to California and remember what I told you: If these goomers don't take good care of you, give 'em a good rap around the ears to shake 'em up!"
His grandmother beams up at John, eyes filled with grandmotherly devotion. "All right, I promise I will, child," she says, patting him on the back before pushing him away. "And you make sure you eat regularly, you hear me? I know you, boy---you don't EAT!"
He laughs and shakes his head at her. "Yes, ma'am," he drawls like an errant schoolboy. "I promise I'll eat if you promise you won't cry." Mrs. Tracy narrows her eyes at him and then looks at me with disgust. "That Johnny---he always was a card cheat, that one!"
A few brief moments later, I see John shaking hands with his father, curiously with no words exchanged between them. All they have to say seems to be within their eyes and their bittersweet smiles to each other. As I turn to remark on this to Tin-Tin, I realize that she's no longer standing beside me but instead chasing Alan to reach him before he exits the room. A brief exchange between them, a tender embrace and those three dangerous, dizzy words, "I love you," and he moves to take his place next to his two older brothers on a couch which functions as a conveyor to the underground hangar for the space ship. With a final wave, they are away.
Gordon moves to stand with the now solitary, silent, sobbing Tin-Tin and lends a big brotherly perspective on the situation. "Awwww, relax, kiddo," he chides her. "The twerp will be back before you know it. He'll be fine...unfortunately!" She punches his arm with as much force as the girl can muster and throws in an extra punch once he yelps. "That one's for flinching!"
Walking over to Jeff, I reach out to touch his arm. "Jeff, I'm not understanding. Why is everyone so sad? Haven't the boys flown the space ship before?"
"Why yes, Penny," he replies, his authoritarian tone filled with pride in his sons, "They've flown it several times and it's a great success. But tonight was John's farewell, as from now on his main base of operations will be the satellite, Thunderbird 5. We won't be seeing much of him from now on. It's a shame, really: I gave the boy a new home on an island paradise with one hand and take it away to send him off into space with the other. He's making the biggest sacrifice of us all, Penny: he's giving up his home and its comforts for our cause. After Alan is fully trained, they'll be trading off tours of duty, but for now John is on his own for a while. I'm glad that you've had a chance to meet him."
At last, the enormity of the moment arests me. "As am I, Jeff," I reply. "As am I."
I'm suddenly filled with a new, healthy respect for these boys---these men of Jeff's. Yes, John is making the most overt of sacrifices, yet they are all giving up so much. Their personal pursuits and individual dreams, their free time, their social lives back on the mainland---all of this they have willingly abandoned for their father's dream of an independent rescue organization which will be there for anyone anywhere in times of peril. But these men will give so much more: their courage and passion to succeed against all odds, their innocence, their sense of hope in the face of doom, their brotherly love and compassion, their expert acumen at assessing the most expedient course of action, their combined strength...even their very lives, if necessary. They'll give freely and proudly to anyone anywhere who sends out a dire distress call and is in desperate need of their assistance. All of this is their gift to those with no other hope of survival.
And now, as I stand at the deck and view the gigantic red rocket, Thunderbird 3, burst forth from the silo far below the Round House and hurtle into the ominous black skies above, I literally feel my heart burst with pride at being numbered among this gallant extended family. Endeavor: that's what International Rescue is all about, and like the astronaut heroes for whom they are named, these Tracy brothers most certainly have "the right stuff."