4. Flight Delays and Detours
Logan drummed his fingers impatiently against his cane, feeling restless and jumpy at what he was about to do. His hand automatically reached out for the bottle of scotch in the mini-bar, but caught himself, remembering that he had to be at his most sober and clear-minded. His eyes scanned the Connecticut scenery flitting by his window, not really seeing it, his mind's eye focused on Rory's face as she waved goodbye to him from their apartment door. A separation would cause them both so much heartache, he thought. The least he can be is certain for both of them that this is what he needed–nay, wanted–to do.
Frank was just opening the partition to the passenger side to inform Logan that they have arrived, but Logan had already opened the door before the limo had come to a complete stop.
"Shall I remove your bags from the trunk, Mr. Huntzberger?" Frank asked with hesitation, knowing that this was not supposed to be their destination.
"Leave them there, Frank, thanks. And wait for me. I won't be long," Logan replied distractedly.
He hobbled up the long driveway, up to the imposing entrance, and was greeted by the maid before he had a chance to ring the bell. He knows I'm already here, Logan thought. Despite many a heated confrontation with his father, he felt nervous for the first time about facing Mitchum.
"Logan!" the voice boomed from the den, unmistakably powerful and angry. "The pilot called me, you missed your scheduled flight. What the hell is going on? These stunts of yours have gone on long enough!" Mitchum was red in face, clearly exasperated at him.
"Hey dad," Logan responded, his calm the polar opposite to Mitchum's tirade. "I was wondering if I could talk to you…"
"Talk to me?" Mitchum demanded. "What on earth would you want to talk to me about on the hour you are supposed to be meeting our people at The London Herald?"
"About London. About my life," Logan shrugged, realizing how belated it all sounded. "Just please hear me out."
Mitchum heaved a deep sigh, clearly expressing that he thought this was all a waste of time. He sat behind his desk, motioning for Logan to take a seat in front of him. "Fine. Whatever." Don't think you can change my mind about London, he thought to himself.
As he stood in front of Mitchum, Logan brought to mind Rory's voice as she rattled off the information she had learned about his father off the Internet.
...He was born in 1953, Episcopalian, second of four children, oldest boy, Yale undergrad, star of the track team. No grad school. Then he had a couple of lost years. Kind of a blank period, a little Jesus thing going on there. Worked as a reporter and editor for two of the Huntzberger papers before taking over as CEO of the company…
He learned more about Mitchum from Rory than from his own life, he mused inwardly, and thanked her silently.
"Thank you." A pause. Then, "What did you do between Yale and working for Grandpa?" Logan asked.
Mitchum was clearly taken aback by the unexpected question, and for once had no ready retort to Logan. Logan mentally wrote a "1" in the air, a point for the surprise that he sprang on his father. He rarely got to surprise his dad anymore.
"What the hell? Why are you asking me this?" Mitchum hedged. "Is this is some poor excuse of a delaying tactic?"
"Why can't you just answer me, dad? A simple question. I need to know what you did after Yale. There's so much we don't know about each other, and really, I no longer care at this point. But you tell me why you didn't go to work for our papers immediately after college," Logan pushed on, seeking his leverage.
"Fine," Mitchum snapped, then leaned back in his chair as if to contemplate. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then decided against it. He shifted in his chair. After some moments, he stood up, and started to pace from his desk to his book shelves. All the while, Logan remained rooted at his spot, quite amazed at the rare opportunity to see his father so clearly flustered and out of sorts.
"I know why you're doing this, Logan," Mitchum finally said. "But I will tell you." He looked Logan squarely in the eye, but kept his distance. "I took time off after Yale. I travelled. Mostly around Europe," he said vaguely. "I don't regret anything," he adds somewhat defensively.
"Two years. That's a long time travelling. Or should I say 'wasting time', as you often refer to how I spend mine?" Logan said, not resisting the urge to give a biting response.
"Don't turn this around, Logan. This is not about me or how I chose to spend my life. This is about you," Mitchum shot back.
"Damn straight it's about me, dad, ME!" Logan expressed passionately. "Tell me you wanted to work for Grandpa right away after graduation, tell me you knew right away that you wanted to be a journalist. Tell me you never resisted this so-called Huntzberger destiny you keep throwing at my face. Tell me you weren't like me, dad!"
"You are like me, Logan!" Mitchum retorted. "Don't you see? I am doing to you what Elias had done with me. For better or for worse, he straightened me out…I just don't want you to make the same mistakes I made."
"What mistakes? You just said you didn't regret anything," Logan asked.
"The mistake of wasting time," he replied, throwing out the very words that Logan hated. "I spent those two years searching Logan, looking for something…I didn't know what. I was a drunken bum most of the time, waking up in strange places that I didn't know how I got to. I finally had to eke out a living in order not to starve. I ended up writing and submitting stories to various small newspapers in London, Paris. Wherever I found myself. It was hard. And you know what?" Mitchum said with a grimace, shaking his head. "My father was right. He was right all along. He cut me off, telling me I would come running back to him and wanting to be a journalist. That is exactly what happened. I realized I wanted to write, and write for his newspapers."
Logan quietly digested Mitchum's revelation, as his father continued. "So now do you know why I want you to go to London? You are my son, Logan. I know what you are capable of if you just put your mind to it. I don't want to see you acting like a child anymore, hurting yourself just to get back at me. I know what's best for you."
"Ah, father knows best. How trite," Logan shook his head. "I want those two years, dad. In a manner of speaking."
"Is that what you really want? To spend years aimlessly trifling away your future? To jump off cliffs and continue on your drunken sprees with Colin and Finn?" Mitchum challenged.
"What I want? I don't know what I want! I don't know dad, and that is the whole point!" Logan shouted. "I don't want Colin or Finn or the LDB," Logan explained, moving forward and placing his hands on his father's desk to lean towards him. "I want time," he said more quietly.
"Time," Mitchum repeated.
"Time. Time to figure out my life for myself. Maybe I want to write, maybe I don't. Maybe I want to work for you, or not. Maybe I want to do something else. I want to find out."
Mitchum remained quiet, steepling his fingers together.
"Look," Logan began again, running his hand through his hair, "I never expected you to agree. So cut me off. Shout, scream, get angry. But I will not go to London, dad. At least not now, not yet, I don't know. And I think I will be of poor use to you should you force me to go. I just don't know if I can do this, and I'm just gonna end up making a fool of myself, or you, or our paper in London."
"Cut you off?" Mitchum laughed briefly. "Then what would you do? You must give me more than this, Logan. What is the deal? The compromise?"
"My life is not something to be negotiated. Stop treating me like an asset or investment. Dad. Why can't I ever be just your son?" To his chagrin, Logan found his voice cracking and his eyes tearing up. He looked away.
Looking at the profile of his son–yes, his son–Mitchum found his chest tighten and was unwillingly drawn back to those two years in his life that had faded over time. He told Logan they were difficult, yes. But he didn't reveal to him just how exhilirating and free those years were. And he was drawn back to the memory of Logan lying on a hospital bed. That precious boy of a person who was just like him, a fact he was both proud and fearful of. And drawn to the memory of the woman--this Rory Gilmore--who, with one brief phone call, made him realize what he may have lost. She loves Logan, he thought with some wonder and regret, knowing he had never found that himself in his wife Shira.
"What does your girlfriend have to do with all of this?" Mitchum asked after some time.
"Nothing," Logan replied, knowing that Rory thought he was now on the plane to London.
"And everything," he said next. "I feel I'm a stronger, better person when I'm with Rory, which is something you may not understand. She'll help me through this. I want to sort out my life for her. I know I'm messing up your plans, but…" he shrugged, wanting to say he was sorry but knowing he wasn't.
"I have to go back to her now." With those words, Logan turned and began to limp his way to the door.
"Logan," Mitchum called out as Logan was reaching for the knob. "For lack of a better term, here's a...a proposition I want to make to you. Just listen."
More out of curiosity than any real desire to keep on arguing his decision, Logan faced his father. "Okay. Shoot."
