I do not own "Warrior." It belongs to director Gavin O'Connor. And I'm ecstatic that "Warrior" is finally out on DVD, so I can finally watch it again and show it to friends who know Tom Hardy only as "Eames" and, in my dad's case, "Eames and Freddie Jackson" (though he really was terrific as both) Me Talk Pretty One Day is a book by David Sedaris, whose work is fantastic. If you like dry, oddball humor I highly recommend him. I also recommend watching "True Grit." I figure on setting the year to 2010, so that it would be playing. Also, happy (belated) winter holidays, all!

Chapter Seven: Special Days

"So, how was your date?"

Jane smiles to herself. "It was terrific, Dionne," she says. "It really was."

"Do you think it will go farther?"

"Yes. I mean, I think so. I hope so. We exchanged numbers and he said he'd call sometime this week. I know, yeah, this is the first legitimate date I've been on so I know guys will sometimes say they'll call and end up flaking out, but I trust him. Is that okay? Trusting him?"

Dionne sounds slightly amused on the other end. "Let me guess: he kissed you."

"Yeah." Her smile had started to fade but now returns with a vengeance, along with a blush spreading along the apples of her cheeks.

"You sounded won over." She can practically hear the wry grin on Dionne's face and sighs.

"Listen, I know I shouldn't date after only a year. I know it's not advised, but is there some way I can show you that it's all right?"

"You're right: I don't recommend it, but I don't want to take something away from you if it holds promise for your happiness."

"So what do you recommend?"

"Start off slow. Be prepared for any warning signs and red flags, and don't dive into sex immediately."

"Come on, Dionne. You know me. You know my history. I wouldn't know how to go about it."

"Which is another reason I'm not convinced that you're ready," Dionne says. "As I said, take things slow, and make sure you're not getting yourself into more than you can handle. Now, what is this person like?"

"He's thirty; he works at a local gym at East End called 'Colt's'. He dislocated his shoulder two and a half, going on three months ago. He's from East Pittsburgh. Born and raised."

"Well sure, honey. Most people who live here are residents by birth, not choice."

"He used to serve in the military. He doesn't like to talk about it. He's not a talkative guy, by nature. He's well-mannered and everything, but there's something about him that seems, I don't know, kind of primal. I like it, though. He's very…red-blooded? Is that the term I'm looking for?"

"You're the one who's met him. You have a better idea than I do." There's a pause. "Watch your step. I can't stress that enough."

F

"Hello, my name is Patrick and I'm an alcoholic."

His mouth feels dry as he hears people respond, "Hi, Patrick!" He looks over at Sid, who smiles at him. "Today is day ninety." He bows his head a little at the applause, the whistles, the support. Most of the people in this room know that this is his second time saying this, so this is what he says. "This is the second time in my life saying that I have ninety days. Some of you know that already." He clears his throat. His voice catches at times. "I'd had one-thousand and ninety-nine days before…well…before the relapse. And the first time around, I'd actually told myself that I'd never relapse. No way in hell. I'd hit rock-bottom and I'd never go back there again." There are sympathetic nods of agreement, I've been there's, people who have thought and done the same thing. He lets out a small laugh that sounds like a sigh, sounds like the wheezing of a sad old man. Sounds like he's blocking tears. "But I can't be certain of what the future will hold. I can't force things to pan out the way I want them to, no matter how hard I try. I dropped meetings when I saw my son again, so I could be there for him more than I had been when he needed me the most. And, of course, he didn't want me near him anymore. He told me, 'I think I liked you better when you were drunk.'" He considers this. "Which, seeing how I treated him when I was drunk, is saying a lot." He's a man of words these days, so sometimes, when his throat closes up and he's at a loss of what to say, he feels the need to stop, to get his bearings, and go on. "I wanted so badly to achieve something that was beyond my reach, beyond my control. I wanted to make direct amends, but now, I admit I still feel lost, because I've tried with the two remaining people I've harmed most, and neither of them have any interest in 'direct amends.' So for now, and this is what I couldn't grasp the first time, is that I need to take a step back. My sons are grown men now. They've had to deal with things I'm beyond ashamed that I did, lived with a person I can hardly believe I was. If they someday find they're willing to talk to me, they'll let me know." He clears his throat again. He knows he's blocking tears. "Thanks for letting me share."

"Thanks for sharing."

After the meeting, he gets several congratulations. Among them is from the girl who shared recently and who's been absolutely glowing throughout the meeting, Jane, who tells him, "It's courageous, what you're doing, learning to let go."

He smiles at her. "Hearing stories like yours helps give me courage to let go and admit my faults."

They leave the church basement, walk out into the sun, which gives a nourishing glow despite the cold, dry air. As everyone says their goodbyes, Sid catches up with him as he heads to his car.

"From what I remember, your sixty-seventh is coming up."

Paddy sighs, nodding as he flips through his keys before finding the one to the car. "Yep. Another year older. I try to forget them these days."

"Any birthday rituals at all?"

"Nah." His tone goes bitter and he does nothing to stop it. "Seventeen years ago I had a family. A dysfunctional family breaking on the hinges, but a family. Now I got two boys who are technically in my life but emotionally farther away from me than ever, the only woman I've ever really loved died a long, painful death and I could've prevented it all if I'd been a good, sober husband and father." He shrugs. "That and my old birthday ritual was getting smashed at O'Donovan's Pub, staying until closing time, and staggering on home to raise hell and not remembering any of it later."

"You still reading four hours a day?"

"At least." He adds, "Not Moby Dick anymore, though. Not since…" he stops and recovers. "I'm trying to keep it to a variety these days."

"All classics?"

"All classics."

Sid considers this. "I'd like you to consider for a moment reading newer works, maybe humor. There's one I'm sure you'll enjoy. Let it be a birthday present, since you don't seem to be expecting anything."

"I doubt either of my boys knows when my birthday even is, so I have to say 'no.'"

Jane and Dionne must have heard this as they passed by, because Jane says, "Your birthday's coming up?"

Oh, how he wishes they hadn't heard that. "This Sunday," he admits.

It's Dionne who suggests going out for coffee after the Sunday meeting on Jefferson Street.

"That's not necessary…" he says, but trails off. Aside from church, what other plans could he possibly have? What else could he possibly be doing that's more important or more enjoyable than spending time with some pleasant, sympathetic people who don't see him as either a pathetic old drunk (sorry, make that 'former drunk') or some horrible ogre, but as an equal? He grins, though he has to force it a little. "All right, twist my arm."

E

On the way home, he tries for the thousandth time, for the life of him, to remember what happened that night, after Tommy inflicted what to him felt like a kind of verbal castration, after he went into the nearest liquor store and loaded up on bottles of whiskey. Like with so many instances, all he can find is a gap between getting drunk and waking up hung-over, realizing he was well past late to prepare Tommy for the final fight, wondering if Tommy was still fuming at him, finding he didn't give a shit because those were his boys out there in the final fight and he had to get to them as soon as possible.

Neither of them has talked about the fight outside of Tommy's injury. Neither of them has talked about the words Tommy threw at him, incensed and fueled by deepest loathing and disgust. Neither of them has talked about the relapse. He knows his son knows about it. The bottles were still there when he woke up. He doesn't know how much he saw. Try as he might, he doesn't remember, and he's terrified to ask. The fact that his son hasn't mentioned it and hasn't made scathing comments about how maybe Christ and Alcoholics Anonymous weren't the answers after all, gives him some relief. Makes him hope that at least some of the hatred has evaporated.

It keeps him up most of the night, until it's eleven-thirty and he's still in his easy chair, rereading the same sentence over and over again in his copy of Ulysses.

He jumps in his seat when the door opens, Tommy comes in, and heads for the stairs. And he has to ask. Maybe it's pure, blind stupidity, but he has to ask.

"Tommy." His voice sounds even worse than usual. He tries to clear his throat as Tommy turns and looks at him, silently waiting for the question. There's no hatred that he can see. Impatience, depression, frustration, and an ever-present desire to earn enough money to move out, but not hatred.

"When I…you know…" he's floundering, but he knows his boy won't find the words for him. He'll wait all goddamn night if he has to, making Paddy spell it out himself. "In Atlantic City, when I…got drunk, did you…did you see it?"

There's a hesitation. It lasts a thousand years, the two of them standing across from each other. Finally, Tommy nods.

"I don't remember it," Paddy explains. "I just know it happened."

The words come slowly. "I came in around the time you passed out," he says. And he knows there's more to it, so much more to it than that.

"What happened?"

"You passed out, so I put you on your bed."

"That's all."

Blank expression, blank voice, and a clear sign that he's not completely telling the truth, he says, "That's all."

Paddy nods. "Thank you," he says finally.

Tommy nods back and heads up the stairs.

Paddy slumps back in his chair. Maybe his son's found something of his own to take his mind off the pain. He wishes he knew what, wishes he could talk to him, but the relative lack of hostility is the best he could hope for, at least for now. He just wants to see Tommy heal. He just wants to see his boy pull through okay.

A

Tommy calls on Wednesday while Jane's preparing for work and they arrange to see a movie Saturday evening. For the second time, Jane has an entirely new, increasingly exciting and bewildering reason to look forward to the weekend. It makes everything, the inconsistent tips, the hectic week and the looming threat of the second semester starting, somehow more palatable.

Friday as she's coming in to set down an order and take out several plates, Carlos says, "You've been smiling all week." To her self-conscious look he adds, "That's a good thing. You have a pretty smile."

"Thanks. I've just been in a good mood lately."

Carlos grins as he flips over several burgers in quick succession. "Does it have anything to do with your 'friend' with the luscious lips you 'ran into' last week? Who asked you out in front of your coworkers?"

Jane raises an eyebrow, grins back and takes a tray full of platters back out to her section.

R

They meet at a movie theatre fairly close to where they live in East End, and as Tommy watches her walk up, he has to admit, her smile is infectious.

He couldn't for the life of him force himself to sit through a romantic comedy, so he's relieved when Jane suggests a Western-action movie called "True Grit." Still, after the previews are over and the movie rolls, he's glad Jane's not squeamish, as the body count goes up pretty quickly. All it takes is a sideways glance to tell she's enjoying it, but he can't help but continuing to sneak glances. Their hands brush a couple of times on the shared armrest, and halfway through the film he thinks, 'Hell with it' and slides an arm behind her, wraps it loosely around her shoulders, his fucked-up arm, and finds it's not hard, not uncomfortable at all. Next to him, Jane tenses up at the new touch for a moment but after a few seconds not only relaxes into the touch but slowly raises her own arm to touch his, fingertips brushing against the skin bared by his rolled-up sleeves. The movie's good, but this to him is the best part.

The lead character, a drunk, mercenary U.S. Marshal named Rooster, bothers him. Rooster, rough and gun-friendly as he is, is way too caring, too tender towards Mattie. He grew up under the fist of another foul-tempered drunk and knows for a fact that such a man would think nothing of beating the shit out of a woman, a child, or someone like Mattie, who falls under both categories. He gets it, though. It's for the sake of the movie. In a movie about grit, Hollywood needs a violent drunk to redeem himself by being somehow caring and protective. For a movie it works just fine, but it sure as shit isn't real.

He hates sitting still for hours at a time, but his arm around her shoulders, the warmth of her body and the touch of her fingertips against his skin, the feel of her breathing and slowly leaning into him helps make it easier. The movie's entertaining, but he's relieved when the credits roll and he can get up and stretch his legs. It's only when he pulls his arm away from her that it feels a little sore. He doesn't care.

"So you liked it?" he asks as they leave.

"Absolutely," she says. "The dialogue was great, as was the acting. I mean, Jeff Bridges is always good at playing alcoholic characters."

"It would've been more realistic if he'd beaten the shit out of that kid," Tommy says, holding the door open for Jane as they head out into the street.

And she turns to him, giving him this odd look he can't place. For a second she looks like she's struggling, and when she asks, "You really think so?" he guesses it's because part of her didn't want to know.

"Yeah, I do," he says, a little more forcefully than he needed, and regrets it just a little when he sees her wince.

If this…thing…they have is going to go anywhere, he really has to be honest about certain parts of his life. The real reason he dislocated his shoulder, for instance. The fact that until it happened, he was up for the world champion title in MMA fighting. But she seems to trust him. She could easily type his name into a search engine and come up with much more than he thinks he can tell her. She hasn't pried yet. She seems curious but also seems to understand, even early on, that there might be parts of him that are best left unsaid.

"So you're into action films more than…"

"…Movies like 'The Notebook?'" Jane tilts her head at him and smirks. "Yeah. Don't worry, though. Even if I was into romance movies I wouldn't drag you to one. A man's got to preserve his dignity."

A bit of silence stretches as they walk. He keeps reminding himself that they're walking together; he's walking her home because her apartment is on the way to his house. He probably won't be invited up to her apartment…yet…though he likes her looks more and more; the heart-shaped face and big, sad eyes, the lanky body that looks good to him whether it's in that cleavage-bearing work costume or the loose-fitting clothes she has on now. There's also the idea of seeing her with neither, well, that's not the best thing to think about while they're still in public. He breaks the silence, asks her when the new semester starts.

"In about three weeks. I'll be adding a math course. It's mandatory," she adds, sounding put off by the fact. "How's physical therapy going?"

"Good. I'm closing in on three months, so I don't feel as…I don't know, crippled or handicapped as I have. My PT's a good guy." David's got a lot of patience and no bullshit; Tommy has to give him that much credit. And he's feeling stronger and more limber by the day, maybe than he's ever felt, because for the first time he learned how it felt to be physically weak, and slowly getting his body back, getting it to work again. He felt like a broken machine, and he (and David, he figures) are building him back up.

He walks her to her apartment, wishing he didn't have to go to a PT session after this.

"Thanks for the movie," Jane tells him. "I had a good time." She sounds like she means it; but still, you could watch a movie with anyone.

"Thanks for seeing it with me," Tommy says, and then makes damn sure that even if this date wasn't as good as the first, the second kiss is better.

He brings his hand to brush the side of her face and the soft skin there. He can't help but take a little pride in the way her breath hitches and her eyes widen as she leans in closer. When his hand threads through her short hair and he brings his mouth to hers, he feels her get gutsier about it, feels her wrap her arms around his neck and kiss back with more confidence than before. A soft mouth and a girl who, as the kiss deepens and she slides her tongue along the roof of his mouth, lets him know that she's his equal here. His other hand slides down her back and he has more self-control than he ever could have that when even as his thoughts slide he restrains from bringing it to her ass.

When it ends and they break apart, she's blushing and she probably knows it, but he thinks it's cute as hell. He makes it worse when he dips his head lower and kisses the side of her neck.

"So, does next Saturday look good for you?" he asks.

"It's looking better and better," she tells him, still, he's entertained to see, recovering from the kiss. She laughs a little, a breath of air, bites her lip, and comes back for a shorter, simpler kiss before saying "Good night."

She glances back at him as she opens the door to the apartment complex, a little smile on her face, leaving him thinking that wherever this goes, he's gonna enjoy it.

A

As they'd planned, after the Sunday meeting on Jefferson street, Paddy, Sid, Dionne and Jane head out for coffee. It's cold outside, and the welcoming presence of the coffee shop lifts his spirits a little—maintenance apparently turned off the heat after the church service, so the room in the basement where they held their meeting was freezing.

"Voila!" Sid pulls what Paddy guesses is a paperback wrapped in Christmas paper and hands it to him.

Paddy laughs a little as he struggles with the wrapping and the liberal amounts of tape, placing the scraps next to his mug of coffee and scrunches up his eyebrows when he sees the title.

"Me Talk Pretty One Day," he reads off the cover.

"Oooh, that book is terrific," Jane says. "Absolutely hilarious. It's a series of essays by this writer who, at one point goes to live in France and tries learning French."

"A mixture of dry and absurd humor," Sid tells him, "A mixture I know you like."

Paddy flips to a page near the back and reads an excerpt aloud, sounding, with his winter cold, like his voice had been run over with a car.

"'He call his self Jesus and then he die one day on two…morsels of…lumber.'

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

'He die one day and then he go above my head to live with your father.'

'He weared himself of the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples.'

'He nice, the Jesus.'

'He make the good things, and on Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today.'"

Well, at least he tries to read it through, but he starts laughing early on to the point that he can't quite finish.

Jane nods as she laughs with him. "Explaining Easter to a Muslim student in French class," she informs him.

"I'll definitely enjoy this," Paddy tells Sid. "Sorry for having doubted you."

"You need a good laugh these days," Sid tells him lightly. "God knows they're hard to come by in 'Moby Dick' and 'Oliver Twist.'"

N

When Paddy gets home he's enjoying the humor enough to read the entire book start to finish, breaking for the bathroom and dinner, and around nine gets a call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Dad. How are you?" Brendan. He holds his breath. His son. His boy, now a man with wit and courage for which Paddy could never take credit.

"Brendan…hello. I'm all right. Old, but sober. Are you trying to reach Tommy? He should be back soon."

"No." The one syllable is firm, resolute. But then he says, "How is he?"

"Well, he's sleeping here but that's about it. I don't really know." He sighs. "He's working a lot, at that gym where he trained for…well, if he's not working, he's working out and if he's not working out he's at physical therapy."

"Is he healing all right?"

"He's healing beautifully. He's working hard at it, taking good care of himself." He hesitates. "Are you sure you don't want to talk to him?"

"I'm sure." He hears a faint, probably forced laugh. "I actually just wanted to call to say…happy birthday."

Paddy's heart is in his throat. He can't speak. Brendan thinks that he won't speak and says, "I didn't get you a present or throw you a party or anything, but I figured I could stand to call you."

Finally he forces his voice, weak and not entirely in his control, and finds the words. "That alone is better than a party or a present, Brendan. Thank you."

"I mean it." He gets it. This was hard for Brendan to do. He'd hurt his son countless times, sometimes in the attempt to be friendly or just be there. His son won't let him in the house, but a phone call, a 'happy birthday', is more than he's gotten from Brendan in years. "I, uh, I'll have to go soon. I'm glad you're not drinking. You can get few extra years out of that liver. And…"

"You want me to say hi to Tommy for you?"

"I'm not sure he'd want to hear it."

"I don't think he'd hate it. It's always good to hear from you, you know that."

"Yes…good night."

"Good night." And that's the end of it.

It's the best goddamn birthday he can remember.