Virgil
We sit and talk; dad smokes, I whittle.
"You'll have to stop calling me Dad. At least around other people." He says.
I realize that never thought about that before. "Why?"
"Because they won't understand." I nod.
"Dad – uh, Charon – I've never ordered anyone before. Mom said – "
He puts a hand up. "Don't tell me what your mom said. It was between you."
"But – " I start.
"Son, keep it for yourself. It's yours." His voice thickens. "That memory belongs to you, not me."
He toys with the lighter, flicking it open with his thumb then flicking it back closed again with a jerk of his wrist. "Giving orders isn't hard. You just have to tell me what to do. There is no need to say 'I order you to –' but you can, if you want to. Just be direct, and look for loopholes."
"Loopholes?" I ask.
"Yes. Instead of telling me to eat, tell me what and how much to eat. Instead of telling me to rest, tell me to sleep for a specified period of time."
I sigh in frustration. "Dad, I'm not going to micromanage you."
"Your mother does…when she has to." We're both silent again. He finishes his cigarette, crushes the butt under the massive heel of one boot.
I have to ask. "Dad – do you want to be free?"
"You mean, do I want you to try to free me? No. I have accepted who I am. It is best that you accept it too." I shake my head, unwilling to accept that anyone could turn down the possibility of freedom.
He continues. "Virge, following orders gives me a reason to live, a sense of purpose. You have to find your own purpose. For now, your mother is mine."
I hesitate, then decide it's now or never. "Dad…tell me about her. About mom. What was she like when you met her?"
He lights another cigarette, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. "When I met her, she was about your age." He pauses. "You wouldn't have recognized her."
Charon
I didn't tell him everything. I'm a selfish bastard – they're my memories, I have every right to keep some to myself.
I debate with myself about telling him the bad things. His mother's dying – does he really need to hear that she was a slaver, that she was cruel to people, even to me, that she cut people up to feed the Darkness inside of her? I decide that she'd want him to know. She'd be angry with me if I lied to him.
"How long have you been together?" he asks. I have to think for a second. "About forty-five years."
"And you changed her?" he asks.
After a few seconds I reply, "To be honest…you changed her more than I ever could." He knows about his birth mother, about how she died in the dirt, desperate, behind a caravan, leaving him nothing – not even a name. He doesn't even remember her; she's just a story. A thin, sandy-haired woman carrying her precious little boy, frantic to find food, water, shelter.
Time to change the subject. "You have to marry Wendy."
"But I – "
"But you what? You love her. I've seen the way she looks at you. Like your mother looks at me."
He squirms.
"Ask her. Marry her – so your mother can see you happy before she…" My heart clenches. Jesus, no, don't think about that. Not right now.
He smiles sadly, nods.
"Let's get home, son. It's getting late."