Chapter Text
“Johnny — John, listen to me.” A harsh whisper escapes the corner of Arthur's mouth as he ducks through the front door. Isaac stirs on the couch and yawns, bleary eyes blinking through the false light of the television.
“Dutch is under-cutting us!” John’s scrawl can be heard as Arthur crosses the lounge. Arthur lowers his voice again and with stern finality says,
“We’ll deal with it in the mornin’—” John must have tried to interrupt again, because Arthur repeats, “In the mornin’. Okay. Night.”
Arthur sighs and tosses his phone on the coffee table next to the remote. Isaac tucks his legs underneath him, making room for his old man on the couch. “Everythin’ alright?”
“Why’re you still up?” Arthur braces his hands on his knees and settles down into the couch with a huff. “And what’d I say about dogs in the house?”
“Wanted to make sure you got home in one piece,” Isaac offers simply, ignoring his fathers’ last question purposefully. Isaac knew his old dad was too soft hearted to kick out their keen-eyed blue heeler Willow, who stretched out with a muffled groan at Isaac’s feet.
“It’s way past yer bedtime, mister.” Arthur sniffs gruffly, hiding a fond smile. Willow nestles between Arthur’s knees and Arthur leans forward to scratch at her soft chin, behind her pricked ears, her proud chest, all her favourite places. Willow gazes lovingly up at Arthur, wetting her jowls as her tail knocks furiously into the coffee table leg.
“Are ya hungry, dad?”
“Starvin’, actually.” Arthur frowns, turning across his shoulder to eye his son with concern. This new business venture was all new territory; Arthur was working long hours during the week and his weekends were now non-existent. He couldn’t be there for Isaac afters school, to pick him up from soccer practice, help with homework or cook him dinner. The best he could do lately was leave a note and petty cash on the counter for takeout. Arthur couldn’t see any greasy pizza boxes or styrofoam containers with a quick glance around the lounge, and he hoped his son had eaten something.
Arthur’s response had Isaac bounding off the couch, blanket tossed aside. Willow pads back to her sheepskin rug beside the couch and collapses gracelessly onto her side, belly and chest exposed.
“What’re you doin’ in there?” Arthur can hear Isaac clattering around in the kitchen over the noise of the T.V, microwave whirring, fridge opening and closing. Isaac reappears with a steaming plate in one hand and an ice cold beer in the other.
“Happy birthday,” Isaac beams.
Arthur takes the plate into his lap, a smile slowly itching through his beard. He stares down at Isaac’s creation with appreciation.
“You made all this?”
“Mom helped,” Isaac admitted sheepishly, joining his old dad back on the couch.
Arthur is struck with a spear of animosity. It shoots through him like an electrical current, there then gone again. He pictures his boy picking up the home phone, (still too young in Arthur’s eyes to have a smart phone) and dialling one of the four numbers scrawled in Arthur’s hurried font in a post-it taped to the fridge and asking Mary how to make Dad’s favourite.
God, he would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Arthur doesn’t react, not visibly, for Isaac had seen enough of his reactions in his short life. “This is real nice, son.”
To Arthur, his meal is too good to eat. He wants to savour the moment forever. Save for a few barely cobbled together Fathers’ Day breakfasts (usually pancakes, from those shake’n’go bottles) this was the first real meal Isaac had made his old man. Rustic chunks of chopped sausage in a bright red ragu slathered over creamy mashed potatoes garnished with what Arthur expected to be chives (and in the light of their tv, appeared to be chives) but was actually finely chopped parsley. Isaac didn’t know the difference yet and Mary could only do so much over the phone — giving directions to a young boy on a landline about where to find chives in a garden she hadn’t set foot in for years.
“How was she?” Arthur ponders aloud, mouth half full, feet up on the coffee table.
“She asked about you,” Isaac says, sing-song like.
“Did she now,” Arthur shovels more sausage and more mash onto his fork.
“She always asks about you,”
Well, she’s got my number, Arthur answers in his mind. He hums aloud and reaches for his beer.
“Will she come back, Pa?”
Arthur swills his mouthful around a moment, marinating on the question. He swallows and faces his son, Isaac’s ocean eyes swimming with curiosity and anticipation.
“No,” Arthur sighs, holding his boys’ gaze, even though it hurts. He swallows his own pain down, but he can’t take the hurt from Isaac. Lord knows, Arthur wishes he could. “No, I don’t think so.”
Arthur mulls over his and Mary's last conversation; dissolution orders and custody agreements, a new ring and a new man. Some older feller with money, someone with an education, who pleased her family.
“Can I still see her?”
Arthur sets his beer down, and his knife and fork, and reaches out to clasp Isaac’s shoulder firmly. “Sure. Whenever you want.” Arthur’s eyes flit toward the stairs and he returns to his meal. “Head on up to bed. ’S late.”
Isaac peels off the couch without a moments hesitation. Arthur wonders how much longer a boy of fourteen was going to keep listening to his father, no questions asked. Isaac turns, halfway to the staircase, eying Arthur’s plate.
“Did ya like it, at least?”
“Like it?” Arthur repeats before shaking his head, winking knowingly at his boy. “It’s better than yer mamas'.”
Isaac smiles, the edges of his mouth not quite reaching his tired eyes. Isaac is still too young to understand the dish was simply better because he had made it, but he feels content with his efforts regardless. He bids his father goodnight, promising to see him in the morning, as was their usual bedtime routine, and retires to his room.
After his meal, Arthur tries to watch the game. He lasts about a minute before his chin is on his chest and he’s snoring like a bulldog. An hour or so later his phone jolts him awake, buzzing on the coffee table where he’d left it after hanging up on John. The game is long over and the bright screen of his phone slowly flickers into focus.
Marston 1:19am
JCB civil will be paying us 2 moro
Sean and I sorted 2 nite
Arthur groans and leans back into the couch. He shakes his head, visions of wild scenarios furrowing through the creases of his mind. “Yer a fool, Johnny.”
His low timbre woke Willow, who rolled onto her back at Arthur’s voice, begging silently for a rub. Arthur obliges before standing and depositing his plate in the sink (with the rest of Isaac’s dishes that needed to be rinsed for the dishwasher). He plugs his phone into the charging port beside the internet modem and retreats to the lounge to kill the lights and the T.V.
He scoops Willow up in his arms, navigates through the dark and up the stairs. Isaac was still young enough to leave his bedroom door ajar, even if only slightly, and Arthur pushes through to settle Willow at the foot of Isaac’s bed. She curls up happily there, but Arthur has no doubt that as soon as the cunning bitch hears Arthur’s bedroom door click shut she jumps up onto Isaac’s bed for a cuddle. He finds them like that most mornings.
Arthur lingers over his sons’ sleeping frame. Isaac lay on his side, long limbs hanging over the edge of his bed — threatening to get longer in a few short years. They had the same ocean blue eyes that changed with the sky beneath a deep-set brow. Isaac’s hair was darker and his freckles more pronounced around the bridge of his strong nose. They’d been mistaken for brothers a few times over the years, Arthur only being a few short years older than Isaac when he became a father. Looks were where their similarities ceased. Isaac was mild mannered and of good temperament, like his birth mother. Arthur counted his lucky stars each and every day for the simple fact his son mirrored his late mother in soul and nature.
Arthur pulls the duvet up, side-eying the basketball shorts and familiar band shirt Isaac chose to sleep in. Arthur blinked determinedly at the crinkled acid wash, only just making out four letters, two either side of a lightening bolt, of a rock band in the dark. He pushes Isaac’s thick, crumpled fringe over his heavy brow before whispering gently, “G’night, little man.”