Carter's Vanguard - 19. Chapter 19

His grandmother's call had him agitated; he'd spent some time with her over the past week, whenever school had permitted. And the supper with her and Andrew had gone over well; they seemed to get on well. Andrew, polite and formal around her, and she in turn had treated him no differently than any other prospective member of the family, which was to say she grilled him endlessly over his plans for the future. She even got a light in her eyes when Andrew said he wanted to be a lawyer.

But there was some hesitation in her voice when she had called him, the kind that made Will nervous. His Grandmother seldom called him like that without some kind of purpose. So Will paced.

Brody watched while Will, fully ready to go out, his leather jacket over a nice shirt and slacks, paced from the kitchen through the dining room to the livingroom and back again. "Should I give you a valium?" he asked, halfway serious.

Will sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning them as he continued to pace. "I'll be okay," he said, not really convinced himself that he would be.

His head snapped up as a knock at the door froze him mid-stride. Brody sighed as he got up off of the couch and opened the door to let the little old lady in. Then, as ever, he vanished down into the basement to give them some room.

"What's wrong?" Will asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets and resisting the urge to pace again.

"Take your hands out of your pockets," old Mrs. Carter admonished. "Gentlemen don't do that."

Will removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. "What's going on," he repeated a little more firmly than before.

"I wanted to talk to you, William," she said just as firmly, as if she wasn't about to take his usual nonsense, "about your father."

"I figured as much," Will said, wondering if there was any more of that vodka left over from the party still in the fridge. "What about him?"

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" she said, sounding concerned. "You're both my boys and it hurts me to see you both this way."

Will furrowed his brow, "What way? You mean the way you get when you're beaten on a regular basis and then thrown out of your house by a man that can't stand the sight of you?" Will was growing angry now; he hated being put into this situation, of feeling guilty for something that wasn't his fault.

"Don't be that way," his grandmother sounded hurt. "He's still your father."

"No," Will snapped back, "he gave up that right when he threw me out of the house!"

"William," old Mrs. Carter's voice had switched to an authoritarian edge to it, "Don't raise your voice. I've come five thousand miles to try to mend things between you two, the least you can do is go for a drink with him. He's willing, if you are."

"Willing?" Will said in utter incredulousness. "How did you...?" He looked at the diminutive woman with her stern face. Set that way, he could see where his father got his stubborn streak, and in turn where Will got it from. There was no saying no to old Mrs. Carter, and if anyone could force the Major to do something he didn't want to do, she could.

Which meant the Major had agreed to the drink to please her.

"Well..." Will said hesitantly, knowing full well his grandmother wouldn't give up on the issue. She wanted this, and Will had no choice in the matter except disobedience, and that was never a good choice.

"He's at the pub around the corner," old Mrs. Carter said, seeing the look of defeat in his eyes. "He's waiting for you."

"Bugger," Will murmured to himself as he accepted the inevitable.

* * *

He hated bars; for someone who drank as infrequently as he did there really was no point to going to one. He was especially annoyed by the pseudo-pubs in modern buildings that tried to claim they were traditional Irish pubs. They had all the trappings--Guiness signs and dart boards--but it was the surroundings that didn't fit them. Ceiling tiles taking the place of worn beams, plywood instead of oak; it was all so fake, so forced. Like him, trapped between two cultures trying desperately to be one or the other and finding he was neither.

And the man responsible was watching him from the corner of the bar, dressed as ever in his British army uniform, the peaked cap lying on the bar beside a tall pint that he hadn't touched. His father, like Will, hated alcohol.

Will wondered sardonically if he should salute.

He crossed to the bar, and without waiting for invitation he sat down. Refusing to relax into the seat he stared steadily ahead in uncomfortable silence as the bartender walked over to him.

"You got ID?" he asked, giving Will a glance over.

"Yes," Will lied effortlessly. "A pint." The way he said it, the manner in which he held himself while staring directly into the bartender's eyes was enough to convince the bartender not to press the issue. He simply poured the lager and retreated from the two men sitting side-by-side, looking very much like father and son.

Will took a ragged breath before he took a draught from his pint, setting it back down on the beer mat and turning to where his father was watching him, a flicker in those eyes. The man was impressed at how Will had handled the bartender. But as fast as it was there, it vanished, replaced by the Major's usual cold eyes.

The silence stretched out, neither willing to make the first move. They were there, which of itself was a start, but both men possessed the same stubbornness of the woman who had forced them to be there in the first place. That and the history between them wasn't going to allow itself to be so easily forgotten.

"I hear you're teaching now," the Major said, finally breaking the silence.

"Grade seven, English and history," Will replied simply. And they both returned to staring at their lagers.

"Lucy's getting ready to start school," the Major tried again, his own discomfort evident in his voice. "She's excited."

"I can imagine," Will said turning a little to face his father. "She should do well."

"Mmm," the Major agreed.

Will nodded, sighing, "How long does Gran expect us to sit here?"

"About an hour, she said," the Major replied as they both turned to look up at the clock.

"Rapture," Will replied dryly. "So do we continue with the small talk, or do we skip to the arguing?"

"I'm not supposed to argue with you," the Major replied almost regretfully. "I'm supposed to play nice." He said the last words with an air of distaste.

"Entertaining," Will replied, returning to his pint. "I am who I am." he said, not sure why he suddenly said that; maybe a desperate need for his father to acknowledge that fact.

"I know," the Major replied. "You're like your mother in that."

"How so?" Will asked, suddenly curious. His father normally went out of his way to avoid mentioning Will's mother. The rare times he did, it was with an accusing tone. For him to not do so was curious.

"You're a free spirit," the Major said, taking a pull off of his glass--Dutch courage. "Your mother was never one to... play by society's rules."

"I see," Will replied, thinking back to his only memory of her, sitting reading on an old couch in a yellow room. An image of a beautiful woman that was so worn to time that all he could tell was that she had brown hair.

The Major sighed, "You may not like to hear this, but she was the biggest mistake of my life."

Will turned, "Did you love her?"

"Yes."

"But?"

"There are people that are right for each other, and those that aren't. And your mother wasn't well." He sighed again uncomfortably, "I used to come home on leave and find your sister taking care of you."

"My sister?" Will asked in surprise, "Lucy's only..."

"Your other sister, Danielle," the major said tiredly, "from your mother's first marriage."

"I have another half-sister," Will said, mulling that one over. "You said she was looking after me?"

The major was quietly pale, very tired, as suddenly his age was showing, "I came home one morning to find Danielle getting dressed and ready for school, you were in your chair eating biscuits." He shook his head at the memory, "I asked her what was going on, where mommy was." He took another drink, "She said mommy was sick, and that she was feeding you before she went to school." He turned to Will, "Danielle was six years old."

Will frowned down at the bar again, "What happened?"

"I took her to the hospital," Will's father said slowly. "They couldn't find anything physically wrong with her, but apparently she went through these spells where she wouldn't get out of bed for weeks on end. She would get up to eat, and just go back to bed." He turned to Will, "Apparently Danielle had been taking care of you off and on for weeks."

Will let that sink in a moment: the only reason he was sitting there in a bar in Canada was because of a six-year-old girl he had never met feeding him cookies to keep him alive when he was a baby. Cookies...

"Your mother divorced me after that, and the judge awarded me custody of you, but..." he seemed tired, "Danielle wasn't my daughter, she had to go with your mother."

"Why tell me this now?" Will asked looking up at the Major.

"Because I think you needed to hear it," the Major replied simply.

Will nodded, "Thank you."

The Major sighed as he scooped up his hat and put it on his head, standing up and leaving his lager barely touched on the bar. "I should go," he said firmly. "Pick up your grandmother."

Will nodded, paying for his lager as he stood up to follow the Major out into the parking lot. He wondered how much like his mother he truly was, and how much that had hurt the Major to watch a constant reminder of a love he'd lost so long ago.

"Mister Carter!" a voice called out, sounding a little startled.

Beside him, the Major tensed; he hated to be called Mister, which was beneath him. He turned prepared to reprimand the offender. Will turned and recognized Mrs. McCormick as she hurried across the parking lot, making a bee-line directly to him, "Mister Carter," she repeated again, pausing to nod to the Major.

"What's wrong?" Will asked Peter's mother in confusion.

"Have you seen Peter?" she asked desperately. "He didn't come home after school, and its late, and..."

Will reached out a hand to steady the frantic woman, "It's okay, slow down. You said Peter didn't come home after school? Have you called the police?"

"Yes," she sniffed, "they are out looking for him, I..." she faltered, "I was out looking and saw you, I remembered Peter was always talking about you; do you know where he would go?"

Will glanced around him; they were close to the heart of the small town, there weren't that many places a boy like that could go. "I'll help you look." Will reassured, "We'll find him, Mrs. McCormick." She nodded in thanks, separating from him to search around the buildings. She seemed so lost as Will stood trying to think.

The Major lightly tapped Will's arm. "I have an idea," he said firmly. "Get in the truck." He pointed to the Bronco.

Will glanced at his father and nodded, climbing aboard.