“On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…seven swans a swimming”
A scraping sound woke Devlin this time. At least he thought he had been sleeping, dreaming that he had seen his mother and that she had told him she loved him. Ordinarily, any dream with his mother in it would have been a nightmare, but how it had ended was good. And once all his tears were spent he felt much better than he had in a very long time. He guessed he had drifted off to sleep, for the fire had died down and only red glowing embers remained. Wiping his eyes, he stood and walked over to the fireplace. He bent down and tossed another log on the coals. Reaching over, he grabbed the poker and stoked the coals until the log caught fire.
Again he heard a scraping sound. With the poker held firmly in his grasp, he jumped up.
“Who’s there?” he called.
He wasn’t sure why he called out. On some level he knew he was probably just imagining things but the fine hair on the back of his neck lifted, which was a good indicator something was about to happen. And if it was true to form, as hair lifting goes, it wouldn’t be anything good either.
“I guess you weren’t expecting me,” said a deep voice emerging from the shadows.
“Who…who…are you?” Devlin’s eyes boggled.
The man in question had sandy blonde hair, much like his own. He was dressed in fine clothing and held a wrapped package in his hand. “Hello, son…”
Devlin stumbled back in shock. “What did you just say to me?”
“You are my son, I suppose.”
“You do not know?” Devlin laughed suddenly. “This is good.” Shaking his head, he wasn’t sure why this didn’t surprise him more.
“That’s a loaded question.” The man lifted an elegant hand and smoothed his hair. “I realize this may be poor timing on my part,” he said, shrugging his lean shoulders.
“Well, obviously.” Devlin figured if he was imagining his absentee father, one he never met, he may as well go all in and at least find out what the man wanted. “What do you want?”
“Apparently I am here for a reason, to make amends, perhaps.” Again he shrugged, and looked around the room. “I see you haven’t done too badly for yourself, though.”
“Why now?” Devlin had to ask.
“If truth were to be told, I am not really sure.”
“Are you dead, too?”
“I wasn’t but…now,” he paused, looking around, “I might be.”
Devlin felt his chest tighten. “Well, you may leave. I do not have anything to say to you.”
“I would if I could, but…I am here, so, I suppose I have yet to do what I was set here to do.” He looked contemplative. “Any idea what that may be?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Might I have a drink, I find I am parched suddenly.”
“Ah, sure…” Devlin lifted his hand toward the sideboard. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” The man limped over to the sideboard. Lifting one of the crystal stoppers, he set it down and poured a drink. “Would you care for one?”
“Sure.” Devlin warily watched him. If he was a ghost how could he get a drink? A shiver of dread washed over him. Was he dead, too? He must be for why else would he be seeing a father he had never known. Of course the man could be lying. But why would he lie? Devlin narrowed his eyes. Mayhap the man was a vagrant, looking for a place to wait out the storm. Of course, the pit of his belly told him differently. Besides, if the man was indeed a vagrant, why would he call him son?
Taking a sip from the glass, the man shut his eyes. “This is good,” he said, turning, reopening his eyes. He was no taller than Devlin and there were definite similarities between the two of them, but still he didn’t know what to believe. First his mother and now his would be father? In one night…it was too much.
Walking slowly toward Devlin, the man held out the other glass. The package now tucked under his arm.
“Thanks.” Devlin took the drink. In spite of the brave front he was putting on, his hand trembled.
“You do not need to be afraid of me, boy.”
“I am not a boy.” Devlin pushed back his shoulders and tried to stand taller. “I am a man.”
“You are barely out of the schoolroom.”
“I beg to differ…” he scoffed. “ I am a man and have been since I was thirteen years old.”
“Barely,” he muttered and then took a hefty swallow of his drink. He turned, bringing his black gaze to the tree in the corner. “The tree is a nice touch.”
Devlin frowned and then tossed back his drink in one gulp. “I think so.”
“Would you like another?”
“Another of what?” asked Devlin.
“Would you like another drink?” The man looked down at his now empty glass.
“Sure.” Devlin handed out his glass. The man took it and limped back to the sideboard.
“Why are you limping?” Devlin didn’t mean to ask the question out loud.
“I fell down a flight of stairs, when I was not much older than you are now,” he said, pouring another two drinks.
“What happened to you, I mean, how did you fall?”
“Actually, I was pushed.” The man laughed.
“By whom?” asked Devlin, not sure why he was even interested.
“You don’t remember?” He lifted his brow, turning with two filled glasses in his hands. He limped back over to Devlin and once again handed out the other glass.
Taking it from his outstretched hand, Devlin moved back to the fireplace. He wanted to be closer to the poker, in case.
“I went to visit your mother…but I waited too long,” he said, a deep sadness in his voice and etched on his face.
Devlin felt sick. “You used my mother…tossed her aside like she was of no consequence when she told you she was pregnant with me.”
“Is that what she told you?” He waved off his comment. “I guess she must have.”
“Are you trying to deny it?” Devlin asked surprised by how angry he was getting.
“Not really,” he answered. “But that is not what happened, exactly.” He rubbed his brow and his gold ring flashed under the lights. “There are two sides to every story, you know.”
“Actions speak louder than words, and I have never seen you before,” Devlin parried.
“Oh but you have…son.”
Devlin gritted his teeth. “Stop calling me that.”
“Well it is the truth, whether you like it or not.” He lifted his brow.
“Would you get to the point already?” Devlin had a feeling the man wasn’t going anywhere.
“May I sit?”
Devlin sighed, having his thoughts confirmed. “I suppose.” What would be the point in denying the man? Like his mother’s visit from…well… beyond, she had had her say before she disappeared. So it would seem likely the same would need to happen before this man too, faded back to wherever he had come from. Resigning himself to his temporary fate, Devlin too, took his own seat across from the man…his supposed father. At this close range he could see there were definite similarities between the two of them. The man was handsome to be sure and his eyes were just as black as Devlin’s were. And he did seem to have a taste for fine clothing as well.
“Aren’t you curious as to where you have seen me before?” prompted the man, his onyx eyes glinting in the dim firelight.
“Not really.” Devlin gave him a pointed look and then caved. He did want to know where he had seen him. “Fine,” he exhaled. Besides, it wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter.
“It was quite some time ago, so it is not surprising you do not remember me, per se.”
“Yes, yes, I have already heard you say that. Can you speed this along? I need some sleep before my guests arrive tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said and took another drink. “Where would you like to start?”
“Damned if I know.” Devlin frowned at the flames in the fire.
“You know, I was a lot like you, when I was your age.”
“I doubt that,” he said, taking in his fine clothing, and polished mannerisms. This man didn’t live on the streets, like he did. “What difference does that make?” Devlin looked at him.
“I guess it doesn’t.” He shook his head. “It was just an observation.”
“If what you say is true…” He lifted his brows and shrugged.
“Why is it so hard to believe that I am your father?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” He tapped his chin in feigned thought. “Oh I know, it may have something to do with the fact I have never seen you before your impromptu visit here tonight, that’s why.” He shook his glass, making the dark liquid swirl in the bottom.
“I suppose that is the way you would see it. But I have seen you before.”
“So you keep telling me,” he deadpanned, seemingly unfazed by the comment. But he was barely holding it together.
The man set the box on the table between them, toying with the little bow on the top.
Devlin looked at it. The packaging was nice; it looked like a present. “What is that?” he heard himself asking even though that had not been his intent.
“This…” He lifted the box again. “It is a gift.”
“That’s obvious.” He rolled his eyes suddenly irritated. “Who is it for?”
“I had this gift when I visited you, a long time ago.”
“So what are you still doing with it?”
“I have carried it with me, on my person, for years,” he explained. “It is a reminder, of sorts,” he muttered and set the box back down. Lifting his glass again, he took another drink.
“Can you get on with it?” Devlin was antsy. He wanted to get out of this dream, for surely it was nothing more. Yes, he was sure it was some strange dream conjured in his mind, for what reason, he knew not, but apparently, it needed to play itself out. He just wanted it to be over with. Anything unpleasant in his life he tried to get away from, distance himself, so it wouldn’t be so close to him. After his mother passed and was buried, he left their home, living on the streets, just so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of her.
The problem was her image had stuck with him, even when he was not at their home. Instead, not a day went by that he did not think of his mother. So, seeing her tonight…well, it was a gift. He was sure he had that same conversation in his mind with her a million times but she had never said she loved him, not until tonight and that in itself was an even bigger gift/blessing. Unfortunately, it also inadvertently left a larger void in his heart than he had before. For now, he truly wished he had more time with her, to hug her, to tell her how much she meant to him. To be the little boy he once was. But it was too late. And now he could only visit her in his dreams…his eyes closed.
Memories came back to him unbidden…
The Past – Fleet Street
It was his thirteenth birthday. “Mother…” he called, running at a breakneck pace into their little home. Skidding to a halt, he looked around at the small area.
The smell of freshly washed clothing hung in the air. A rope hung across the length of the room drying the wet clothing in front of the fire. A kettle was in the hearth, bubbling with some kind of stew. Mostly scraps from the butcher next door, who she “entertained” on occasion, and some vegetables she had gathered. It was a meal though and it smelled good. He was hungry, but that was nothing new. Being poor made you hungry…but it wasn’t always for food, no, being poor made you hungry for all the things you couldn’t have.
“Mother…” he called again, tearing up the stairs. The door to her room was shut which meant one thing: she was busy with one of her many guests.
Noises coming from her room were nothing new considering what his mother did to make a living for them. He was about to sneak back down the stairs and come back later after her guest had left but he heard something else, something he wasn’t used to hearing. This time she was not moaning about some man’s prowess in bed, no, she was yelling about something different. Sliding back into the shadows, he fisted his hands to his ears and endured the terrifying sounds coming from her room. He almost walked in, but he was afraid of what she would do to him if he bothered her. He would get beat with the walking stick she kept by her bed. The beating didn’t matter much though, what scared him most of all was her anger. She would be so angry with him. She was always angry with him. So he waited and waited…
He was not sure how much time had passed. He must have dozed off for when he opened his eyes; his mother’s door was open. It was eerily quiet. Taking a step toward her room, a bone chilling fear set in. He could barely get his feet to move. He walked to the door and froze.
“No,” he said barely audible. Stepping further into her room, he saw his mother dead, or so he thought at the time. Tears blurred his eyes; he knelt down beside her, reaching for her.
A floorboard creaked.
His mother moaned and her hand twitched at her side. “Mother,” he cried, torn. Fear spurred his every action. Standing, he slid back in the shadows. The walking stick held firmly in his grasp. He felt like it was burning his hands and he wanted to toss it aside, but he couldn’t.
Another floorboard creaked.
“Allison…my God,” a man said, walking further into the room.
Devlin didn’t think, he merely struck out and hit the man for all he was worth. The man looked shocked as blood trickled out from under his fine hat, spilling down his face. Devlin struck out again and the man stumbled back out of the door. With one last shove, Devlin pushed the man down the stairs.
Chest heaving, Devlin stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the man lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
He ran back into his mother’s room; it was too late. She was dead. Devlin did the only thing he could think to do…he ran…
“Do you remember now?” the man asked, quietly.
Devlin shook off the unpleasant memory and once again stared into the black eyes of a stranger, although they were familiar too. “That was you,” he said, his voice coming out strangely calm.
“Yes.” He nodded. “You remember.”
“You killed my mother?”
A pained look crossed the man’s face and he shook his head. “I did not kill your mother. I went to see her, but when I arrived, I was attacked. Someone shoved me down a flight of stairs. When I awoke she had already passed.”
“No. You…you…” Devlin suddenly wasn’t sure what to believe.
“I was coming back for you both, like I promised but I was too late.”
“No,” Devlin said, shaking his head. His chest tightened.
“I was,” he said. “I loved your mother, but I was young, foolish, and she wasn’t from the right family. I would have lost everything.”
“So you tossed her aside and left her to her own devices?”
“No, I gave her what I could, but then…” He lifted his hands helplessly in the air. “Things happened…life happened, I suppose, and I couldn’t get back to her and you.”
Devlin stood and paced the room, threading his fingers through his hair, holding his head. “Stop it. You are lying.”
“I thought of you every day, son.”
“I said,” Devlin clenched his jaw, “do not call me that!”
“Fine,” he exhaled. “I told her I would be back after I made something for us, for myself.” His face crumbled before Devlin’s eyes. “I was too late.”
“So she wasn’t lying to me?” he said more to himself than the man in front of him now. Devlin felt sick.
“No. She was not.”
For the second time that night, Devlin felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He swiped them away with his hand.
“I am sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” Devlin snapped.
“I am sorry I was not strong enough to stay for you, for her…I …”
“Stop!” he shouted, feeling helpless once more. “I do not want to hear anymore.”
“You must. I have to tell you…” He lifted his hands.
“You have said enough.” Devlin turned hurt eyes on the man. Feeling none of the things he should. Shouldn’t he be feeling relief? But hearing this man’s confessions, the baring of his soul did nothing to alleviate the pain that was caused by his actions. “I want you to leave.”
“I understand…but know this, I love you, son. Not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you and your mother.”
“No,” Devlin said, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I do not want to hear anymore.”
“I wish…”
“I do not want to hear your wishes,” he spat, angrily. “I wished too, you know. I wished every day of my life that you would come and find me, but you did not. So, just stop. You can carry your guilt, your burdens, with you, like I have.”
“I am not looking to alleviate my guilt…”
“Aren’t you? Isn’t that what this visit is all about? So you may go to wherever you need to go with a clear conscience. Well here is a novel idea, perhaps you should have found me when you were still alive. Once you die, it is a bit late don’t you think?”
“Well,” he said. “I am not sure I am dead.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I think there is a high probability that you are already on your way to the hereafter, so…” He folded his arms across his chest, trying to hold himself together. He could not breathe right. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to cry like a child again.
“I suppose you are right.” The man stood. “Well, I believe it’s time to go for I have said everything I have come to say.”
“Good for you.” His lip quivered and traitorous tears slipped from his eyes.
“May I…” The man held out his arms.
“What?” Devlin sniffed. “I do not think that would be…ah…”
“Please.” He stepped closer. “I doubt I will have another chance.”
“I doubt you will have a chance…” He was going to say now, but stopped and rethought his hasty decision. Isn’t this something he had longed for his entire life and now, the chance was at hand to actually obtain one of the very things he had always wanted and was he actually going to let his pride stand in the way? The old Devlin may have, but like he told his mother a few short hours ago. He had changed. And yes, if truth were to be told, deep down he wanted nothing more than to hug the man, his father, if only for a moment. Relenting, he nodded his head.
“Thank you.” The man stepped forward, and clasped him firmly in his embrace. “My boy,” he said, patting his back. “It is all right. Everything is going to be all right.”
The traitorous tears he had held in check were now running freely from his eyes. “I wish I knew you.” Devlin hugged him back, pressing his face against his shoulder, like he was a child of thirteen all over again.
“So do I son, so do I.” All too soon, the man, his father, relinquished his hold and stepped away. “You can take solace in the fact that now you know I do love you, and always have.” He placed his hands on Devlin’s shoulders. “You turned out quite well, in spite of your upbringing or lack thereof,” he said. Tears glistened in his dark eyes. “I am proud of the man that you have become.”
The damn broke open. “Don’t go. We still have so many things to discuss,” he choked.
“I know but I fear you have company coming. Good-bye son. I love you.”
Devlin looked at the clock. It was only one o’clock. “No it’s still early,” he said, turning back around. But his father was gone. “Father… please, come back…”
For the second time that night, Devlin fell back into the chair, and covered his face. And the boy he was and the man he had become, cried for the loss of a father, he had never known but somehow found he still loved anyway.