Lullabye Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens = bullfrog–love frogs!) E-mail: linda_31467@msn.com Rated: PG-13–some strong language Premise: This is a flashback/fill-in hypothesizing aobut what might have happened when Nick's mother, Anne, made him play with Hugh as discussed in "The Neighborhood". Disclaimer: Anne, Nick and Burton Fallin, Hugh, the house on Parker Street (which looks to me like the bedrooms are upstairs) and Burton's Cadillac are all taken directly from "The Guardian." Resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental; similarity of events, dates, characters or the portrayal of events is unintentional. The garden is imaginary; the toads that live there are real. You made me sound like an intelligent human being again, Janet– thanks. --+-- Burton Fallin pulled into the driveway of his Parker Street home. The garage door was closed and the blue Schwinn bicycle his son had been so happy to discover under the tree the preceding Christmas was leaning against it. Burton sighed, put the car in park and got out, moved the bike and opened the garage door. He pulled into the garage, turned off the ignition and got out of the Cadillac sedan, careful to avoid bumping his wife's Saab with his car door. He maneuvered the bike to its accustomed place between the two cars, positioning it up almost to the lawn mower handle so that he and Anne could open their cars without scratching the paint or knocking over the bike. He retrieved his briefcase and walked out of the garage, closing and locking the door, and headed across the back yard and into the kitchen. He glanced at the watch his wife had given him when he started Fallin and Associates. A little past nine. He put his briefcase in his den and headed upstairs. He'd be just in time to see Nicholas into bed and say good night. It had been a long time since Burton had last felt the touch of his son's lips on his cheek and Nicholas, well into his ninth year, was too old to be kissed good night by his father, but Burton could at least give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Damn, he thought, why do kids have to grow up, anyway? I really miss reading him a story and tucking him in. Anne was bending over Nicholas when Burton walked into their son's bedroom. "Oh, look, Daddy's here," she said, straightening and giving her husband a brief glance. An unspoken "for once" hovered in the room. "Hi, honey," Burton said. Anne stood motionless as Burton kissed her cheek. He moved to his son's bedside. "Hey, son," he said. "Hi, Dad," Nicholas said. Burton caught a brief glimpse of a light in his son's eyes at seeing his father that quickly vanished. Burton bent over his son, hiding his hurt at the unenthusiastic reception but wondering, as he found himself doing more and more of late, what was it that was leading Nicholas to regard him as an interloper? What goes on here when I'm at work, anyway? he thought. He was beginning to make some conjectures, but this certainly wasn't the time to bring them up with Anne. "How're ya doing?" Burton asked. He looked more closely at Nicholas' face. Even though the room was illuminated only by the light coming in from the hall he could see a bruise and a cut on his son's right cheekbone. "Wow! That's some cut you've got there. What happened?" "Fell off my bike," Nicholas mumbled. "Oh. That's too bad. You feel all right?" "Yeah." Nicholas turned on his right side, hiding the damage in his pillow. Burton patted Nick's shoulder, biting back an urge to tell his son that Daddy would kiss it and make it better. "Good night, son. See you in the morning." Nicholas' "'night" was almost inaudible as his mother pulled the covers up and tucked him in. Burton let her precede him out of the room and closed the door. Anne went downstairs to the kitchen, Burton following. "Do you want some dinner?" Anne asked. "No, thanks. I grabbed something at the office." Burton went to the cupboard where some of the Fallin liquor supply lived and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured himself three fingers and sat down at the kitchen table. He took a careful sip and put the glass down and turned to his wife. "That's quite a cut," he said. "I cleaned it and put some ice on it. It's not anything to worry about." Anne crossed her arms over her chest and walked restlessly around the room. Burton followed her with his eyes. "That's good." "He'll be all right." "This time," Burton said. He put the glass down, most of the scotch untasted. "What about the other ones he has–the ones I didn't see?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, come on, Anne. This isn't the first time. Give me credit for a little sense and a lot of experience. He didn't fall off his bike, did he?" "He told you he did." "Yes, he did. He tells me a lot of things he thinks I want to hear." "Are you calling my son a liar?" Burton sighed. "No, Anne, I'm not. He's my son, too, and I can tell when he's trying to keep me from finding out about something. He told me what he thinks I want to hear, and he told me because you told him to tell me." "Oh. Now I'm the liar?" Anne turned and glared at her husband. "Nicky told you he fell off his bike." "Anne, I've been in enough fights myself to know what happens when a fist connects with a face. Hugh did this, didn't he?" "Hugh? Oh, now, really, Burton. Hugh wouldn't hurt a fly–Hugh couldn't hurt a fly. He's so sweet–you should see his face light up when he sees Nicky. And he's so happy whenever I do some little thing like have the two of them in for milk and cookies. He adores Nicky." "Yes, he does. But Hugh just–gets out of control sometimes–and when he does–well, I've seen the bruises and so have you." "All children get cuts and scrapes, just from running around. It's part of being a child. And I can't watch him every minute, not without you telling me I'm babying him. One reason I want Nicky to play with Hugh is because he's just down the street and I don't have to worry about him going too far. Besides, you can't blame Hugh, the poor–" Burton turned the glass around in his fingers. "No, Anne, I don't blame Hugh. It's not his fault he is what he is. But he's bigger than Nicholas and a lot stronger, and he doesn't really know his own strength. And he gets frustrated very easily because of his– limitations. I've seen it and so have you. I just think maybe Nicholas should find some other things to do sometimes." "Don't you want Nicky to have friends?" "Of course I do. And he has other friends. but you seem to want him to make Hugh the main one and I don't think that's fair to either one of them." "I want my son to grow up to have some compassion for those less fortunate–some tolerance for people who aren't as smart or as handsome or as–privileged–as he is. What's wrong with that?" "Nothing at all. I want him to grow up to be a compassionate, tolerant human being, too. But he doesn't have to get the crap beaten out of him to learn it." "You have yet to prove to me that he's getting the crap beaten out of him. And how do you propose to teach him? I won't have him turned into a–a–brawling roughneck like–like–" "Like his father? Anne, the last bar fight I got into was long before we were married–before I even met you, as a matter of fact. Anyway, it's moot–I can't teach him how to defend himself because you won't let me. And in this case, I don't think he needs to learn to fight. He needs to learn that the best way to win a fight is not get into it in the first place. And the best way for him to do that is to stay away from Hugh–not all the time, just when Hugh starts to build up steam. He can still play with Hugh, but let him play with Hugh because he wants to–not because you tell him to. He'll like Hugh a lot better if you don't keep putting the two of them together all the time." "What do you know about it? You're never home anyway." "Oh, well, I'm sorry," Burton retorted, knowing that sarcasm was the worst possible response he could make, but unable to stop himself. "All I'm trying to do is put in ten- and twelve-hour days rustling up clients so I can make a decent living for myself and my family, so you can afford to tool around from the beauty parlor to the country club to wherever it is you're buying your clothes now and so I can send my–our–son to that $2,500-a-year day school and buy his Cub Scout and Little League uniforms and pay for his piano lessons and give him a couple of bucks worth of allowance so he can buy himself a comic book now and then–nothing important." "All right–I'll make my own clothes and do my own hair and we can send Nicky to public school and take him out of Scouts and Little League and–" "Damn it, Anne, that's not what I meant and you know it. Look, the two people I love most in the world are here in this house. This is my home–it's where I want to be. But somebody has to go out and make a living and I'm elected." "And since you're the one who makes the money, the rest of us have to bow down and –" "Oh, Anne, come on." Burton felt as he always did at this point in the arguments with his wife that of late seemed to be increasing in frequency and intensity–terribly tired, unutterably sad and wanting the whole thing just to be over with. "Look, all I'm asking is that you let Nicholas play with some other kids and let him walk away from Hugh when he sees him starting to get angry. And he's not a sissy now so learning a few basics won't turn him into a bully. Let me give him a few pointers. I don't think that's so much to–" "No!" "Mom? Mommy?" Anne and Burton turned. Nicholas was standing in the doorway, rubbing his left eye. Burton half rose. "It's all right, son–" he began. "Well, now, I hope you're satisfied," Anne snapped as she swiftly crossed the room and took Nick's hand. "Come along, darling. Let's get you back to bed." "Anne, why don't I take Nicholas back upstairs and you–" "Oh, no. We wouldn't dream of troubling you–you're the king of the castle. You're too important to be bothered with something so mundane as putting a child back to bed–especially since you're the one who woke him up in the first place." She turned and, still holding Nick's hand, started out of the kitchen. Nick turned briefly as his mother led him into the dining room. His father was still seated at the kitchen table, the glass in front of him. Before he turned his head back and let his mother lead him to the stairs, he saw his father put his elbows on the table and rest his forehead on his clasped hands. He looked very alone and very tired, Nick thought. Burton's eyes were closed and he was unaware of the brief look his son gave him. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes, unclasped his hands and took another sip of the scotch. He picked up the glass, dumped the rest of its contents in the sink and rinsed it, then put it in the dishwasher. When he put the scotch bottle back in the cupboard he took a closer look at some of its shelf mates. He was sure there had been more vodka in the Smirnoff bottle just a day or two ago. Sudden anger rose inside him. Is that why she didn't see Hugh working over Nicholas? he thought. Who was it this time? And how many does this make? Damn it, Anne, what is it he–whoever he is–has that I don't? God knows, I love you. I love Nicholas. I try to give you everything you want, everything you need. All I want in return is for is for my wife and my son to love me. Why is that so much to ask? Burton's den was actually an alcove off the living room large enough for a desk and a chair. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls and ran under the two windows. Burton sat at the desk and opened his briefcase. As he took out the file he had intended to review before he went to bed he looked at the framed photographs that sat on his desk and adorned the tops of the bookcases. He and Anne on their wedding day, Anne holding the infant Nicholas with Burton gazing in wonder and love at their days-old child, toddler Nicholas, his blonde hair in the long curls he had worn until Burton finally demanded their shearing, sitting on his father's knee pretending to read from a picture book, Nicholas holding his mother's hand about to start for his first day at school, a studio portrait of Anne, Burton and Nicholas–that one had been taken only last year, Burton recalled. Portrait of a perfect family, he thought. What's happening to us? Burton opened the file and started to read but couldn't concentrate. The hell with it, he thought and put the file back in his briefcase. It would just have to get done tomorrow. He rose, put out the light and made a circuit of the house, making sure that doors were locked and windows either closed or opened partially with the simple but effective security locks keeping them from being opened further. They had put those in the window frames not long after Nicholas was born, he remembered. We didn't want him to fall out a window, he thought. We put childproof locks on the cabinets. I put a fence around the back yard. Anne sterilized his bottles. We made sure he got all his shots. And now she makes him play with a kid who's not all there, who's bigger than he is and who wipes up the sidewalk with him whenever he gets frustrated because no one else has the patience or the forbearance to be around him. Jesus, Nicholas just got most of his teeth in. Do I have to wait until Hugh knocks them out before she gets wise to this? He debated briefly with himself as he went up the stairs and finally decided against the spare bedroom tonight. Anne hadn't kicked him out of bed yet. On the other hand, she certainly didn't seem to care much if he was there or not. Burton sighed and noiselessly opened his son's bedroom door. Nicholas lay on his back, one arm flung out. As Burton watched, his son moved in his sleep. He pulled the sheet up to Nicholas' waist, as he did so seeing more bruises on his son's torso under the disarranged pajama top. What was he dreaming about, Burton wondered. Were he and Hugh still playing? Still fighting? And what am I supposed to do about this? A man is supposed to protect the children he fathers. But what if his wife, his child's mother, won't let him? What then? He didn't have an answer. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps there were no answers to this God-awful dilemma. He left the room, closing the door behind him. Equally noiselessly Burton entered the bedroom he shared with his wife. He sat on the bench at Anne's dressing table and took off his shoes. Houses of the vintage of this one had two closets in the master bedroom and Burton put his footwear on the shoe tree in the closet designated as his. He quietly and quickly undressed and put his suit on the valet stand in one corner. He went into the half bath that adjoined the bedroom, put his discarded clothes in the hamper and showered quickly. After donning his pajamas he watched himself brush his teeth in the bathroom mirror. What now? he silently asked his reflection. Where do we go from here and what do we do? Damned if I know. A shelf in the medicine cabinet held a row of small brown phials and Burton knew what the labels said without reading them: Anne Fallin, 62 Parker St., take one at bedtime, take one as needed, one refill, two refills, no refill–the list went on. That might also account for Anne's just not seeing what happened between her son and the neighbor boy. Burton shook his head and closed the medicine cabinet. Anne was either asleep or pretending to be, with her back to Burton's side of the bed. Burton remembered a cartoon he had once seen in an old issue of Esquire–a woman asleep in a bed and her husband walking in the room to find the vacant half of the bed fenced off with a coil of barbed wire. They hadn't got to that point yet, he thought, but they probably weren't too far from it. He put his robe at the foot of the bed and slipped in beside her. The sheets were freshly laundered and ironed and had obviously been put on the bed that day. Anne had done laundry three or four days ago, Burton remembered. There was only one reason to change the sheets so soon, and he knew what it was. He turned on his side, away from Anne as she had turned away from him. Who was it this time? he wondered once more. He turned his face into the pillow, very much as his son had done earlier, and felt a tear slide out of his eye onto the pillow case. He was crying, he realized, for them all–for his wife, for his son, for himself. Well, he thought, someone should. This marriage is dying, I'm losing my family and apparently I'm the only one who cares enough to grieve about it. God, I'm lonely. The End