Will stared at his coffee. He looked up at his sister, who was busy nursing a cup of tea that had long gone a bit too cold to be worth drinking. He sighed.
“You know,” and Joanne could tell from that very second that what Will was saying was something uncouth. He was speaking in what was his attempt at a Glaswegian accent. Thick, impenetrable, a brogue that would have sounded comical to a native Scot but convincing to American ears. Authenticity was not the goal, however. It was a kind of signal. “In a few weeks, our brother’ll be a monster.”
That was the point of Will’s Glasgow voice. It was to make it ever so slightly more difficult to eavesdrop. Obviously not enough to fool anyone determined to listen in, but enough to put off the curious passersby, those who weren’t trying to listen in but were still keeping their ears primed for any fun little snippets.
It wouldn’t work on their parents, of course. When mum and dad had been around, Will’s comments were...well, appropriate for a guy whose brother had just been inducted into a death game. All completely sincere, of course, Will loved Nick, but Joanne could tell even then that he’d been biting his tongue, holding a vexing doubt back. Willie, as their parents still called him, was their baby. His cynicism about Nick was not something they needed to see.
“You can’t know that, Will.” Unlike her brother, Joanne didn’t try and frustrate eavesdroppers by mixing up her cadence and inflection or affecting an inaccurate mimicry of another accent. She whispered. Like normal people. “Just...we can’t know that.”
“I think we can.” Will wasn’t taking any pleasure in this, Joanne knew that logically, but the thought that he was placing his bet now, so he would have the sanctimonious pleasure of saying ‘I told you so’ later, did cross her mind. She certainly felt the resulting pang of anger. “You know Nick. I know Nick. He’s...a good guy, but, come on.”
Joanne looked up, through the window of the cafe. Their parents were lighting up second cigarettes. She felt on the verge of tears herself. She looked back at her youngest brother. Anger sounded better than despair.
“And what do you mean by ‘come on’?” she asked, not bothering to hide the confrontational edge to her voice.
Will dropped the dumb accent. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“Uh, no, I don’t. Sorry, I must be thick. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Will scowled at her. “So we’re…” He paused. Swallowed. Looked out of the window, at the horizon instead of at their parents. “Okay. Fine.” He shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and turned to face Joanna, leaning forward. “We both know he’s an angry emotional wreck who doesn’t know his own strength, he loves his temper tantrums, is as easily manipulated as anyone we know, and he likes making enemies.”
“And,” Will continued, “in case you’d forgotten, that dumb polyamorous thing had just collapsed before he left and he was not taking it well.” They both liked Tristan and Beryl, they were good people, and they were all on board with the whole idea of letting people love however they pleased. But there was an unspoken agreement between the two siblings that Nick was not well-suited for it, and they’d been proven right.
Joanne sighed. There it was. Much better to have it all out in the open, at least she thought. There was something cathartic about that. And she surprised herself by unclenching her fists and actually getting less angry - she hadn’t even noticed she’d clenched them.
“He’s not a murderer,” came her reply.
“Nope. Doesn’t need to be a murderer, just needs to be…” Will trailed off and Joanne’s eyes darted back towards her brother.
“What?” She could tell Will wanted to say something derogatory. An idiot. Impulsive. Hot-tempered. Clumsy. Hell, even if he’d have just said ‘Nick’, that would have carried the meaning that they were looking for.
“In the wrong place at the wrong time,” was what Will settled with and he slumped back into his chair.
Joanne leaned forward and, in a tone so quiet Will visibly strained to hear, she said her piece. “I’ll say this once, Will. You might be right. Whatever. Nothing we can do about it. But let’s just...we’ll focus on defending Nick and apologising for what he’s done and rationalising the shit he does if and when we need to. Until now, let’s just fucking mourn. Like normal people. Okay?”
Will sighed. He took out his phone.
Joanne looked at her tea and stood up. “I’m gonna get this reheated.”
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
The Ogilvie siblings at a cafe on the outskirts of Chattanooga - open to interaction if anyone fancies that
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General Goose
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Isaac didn't think much of the coffee in this cafe- Lander's, it was. He glanced out a window to be sure. The window decal reminded him a lot of how Amatore's had used to be around the turn of the decade, before they'd started tinting everything for that more contrived-sort of speakeasy, somber feel. The drained cup he'd abandoned at his table reminded him of the cheap canteen fare he'd sup on, maybe somewhere like along the lines of when he'd rambled the the back-alleys of Kabul but minus the local charm, no heavy aroma of spice from an across-the-street stall to help wash down the whisked snot, just soupy thinness without bite. It'd been thirty-six and some years now that he'd been a Chattanooga resident and Lander's was starkly new- new complex with an odd-shape parking lot on this side of the highway that Isaac rarely visited. He suppose he'd ended up here as the accidental conclusion to a much needed drive. Clearing-of-the-thoughts with mind melting into the comforting pressure of a foot on the gas and traffic lights blurring into and out of his attention, last time he'd done anything of the sort had been when Patty's son- William, that was his name- had lost his job during that nasty business of the recession however many years- decade since, must have been- ago.
He'd pulled up in the parking lot, far enough away that he could get the brisk walk he normally enjoyed after sitting in a car for however long- washed off the grimy rot feeling from a too-long sit, fresh blood- he'd found a table that had felt reasonably comfortable on the far side of the cafe away from the windows. In his experience staying too close to the windows meant likelihood of a familiar face drifting by it, could've counted the number of serendipitous moments with a proper abacus, if that was a thing the youth of nowadays even used which he was right sure it was not.
He was aware enough of his own mood, anyways, to know that he was dreading he idea of having to speak to people. Always went that way- the strange stiffness to conversation, the expectant eyes on him that he'd break down and cry- he wasn't that sort of man dammit, but tragedy would always seem to play out about the same way. It had when Sophie had passed, and when Frankie had passed, and Martin and Lewis- however many years ago that had even been-, and Mum, and Pa, and Isaac was at least counting his blessings that that by now old friend named Mr. Reaper hadn't come for Patty yet. He guessed he wasn't old enough yet that he couldn't develop some kind of immunity to waking up one day and trudging out of bed and expecting a familiar face that was long buried under earth to turn a corner and say something as innocuous as hello. The wounds were still fresh, he guessed.
Ah well. Keep busy, as it were. He'd lived long enough to know what to do, in times like this. He'd grab the car and drive the scenic route to Hartfield- 27 down through Summerville, lovely assortment of roadside small town feel that could easily be absorbed at cruising speed- where he'd booked a flight early tomorrow to Honolulu. He'd stop by the lab unannounced, like he had right after the car accident that had taken Sophie from him and from her barely-on-this-earth daughter. Last time it'd been a brusque hug with Dalton, shoulder to shoulder, arms all the way around the back. Right by the racks of percolating agars, Dalton looking up for that moment-long of distraction from his pipette. Then they'd gotten to work, all right and proper.
Nothing wrong with the more soft-belly way of doing things with the youth, no sir. If anything Isaac had learned in his eighteen some years of being an unexpected dad once again that these millennial had themselves the right idea, and all their odd and justified anxieties aside he had full beaming confidence they'd set the ship right after the geezers like him were dead and buried. No amount of Canon or Brexit or Ebola would get 'em down, all their apocalyptic in-jokes aside. Just that, that all... just wasn't Isaac's deal, never had been. He needed space from tragedy, sure, but he didn't need rest. Didn't need ruminating. His body never did seem to stop ticking- even when he had way less supplemental gadgetry in his body than most of his other rapidly decaying peers his age.
He was getting on out of here, anyways. Back to business.
Isaac Cunningham, grandfather and sole remaining guardian of George Hunter High School senior Beryl Mahelona, looked pleasantly surprised when he passed the table with the youths he recognized, just as one of them began to stand. His smile was temporally displaced, as he for a moment forgot who he was talking to, who he was, what time it was as his grand-size past blurred into his present and his incredibly tiny and vanishing future.
"Oh, hello there!" It had been a while since- a couple of months? Bit too recent to be sure- he'd been invited by Christine to their lovely home, far side of the Glen from the gate, to discuss providing endowments to her department over lunch. Beryl had already been dating Nick- second oldest of the three, if he recalled, by then, but he'd only been around long enough to recognize the siblings in passing. His face, relatively clear of the texture of worry lines, briefly lit up with a smile in the eyes half buried by a rather wild and youthful crop of snow white bangs.
"Been a while, hasn't it?" A loose-handed, friendly salute. "I'd actually been wondering if I'd see your parents around, it's been...!"
The spill of time was cleaned up like that. He caught up to the present, and his smile faltered that same instant.
"... Ah. Yes. Mm- forgive me, I. I can leave the two of you alone, let you carry on. As it were." A hand to his brow, his flustered eyes briefly averted the wrong way before he insistently returned to eye contact with the eldest, then the youngest, then a nod, as was polite.
"I was actually going to stop by your house, with-" His form, still strong for his age, sculpted much like his granddaughter had prided herself on, briefly struggled with an awkward attempt at opening the pristine leather satchel on his one shoulder. "Well, ah." He dropped the attempt. His arms fell to his side with an envelope folded in half between the fingers of one hand. "That's irrelevant. Just some... matters of things left behind."
Poor phrasing. He really had never been the best at speaking- he'd been the worst at it, even, but all the others were gone by now, leaving him as the spokesperson for his decimated family by default.
He'd pulled up in the parking lot, far enough away that he could get the brisk walk he normally enjoyed after sitting in a car for however long- washed off the grimy rot feeling from a too-long sit, fresh blood- he'd found a table that had felt reasonably comfortable on the far side of the cafe away from the windows. In his experience staying too close to the windows meant likelihood of a familiar face drifting by it, could've counted the number of serendipitous moments with a proper abacus, if that was a thing the youth of nowadays even used which he was right sure it was not.
He was aware enough of his own mood, anyways, to know that he was dreading he idea of having to speak to people. Always went that way- the strange stiffness to conversation, the expectant eyes on him that he'd break down and cry- he wasn't that sort of man dammit, but tragedy would always seem to play out about the same way. It had when Sophie had passed, and when Frankie had passed, and Martin and Lewis- however many years ago that had even been-, and Mum, and Pa, and Isaac was at least counting his blessings that that by now old friend named Mr. Reaper hadn't come for Patty yet. He guessed he wasn't old enough yet that he couldn't develop some kind of immunity to waking up one day and trudging out of bed and expecting a familiar face that was long buried under earth to turn a corner and say something as innocuous as hello. The wounds were still fresh, he guessed.
Ah well. Keep busy, as it were. He'd lived long enough to know what to do, in times like this. He'd grab the car and drive the scenic route to Hartfield- 27 down through Summerville, lovely assortment of roadside small town feel that could easily be absorbed at cruising speed- where he'd booked a flight early tomorrow to Honolulu. He'd stop by the lab unannounced, like he had right after the car accident that had taken Sophie from him and from her barely-on-this-earth daughter. Last time it'd been a brusque hug with Dalton, shoulder to shoulder, arms all the way around the back. Right by the racks of percolating agars, Dalton looking up for that moment-long of distraction from his pipette. Then they'd gotten to work, all right and proper.
Nothing wrong with the more soft-belly way of doing things with the youth, no sir. If anything Isaac had learned in his eighteen some years of being an unexpected dad once again that these millennial had themselves the right idea, and all their odd and justified anxieties aside he had full beaming confidence they'd set the ship right after the geezers like him were dead and buried. No amount of Canon or Brexit or Ebola would get 'em down, all their apocalyptic in-jokes aside. Just that, that all... just wasn't Isaac's deal, never had been. He needed space from tragedy, sure, but he didn't need rest. Didn't need ruminating. His body never did seem to stop ticking- even when he had way less supplemental gadgetry in his body than most of his other rapidly decaying peers his age.
He was getting on out of here, anyways. Back to business.
Isaac Cunningham, grandfather and sole remaining guardian of George Hunter High School senior Beryl Mahelona, looked pleasantly surprised when he passed the table with the youths he recognized, just as one of them began to stand. His smile was temporally displaced, as he for a moment forgot who he was talking to, who he was, what time it was as his grand-size past blurred into his present and his incredibly tiny and vanishing future.
"Oh, hello there!" It had been a while since- a couple of months? Bit too recent to be sure- he'd been invited by Christine to their lovely home, far side of the Glen from the gate, to discuss providing endowments to her department over lunch. Beryl had already been dating Nick- second oldest of the three, if he recalled, by then, but he'd only been around long enough to recognize the siblings in passing. His face, relatively clear of the texture of worry lines, briefly lit up with a smile in the eyes half buried by a rather wild and youthful crop of snow white bangs.
"Been a while, hasn't it?" A loose-handed, friendly salute. "I'd actually been wondering if I'd see your parents around, it's been...!"
The spill of time was cleaned up like that. He caught up to the present, and his smile faltered that same instant.
"... Ah. Yes. Mm- forgive me, I. I can leave the two of you alone, let you carry on. As it were." A hand to his brow, his flustered eyes briefly averted the wrong way before he insistently returned to eye contact with the eldest, then the youngest, then a nod, as was polite.
"I was actually going to stop by your house, with-" His form, still strong for his age, sculpted much like his granddaughter had prided herself on, briefly struggled with an awkward attempt at opening the pristine leather satchel on his one shoulder. "Well, ah." He dropped the attempt. His arms fell to his side with an envelope folded in half between the fingers of one hand. "That's irrelevant. Just some... matters of things left behind."
Poor phrasing. He really had never been the best at speaking- he'd been the worst at it, even, but all the others were gone by now, leaving him as the spokesperson for his decimated family by default.
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General Goose
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Just as Joanne moved to get up, an older gentleman walked by them and, apparently recognising them, greeted them with a kind of wholesome all-American cheerfulness that neither Ogilvie sibling had really experienced for quite a few days.
Will glanced at Joanne, who was being polite and sympathetic and making all the right noises and faces in response to his slightly rambley greeting. Will could tell that she couldn't quite place him. Not that she didn't recognise him - Joanne was good with faces - but that that passage of time had diminished her ability to actually attach any significance to the kindly face that was addressing them with a familiarity that she certainly couldn't mirror.
Deciding to spare her the awkwardness of asking who he was, Will leaned forward. "Hi Isaac." It was now on him to steer the conversation forward, and he would try and drop in a couple of subtle hints to jog his sister's memory. "Good to see you again - I guess you're dropping off some stuff Nick left behind at Beryl's?" That was enough to jumpstart Joanna's memory, and when Isaac wasn't looking, she threw her brother an appreciative smile.
Will wasn't sure how 'appropriate' it was to mention the names - not least when Isaac had, possibly deliberately, avoided mentioning any names - and realised a second too late that maybe their names were some sort of emotional trigger for him, that a degree of distancing was how Isaac had chosen to cope. Too late to change that now, though, so Will just carried on the conversation, not letting any kind of morbid gloominess cast any more of a pall over them than it already was doing.
"Our parents are just outside," Will continued, answering the questions that had littered throughout his opening monologue. "Just...getting some fresh air." An old Ogilvie way of saying 'smoking multiple cigarettes in a row'. Not one that Will himself used. His parents would see right through it, after all. Will had just started smoking openly in front of his parents since the abduction - and whether because they assumed it was a phase or were preoccupied with mourning Nick, they hadn't objected. He'd also consciously discarded the old Willie nickname - one that Nick had half-teasingly given him - to the best of his ability. Probably selfish to use his brother's kidnapping as a 'wow look at me' moment, but whatever. It hadn't happened by design. It was just what felt right. What helped him cope.
"And if you have all the things on you now, we could take them? Save you a trip?" Unless there was anything Beryl had left behind, but Will couldn't remember that. He'd always sorta got on with Beryl the best out of the Ogilvie family - including Nick, if he was hoest. They had shared interests.
"Nice to see you again, Isaac," Joanna chimed in, "but I'm just gonna go grab a refill. See you in a sec." With that, she left.
Will looked at Isaac. Was he the sort of guy who was coping how he was? Speculating about how Beryl was doing? Bracing himself for the worst by playing out every conceivable scenario? Probably not. Will was alone in that regard. "It's been tough," he said, as a kind of non-controversial space-filler.
Will glanced at Joanne, who was being polite and sympathetic and making all the right noises and faces in response to his slightly rambley greeting. Will could tell that she couldn't quite place him. Not that she didn't recognise him - Joanne was good with faces - but that that passage of time had diminished her ability to actually attach any significance to the kindly face that was addressing them with a familiarity that she certainly couldn't mirror.
Deciding to spare her the awkwardness of asking who he was, Will leaned forward. "Hi Isaac." It was now on him to steer the conversation forward, and he would try and drop in a couple of subtle hints to jog his sister's memory. "Good to see you again - I guess you're dropping off some stuff Nick left behind at Beryl's?" That was enough to jumpstart Joanna's memory, and when Isaac wasn't looking, she threw her brother an appreciative smile.
Will wasn't sure how 'appropriate' it was to mention the names - not least when Isaac had, possibly deliberately, avoided mentioning any names - and realised a second too late that maybe their names were some sort of emotional trigger for him, that a degree of distancing was how Isaac had chosen to cope. Too late to change that now, though, so Will just carried on the conversation, not letting any kind of morbid gloominess cast any more of a pall over them than it already was doing.
"Our parents are just outside," Will continued, answering the questions that had littered throughout his opening monologue. "Just...getting some fresh air." An old Ogilvie way of saying 'smoking multiple cigarettes in a row'. Not one that Will himself used. His parents would see right through it, after all. Will had just started smoking openly in front of his parents since the abduction - and whether because they assumed it was a phase or were preoccupied with mourning Nick, they hadn't objected. He'd also consciously discarded the old Willie nickname - one that Nick had half-teasingly given him - to the best of his ability. Probably selfish to use his brother's kidnapping as a 'wow look at me' moment, but whatever. It hadn't happened by design. It was just what felt right. What helped him cope.
"And if you have all the things on you now, we could take them? Save you a trip?" Unless there was anything Beryl had left behind, but Will couldn't remember that. He'd always sorta got on with Beryl the best out of the Ogilvie family - including Nick, if he was hoest. They had shared interests.
"Nice to see you again, Isaac," Joanna chimed in, "but I'm just gonna go grab a refill. See you in a sec." With that, she left.
Will looked at Isaac. Was he the sort of guy who was coping how he was? Speculating about how Beryl was doing? Bracing himself for the worst by playing out every conceivable scenario? Probably not. Will was alone in that regard. "It's been tough," he said, as a kind of non-controversial space-filler.
Isaac's eyes, at least briefly, continued to smile. Old face, old habits. A zest for life despite many years, a secret to anti-aging good as any home network channel could promise. But even he couldn't maintain that energy throughput. Moments on the old hourglass passed by quick, but this one was stoppered, lethargic with awkward energy. Goodness. It had been some time since Isaac could even recall such a discombobulation.
"It has been," he acknowledged with a nod. He'd waved the elder sister off, earnestly enough. There was a vividness to the young that contrasted them- however many years had passed for either of the surviving Ogilvie kids, the boy was clearly fresh faced, perhaps still wrestling with the secondary phase of the American education system. He couldn't recall if the younger brother went to the same school Beryl and Nick had. Young faces tended to be washed of blemish, time caked mud onto the cheeks until skin cracked and sagged under the weight, but in Isaac's experience tragedy made few years many. He'd seen it on his own face, must have been fifty some years ago by now. More, even, they'd seen the past decade off at least recently. But it had been some mythical time when he'd still been a young lad, it'd been that grimy old bathroom mirror smaller in width than it was in height, he'd first seen the darkness under his eyes after he'd spent months failing to see the world pass by around him. That'd been right after Martin and Lewis had gone- they'd died '52, the body bags hadn't been shipped back from Korea yet. He couldv'e been ten, eleven at oldest then.
He didn't quite see his reflection in the boy before him, which might have been good news. Or maybe the youth nowadays were just better at hiding the wasting away. Isaac fiddled with the envelope in his hand- personal effects, too personal, even. Meant for only two pairs of eyes to share. Insofar as Isaac had ever really been able to divine Beryl's odd, beautifully ethereal motivations.
"Books, that's what your brother left behind with her. Thin paperbacks, but the material was dense enough that it was a bit beyond me."
He tried to smile. Did a good job of it, of course, he well knew by now how to wear his calmest face and stiffest lip in all extenuating circumstances. Many, once-upon-a-time, had told him he had a good smile, often in the context of wondering why a man as handsome, allegedly, as he was at his age remained a widower. Those sincere attempts at flattery were often made by those a good deal of years his youth. Folks his age, few as there were left in his orbit, knew better.
"Wish I could say she digested them voraciously, but it was never her strong suit, sticking to one topic." She'd been a lot of things, in her time. Nearly all of them still a bit too easy to remember. "I'm sure whatever they were able to share was pleasant."
He began to stuff the envelope back into his satchel. There were three good seats at the booth, but Isaac made no pretensions of approaching one. He looked roughly at ease, standing, impressive of stature. Learned behavior, that.
"I won't so much as ask for your thoughts. Won't trouble you with them, but." A distracted sigh, a glance away from the boy. Then back towards him, as was proper. "There is never a bad time to commiserate. In my experience, at least."
"It has been," he acknowledged with a nod. He'd waved the elder sister off, earnestly enough. There was a vividness to the young that contrasted them- however many years had passed for either of the surviving Ogilvie kids, the boy was clearly fresh faced, perhaps still wrestling with the secondary phase of the American education system. He couldn't recall if the younger brother went to the same school Beryl and Nick had. Young faces tended to be washed of blemish, time caked mud onto the cheeks until skin cracked and sagged under the weight, but in Isaac's experience tragedy made few years many. He'd seen it on his own face, must have been fifty some years ago by now. More, even, they'd seen the past decade off at least recently. But it had been some mythical time when he'd still been a young lad, it'd been that grimy old bathroom mirror smaller in width than it was in height, he'd first seen the darkness under his eyes after he'd spent months failing to see the world pass by around him. That'd been right after Martin and Lewis had gone- they'd died '52, the body bags hadn't been shipped back from Korea yet. He couldv'e been ten, eleven at oldest then.
He didn't quite see his reflection in the boy before him, which might have been good news. Or maybe the youth nowadays were just better at hiding the wasting away. Isaac fiddled with the envelope in his hand- personal effects, too personal, even. Meant for only two pairs of eyes to share. Insofar as Isaac had ever really been able to divine Beryl's odd, beautifully ethereal motivations.
"Books, that's what your brother left behind with her. Thin paperbacks, but the material was dense enough that it was a bit beyond me."
He tried to smile. Did a good job of it, of course, he well knew by now how to wear his calmest face and stiffest lip in all extenuating circumstances. Many, once-upon-a-time, had told him he had a good smile, often in the context of wondering why a man as handsome, allegedly, as he was at his age remained a widower. Those sincere attempts at flattery were often made by those a good deal of years his youth. Folks his age, few as there were left in his orbit, knew better.
"Wish I could say she digested them voraciously, but it was never her strong suit, sticking to one topic." She'd been a lot of things, in her time. Nearly all of them still a bit too easy to remember. "I'm sure whatever they were able to share was pleasant."
He began to stuff the envelope back into his satchel. There were three good seats at the booth, but Isaac made no pretensions of approaching one. He looked roughly at ease, standing, impressive of stature. Learned behavior, that.
"I won't so much as ask for your thoughts. Won't trouble you with them, but." A distracted sigh, a glance away from the boy. Then back towards him, as was proper. "There is never a bad time to commiserate. In my experience, at least."
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General Goose
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"Huh, books." Will shuffled in his seat, looking at the envelope Isaac was toying with.
"Never knew Nick to be interested in a book where he couldn't imagine himself as the protagonist," Will continued, perhaps a bit too sardonically, perhaps letting the caustic edge in his voice come through a bit too transparently.
It was easier to be angry at Nick - for his treatment of Beryl and Tristan, for his treatment of his siblings, for his utter failure at self-care, for his presumed and Will would say inevitable transgressions on the island - than it was to allow himself to be sad and worried for his brother. At least in public. Will knew, however, that sadness would be socially acceptable, but a veneer of loathing would not be. His attack on his brother was unfair besides. Nick had a scholastic streak, after all, and was nowhere near as conceited and self-obsessed as Will was portraying him as.
"Take a seat, if you want," Will offered, hoping that the unprompted offer of kindness would distract from his unnecessary vitriol, the unwarranted public display of a complex mix of resentment and anger and sadness that Will was finding harder to contain than he'd hoped.
He looked a lot like Nick, really. There were differences, of course. Willie was slender and lanky where his brother was broad and bulky. He was clean-shaven and with an emo wings hairstyle that made him look like some budget boy band wannabe, wearing t-shirts and jeans instead of the fancy apparel his brother had donned. Their eyes were similar, though. God, he hoped their tempers weren't, though. Will couldn't deal with that.
"If you want to vent...if it'd be cathartic to go off on one..." Will shrugged. He remembered how important the old man had been to Beryl. He assumed it was mutual. "Knock yourself out."
Will imagined it would be helpful for himself to listen to it too.
"Never knew Nick to be interested in a book where he couldn't imagine himself as the protagonist," Will continued, perhaps a bit too sardonically, perhaps letting the caustic edge in his voice come through a bit too transparently.
It was easier to be angry at Nick - for his treatment of Beryl and Tristan, for his treatment of his siblings, for his utter failure at self-care, for his presumed and Will would say inevitable transgressions on the island - than it was to allow himself to be sad and worried for his brother. At least in public. Will knew, however, that sadness would be socially acceptable, but a veneer of loathing would not be. His attack on his brother was unfair besides. Nick had a scholastic streak, after all, and was nowhere near as conceited and self-obsessed as Will was portraying him as.
"Take a seat, if you want," Will offered, hoping that the unprompted offer of kindness would distract from his unnecessary vitriol, the unwarranted public display of a complex mix of resentment and anger and sadness that Will was finding harder to contain than he'd hoped.
He looked a lot like Nick, really. There were differences, of course. Willie was slender and lanky where his brother was broad and bulky. He was clean-shaven and with an emo wings hairstyle that made him look like some budget boy band wannabe, wearing t-shirts and jeans instead of the fancy apparel his brother had donned. Their eyes were similar, though. God, he hoped their tempers weren't, though. Will couldn't deal with that.
"If you want to vent...if it'd be cathartic to go off on one..." Will shrugged. He remembered how important the old man had been to Beryl. He assumed it was mutual. "Knock yourself out."
Will imagined it would be helpful for himself to listen to it too.
Jokes earned laughs. One of the unwritten rules of society, only, at some point in the last twenty some years... give or take a margin, a pretty hefty one, people had started going out of their way to actually write down the rules of society. Isaac had never personally needed a self help book, of course he hadn't, he was a bit too much of an shriveling curmudgeon for that brand of new-age capitalism, but he'd always wondered if Beryl had been interested but had never asked. She'd always asked, always told, when she'd developed an interest or found a friend or lost her virginity- indeed, that particular conversation had certainly been stilted, but it'd truly been a beacon of their trust, that she'd come to him for advice with even her most closely guarded secrets...
Of the many in her strange fairy brain, anyways. Isaac had never shaken the feeling that she'd hidden so much more from him that even her charming honesty could ever have sewn onto her sleeve. He'd never shake it now, he realized. Another one of those 'rest of your life' things... he'd stopped counting how many of those he had, after some time.
Isaac nodded solemnly, tried to be graciously hesitant to accept a moment longer. He was quick- a testament to the health he'd cultivated in his age, still toned, still flexible. Seventy-some going on forty. He sat down fluidly, assuming a spot on the edge. Good he could stand up the moment the sister returned, of course, and he glanced over his shoulder to check on her. Not out of fear of her safety- he was fairly certain literally nothing bad had ever happened in this part of town since America's founding.
"Never been my way to catharsis, I'll say." His hands flicked up, a dismissing of the idea uniquely crisp yet creaky for his age. "It comes with time, really, the more people pass on around you the more you begin to see the empty seats where there used to be friends and family as the rule rather than the exception. It's, ah, more painful when you're younger. I've had a lot of years to get over it." There was a smile in his eyes, a painful looking one. He shook his head.
"That's a bit much of me to say, I apologize. It's not what you need to hear... you'll have plenty of time to learn it for yourself. Hopefully. To health and wealth, and all." A tired oath.
Familiar in his ears, Beryl's voice teasing it with that infinitely tiny eyeroll of hers and a 'thats so old of you to say, Pa'.
Of the many in her strange fairy brain, anyways. Isaac had never shaken the feeling that she'd hidden so much more from him that even her charming honesty could ever have sewn onto her sleeve. He'd never shake it now, he realized. Another one of those 'rest of your life' things... he'd stopped counting how many of those he had, after some time.
Isaac nodded solemnly, tried to be graciously hesitant to accept a moment longer. He was quick- a testament to the health he'd cultivated in his age, still toned, still flexible. Seventy-some going on forty. He sat down fluidly, assuming a spot on the edge. Good he could stand up the moment the sister returned, of course, and he glanced over his shoulder to check on her. Not out of fear of her safety- he was fairly certain literally nothing bad had ever happened in this part of town since America's founding.
"Never been my way to catharsis, I'll say." His hands flicked up, a dismissing of the idea uniquely crisp yet creaky for his age. "It comes with time, really, the more people pass on around you the more you begin to see the empty seats where there used to be friends and family as the rule rather than the exception. It's, ah, more painful when you're younger. I've had a lot of years to get over it." There was a smile in his eyes, a painful looking one. He shook his head.
"That's a bit much of me to say, I apologize. It's not what you need to hear... you'll have plenty of time to learn it for yourself. Hopefully. To health and wealth, and all." A tired oath.
Familiar in his ears, Beryl's voice teasing it with that infinitely tiny eyeroll of hers and a 'thats so old of you to say, Pa'.
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He was a healthy guy. Will couldn't quite place his age. He seemed like the sort of person you could describe as 'spry', and 'sprightly', yet at the same time those words seemed too patronising, too connotation-laden, making assumptions about the man's age that Will wasn't sure he had the right to make. He moved fluidly, swiftly, a kind of finesse of motion that had never been the Ogilvie way. Perhaps it was the mourning colouring his memories, but since Nick's...whatever, Will had started to notice how slowly they all moved, as if scared that every shrug or swivel would risk stepping on someone's toes or punching a stranger in the face.
Another thing for Will to be self-conscious about. It was maddening - he didn't know how Nick had managed it, with all those neuroses and complexes and whatever - but it was a distraction too, in a sense. Ambivalence, that was how Will felt about everything these days.
It was how he felt about talking to Isaac. It was irritating beyond belief in one way - here was this man, connected to the Ogilvies only by a now probably dead girl that the now probably dead eldest Ogilvie son had so cruelly cast aside, talking to them, infringing upon their private grief and solitude, handling his own melancholy and pain with far more magnanimity and grace than anyone in the Ogilvie family had. But it was also good. Isaac was good to talk to. He was a good guy. And if Will's response was destined to be ambivalence, he might as well accept the irritation side of that equation as a sunk cost and focus on the good half.
Will threw a glance in Joanne's direction. She was busy chatting to someone on her phone. He looked outside. Their parents' car was still there, but they'd left the car park, gone on the mindless errands that they'd been putting off, that they'd promised to do.
So it was him and Isaac. Isaac had the perspective of age. Apologised for how bluntly he expressed it. Will shrugged, too lazy to actually say 'don't worry about it'. He sighed. "Eh, getting angry has always been my way of catharsis." Not really, no. Normally he didn't have that luxury. Normally he was the one having to calm everyone down. It was like how he was mildly scared of spiders, but all his friends were way more scared about them, so he'd had to become the guy who dealt with the spiders. But whatever.
"Like how I'm pretty sure my brother's a fucking murderer at this point." It felt odd swearing in front of old people, but Isaac's youthfulness dented that taboo somewhat.
Another thing for Will to be self-conscious about. It was maddening - he didn't know how Nick had managed it, with all those neuroses and complexes and whatever - but it was a distraction too, in a sense. Ambivalence, that was how Will felt about everything these days.
It was how he felt about talking to Isaac. It was irritating beyond belief in one way - here was this man, connected to the Ogilvies only by a now probably dead girl that the now probably dead eldest Ogilvie son had so cruelly cast aside, talking to them, infringing upon their private grief and solitude, handling his own melancholy and pain with far more magnanimity and grace than anyone in the Ogilvie family had. But it was also good. Isaac was good to talk to. He was a good guy. And if Will's response was destined to be ambivalence, he might as well accept the irritation side of that equation as a sunk cost and focus on the good half.
Will threw a glance in Joanne's direction. She was busy chatting to someone on her phone. He looked outside. Their parents' car was still there, but they'd left the car park, gone on the mindless errands that they'd been putting off, that they'd promised to do.
So it was him and Isaac. Isaac had the perspective of age. Apologised for how bluntly he expressed it. Will shrugged, too lazy to actually say 'don't worry about it'. He sighed. "Eh, getting angry has always been my way of catharsis." Not really, no. Normally he didn't have that luxury. Normally he was the one having to calm everyone down. It was like how he was mildly scared of spiders, but all his friends were way more scared about them, so he'd had to become the guy who dealt with the spiders. But whatever.
"Like how I'm pretty sure my brother's a fucking murderer at this point." It felt odd swearing in front of old people, but Isaac's youthfulness dented that taboo somewhat.
Isaac almost nodded.
He'd been that caught off guard... rare thing for him, wasn't it. Must've been some decades since anything had surprised him. Surprised, possibly the right word... Issue he had with it was that he'd really seen a lot, and known a lot of folk. Willie from when he'd still been trolling the streets of Manchester for his first job, that's who the younger Ogilvie boy reminded him of. Certain sort of skittish energy that clung the ails of the world about 'em, passionately polite, that was the term Isaac had liked. Like the shoulders of Atlas, something along those lines. A face that could have been deeply, off-puttingly pained and honest to goodness could not have been blamed for it- poor Willie, he'd been burned in a factory accident, down his best limb and then some. A face that wasn't, by some margin.
His body language was slow. Colorless. It was a particular dead ringer for Isaac's past that didn't bring much in the way of comfort. But of course, Isaac did a bang on job of keeping the posture in his upper lip- weren't any other way to do it, was there? It was how he'd been raised andtrained.
"That's a harsh accusation."
A pause, breathless. Isaac's mustached lip furrowed, as his eyes briefly evaded capture by forces of the unknown.
"If anyone has the right to make it, however..." Isaac had almost nodded, see, because he was well aware that intimate closeness bred familiarity. That the shadows were easier to make out, when you were closer. Isaac had lost friends and jobs to the crueler bits of the human instinct before. The knife cut a bit deeper, somehow, when you knew the person holding it.
"Not one of them would've done it, otherwise. Lord of the Flies was contrived the way it was for a reason." Isaac's assertions were quiet, almost not leaving his mouth at all, but they were strong, in a way violent. Belief was one thing no amount of the loss of youth could also steal away. "We don't have to lose them that way, just because they were stolen from us." He suddenly glanced down at the table between, when his rant concluded.
"But it's just a thought, I guess." A solemn addendum, still spoken at the cheap wood panel. "A platitude as founded as any."
He'd been that caught off guard... rare thing for him, wasn't it. Must've been some decades since anything had surprised him. Surprised, possibly the right word... Issue he had with it was that he'd really seen a lot, and known a lot of folk. Willie from when he'd still been trolling the streets of Manchester for his first job, that's who the younger Ogilvie boy reminded him of. Certain sort of skittish energy that clung the ails of the world about 'em, passionately polite, that was the term Isaac had liked. Like the shoulders of Atlas, something along those lines. A face that could have been deeply, off-puttingly pained and honest to goodness could not have been blamed for it- poor Willie, he'd been burned in a factory accident, down his best limb and then some. A face that wasn't, by some margin.
His body language was slow. Colorless. It was a particular dead ringer for Isaac's past that didn't bring much in the way of comfort. But of course, Isaac did a bang on job of keeping the posture in his upper lip- weren't any other way to do it, was there? It was how he'd been raised andtrained.
"That's a harsh accusation."
A pause, breathless. Isaac's mustached lip furrowed, as his eyes briefly evaded capture by forces of the unknown.
"If anyone has the right to make it, however..." Isaac had almost nodded, see, because he was well aware that intimate closeness bred familiarity. That the shadows were easier to make out, when you were closer. Isaac had lost friends and jobs to the crueler bits of the human instinct before. The knife cut a bit deeper, somehow, when you knew the person holding it.
"Not one of them would've done it, otherwise. Lord of the Flies was contrived the way it was for a reason." Isaac's assertions were quiet, almost not leaving his mouth at all, but they were strong, in a way violent. Belief was one thing no amount of the loss of youth could also steal away. "We don't have to lose them that way, just because they were stolen from us." He suddenly glanced down at the table between, when his rant concluded.
"But it's just a thought, I guess." A solemn addendum, still spoken at the cheap wood panel. "A platitude as founded as any."
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"Yeah, my sister thinks I'm a right cunt for even thinking of it." Normally Will - otherwise a profane and foul-mouthed young man, the sort who was inexplicably able to swear in front of parents and even some teachers like he was their equal in this sole regard - didn't swear in front of seniors. A leftover from how he never swore in front of his grandparents. An internalised zero-tolerance attitude to the very thought of it.
But something made him not have such reservations around Isaac. Maybe it was the casual way that he presented himself - the resemblance to his granddaughter, even though Will had never really truly known her, was apparent. Maybe it was just the depth of Will's feelings. No point in circumlocuting and using synonyms and flowery adjectives to describe the depth of his sister's disdain when the perfect word to describe how she now viewed him was already there, in the form of a single impactful punchy syllable.
So he said 'cunt', and he'd already said 'fucking' before without even thinking about it, and Will decided that he wouldn't let the trickle of swearing become a flood, but at this point the taboo had been broken and the damage had been done. He just didn't want to give the impression that swearing was the only linguistic trick that he had. It was a crucial one, sure. Foolish not to use it. But he wasn't a one-note guy.
He could describe his emotions without swearing.
"Not that I think he's evil or something." It was indeed a harsh accusation. It deserved to be qualified. Justified. He wasn't condemning his brother as an evil soul. He didn't want Isaac walking away with such a low view of either himself or his brother. "But he's...angry. Impulsive. He'll say something stupid. Do something stupid."
He sighed.
"Basically all the foibles about human nature that make Lord of the Flies such a scary scenario? Yeah, Nick has them." He shrugged. "Everyone in my family's preparing for Nick to be dead. That's good. That's important. But I'm the only one preparing for him to be the villain. For him to be the survivor."
But something made him not have such reservations around Isaac. Maybe it was the casual way that he presented himself - the resemblance to his granddaughter, even though Will had never really truly known her, was apparent. Maybe it was just the depth of Will's feelings. No point in circumlocuting and using synonyms and flowery adjectives to describe the depth of his sister's disdain when the perfect word to describe how she now viewed him was already there, in the form of a single impactful punchy syllable.
So he said 'cunt', and he'd already said 'fucking' before without even thinking about it, and Will decided that he wouldn't let the trickle of swearing become a flood, but at this point the taboo had been broken and the damage had been done. He just didn't want to give the impression that swearing was the only linguistic trick that he had. It was a crucial one, sure. Foolish not to use it. But he wasn't a one-note guy.
He could describe his emotions without swearing.
"Not that I think he's evil or something." It was indeed a harsh accusation. It deserved to be qualified. Justified. He wasn't condemning his brother as an evil soul. He didn't want Isaac walking away with such a low view of either himself or his brother. "But he's...angry. Impulsive. He'll say something stupid. Do something stupid."
He sighed.
"Basically all the foibles about human nature that make Lord of the Flies such a scary scenario? Yeah, Nick has them." He shrugged. "Everyone in my family's preparing for Nick to be dead. That's good. That's important. But I'm the only one preparing for him to be the villain. For him to be the survivor."
Isaac looked back up, a simple gesture that took a surprisingly long time. Lingering on like that, dawdling, he hadn't been so clumsy with his body language since... Frankie in her youth, he supposed, she'd always been uniquely short of temper and patience for everyone but him. Familiar romance was like a long worn pair of shoes- everything wore down into a gentler shape, with time. Bit of a suspect comparison, he supposed. Thinking about it, old shoes were beat up and often as close to expiry as the dregs at the bottom of an opened and well-used milk can... It was a saying he'd used before, though. Had the same introspection about as well, and he'd kept using it. But yes, he'd always been careful to keep his expressiveness more to the point. Especially for Beryl's sake, once he'd figured out she'd somehow skipped a generation and inherited the worst of his scatterbrain tendencies.
A sympathetic nod. Isaac himself regularly found the time to call people cunts when appropriate; something of a standard feature of the English language for a comfortably traveled part of his brain where he could still remember the motherland in her Thatcherite glory. Nuts to that particular descriptor except doused with irony. But the word itself carried a certain blase weight, a meaning but dilute, that Isaac didn't think quite fit the mood or context. So far as he could still be sure he knew what happened in the hearts and minds of folks partitioned from him by multiple generations worth of... well, Beryl had been the test of that, anyways. And he'd soberly admitted to himself at some point that he remained unsure of how well he'd scored.
"Ah. Harsh, but fair. Of course, I wouldn't be capable of qualifying your thesis in either direction." A thumb combed Isaac's mustache, a spirited gesture that worked at some degree of the torque of his own mind's gears.
"You shouldn't be asked to have to make such preparations. Yet here we are." Isaac contemplated if the first thing that came to mind was the right response. All this time on earth and he'd yet to really be sure, beyond the impulses that got programmed after a long enough time of doing the exact same thing while expecting different results.
"Lost my brothers young too. But I never had to question if they were the good guys." Isaac's eyes were soft, reflecting a gentle frown like the sort he'd probably worn as a father many a time long ago, before all the most important women in his life had evaporated away and he'd done nothing to save a single one of them. He leaned forward over the table, propping his forearms against the edge.
"I'd encourage you to be kind to him. It's... surprising, how much the last memories that have nothing to do with them can linger. Your thoughts of them, more so than the final words you shared, those lonelier ideas can echo longer. And be crueler to you in your old age, but." A grumble of a sigh, as for a moment Isaac sounded as old as he actually was, as eroded away to the dust that animated his bones. "I will not presume. Your grieving process will be your own." He settled back.
"Don't let your family or anybody else pressure you."
A sympathetic nod. Isaac himself regularly found the time to call people cunts when appropriate; something of a standard feature of the English language for a comfortably traveled part of his brain where he could still remember the motherland in her Thatcherite glory. Nuts to that particular descriptor except doused with irony. But the word itself carried a certain blase weight, a meaning but dilute, that Isaac didn't think quite fit the mood or context. So far as he could still be sure he knew what happened in the hearts and minds of folks partitioned from him by multiple generations worth of... well, Beryl had been the test of that, anyways. And he'd soberly admitted to himself at some point that he remained unsure of how well he'd scored.
"Ah. Harsh, but fair. Of course, I wouldn't be capable of qualifying your thesis in either direction." A thumb combed Isaac's mustache, a spirited gesture that worked at some degree of the torque of his own mind's gears.
"You shouldn't be asked to have to make such preparations. Yet here we are." Isaac contemplated if the first thing that came to mind was the right response. All this time on earth and he'd yet to really be sure, beyond the impulses that got programmed after a long enough time of doing the exact same thing while expecting different results.
"Lost my brothers young too. But I never had to question if they were the good guys." Isaac's eyes were soft, reflecting a gentle frown like the sort he'd probably worn as a father many a time long ago, before all the most important women in his life had evaporated away and he'd done nothing to save a single one of them. He leaned forward over the table, propping his forearms against the edge.
"I'd encourage you to be kind to him. It's... surprising, how much the last memories that have nothing to do with them can linger. Your thoughts of them, more so than the final words you shared, those lonelier ideas can echo longer. And be crueler to you in your old age, but." A grumble of a sigh, as for a moment Isaac sounded as old as he actually was, as eroded away to the dust that animated his bones. "I will not presume. Your grieving process will be your own." He settled back.
"Don't let your family or anybody else pressure you."
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General Goose
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Did...did Isaac not know just how awful Nick had been to Beryl? Yes, there had been genuine affection there, Nick had genuinely cared for her, Will didn't want to deny that or take that away from whoever cared about it. But did Isaac really think he wasn't qualified to make judgement on Nick's character? That he wasn't more capable than most, in providing an insight into how Nick had actually affected Beryl, of actually giving a view on Will's 'thesis', as he called it? Will found that...not hard to believe, no, he didn't know Isaac anywhere near well enough to comment, but he was allowed to be surprised by it.
There was no point in sugarcoating it. Will knew how it had started. Nick had just loved the attention, loved the praise, loved anyone who was impressed by his magic tricks and followed his line that they were actually illusions or whatever. Will knew that the whole polyamory thing was not working out, was destined never to work out. Not because non-monogamous arrangements were doomed, not in the slightest, but because it required maturity and understanding and just an emotional responsibility that Nick didn't really have for a single person, let alone two. And Will knew that the breakup had been a disaster, that Nick had, seemingly out of some self-flagellating hatred, made it something spiteful and awkward and painful.
Maybe Beryl hadn't shown her feelings about Nick to Isaac.
Maybe she just wasn't as affected by Nick as he was by her.
Both were plausible, really. Will had had to put up with a lot of his brother's ranting and venting, his attempts to make Will think everyone else in the narrative but him was at some deep fault. It had been self-defeating. Completely backfired. It wouldn't surprise Will if, around her family, Beryl had by sheer nature acted with more grace and dignity. Well, acting with more grace and dignity than Nick was hardly an achievement, but still.
For the rest of what Isaac said, Will listened. Quietly, somberly, respectfully. There was probably something in Isaac's experience that Will could draw upon, could use to inform his own experiences. When Isaac was finished, Will looked down. He placed his head in his hands and began to cry.
There was no point in sugarcoating it. Will knew how it had started. Nick had just loved the attention, loved the praise, loved anyone who was impressed by his magic tricks and followed his line that they were actually illusions or whatever. Will knew that the whole polyamory thing was not working out, was destined never to work out. Not because non-monogamous arrangements were doomed, not in the slightest, but because it required maturity and understanding and just an emotional responsibility that Nick didn't really have for a single person, let alone two. And Will knew that the breakup had been a disaster, that Nick had, seemingly out of some self-flagellating hatred, made it something spiteful and awkward and painful.
Maybe Beryl hadn't shown her feelings about Nick to Isaac.
Maybe she just wasn't as affected by Nick as he was by her.
Both were plausible, really. Will had had to put up with a lot of his brother's ranting and venting, his attempts to make Will think everyone else in the narrative but him was at some deep fault. It had been self-defeating. Completely backfired. It wouldn't surprise Will if, around her family, Beryl had by sheer nature acted with more grace and dignity. Well, acting with more grace and dignity than Nick was hardly an achievement, but still.
For the rest of what Isaac said, Will listened. Quietly, somberly, respectfully. There was probably something in Isaac's experience that Will could draw upon, could use to inform his own experiences. When Isaac was finished, Will looked down. He placed his head in his hands and began to cry.