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Susan owned a small house not far from the docks, though, in Port Victor, nothing was far from the docks. Outside the main crush of buildings, heading into the forested lands and grass plains, were a string of old farm steads, separated by stretches of weedy fields and crumbling fences. The nicest one of these was Susan’s. She kept it well. The porch was always swept and the vegetables plentiful.
Susan owned a small house not far from the docks, though, in Port Victor, nothing was far from the docks. Outside the main crush of buildings, heading into the forested lands and grass plains, were a string of old farm steads, separated by stretches of weedy fields and crumbling fences. The nicest one of these was Susan’s. She kept it well. The porch was always swept and the vegetables plentiful.
When Adam arrived chez Susan, someone was in the garden, plucking peas off the trellis at the side of the house. Adam smiled as he saw her. She was a handsome woman in late middle age, with a long silver ponytail over her shoulder. When she heard the sound of the wobbly front gate on its hinges, she looked up from her work, and smiled as well.
“Where have you been, then, young man?”
Adam came forward for a hug, shifting his rucksack on his back. “Nowhere as nice as here, Mrs. Carruthers.”
She held on to him for a moment, looking deep into his eyes.
“Oh, don’t you look tired,” she chided. “Come inside, dear, come inside. Can I make you something? Tea? Coffee? Are you hungry?”
“All the above,” he said. She smiled at him again as she led the way in, carrying her half-full basket of peas.
“I’m afraid Susan’s still with the children, dear. She won’t be home for a while.”
“Yeah, I went to see her. She knows I’m here.”
Mrs. Carruthers studied him carefully as they mounted the front steps together.
“Oh?” she queried.
“She seemed busy,” said Adam. “Didn’t wanna bother her. Just a quick hello.”
“Oh. Of course. You’ll have plenty of time to catch up, I’m sure.”
She let the door hang open behind them, to let in the cool ocean breeze.
There was tea, and there was rhubarb pie, and there were plenty of stories. Mrs. Carruthers laughed, and gasped, and listened intently with her head in her hands.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Adam was saying. “These guys line up in front of the gate, and they’re all stretching and jumping around like they’re warming up for something. The crowd’s just going nuts around me. All of a sudden, the mayor fires his gun in the air, and they open the gate…” Adam sat back, spreading his hands in the air to convey the magnitude of his next words. “Six bulls jump out, horns and all, they just charge like nothin’. The runners take off with these goddamn animals chasin’ them down, right there in the street. I saw this one guy get a hoof right in his—“
The sound of footsteps on a wooden porch made him look up. Mrs. Carruthers turned to look as well.
“Hello?” called a soft voice from the open door.
“Hello!” called Mrs. Carruthers, more loudly. “In the kitchen, dear.”
A moment later, Susan came through the doorway. She was not alone; she carried a small child in her arms, a boy, by the looks of it, the same baby she’d held with the soft brown curls. Adam smiled at her.
“Who’s your little friend?” he asked pleasantly.
He couldn’t read the look she gave him. The most he could glean from it was that she was feeling something, something strong if he was any judge. She turned away from his now-fading grin and dropped her satchel in the corner of the kitchen.
“He’s my son, Adam. His name’s Damian.” The strong emotion was gone, replaced with cold, stunted syllables.
“Oh, my god,” laughed the sailor. “What? A kid? When did that happen?”
Susan didn’t look at him, then. She charged forward, past him, past her mother, to the hallway with its bedrooms beyond.
“Dear, please,” whispered Mrs. Carruthers. “Would you just—“
Susan ignored her, disappearing around the corner with the baby gurgling in her arms. Adam turned to watch her go.
“Susan?” he called. “Is everything-?”
A distant door slam cut him off. He turned to Mrs. Carruthers, begging silently for an explanation.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Mrs. Carruthers sighed, and looked down at her tea. Then, she looked up at Adam, and touched his hand.
“No, dear, you didn’t. I’m sorry, Adam. I shouldn’t have played along with this. I told her to tell you up front, but she insisted. She wanted you to figure it out, so badly. She’s just upset that you didn’t.”
“What was I supposed to figure? That she had a kid? She’s got dozens at the home. How was I supposed to know one was hers?”
“Dear, that isn’t it. Adam…the boy’s yours. Damian’s your son.”
The sailor’s mouth hung open for a silent moment, as he processed those words.
“And you’re sure about that,” he asked cautiously. “Susan is one hundred percent sure that’s my kid.”
“That’s what she tells me, dear. I can say for sure he was born about nine months after you left, for what that’s worth.”
Adam leaned back in his chair, speechless. His brain thrummed with new, terrible thoughts.
“Well, for…” he breathed. “Why DIDN’T she tell me up front?”
“I don’t know, dear. I told her it was silly.”
“God…” muttered Adam. He leant forward, burying his face in his hands. Mrs. Carruthers moved to touch to his arm.
“I know it’s a lot to hear all at once, Adam. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I wish she would have just said it; all of this mimsying about did no one any good.”
They sat together in silence for a brief moment. Then, Adam said:
“Do you think she’d wanna talk to me right now?”
“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Carruthers. “But you two speaking to eachother is the single most important thing that could happen right now.”
Susan quietly closed the nursery door behind her. She left her hand lingering on the latch, staring down at it, unsure of where to go from here. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and stare at the wall. She glanced up the hall, towards her own bedroom. Then she glanced the other way, down towards the kitchen.
Adam stood there, watching her. He was leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. Susan stared at him silently.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” asked the sailor.
“About what?” asked Susan quietly.
“Your mom says your kid’s mine. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
It was a glare, a real, angry glare that she gave him then. She turned her back to him and stormed towards the bedroom. He chased after her.
“Susan, what the hell?” he hissed, not wanting to disturb the baby or Mrs. Carruthers. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
He jammed the heel of his hand against the door as she tried to close it in his face. She gave up the fight almost instantly. He shoved his way into the bedroom and closed the door. Susan kept her back to him as he spoke.
“If that’s my kid,” said Adam, “I want to know. I need to know, Susan, because I need to know where we go from here.”
“Why DON’T you know, Adam?” She turned on him, radiating fury. “Why didn’t you look at him and fall in love like I did? I held him in front of your face and you passed over him like he wasn’t even there! For gods’ sake, I shouldn’t have to tell you that you just met your own child!”
“Susan, would you listen to yourself? I’ve never seen him before! I’m not psychic! And I know for a fact you have a life outside of me. What was supposed to give it away?”
“He’s. Yours,” said Susan stiffly. “You were supposed to know. You were supposed to look at him, and smile, and know.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Susan, but that’s not how that works. He looks like any other kid I’ve ever seen.”
He could see tears building in her eyes. She stayed silent.
“I don’t have anything to tell me he’s mine except your word,” continued Adam. “But that’s all I need. If you say I’m his dad, then, I’m his dad. It’s as simple as that, Susan.”
Susan sighed and closed her eyes, spilling tears.
“He’s yours,” she said breathily.
“Well, okay,” said Adam. “There. Now I know. Now we can talk about what’s gonna happen. Oh my god, Susan, don’t cry,” he whispered. He gathered her into his arms. She sobbed into his chest. “It’s okay. I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted. But at least we’ve been honest with eachother. Now we know where we stand.”
“Where do we stand?” croaked Susan. Adam wove a hand through her hair, pulling her close.
“Well, here. Together. I think that’s the important part.”
“Adam, did you want kids?”
His own words echoed in his head. At least we’ve been honest with eachother.
“No, Susan, I really didn’t. I never planned on them.”
She gripped him harder.
“Please don’t go,” she sobbed. Adam hugged her as tight as he could.
“Susan, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know if I can be a good dad, but I promise I’ll try.” He leaned back to give her a kiss on the forehead. She held him, then, in silence, to make up for the years when she hadn’t been able to.
The Ship stood anchored in the bay, a faceless ghost shimmering under the sun. The creak of wood and rope was just a whisper from the shore.
A tiny dinghy was paddling away from The Ship, with two passengers aboard. One man was the captain, and one man was rowing. Normally this would not be the same person, but Richard Weatherdecker had lost yet another battle in this war of pigheadedness. The first battle had come when he had insisted on taking a pack of men with him, in case things got ugly. Mr. Airedale had reminded him that if things got ugly, things would also attract attention, and if things attracted attention, the things that would then come down from the Benefactor should not be given name for fear of awakening some form of elder god. That battle had ended when they agreed upon one man.
The second battle was lost when Captain Weatherdecker commanded his partner in crime to row to shore.
“Your idea, you fuckin’ row,” said the man, and curled up in the bow like a sleek black cat.
“Captain doesn’t row, Vesco, you know that. Get to it.”
Mr. Vesco had closed his eyes and curled up further.
“Quartermaster doesn’t get woken early to nanny his fuckin’ captain,” he murmured. “We’re all doin’ stuff we shouldn’t.”
“It’s midday, you twat. That ain’t early.”
Mr. Vesco had had nothing to say to this. He remained silent and still. Realizing the dinghy was only going ashore if he took it there, Weatherdecker had taken up the oars.
“It’s your money too, y’know,” he said sharply. “S’why Tim an’ I agreed on you to back me up. You got a stake in this.”
“Wouldn’t’ve remembered if y’hadn’t said anything.” Vesco spoke with his eyes closed.
“Wouldn’t’a remembered? You wouldn’t’a remembered thousands o’ dollars?”
The quartermaster lifted his head slightly, and opened his bright black eyes to bore into his captain’s.
“In a pot, in a poker game, miles away and years ago? No, cap’n, can’t I say I would’ve,” he murmured, and curled up again. “Y’think that was the first time some tug monkey bailed on me in the middle of a bet? I’d be rich if I went trackin’ ‘em all down. I’d also be wastin’ my fuckin’ time.”
Captain Weatherdecker rowed in silence, his brain churning with comebacks.
“Fine,” he said suddenly. “You won’t get your cut, then. I’ll take the pot.”
Mr. Vesco cracked open on eye.
“Fine,” he agreed. “But I want a cut as payment for services rendered.”
He waited until the scowl had fully formed on Weatherdecker’s face to close his eye again. They did not speak until the hull of the dinghy dragged up against the sandy shore of Port Victor.
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