Father's Day
June 18, 1944
Albert Calavicci was ten, but shone nothing like the bright, passionate, troublesome youth that had come to define him in the years previous. He had spent his birthday three days earlier the same way he was spending Father's Day: trying to convince God that he shouldn't take his father away from he and his sister, Trudy. The only difference was the addition of a request tacked on to the end of his prayer. "Please, not today. 'Specially not on Pop's day."
He didn't care it sounded less like prayer and more like begging, even if he felt it so deep in his knees he might as well have brought the kneelers with him.
Some days were worse than others, but none were good, particularly not of late. Pop was so sick and little Al had not been spared the details of exactly what that meant. The war was in full swing, rations were shy, and no one had room for a couple kids and their dying father. He likely misunderstood their meaning, because it all translated to "get to work, Al." Because no one could live on prayer alone.
He'd only been at it a week, but peddling newspapers was a piece of cake for the slick young Calavicci. He made people want to know. However, it was work and it took him away from home, away from Trudy, away from the father who'd walked out, walked back in, and was now walking out again.
But Albert, sweetly round-faced with dark, bubbling curls, had gained perspective impressively steep for a boy so young: He had to fight for them because no one else would. Or could.
Work became something of a respite, though Al was far too young to know there was a word for the feeling (or that the lingering emotion upon returning home late was guilt born from selfish delay -- for sticking around an extra hour to talk to the other newsboys.) More than once, he wondered if that feeling had been the reason his father had stayed away so long -- why he hadn't come back sooner. To him. To Trud.
"You're home early today." The voice, still accented with the mother country, was gentle, as always.
Al, having tasked himself with brushing his father's boots shiny after his almost ritualistically devout praying, didn't stop. Something inside fluttered, though, worried like he'd been caught in some lie. He replied quietly because Trudy was having a nap. "You okay, Pop?"
Salvatore Calavicci. Sal. Pop. He was thinner than his son could ever remember seeing him. Short and wicker-thin, Al's father stood and found a seat closer. "I feel good today."
"Really?" But the smile Al gained was wiped away by Sal's deep, hacking cough. At least the violent constancy of the last evening had subsided. None of them had gotten any sleep because of it; Trudy had just cried, confused and upset, taking her cues from her wide-eyed brother. He'd held her close the whole night, tears sometimes unchecked, pressed into the corner because that's how Al knew to cover their backs; no one was going to sneak up on them, especially not the people he could practically feel waiting on the other side of the door, itching to take them away.
When he could push past the tight feeling in his chest, Albert went on. "It's Father's Day."
Sal nodded. "I know." He looked fondly upon his son, glad for the opportunity to be a father.
"I got you something." But he was still dedicated to finishing polishing at that right shoe for a minute before getting to his feet. Digging deep into his pocket, he pulled out his week's worth of wages (not much at all, considering,) and placed the money into his father's hand.
"Al, you don't ha--"
"I wanted to." The work that been good. Guilty, but good. "Because you did it for us, Pop. And I wanted to honor that."
June 21, 1964
Al was thirty, married, and aiming to be more than two hundred miles above the Earth, so far away from his humble childhood no one could ever guess he'd come from less than nothing.
As he pulled on his tan slacks and studied himself in the mirror, he caught Beth's reflection moving behind him. "You're up early, babe." She looked beautiful, hair everywhere, sleep still in her eyes.
She smiled sweetly pressing her warm face against his back. "I didn't want to miss you this morning."
Calavicci lifted his chin, giving himself a good look at his reflection while her hands came around his front and interrupted the crisp fabric of his clean shirt. He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her there, breath warming his shirt while she just held on. Al smiled, knowing she could hear it in his voice, even if she couldn't see it on his face. "Oh, yeah? What makes today any different?" She was still working the late shift at the hospital; they rarely crossed waking paths anymore.
"Well." Beth, dear sweet Beth, stalled, lifting her head away from Al's shoulder. His shirt felt cool and stiff again as he missed the contact, but she soon had her hands on him again, this time turning him around in that gentle, coaxing manner that had conquered him so easily countless times before. Al settled back against the sink, hands instinctively reaching out to pull her against him.
She tilted her chin down under his scrutiny, pink touching her cheeks. He couldn't keep himself from leaning in to kiss her temple. "Well," he repeated for her, "the reasons don't matter. Seeing you, that's what matters."
Feeling as faint as she always felt when Al spoke his affection to her, Beth leaned her weight against her husband and melted into place, fitting as well together as two people could. "I think it matters," she informed him, finally meeting his dark eyes.
As always, Al softened. He thought he couldn't possibly get much softer, but the dark, messy-haired, sleepy woman smiled broadly and all of a sudden his head was spinning with thoughts of ditching his duty and crawling back between the sheets with her. "Why's that? Because you're itchin' to tell me?"
"Exactly." She pushed up on her toes, kissed him squarely on the lips, and then turned and rushed back towards their bedroom. "It's Father's Day," she reminded him on her way out.
Al tried not to sigh but it came out anyway. This was their third Father's Day together, and the first two had not gone well. While dating, he'd been able to tell her that he wasn't ready to talk about it. After they were married? It wasn't so easy.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to steel himself against her loving, curious eyes. All Beth had ever wanted was to understand her husband. Al couldn't blame her for that. He couldn't blame her for anything. So, he followed after her a moment later, only to meet back up with her on her return to the bathroom. "Beth, sweetie," he started, but she stayed him by pressing her fingers to his lips.
"I got you something."
Puzzlement reached his forehead, sending his eyebrows up. She'd gotten him something for Father's Day? Did that mean...?
The wife cast her husband an understanding look. "Don't worry, it's not what you're thinking." They had talked about children already, deciding they needed to come back to it when they were a little farther on in their careers. But Beth didn't want to wait too long.
She passed him a wrapped box and Al could immediately tell that there was a ball inside just by how everything shifted. He poked a finger through the corner of the simple wrapping paper and drug it back toward him, opening it up for scrutiny.
The old shoe box held a couple things, but the first thing that caught Al's eye was the baseball as it bumped between corners. He recognized the ball, a piece of memorabilia saved from his own life. It sat along side his leather baseball glove, worn and soft to the touch.
He retrieved the only new object contained inside: a child-sized glove, pristine and stiff. Al smiled. "Planning on a boy, huh?"
Beth was always very patient with Al. "That's kind of what I was hoping. Not now, but... soon. You're missing out on how good this holiday can be for you, Al."
Al got her meaning. He'd hated the day without remorse for the longest time, feeling robbed of his father and cruelly reminded of it at least once a year. Anyway, with NASA involved in his life again, a child wasn't an option. Not yet.
He smiled and leaned in, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Actually, I'd been hoping for a girl," he confessed, imaging how wonderful it would be to pass Beth's beauty on into the future. The surprise on her face was radiant. "Bet she'll be a great pitcher, too," he finished, merrily.
June 20, 2010
The Admiral, seventy-six, didn't need to run from the past anymore. He had come to accept that the holiday had no bearing on his father's love for he or his sister, or on his death, and it certainly wasn't at fault for his plethora of failed marriages that never yielded him the children that might celebrate him on such a day.
He'd always liked kids. He'd always wanted kids. They were honest and carefree and full of so much extra potential; it rarely lasted past puberty, but once in a while it streaked through an adult. He thought immediately of Sam Beckett -- kid to the last, honest and unchanged by the terrible nature of the human race.
Children had endeared themselves to Al, and he remembered all those he'd met guiding Sam through time. The ones young enough to see him were the best, always impressed by the illusion of dimensionality he cast as a hologram. They always seemed to enjoy passing through him, even if the idea usually made Al feel strange. But even the kids that couldn't see Al held a special place within his heart.
Kids were kids until the real world got to them. He remembered that much from his childhood.
But, he felt the right to celebrate the holiday, despite his utter lack of children. More than once, he'd acted the part. And really, wasn't his brand of caring reminiscent of parenting?
For whatever reason, Al immediately thought of Kara Thrace. He didn't cast himself as her father, or father figure, but he felt a lot of their interaction was colored by the innate paternal instinct Beth had accused him of having so many times. Kara wasn't a child, not by any means, but he recognized some need there and felt they both realized benefits from the relationship.
He thought of Beth, of her gift so many years before, and was struck by how apt the memory stood after his Right Hand's birthday offering. Al found himself sending the text before it really occurred to him how strange it might appear:
>>Hey, kid, how about a game of catch some time?
Not a father, but fatherly. It counts.
Albert Calavicci was ten, but shone nothing like the bright, passionate, troublesome youth that had come to define him in the years previous. He had spent his birthday three days earlier the same way he was spending Father's Day: trying to convince God that he shouldn't take his father away from he and his sister, Trudy. The only difference was the addition of a request tacked on to the end of his prayer. "Please, not today. 'Specially not on Pop's day."
He didn't care it sounded less like prayer and more like begging, even if he felt it so deep in his knees he might as well have brought the kneelers with him.
Some days were worse than others, but none were good, particularly not of late. Pop was so sick and little Al had not been spared the details of exactly what that meant. The war was in full swing, rations were shy, and no one had room for a couple kids and their dying father. He likely misunderstood their meaning, because it all translated to "get to work, Al." Because no one could live on prayer alone.
He'd only been at it a week, but peddling newspapers was a piece of cake for the slick young Calavicci. He made people want to know. However, it was work and it took him away from home, away from Trudy, away from the father who'd walked out, walked back in, and was now walking out again.
But Albert, sweetly round-faced with dark, bubbling curls, had gained perspective impressively steep for a boy so young: He had to fight for them because no one else would. Or could.
Work became something of a respite, though Al was far too young to know there was a word for the feeling (or that the lingering emotion upon returning home late was guilt born from selfish delay -- for sticking around an extra hour to talk to the other newsboys.) More than once, he wondered if that feeling had been the reason his father had stayed away so long -- why he hadn't come back sooner. To him. To Trud.
"You're home early today." The voice, still accented with the mother country, was gentle, as always.
Al, having tasked himself with brushing his father's boots shiny after his almost ritualistically devout praying, didn't stop. Something inside fluttered, though, worried like he'd been caught in some lie. He replied quietly because Trudy was having a nap. "You okay, Pop?"
Salvatore Calavicci. Sal. Pop. He was thinner than his son could ever remember seeing him. Short and wicker-thin, Al's father stood and found a seat closer. "I feel good today."
"Really?" But the smile Al gained was wiped away by Sal's deep, hacking cough. At least the violent constancy of the last evening had subsided. None of them had gotten any sleep because of it; Trudy had just cried, confused and upset, taking her cues from her wide-eyed brother. He'd held her close the whole night, tears sometimes unchecked, pressed into the corner because that's how Al knew to cover their backs; no one was going to sneak up on them, especially not the people he could practically feel waiting on the other side of the door, itching to take them away.
When he could push past the tight feeling in his chest, Albert went on. "It's Father's Day."
Sal nodded. "I know." He looked fondly upon his son, glad for the opportunity to be a father.
"I got you something." But he was still dedicated to finishing polishing at that right shoe for a minute before getting to his feet. Digging deep into his pocket, he pulled out his week's worth of wages (not much at all, considering,) and placed the money into his father's hand.
"Al, you don't ha--"
"I wanted to." The work that been good. Guilty, but good. "Because you did it for us, Pop. And I wanted to honor that."
June 21, 1964
Al was thirty, married, and aiming to be more than two hundred miles above the Earth, so far away from his humble childhood no one could ever guess he'd come from less than nothing.
As he pulled on his tan slacks and studied himself in the mirror, he caught Beth's reflection moving behind him. "You're up early, babe." She looked beautiful, hair everywhere, sleep still in her eyes.
She smiled sweetly pressing her warm face against his back. "I didn't want to miss you this morning."
Calavicci lifted his chin, giving himself a good look at his reflection while her hands came around his front and interrupted the crisp fabric of his clean shirt. He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her there, breath warming his shirt while she just held on. Al smiled, knowing she could hear it in his voice, even if she couldn't see it on his face. "Oh, yeah? What makes today any different?" She was still working the late shift at the hospital; they rarely crossed waking paths anymore.
"Well." Beth, dear sweet Beth, stalled, lifting her head away from Al's shoulder. His shirt felt cool and stiff again as he missed the contact, but she soon had her hands on him again, this time turning him around in that gentle, coaxing manner that had conquered him so easily countless times before. Al settled back against the sink, hands instinctively reaching out to pull her against him.
She tilted her chin down under his scrutiny, pink touching her cheeks. He couldn't keep himself from leaning in to kiss her temple. "Well," he repeated for her, "the reasons don't matter. Seeing you, that's what matters."
Feeling as faint as she always felt when Al spoke his affection to her, Beth leaned her weight against her husband and melted into place, fitting as well together as two people could. "I think it matters," she informed him, finally meeting his dark eyes.
As always, Al softened. He thought he couldn't possibly get much softer, but the dark, messy-haired, sleepy woman smiled broadly and all of a sudden his head was spinning with thoughts of ditching his duty and crawling back between the sheets with her. "Why's that? Because you're itchin' to tell me?"
"Exactly." She pushed up on her toes, kissed him squarely on the lips, and then turned and rushed back towards their bedroom. "It's Father's Day," she reminded him on her way out.
Al tried not to sigh but it came out anyway. This was their third Father's Day together, and the first two had not gone well. While dating, he'd been able to tell her that he wasn't ready to talk about it. After they were married? It wasn't so easy.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to steel himself against her loving, curious eyes. All Beth had ever wanted was to understand her husband. Al couldn't blame her for that. He couldn't blame her for anything. So, he followed after her a moment later, only to meet back up with her on her return to the bathroom. "Beth, sweetie," he started, but she stayed him by pressing her fingers to his lips.
"I got you something."
Puzzlement reached his forehead, sending his eyebrows up. She'd gotten him something for Father's Day? Did that mean...?
The wife cast her husband an understanding look. "Don't worry, it's not what you're thinking." They had talked about children already, deciding they needed to come back to it when they were a little farther on in their careers. But Beth didn't want to wait too long.
She passed him a wrapped box and Al could immediately tell that there was a ball inside just by how everything shifted. He poked a finger through the corner of the simple wrapping paper and drug it back toward him, opening it up for scrutiny.
The old shoe box held a couple things, but the first thing that caught Al's eye was the baseball as it bumped between corners. He recognized the ball, a piece of memorabilia saved from his own life. It sat along side his leather baseball glove, worn and soft to the touch.
He retrieved the only new object contained inside: a child-sized glove, pristine and stiff. Al smiled. "Planning on a boy, huh?"
Beth was always very patient with Al. "That's kind of what I was hoping. Not now, but... soon. You're missing out on how good this holiday can be for you, Al."
Al got her meaning. He'd hated the day without remorse for the longest time, feeling robbed of his father and cruelly reminded of it at least once a year. Anyway, with NASA involved in his life again, a child wasn't an option. Not yet.
He smiled and leaned in, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Actually, I'd been hoping for a girl," he confessed, imaging how wonderful it would be to pass Beth's beauty on into the future. The surprise on her face was radiant. "Bet she'll be a great pitcher, too," he finished, merrily.
June 20, 2010
The Admiral, seventy-six, didn't need to run from the past anymore. He had come to accept that the holiday had no bearing on his father's love for he or his sister, or on his death, and it certainly wasn't at fault for his plethora of failed marriages that never yielded him the children that might celebrate him on such a day.
He'd always liked kids. He'd always wanted kids. They were honest and carefree and full of so much extra potential; it rarely lasted past puberty, but once in a while it streaked through an adult. He thought immediately of Sam Beckett -- kid to the last, honest and unchanged by the terrible nature of the human race.
Children had endeared themselves to Al, and he remembered all those he'd met guiding Sam through time. The ones young enough to see him were the best, always impressed by the illusion of dimensionality he cast as a hologram. They always seemed to enjoy passing through him, even if the idea usually made Al feel strange. But even the kids that couldn't see Al held a special place within his heart.
Kids were kids until the real world got to them. He remembered that much from his childhood.
But, he felt the right to celebrate the holiday, despite his utter lack of children. More than once, he'd acted the part. And really, wasn't his brand of caring reminiscent of parenting?
For whatever reason, Al immediately thought of Kara Thrace. He didn't cast himself as her father, or father figure, but he felt a lot of their interaction was colored by the innate paternal instinct Beth had accused him of having so many times. Kara wasn't a child, not by any means, but he recognized some need there and felt they both realized benefits from the relationship.
He thought of Beth, of her gift so many years before, and was struck by how apt the memory stood after his Right Hand's birthday offering. Al found himself sending the text before it really occurred to him how strange it might appear:
>>Hey, kid, how about a game of catch some time?
Not a father, but fatherly. It counts.