The air was stale when he let himself into the apartment his father had moved into after he was stuck England due to a stolen passport (not wanting a whole house to himself if Spike was going to live in England). It was obvious that no one had been there since… since it happened. Spike Thomson let out a quivering sigh as he looked around. From what he remembered when he was last here, his father had made some changes to the place since he’d left. There were more pictures of him around than he recalled—some of him as a baby, as a toddler sitting on his father’s shoulders; and some more recent ones, including one where they were smiling into the camera, his dad’s arm across his shoulders. Spike stared at that picture for a long time; part of him wishing that the relationship between him and his father had been as good as it appeared in that photo. But it had not been like that, at least not in recent years, making the photo a lie.
Spike turned away from the photo to the newspaper that was lying nearby. To his surprise, it was an edition of the Junior Gazette, a fairly recent one, the front page article with his by-line. He had no idea his father had been interested in his work on the paper; he never seemed to before, especially when they were back in Norbridge. For a moment he allowed himself to think that his father had actually been interested in his accomplishments… then he realised that the paper did not necessarily mean anything of the sort. His uncle could have sent it in order to foster some accord between father and son.
Shaking his head, Spike turned to the blinking answering machine. Grimacing, he realised that he had to replay the recording. He knew that a lot of the messages were his rants, but there was a chance that there were legitimate messages for his father intermixed with them that needed attending to. Before he could begin however, there came a knock at the door.
“Hello, Spike,” the man at the door spoke. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Um, thanks,” it took Spike a moment for his jet-lagged brain to recall the man’s name. “Mr Kelson, why don’t you come in?”
“Call me Ron. I’m sorry to intrude, but I thought you shouldn’t be on your own. There’s a lot to take care of, and it’s too much for one person to deal with.”
“Uh, thanks,” was all Spike seemed capable of saying. “I wasn’t plannin’ on doing much. I just got in, you see, and I’m kinda jet-lagged.”
“I quite understand,” Ron Kelson smiled. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I can take care of some things here, start and make the arrangements for the… funeral.”
Street-wise Spike normally would not even think of doing such a thing as going to sleep while there was a stranger in the place, but he knew Ron Kelson. The man had been his father’s best friend since high school, and more importantly, probably knew what his father would have wanted better than Spike did. So Spike excused himself and went to the spare room that doubled as his room when he was there; and promptly crashed on the bed—heedless of the fact there were no bedclothes. He was asleep within minutes.
Surprisingly enough, Ron was still in the apartment when he awoke several hours later. Spike blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you still here.”
“I’m sorry,” Ron replied. “But I did say earlier that I didn’t think you should be alone. I can leave if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay,” Spike yawned. “I don’t know what I can offer you though. I don’t know how well stocked this place is.”
“That’s okay. There should be plenty of stuff here. You know your father, he always liked being prepared.”
The younger man snorted. “Yeah, if you like beans.”
“You underestimated James, Spike. You always did that. I cleared the answering machine, by the way.”
Spike flushed. The messages he had left were harsh; his way of venting his grief. They were really not meant for anyone’s ears. Especially not his father’s best friend. “I was gonna do that.”
“I figured that when I heard some of the messages,” Ron’s tone was dry, but there was no recrimination in his eyes. Only sympathy and understanding.
Spike sank down on a chair, burying his face in his hands. “I never meant for anyone to hear those messages. I don’t even know why I kept making the calls.”
“It’s understandable. You were hurt when your father died. Angry. It’s only natural that you wanted to lash out. Lord knows, I’d feel the same in your situation.”
His head came up. “How can you defend me?” Spike asked incredulously. “Dad was your best friend. You should be mad at me.”
“Part of me is,” Ron admitted. “But I’ve known James a long time, and I’ve known you all your life. As you grew up, the similarities between you two had you at loggerheads. You and James just never understood each other.”
There was a long pause as Spike looked down at his hands. “We were fighting, the night before he died. Did you know that?”
Ron nodded. “He told me right… right before it happened. James regretted not being able to speak to you again, to try and explain.”
“I feel responsible,” the young man’s voice broke. “One minute we’re fighting, the next he has a fatal heart attack. What was I supposed to think?”
“It’s not your fault. Sure, the fight didn’t help, but the truth was James had been having trouble with his heart for a while now. He’d been working too hard, and living on his own he was eating the wrong things…”
“Really?” Spike raised his head again. “I had no idea. He never told me.”
“He didn’t want to worry you. And I think he was in denial about the whole thing.” There was a long pause before Ron spoke again. “He really was proud of you, you know. He would read every issue of the Junior Gazette, and he loved it when he saw your by-line.”
“I saw the paper. I thought my uncle sent it.”
“Well, he did… because James asked him to. He started keeping a scrapbook of the things you did for the paper.”
“Really? He never seemed interested when we were back in Norbridge.”
“I think that was mainly because of the friction between you. He’d had it up to here with the trouble you were getting into prior to joining the paper. But he was proud of the turnabout you made just the same. You want to hear some of the things he said about you?”
“Shoot.”
“It’s strange,” Spike said to Lynda later when he was back in Norbridge. “I had spent so long thinking that he thought I was a loser and a nothing. Now I find out that he…” he broke off, tears coming unbidden to his eyes.
“Well, I always thought that you were exaggerating about him,” Lynda spoke softly, cradling his head on her shoulder.
“But we fought all the time,” he lifted his head to look his girlfriend in the eye. “He never gave any indication of ever being proud of me.”
“Probably didn’t want you to get a big head.”
Spike stared at here for a long moment, and then chuckled. “You always know what to say, Boss.”
“Of course I do,” she replied primly.
There was a long pause. “Um Lynda… If I were to write a piece about my father… or whatever…” he cleared his throat “… do you think you could put it in the paper?”
“I’m sure we could find a place for it.”
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