His Father's EyesA Story by JLeA story about making mistakes and regretting what you never had... Love doesn't always work out the way we think it will.The house
had a decrepit look to it, and it was hard to believe someone really lived
there. Irving looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand yet again, then
turned his gaze back to the house. It must have been the sixth or seventh time
he'd repeated this action; even so, he couldn’t make any sense of it. According
to Harry’s note, this was the house Irving was looking for. Of course, Harry
could be wrong. Harry was often wrong, but when he had handed Irving this slip
of paper he had looked so confident, so sure of himself, that Irving thought he
must be right. At a loss for what to do next,
Irving looked up and down the street. All around him were well-kept lawns and
spotless windows with flowerboxes. It was certainly not a run-down neighbourhood.
This house, number fifty-six, stood out like a sore thumb. Irving looked at
the piece of paper again, as if he hoped it would tell him what to do. “I should at least ring the doorbell, shouldn’t I?” he asked no one in
particular. Harry’s sprawled handwriting seemed to agree that he should, at the
very least, ring the doorbell. “Yes, yes… if there is a doorbell,”
Irving muttered, stuffing the paper into his pocket. A concrete path led up to the front
porch of number fifty-six. It was cracked and, in places, overgrown with weeds.
Irving wondered at the state of the lawn; the grass was waist-high, and the
empty shell of a Volkswagen Beetle stood abandoned right in the middle of it.
He spotted what he thought was a shopping cart turned upside down - all he
could do was shake his head and sigh. As he had suspected, there was no
doorbell. It seemed to have been ripped out of the wall, maybe as an act of
pointless vandalism, or maybe as a way to ward off visitors. Of course, Irving
hadn’t come this far to be deterred by a missing doorbell. He knocked and
waited patiently. When there was no answer, he knocked again. A muffled bang
was followed by an equally muffled voice. Irving heard the door unlock and it
was opened just a couple of inches. A pair of puffy red eyes peered out at him. “Whaddaya want?” the man said in a gruff voice. Irving, who always knew what to
say, no matter what the occasion might be, suddenly found himself speechless. “Hello,” he croaked at last. “Whaddaya want?” the man said again. “Is- is this the Fitzpatrick residence?” Irving asked. “S’pose,” muttered the man. “Whaddaya want?” “M-mr Fitzpatrick - you are Donald Fitzpatrick?”
“Yeah.” “Mr Fitzpatrick,” Irving said, feeling a bit more confident now, “I’m afraid I
have some bad news.” “’Bout what?” Fitzpatrick eyed Irving suspiciously. He wasn’t used to
people knocking on his door in the middle of the day. “Rose Wilde." He could have sworn he saw Fitzpatrick’s heart stop
beating for a moment; his eyes widened and his lips parted slightly.
Fitzpatrick slammed the door shut. Irving’s jaw dropped and he banged on the
door. “Mr Fitzpatrick, please!” “Who are you anyway?” Fitzpatrick yelled through the door. Irving stopped
banging and, looking up and down the street again, straightened his tie. “My name is Irving Wilde. I'm Rose’s son.” Fitzpatrick remained silent.
After a moment or two, he opened the door again. “Rose is in trouble?” he asked. Irving looked at his feet. “You could say that." “S’pose you better come inside.” Fitzpatrick stepped aside. Irving
thanked him and crossed the threshold. The inside of the house stood in
stark contrast to the outside. Irving had expected it to be a mess, but it was
neat and perfectly clean. He turned to look at Fitzpatrick, whose appearance
was better suited to the overgrown lawn and abandoned Volkswagen. His clothes
were dirty and tattered, his hair unwashed and there was a smell of sweat and
stale drink about him. There was something familiar about Fitzpatrick that
Irving couldn’t quite put his finger on - something about the eyes, he thought,
but he didn’t know. If Irving was studying the man whose house he was in,
Fitzpatrick was studying the man who was in his house even more closely. His
stare made Irving uncomfortable, which he tried to indicate in every way
possible without spelling it out, but Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to care. At long
last, however, he seemed to have made up his mind about Irving and broke his
piercing gaze. “S’pose I better offer you some coffee,” he said. “If it isn’t too much trouble…” Irving said, trying to be polite. “Well, it isn’t not trouble, is it?” Fitzpatrick said gruffly. “Kitchen’s in
here.” Irving followed him into a sparsely decorated kitchen; the cupboard
doors hadn’t even been painted, Irving noted. “Mr Fitzpatrick, I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience-.” “It isn’t not an inconvenience, is it?” “Then I apologize profusely,” Irving said dryly, “but my mother was very
adamant that I find you. She wants to see you.” Fitzpatrick, who had his back
to Irving, turned and stared at him, his hand shoved halfway into a jar of
instant coffee. “She here?” he asked, something like hope rising in his eyes. “No,” said Irving apologetically. “She’s in Los Angeles. She… perhaps we should
sit down.” “Not going to LA because she’s had some sort of idea come into her head,”
Fitzpatrick muttered perfectly loud. “Maybe if you knew what it’s about, you’d change your mind." Much like a defiant teenager, Fitzpatrick slammed two cups of
instant coffee onto the kitchen table and sat down with his arms crossed. Irving sat
down opposite him. “D’you know who I am?” Fitzpatrick barked at him. “Donald Fitzpatrick?” “Don’t be a smartass. D’you know what business I have with
your mother?” “N-no... I just know she wants to see you. Urgently.” “Crazy b***h hasn’t even said who I am.” At this, Irving took offence. “Yeah, but that crazy b***h has a brain tumour, so whatever your business is
with her, you should be so lucky she still remembers it,” he spat, slamming his
cup down in the same fashion as Fitzpatrick had. Fitzpatrick looked like he had
deflated completely. “She… she dying?” he asked in the softest tone he could muster. Irving nodded. “Mr Fitzpatrick, I don’t know who you are or why Mother wants to see you so
badly, but it took a long time to find you, and it would mean
the world to a lonely old woman if you came to LA with me.” Fitzpatrick rubbed
his chin pensively. “How’d we get there?” he asked. “By car,” Irving said, and added, “unfortunately.” “As for paying for stuff…” “It’s all taken care of,” Irving assured him. He rubbed his chin again. “S’pose if Rose asked, I’ll go.” Irving smiled, sighing with relief. “Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick.” He politely finished the dirtiest tasting
cup of coffee he’d ever had. Irving
Wilde’s mother was a difficult woman. She was the kind of woman who made a
regal impression on people; she was tall and thin, with a long neck and slim,
elegant fingers. There was something birdlike about her features, and her skin
seemed taut and wrinkled at the same time. When she went out, she always wore
black - she found black to be the most sophisticated of all the colours - and
she was never seen without pearls around her neck, pearls that she habitually
rolled between her long fingers. Her husband, the late John Wilde, came from a
long line of very wealthy John Wildes. No one knew for certain where Rose came
from, but wealth had certainly become her. Rose Wilde was infamously hard to
please. Rose Wilde was born Rosemary O’Brian
into an Irish-American family in Boston. Her parents were hard-working, decent
people who tried to provide for their ever-growing family as best they could.
There was never enough money to last till the next pay check, but Rose’s mother, Alice, had a knack for cooking dinner for ten from breadcrumbs and turnips.
The O’Brians had eight children; they would have had ten but for one
miscarriage and Jack, the stillborn. Rose was the youngest, born just a year
before Jack. Once Jack had been born and never lived, Alice and her husband,
Charlie, lost all interest in having babies. South Boston, at this time, was teeming
with families like the O’Brians: families of Irish descent with hard-working
mothers and fathers and far too many children. The Fitzpatricks, however, were
different. They had only one child, a son called Donald, Jr. Everybody knew the
reason they didn’t have more children was because Mrs Fitzpatrick, Eilís, as
she was called, had taken to drink and couldn’t have more children. At least,
that’s what they thought they knew. As with all rumours, this was only partly
true. Eilís had taken to drink, but it wasn’t her alcoholism that had rendered
her unable to have children - it was her inability to have children that had
rendered her alcoholic. Donald Fitzpatrick, Sr. was a gentle
man who loved his wife dearly. He was the kind of man whose hair had turned
grey in his twenties, and as his appearance had aged, so had his manners. When
he met Eilís, she was surprised to find that he was actually two years younger
than her. They married only a few months after they’d met (to the disapproval
of both sides of the family) and moved into a one bedroom apartment, where
they soon set about making babies. It was clear from the start that it would
not be easy. Eilís suffered through three miscarriages, enough to drive any
woman over the edge, before finally giving birth to Donald, Jr. Trouble didn’t
end with Donnie, however. “There are some… complications,” the obstetrician told Donald, Sr. Eilís
was bleeding profusely; the doctors saw no way to save her other than a
hysterectomy. Three miscarriages and losing
what she considered to be the very core of her womanhood drove Eilís to heavy
drinking and a life of bitterness and depression. Children are quick to
discover if they are not wanted, and Donnie was no exception. His mother
thought of him as a burden and had as little to do with him as possible, and
even though his gentle father loved and cared for him, Donnie would never be
able to live his life to the fullest after having felt his own mother’s scorn
and rejection, and who could blame him? All children need a mother’s love as
well as a father’s love. Rosemary O’Brian certainly had
motherly and fatherly love in abundance, but as the youngest of eight (second youngest if you counted Jack, the stillborn) she could never shake the
feeling that her older siblings were being favoured (much like the older
siblings couldn’t shake the feeling that their younger brothers and sisters
were being spoiled). It was this that brought Donnie Fitzpatrick and Rose
O’Brian together: a sense of being overlooked by those they thought mattered
most. They met like most kids do, just playing in the park. Over the years,
their friendship blossomed. It was a remarkable relationship, and most of the
gossiping neighbours assumed they would end up marrying. Donnie was terrible at sharing his
feelings with other people. Even as a teenager, he was quiet, gruff and
reclusive. But he knew he was in love with Rosemary, deeply and irrevocably in
love. She was the only person he’d met who understood why he was the way he was,
the only person who put up with his rough demeanour long enough to get to know
him. One of these days, he thought, one of these days I’ll tell her. Or maybe,
he imagined, he would just take her by the hand and kiss her right on those
soft, pink lips of hers. Donnie daydreamed a lot, and kissing Rose was an often
reoccurring daydream. In his imagination, Rose always reciprocated; Donnie
could never have imagined how their first kiss would actually end. One of the perks of being the
youngest of eight children is that sneaking out is made easy for you. Rose was
an expert at sneaking out after her parents had fallen asleep. Lately, Rosemary
had been sneaking out more frequently than usual, and it wasn’t just to see
Donnie. She had met someone, a handsome, tall, kind gentleman at the hotel
where her mother worked. Rose would sometimes pick up shifts waiting on tables
in the restaurant. It wasn’t really work as far as Rose was concerned; the
hotel was in the Beacon Hill area of Boston, and therefore attracted a
wealthier clientele. Rose thrived in the company of big money, and it was her
spontaneity around wealth that first caught John Wilde’s eye. John Wilde was ten years older than
Rose, but the difference in age didn’t matter to either of them. Alice and
Charlie did not approve of their romance and took great pains to prevent them
from seeing each other, but they didn’t take into consideration Rosemary’s
expertise in sneaking out. When her parents had gone to bed, she crept down the
stairs of their cramped house and went out the back door. The rest was easy; Beacon Hill was only a bus ride away. John Wilde took her to expensive
restaurants and bought her flowers; they went for rides on the swan boats in
the Public Garden and shared sweet kisses hidden behind flowerbeds and willow
trees. It was just what Rose had always dreamed of, and when John asked if she
would come back to California with him and be his wife, she said yes and spent
the night with him, happily allowing him to take her virginity. Donnie knew nothing about this new love of
Rose’s. It had been a while since they saw each other, longer than usual, and
Donnie was planning to make this night unforgettable. He had taken a job
cleaning rich people’s gutters and saved up money to take Rose for a boat ride
in the Public Garden. She always talked about those damn swan boats, so now he
would take her to go on one. Then he would take her by the hand and kiss her.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror and decided to comb his hair one more
time. If there was ever a night when everything had to be perfect, that night
was tonight. She looked perfect, like she always
did. When he said he was taking her to the Public Garden, she was surprised to
say the least. It was lovely, she told him when they stepped ashore after their
boat ride. Donnie was disappointed in her reaction; he had thought she would be
thrilled after all that she had said about those damn swan boats. For a moment
they stood quietly, awkwardly waiting for the other to speak. Donnie decided it
was now or never; he took her by the hand and kissed her. Her lips were softer
than he could ever have dreamed, but there was no reciprocation. “Oh, Donnie…” she said and looked at her feet. “I wish you hadn’t.” “I wish you had,” Donnie said. He felt like something was compressing his
chest. “I couldn’t, Donnie.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “Why?” he asked and boldly added, “I love you, Rosemary.” “Don’t you get it? I love someone else." They fell quiet for a moment. "We’re running away together.” “What?” This was not what he had expected. “He’s taking me to Los Angeles,” she said. “We’re getting married.” And that is just what they did. One
night Rosemary snuck out of the cramped house in South Boston only to never
return. In Los Angeles, she changed her name to Rose Wilde and quickly settled
in to her new husband’s sumptuous lifestyle. It wasn’t long, however, before
she realised that once they were married, John Wilde felt no need to romance
her like he had done in Boston. She began to grow lonely. John seemed forever
busy with work, forever entertaining important guests he didn’t want Rose to
meet. It would bore her, he said. Maybe, she thought, I’ve made a mistake. More
and more often she would feel a longing for her family, their house in South
Boston and, most of all, for Donnie. In Boston, Donnie was completely
unaware that Rose’s marriage hadn’t turned out to be the picture perfect dream
she had hoped. He was, however, working on a plan. All he needed was enough money
to get to LA. Bus tickets were fairly cheap. It would take a long time to
travel across the country by bus, and he would have to make numerous stops
along the way, but it didn’t matter. If he could get to LA, if he could only
get to Rose, all would be well. He would convince her she had made a mistake,
and she would leave her husband, who Donnie was sure she didn’t really love
anyway. Then they would go off somewhere exciting together: maybe New York,
maybe San Francisco, maybe New Orleans. They would have children, and Rose
would be the mother Donnie never had. It just so happened that when Donnie
came knocking on the Wildes’ door, John Wilde was away on business. Rose was
having an unusually bad day, and when she saw Donnie all she felt was relief.
It was raining, and Donnie was soaking wet. “Oh, Donnie!” she said and threw her arms around him. “You’re soaking wet, come
inside! I’ll lend you some of John’s clothes.” She led him through their
spacious house, up the stairs to the master bedroom. He took her by the hand
and kissed her; this time, she reciprocated. They made love in her husband’s
bed. Donnie woke to find himself alone.
After a few wrong-turns, he found Rose in the kitchen. She looked so small next
to the large marble counters and kitchen appliances. For a moment he pretended
this was their life, that they were the ones who were married and that John
Wilde had never existed. He smiled, but Rose didn’t smile back. The expression
on her face was one he had seen before, in the Public Garden in Boston. “I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake,” she said. Donnie couldn’t bear to look
at her, so he turned around and walked out of her house. He would never let his
heart deceive him again, he told himself as he got on a bus to San Francisco. It
was the last time they saw each other - at least it was for many years to come. When John Wilde came home from work
one day three months later, he found his wife curled up on the sofa, crying. “I’m pregnant,” Rose told him. “My dear Rosie, that’s wonderful!” John exclaimed. “Why in hell are you
crying?” Because it’s not yours, Rose thought. “I’m just so happy,” she said instead. Her husband lifted her up in his arms
and kissed her softly on the cheek. Six months later, Irving was born.
On paper, his name was Irving Wilde, but in Rose’s heart he bore the name
Fitzpatrick. Every time she looked into her son’s eyes, she was reminded of the
biggest mistake she had ever made. “Well,
Harry, you were right,” Irving said to his brother. Fitzpatrick had asked to
make a stop at a gas station (he needed to use the bathroom and was, in his own
words, “not a goddamn dog that pisses on any goddamn tree that’s available”),
so Irving had taken the opportunity to call ahead from the gas station’s pay
phone. “He was right where you said he would be.” “Gee, Irv, you don’t need to sound so surprised,” Harry said. Harry, who was
three years younger than Irving, was a successful lawyer by day and a joke of a
private investigator by night. “Boy, you should see where this guy lives. The house was falling
apart! I don’t know what mom wants with him.” “She’s still not telling me who he is,” Harry muttered. “S’pose we’ll find out soon enough. We should be in LA in a
couple of hours. Get her ready, will you? She’ll be wanting her pearls.” The drive from San Francisco to LA
had been a very quiet one. They’d stopped for the night at a motel that was
half-full and had a one-legged receptionist. Fitzpatrick had asked him how he
lost his leg, and when the receptionist told him he and his wife had been shot
by burglars (the wife didn’t survive), he offered his condolences. It was the
most Irving had heard Fitzpatrick say in one breath since he’d met him. They
had burgers and fries at a roadside diner that was only a stone’s throw away
from the motel. Fitzpatrick ate with great appreciation, as if he hadn’t had a
hamburger for years. “You look familiar,” Fitzpatrick said without looking up from his dinner. “I was thinking the same thing about you,” Irving said. “Funny,” said Fitzpatrick in a way that conveyed no humour at all. “How do you know my mother?” “I knew her in Boston." This struck Irving as odd - his
mother hated everything about Boston. They reached Los Angeles sometime in
the late afternoon. Rose had asked to see Fitzpatrick as soon as they’d
arrived, so Irving drove to his mother’s house. Fitzpatrick recognized the
house perfectly well. There was a strange, tugging sensation in his chest; he
wasn’t sure if it meant he should turn and run, or that he was pleased about
the prospect of seeing Rose again. Irving showed him upstairs - nothing much
had changed since the first time he’d visited - and stopped him outside the
closed door of the master bedroom. “Now, Mr Fitzpatrick,” Irving said, “if you knew my mother in Boston it must’ve
been quite some time since you saw her. I don’t know what she was like back
then, but her… illness makes her very tired and a bit scatter-brained at
times.” “Alright,” Fitzpatrick said. Irving tried to think of something else to say,
but there was nothing, so he opened the door and showed their guest inside. “Irving, my dear Irving!” Rose sat in bed, propped up by numerous pillows. Her
arms were stretched out; Irving gave her a hug and a kiss. “Hello, mother,” he said affectionately. “I brought you Mr Fitzpatrick from San
Francisco.” Rose looked over his shoulder, her eyes searching the room. “Donnie,” she said, “at last.” Fitzpatrick walked over to the foot of the bed.
Irving was surprised to see he was smiling. “Hello, Rosemary." “You were always the only man brave enough to call me Rosemary.” She raised a warning finger. She looked at Irving, her smile fading. “Well? Harry
is in the kitchen. I think sandwiches would be appropriate. Run along, now,
Irving!” Irving opened his mouth to protest, but a warning glance from his
mother was enough to send him on his way. “You’re in your element,” Fitzpatrick said. Rose laughed. “I suppose Irving told you I’m dying?” She smoothed an invisible
crease on her sheets. “Yes." “Come sit, Donnie." She patted a spot next to her on the bed.
Fitzpatrick knew better than to disobey. “You do understand, don’t you,
Donnie, that Irving is your son.” “I knew he looked familiar,” was all he said. Rose smiled. “Will you do me a favour?” “Coming here wasn’t a favour?” She raised her eyebrows. “See that chest of drawers over there?” she said and pointed. “In the top left
drawer, there are three wooden boxes. Two are marked I and H, for Irving and
Harry. One isn’t marked at all. Bring me that one - be a doll.” He fetched the
box and gave it to her; she ran her fingers over the wood. “I realised, Donnie, that I made a terrible mistake many years ago. You
see, I thought what I wanted was to be married to someone like John. Boy,
Donnie, was I wrong about that.” “Oh, really?” Donnie kept his eyes on the box. “Oh, yes. What I really wanted was to be married to you.” “Isn’t that something?” he said. “It sure is something." Her eyes sought his, but he stared resolutely at the wooden box. “Here I am on my deathbed, and all I want
now, Donnie, is for you to look at me.” This was hard for him to do. I will not
let my heart deceive me, he thought, and looked up at her face. “Here we are on your deathbed, and I’m looking at you, Rose.” She
reached out her hand and cradled his cheek. How long had he waited to feel her
touch again? “Well, I used to think people begging for forgiveness like this was flat out
corny, but the thing is, it’d be nice if you could forgive
me. It’d be the bee’s knees, if you did, because I think I could forgive myself
if you forgave me first.” “It would be the cat’s pyjamas, wouldn’t it?” “The cat’s meow, even,” she agreed. “When I die, Donnie, when I’m dead and
buried, it’d be swell if you could open this box. See, I’ve taken to writing
lately, and there are some letters for you in here. But no peeking!” “Cross my heart." He took the box. “And hope to die?” She winked. “Oh, Donnie, I’m so sorry. I
really am. Can you ever forgive me?” “Did you think I wouldn’t? Can't you see that I love you? Do you
see there is nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for?” “Gosh,” she said and broke into tears, “it sure is nice to hear you say that. Do
you know that I love you too? Isn’t that just swell?” “Just swell,” he said and gave her a kiss. “If only you’d thought of it a bit
sooner.” Rose died in her sleep. Donnie was
lying next to her when she went, and after she’d gone he held her very tightly and
whispered words of love and grief into her ear. Then, he cried for a very long
time; he cried for Rose, her boys, his boy Irving; for the time they
could’ve had and the life that should have been theirs. It seemed unfair to him
that some people have it all and never know it - people like his mother who had
a husband she loved and a child she had fought for, only to toss it all aside
like a used tissue and drink her life away. It was unfair that John Wilde had
stolen Rose away from Boston, that he’d been the one to feel her arms around
him when Donnie was the one who truly loved her. It was unfair that John Wilde
had raised Donnie’s son, and that Irving would never look at Donnie with the
same love and admiration that he had in his eyes when he spoke of John Wilde.
All of these things were wildly unfair, but what was most unfair was that Rose
had been taken away from them. Donnie opened the wooden box Rose
had given him after her funeral. There were hundreds of letters in it, it
seemed. When Rose had said she’d taken to writing lately, she meant she had
been writing him letters for just over forty years, since before Irving was
born. She had documented everything about her life, and even more about Irving’s
life (“He’s named his teddy bear Don! Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?”). She
had included pictures of her son, from the day he was born to the day he was
forty, there was a picture for every occasion, every milestone of Irving’s
life. Donnie picked up a picture of five-year-old Irving blowing out the
candles on his birthday cake while his mother beamed with pride. Looking
closer, he realised why Irving had seemed so familiar to him: Irving had his
father’s eyes. © 2012 JLeFeatured Review
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