Squad Stories: Cats in The Cradle 3/4

George Harkness. That’s how the letter opened. George Harkness. Not Digger, not Boomer, not Captain. George. Harkness. The name rattled around in the ghetto of his head, looking for a place to set up, but would find no location.

 

Digger hadn’t heard the name in a long time, let alone read it on paper, and reading it in a letter? After the word Dear?

 

Unthinkable.

 

He shuffled uncomfortably in the car seat, foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal. He took another long drag off his cigarette, and watched the smoke billow away out of the corner of his eye.

 

Bloody Hell, he said to himself.

 

On one hand, he was glad she (they?) had picked up and moved to Leawood. It was far enough out of the Central City’s hubbub so that the likeness of her (they) being disturbed by one of his roguish compatriots was slimmer. On the other hand, it was still Central City. Better than Gotham, not quite Metropolis. Not that the likes of Lenny or Mick would dare mess with someone close to Digger; Rogue rules prevented that, but their personal honor would never allow any of them to harm his son.

 

His son.

 

Two words loaded with disbelief, every time they pierced his head like a bullet he found himself shaking it in shock and confusion. His son. He smoked the words out the window only for them to blow back and seep into his brain.

 

Bloody fucking hell, he sighed.

 

The GPS, with a voice not unlike the gravel-shorn voice of Michael Patten’s, barked out the last few directions, daring Digger to screw them up. To drive past and just keep going. Drive back to the airport, buy the first ticket to somewhere tropical and never look back. No, he thought, no I’ve gotta ride this all the way to the end. His father, as admirable as he was, still cut and run when Digger came brawling into the world. His father just drove past the hospital, kept going, back to the airport where he bought the first ticket to the US and never looked back. No, Digger thought, that won’t be me.

 

He had second thoughts as he pulled into the driveway and parked.

 

He approached the door slowly, cautiously, like a venomous snake. He hadn’t felt this nervous in his entire life. It took everything he had not to let his knees knock against each other and his teeth to clatter like a cartoon character. Trembling, he rapped on the door three times, then took a deep, deep breath. Was he supposed to bring something? Flowers? Chocolate? What the hell was he even going to say? Hours of rehearsed lines, and scripted greetings washed away like cheap refuse on the beach. Did his breath smell like whiskey? Did he smell like sweat? What was he –

 

His heart stopped as the door creaked open.

 

George? She asked.

 

And there she was, Meloni. The beacon of a life gone past, the still beautiful ghost of a single moonlit, sweltering summer night, unfathomably long ago. And in the time since, a life of debauchery, costumes and more small regrets than any normal person took to the grave. Meloni, whose last name struck a chord of fear in Digger’s heart, having met her eventual descendant, a psychotic force of destruction clad in cheerful yellow and red.

 

Do we shake hands, Digger found himself asking her, do we hug or, uh, what do we do?

 

Meloni tried to smile, but it didn’t exactly come across. She told him to come in, and offered him a drink. Despite his sudden need for strong liquor, he merely asked for a glass of water, then sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter.

 

How long’s it been? He asked her, and balked when she told him. Ten years, he sat dumbstruck. Ten years since that night. He asked her why she waited so long to tell him this, why now, of all times, was suddenly the time. She told him she just wasn’t ready, and the heaviness in her voice, her chest, bade him not press any further.

 

Digger looked around at the simple, yet elegant surroundings, taking in the ambience of middle America. He asked her what she was doing now, how she was supporting herself, and learned that she was working in a crafts shop. It wasn’t glamorous, but it payed the bills, and that she was receiving money from her estranged husband, who, though bearing no ill-will towards her, could no longer find it in him to love her romantically. She did not ask Digger to expand on his exploits, to explain the dressing on his cheek, and that suited him fine. He wanted to keep this as far from work as possible.

 

Finally, he mustered up the strength to ask those terrifying words:

 

So uh, where is the little guy?

 

Meloni casually ripped open a few envelopes, then tossed the contents into the trash bin as she told him he should be getting home from school now. As if on cue, the door swung open, and a youthful voice declared that it was home.

 

Showtime, Digger, you old bastard.

 

And with the stomping of little snow-boots, the child himself entered the kitchen. It terrified Digger, that the tousle-haired youth looked so much like him when he was young. He stood quietly, but there was a wild energy in his eyes. The same mad spark that the young eyes of Digger had, crackling warm electricity in the cold day, and although the child stood still, one little finger tapped rapidly at his backpack strap.

 

Owen, said Meloni, I want you to meet someone very special.

 

Faster than Digger could follow, Meloni had made the child a sandwich, and sat the three of them down in the living room. Seeped in the plush, green armchair, Digger was suddenly afraid of suffocation.

 

Meloni was asking Owen now, as he sat in a chair far, far too wide for him, kicking his feet and intently moving his eyes back and forth, from her, to him, her, to him, if he remembered asking about his father, and how she had told him that he was away, and that she didn’t know when Owen would be able to meet him?

 

Owen nodded, his eyes resting now on Digger.

 

The moment of introduction was silent at first. A bubble in the air, ready to burst. Finally, it popped; Little Owen slid out of his giant chair, tromped over to where Digger sat, screwed up his warm blue eyes, and asked Digger if he was going to be ugly like him when he grew up.

 

Digger chuckled. He hadn’t meant to, but the comment wasn’t what he was expecting, and it was good. He chuckled louder, then found himself, hand over his face, laughing uproariously. Naw kiddo, he told Owen, I’m sure you’ll look a right fine young lad.

 

He was then hit with a barrage of questions, the kind only a little kid, pure curiosity on legs, could and ask. A thousand words a second, both relevant and absurd, all benign. It was up to Digger to answer them all, to the best of his ability, white-washing a few truths here and there, and turning down some questions explicitly. He was a bright kid, and that made Digger proud. The questions eventually came to a close when Meloni, gently, prompted Owen to go upstairs and do his homework. Simultaneously, Owen and Digger let out an “Aww,” but the child did as he was told, and hopped up the stairs.

 

This is a good kid we made, said Digger excitedly, Owen’s enthusiasm rubbing back on him. Owen, good name, solid name, like that actor bloke, he’s gonna grow up to be a right fine lad, he is.

 

Meloni taps her mouth with a nervous balled fist and declares that maybe this was a mistake. No, no, Mel, no, says Digger quietly, sincerely, moving to kneel at her chair. He tells her that he will make sure this wasn’t a mistake. He admits that he was flaky about this whole thing, driving up, but now, after seeing her again, after meeting his son, their son, that he wants to do right by them. It wasn’t like him, Digger thought, the little voice in the back of his head sneering, to care so suddenly about someone not himself, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. Please, he tells her, placing one hand on her knee; gently, reverently, let’s just try this, alright? And if I fuck it up, you can send me packing.

 

She sits for a minute, then places a hand on his, smiles softly, and says okay, let’s try it.

 

Any ideas of the airport, of cutting and running, are a million miles away as the two make arrangements; he tells her he’s with the government in California. She looks suspicious at this, but he assures her that he’ll be back as often as he can. That now that he knows about Them, it would take insurmountable odds to keep him from them. But still, he needed the money, and the pay was good. They caught up for a little while longer until the barely-audible sound of footsteps came back down the stairs along with the announcement that his homework was finished. Meloni severely doubted that, but let it slide, given the circumstances. With remarkable speed, Owen came to stand in front of Digger, staring up at him. Digger stared back, then slowly, let his eyes go crossed. At this, Owen giggled, then began to laugh louder as Digger made increasingly ridiculous faces at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Meloni smiling, then watched as that smile melted into an amused grimace as he withdrew a plastic Boomerang from inside his coat and asked,

 

So tell me, lad, d’ye know what this is?

 

Done