A Missing Scene from Legacy

 

Scott pressed his fingertips to the ache above his right eye and willed himself not to think of yesterday. But the memories snuck through and knotted his stomach. He wasn’t going to think of Julie, or the Degan brothers, or responsibilities or regrets. He was going to lie in bed and go to sleep, just like the doctor had ordered, and try to think of nothing at all. Resisting the urge to yank off the tight bandage across his forehead, he scrunched his eyes shut.

The fresh thought of Julie had him swearing softly through his teeth. He knew better than to let it linger, take root. For if it did it would bloom with anger. His eyes opened then narrowed against a splay of yellow sun filtering through the curtains. He reached for the glass at his bedside, wishing for the entire world it held whiskey instead of water.

The quick swish of cool water down his throat did nothing to assuage the knocking in his skull, or impede his thoughts. He considered—briefly—getting out of bed, but settled on pushing himself halfway up the headboard instead, propping his head in one hand.

The door to his room opened partway with a quiet snick of the knob. Whoever was in the hallway hesitated at the threshold. He held his breath. Perhaps if he feigned sleep…. Too late, for the man had already advanced into the room.

“Scotty?”

Grandfather.

The string of betrayals burned a hole in him. It hurt—it hurt unbelievably—so he covered the wounds with a thick coating of politeness.

“Good morning, Sir. Murdoch tells me you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, I thought it for the best. You have recovered sufficiently in this short time. And your father and I…”

Scott tipped his head up and squinted at the figure in his bedroom. “My father and you…what?”

Harlan looked away from his direct gaze. “Nothing…nothing.”

It wasn’t until he reached for the glass again that Scott realized his hands were shaky.

Harlan hitched a breath. “You’re hurting.”

“Not enough to end this conversation.”

The rebuke earned him a mild stare that caused him to flush as a youth.

“Why, Grandfather?”

Harlan’s reaction showed in a lift of an eyebrow, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. There was temper, but there was also breeding and etiquette. He turned abruptly and strode to the bureau.

“I raised you for twenty-four years, Scotty.”

“And I’m grateful. But why the charades now?”

“Your legacy is in Boston, your birthright. The firm…”

“…wasn’t for me. You saw that.”

“But I had so hoped...” Harlan held up the picture of General Sheridan, fingering its silver-scalloped edge. “You weren’t the same after coming home. So…unsettled.”

It was hardly a new topic. Even after several years, Harlan wouldn’t refer to the War of the Rebellion by anything other than “it”. They’d talked little over quick good-bye handshakes on that dreary morning before he left for the train station. And during…there’d been letters written back and forth, both of them alluding to things they really didn’t want to discuss. Grandfather not understanding, and Scott not able—or wanting—to write the full details of what he’d seen on the battlefield.

But when he did return home, after the parades had gone away and the fervor had died down, Grandfather had made their home on Calvert Street…safe. At a time when nothing seemed safe at all.

“I grew up, Sir,” he said quietly.

“Yes you did, my boy.”  Sighing, Grandfather placed the picture frame back on the bureau top and turned a half smile to him. “And much too fast.”

Scott crossed his arms. “It was my decision to join up…as was the one which brought me here.”

His grandfather looked out the window, hands clasped behind his back. “There are always consequences of our actions. Always consequences…” Harlan turned to face him, grey eyes intent. “Did I throw away what we once had? I’m to lose you after all?”

Surprise washed through Scott at his grandfather’s emotion. This was no manipulation. Harlan was truly saddened.

And an even more startling admission. “I’m an old fool, Scotty.”

Why hadn’t he noticed the uncombed hair, the dirt stains on the man’s jacket and trousers? It was so unlike his grandfather to be unkempt. “Sir, I can say with the greatest confidence you have never been a fool.” But he’d been worried—and still was…. 

They’d weathered through each other’s wants and needs, even the foibles…the transgressions—together. And yet, after all that had recently transpired, Grandfather was waiting for an answer. 

He perversely let him wait.

The shifting of power flummoxed him a bit. Relaxing back against the headboard, he stared at the man standing so straight before him. The man he’d known all his life.

The anger leached out of him. “You can’t lose what isn’t yours to take. I make the decisions on where I go or who I stay with. It doesn’t mean we’ve lost what we had all those years together.”

Harlan’s mouth thinned out to a single grim line. “Then I am an old fool.”

“For what you did—how you did it—I would say yes. The involvement of other people…. But I can’t fault the reasoning behind your actions, just the actions themselves. Grandfather, this is where I belong now—with Murdoch, Johnny…at Lancer. It’s not something tangible to be wagered, or something to be bartered. It’s…family.”

Harlan’s head dropped. “I was your family, once.”

The words were one last volley shot over the bow, and spoken so low Scott could barely make them out. He smiled a full toothy grin. “You still are.”

The white head bobbed up. He saw Harlan draw a deep breath and summon resolve. Then he stepped to the bed and clasped Scott’s shoulder.

“You rest, my boy.”

Stopping at the door, his grandfather turned and nodded. “Scotty, your legacy—or should I say, a part of your legacy—will always be there in Boston for you.”

The words were tumbled out and the door snapped shut before he had a chance to reply. The word legacy had taken on a taint since this whole affair had begun. But the fact his grandfather had acknowledged another legacy, the one here at Lancer—with Murdoch—left hope for the future.  

And as for his father…. Scott sighed; that was a subject for another day. He slumped down in bed, his energy spent. Turning his cheek into the hollow of the pillow, he finally slept.

 

~End~

June/’09