Author's disclaimer: All this belongs to Paul Haggis. PLEASE don't sue me...
Part One
**********
Ray
*****
"Father Of Mine, tell how do you sleep, with the children you abandoned, and the wife I saw you beat...", EverClear 'Father Of Mine.'
@ @ @
I don't understand why I'm not crying. I am standing over the grave of my father, and I am not crying. What am I feeling here? Why isn't there any grief? Any pain? Why isn't there anything?
It's raining. Not hard, just that Chicago drizzle that tells you it's almost winter. It's dripping down off my hat, splattering on my dark navy jacket. I'm looking down at my shoes; black, shiny. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my badge. I'm wearing my uniform for my dead father. Even though he hated it, hated what I had chosen to do. Some days I wonder if he just hated me, and the uniform just gave him another reason.
Why aren't I crying?
My sisters are crying. Strange watching Frannie and Maria hug
each other so tightly. I don't know how they cry, and I can't. Maybe
because when Pop starting getting sick, they started learning how to
forgive. Maybe it's for Ma's sake. Or maybe they are more confused then
I
am about the whole thing. I see the tiny scar on Maria's forehead, when
my father threw a bottle of scotch at her. He missed, but the glass
shattered, and cut her right above her eyebrow.
I see the burn marks on the back of Frannie's hand, just light scars. Pop pushed her into a hot stove, when she tried to stand in front of me. Tried to protect his favorite punching bag. I don't think I will ever get Frannie's screams out of my head when her hand touched that stove. She was only seven.
There are tears trickling down my brother David's face. He came all the way from San Francisco to see my father buried. I don't know why he is crying either. In our house, it was equal opportunity abuse. I took it when Pop was at his drunkest, when we were sure he'd kill one of us for looking at him. But when I was too bruised; too battered, David did. David took the beatings when I couldn't stand. My little brother, walking around with a black eye, telling every kid at school that he'd picked a fight with some 'fazola' from a couple of schools down. No one ever questioned him.
But no one ever questioned anything about our family. No one. If anyone saw what was going on, they kept their silence. The word in our neighborhood was, if it didn't deal directly with you, leave it alone. It was safer that way.
I'm still not crying.
The priest is reading the last rites now. Good ole' Father Beltran. Talking about how my father was such an excellent family man. Raised four children, one of them a cop. Managed to buy a house, really buy a house. Finish off payments and everything. Yeah, that made Pop a real provider. Too bad the great 'Dad' wasn't even there to watch any of his children graduate from high school. But a game of nine-ball always seemed more important. Always.
Hey Father Beltran, didn't you know it's a sin to lie? A Commandment if I ever heard one.
My mother isn't crying. She's just standing there, dressed in black. Mourning the man she loved, the man who gave her four children. The man who never failed to come home drunk, if he came home at all. Came home and took out all his pent up anger on a bunch of kids. Who you mournin', Ma? Your husband, or the waste of flesh you thought was your love of your life?
He only hit her once. One time. I was 16, Maria was 18, David was 15, and Frannie was only 12. He came home from playing pool, drunk again. He stumbled into the kitchen. She went in to help him, and he started to scream at her, telling her that he didn't need her help. Didn't need her. Her voice was so soft that day, telling him that it wasn't true. She loved him...
Oh Ma...how could you be such a fool?
I started for the door, even though Maria and Frannie begged me not to. But I couldn't let him. I let him beat me, my brother, my sisters. Because I couldn't do anything else. But if he raised a hand to my mother, I thought to myself, I would kill him. And in that moment, I just might of.
I heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh as I reached out for the doorknob. As I was turning it, I heard my mother scream. As I shoved open the door, I saw my mother hit the kitchen counter. I don't know what the look was in my eyes at that moment, but it must of been frightening. My mother, slumping to the ground, looked up at me, and shrank back just slightly. My father, _My Father_, stepped back from me. Just one step. But it was enough.
I don't know if my mother screamed for me to stop. I don't know if my sisters or my brother yelled at me not to do it. All I heard was this high keeling scream in my head, as I flew towards him, shoving him to the ground, hitting him so hard I thought my hand had broken. I don't know how long I was at it, beating my father, pummeling my hands into his face, his stomach, his rib cage. I just know I kept screaming, "Never again!" Over, and over, and over.
Sooner or later, someone pulled me off of him. I felt myself being lifted under the arms, as I was dragged out of the kitchen. The look on his face, swollen, bleeding, was one I would not soon forget. It was the look of complete and total surprise. I felt like screaming, 'Now what do you think of your 'wimpy' son, Pop? What do you think now?' I didn't. But I wanted to.
The beatings stopped after that. For all of us. He never raised a hand to me, or anyone else in the family. The verbal abuse, unfortunately, went on.
Maybe it isn't such a bad thing, not crying.
Everyone is throwing on their handful of dirt now. I pick mine up and toss it in. Funny, it feels like I'm throwing it in his face. Not unlike the time when I became a cop. In his eyes, I was spitting on him, our family. The neighborhood we came from.
He was right on two counts. I was spitting on him, and our neighborhood. The place that spawned the Zukos, and my father, deserved to be a little cleaner. So either I could be a street sweeper, or a cop. I chose the later. Besides, being a cop got you more girls.
I try not to smile at that thought as I lead my mother back to my car. Through the rain, we move around the solid lumps of stone that make up the graves around us. People come up to us, calling out comforting thoughts. They surround Ma, and I release her arm, letting the wave of people take over. They will be able to show more sympathy then I ever could. I stand to the side, a mournful looking figure in blue polyester. Darkly pondering.
Maria and Frannie are being led away by Tony, Maria's husband, and David. Frannie looks over at me; I flash her a weak smile. She nods her head quietly, as if in understanding. She probably does, too. Despite how much we fight, we know each other, Frannie and I.
The children aren't here today, thank god. I really don't know how any of us could explain it to them about their 'Grandpapa', why he wasn't there anymore.
Why their uncle couldn't cry. Wouldn't cry.
That was it. The reason I was looking so hard for was right before my eyes. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of me missing him.
I hated my father. I'm glad that he is dead. I'm so glad the feeling of numbness has faded, and all I feel is relief. Relief that the dragon has had it's head cut off. The monster in the closet is gone. I am free. We are free.
The feeling of joy fills me, as does the guilt that follows. A few stray tears trickle down my chin, as I mourn for the fact that there is no man to mourn. That I wouldn't forgive, and my father couldn't learn. I cry for our misunderstandings, and what could of been.
My mother takes my arm again, and we move towards the cars. She says nothing, but as I move to open the door for her, she wipes my tears with her hanky, and a saddened smile.
This why the others cry, and why Ma won't. We're all happy, in our own ways, and we hate that happiness. Pop haunts us still. Maybe he always will.
At least it stopped raining.
Part 2
********
Benton
********
"Father of mine, take me back to the day, back when I was your golden boy, right before you went away...", Everclear, 'Father Of Mine'
@ @ @
The guns go off in a twenty-one round salute. The echo of their sound fills my ears, fills the clear blue Canadian sky above me. Fitting tribute to my father, perhaps the greatest Mountie ever born. Robert Fraser did not die unhonored. Nor will he have died in vain.
I will not cry. I am a Mountie. And I will not cry.
I can almost hear him in my head, saying, 'Be a man, son. Don't give in to your emotions.'
So I won't. I will stand, back firm, eyes straight ahead, boots planted exactly three inches apart in the light snowfall. It's so very cold out today, the air leaving the mouths of those gathered is heavy with mist. The grave diggers nearly had to chisel out the ground to be able to bury my father here, next to his wife, my mother. A little further down rests my grandparents. All my relations. All the Frasers, dead together. Except me. I am the only one left.
I will not cry.
I let my eyes wander over the sight of my mother's grave. I cried when she died. Bawled my eyes out. I was only six years old, though. My father stood there, a broken man. Eyes haunted with pain. My grandparents stood off to the side of us. I never understood why my grandmother looked so disapprovingly at my father, at me. It wasn't until later that I realized that she and my grandfather thought it a sign of weakness that we mourned so.
Frasers were tough stock. They didn't need to cry. They just needed to get their man. Be stronger, smarter, faster. Be the best, and don't let it show when it hurts. Never do that. You'll be weak if you do that.
My eyes swivel forward again, as a lump of bitterness fills my throat. Now, I look upon the faces my father knew so well. His buddies; his companions. There was Granger, a man I considered my second father. And Buck Frobiser, like an uncle to me. They were Mounties, like the Frasers, and showed no pain. Lead toy soldiers, the whole lot of us.
I won't cry.
I nearly cried the first time my father left, shortly after my mother had died. Nearly. That day, I stood on the front porch, my grandparents beside me. My father, who said merely he would be back in the spring, hugged me briefly. Buck Frobiser sat waiting in the driver's seat, the motor running. He leaned over the passenger seat, and waved at me. As my father climbed in the car, I sniffled. Quietly. My grandmother saw the shiny light in my blue eyes, and said with just the right amount of coolness, 'Babies cry. Little boys do not.'
That alone was enough to keep the tears from flowing. Until, of course, I went to bed. Then I covered my face with my pillow and sobbed.
It got easier as time went by. The older I got, the less the tears wanted to flow. The tougher I became. My father only came infrequently as it was; it was like he was avoiding me. Avoiding me because I reminded him too much of my mother. I didn't cry then, even though I missed him. Even though he abandoned me with two grandparents who loved me, but could never show it. Who thought knowledge was more important than being a child. I did not cry then, and I will not cry now.
I am Benton Fraser, of the Fraser family, toughest Scottish blood in all of Canada. I am Constable Benton Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am strong. I am fast. I can think.
I cannot cry.
This thought strikes me very hard, and my posture nearly slips, as they shovel the dirt over my father's coffin. I cannot cry. Even if I wanted the tears to come, they wouldn't.
I've forgotten how.
I receive the flag given to me in my father's honor. The maple leaf in red and white. I hold unto it tightly, and merely nod politely to the constables who give it to me. I can't do anything else. I can't feel anything else.
Diefenbaker, who has been sitting beside me so quietly, nudges my hand with his cold, wet nose. I blink, and look down to him, the deaf wolf who is my constant companion, and friend. His golden eyes are soft, filled with a quiet knowing. He understands me; this animal from the wilderness of the Territories. Understands me better then I understand myself.
There was that moment, during the snow storm. Where I chased Victoria Metcalfe up into Fortitude Pass, unto a frozen side of a cliff, and we were trapped up there together, for a week. We held each other, trying to keep each other from freezing to death. The sound of her voice put to rest my soul. I thought I loved her then, but I still handed her over to my fellow officers. Now, I don't know. I am not even sure I understand what love truly is.
It's over. My father is buried, the preacher has shut his book. I am staring down at my parents. I feel very alone, as I reach down and pet Dief's head once or twice.
A few fellow officers come, pat me on the shoulder. But that's it. No one comes to comfort me. Nor would I expect them to. A Mountie faces everything alone; that is what we were trained to do. That was what I was raised to do. Put my emotions aside, and get to the job. The job at hand now is hunting down my father's killer.
I cannot cry. I cannot mourn. But I can avenge his passing. It is the least that I can do.
The very, very, least.
I look at the grave one last time, and think, 'I love you, Dad. I just wish you could of known that, before it was too late. I wish I could of known it, as well.'
Then I turn, hat in hand, and walk down the hill, Dief fast on my heels. There's a train, and a murderer to catch. Both lead to Chicago, in the United States.
Better bring my extra hat.
Epilogue
**********
The Fathers
*************
"I will never be sane. I will never be safe. I will always be weird; inside. I will always be lame..", Father Of Mine, EverClear
@ @ @
Canada at night was always a flood of stars, and a rush of the cold evening wind through the trees. It was beautiful, and it was home, thought Benton Fraser to himself, as he pulled himself into his bedroll. Diefenbaker snuggled up next to him, and Fraser petted the soft fur between Dief's ears gently. He looked at the fire before him, the soft flickers of flame lighting his face, making his blue eyes unreadable.
For over a week now, he and Ray had been camping out here, in the wilds of the Territories. They'd come up to work on his father's cabin, and their friendship. Both had taken a severe beating after Fraser's encounter with Victoria, the woman whom he loved. The woman who tried to destroy everything the Mountie held dear; his job, his wolf, and his family. His family meaning...well, Ray. Just so he would have nothing left, but to go running to her arms.
She had nearly done it, too. She had shot Diefenbaker, and managed to frame he and Ray in a theft they never committed. Even after all that, she still had a hold on him. Her love was like the sirens that lured men to their watery deaths at sea; seductive, powerful. Poisonous. Those last few moments on the train platform, as he stood, watching her escape, she called to him, her dark wavy hair framing her ivory face to perfection, "Come with me! You'll regret it if you don't..."
He ran after her, idiot that he was. He didn't care that she tried to ruin his life, all that he knew in that moment was that she _was_ his life. He saw, as he ran, Ray pull the gun, and aim it at her, his Victoria. He knew he had to save her, to let her escape this time. So he leapt in front of her. It was a foolish mistake. That was when Ray shot him, in an attempt to shoot Victoria. He remembered tumbling backwards, the horrified look on Victoria's face. The heart-breaking one on Rays's.
Ray put a bullet so close to Fraser's spinal cord, the surgeons dared not to removed it. By accident, of course. It took Fraser months to recover, and Ray was still harboring guilt over the incident. Something Fraser himself had dark feelings about. If he had never brought this woman into his arms; Ray's life, and Ray's family never would of been at risk. And Ray wouldn't of had to shoot him in the back.
'Guilt..', the Mountie mused to himself, '...is a two way street.' Yet what was done, was done. They had to move forward from here. If they could.
There was a crackle of branches, and Ray appeared out of the forest. He plunked himself down on his sleeping bag, slipping off his boots, grumbling softly, "Your father had to have a cabin in the middle of nowhere, didn't he? No bathrooms for hundreds of miles..."
Fraser hid a grin, as he commented quietly, "Well Ray, it wouldn't make a lot of sense to have indoor plumbing. There aren't any sewers for hundreds of miles either."
Ray's lips quirked into a grin, "Well, at least my suits won't take a beating out here, then." Fraser laughed quietly, as Ray settled himself into his sleeping bag. Both men moved around, making themselves comfortable.
"What you think, Dief? Keep the fire burning tonight?" Fraser murmured, as he settled his head down on the end of his bedroll. Dief quietly snuffed his opinion, and curled his body around Fraser's.
Ray yawned, as he fluffed up the pillow he had bought, having lost most of his possessions in the plane crash, days before. He said sleepily, "I second the motion, Dief..."
"Then it is unanimous. The fire stays." Fraser said, his eyes closing slowly. Silence reigned over the camp for a few moments.
Then there was the rustle of cloth, and Ray whispered, "Hey Benny?"
Fraser cracked open one eye, whispering back, "Yes Ray?"
"Y'know...despite the plane crashing...us getting hunted by that killer...you going blind...me having to carry you...then going over the waterfall...this hasn't been such a bad vacation." Ray said, his tone gruff.
Fraser's eyes flickered over to his friend, across from the fire. He said mildly, "I would have to agree, Ray. All in all, it hasn't been that terrible." He lay still for a moment, then added, "Thank you...for taking me here. I've...well, I've missed it."
Ray grinned into his sleeping bag, and said, "You're welcome, Benny." He paused for a moment, then added, "Hey Benny...thanks for not, well, leaving me. Y'know...like dying and..otherwise." He muffled himself after that, too embarrassed to go on. How could he tell his best friend how much he cared for him, without looking like, in his own father's words, a wuss?
Fraser coughed quietly, then said gravely, "Thank you for giving me a reason to stay, Ray. Thank you..for being my best friend.." He couldn't bring himself to say anymore; he only hoped that Ray would catch the meaning of his words, as simple as they were. Ray's friendship was the only thing keeping him going right now; he owed Ray his life. He just didn't know how to say it any other way.
Ray let out a sigh of relief, "And thanks...for being mine." Then he added quickly, "Good night, Benny."
Fraser called back, "Good night, Ray." Both men smiled at each other in the darkening gloom, knowing what had to be said, had been. Sometimes, words just didn't say enough; thoughts and feelings said so much more. Blue and hazel eyes met, and the peace that had to be made between them and thier souls, was. Then both sets of eyes closed in slumber. There was silence again, and the soft sounds of Dief snoring.
Robert Fraser stood, back straight, hands folded in back of him, quietly watching the sight in front of him. His uniform was perfect, as always, and his hat sat on his head without movement. He moved to look down at his son, as he murmured softly, "You know...I always liked to watch him when he was sleeping. Hair rumpled, little face all peaceful. Of course, now he's an adult. Face isn't so little, but the hair..the hair is the same. Like his mother's...that tossled brown.."
"Y'know, Canuck...you tend to get mushy at the weirdest moments. You know that, right?" Victor Vecchio commented, as he stood off to the side, hands tucked into his old worn leather jacket, the firelight shadowing his worn face, and his bald spot. He looked over at his son, expression unreadable.
"Well Yank...if a man can't get mushy over his son when he's fast asleep, and doesn't know it, when else can he?", Robert said, tilting his grey eyes towards Victor's brown ones.
Victor sighed, "You have a point. Of course, you always have a point. Is that a Canadian thing?"
"You might say that...", Robert said with a quiet cough. He looked back down at his son, voice slightly incredulous, "Benton didn't leave him. Your son, I mean. My boy could of found that killer in a day, but he didn't want to leave his friend. First time I ever saw him put anything before duty..."
"Your son was as blind as a bat, Canuck...he couldn't of found his own foot, much less that killer." Victor said dryly, "What I don't get is _my_ son. My son, Mr. I-can-do-it-all-myself. Mr. Don't-want-tostick - my-neck-out. He not only stays with your crazy son...he carries him. For miles!"
Both men stood silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then Robert spoke, "You know something Yank? Sometimes, I wish my son was more like yours. More...wise to the world, as it were. Benton is so trusting...so willing to take everyone at face value. I just fear in the long run, he's going to be hurt again. I..well, I never really talked to him about love, and trust. Who to put his faith into. Ray...Ray knows his way around. Know how to protect himself. In a way, he'll be stronger then Benton, always."
Victor sighed softly, "Don't wish it, Canuck. Don't. Your boy's a good man. My Raymundo...he has a problem with believing in people. It's my own fault, I was too rough on him. On his sisters, and brother. Even on his own mother, God help me. So now, where your boy could learn to forgive, even an old sinner like me...mine won't. He might be stronger, but he'll miss out on a lotta good things that your son will have."
"Yet...they seem to balance each other out, don't they? Benton gives Ray faith in humanity...", Robert said thoughtfully.
"Yeah, and Ray gives Benton a few words to the wise on how the 'real' world works. They protect each other. They...give the other what we never could give 'em. They're kinda like fathers to each other, where we couldn't be. Y'know?" Victor said, something glimmering in his eyes.
"Yes, I know....I never told him I loved him, Victor...", Robert sighed, "...and I will always regret that. Why is it you never say what you should...when you're alive? When it will mean something?"
"I don't know, Robert...I don't know. I do know I should told my son I was sorry. For not having faith in him, for never showing I believed in him. For hurting him so damned much...", Victor whispered, rubbing his eyes, removing the wetness there.
Again, they fell silent. Then Robert kneeled by his son, and whispered, "I know you won't remember this. I know it's a little too late...but I love you son. I always have. I wish we could of had more time together, so you could of known, how much I care."
Victor as well, sat next to his boy, and muttered, "I'm sorry Raymundo...for everything. I know..I know you'll never forgive me. I know there's no way your heart could ever be big enough. But I'm sorry..."
Both men rose silently. Robert smiled wearily over at Victor, "We'd best go. They have a long day tomorrow. Cutting up logs and the like...and they need their sleep" The Mountie started walking out of the clearing, and disappeared into the shadows.
Victor sniffled, as he followed the Mountie, "Great. Our boys are playing Paul Bunyan. Couldn't they of just gone to Palm Beach to bond? It's so much warmer..." And with that, he too was gone.
There was a moment of dead quiet. Then:
"Benny...did you just hear...what I thought I just heard?" came the quietly incredulous voice.
"Do you mean both of our dead fathers standing above us, and talking about us like we weren't here?" came the somewhat calm reply.
"Uhm...Yeah."
"Yes Ray, I did."
A pause.
"Benny, are we going nuts?"
"I don't think so Ray."
"Oh good. Well...it was nice to hear that stuff...from Pop. I never really knew he cared. Even though..all that stuff happened between us...well, you know what I mean."
"Yes Ray, I do. I do indeed. Perhaps, it is never too late to show you care. Strange thing though...."
"What's that, Benny?"
"I never knew our fathers would get along so well. I really didn't think they had much in common, besides being dead. Of course, being dead might be enough of a factor for a friendship to grow...and really, who am I to say..."
"Hey Benny?"
"Yes Ray?"
"Go to sleep."
"Ah. Yes. Good night Ray."
"Night Benny."
FINI