Blues in the Night

Scott had assumed that the denizens of the Villa were all asleep when he made his way down to the sick room. He couldn't have been more wrong.

"He grinned at me, at us, then trotted back into the room. How could I have stopped him? My hands were full. My stomach was churning. But it all seemed okay. Why would I have stopped him? Then that soundless red flash. The billows of gray moon dust. And I thought: Why didn't I stop him?"

"You couldn't have known what was going to happen."

"True. But I was field commander. I should have insisted."

"I know. Then what happened?"

"Then Scott went after him. I tried to focus on the woman. But all I heard were the muttered curses in my ear. And Scott's panicked breathing. I had no idea what was going on. It seemed to take forever! But finally the Hygenus Rille people showed up. And Scott shouted that Dad was alive. My knees almost buckled at the news. Then he read off the injuries. And I almost lost my lunch. I was field commander, and I failed. My failure almost cost Dad his life."

John lay on the roof, arms behind his head, looking up at the clear night sky and seeing none of the stars that were as familiar to him as his own family. Gordon sat next to him, crosslegged, a night zephyr stirring his copper hair. John had awakened early in the morning and gone to see Jeff, finding that Gordon had the same idea. But Virgil occupied the chair in the sickroom at the time, so after a few minutes of staring bleakly at the pale, sleeping face, Gordon tugged on John's dressing gown sleeve and whispered in his ear, "Let's go. I wanna talk." John let Gordon draw him from the room and guide him to the roof, where the telescope stood unused.

"The rest of it is just a jumble of images. Except for when we were coming back. Seeing Dad lying in Thunderbird Three's little sickbay was... hard. The doctors did a good job, and Scott and I knew that, but he was so still. I never understood how much of a... force he is until then. How much of a personality, a presence he is. How empty things around here are without him sitting at that damned desk!"

John raised himself up on his elbows, looking at Gordon intently. "I've done all the talking. Now what's eating you?"

Gordon drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I was scared. Hell, I'm still scared. We had no idea if Dad would make it back alive. And, John, Grandma was scared. She put on a good front, but I was holding her hands and I knew exactly how frightened she was for Dad. He's her only child. She lives for him. I mean, yeah, she lives for us, too, but not like she does for him. She's always been the strong one. She was the one who picked Dad up after Mom died. He relies on her. But when we heard Dad was so badly hurt, I was scared... for her."

"What do you mean, Gords?"

"I was scared that if Dad died, it would kill her. Not right away, but that she'd lose all hope of living and just kinda... wither away. I couldn't stand to see that happen."

John looked down and shook his head. "None of us could stand it. It will be hard enough when she finally... dies. I can't imagine our household without her." He looked over at Gordon. "It's gonna happen some day."

Gordon closed his eyes, and grimaced. "I know." Then he looked over at John. "Why do you think she's not afraid of growing old the way Dad seems to be?"

John snorted a laugh. "Practice, maybe? I know I really don't remember how she was when she was Dad's age. Maybe she had the same attitude back then that he has now. But she's had a job to do, too, in raising us. Maybe just being needed, having that job to do is what's kept her from feeling old."

"Do you think that this could be part of why Dad is doing what he's doing, John? Maybe he doesn't feel needed? I mean, we can work the desk in his place. He might be feeling outmoded or pushed aside," Gordon theorized. John sat up fully and shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe that's part of it. I do know that recapturing that old feeling of excitement is part of it. Scott's right there." John put a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Whatever his motives, we have to find a way to keep this from happening again."

Gordon nodded in agreement. Time to take Operation: Change of Mind off the shelf.

creak

I need to get this rocking chair fixed.

Grandma Tracy sat in her favorite rocker, slowly moving back and forth, the chair quietly complaining with each backwards motion.

I almost lost him. Violently. Suddenly. Almost the way I lost Grant.

The mention of her husband brought the memories of his sudden death flooding to the forefront of her mind. She shuddered, and pushed them back to the recesses from whence they came.

He'll get better. He'll wake up. He's got a hard head. Just like Grant had.

The vision of her husband's head, banged and bleeding after an accident, swam to the front of her inner eye. She pushed it mercilessly away.

But when he wakes up, then what? He'll go out and do this again. And again. And again. He's stubborn. Just like his father was.

Memories of her husband and son arguing over that son's future sprang up, with all the harsh words and loud voices that those arguments contained.

He wouldn't back down then. He won't back down now. Even after this near tragedy. Unless I figure out something that will stop him. But what?

She closed her eyes and sighed.

I was so frightened. So scared to be left alone. To be left behind. It's just not right for a mother to outlive her son. Any more than it is for a mother to be taken from her babies.

The boys have talked to him about their concerns, their fears. Maybe it's time I talk to him about mine. Once he's better. Once he can listen to me again.

But I was so scared.....

The wide, covered swing by the poolside rocked back and forth. Alan sat there, one leg drawn up on the swing's seat, arms around it, while the other foot absently pushed the swing back and forth. He was clad in sweat shorts and t-shirt. His blue eyes stared out at the dark, star-spangled pool waters, unseeing.

The patter of bare feet came down the stairs from the Villa and stopped before him.

"Alan?"

He started out of his reverie to look at the person before him. He stopped swinging.

"Tin-Tin."

She moved to sit beside him on the cushioned swing. He looked straight ahead again, his boyish profile obscured by the darkness. Tin-Tin put a hand on his arm.

"What's wrong, Alan?" she asked softly.

There was a moment or two of silence. He started to swing again. Tin-Tin put her feet up out of the way.

"I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stand to go down to the sick room again just to see him lying there. I came out here to try and work this out of my head so I can sleep," he said flatly.

Another moment of silence. Tin-Tin waited.

"There was nothing I could do. I could hear everything going on. I could see it in my mind's eye. Just like when I'm listening in on a rescue in Thunderbird Five. And I was just as helpless."

More silence.

"I should be the one up there in the sickroom. I should have gone with Scott and John. Scott wanted it that way, but John said I didn't have the caving experience. If I had gone, Dad wouldn't have gotten hurt."

A pause.

"I'm expendable. He's not."

Tin-Tin waited for more. The silence lengthened. Then she spoke.

"Alan. No one knew what to expect from this rescue. There were too many unknown variables. John had to use the people who he knew had the most experience with the situation that they were warned existed. You weren't one of those people. Not this time. But you were there with the experience needed to pick up the pieces afterwards. That's what mattered."

She sat closer and put an arm around him. "You knew how important it was to get your father home quickly and safely. And you did it."

He sighed heavily, then leaned onto her shoulder. Tin-Tin put her other arm around him and held him, sitting in silence with him as the swing gradually stopped and he slept in her arms.

Virgil sat at the piano in the lounge, in the dark, nursing a glass of bourbon. It was his second, but the desired result, that of forgetful slumber, was still very far away. Kyrano had relieved him of his post in the chair beside the bed, and sent him off to follow the very advice he had given to Scott a few hours before.

This is all my fault.

He went over in his mind what he and John had discussed about halfway through Thunderbird Three's flight to the moon.

"Virgil, it's going to take three of us on this rescue, I think," John had said. Virgil had seen what was coming a mile away.

"Dad has the caving experience, Virge. Alan doesn't. Since we're not sure what we're going to encounter in the lava tubes, I'd rather have him along."

Why did I ever agree to it? We'd gone to great lengths to keep him safe, to keep him from risking his neck. And here, when I have the opportunity to continue with the program, I let him go out.

He sipped some more of his drink. And we ended up with almost the worst possible scenario. The only thing that would have been worse was if he had died.

And it was all my fault. I was in command.

Virgil splayed his fingers wide and brought them down on the keys, hard; a deep, discordant sound coming from the instrument. Then he kicked back the rest of his drink and went in search of his own bed and sleep.