When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Twenty-Four: September, 1949

  There was a letter Arty kept writing. It began:

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  At the grand old age of…

  The first time, he had been twenty-five years old, for he had written it in hospital, when his death had seemed imminent. He’d tried again at twenty-six, when he and Jim married each other under the rose arch on a gloriously sunny day in May, then at twenty-eight, when he’d dared to believe that Kinsey’s research would offer irrefutable evidence to sway his father, ever the academic. The first letter he had neither sent nor destroyed, in case its possession was somehow tied to his fate. The second letter he’d shown to Sissy, who talked him out of sending it, and eventually he had thrown it on the fire. The third letter he didn’t finish: it would take a better man than him to summarise eight hundred pages into around a hundred words. That, too, went up the chimney.

  Now, on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, as the glow of the low autumn sun faded from gold through copper into cherry, becoming one with the mahogany of the bureau beneath the blank page, Arty started the letter once more:

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  At the grand old age of thirty, I believe it’s time I told you the truth about the kind of man your son grew up to be.

  He stopped writing and read it back. How absurd his words seemed. He hadn’t ‘grown up to be’; he had always been. He screwed the paper into a ball and threw it at the unlit hearth, where it hit the back of the fireplace and bounced out again. Seemingly leaping from nowhere, Soot pounced on the paper ball, causing it to tumble across the Axminster. Arty put his pen down and watched absently as the cat batted and chased his makeshift prey all around the room.

  His birthday had nothing to do with it, or not in any direct sense. It was because of Jim’s father. In early spring, Jim’s mother had written to both sons, telling them their father was gravely ill, but before either of them could arrange passage back to the States, he made a full recovery. In summer, when it happened a second time, Joshua flew from the new airport in Heathrow to New York, and from there drove down to West Virginia: a day and a half of travelling to find that once again Jimmy Johnson Senior had pulled through.

  “Third time lucky, Mom says,” Joshua reported on his return to London a fortnight later. Another fortnight had since passed, during which Arty had been consumed by morbid thoughts, mostly concerning his parents’ mortality, but also, at times, his own. It was not that he believed he was nearing the end; far from it. He ate well, he exercised and rested regularly, he and Jim were still deeply in love, and they had a good life together. However, whilst Arty was happier and healthier than he had been in years, his parents were already in their seventh decade; regardless of what Sissy thought, he felt a compulsion to tell them before the sand stopped pouring through their hourglasses.

  The whistle of the kettle came into focus, followed by the dainty clink together of china cups on saucers, and Arty smiled to himself, the frustration of his failed letter writing instantly diminished by the mundane reminder that telling his parents was of little real consequence. Nor were his intentions entirely honourable. I want to shout it from the rooftops—this is the man I love and don’t you tell me I can’t. Jim’s words, uttered almost five years ago, were on perpetual standby in Arty’s mind, a constant reminder that he had entered this partnership, this common-law marriage, with eyes open.

  Jim appeared at his side and set two cups down on the desk. “Did you quit?” he asked.

  Arty peered up at Jim’s gentle, knowing smile. “I did,” he confirmed. “Soot is taking care of it.”

  Jim stooped and wrapped warm, strong arms around Arty, and together they watched the cat at play. Arty nestled closer, rubbing his cheek against Jim’s, knowing their thoughts were as one: remembering the two young cats they adopted and raised, hour upon hour spent in silent observation of hunting or play, chasing balls of hay, and the recent loss of Socks, hit by a car a few months ago. They’d lost one of Silky’s first brood the same way, another defected next door to Mrs. Greene, and Silky’s second litter found new homes—all but one, who was the image of his father, with the same white belly and three white socks, thus was christened accordingly.

  Soot tired of his game and slinked off to the bedroom, where his offspring and nephew would be snoozing in their favourite spots. Silky preferred to sleep in the sitting room, and she had taken one of the armchairs as her own. Not even Matron Molly was brave enough to take on the feisty grey tortoiseshell, who hissed and spat at any human foolish enough to go near, other than Jim, whom she would glare at spitefully but honoured their pact of mutual respect, and Arty, whom she adored and reluctantly shared with Jim.

  “Let’s go sit,” Arty said, slowly rising from the hard-back chair. Jim released him, and they each picked up their cups of tea and retired to the settee.

  “Sounds like you got important business on your mind, darlin’.”

  Arty laughed quietly. “I have. It’s about tomorrow night. I know I said I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday, but it occurred to me…we could go dancing.”

  “The four of us?”

  “Yes.”

  Jim frowned and rubbed his chin, deep in thought. He nodded slowly and said, “It’s a great idea, and I know you’re trying to do the right thing…”

  “I have to, for Jean, and for you.”

  “We been here before, ain’t we? You don’t have to do this for me.”

  “When did you last go dancing?”

  Jim pretended he had to think about it, but they both knew it was at Jean and Charlie’s wedding reception, over three years ago.

  Arty continued, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I might not be able to dance any more, but I haven’t forgotten how. I’m going to propose to Jean that we open a dance school together.” Arty paused, expecting Jim to argue, and then added, just in case, “Before you say it, this isn’t about the money.”

  Jim laughed and raised his hands in a wide shrug. “Now what makes you think I was gonna mention money?”

  Arty rolled his eyes and moved closer so that when Jim lowered his arms, one fell around Arty’s shoulders. “It really isn’t about the money,” he said.

  Jim turned and kissed Arty’s cheek. “I know,” he murmured against the skin. “You’re the most incredible, kind, brave man, Arty Clarke, doing this for Jean and for us. Whatever you decide is good by me. I’m with you all the way, d’you hear?” Arty nodded. “And if you wanna dance tomorrow night, then you just go right on ahead, and when you’re done I’ll sling you over my shoulder, carry you home and take you to bed.”

  Arty laughed. “I’m holding you to that.”

  “I mean it,” Jim said. “’Specially the last part.” He gave Arty’s thigh a slow squeeze and started working his way up.

  With a heavy sigh of both relief and contentment, Arty leaned against Jim and nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Welcome,” Jim replied.

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