Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy Conlon had always thought the slow process of death really began at the age of forty. Until he hit it, and realized it wasn't so bad. He's forty-one now, and other than the forehead creases he's had since his middle twenties, and the sprinkling of gray in his beard stubble, he thinks he looks pretty good. He's still in good shape, thanks to the personal training he still offers at the gym and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes he teaches. Thanks to the love-hate relationship he's still got going with the heavy bag and the weights and the running.

He doesn't train mad crazy the way he used to; he doesn't need to. He's de-bulked some since he gave up fighting, though he's still got his biceps. His wife likes them.

He still can't even think the words “my wife” without smiling. Same deal with “my kids.” Let other guys complain about how ungrateful and annoying their brats are; Tommy doesn't have to deal with that. His kids are great.

And the oldest one is about to be out of the house soon. Which, to be perfectly honest, Tommy has mixed feelings about. He's loved Jack practically since the minute he met the kid. Doesn't matter that Jack's not his biological son.

They'll have the summer, of course. But Jack will be doing training camp stuff in Philly, staying with his aunt and uncle and cousins, helping out at “Uncle” Frank's gym to earn a bit of spending money before school starts. He won't be home, and Tommy vacillates between being proud that the kid is going off to a good school and thinking that he's really going to miss having Jack around.

He sighs, and his wife reaches for his hand as they walk into the lobby of the high school auditorium. “Stop fidgeting,” she whispers.

He shoots her a glare, and then thinks better of it because she looks nervous, too. “All right, Mama Bean,” he says, and slings an arm around her waist. “You're just dreadin' losing your baby.”

She socks him, medium hard, on the bicep, and doesn't say anything. By which he ascertains that she is, in fact, on the verge of being really emotional. So he's got to keep it together. It's their longterm arrangement: they can't both be wrecks at the same time. He sighs again. Looks like it's his turn to man up.

Well, this is the first fledgling to leave the nest. Hard on the mother. Jack will be fine, he's sure of it. Kelly, maybe, not-so-much. He'll have to remind her later that Jack's a capable kid, sensible, the kind of person who takes care of everybody including himself. No need to worry.

This is an awards assembly for graduating seniors. There's a certain amount of silliness that goes along with graduation, silliness that those graduating seem to find grave and serious, as well as things that do seem to matter. For example, Jack's parents were informed ahead of time that he had already been selected to the short list of nominees for Student of the Year. That's another thing Tommy has mixed feelings about, as an undistinguished high school graduate. He'd gotten out of high school in Tacoma with a high C average and absolutely no after-school activities; he'd been too busy working all the hours he could manage, trying to make enough to swing the rent and the electric bill. Sure, he could have been a better student if circumstances had allowed. They didn't allow. It is what it is, and it doesn't matter now.

Tommy's so proud of what Jack's done with his opportunities he can hardly sit still on the bleachers. Even when his own father joins them there, or maybe especially then. As a parent, Paddy Conlon was a failure. He was a good conditioning trainer, yeah. A dad? Absolute shit. Most of what Tommy knows about parenting he's figured out from doing the exact opposite of what his dad had done. Sure, they're getting along okay lately, and Pop is certainly an enthusiastic grandfather, but that doesn't mean Pop was a good father back then.

Let it go, he reminds himself. Just let it go. You're grown. That was then, this is now. After all this time he still has to practice forgiveness on occasion.

The same old usual crap goes on during the assembly: the acknowledgement of student government officers, the awarding of academic honors, yada yada blah blah blah. Toward the end of this, the principle finally announces that the school has nominated five students as candidates for Student of the Year.

They all sound like great kids. The principal mentions the activities they're involved in – athletic teams, academic teams, church youth groups, Scouts, student government. Bright, involved, potential-fulfilling kids.

But when the announcement is made, it's Jack. “John Tipton Porter,” the principal announces, smiling, and there's a burst of frenzied applause and whistling in the student body. “In his time here at Taylor Allderdice, Jack has earned a GPA of 4.22, with accelerated classes at the magnet school, and he was named a semi-finalist for the National Merit Scholarship. Jack has participated in the concert band and the Academic Challenge Team, and served as a peer tutor for math. He's a three-sport athlete, running cross-country in the fall, swimming in the winter and playing on our state runner-up baseball team in the spring. He's an Eagle Scout, and this past year he captained not only the cross-country and baseball teams, but also the Social Studies ACT.”

Kelly squeezes Tommy's hand, smiling. He squeezes back.

“In addition, on his own, Jack started and continues to run a summer program matching student volunteers with the YMCA daycare, giving high school students something constructive to do with their summers and allowing the YMCA to reduce their summer daycare costs.”

This might be the thing Tommy's proudest of, too. And it was all Jack, all his idea. They had thirty kids working down at the Y last summer. Amazing.

“He's a helpful person with high moral standards, and friends with everybody he meets. We're proud to announce that Jack will be attending the University of Pennsylvania next year, where he will play baseball and pursue his goal of becoming a psychiatrist.” Another burst of applause, and even from this distance you can see how wide Jack's smile is in his pink-cheeked face, how he's both happy and a little embarrassed.

The principal steps away from the microphone and gestures for Jack to address it. “Jack, do you have a few words for us?”

This is a thing that would have scared Tommy utterly shitless at age 18, but Jack seems to have come prepared. But, then, that's Jack, he reflects. Shades of his Uncle Brendan.

Jack starts out by thanking his teachers and school personnel, as well as his family, his Scout leaders and his youth group pastor, all very basic. And then he leans into the microphone from his 6'1” height and gets real. “I kinda jumped at the chance to say something today, because I might not get to say something to every person individually. It's just this: take care of each other.” He shrugs his shoulders up a little, and although he's built like a young man, tall and lean and handsome in his contacts, Tommy can still see the eight-year-old in glasses when he looks at Jack. “It's easier than you think to make the world a better place. You just start with what's around you. You notice where things are broken or dirty or sad, and you do what you can.”

He takes a deep breath. “I want to thank my mom, who has been there for me all my life, for teaching me to leave things a little bit better than you found them. She does that herself all the time. I love you, Mom.” Jack grins, and Kelly smiles back but her eyes are wet. Tommy feels for the handkerchief he stuck in his pocket earlier today, expecting she'd need it.

And then Jack goes on. “And I want to thank my stepfather, who married my mom when I was eight, for giving me my life philosophy.”

Tommy looks up, startled. Jack's got a life philosophy? And I had something to do with it?

Jack grins a little more. “He looks a little surprised right now, and I guess it's because I never said it out loud. He might have said this to me maybe once because he's not much of a talker, but he lives it out every day. Tommy taught me that love is something you do. It's that simple. Thanks, Tommy. I love you too.”

Jack goes on to encourage his fellow students to love people out loud, not just with words but actions, and the gym gets raucous with applause. Jack steps down, and the awards ceremony continues, and Tommy just sits there fighting back tears.

Out of Tommy's once-fucked-up life, something incredibly good has come. Who knew?

Chapter Text

Jack is standing in the kitchen of his parents' house in Pittsburgh, the same house they moved into when he was eight years old. The kitchen cabinets have been refaced twice, the stove replaced, the paint and the curtains changed four – four? No, five – times, but it's the same kitchen where his mother made breakfast omelets, birthday cakes, Thanksgiving dinners… all the good meals of his young life, really, and so many good meals of his adult life. Jack glances out the window at the birdbath; it's still there, still holding water despite a minor crack. While he's watching a cardinal flies down to land, with a showy little splash, and Jack smiles. It's afternoon in early October, and not only is the sky a stunning deep autumn blue, but the leaves just started to turn two days ago. Little signs of beauty are all around, even on a sad, heavy day like today.

He sighs and adjusts his tie, drinks the rest of the water in his glass. It's about time to head on to the funeral home. He steps into the dining room, where his wife Rosie is talking with his sister Mary Kate, and Ryan's wife Lily. "Girls," he says.

Mary Kate turns to hug him. "You hanging in there?" she asks, concerned. "I have extra tissues."

"I'm okay," he says. "I thought I'd just wipe my nose on Rosie's hair, anyway."

"Ewww," Mary Kate says, before realizing he's just kidding. Trying to lighten the moment… it's not like Jack to do that, that's more a Ryan thing to do, but Ryan is too busy trying to keep himself together at the moment. This unexpected death has hit him harder than the rest of them.

The grandkids are behaving well, anyway. Right now they're in the basement playing Ping-Pong doubles and/or some video thing. Arianna, Mary Kate's daughter, is probably sitting down there reading a book. Jack sighs again, remembering Grandpop's funeral so many years ago now, how he and Martin and Emily had taken care of the younger kids.

The phone has rung off the hook today, people calling to leave messages of support. The doorbell has rung, by Jack's count, twelve times, with neighbors and friends from church stopping by with food for the family. People just like to help, but these visits are intensely painful for him, the loss magnified by the broken routine.

There's still one person not ready to go. "I'll go up," he says, heading through the living room. Everyone else turns to watch him mount the stairs, as if it's something momentous. Martin says something very quietly to his wife, Sydney, something Jack can't hear as he reaches the landing.

The door to his parents' room is open. There is no sound. He peeks in, knocking gently on the door to announce his presence.

His mother is standing facing the bed, her back to the door, neatly attired in a navy dress and heels with a pale peach scarf. When did she get so small? And when did she get old? he wonders to himself. She's an old lady now, the real deal, not the walking billboard for healthy aging that she was the last time he saw her, a few weeks ago. He looks at her. She's still standing straight – she's always said that short people needed every inch that good posture could give them – and her dress still fits, she hasn't suddenly lost weight the way older people do sometimes. Her hair still isn't even all gray, though it's heading that way. But there's something indefinably old, and fragile, about the way she looks now.

"Is that you, Jack?" Mom says, without turning around. Her voice hasn't changed much. She sounds composed and strong.

"Yes. How did you know it was me?"

She turns to him with a little smile. "I know what your footsteps sound like," she says. "Even though you haven't lived here for twenty years. I used to be able to tell who was walking around anywhere in the house, you know."

"You seem very calm," he observes.

"I'm only coping," she says. She is clutching a handkerchief in her hands, rolling it and unrolling it. "It's funny… it feels like he's still here, just out of sight." She makes a small gesture toward the bed. "I was just thinking how, when we were first married, he insisted on sleeping near the door. No matter where the door was in relation to the bed, he had to sleep between me and the door. To protect me, he said."

"That sounds like him," Jack says, and has to blink hard. Tommy, putting himself between a threat and someone he loved. "Mom? Do you have a – a pin, or a thumbtack or something, that I could borrow?"

She blinks. "Safety pin? Or, well, I do have your Nana's circle brooch, if you want."

"I wouldn't want to lose that. Safety pin, please."

She nods and goes to her dresser, opening a palm-size pewter box and pulling a pin out for him. "Why do you want it?"

"As a focus device. I need to stay in control of myself. You know if I lose it, they all will, and he would have hated that."

Mom nods. "Yes. But John Tipton… let the children cry if they want. And let yourself grieve when you're ready, do you hear me? He would have hated your keeping it in when it needed to come out. It was such a hard lesson for him to learn."

"I'm only finessing the timing, Mom," Jack says. "Strategy. Which he would have approved." He taps his temple, and she smiles, a brief wistful thing. "It's time. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she says steadily. "Let me get my sweater." She puts on a cream-colored cardigan and picks up her purse, and steps out into the hall with him, glancing back once into the room before setting her face toward what the day holds.

Emily, wiping tears, is thinking of the first time she ever met her uncle. Eight years old, and she'd never met him – never even knew she had an uncle on her dad's side until Daddy had won that tournament a year and a half before. She'd connected her so-called "Uncle Tommy" with her dad's cuts and bruises, and she'd been afraid of him, or the idea of him anyway. He looked so angry in any photo she'd seen of him. She'd draw him pictures to be sent to the big jail in her dad's letters, but she didn't know him.

And then meeting him in person after he got out of jail – "the brig," her father had called it – she'd been nervous. She'd stared, mostly because he didn't look anything like her dad. He'd looked back, but not said anything, like a wary dog, and the feeling in the room was awkward. Then Daddy had plunked Rosie right down on his lap, and cheerful Rosie had giggled at him, and suddenly things felt right. And happy. Emily remembers the first time she ever saw Uncle Tommy smile, and it had changed his whole face, changed the way she looked at him.

It had taken Emily very little time to discover that the uncle she'd never known before had a soft spot for kids a mile wide. And as she's grown, she's only felt deeper affection for him. Seeing him with his own children, and then other children – his grandchildren and great-nieces and great-nephews, plus all the kids that have come through the after-school MMA program at his gym – well, she's only come to appreciate him more for the mix of toughness and sweetness that he had.

She's going to miss him.

Martin takes a deep breath and puts his arm around his wife, Sydney, squeezing her tight as they walk into the funeral home's viewing room. Although there will be no priest involved, and the minister at Mom and Tommy's church will be conducting the service, Mom had insisted on provision being made for the Catholics of the family. There will be only a brief eulogy incorporated into the memorial service, and the funeral home has provided a kneeling step (or whatever it's called) near the casket for prayer, both here at the private family viewing and at the funeral tomorrow.

"You doing okay?" she asks, looking up at him.

He nods, and produces a halfhearted little smile for her. "I love you," he says into her ear. He's only got a couple of inches on Sydney; she's a tall girl herself, and both their boys are tall and getting taller, heading right into that middle-teens growth spurt if he's not mistaken.

"Boys," Sydney says over her shoulder, "come on now." Martin looks at them over his own shoulder: both of them with skin the color of milky tea, halfway between his fairness and Syd's warm café au lait, tall and lanky like both their parents, dark kinky hair like their mother's. John's got Martin's blue eyes, but Thomas' are chocolate brown.

Living in St. Louis, his kids have seen less of their grandfather than Jack's and Ryan's kids have, but that doesn't mean that Tommy didn't love them to death every time he got to see them. And it doesn't mean they didn't love him to death right back. Every time they visited, Tommy would be outside with them shooting hoops or trying to get them in a headlock, lots of laughing and jostling around, hugs and really terrible jokes. Martin's desk at Boeing boasts several family pictures, hard-copy ones because he's old-school like that, and one of his favorites is a snapshot of John, age ten, and Thomas, age 8, trying hard to pin their grandfather to the rug. In it, they're all laughing and sweaty. Only six years ago. Martin shakes his head and swallows hard.

"You want to go ahead first?" Sydney asks him quietly. "Or you want us with you?"

"With me," he says, and holds her hand as he approaches the casket. He hears Syd saying a quiet word to the boys to be respectful, not that they need it, and then he has to hang on tight to his emotions, looking at his stepfather's body.

Martin hadn't seen his parents since July, when Tommy was very much his normal self, maybe grayer than the last time and inclined to forget people's names, but happy to be with family as always, and physically vital. Martin's been taller than Tommy since he was seventeen years old, but that always felt something like an illusion, given Tommy's strong physical presence. Tall or not, he dominated the room. Now, though, Tommy seems thinner, smaller.

Looking at Tommy, now wearing his dress blues, Martin thinks of the formal portrait of young Tommy taken when he was eighteen, a new Marine. Of all Tommy's family, other than Mom, Martin might be the one who best understands just what the Corps was to Tommy, and how much it meant to him to have his dishonorable discharge overturned twenty-five years ago.

Martin remembers. He'd been just off to his first posting with the Air Force when Tommy had called him. "They overturned it," he'd said to Martin, not even identifying himself, his voice shaky with emotion. "They overturned it. I got it back."

Martin, confused at first, had quickly understood – Tommy had appealed his court-martial from eighteen years prior. "So Sgt. Andersen was right? The concussion evidence helped?"

"Yes. And the tank thing, but mostly the way they look at PTSD now. Mark Bradford testified, and some old CO's of mine testified for me, and that was…" Tommy tails off, obviously moved. "Martin, I got my Corps back."

"So… man, that's so awesome. You're a Marine again, I mean officially… Tommy, I'm so happy for you."

And Tommy, on the other end of the call, had bellowed, "Ooo-rah!" so loudly that Martin had to stifle a curse, jerking the phone away from his ear even as he'd laughed out loud at the clear joy in Tommy's voice.

Martin leans over the casket and says to his stepfather, the Marine, "You still look good in the dress blues. I love you, Tommy."

Tess is avoiding Kelly, at least for now. She will be available for her sister-in-law later, but this is only the family viewing, to be opened up for a more public visitation in about an hour, and Tess does not want to lose control in public. She's been crying for three days while trying to support Brendan and her own kids, who adored their uncle, and she's about at the end of her rope.

She's so glad to see the prie-dieu at the side of the casket that it almost starts her crying again. Rosie comes and slips an arm around her mother. "Mom? Look. I told you Aunt Kelly wouldn't forget. She knew you and Daddy, especially, would want to pray here. And in a little while Jack's going to lead a Rosary prayer for those of us who want it."

Tess swallows hard and reaches for Rosie's hand. "Jack's a sweetheart. How are the girls doing?"

"They're devastated," Rosie says. "Of course they are." Rosie and Jack's daughters Joanna and Teresa have been very good at keeping their cousins occupied and relatively cheerful, but in private they've cried buckets. "It's funny, each one of them is secretly convinced that she was his favorite grandchild. He had a gift for that, you know, making a kid feel special." Her voice is unsteady. "Oh, I loved him."

Tess, remembering a long-ago day when she was worried about how safe her children would be in the presence of her unstable, violent, just-out-of-military-prison brother-in-law, chokes back another sob. She'd been unbelievably wrong – just as wrong about, and jealous of, Tommy as he'd been of her. And six months after that, he'd felt like her real brother. She's grieving almost as much as Brendan is. Poor Brendan. He's holding on to his emotions very tightly, and Tess can tell that he is aching for the feel of his brother's embrace, grieving that he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"Ryan is very upset," Rosie says quietly to her mother. "I think he thinks that if he hadn't left Uncle Tommy alone to walk Martina back to the house, he'd be alive. But Kelly told me that the damage from the stroke was very fast – that even if he'd been in the house when it hit, the EMTs wouldn't have been able to help."

Tess nods. She kisses her daughter's cheek. "And Jack, how is Jack? He's being a trooper. Everybody's rock – at least in public."

Rosie looks at her mother steadily. "Oh, you know Jack: help everyone else first. But he's grieving, in private with me." She sighs. "You know… I sort of hate myself for saying this… but I wonder if the suddenness of it might not have been a good thing. I just can't see Uncle Tommy settling in to dealing with that illness. He would have hated a nursing home."

"Was it getting that bad?" Tess asks, surprised. She'd known of the CTE diagnosis for a few months, but she just hadn't realized that was what would be involved.

"No, not yet. It was just forgetfulness, mostly, and his doctors were surprised he'd been symptomless for so long. But heading that way, eventually."

Tess thinks about it: Tommy helpless and not himself. No, as unkind as it sounds, Rosie is right. "He would have hated that," she agrees.

And then Jack comes to gather them up for a quiet Rosary service. "I know," he says to the extended family in the room, "that most of you know that Tommy grew up Catholic, and later came to a… well, a difference of opinion with the Church, choosing to follow a different path." Tess remembers that none of Kelly's family is Catholic, and Jack is explaining what they're doing and why for that side of the family. He asks that everyone pray as they like, or to reflect quietly.

The prayers comfort Tess immensely. Brendan's voice falters through them and his hands shake, but Tess leans a little nearer to him, and Emily presses close on his other side, and by the end of the Rosary he is steadier. From time to time, Tess can even hear Kelly's voice praying out loud with them.

After the prayers, Tess pulls Brendan away from the room before the doors are opened for the people outside to come in. "Come talk to me," she whispers. They find a tiny alcove, and she simply slips her arms around him, holding him. He squeezes her back, trembling, and she can feel his tears on her neck.

"I feel so cheated," he says in a cracked whisper. "I didn't get to say goodbye to Mom. Pop died alone in that damn chair of his. And now Tommy, I didn't get to tell my own brother goodbye."

Tess just lets him cry on her shoulder for some minutes before she speaks. "He knew you loved him, Brendan. And you know he loved you. You told each other often enough."

"It wasn't often enough," Brendan says back, and now she realizes. It's not guilt, it's anger that's troubling her gentle husband. He's never comfortable with his own anger.

"Babe," she tells him. "You have a right to be upset. It is okay to be mad at God. Didn't King David get mad at God all the time? He just told God how he felt and then he could let go of it."

"I can't even say it yet," he says. "Not yet."

"But you will," she tells him with absolute conviction. "And then you will be okay. You will miss Tommy. I will too – oh, God, how I miss him already – but we will all be okay. Trust me on this, babe."

"Look," Ryan says under his breath to Mary Kate. "Who did that? That's awesome." He's pointing to three large display boards propped on easels; they're covered in photos. Old-school hard copies, the way Tommy liked to look at photos. He never quite got used to digital displays.

"Jack and Rosie's girls Joanna and Teresa put that together," Mary Kate says. She's been crying, but she's all right at the moment. Ryan hugs her close and kisses the side of her head, and she hugs back. "Wasn't that sweet? They're good pictures of Dad, too."

"This I want to see up close," Ryan says. He and Mary Kate make their way through the crush of people in the room, angling to see the photos, which are also proving popular with others. They have to wait their turn to see.

There are photos of Dad as a kid, from a toddler on the lap of the grandmother none of Dad's kids ever knew, to a swimsuited grade-schooler at the beach with his blond brother, to a pugnacious-looking middle-schooler in wrestling togs, holding a trophy. "Wow, look at Uncle Brendan," Mary Kate says, smiling. There's Dad as a teenager, skinny and grinning, with Grandpop's arm around his shoulders.

There are photos of Dad in Marine uniform, from a young man in his dress blues, to a confident Marine in his twenties having something pinned on his chest, to a smiling guy in cammies with his arm around a friend, clearly on deployment somewhere. There are photos of Dad from his MMA days, tattooed and tough as old boots, muscles on top of muscles. There's one of him with Uncle Brendan, both of them barechested and wearing their championship belts, arms around each other's shoulders, looking fierce and proud.

Photos of Mom and Dad on their wedding day; Dad with Martin on his shoulders and turning Jack upside down, all three of them grinning like idiots; Dad with Emily and Rosie.

There are a couple of shots of Dad playing with Bagel in the grass. "I miss Bagel," Ryan says wistfully. For years after Bagel had gone on to his doggy reward, Dad had continued to bring home stray dogs, and at one point he and Mom had had four, all mutts. There had been an enormous wolfhoundy thing that Mom had fallen in love with right away and named Mr. Heathcliff, and another beagle mix so eager to be petted that he'd suffer any sort of indignity for a belly rub, and Dad had called him Private. There had been a moody husky mix with a dark muzzle that loved only Dad, merely tolerating the rest of them, that Mom called Bane. And then there was the manic terrier mix that had annoyed Ryan to death, a little dog so fearsomely ugly and yappy that Dad had called him Mad Dog, smirking every time he said the name. But they're all gone now.

Dad at graduations and football games and piano recitals; Dad at Martin's AF commissioning; Dad holding a grandbaby and then later with a whole lapful of grandchildren, laughing his head off. Dad coaching "his kids" in the after-school program, Dad in the gym with Uncle Frank and Fenroy and Uncle Brendan, Dad sleeping in a hammock outside the cabin in Norton.

Ryan feels his throat close up. If only he'd gotten back to Dad sooner… if only they weren't so darned far from town up the mountain… if only.

"Stop that," MK says to him gently. "I can see you feeling guilty. Stop it. You know he was only going to get sicker, and maybe this was for the best."

"I didn't say goodbye," Ryan blurts out. "I was teasing him earlier because he insisted I should go kiss Lily before we left, and I was all 'yeah yeah yeah big whoop, Dad,' like he was full of it. I should have told him goodbye. I should have told him I loved him."

Mary Kate pats his back. "Listen, you know Dad. Did he ever hold a grudge with us? No, he did not. You let that go right now. And he knew we loved him. He knew. Like Mama always said, nothing sweeter than a sweet man, and that he was."

To cover the fact that he's close to tears, Ryan turns back to the display board and finds a picture of Dad holding a brand-new baby which has to be Ryan himself. In it, Dad looks exhausted – bags under his eyes, beard stubble, tiredness in every line of his face, but also there is a glow of joy about him, like he's just received an unexpected gift, or been given back a treasure he'd thought was lost.

I love you, Dad, Ryan says silently. Oh, Dad, I'm going to miss you so much.

"It's packed," Jack says to his brother Ryan in amazement. He'd expected that there would be plenty of people there, considering people from church, people from the gym, the VFW, the neighbors, old friends… but it's a Thursday night and there's hardly enough space to walk, and the funeral home directors are opening up another connected room just so people won't have to wait outside.

"I know," Ryan says. He's still taking it hard, having been the last person to talk with Tommy. Jack can see the weight of it pressing him down. Ryan has no jokes tonight, not even for the children. "I just saw a whole bunch of those kids from the after-school junior MMA program at the gym, too, and that surprised me. Who knew a string of teenagers would give up their evening to go to a visitation?"

Tommy had long since retired from the gym, having sold it a few years ago. But he'd retained a life membership and the right to supervise a training program for at-risk youth, and he'd typically spent three or four afternoons a week there helping to condition and coach the kids.

If he wasn't doing that, he was volunteering with the local Veterans Honor Guard, serving at military funerals several times a week. And if he wasn't doing either one of those things, he was home chasing Mom around the house, which was sort of sweet and sort of disgusting at the same time.

"You know that guy?" Ryan asks Jack, nodding at a tall man in Marine service uniform, maybe a little younger than Tommy, standing with a clump of similar-aged men with the erect bearing of military veterans. "I heard him talking to Mom about wanting to participate with the honor guard tomorrow. And some other guys too, guys that had served with Dad and only got back in touch with him after he'd been out of the Corps for awhile."

He seems familiar. Jack looks a little closer. "Oh yeah. Yeah, that's Lt. Col. Bradford. Dad saved his life over in Iraq, right after he got bombed. You know that story, right? Ripped the door off the AmTrac. He came to the house a couple of times, you don't remember him?" Ryan shrugs. "I remember sitting at the table while Dad talked him into attending OCS – God, that must have been like thirty-five years ago. And the guy retired as a Lieutenant Colonel." Pretty awesome he's going to help with the honor guard, Jack thinks.

Rosie, Lily, Mary Kate and Mary Kate's husband Adrien wander over, and Lily hugs Ryan tight. "You hanging in there?" she asks him and they both nod. "Every single person on your mom's side of the family has just hugged me," she notes. "This is an affectionate bunch of people, isn't it?"

"True," Adrien agrees. "First time I met MK's parents, I was sort of worried about what her dad would think of me – I mean, she told me all these horror stories about how he scared the living crap out of all her boyfriends." Everybody laughs softly.

Mary Kate rolls her eyes. "He did eventually get less caveman about it."

"And here I was, this geeky Chinese guy she met in grad school, so not the tough-guy type. I was hoping he wouldn't, like, lob barbells at me when I walked in the door. Or challenge me to a wrestling match." Adrien shakes his head, smiling. "It was nothing like that. Instead, he got me all comfortable on the couch with watching the Pirates before he told me that if I loved his little girl I had better treat her right, or else. And that was all. But the day we got married he said to me, 'Now you're family.' And from then on he always hugged me when we said goodbyes. I think my own father has hugged me maybe a dozen times in my entire life – I had to get used to it."

Rosie says, "Yeah, we're a huggy bunch. And you know, I used to think my parents were embarrassing with it, always kissing each other and stuff. That was before I spent any time with Kelly and Uncle Tommy, because they could be… well."

There's a general gust of laughter in the group, because everybody knows what she means.

"It's true," Jack says. "But I honestly think that, as icky as that was when I was a teenager, it was good for me to understand that sex was an intimate form of communication, and a normal healthy part of human existence."

Rosie rolls her eyes. "Yes, Dr. Freud."

"Oh shut up," he says, affectionately. "I think maybe we better go check on Mom, what do you say, MK? She looks a little… hmm."

"Yeah," Mary Kate agrees, standing on her toes to see through the crowd, "her eyes look sort of glazed over, and there are still a ton of people waiting to greet her. How about we take turns with standing with her, okay? I don't think she's as calm as she's pretending to be. And honestly, Uncle Brendan looks about as bad."

"Deal," Ryan says, and hugs Lily hard before taking the first shift.

Late that night Jack wakes suddenly, for no apparent reason. He settles himself more securely around his sleeping wife and waits to go back to sleep, but he can't seem to do that. Too hot? Too cold? Unfamiliar room? He hasn't slept in this room in ages, not since before Ryan was born. He decides that visiting the toilet might help.

The house is cool, and he's glad he packed sleep pants and an old tee-shirt. On the way back to the bedroom he notices a thin line of light underneath his mother's bedroom door – looks like he's not the only one having trouble sleeping. He knocks softly. "Yes?" she says, and he opens the door.

"You okay?" he asks, poking his head in.

The bedside lamp is on. She's sitting up in bed, holding a legal-size envelope, turning it over in her hands. "Anthony gave me this," she says quietly. "This evening, at the visitation. And I can't – I can't open it. Not yet. But I can't sleep, either."

Jack comes inside and sits down on the little chair beside the dresser. "Ah. And that's… what? Who is it from?" She doesn't speak, just shows him the front of the envelope. It says Kelly in Tommy's no-nonsense, straight-lines handwriting. "Anthony, Tommy's therapist?"

"Yes." She turns it over again in her hands. "He was starting to have trouble with his fine motor control, just a little bit, and his hands were shaky sometimes… this was written before that happened. Anthony said he'd been holding it for about six months now."

"I can't believe Anthony isn't retired," Jack says, though it's not unusual for therapists to work well into their 70s. "Also can't believe I missed seeing him." Anthony was at least partially responsible for encouraging Jack into their shared career path. "You don't think there's something upsetting in there, do you?"

"No," she says. "No. It's just… I miss him. I miss him awful. I've been feeling like he's still here but out of sight, but now I just want him with me. I want his arms around me. I can't bear to do laundry, because I just want to bury my head in his shirt and smell him. I miss him." Her voice has tailed off to a whisper by the end, and she's crying. "I know I promised, and I don't regret that, but it's just – it's so hard, buddy, I did not think it would be this hard."

If Mom is calling Jack "buddy" like he's six years old and unable to say Tommy's name at all, the way she's been avoiding saying it all day, she is far from being as calm and accepting as she has appeared to be. "Promised what, Mom?" he asks gently.

But she's crying too hard now to answer right away – softly, but truly heartbroken. Jack goes to sit on the bed next to her, hugging her and offering tissues. When she has stopped crying enough to talk, he asks her again what she promised.

"I promised," she says, her voice unsteady, "to let him go ahead. He was so afraid to be the one left behind." She sniffles and wipes her eyes again. "A long time ago – you remember, when I had such a hard time with Ryan, and I had the emergency surgery? It was then."

Jack's having a hard time wrapping his head around this. "You promised not to die first. Am I getting that right?" She nods. "Well, what if you had gotten hit by a bus? Or cancer? I assume you said, 'insofar as I can manage,' right?

"I didn't say that, no. He needed the promise. I promised. That was all."

And now Jack can't fight the tears. The simplicity of it, and the faithfulness. The love. He's been so lucky, seeing these things from both halves of this marriage partnership. Having this kind of example. "Oh, Mom. Mom, I'm so sorry. I said it already, but oh God, I loved him. I'm going to miss him so much."  They cry together for a few minutes, Jack feeling young and helpless for the first time in many years. "I wish you'd had many more years together," he tells his mother, wishing fiercely that things had been different. If Jack could have chosen, he'd have had them live to be ninety and die on the same day, together.

"We couldn't have," Mom says, wiping her eyes with the sheet. "He was going to get worse. I didn't mind, of course, I would have taken care of him here at home for as long as I was physically able." She shakes her head. "But he minded."

Jack smooths her hair. "You need some sleep, little mama, or you won't be able to get through tomorrow."

"I know. I'll try, honey."

He kisses her cheek and turns out the lamp for her, closing the door softly. Rosie stirs briefly when he gets back in bed, but he curls himself around her and she drifts back to sleep. Her soft, regular breathing settles his mind, and he slips into sleep too.

Kelly wakes with the dawn light. It's early, and no one else seems to be awake yet. She should go down and make breakfast, but she just doesn't feel like it; she doesn't have the energy. As she turns over in bed, though, her hand finds Tommy's old navy tee-shirt, the one he'd been sleeping in. It smells like him, so she'd taken it to bed with her last night, just so she could press her nose into it and be comforted. Oh Tommy… I miss you so much.

And there's a papery crackle under her hand too. The letter. Tommy's letter – handwritten by what she could guess, from feeling the indentations in the paper. He always wrote with heavy pressure on the downstrokes, that determination in everything he did.

She decides to open it now. If she doesn't, if she lets it hang over her head until later, it's very possible that she won't be able to manage the day's tasks. She sits up in bed and lets the lemony sunlight creeping in from around the blinds fall directly on the envelope as she opens it, as carefully as she can. No ragged edges on this envelope if she can manage it; something prepared with so much forethought deserves her best effort.

The sight of an entire page covered in his handwriting brings tears to her eyes. He'd always describe himself as "not a word guy," and yet he could express himself clearly, vividly even, if he wanted to. Often he didn't choose to. Instead, he would express himself physically, and if he needed to communicate something in some other way than face-to-face, he'd usually text her instead of writing a note.

But here is an actual letter, addressed to her. She takes a deep breath and reads.

Dear Kelly –

If you are reading this, I'm gone. I hope it was fast and you didn't just spend nine months or maybe longer taking care of my sorry ass. I know how hard that is, even when you love somebody.

I just wanted you to know I love you. And I'm happy we got this much time together. And I'm grateful. Because I always wanted somebody to just love me, and I didn't know how good it would feel to love somebody back. It's almost better somehow. Like there's some magic circle going from you to me back to you back to me and it never ends.

I am shit at explaining, I'm sorry. But hey you knew that already. I'm not the word guy, if I didn't know you needed the words I wouldn't write them. But here they are. For you.

I love you. I love our kids and our grandkids and my brother and Tess and all their kids and grandkids too. I'm so happy I got to live with you, and them.

I'm sorry for every time I hurt you. Selfish or not thinking or just stupid, I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could let you feel how much I love you just so you would know. You always made me feel so loved. You showed me what it was like to trust and not be afraid. Nobody should feel guilty about what they said or did to me or what they didn't say or do. I love them anyway.

Thank you for everything. I want you to be happy. Be sad and miss me, but not forever. I will wait for you. And if I can, I will be with you until we are together again. Trust me on that. Semper Fidelis, remember? That goes for you and me.

I can't think of anything else to tell you except that I love you, but maybe that's all you need.

Your loving husband, Tommy

It is a long time before the tears leave her. She refolds the page, smoothing it with trembling fingers. She will treasure this letter until she dies, and just now she's hoping it won't be too long, because she feels his absence like a hole right through her.

Oh, Tommy, she whispers, and slides back down in the bed so she can put her head on his pillow. Are you there? Are you listening? She waits. A little piece of her hair falls back, away from her face, just the way he would stroke it if he really was here, and so she pours out her own heart, in whispers.

I love you. I will always love you. Even if you're not here, I love you. And what you said about trust and fear, you were right, but you showed me. I wish, I wish so much you were here, I mean in your body still here with me. But since I can't have that, I have to tell you that it was all worth it. You have nothing to apologize to me for. You made me feel loved, too. Always. But you're right, there's really no better thing to say than "I love you," and that's the best summary I know. Semper Fidelis, baby, always. I miss you, I'll miss you every day, and I will see you again, and I love you.

When she is done, there is a gentle peace in her heart. She lies there in bed, smelling him on the sheets, for a few more minutes, and then she arises, to face the day with that peace and certainty of love.

Today is just as beautiful as yesterday, Jack notices as he gets out of the car at the church. It's the kind of autumn weather Tommy always liked: sunny, with a brisk wind, and wild geese honking away overhead in the bluest sky. Everything is in order at the moment.

They go straight in the back, to the small room reserved for family. The minister comes in and prays with them, and they go in the side door to the sanctuary.

Mom, so unnaturally calm she was almost brittle yesterday, looks more like herself. She's sitting between Jack and Brendan (Jack was finally able to drop the "Uncle" part of his name with diligent practice, before marrying Rosie), looking sad but alive, not that numb robot-looking woman that had made Jack nervous. She even looks pretty: black dress with another scarf, one that Jack and Rosie had brought her from Paris, all blues and teals and a scattering of her favorite coral red color.

The service is more liturgical than this church usually does for funerals: some music, some Scriptures, and a brief homily from the pastor. He only mentions Tommy directly for a few sentences, talking about Tommy's loss of faith and his journey to finding it again, and how God is faithful to those who seek him. It is a beautiful service, and rather than needing the tiny prick of pain from the safety pin to distract him from his emotions, Jack digs in to the love he always felt from his stepfather, and stays there during the service. His eyes are wet from time to time, but there is no uncontrollable sobbing. Even Ryan's youngest, an irrepressible chatterbox who adored her grandfather, is wide-eyed and gently sad, not crying her head off.

The last song is one that Jack remembers from his own childhood, Third Day's beautiful setting of verses from Psalm 36, and he is both surprised and immensely comforted to realize that not only does he still know these words, his mother is able to sing them, out of her grief. Tears are running down her face, but slow ones, and there is an exaltation on her face too as she closes her eyes and lifts one hand in praise.

Your love, oh Lord, reaches to the heavens,

Your faithfulness stretches to the skies.

Your righteousness is like the mighty mountain,

And your justice flows like the ocean's tides.

And I will lift my voice to worship you, my King,

And I will find my strength in the shadow of your wings.

Usually, Jack knows, many of the people attending a funeral with a separate interment will attend the service but not follow to the cemetery. Not today, though. He looks around the crowd of people surrounding the gravesite, noting who is there.

Besides family, there are close friends – George and Marcie Markley and all the rest of the guys who used to wrestle on the high school team with Tommy, along with their wives; Marcos and Jen Peretti-Santos; Uncle Frank and Uncle Troy. Jen has clearly been crying, and Jack had seen her embracing Mom for a long time at the visitation last night. Uncle Troy is as distinguished as ever, tall and straight, with his fair hair going silvery, but Uncle Frank, now almost eighty, looks small to Jack, wrinkled and leaning on a cane, his hair still thick but iron gray now. There is a grief on Uncle Frank's face which seems to be as much for Brendan's loss as it is for his own.

Vince and Dave and Brittany from church, plus a whole slew of people sitting with them that Jack doesn't know. People Jack remembers from the gym, or from Pittsburgh Fight Club, and at least a couple more people that Jack guesses might have known Tommy from his MMA days. Neighbors. Kids from Tommy's coaching program – Jack hopes there's someone to take that over. Guys in uniform, from the VFW. Pilar, the widow of Tommy's friend Manny, along with her second husband, and both Manny's kids. Jack will have to speak to the Fernandezes later.

Jack, thinking of an evening conversation with Tommy when Jack was fifteen or so, sitting outside in the grass at the cabin with fireflies lighting up the Virginia night, hears Tommy's voice, scratchy with remembered pain, in his head. Tommy had spoken of a time when he had been so alone that he just knew nobody would have cared if he got run over in the street. No one would have known him, no one would have claimed him. No one loved him. "I was wrong, though," Tommy had said. "I was wrong that nobody cared. And I was wrong about love, too. See, Jack – it took me a long time to figure it out, but love isn't this thing you feel. Love is an action word." He'd reached over and scrubbed his hand gently through Jack's hair. "So let's go do dishes for your mom, all right?"

Tommy's circle has expanded. It happens when love is something you do. He turns to his mother and to Brendan, about to comment something like that to them, but the minister begins to speak, quoting Jesus' words of being the Resurrection and the Life. And then a verse from Isaiah, saying everything Jack meant to say about Tommy's expanded circle, a crown of beauty in exchange for the ashes of mourning.

And now the honor guard is approaching with Tommy's flag-draped casket. Every one of the people in uniform – and there are a lot of them – stand and salute, including Martin and Uncle Noah. The back of Jack's throat aches, and tears sting behind his eyes. He can feel Mom' hand shaking in his. If she can just make it through this… if I can just make it through this…

There are the three volleys of rifle shots, the sound full and startling in the crisp air. Mom begins to tremble, and he tightens his hand on hers. On her other side, Brendan slips an arm around her shoulders and holds tight, but he's shaking too, Jack can feel it against his own shoulder. Then there are the incredibly moving notes of Taps, and his mother sobs, two or three gasping intakes of breath. She settles before the music ends – of course it was the music, Jack thinks with a pang – but it's as if her grief has finally released everyone's tears. His own face is wet. Rosie is crying quietly on his other side, and so is Mary Kate, and little Martina's crying too.

The older Marines Jack had seen at visitation last night are the ones folding the flag, all crisp motions, but Jack can see from here that at least two of them have tear tracks on their faces. When the flag is folded into a neat triangle, it's given to Lt. Col. Bradford, who steps ceremoniously to Mom's place and goes down to one knee, presenting her with the flag. It's dead quiet, except for soft sniffles, and Mom has regained control of her tears. Bradford says, with deep compassion, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to Country and Corps." But Jack sees that Bradford's eyes are wet, too.

"Thank you," Mom says, with great depth of feeling in her voice.

Later on, there will be another gathering of family and friends at the house, to eat neighbor-provided casseroles and fried chicken and deviled eggs, and all the children and grandchildren will tell stories. So will Tommy's comrades in arms, and his friends. But this image will stay with Jack for the rest of his life: the last to leave the gravesite, his mother will pull a red rose from one of the flower arrangements, hold it to her lips for a lingering kiss, and then drop it onto the casket before walking slowly away, her head high.

On the last morning of his life, Tommy Conlon wakes with the sun. As usual, one of his wife's curls is tickling his nose, so he kisses her head, gently nudging the curl out of the way.

"You're awake, are you?" she says, and pats his arm where it's wrapped around her.

"Yeah." He squeezes her, kisses her cheek. Starts to ponder whether he's up for some love – he's got the beginnings of some morning wood anyway – but there's a knock on the door and a small voice asking Nana for breakfast.

That's right, there are grandkids up in the cabin loft. Three of them. Ryan's. And their names are… he had it yesterday… nope. It's gone. Two boys and a girl, he thinks, or maybe it's the other way around, but they're Ryan's kids. He remembers that much.

So Kelly kisses him, a good sweet kiss, and gets up to get dressed. "I love you," he tells her as he watches her brush her hair. "Just thought you oughta know."

"I love you too. Are you going on the hike with Susan and Lily and me, or are you goin' fishin' with Ryan?"

"Fishing," he decides.

Breakfast is Kelly's delicious omelets with mushrooms and ham and sweet red peppers, and some good coffee. Ryan and his wife – what's her name again? A flower name but not Rose? – come out of the other bedroom and have breakfast with them, and the littlest kid eats cereal on his lap while the other two pick vegetables out of the eggs before they eat them. It's two girls and a boy, which he'd forgotten, but it almost doesn't even matter because he still can't remember their names.

The cherub on his lap squints up at him, out of eyes the same color as his own. "Pop-pop? How come you don't eat Cheerios?"

"I do eat Cheerios. I just have omelet today."

"Want some of mine?" She offers him the spoon.

Her mother shoots her down. "No, Martina, eat your own. Pop-pop doesn't want to eat off your spoon."

He would have done it, though, so he wouldn't hurt the little one's feelings. "It's okay, sweets, you eat it." He kisses her head, and she settles down to finish her cereal. Martina, he'll have to remember that.

Ryan finishes his coffee. "We going fishing today, Dad?"

"Yeah. I don't know where the gear is, though, you'll have to find it."

"It's in the shed. I'll get it."

"I can go get it."

"No, Dad, I'll do it. It's fine. You just, just – take it easy, okay? You're 72, you've earned it."

"Okay. Hey, pipsqueak, you wanna go fishin' with me and your dad?" The little one nods vigorously, and then there's all kinds of questions from her mom, about how far they're going and how long they'll be and what clothes she should wear and don't forget her sunscreen. Ryan comes back with all the gear and the sunscreen, and announces they're ready to go. He heads out the door, and Tommy calls him back. "Go kiss your wife," he instructs his son. "I raised you better than that."

Ryan's eyes go wide and then skeptical. "I'll be seeing her in a couple of hours," he says with the kind of patience people give their aging relatives' unreasonable requests, but he steps back in to kiss his wife, a pretty little blonde thing. Rose? No, Lily, that's it.

"I know you're humorin' me," Tommy says, and pulls his own wife close for a kiss. "But you don't leave the house without kissin' your wife."

"I love you," Kelly says to him, cupping his cheek in her hand and smiling. "Have a good time."

"Love you too, baby," he tells her, and kisses her once more.

They take water and apple slices with them, and they go down to the creek. He only has to reach for Ryan's steadying hand once, where the land gets steep near the creek bank.

They sit and fish in the darker places where rocks break up the flow of the water, and the kid (Tina? No, that's not it… Tina. That's all I got, but it's not right) sits in his lap and cuddles back against him, keeping up a running commentary in a whisper: Squirrels. Clouds. The rush of the water. The possibility that the clump of bright green leaves and white flowers on the other side of the creek has wild strawberries. Some kids' show she saw on her e-pad. The fact that she's the youngest and her dad is the youngest, "and you're the youngest too, right, Pop-pop?"

"That's right, pipsqueak."

"How come you don't call me my name?" He doesn't want to tell her he can't remember it. "I don't like pipsqueak. I don't squeak," she says with disdain.

"Oh. Well, how 'bout I call you precious, huh?"

"Okay."

Ryan's catching fish, 30 feet upstream from them. An hour in and he's caught six beautiful trout and already cleaned them. Tommy's only got one, and it's probably because of the chatter, but he doesn't mind. The warm, small body on his lap is a beautiful thing, his kid's kid, patient and sweet. The wind twirls through, the autumn sunshine warms him, the sparkles dance by on the water, and yet again he's full up with peace. He loves this place so much. When it's time to go back to the cabin, they will eat trout and he'll convince Kelly to come nap with him. Everything in its time.

The sun gets high, and Ryan comes down to where they are, the kid still prattling on very quietly about rocks and birds and sparkles. "Hey, it's about time to head back, Dad," he says.

"Okay. Hey – you and, um, your wife ever gonna have another one a' these things?" He indicates the kid in his lap.

"Uh… probably not. We got three, Dad, and she's seven. I think we're done."

"Oh. Okay. Not tryin' to be pushy."

"You don't fool me," Ryan says, shaking his head with a smile. "You just want a never-ending stream of grandchildren to spoil. Martina, you ready to go?" Martina, that's it. Named after her uncle Martin. Tommy will have to remember that.

"In a minute, Daddy," she says. "Pop-pop is catching a fish."

"It's okay, precious," he tells her. "Go on back to the house, I'll come later." He doesn't feel like moving right now, making his way up that steep slope. This is a new thing, how tiredness comes suddenly and sits on his chest. "Think I might just have a little rest here for a bit, okay?"

"Sure, Dad. I'll take the fish up to the cabin, and then I'll come back for you." Ryan comes and takes his creel, slinging it over Ryan's own on his shoulder. "If I take this now, Mom and Lily can get started on the fish."

"You don't hafta baby me, you know."

"I know, Dad. But I like hanging out with you. You can tell me what you and Martina were talking about, on the way back. Give me marriage tips or something. Take me twenty minutes, okay?"

That ought to be enough time for him to get some rest and be ready to walk back. "Sure."

The kid… Martina, that's her name… kisses his cheek and hops out of his lap, leaving him open to the wind and sun. It's nice. He scoots back a little, against the trunk of a tree so he can rest his head against it. He closes his eyes, hearing the kid… Tina? That's not it… skipping away, chattering to her dad. Kid never shuts up, but that's okay. She has good things to say.

He listens to the wind in the leaves and the water rushing by. He feels the peace in his body, and the ache in it, too – the ache of fatigue, and the smaller, sweeter ache that is the absence of his wife. If Kelly was here I'd have a good nap. She'd be good to hold on to. He breathes deeper, settles back against the tree. There's a sudden stab of pain in his head, like an ice pick to the back of it, and he puts a hand up to press against it, but the pain radiates outward, an unfamiliar blackness flowing out along with it, and even though he opens his eyes the black is painting itself over everything. Ow. Another jab, sharp, like something in his head is tearing open, and everything is agony in the darkness.

But then, there is a glowing thing opening up in front of him, in the middle of the black… a shimmering white-gold something, warm and beckoning. A tunnel? A door?

Tommy Conlon, overwhelmed with a sense of wonder, steps through it.

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