Chapter 2 #3
His son sits in the grass, hugging his knees while staring past the trees at the calm lake, lost in thought.
Hiram grabs the bag on the table and joins him.
Clearing his throat to announce his presence startles the boy, but before he can flee, Hiram joins him on the cold, dewy grass.
His khakis will stain, but he doesn’t care.
They watch the clouds gather and roll over the water, which reflects the sky.
A chill shrouds the air, heavy with unfamiliarity.
“Morning.”
He doesn’t expect a response.
Watching unabashed is something Hiram does often. Mostly in disbelief that he’s a father responsible for not fucking his kid up, but sometimes, like now, Hiram watches to see if he can figure out which key will unlock the mystery of his son. So far, none have worked.
The first few weeks, Hiram remained calm and logical, but he’s grown desperate.
Being with a child who barely meets his eyes, can’t stand his touch, and has nightmares that trigger magical reactions has left Hiram frustrated to the point of uncharacteristic self-pity.
He’s being beaten by a meticulous child who gels his own hair, is always dressed on time for school, and never lets anyone so much as touch the knitted bow tie he’s worn since Hiram met him.
He has plenty of different-colored bow ties, yet only wears black.
The color of mourning, but it’s deeper than grief. Black was Grace’s favorite color, an odd affinity for someone so colorful.
His son’s hands are clasped tightly, as if the only comfort he can find is in himself. Instinct makes Hiram reach out, but his attempt is rebuffed when the boy shifts away. The reaction isn’t new. Still, it stings more than he’ll admit.
“Do you like it here?”
More silence. He’s trying not to get used to it. Life with a kid is supposed to be a challenge, and grief complicates even the simplest matters. He wonders if he’s doomed to fail.
His son dips his head in the smallest nod, eyes on the water.
His hope floats once more. “I do, too.”
This earns him a slow, hesitant look. Hiram uses the moment to awkwardly offer a gift bag, watching the cautious boy pull out the gold animal pendant he purchased.
In his hand, it changes from a bear to a dog to a horse before settling on a cat.
Unbearable silence forces words out. “I had your name engraved on the back.”
At this, the boy turns the pendant, a small finger tracing each letter as if a mystery lingers in the metal.
Antaris.
Time creates order within chaos. Constant and elusive, its passage is noticed most by those standing still long enough to witness the change.
Hiram doesn’t care about time’s limitations, convinced it’ll bend to compensate if he pushes hard enough.
Like a strategist, he calculates the trajectory of each move.
Armed with as many strengths as weaknesses, Hiram keeps his eyes on the parts that don’t fit. The pieces he can’t control.
One such piece is now at school. The other is Simran, his mother, waiting at his kitchen island with a newspaper.
She dresses formally, even at home, but today wears a modest floral kurta.
If she’s trying to convince him she’s changed, she’s failing.
That she let herself in like the house belongs to her proves that. He’s disappointed but not surprised.
“I need to adjust the talisman to stop allowing in every immediate family member.” Carefully schooling his features into impassivity, Hiram passes her on his way to the kitchen. Without pots and pans, ignoring her over a meal isn’t an option.
“You will do no such thing.” Simran has the gall to act like he’s being unreasonable. “I thought we might talk. Over breakfast.”
In an instant, Hiram remembers exactly who she is. How she operates. What she wants. “We have nothing to discuss outside our original agreement: You take Antaris to school and pick him up. But if you want, we can talk about how you’ve been overstepping.”
Simran’s jaw tenses. “I see Peter told you about the tutor.”
“He’s my best friend and Antaris’s godfather. Of course he told me.”
“Then I suppose there is nothing to discuss.” She clasps her hands. “Give me a tour of the house, darling.”
Simran has as many complaints as comments.
According to her, the kitchen, living room, and great room are a good size, but the furniture is too casual.
Hiram doesn’t mention that he chose pieces Antaris took more than a passing glance at when they walked through the furniture store.
From there, Simran laments the too-small owner’s suite.
“It’s only me.”
The lack of whimsical decor in Antaris’s room and bathroom.
“I hardly know Antaris, but whimsical isn’t a word I’d use to describe him.”
The halls that are too narrow and plain.
“Does it matter?”
There are no guest rooms, despite there being three spare bedrooms.
“We haven’t had guests.”
Hiram thinks the backyard will go uncriticized, but apparently the potential for the lake drying up is worth mentioning.
“There are a hundred and fifty rainy days a year.”
Simran is tenacious when she wants something, a trait he’s inherited.
What she wants now is for Hiram to be within reach.
To accomplish this, she’ll sow seeds of doubt and leave him questioning his decisions.
It’s a wash, lather, rinse, repeat of a childhood Hiram spent torn between craving her hard-earned approval and wanting to tell her to fuck off . . . respectfully.
“I believe you were far too hasty purchasing this home.” Simran returns to her seat in the kitchen. “You should have moved home for—”
“Reconciliation will fail if we’re under the same roof.”
Momentarily deterred, she reorients by laying out a breakfast prepared by her housekeeper. “I made sure to bring your favorites.”
Hiram has always preferred eggs, toast, and coffee. The plate of sausages, ham, and French toast is a clear reminder of his mother’s consistent inattention and disregard of what he wants. The reminder burns in all the ways he hates.
“Your uncle asked about Antaris.” At his sharp look, she amends, “Cosmos, no. Not your uncle Phillip. He is too busy with his secret genetic case studies in Atlanta. I discourage your father from associating with him. I meant Robert.”
The safer uncle, as far as Hiram is concerned. Robert’s more focused on planting Ellises in as many political offices as possible than he will ever be on discovering Antaris’s roots. “What did he ask?”
“General questions. He wanted to know about his mother, and I made an excuse. I also gave my spiel about his Sight test coming back zero, but I know they will grow curious as he gets older.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
“Your carelessness will not be the reason I am shunned from a family I spent years in, clawing up the ranks. They finally see me as a pillar. A matriarch. Not an outsider who married into their family. Joining the firm will earn you respect. Your father has a seat on the board he would gladly give you. You can rise to a level where the family will not question you, and it will keep you here. It could even further your career into politics. You can run for mayor of Proventia.”
“I’m not interested.”
Simran makes a small, disbelieving noise. “Think of your son.”
“I am.” Every move he makes feels wrong, but her suggestions are worse.
“Are you?” As if sensing his rapidly souring mood, she pats his hand. “I am trying to help, but you remain obstinate.”
He’s not stubborn. He simply refuses to fall back into old habits, changing himself to fit her expectations.
“I want Antaris to be one less worry for you, which is why I found him a tutor. You had tutors and a proper education. He needs the same. I want him to be a respectable Ellis. I believe extra attention will benefit him until he is ready to go to Arcadia Academy. Besides, Miss Thorne is a Mage sympathetic to Seers. I figured you would approve.”
Talking to his mother is the equivalent of running into a brick wall. Painful and futile. “I’m not sending him to boarding school.”
“Why not? Antaris is a legacy.” Simran frowns at Hiram’s silence. “This brings up another topic of discussion. His surname. Fowler is—”
“His name.”
Masterfully, she suppresses her irritation, but not fast enough. “Antaris should have had our name from the beginning. He is not related to the man whose name he carries.”
“Blood doesn’t make a family. John raised Grace after her father left and her mother died. She took his last name.”
Unsurprisingly, Simran isn’t moved. “I have completed the documentation to correct the error. All it requires is your signature.”
“Absolutely not.”
His mother’s frown deepens. “He is your son.”
“Does his last name change that?” Hiram doesn’t wait for an answer. “Antaris has been taken away from everything he knows. The last thing he needs is to be suffocated by the new identity you’re rushing to force on him.”
“Not force. He needs structure. All children do. You may not understand why I am so insistent, but I want the best for him. We must set expectations.”
Hiram’s chuckle lacks humor. “Shame I never met yours.”
Simran looks close to cracking, but returns to being the vision of poised composure. “I do not wish to argue with you when we are meant to reconcile.”
“That will require compromise from everyone, not just me.”
A quiet part of him still longs for a normal relationship with his parents, one that doesn’t come with strings attached. But doubt clouds every interaction.
“We will finish discussing that later. For now, let us eat.”
Hiram isn’t hungry but forces a few bites.
The silence has barely reached tolerable when his mother tsks at a page near the back.
“Disaster after disaster. Nothing good. Apparently, Seers are in danger. They are the danger to society, but who am I to censor the press? For once, I wish to open the newspaper to a palatable story.”