July

Eight

July 10th

He’d been expecting the call for a while now.

            Paul had been chain smoking in his room, staring up at the ceiling stupidly. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in his room, and surely enough, despite the window he’d left open next to his door, Jim was knocking.

            “Why do I smell smoke?” he demanded.

            Paul sighed. He was too upset to really care. Really, he was a model son most of the time, he had the right to have his moments of teenage rebellion.

            “Dunno,” Paul sighed.

            “Open this door right now.”

            Paul crushed the light ciggie in his left hand, wincing a bit at the sting then threw it out the window. He got up, and opened the latch.

            Jim was standing there, looking singularly angry. He coughed a little, and shot an accusatory glare at Paul. “No smoking in the house.”

            “Yeah, sorry,” Paul said, with no real emotion.

            Jim looked into Paul’s eyes, as if the answer to how to be a father was written in the two green-brown orbs. Paul always had expressive eyes, and people often found themselves staring into them a little too intensely, or a little longer than was really needed.

            “Tell me what’s bothering you,” Jim offered.

            “Nothing. I’m tired.”

            “Did you have a row with George?”

            “No!” Paul shouted, his face turning a slight purplish shade. He was about to break down and shout or slam the door, when the ringing of the phone saved him from such a scene.

            “It better not be that Lennon,” Jim warned, and went downstairs. Paul rubbed his temple. It probably was John; it wasn’t like anyone else had much reason to talk to him, after the way he’d royally screwed up and made just about everyone hate him.

            Jim went back up the stairs with a stiff manner. “It’s for you.”

            Paul ran downstairs and took the phone. “Hello?”

            “Oh, Paul,” John’s rich voice filled the line. “Was that your dad? He didn’t seem too happy to talk to me.”

            Paul felt himself laugh, the tension of the past twenty-four hours bursting at the sound of John’s voice. He finally felt like he had an ally in the world. “He thinks you’re corrupting me,” Paul said.