Home For The Holidays

When dinner was complete, David and Dick volunteered to clear the table and do the dishes while Kim wanted to check on the kids and see what they got for the holiday. Artie on the other hand felt it was time to take another run at Malcolm and see what he was up to. The old man paced the hallway, checking one room after another only to find his middle son in the den, with two laptops open on Artie's big desk and a glass of scotch with a very generous helping and two ice cubes. As Artie slowly walked into the den instead of saying something he instead walked over to the liquor station and poured himself a glass, and only tossed in one ice cube. Artie didn't like to water down his drink but Malcolm wasn't a sipper so two ice cubes didn't make a difference unless it was consumed on hot summer days. After pouring the drink, Artie walked over and took a seat on one of the leather chairs that sat in front of his desk.

"Two laptops?" Artie said as he finally broke the silence, "Is that necessary?"

"Yes, it is." Malcolm said as he never looked up from one of the monitors. "One of them is my writing computer. Some of us writers find a program that we like and once that happens, we stick with what's comfortable. But when it came to upgrade, it was cheaper to get a new computer than replace the parts in this thing. So I use one laptop for my writings and another for online research and communication. The word processor you were so eager to diss happens to be something I am very comfortable with and the more comfortable I am the better I write. Is that too hard for some people to understand?

"It's not," Artie said as he took a sip, "I also see you're not easing up on the drinking."

"It's not illegal," Malcolm replied, "Write drunk and edit sober is a mantra that I often live by."

"Your mantra?" Artie asked.

"No," Malcolm answered, "That gem belongs to Earnest Hemingway and I think it worked out alright for him."

"I don't like you when you're drunk." Artie declared.

"I don't like you when I'm sober or drunk." Malcolm chided back.

"You're holding a lot of hostility," Artie continued, "Why not get it out now and let me know where this anger is coming from rather than waiting until the day I'm really gone to make your peace."

"Do you know when we started to butt heads?" Malcolm said as he sat back and took a swig of his scotch, "When we stopped getting along?"

"I'm thinking ten years ago," Artie guessed, "It was long before your mother passed because she noticed it as well."

"It was fifteen years ago," Malcolm corrected him, "The day I became a father."

Artie paused for a moment and cocked an eyebrow, "You don't have kids."

"That would be incorrect," Malcolm said as he stood up and walked over to the liquor station to pour a refill. He was always more eager to drink when it wasn't his sauce that was being horded. "I have two children, fraternal twins."

"Where are they now?" Artie asked, somewhat surprised.

"On the east coast," Malcolm replied as he returned to the desk chair, "Living comfortably with their mother as per her request. We never loved each other so we never pretended to but we function as mature adults when it comes to raising those kids. I've never missed a single payment nor a weekend visit. I know what it's like to be a parent, which is when I started to question your record as one."

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"I never claimed to be perfect," Artie responded, "Nor father of the year."

"You're even worse than that," Malcolm continued, "There are things you've done to us that I would never dream of doing to my kids. I love my kids more than I love myself and that's saying something because I love myself a whole lot if you haven't all noticed already. I'd take a bullet for them and I would go broke trying to help them chase their dreams."

"There we go," Artie said as he got the point, "This is about money."

"Not anymore," Malcolm said as he gestured to the computers, "I'm a bestselling author, outspoken critic and scholar. You had nothing to do with that as I made it in spite of you rather than because of you. Neither of you ever supported my choice to become a writer, you acted liked it was a faze rather than a career choice. How do you think I felt when I found out through the grapevine that you guys inherited a hefty sum from Grandma's passing and that you blew the whole thing on yourselves while at the same time I was struggling and fighting to chase my dreams? Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that your parents preferred a new deck for their pool rather than invest in their son?"

"I didn't see it as a worthy investment," Artie confessed.

"It's an investment that would have yielded a great return," Malcolm told him, "I could have paid your house of five years later. But that's not the point."

"What is your point, Malcolm?" Artie asked.

"The point is you're my father," Malcolm replied, "Your job is to encourage a child to excel, not to judge them. To be that shoulder to lean on when times are tough. To show them there's one person who has their back rather than ignore them when they're trying to make it. You didn't even help with school and I racked up a massive student debt. I did all this on my own and while I'm proud of doing that despite the opposition, it would have been just a hair easier if you guys acted like real parents and supported my decisions."

"Some of us still don't consider it real work." Artie said, sticking to his guns.

"It is real work!" Malcolm roared as he threw the glass he was holding against the wall, breaking it. "I don't need your approval of my decisions. What I do is legit and contributes to society. I inspire people with my art and I am proud of my work. And here's the difference between us, when my kids chose what path they want to take in life they'll have my support and love regardless of my opinion of that choice. It's my job to be there for them, not walk away when I'm needed most. That's where the rift started; the things you've done or never bothered to show up for are things over the years that I would never knowingly do to my kids. Because you did that makes you a failure as a father in my books. The fact that you had to fake your own death just to get people to visit for the holidays proves what little we really think of you. Do you think you've changed anything this year? I can't speak for Kim and the guys but I'll speak for myself. When I leave after this storm passes, you'll never see me again. You're a bitter, stubborn old fool and you deserve to die alone."

"Don't hold back; tell me how you really feel," Artie said as he finished his glass and put it down on the small table beside his chair. "I don't have to defend myself to you Malcolm. I did the best I could with what I had. You fared far better than most kids in the country did whose fathers ran off to never be heard from again. The fact that I bothered to raise you at all and put up with your bullshit automatically puts me in the top thirty percent and I did more than just give a crap. I worked hard to provide. You went to bed every night with a full belly and a blanket to keep you warm, so I find it offensive that you question the means in which I provided it! I never said I was the best father, I didn't even say I was good but I wasn't a bad one. Not even close. So when my time is really up, I will die knowing that I did my best and that will be good enough for me."

"That's not true," Malcolm said as he sat back down and smiled, "As long as there are libraries on this world and websites to download material from our story, at least my interpretation of it, will carry on for generations to come. When your son is a writer, for better or for worse, you will never die."

"You really think that highly of yourself?" Artie replied, "Like Hemingway?"

"I like to think there's a little Ernest in all of us," Malcolm said, "But I'll think about your cusses with jest when I'm lecturing at Oxford next summer."

"Well we know where that stubbornness comes from." Artie said as he stood up to leave the room.

"I'd like to thank you," Malcolm called out.

Artie stopped at the door, "What for?"

"For going out of your way to concoct this entire spectacle of faking your death to trick us into coming home for the holidays," Malcolm answered, "I actually smell another bestseller brewing in my fingertips.

"I'll leave you to it then." Artie said as he continued to walk out.

"Close the door on your way out," Malcolm said as he didn't look up to watch him go, "Some of us have work to do."