Trials of Fatherhood | Sal Fisher x Travis Phelps

Chapter Two - That Which Cannot be Repaired

A thread severed, tied one way, half to half,
Distant from fate and dissimilar in being,
Hardly belonging in make or in origin,
Or in any supply of sense,
Is a tether unbreakable.

           The summer of 1999. Travis is twenty-three when he first meets her. He wears freshly ironed, light-colored clothing and neatly combs back his hair. His father pokes and prods and urges him to sit up straight probably a million times before she finally arrives at the ministry.

Mallory Keisman is a quiet young woman. She's been practicing for this all her life, carefully prepared like a show bird by her parents. She holds eye contact for no more than three seconds, eats with impeccable table manners, and speaks exclusively when spoken to.

Travis doesn't know what to think, but he doesn't have to. The decision has been made for him.

Not even a week later, he's standing at the altar. He can't fight this, no matter how badly he might want to. Just as always, he is the son, and his father is God. There's no logical point in opposing his word. Travis had learned that long, long ago.

Mallory seems pleasant enough, though they only share two or three formal conversations before they're saying their vows. It doesn't matter if he likes or dislikes her. Travis has to do this.

It's a small, bleak wedding. Travis is just a kid, and so he's lost in what's happening that he can hardly process it. He zones out for most of the ceremony, thinks about the upcoming trial, the devastation at Addison Apartments. Guiltily, he wonders if he or anyone else could have done anything to stop it.

Travis knows what's expected of him. He's noticed one too many knowing, pleased glances from his guests. He feels unwell but shoves it down. He's supposed to want this. It's his responsibility. He has to do this.

"Peace be with you, son," says Kenneth carefully, pulling him aside as the gathering is coming to a close.

"She's a beautiful girl," His father's voice is slimy in his ear, low and gruff, "I wish only that I'd be able to witness the commencing of your partnership."

Travis's gut plummets to his feet.

This is wrong, his mind pleads, but overcome with fear, Travis ignores his better judgment and offers a stiff nod. He must produce an heir.

Mallory sits beside him as he drives in the dark. They don't exchange a single word. The air is solemn. Travis feels like he's going to heave.

His palms are sweaty on the steering wheel. He has a million fears. He's, of course, never done this before — he's never even wanted to, and he assumes this is her first time too, but there's no way to be sure. She might think he's pathetic. He might not know what to do. He doesn't want to know what to do.

Sick to his stomach, with a racing heart, he thinks, I don't want this, but there's nothing he can do.

Travis opens the bedroom door for her. This location had been selected and paid for by the supporting members of his father's official council. Stepping aside to let her pass, his eyes settle on the rose petals scattered delicately on the bed. He's dizzy, and worse, he's horribly afraid.

Trying not to let it show, Travis turns to close and lock the door behind him.

I don't want this, his inner consciousness reaffirms desperately. His vision is fuzzy. His body doesn't feel like it's his.

Their eyes meet. Mallory steps forward. They're so close to one another that he can smell her flowery perfume. He has to do this. It's his job.

Travis breathes out through his nose, sure that his eyes look wild and scared, sure that he looks nothing like a man who's happy to be married.