He's Leaving Home

Warning, there is an archaic and offensive term that was once used to refer to Muslim people in this chapter.

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1948

Chicago, IL

[He] is leaving home

After living alone

For so many years.

~ She's Leaving Home -The Beatles

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"Lousy little shit," Frank grumbled as he walked into the living room and caught sight of his son sitting on an armchair, curled towards the lamplight, with a book in his hands. Frank was annoyed by the mere sight of Mike and the word "Bauhaus" emblazoned on the cover of Mike's book rankled him further.

"Stuck up brat," he thought as he read the German word that meant nothing to him but, knowing Mike, he assumed it probably had something to do with architecture.

That was one of the many things things Frank didn't understand about his son- his drive, his obsession, the stacks and stacks of books he brought home from the library all of them about architecture and far off places.

The day that Father O'Shaughnessy had reprimanded him, nearly a decade ago now, he'd been told that his lot in life was to be a good husband, father, and provider; the first, according to Father O'Shaughnessy, required that he resume relations with his wife (Frank had blushed scarlet and wondered how the padre knew; had Rose said something during confession? Had only one child after several years of marriage given away the fact that the McGarrys did not live in connubial bliss?), the second: that he curb his temper with the boy.

"Discipline is one thing, Francis, but you're too hard on the lad," the priest had said in his Irish lilt. "A spanking will do, no need to cuff him."

Father O'Shaughnessy didn't have much to say in regards to being a good provider; he knew that Frank had a steady job and wasn't a loafer.

"Mind how you spend your wages," was all the man had said, that meant he wanted Frank to control his drinking.

Of course Frank had found a way around that last part, he'd do better at his job, get a promotion, climb the ladder just high enough so that he could maintain his habit and not be told he was shirking his responsibilities as a family man, but no higher than that, no going past middle management.

Frank made, in his opinion, a perfectly respectable living in the insurance business, enough that he could get away with drinking most of his money and was still able to afford to dress nicely and provide a slightly more than modest living for his family. There'd be no priest telling him to mind his duties as a husband and provider these days. Sure, Mike slept in the attic, but there were new shoes for the children at the beginning of the school year, smart suits for Leo and dresses for the girls so they'd look respectable for mass, the occasional trips back to Boston to see Frank and Rose's parents and extended family. A bigger house was slightly out of his grasp but they were doing well enough without it and besides, the layout of their humble home kept Frank and Mike out of each other's hair most of the time and that suited everyone just fine. Frank McGarry was content, whether he truly felt that way or not, because he was told to be content.

Frank had expected this same middle class contentment of the son that hated him and was unpleasantly surprised when he discovered that the boy thought to make a profession of his doodling, wanted to travel to Europe to see the great cathedrals, to the Middle East and Asia to see the grand structures of the mohammedans, he wanted to go to college, he wanted a career, and he expected to make good money.

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Even if he hadn't heard the grumble or the creaking of wooden floorboards he would have known that his father had entered the room because quite suddenly he felt like he was in a distillery. Mike's nose wrinkled as the overpowering smell of alcohol assaulted him; anger at his father's alcohol-fueled foul mood caused Mike to glare up at the man.

Frank could be a handful sober, a handful but not altogether boorish or unpleasant, he was capable of being pleasant and charming when the mood struck him. Drunk Frank was something else; overly gregarious in an excessively masculine and vulgar sort of way (the way a man was with his brothers and cousins or his pals at the bar), cruel and aggressive with Mike and Rose.

The glare was a mistake, one Mike knew not to make by now. It never took much to annoy Frank when he was drunk and removed from the macho environments of the bars he frequented, anything even remotely connected to Mike could set him off; the boy's very existence was an act of defiance against Frank that the man found intolerable. With his departure for Connecticut fast approaching, Mike had been truculent lately and he didn't mind poking a sleeping bear so much when he wouldn't be living in such close quarters with the ornery violent creature.

Mike's reaction predictably rubbed Frank the wrong way and in his anger he took a step toward Mike, swung his arm, and knocked the book out of his son's hands.

Mike flinched, startled, not by the action that he had seen coming in slow motion but, by the volume of the clap when his book landed hard and flat on a section of floor that didn't have the protective covering of a rug.

"I was reading that," Mike said evenly, feeling too tired from a day of work at the stockyards to take further action against his father past the glare but still too angry to stop those four words from slipping past his lips.

"Really?" Frank asked rhetorically as he drew himself up to his full height. Even after straightening his posture his eldest was three inches taller and the act, which was meant to be menacing, did not have the intended effect on Mike. It had worked when he'd been a boy but not anymore, all Mike had to do to assert physical dominance over his father was to imitate the older man's actions; it rarely failed to make his father feel small, not just physically but at a deeper level- it chiseled away at him and made him feel inferior.

Mike stood up without making his own primitive display of dominance and walked over to the book that had been unceremoniously smacked from his grip. Before he could pick the book up, his father laid a heavy foot on it, daring Mike to try and pry the book from under the polished wingtip brogues.

"I'm done with this bullshit," Mike said as he pushed past Frank. Years ago that physical contact, his shoulder brushing roughly against his father's, would have earned Mike a blow but he was too big for that now.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Frank asked, this time his question demanded an answer from Mike.

The young man ignored his father and made his way up the stairs, up to his bedroom in the attic.