"I'll go get us another."

He doesn't wait for an answer, just grabs my near empty glass and heads into the crowd. I follow his progress to the counter. He's like a falcon amongst pigeons, sleek, alert and, even here, looking somewhat dangerous as he stakes his spot. Automatically, I wonder what the others think of him. Wonder what they think of the too fashionable clothes, careful grooming and attitude that all too clearly marks him as an outsider. The pub is filled with men. Dockers mostly and their sons, all stuffed with lunch then sent out by wives and mothers to pretend to have good time with each other. Well, maybe that's unfair, I admit to myself watching Joe Flynn and his boys laughing together. Maybe some of them do like each other's company. Maybe some of the chatter in the pub is more than the careful conversation that passes between me and my son. But one thing I am sure of is that Andrew is pretending to have a good time. Oh, he's good at it, all smiles and jokes, but I know that he'd rather be anywhere but here...with me. Still we both pretend, do our duty. And I can't say that I'm not proud of him. Proud of the way that he's tried to make a man of himself despite everything.

He plunks the pint in front of me and takes a drink of his own. We've talked about football, his latest motorcycle, my golf and what little of his work that he can talk about. We've talked about everything except the one thing that we both think of constantly when we're together just so as not to mention it accidentally. I pick up my pint and take a long sip. Back at the table, the danger slips away from him and he settles back, his mother's eyes watching the darts. Even in leather, with his curls cut and pasted down, he looks young, soft. My only son and the man who carries my name. But he isn't really my son anymore, not really. He's a stranger and has been for a very long time and I wonder if he ever feels the loss of what could have been.

He looks over at me, perhaps sensing that I've forgotten to pretend. And suddenly I want to tell him that it isn't his fault. That I know that it's my fault, that it was my duty to make sure that he grew up to be the right type of man. I mean, what good is a father if he can't stop his own son from becoming...I can't even think that word with him looking at me, waiting for me to say something. For one horrifying moment the words almost slip out but I push them back, knowing that he'll never understand that what I can't accept is my failure. Never understand it because he pretends that he doesn't see the shame in being what he is. But I know better. If he didn't mind being like that he wouldn't live his life as a caricature of masculine behavior, would he? And someday his luck will run out and I'll get a call from his Mr. Cowley and that will be my fault too.

He's going to say something and before he can, I wave a hand, "Sorry, just thinking about work. We've got six ships coming in next week and I'm already short two men."

A flash of relief crosses his face and the grin settles back into place as he goes back to watching the darts.

-- THE END --