The Time of Change

Never a Father

"No way! That's bogus!" he shouts at the football players darting across the television screen, his English accent thick with agitation as he waves his hands around. His wife glances at him over her shoulder, a grin on her pointed lips. "Honey, they can't hear you," she reminds him. Her own voice lilts with a deep Southern drawl.

          "Yeah, I know. If they could, there's no way the ref would've made such a piss-poor call!"

          Cynthia rolls her eyes in amusement, dull brown irises falling back on the screen as Jason slings his arm comfortably around her shoulders. With his other hand, he scratches his stubbly, jet-black goatee, which is peppered with grayish-silver streaks, just like his hair. He is a rather strongly-built man, though only about five and a half feet tall. His eyes are a steely, cold gray color. They glint when he gets angry. His wife, on the other hand, is petite, with a very thin frame and slightly protruding bones. She has a prominent chin and a large hooked nose. Her dyed auburn hair is fading along the roots, giving her stringy locks a strange silver ombré effect. Her deeply-inset eyes are the shade of garden fertilizer after it's been rained on. The pair is still rather young: they near their mid-forties, the woman six months older than the man. And yet, the house is silent. No children to liven up the vast, spacious home.

          Suddenly, just as the digital clock under the television beeps to show that it is ten o'clock in the evening, there is a sharp rapping at the front door. Jason looks toward the hall that leads to their foyer, confused. "Who the hell...?" he grumbles, heaving himself off the couch with a groan.

          Cynthia's eyes flit to him for a moment before returning to the televised game. "Want me to get it?"

          "No, no, I got it."

          With heavy footsteps, he trudges to the front door, and the vibrations of the heels of his feet hitting the granite floors cause a picture frame hanging on the wall to quiver slightly. It is a still of him and his wife on their wedding day, kissing in front of a colorful beach sunset. He does not spare it a glance as he passes. Once the door is in view, the evenly-spaced knocks cease, as if whoever is on the other side was waiting to see a shadow approach. Through the small frosted glass window inset in the inner wooden door, Jason can plainly make out a form waiting patiently on the stone porch.

          He sighs as he flicks the porchlight on, unbolts the lock, and yanks the door open, revealing a second glass door behind which is a young man no older than thirty. He shifts nervously from foot to foot on the now-lit stoop, wringing his hands together. At once Jason notices the oddities in his attire: he wears suspenders and a tweed jacket over a collared shirt and deep red bowtie. The loafers adorning his feet are more proper than Jason would consider necessary even for a court date.

          Almost as if he can hear these thoughts, the young man straightens his tie under his neck, pulling on it almost absently. When his eyes meet Jason's, they widen, and the older man could almost swear that he sees them harden into two deep emerald stones.

          "Can I help you?" asks Jason.

          "You..." the guest breathes, seeming at a loss for words. His gaze never wavers from Jason's face, making the latter twice as uncomfortable as before. Suddenly, he begins to regain his composure, and the young man brings himself up to his full height in an almost defensive fashion. Jason quickly notices that he is about three or four inches taller. When he speaks, his voice—tinged with predominantly Northampton undertones, something Jason has not heard for almost twenty years—is full and confident. It is a stark difference from what it had been only a moment ago.