<commit_before>---
layout: post
title:  "<NAME>"
slug: "and-sons"
date:   2015-12-11 21:45:00
category: fiction
img: "img/andsons.jpg"
---

*This story was written for the December 15th NeoGAF Writing Challenge. The theme was "homecoming".*

James held the wheel tight, as though his gloves had frozen to it. This time of year, it didn't seem impossible. Angry January winds picked up snow off the mountains and threatened to take the truck as well. He was lucky his plane landed on time, much less at all. Even if he learned to drive in this rust bucket along these bending roads, once it got dark he wasn't going to trust himself.

He dressed in layers. Everyone dressed in layers in Alaska. Jeans over long johns, heavy jacket over hooded sweatshirt over tee shirt, hood over hood over knit cap. He never liked the cold, but you learn to adapt. You learn to be used to it. Somewhere over the years since he left, he stopped being used to it.

He hadn't been this far north in years. The family never spent Thanksgiving or Christmas together; his dad and older brother Alan were always working. So, mom would come down to Seattle and visit. Talk about the stories from back home. About how Charlie and Allison were caught setting off fireworks and smoke bombs, trying to scare <NAME> into thinking the apocalypse was coming. The two are obviously a couple, you know.

And they would talk about the family business. About how big the crab hauls were this year. About the arrogant, out-of-towner captains, driving fancy trucks and acting like celebrities on the docks, total divas. About the injuries, the crime, the tragedies. Everyone knew everyone back home. Everyone knew when something happened.

"You picked up driving this thing pretty quick."

His father sat beside him, his face wrinkled and rough. A real man's man. He even refused to wear his hat while they drove, as if his burning red ears were a symbol of macho pride.

"It's familiar," James said. "Besides, it's not that different from driving anything else."

"I just figured you'd be used to something a bit better than this hunk of junk."

"My car's pretty old too. Ain't that much better. Didn't you keep saying you were gonna get rid of this thing, though?"

"And I kept saying I'd retire after the season's up. Your old man's a dirty liar."

James was too cold to laugh. He twisted the heater knob back and forth as if it simply hadn't gotten the message. Only the engine heat would come through. Better than nothing, at least.

The town was grey, blanketed by snow and a grave quiet. James wasn't used to roads so empty, especially with all of the shops still open. Everyone seemed to be at the giant grocery store. That was the ritual: church on Sunday morning, groceries on Sunday afternoon. The few men whose teams were still in the playoffs snuck a view during either event.

His family lived on the other end of town from the airport. "Captain's Way," James referred to it as, with an even balance of irony and derision. The houses were all large and well-kept, even his family's. It was what his father poured their money into. Half of it was his father's own handiwork, something to keep him busy in the off season. It showed on the outside and felt like it on the inside. His childhood bedroom was one of those additions, and as awkward and uncomfortable as it could be, he liked it. His friends were jealous of how much space he had.

His mother greeted them at the door, tearful and smiling. "James! My boy!" She ran into the snow to hug him, still dressed for the indoors.

"Maura, please, you're going to get sick," his father said.

She scoffed. "Let a mother be glad to see her son, David! Then you can worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you, I'm worried about having to take care of you."

"You two seem pretty cheerful," James said, confused.

"I'm just glad to know you're in one piece, that's all. Now, come on in! I've got your room ready for you, just the way you always liked it."

It was how he liked it; the bed strategically undone, the desk cleared save for a pad of blank paper. The room smaller than he remembered, but at least the draft was gone. Instead the wind banged loudly on the window, steadily requesting his attention. He ignored it; it was far too cold to put up with. He unpacked his suitcase, a week's worth of layers to keep fresh underneath his coats. He only needed to stay for a few days, to help clear out the ship while it sits in port. But after so long away, his parents deserved at least a full week.

They had half a decade of Thanksgiving that night. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, all the trimmings that could make up for time lost. James took his seat in the same position he always sat for dinner: next to his father, facing the fireplace. The mantle was a shrine to his older brother, filled with high school memorabilia and photos from the fishing seasons. His own photos were relegated to the nearby wall.

Maura brought out the plates, placing one absentmindedly at the seat across from James. Alan's seat. She only caught herself when he arrived at his spot empty-handed.

"Can't teach an old dog, can you?" David said.

"Look who you're calling an old dog!" Maura said.

"Habits are habits," James said into his plate. "I forgot how good you were with cooking, mom."

"Well, have fun finding someone who's better at it!"

"He's probably taking care of it himself, aren't you boy?" David said.

"I can handle it."

"You always did like to do your own thing," Maura said. "Go off on your own and all that."

"I can handle it."

"How have the lower 48 treated you?" David asked.

"Been alright. Nothing too fancy."

"Well, we're not really fancy people. Can't say I'm all that surprised."

"You said work's really picking up, though, isn't it?" Maura said.

"It has been. Lot of construction. Mostly big towers, condos and stuff."

"Sounds a bit dangerous, being up that high," David said, concerned.

James nodded subtly. "Can be."

"Well, guess that's how Manchesters are, always running towards danger."

The family quietly ate their belated Thanksgiving before returning to the living room for an evening of television. Eventually, James went to his room for bed, pausing to stare at the closed door for Alan's room.

David, as always, was the first to awake. He was making the morning's coffee when James woke up, rolling over to look out the window. It was a different grey than he was used to in Washington; brighter, glowing like a dying fluorescent light, the mountain snow reflecting what reflected off the moon.

"Beautiful day," David said as James came downstairs. "Report says it should be this calm all day."

"And the reports never lie," James said.

"Now, boy, they've been very accurate this season. They say it's gonna be calm, then I'll bet my backside it'll be calm."

"Right." James sipped his coffee, black like his father's.

David shooed him off. "Get your tail in gear, boy, we have work to do."

So many of James' teenaged days started the same way. A familiar routine.

The morning weather started according to report. Clouds held flat in the overcast sky, snow slept on the ground. David seized the opportunity to hit every bump and pothole on the way, conducting a chorus of tools jumping around the truck bed. James wanted to cover his ears, but his father was talking. He knew better.

The Early Riser sat calmly in port, loaded tall with fishing equipment. Her hull proudly wore its wear from decades of work, oil and paint taking turns to color her sides. A new paintjob would be easy and perhaps overdue, but David would never stand for a clean ship.

He hopped out of the driver's seat. "You didn't forget how to operate the crane, did you?"
<commit_msg>missed one detail<commit_after>---
layout: post
title:  "<NAME>"
slug: "and-sons"
date:   2015-12-11 21:45:00
category: fiction
img: "img/andsons.jpg"
---

*This story was written for the December 15th NeoGAF Writing Challenge. The theme was "homecoming".*

James held the wheel tight, as though his gloves had frozen to it. This time of year, it didn't seem impossible. Angry January winds picked up snow off the mountains and threatened to take the truck as well. He was lucky his plane landed on time, much less at all. Even if he learned to drive in this rust bucket along these bending roads, once it got dark he wasn't going to trust himself.

He dressed in layers. Everyone dressed in layers in Alaska. Jeans over long johns, heavy jacket over hooded sweatshirt over tee shirt, hood over hood over knit cap. He never liked the cold, but you learn to adapt. You learn to be used to it. Somewhere over the years since he left, he stopped being used to it.

He hadn't been this far north in years. The family never spent Thanksgiving or Christmas together; his dad and older brother Alan were always working. So, mom would come down to Seattle and visit. Talk about the stories from back home. About how Charlie and Allison were caught setting off fireworks and smoke bombs, trying to scare <NAME> into thinking the apocalypse was coming. The two are obviously a couple, you know.

And they would talk about the family business. About how big the crab hauls were this year. About the arrogant, out-of-towner captains, driving fancy trucks and acting like celebrities on the docks, total divas. About the injuries, the crime, the tragedies. Everyone knew everyone back home. Everyone knew when something happened.

"You picked up driving this thing pretty quick."

His father sat beside him, his face wrinkled and rough. A real man's man. He even refused to wear his hat while they drove, as if his burning red ears were a symbol of macho pride.

"It's familiar," James said. "Besides, it's not that different from driving anything else."

"I just figured you'd be used to something a bit better than this hunk of junk."

"My car's pretty old too. Ain't that much better. Didn't you keep saying you were gonna get rid of this thing, though?"

"And I kept saying I'd retire after the season's up. Your old man's a dirty liar."

James was too cold to laugh. He twisted the heater knob back and forth as if it simply hadn't gotten the message. Only the engine heat would come through. Better than nothing, at least.

The town was grey, blanketed by snow and a grave quiet. James wasn't used to roads so empty, especially with all of the shops still open. Everyone seemed to be at the giant grocery store. That was the ritual: church on Sunday morning, groceries on Sunday afternoon. The few men whose teams were still in the playoffs snuck a view during either event.

His family lived on the other end of town from the airport. "Captain's Way," James referred to it as, with an even balance of irony and derision. The houses were all large and well-kept, even his family's. It was what his father poured their money into. Half of it was his father's own handiwork, something to keep him busy in the off season. It showed on the outside and felt like it on the inside. His childhood bedroom was one of those additions, and as awkward and uncomfortable as it could be, he liked it. His friends were jealous of how much space he had.

His mother greeted them at the door, tearful and smiling. "James! My boy!" She ran into the snow to hug him, still dressed for the indoors.

"Maura, please, you're going to get sick," his father said.

She scoffed. "Let a mother be glad to see her son, David! Then you can worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you, I'm worried about having to take care of you."

"You two seem pretty cheerful," James said, confused.

"I'm just glad to know you're in one piece, that's all. Now, come on in! I've got your room ready for you, just the way you always liked it."

It was how he liked it; the bed strategically undone, the desk cleared save for a pad of blank paper. The room smaller than he remembered, but at least the draft was gone. Instead the wind banged loudly on the window, steadily requesting his attention. He ignored it; it was far too cold to put up with. He unpacked his suitcase, a week's worth of layers to keep fresh underneath his coats. He only needed to stay for a few days, to help clear out the ship while it sits in port. But after so long away, his parents deserved at least a full week.

They had half a decade of Thanksgiving that night. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, all the trimmings that could make up for time lost. James took his seat in the same position he always sat for dinner: next to his father, facing the fireplace. The mantle was a shrine to his older brother, filled with high school memorabilia and photos from the fishing seasons. His own photos were relegated to the nearby wall.

Maura brought out the plates, placing one absentmindedly at the seat across from <NAME>'s seat. She only caught herself when he arrived at his spot empty-handed.

"Can't teach an old dog, can you?" David said.

"Look who you're calling an old dog!" Maura said.

"Habits are habits," James said into his plate. "I forgot how good you were with cooking, mom."

"Well, have fun finding someone who's better at it!"

"He's probably taking care of it himself, aren't you boy?" David said.

"I can handle it."

"You always did like to do your own thing," Maura said. "Go off on your own and all that."

"I can handle it."

"How have the lower 48 treated you?" David asked.

"Been alright. Nothing too fancy."

"Well, we're not really fancy people. Can't say I'm all that surprised."

"You said work's really picking up, though, isn't it?" Maura said.

"It has been. Lot of construction. Mostly big towers, condos and stuff."

"Sounds a bit dangerous, being up that high," David said, concerned.

James nodded subtly. "Can be."

"Well, guess that's how Manchesters are, always running towards danger."

The family quietly ate their belated Thanksgiving before returning to the living room for an evening of television. Eventually, James went to his room for bed, pausing to stare at the closed door for Alan's room.

David, as always, was the first to awake. He was making the morning's coffee when James woke up, rolling over to look out the window. It was a different grey than he was used to in Washington; brighter, glowing like a dying fluorescent light, the mountain snow reflecting what reflected off the moon.

"Beautiful day," David said as James came downstairs. "Report says it should be this calm all day."

"And the reports never lie," James said.

"Now, boy, they've been very accurate this season. They say it's gonna be calm, then I'll bet my backside it'll be calm."

"Right." James sipped his coffee, black like his father's. He wandered over to stare out the window.

David shooed him off. "Get your tail in gear, boy, we have work to do."

So many of James' teenaged days started the same way. A familiar routine.

The morning weather started according to report. Clouds held flat in the overcast sky, snow slept on the ground. David seized the opportunity to hit every bump and pothole on the way, conducting a chorus of tools jumping around the truck bed. James wanted to cover his ears, but his father was talking. He knew better.

The Early Riser sat calmly in port, loaded tall with fishing equipment. Her hull proudly wore its wear from decades of work, oil and paint taking turns to color her sides. A new paintjob would be easy and perhaps overdue, but David would never stand for a clean ship.

He hopped out of the driver's seat. "You didn't forget how to operate the crane, did you?"

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