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No Harrington had ever beaten their child.

Not Mark William Harrington, not Elmer Harold Harrington, not Howard James Harrington nor George Roman Harrington or Peter Lewis Harrington had ever done such a despicable thing. And James Christopher Harrington was certainly not beating his son, either. He didn’t believe in such a punishment, didn’t think it was the way to teach a child the way of the world. Parents were obliged to treat their children with respect and not like some common criminal. Violence was a sign of moral weakness and lack of intelligence. Poor people from the trailer park or those people from the city-ghettos did it to their children because their brains weren’t able to find better solutions than violence.

People like that Byers fellow, or similarly underdeveloped characters.

Certainly not well-educated, well-paid folks who could afford two vacation-trips a year and a savings-account that could easily pay for a new car and college-funds for their only child and who paid off their house even earlier than the plan had suggested.

No, James would never treat his son like Lonnie Byers treated his boy, as he witnessed one day when he’d been to the general store and seen Byers shake his son like a leaf, yelling at him in full sight of everyone in the vicinity of the power-tool-section. “Some people,” James muttered as he made his way to the checkout, a box of nails in his hand for Evelyn. She’d gotten it into her head to arrange the paintings herself and not let the interior designer do it. Not that he disapproved – it was a lot cheaper than getting that Betty-woman to come back again just to adjust that stupid swan-picture once more.

He just hoped Ev could work the hammer. Did they even have a hammer? James frowned and sighed, then went back to get a hammer. Just in case. Better to have two than having to return once more.

“That would be six dollars and thirty-five cents,” the cashier said with a bored smile and James pasted on one of his professional, polite ones and nodded goodbye. Byers was still muttering obscenities towards his son, who was following his father with a deer-in-the-headlight-look combined with an awful lot of sulking.

Embarrassing oneself and their offspring in front of half the town was certainly not the way to teach a child manners or make them respect you, James thought as he unlocked his Mercedes. Respect had to be earned. That was the rule he’d been raised upon and that was the rule he raised his own boy on as well. Respect was the most important thing a man had. If his own child couldn’t respect him, how would anyone be able to demand respect from strangers or employees?

The clock in his father’s office was ticking too loud for Steve to hear his own pulse, even though it was trying to shove his heart out of his chest. He stood in front of the large, dark wooden desk, hands behind his back, shoulders squared, staring at the wall. He could probably count all the pinstripes one sheet of wallpaper contained, count the sheets and do some math to get the correct number of stripes on that wall. He could count the stripes themselves, too. He’d probably have enough time.

He could do all that, certainly, but there was little point. Steve knew that there were one hundred and thirty-two stripes on the wall, thirty stripes per sheet and that there weren’t quite four and a half rolls used to cover that particular side of the office. He’d counted them, divided them, added everything up and tried to do weird equations with them except he wasn’t that good at Maths and had gotten lost too many times to try it again. It only added frustration to the anxiety rushing through his bones.

“Thank you for letting me know, Deputy.” His father was talking to the policeman who’d taken Steve’s statement earlier about Barbara. Holland. Barbara Holland. Up until today, Steve hadn’t even known her last name. Thinking about it, Barb could easily pass as Dutch so it made a strange kind of sense for that to be her name.

Of course, Nancy’s father didn’t look like he could build a wheel even if it had instructions and Steve and his father didn’t look like any kind of Harry so what did he know. The polite, frosty chitchat from behind the door at his back was closing down and he stood up even straighter, chest hurting from how hard his heart was beating against his ribs.

The office-door clicked open and then shut again and Steve felt his father pass him, the soles of his Italian loafers soundless on the soft beige carpet. Steve didn’t look at him, kept his gaze on the wall. Still, from the corner of his eyes, he saw the tall figure of his father sit down in his leather-chair right under where Steve kept his gaze glued, saw him grab a pen and lean back, swinging the pen back and forth between his fingers. He heard him sigh, low and pained as he leaned forward again and tapped the pen to the surface of the solid oak-desk.

Tap tap tap tap

“Steven.”

Steve exhaled slowly and met his father’s eyes now, as expected. “Sir.”

Another long-suffering sigh. “Can you even imagine what I am feeling right now?”

Trying to swallow despite his dry throat and tongue, Steve shook his head. “No, Sir,” he croaked. He could guess but that wasn’t expected of him now. This whole conversation had rules, after all, and Steve knew them well. “I can’t, Sir.”

“I imagine you can’t.” His father sighed again. “There is hardly anything as devastating as looking at your own son and realizing that he seems incapable of understanding simple, long-established rules. Utterly disappointing. But unless you have your own son one day, you will not be able to imagine.”

Steve gritted his teeth but kept his eyes trained on his father’s face. As expected.

“So – please tell me how it is that I come home to a policeman telling me there has been a party –“ his father sneered the word as if it was dirty and disgusting “at my own house and on that party, alcohol was consummated. In my own backyard. By my own son. Who not only had alcohol himself but also had the audacity to provide other minors with it. And all that despite us having this conversation before at least twice and the agreement that there will be absolutely no alcohol for you before you are twenty-one.”

Steve’s mind was racing, trying to find words to answer an unanswerable question while his body was preoccupied at the same time with keeping eye-contact. As was expected.

“I am waiting.”

His father didn’t need to raise his voice. He never did. Sometimes, Steve wished his father would shout and yell just so there would be variety to their act, some difference in how this was going to end. But he never did.

Steve swallowed, then tried it again. “Uh, we… my friend Tommy and I-“

Another long sigh. “Steven. No ‘uh’ or ‘uhm’. No mumbling. We’re not garbage-collectors who can’t form a sentence without clear pronunciation. And I am certainly hoping you are not trying to shift blame to someone else here. Can I assume you have enough self-respect to take responsibility for your own mistakes and not try to pass it on to Thomas Hagan? He is not the type of person to take as role-model, you already know that.”

Steve stood up even straighter than before. “Apologies, Sir. I invited my friends Tommy and Carol over for swimming in the pool. And I – “ he managed to swallow the upcoming ‘uh’ “also invited my new friend Nancy and her friend Barbara. I had bought some beers and offered them.” Nobody had to know about the flask. It didn’t affect anything and wasn’t relevant to Barb running off alone. Steve was certain it wasn’t relevant. “We were having some fun in the pool.”

His father leaned forward. “And that fun in the pool… did that involve clothing?”

“Yes, Sir. Only clothing. We … we didn’t plan to swim and Carol fell in and we all kinda jumped in with her as well. Just some harmless fun, Sir.”

Leaning back once again, Steve’s father looked sad and highly disappointed. Steve tried to specify the reason in his sentence but didn’t manage before his father spelled it out. “What, pray tell, is the word ‘kinda’ –“ he said it like it was something slimy dragged from the siphon under the kitchen-sink “supposed to be? Steven – use proper English. How often do I have to have this conversation with you?”

“I apologize, Sir,” Steve hurried. “I will pay better attention.”

“Very well. On top of that, I wonder if I also have to repeat my conversation about the dangers of alcohol to the under-developed mind. It seems to be the case, considering that you should be well aware how dangerous it is to swim inebriated. Especially in clothes. You are co-captain of the swim-team – you of all people should know this.”

“Yes, Sir. I temporarily forgot, it seems.”

His father sighed again and briefly looked down on the desk. It wasn’t enough time to give Steve the chance to relish the freedom from eye-contact he continued to maintain, just enough to make him miss it once it was gone again. “I see. We will either have that lesson again tomorrow. Or, if you prefer, you consider the lesson still intact and choose to accept the consequences of forgetting them.” He jotted a note on the blank piece of paper Steve had placed right in the middle of the writing-pad before he’d assumed his position in front of the desk. Like he always did. There were rules to this, after all. “I will expect your choice by the end of our talk. Now resume your retelling of the night Ms Holland seemed to have disappeared.”

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Steve shoved the looming decision he would have to make away and concentrated on keeping the eye-contact. “Nancy and I went upstairs. She needed dry clothes so I got her one of my shirts. I assumed Barbara would leave. I don’t know if she did, Sir.”

Tap tap tap. The pen clacked against the blindingly-white front teeth of his father. Steve bit the inside of his lip to keep himself upright and in front of the desk when all he wanted to do was run away into his room and hide under the bed like that one time when he’d been seven. But it hadn’t done him any good then and it wouldn’t do any good now. Besides, he’d hardly fit under the bed anymore. “And why, pray tell, would Ms Holland leave our house without her friend? I remember the mention of the two coming together in Ms Holland’s car.”

There it was. He knew his father knew the answer already. He’d just talked about it with the deputy, his father sitting stiff as a statue in his armchair across the room. Steve closed his eyes. Nancy told her she should go, he wanted to say but that would a) be throwing Nancy under the bus and she didn’t deserve that and b) not do him any good because it was Steve’s fault either way. As all things always were his fault, according to his father. He bit his lip harder to stop it trembling. “Nancy decided to stay a bit longer,” he said because it was the truth.

“Ah. Ms Wheeler decided. With your encouragement, I assume?”

Briefly, Steve closed his eyes. “I didn’t suggest otherwise, Sir.”

“You approved?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you have sexual intercourse with Nancy Wheeler?”

Something tangy slid down his throat as Steve swallowed. “Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, Sir. I did.”

“Ah. I see.” More tapping. Some ‘hmm’ and some ‘hm-hm’ and then his father leaned forward again and made more notes on the paper before he leaned back to meet Steve’s eyes again. “Let me summarize. You had alcoholic beverages despite my very clear prohibition concerning those.” He waited, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Sir.”

His father ticked something off on his paper. Steve didn’t look. He never did. There were rules to this, after all. “You had a new friend over who played with you in the pool, fully clothed, inebriated by the alcohol.”

“Y- No. Sir, no. She wasn’t inebriated. She only had one beer. We all only had one beer.” Steve might have had two and Carol and Tommy had definitely had more before they’d come but that wasn’t the topic. Nancy was the topic, he knew. “She wasn’t drunk.”

“And you are… what kind of scientist to be able to judge that?” Shit. Stepped right in, didn’t he? “I am waiting, Steven.”

“N – no scientist, Sir.”

“Don’t stutter.” Another long sigh. “So not a scientist. So let us assume Ms Wheeler was inebriated. Maybe just slightly but do we know that?” Pause. “Steven? Do we know that?”

“Ah, no, Sir. We don’t know that.”

His father tutted at the ‘ah’ and made another note on his paper. Steve flinched at the scratch of the pen. “Alright. Are you seeing where this might be going, son?”

Steve swallowed and nodded. “I think so, Sir.”

“Yes or No, Steven. Simple questions don’t require elaborate answers. Are. You. Seeing. Where. This. Might. Be. Going?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right. Because this is going to a place where Ms Wheeler, who is how old?”

The tangy taste was replaced by the bitter familiarity of bile. “Sixteen, Sir.”

“Sixteen. I see. So sixteen and inebriated, Ms Wheeler went up to your room and decided – with your approval – to stay longer, sending her friend, who had driven her to our house earlier, home. Without her. And then you proceeded to have sexual intercourse with this young, inebriated girl. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Sir.” Steve’s voice was merely a whisper.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said yes, Sir.” After a beat of silence on top of one raised eyebrow, he continued. “You are correct, Sir.” Except she hadn’t been drunk, a rebellious thought tried to shove itself past his clenched teeth. He bit it down. It wouldn’t help him any to say it out loud.

“I see. Do you know what this situation could be seen as?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. And do you know what that means?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“No. No, you don’t.” His father sat up. “You don’t because you don’t think, Steven! You don’t, because you sleep around the town as you please – don’t think I am not aware of that. And that is fine as long as you stick your penis into girls with a certain, loose reputation. As long as you keep your hands on girls whose claims are easy to dismiss! I never said a word about your slutty conducts because they don’t affect the family but by God, Steven, this time you have really outdone yourself.”

Steve had been in front of this desk a lot of times in the past. Once, he’d stood at attention for over an hour, listening to his father’s lessons, scolding him without ever raising his voice, wanting to flinch but never flinching because it wasn’t allowed. He hadn’t ever seen him stand up from his chair, never had him pace in front of the wall with the one -hundred and thirty-two stripes or run his hands through his hair.

He was seeing it now, as his insides tried to crawl higher and coil themselves into one heavy ball of anxiety somewhere behind his ribs. Steve hadn’t been actually afraid of his father in a long time. Apprehensive, yes. But not afraid. There were rules to this, after all, and while he despised them, they ensured that Steve always knew what to expect.

A fucked up sort of comfort.

Today, Steve felt the sting of fear shoot up his spine. But he also felt anger climb up his legs, biting harder and harder into his gut while his father spouted utter bullshit about Nancy and Tina and all the other girls Steve had had a good time with. What the hell?

“Ms Wheeler has a respectable family. She will be believed if she ever says your encounter was made under the influence of alcohol. Do you know what that would be called? Do you, Steven?”

His father was back behind his desk but still upright, leaning over the table towards Steve. Close. Closer than Steve remembered him ever being in any kind of situation. “Answer me!”

Steve flinched. Today seemed to be a day of firsts. First time pacing, first time standing, first time raising his voice.

“Ye-yes, Sir.”

“And what is it called? What will they say about you if Ms Wheeler will ever claim to have been provided with alcohol just so you could have your way with her?”

“She would never!” Steve didn’t remember opening his mouth but there it was. Biting his lip now would not help at all so he continued. “That’s not what happened! It was her idea just as much as mine. I wouldn’t do something like that, never!”

His father folded his arms in front of him and stared without blinking. After a while that felt like forever, he raised one eyebrow. “You may have noticed that this is not what I asked. Therefor, whether it happened or not is not the point.” Steve blinked and opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything he could say to that. How could it not be the point? “The point, and what I was specifically asking for, is what people will call you if Ms Wheeler claims it happened.”

“But she wouldn’t! She wouldn’t lie, never!”

“Again I ask: when did you go to college and earn your degree in psychology?” A beat. A long sigh. “Steven? Answer me!”

“I – I didn’t. But I know Nancy. She would never. She’s just not … she wouldn’t do that.”

His father tutted, condescending and mocking. Steve felt shame and anger and hatred whirl in his body, creating a cloud of diffusive emotions that were hard to separate. “Ms Wheeler is in a state of worry, Steven. She is young and worried and since women her age are usually feeble-minded anyway, neither you nor anyone can know the way her mind works. But that is not what I asked you. Steven – what will they say you did when she decides that you didn’t treat her right?”

Hot, angry tears were climbing inside his head. Steve could feel them right behind his eyeballs, burning his brain. Nancy wouldn’t. She was kind and fair, wouldn’t blame him for something that was just as much her idea as it had been his. But it didn’t matter, not here in this room. Not to the man in front of him.

“Steven!” His father’s hand hit the desk, slamming him back into the room. Steve fought down the tears, knowing they’d just make things worse.

“R- rape, Sir. They would call me a rapist.” I am not. I would never! I didn’t and Nancy wouldn’t. Instead of speaking, he bit his tongue and wished himself somewhere else.

With a long-suffering sigh his father sat back down. “Indeed.” He made another note on the paper before he looked back up to meet Steve’s eyes. He always expected to meet Steve’s eyes and his expectations where always met. There were rules to this, after all. “All right. Tomorrow, I will call Clive.” Clive Custer was the family-lawyer, a large, loud, blustering man with an unhealthy affection for large hats, ugly plaid slacks and very young wives. Custer had gone through three at least and they only seemed to be getting younger, the current one barely older than Steve. Steve stayed clear of that man as much as he could, always feeling the urge to shower if he had to stay in his vicinity for longer than a minute. “Don’t make that face, Steven – he’ll know how to handle it. If your Ms Wheeler is the angel that you think she is – which is a little doubtful, considering she let you fuck her – you have nothing to worry. If she does find you lacking and decides to start talking unfavourably of your intercourse, Clive will know how to throw doubt on her claims. I will not have your libido threaten our name. Not by some well-mannered hussy who doesn’t know how to keep her knees closed before she’s got a ring on it.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Steve whispered. “She…” He stopped himself as his brain did cartwheels in his head. He didn’t even know where to start! Nancy clearly didn’t deserve the way his father talked about her but there was just so much wrong with what he was saying, so many things that made him sick to imagine where they came from. Had he… had Clive Custer ever done this to any of Steve’s flings before? He didn’t remember one of them ever truly complaining, all of them happy with a good time and the short-term fame sleeping with Steve brought them. But would they complain if the slimy lawyer had threatened them with character-murder? He wanted to ask, wanted so badly to ask but his father’s face was a thundercloud, dark and angry, a frown like scar between his eyebrows.

“You were saying?”

“I assure you that she will not ever say anything of what you are suggesting, Sir.” Coward!

The thundercloud lightened a little bit and his father’s features smoothed out. “All right. I very strongly suggest you to ensure that it doesn’t happen. You will treat her as if she is a life-wire, Steven. Because that is what she is. She is dangerous to us, to this family. If word goes out that you raped her, it will hurt our reputation for years. Even if Clive can handle her, something might stick. Something always sticks. Ensure her good will. Make her happy. If she demands, buy her a ring and by God, Steven, do not break up with her or sleep around while you are in a relationship. Once in your life – commit to something! Now.” He sat back and folded his hands on front of his belly, staring at Steve until Steve’s cartwheeling thoughts stopped and he could feel cold sweat run down his spine. “As this conversation comes to an end, I will hear your choice.”

One more lecture about alcohol or taking the repercussions of being careless.

Talk about rock and a hard place.

Steve swallowed, trying to force his mind into a decision. The last time he’d had a lesson about alcohol, Steve had been fifteen. He’d come home drunk from a party the basketball-team had thrown, with punch and beer and a lot of rowdy games. Eric Garland, then-captain of the team, had invited everyone, even Steve and Tommy, the benchwarmers. Steve hadn’t noticed that he’d been drunk until the cold night-air had apparently forced his brain to catch up. One of the rare times his father hadn’t already been asleep and Steve had practically stumbled into his arms. One very stern stare and a cold dismissal to bed had followed, with the clear order to stand in his office eight o’clock sharp the next day.

It had not been a fun experience, made a lot worse by the hangover.

Steve suppressed a shuddery sigh. “I will gladly accept the results of my mindlessness, Sir, and agree to the consequences of forgetting an invaluable lesson.”

“All right then. It is getting late and I am tired. I would much prefer to do this tomorrow after work. Unless you ask me for today.”

There were rules to this. Every choice had consequences in this house, every decision had repercussions. If he asked for something, he’d have to accept the price. He had to respect his choices and respect his father’s wisdom to decide on the right price. Those were the rules.

“I ask for today, Sir,” Steve decided and clenched his teeth. Fuck all about respect, he thought but wisely kept his mouth shut.

His father sighed tiredly but nevertheless stood up from his chair, the paper with his notes in his hand. He would later fold it and put it in a book that he kept in one of his drawers, Steve knew, locked with a small key that hung from his car-key. The book contained every protocol of every scolding Steve had received in this room. He hadn’t ever seen one of them and he never wanted to but if he ever got his fingers on the book, he’d burn it in a bonfire he would be dancing around at midnight. Naked. “Very well,” his father said and turned the paper over on its front. “Let’s make this quick, then.”

When the clock struck two, Steve was still awake. He’d been shifting and twisting, unable to find a comfortable position. His mind was in a strange state in between wide awake and dead tired, floaty and razor-sharp all at once. It usually was after a lecture, running in circles around all the possible ways he could have avoided it, never stopping despite knowing that changing the past was impossible.

He could have lied, he thought for the twentieth time. Could have lied to the deputy and to his father, tell them there had been no alcohol at all. Obviously that wouldn’t have worked and even if it had, it would have painted Nancy as a liar. Not an option.

He could have told Nancy that the party was just for her, told her that Barbara had to stay home. It would have probably meant that Nancy wouldn’t have come. Thinking about it now, it wouldn’t have been too bad and maybe if Nancy had been home or with her friend, Barb might not have run away. At the time – not an option.

He could have not bought beer. That was a good choice – which he hadn’t made.

He could have made certain that Barbara was fine before he’d followed Nancy upstairs, made sure she got into her car alright. Would it have changed anything? After all, Barb had run away. So… Probably not. It still would have been a good choice to avoid feeling shitty and slightly guilty on top of just feeling shitty. So another good choice Steve hadn’t made.

Those were his main ideas which played loop-dee-loop in his head, with slight variations here and there. It was exhausting. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to school no matter how tired he was. If he got only one hour of sleep, Steve still would have to appear at breakfast at seven and sit in the quiet kitchen with his quiet parents, quietly eat his muesli while quietly drinking juice or water or tea. No coffee when his parents were home. Apparently, coffee was bad for someone until they turned eighteen, when their brains magically adapted to tolerating caffeine. It might not be the worst thing about these silent, stilted breakfasts with his parents but it came a very close second.

”Now you may leave. And Steven.” Steve’s brain stopped running around and decided to remember his father’s indifferent face as he stepped back behind his desk and ticked off something on the paper before folding it exactly in the middle. ”I will be leaving on a business-trip on Friday. I assume your mother will once again accompany me. If I have to come home to a situation like today, Steven…” He’d let the sentence hang there until Steve had met his eyes. The threat didn’t have to be spoken out loud for Steve to understand that it would be unpleasant. ”At this point, I trust that you remember everything you have been taught. Respect my rules, Steven, and we will never have to have this type of conversation again. It is all about respect. You will respect me and in return, I respect you enough to trust you once more with the house. Do you understand?”

Instead of scowling or rolling his eyes at the whole situation hidden behind a thin veneer of ice-cold politeness, Steve had just nodded. ”Yes, Sir, he had said and hated himself nearly as much as he hated the man in front of him.

Friday. That wasn’t far off and at the same time felt like a million years away. He hated the feeling of eggshells on the floor, of being a ghost in his own house just so he wouldn’t upset the fragile peace his parents were stuck in whenever they came home for a few days. Friday couldn’t come soon enough although he knew that by Monday, he’d already hate the silent, empty house again and wish for his parents to be there just so he wasn’t the only living thing in the building. Friday. Well, there was basketball practice and swimming. He could always stay longer, he supposed, and maybe Friday would arrive a little sooner.

But tomorrow, he would talk to Nancy and see if she was alright. Steve felt a smile on his face when he thought about her, about her face that every day would surprise him to be even prettier than he recalled away from her. He’d make sure she was feeling better, maybe invite her to a movie or something to take her mind off her friend running away. Disappearing.

Steve frowned. Surely, nobody had kidnapped Barbara or murdered her. So she must have decided to skip town. It was the only logical solution despite Nancy’s insistence that Barb would never do that.

Steve finally fell asleep while thinking about what he was going to say to Nancy to make her smile.

James Harrington had never beaten his son, and he never would. He never raised his hand at him, never punched him or grabbed him or kicked him like he’d seen Derrick Corban do to his own brat of a boy. He didn’t believe in violence. It was a tool of the feeble-minded and slow, for those with no education and no pride.

Respect and discipline were the most important feature in a father-son-relationship. Discipline needed to be learned and respect had to be earned. A young mind, unbridled, would run amuck with the child and get them into trouble or let hormones take over brain-capacity. It took self-discipline to keep in line of the societal rules and without proper guidance, a boy would not learn discipline on his own. When it came to respect – well. A child didn’t deserve respect unless he stuck to the rules and a father who bruised and injured his child didn’t deserve respect from anyone. Being strict was not the same as being abusive. A strong set of rules was required to raise a healthy young man into a valuable member of society and those rules needed to be very clear so the boy could understand them and follow.

Sometimes, though, even the clearest rules might be broken and when that happened, a boy needed to learn that actions had consequences. Out in the cut-throat world, mistakes weren’t forgiven and every wrong step would be taken advantage off. Every weakness would be exploited. Strength, self-discipline and strict rules were the most valuable things a father could pass on to his son, and like his own father had done with him, James had taught Steven that breaking the rules made life harder than staying within their framework would.

Just like he’d learned from his own father, James had taught Steven to stand tall and proud in front of his mistakes, face them bravely and head-on. Crying was a sign of weakness, as was averting the eye. Face your fear and face the consequences, he’d taught Steven. If you stay within the rules, you know what to expect. Step out of them – well. Better not step out of them. And if words weren’t enough, underlining them with resolute actions was the best way to cement them in the young, pliable mind, assuring they would stick for a lifetime. If done correctly, repeating a lesson was rarely necessary.

James didn’t relish those times he had to enforce the rules. They always left a sour taste in his mouth but it was kinder to make oneself very clear than let the poor boy lose discipline. A smart boy would not need more than one reminder and James hadn’t had to use the switch in a long time, as cutting off his funds after calling him into his office was usually enough to get Steven back in line. Steven was not a particularly rowdy boy. Despite his poor choice of friends – James disliked the Hagan-boy quite a lot, found him crass and loud and too freckled to come from a good family – Steve stayed within the rules of young men everywhere. He hardly ever got into fights, didn’t steal or take drugs and didn’t mistreat his sexual acquisitions. Clive used to joke about it and asked if James was certain Steven wasn’t a pansy, that it wasn’t normal to be this chivalrous with girls at his age. What did Clive know, though. He didn’t have a son, after all.

James wasn’t a violent man. He raised his boy with a firm hand and a clear set of standards. He never lost his temper, didn’t shout. Being polite but stern was hard sometimes but frustration didn’t have a place in raising a boy, he found. His father had sometimes lost his temper with James and he didn’t want Steven to experience that. He took great pride in remaining calm and controlled even when anger was boiling underneath. If he felt too infuriated, he’d go and cool down before facing his boy, thus giving him time to think about his mistakes. It was a double-win, James was certain. He was not like his father and certainly not like those trailer-park low-lives with their dirty children and dirtier fingernails.

So maybe Steven thought he hated James and despised him for being too strict – that was fine. He knew nothing about raising a child, after all, and the requirements it took to ensure their place in society. Let him hate him. Once time passed and the sting of the lecture would settle into understanding, Steven would look back upon this day and think fondly on this, maybe compare it to other parenting-disasters and realize that without James, Steven might have turned out a weak-minded, long-haired hippie. He would know to be grateful then and see that a firm hand was much better than a sloppy one and be grateful to the man who raised him in his image, who gave him shelter and fed him and took the time to teach him how to be a strong man in this world of weaklings.