Our People
Jun. 29th, 2019 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hennessysTitle: Our People
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Christopher's childhood.
Warnings: references child death, emotional abuse
Notes: Christopher's family is messed up.
1. nose
"This is just the way things are," Tommy said, lying next to Christopher on the landing as they watched their parents greeting guests. "Everybody dresses up nice and says nice things but really nobody likes anybody else."
Christopher leaned his head against one of the banister rails, staring at a lady in pink who'd smiled at his mother, and lifted her nose the moment Nancy Hennessy's back was turned. "Why?"
Tommy shrugged. "Dunno. 'Cause they're dumb. Come on, this is boring. Let's go play."
Christopher let his brother tug him upstairs and away, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.
2. varietal
He noticed it more, after that, how much everyone around him talked in terms of us and them.
"No, Christopher," his mother would say, "you can't have your little friend over, he's not one of our people."
"Tommy," his father would snap, "you are better than those people!"
"Ugh," Mother would say, flipping through the mail, "those people are writing again."
"That's my boy," his father would brag, "one of our people to the core."
It didn’t make any sense to Christopher, but then he was only a child. He didn't understand then his family's need to prove themselves better.
3. breathe
"It's because we used to be poor," Tommy told him, one night on the cliffs. Their parents were having another stifling party, and the boys had gone out together to have a breather and sneak some of their mother's cigarettes. Christopher thought they were gross, but Tommy said they were cool, and he was still young enough to believe him.
"Did we?" he asked, holding a cigarette without smoking.
"Yeah," Tommy said. "Dad's dad, he made a lot of money when movies got started. But before we didn't have anything."
"Oh," Christopher said, and added that piece to his understanding.
4. tannin
He watched it poison Tommy, over the years.
It was slow, and halting. Sometimes Tommy would say "our people," catch himself, and look appalled. Sometimes it would slip out and he wouldn't notice. But Christopher knew it was over when Tommy came home and grinned blazingly at his little brother.
"Made out with Sonia today," he said, referring to their housekeeper's pretty daughter, with huge dark eyes and long dark hair and a soft, pouting lip.
"You going to take her out?" Christopher asked.
"God, no," Tommy said, "she's not one of our people," and Christopher knew he was lost.
5. acidity
"It's your fault," and that was his mother, screaming at his father, harsh and echoing, "you gave him that motorcycle, you did this!"
Glass shattered. "How dare you accuse me of that?" Christopher could picture his father's face purpling in rage. "How dare you? He was my son, my son!"
"He was my son too!" His mother's voice broke on 'too,' angling down into sobs. "Oh, God, Thomas. Oh, God."
"You should have done something," his father said, low and bitter.
"So should you," she snapped, and then a door slammed.
Christopher put his hands over his ears and cried.
6. sweet
"It isn't your fault, you know," his mother told him, at the funeral.
Christopher stared straight ahead, at the coffin, at his father's stiff back. "I know," he said, and cleared his throat—his voice sounded clogged.
His mother cleared her own throat, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good boy," she said. "You... you always were. I don't suppose you know that."
He hadn't, as it happened—neither parent had ever said that—but it didn't really matter, did it? "Thank you," he said.
She nodded, and dropped her hand.
It was a kind impulse, anyway.
7. dry
There must have been a time, he thought after Tommy's funeral, that they had been happy. Maybe when he was young, or before that, before he was born, when it was just Mommy and Daddy and Tommy. Maybe before that, when it was just Nancy and Thomas. Maybe even further back, when they were children, playing together under the warm California sun, secure in the knowledge that their futures would be bright.
He'd never know. Christopher swallowed on a suddenly dry throat. It was painfully clear to him that, no matter what had gone before, they'd never be happy again.
8. note
His father mostly communicated in notes, after. Christopher rarely saw him, and wasn't sure whether he was glad or not.
Probably glad. The notes could be vitrolic enough. Thomas Hennessy seemed to have lost all sense of perspective after his older son died, and Christopher didn't really want to hear a profanity-laced tirade for getting an A instead of an A+.
It wasn't new, exactly—his father had always made it clear that he wasn't good enough. It was just the terms he used that had changed.
Still, it hurt more than expected. Ah well.
He'd get used to it.
9. oak
Christopher stood in the doorway after the funeral and stared at the heavy oak desk his father had sat behind to... well, to make pronouncements; that was how he remembered it. If either one of the boys had done something wrong, they would stand before this desk and their father would lecture them. If they had done something right (far more rarely), this was where they received praise.
If they associated with the wrong people, this was where their father had outlined why their friends or girlfriends or whatever weren't good enough.
He'd get rid of it, Christopher decided. Today.
10. age
Christopher would never dream of telling Isobel that she'd had it better than him. For one thing, he wasn't sure that she had. She hadn't been desperately poor as a child, but she hadn't been anywhere close to well-off, and as she grew she'd been exploited by her friends, neighbors, and employers.
And yet he couldn't help but envy her family. Her mother, who began every conversation with "Mija!" and ended with "Te amo." Her father, who before his death always voiced his pride. Her brothers and sisters, always there for her.
She was loved, unconditionally. He did envy her that.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Christopher's childhood.
Warnings: references child death, emotional abuse
Notes: Christopher's family is messed up.
1. nose
"This is just the way things are," Tommy said, lying next to Christopher on the landing as they watched their parents greeting guests. "Everybody dresses up nice and says nice things but really nobody likes anybody else."
Christopher leaned his head against one of the banister rails, staring at a lady in pink who'd smiled at his mother, and lifted her nose the moment Nancy Hennessy's back was turned. "Why?"
Tommy shrugged. "Dunno. 'Cause they're dumb. Come on, this is boring. Let's go play."
Christopher let his brother tug him upstairs and away, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.
2. varietal
He noticed it more, after that, how much everyone around him talked in terms of us and them.
"No, Christopher," his mother would say, "you can't have your little friend over, he's not one of our people."
"Tommy," his father would snap, "you are better than those people!"
"Ugh," Mother would say, flipping through the mail, "those people are writing again."
"That's my boy," his father would brag, "one of our people to the core."
It didn’t make any sense to Christopher, but then he was only a child. He didn't understand then his family's need to prove themselves better.
3. breathe
"It's because we used to be poor," Tommy told him, one night on the cliffs. Their parents were having another stifling party, and the boys had gone out together to have a breather and sneak some of their mother's cigarettes. Christopher thought they were gross, but Tommy said they were cool, and he was still young enough to believe him.
"Did we?" he asked, holding a cigarette without smoking.
"Yeah," Tommy said. "Dad's dad, he made a lot of money when movies got started. But before we didn't have anything."
"Oh," Christopher said, and added that piece to his understanding.
4. tannin
He watched it poison Tommy, over the years.
It was slow, and halting. Sometimes Tommy would say "our people," catch himself, and look appalled. Sometimes it would slip out and he wouldn't notice. But Christopher knew it was over when Tommy came home and grinned blazingly at his little brother.
"Made out with Sonia today," he said, referring to their housekeeper's pretty daughter, with huge dark eyes and long dark hair and a soft, pouting lip.
"You going to take her out?" Christopher asked.
"God, no," Tommy said, "she's not one of our people," and Christopher knew he was lost.
5. acidity
"It's your fault," and that was his mother, screaming at his father, harsh and echoing, "you gave him that motorcycle, you did this!"
Glass shattered. "How dare you accuse me of that?" Christopher could picture his father's face purpling in rage. "How dare you? He was my son, my son!"
"He was my son too!" His mother's voice broke on 'too,' angling down into sobs. "Oh, God, Thomas. Oh, God."
"You should have done something," his father said, low and bitter.
"So should you," she snapped, and then a door slammed.
Christopher put his hands over his ears and cried.
6. sweet
"It isn't your fault, you know," his mother told him, at the funeral.
Christopher stared straight ahead, at the coffin, at his father's stiff back. "I know," he said, and cleared his throat—his voice sounded clogged.
His mother cleared her own throat, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good boy," she said. "You... you always were. I don't suppose you know that."
He hadn't, as it happened—neither parent had ever said that—but it didn't really matter, did it? "Thank you," he said.
She nodded, and dropped her hand.
It was a kind impulse, anyway.
7. dry
There must have been a time, he thought after Tommy's funeral, that they had been happy. Maybe when he was young, or before that, before he was born, when it was just Mommy and Daddy and Tommy. Maybe before that, when it was just Nancy and Thomas. Maybe even further back, when they were children, playing together under the warm California sun, secure in the knowledge that their futures would be bright.
He'd never know. Christopher swallowed on a suddenly dry throat. It was painfully clear to him that, no matter what had gone before, they'd never be happy again.
8. note
His father mostly communicated in notes, after. Christopher rarely saw him, and wasn't sure whether he was glad or not.
Probably glad. The notes could be vitrolic enough. Thomas Hennessy seemed to have lost all sense of perspective after his older son died, and Christopher didn't really want to hear a profanity-laced tirade for getting an A instead of an A+.
It wasn't new, exactly—his father had always made it clear that he wasn't good enough. It was just the terms he used that had changed.
Still, it hurt more than expected. Ah well.
He'd get used to it.
9. oak
Christopher stood in the doorway after the funeral and stared at the heavy oak desk his father had sat behind to... well, to make pronouncements; that was how he remembered it. If either one of the boys had done something wrong, they would stand before this desk and their father would lecture them. If they had done something right (far more rarely), this was where they received praise.
If they associated with the wrong people, this was where their father had outlined why their friends or girlfriends or whatever weren't good enough.
He'd get rid of it, Christopher decided. Today.
10. age
Christopher would never dream of telling Isobel that she'd had it better than him. For one thing, he wasn't sure that she had. She hadn't been desperately poor as a child, but she hadn't been anywhere close to well-off, and as she grew she'd been exploited by her friends, neighbors, and employers.
And yet he couldn't help but envy her family. Her mother, who began every conversation with "Mija!" and ended with "Te amo." Her father, who before his death always voiced his pride. Her brothers and sisters, always there for her.
She was loved, unconditionally. He did envy her that.
