Chapter Text
"It's been two years, Paulie," Marlene Blofis sighs into the phone. Growing up, out of all her children, Paul had been the least likely to give her any trouble. He was the quiet one; always polite, didn’t fight like his other siblings. Really just had a good head on his shoulders.
It’s hard to say when that changed. Or if it ever did.
He’d have to pick up the phone once in a while for her to know that.
"I saw you a couple months ago,” he tries to remind her, but she scoffs, somewhat distracted as she tucks the phone between her ear and shoulder.
With both hands free, Marlene hefts the basket on clean laundry up and uses a foot to kick the door to the dryer shut.
"Six months,” she counters, “and Great Aunt Wendy's funeral doesn't count and you know it.” Marlene nudges the laundry room door shut with her hip. “Especially when you were only there for the ceremony."
"My kids had finals the next day!"
"Which is why," she continues like he hasn’t spoken, "you're going to come home for Thanksgiving. It's a holiday meant to be spent with family anyway.”
“Mom…”
Before he can outright reject the invitation, Marlene interrupts, her tone cutting through any potential excuses. “No.”
She doesn’t slam the basket down on the kitchen table, but it’s a close thing, and she uses her now free hand to catch the phone and speak more comfortably into the receiver.
“No excuses. Not when you’ve missed Christmas too— which we will be talking about, young man—“
On the other side of the line, Paul lets out an exasperated breath.
“Your nieces and nephews miss you too, or don’t you remember them? I don’t even think you’ve seen Holly since she was a baby. And–” she tacks on, the final nail in the metaphorical coffin, ”–your father’s health has been declining so, yes, Thanksgiving.”
Was she laying it on a bit thick? Perhaps. But her husband’s doctor had mentioned something about watching his cholesterol, and that counts. Technically.
She ignores said husband's pointed gaze from his place on the couch, and turns her back to him. He can bitch at her after she ensures their middle child’s compliance.
The line is quiet. Marlene, content to let him stew for a moment, tucks the phone back where it was before pulling a shirt, still warm from the dryer, out of the basket and begins folding.
She makes it through a few pieces of clothing before her son finally deigns to speak again.
“I…” Paul’s reluctance is clear in his voice. Marlene’s gaze narrows, a sixth sense– one long grown dormant, no longer deemed necessary once her kids became rightful adults– perks up, and that alone is cause for concern.
Her hands still, waiting for whatever is about to come out of her boy’s mouth.
“I may have… forgotten to tell you something.” Guilt slithers through the line and cloaks his words something heavy.
Marlene’s brows raise. When he doesn’t add anything else, she gives him a bit of a nudge. “That sounds ominous.”
His response is a sharp laugh that cuts off just as quickly as it began.
“Yeah, well… Just know this isn’t how I imagined telling you–”
Oh god, is he gay? Is that what’s happening right now?
Marlene takes a deep breath, retaking the phone in hand so she can prepare the ‘I love you,’ and ‘you’re still my kid,’ speech.
Then reality comes knocking, like hello? Out of all of her children, in what world would Paul be the gay one?
Anna-Marie, maybe.
Dean? Definitely. If his revolving door of ‘roommates’ are anything to judge by.
But Paul? The man who, at age thirty-two, still thinks GAP polos are fashionable? Her baby may be a lot of things, but gay is not one of them.
“Do you remember Sally?”
The question comes out of left field. Any thoughts she had become forgotten on her tongue. Confused, she crosses her free arm over her chest and leans against the table. Where is he going with this?
“The artist you were dating? I thought you broke up ages ago.”
At least, that was what she assumed when he stopped mentioning her.
“Uh, no. We never did that,” he pauses. Marlene frowns, wondering what this has to do with anything, all the while that strange, suspicious feeling grows stronger. Paul blows out a sharp breath, then practically spits out, “Actually, we kindofgotmarried.”
The words, breathless and jumbled, become absolutely mangled over their connection, and without thinking, she asks–
“You what?”
And in the most guilt-ridden, defeated tone she’s ever heard from him, he repeats:
“We got married.”
Marlene nearly drops the phone. It slides through her fingers and she has to catch it against her collar bone.
Married.
The word plays over and over in her mind, like a scratched record. A surge of emotion threatens to choke her. She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s heavy and drowns out every other thought.
Paul’s voice, tinny through the cell’s speakers, calls out.
“--Mom? Are you still there?”
Marlene blinks. Clears her throat. Brings the phone back to her ear. “Yes, dear?”
He pauses, concern leaking into his tone. “Are you okay?”
Is she okay? A bubble of hysteria breaks through the barrier of numbness– her baby, married, without telling anyone, without telling her. Just as fast, hysteria turns to hurt. Betrayal. And the brief, manic urge to laugh quickly turns to a sob.
Or it tries to. Relentlessly, she swallows it back down.
Her eyes feel hot and itchy. She swipes a palm over her face. It comes back dry— one thing to be thankful for, at least.
Laundry well and truly forgotten, Marlene turns her back on it. Her fingers come up to pluck at an errant string hanging from her sweater. It unravels more and more under her ministrations, until she has to force herself to stop, instead turning focus to counting her heartbeat’s unsteady rhythm.
Questions start to slowly filter in– why? When? Where?– quiet at first, but getting louder as it repeats.
She clears her throat. And again when the first time doesn’t help. Then finally, “Of course, dear.” Under her hand, her heart begins to level out.
Not because she’s calm, or anything as mature as that.
No, the hurt feeds into something akin to irritation, maybe even true outrage. It seethes and boils beneath her skin, because not even her youngest, most vexing child would pull a stunt so…
She struggles to put it into words. Until she doesn’t.
So selfish.
Marlene can forgive any number of things. Like the fact that he hasn’t come home, and his calls have ceased to every other month, if that– but this? This disrespect? Like she hasn’t supported him from day one; from wiping his ass to kissing away his tears to supporting his godforsaken choice of career, especially when Robert was strictly against it?
And this is how he repays her? Edging her out of his life until they're no better than strangers? All for a woman– some artist he barely has the nerve to talk about?
Absolutely not. Over her dead body.
On the phone, Paul is silent, waiting for her to work through whatever she needs.
“I just–” Marlene starts, but her temper flares again and she reigns it back by the skin of her teeth. She doesn’t even know where to start.
Glaring into her pristine kitchen, she finally settles on: “Obviously, I’m hurt you didn’t tell me– us, I mean. Just– why, Paul? Did you think we wouldn’t like her? Did you not trust us? Why–”
“No!” He exclaims. “It’s nothing like that, I promise. Things happened, and I realized I didn’t want to live without her. It was very spur of the moment, just us and–”
Paul suddenly cuts off. Marlene doesn’t notice, a pulsing ache growing behind her eyes. She rubs them, pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.
Her thoughts are in disarray, spinning this way and that. It’s hard to get a handle on anything at the moment.
Then something crucial occurs to her, and without thinking, she asks–
“Did you at least make her sign a prenup?”
The second the words are out of her mouth, Marlene wants to drag them back. She knows how it sounds; rude, uncouth. Like she doesn’t trust him or his judgment.
But it doesn’t make the question any less important.
“No! Jesus, of course not. She’s not like that, I swear.”
Marlene resists the urge to curse. The ache becomes a steady point of pressure, because why? Why are her kids like this? She knows she raised them better than this.
Even though their family might not be in the top one percent, they are, however, considered old money. Technically. Maybe not as influential in some circles, but still respected. A strong lineage steeped in military tradition.
Her own father was a four-star general, her husband a retired admiral. Three-fourths of their kids followed suit with their own respected careers.
Even Lucas, her oldest grandson, is on track to go to West Point in a couple years.
Then there’s Paul. Who married an artist. Without a prenup.
God save them.
***
When Marlene finally hangs up the phone, the laundry has cooled and, for the most part, remains unfolded. Any motivation she had to do laundry lay dead on the floor along with what little faith she may have had for her middle child’s prospects.
But she’s convinced Paul to at least spend a couple days with his family. As well as to bring the artist.
So, there’s that at least.
Shockingly, it wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been— his wife has apparently been on him to come clean for a while now, which is… something. The situation might not be as bad as she feared.
It doesn’t soothe her in the slightest, but it does help cool her earlier temper into something more manageable. Something easier to swallow.
She just… really doesn’t understand— how this could have happened. How he could have kept something so important from them.
Unless, of course, he knew they wouldn’t approve.
And that’s a scary thought on its own.
Feeling utterly and emotionally spent, Marlene collapses onto the couch next to her distracted husband. On the television, a group of sports announcers sit around a curved table, arguing over things she can’t even begin to care about.
“Good talk?” Robert interrupts her thoughts. He’s still distracted, eyes stuck to the screen, but his head is slightly turned toward her.
She glares at him, something he remains completely oblivious to.
If she were more patient she’d make Paul tell his father what he’d done himself, but knowing him, he’ll probably wait until the last minute– or just show up with her in tow and break it to the family then.
A dull roar rises from the direction of the tv. Robert clutches the remote in his hand, knuckles white as he mutters encouragement at the screen, getting louder by the second. Her head throbs in time; an eye twitches.
She’s distracted by the soft ping! of her phone. It’s Paul.
She stares at the message. Reads it. Then reads it again for good measure. It doesn’t change.
“YES!” Her husband leaps up and bellows at the screen. “ALL THE WAY, COME ON, BABY!”
The Patriots score a touchdown.
Marlene doesn’t notice, because in stark black and white, the text reads:
From: Paulie
I forgot to mention– Sally has a son. His name is Percy.