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Jim felt it the moment he woke up: Paul hadn’t come home last night.
He’d never admit he could feel these things, it would make him sound crazy for all he knew, but feel them, he did: the absence of his oldest son. A thicker, sleepier silence than normal. The house a fraction of a degree colder.
Sunday breakfast was a lonely affair, as it so often was, even with Mike there. Mike didn’t know where Paul was, either, probably with John, said while staring down at this plate as if it were showing him the end of the world. Jim’s younger son adored John, would love to be with him and Paul, wherever they were, instead of eating breakfast with his old dad.
It wouldn’t be long before Mike stayed away all night, too, and there was nothing Jim could do about it. All Jim could hope for was that Mike wouldn’t fall under anyone’s spell the way Paul had fallen under John’s.
Not that Paul couldn’t hold his own with that Lennon. In fact, the way his oldest dealt with John and the Quarry Men, the way he commandeered the group of boys while serving them tea, then sat perched on the armrest of the settee, where John had installed himself, guitar in his lap—the way Paul smiled and listened to any of the boys’ objections to his proposed set list or plans for their next gig, knowing full well John would back him up and decide in his favor, not without first exchanging one of these looks with Paul, half comical, half…
It bothered Jim. It shouldn’t have, not with Paul finally finding his way to music, as Jim had always hoped he would. Not with John and Paul clearly leading the band together. And yet, it was hard to deny that Paul, Jim’s oldest son, for all intents and purposes, behaved as if he were John’s—
Jim cut off the thought before it could go any further.
But God, if he didn’t know better by now, he’d sit Paul down and give him a warning. Demonstrate what he looked like sometimes, batting his eyelashes the way he did, and giggling like a fool while that Lennon was holding forth.
Not that the things John said were all that funny, as far as Jim was concerned.
Jim finished off his tea and tried to calm down. This was the weekend, after all, and it wouldn’t do to spend it moping and ranting to himself. Paul couldn’t help the way he looked—unusual, not a face to be ignored.
He tried not to think the word, but it was there. Not enough, not quite right, but there. Pretty.
Jim told himself that a better father than himself would be proud of a son like Paul, instead of always assuming the worst, but, as proud as he was, Jim’s worries wouldn’t go away. He wasn’t sure why, and didn’t dare to pry. He saw his younger self when he looked at Paul, and he worried.
By now, Mike had cleaned off his breakfast and gone out back to experiment with his camera. He could get as lost in his hobby as Paul got lost in his music.
Strange sons I have, Jim mused, each in his own way. Bright, skilled at drawing and guitar tuning and developing pictures instead of playing sports, but well-liked all the same. Good boys, but difficult to handle, both of them. Too smart for their own good—but Jim didn’t want to complain about this, not even in the depths of his mind, because it was her sons’ brightness Mary had been proudest of. And it was here Jim felt he’d let her down: by failing to keep them on track at school. Without Mary, they’d turned into secret ravers, like himself.
Mike was different than Paul, easier in some ways. Jim knew he shouldn’t be as relieved as he was that Mike got into trouble at school, that he looked scrawny and tough with his crooked front teeth, his smile never the same after Paul, still a child, grabbed his little brother by the ankles and spun him around until he hit the pavement face first. But here it was—of his two strange, artistic sons, Mike, with his big mouth, fiery temper, and easy tears, was less unsettling than Paul, who rarely raised his voice. Paul, whose tremendous intelligence was always lurking, judging.
Since Mary’s death, and perhaps even before, Jim feared his sons would choose the wrong path, and that he would be powerless to stop them. He was old, after all. A bachelor, happy to play the field, snatched at the last possible moment. Mary had always been the one with the firm hand. And when she was gone, he was alone with two boys looking up at him, Paul’s oval face, Mike’s round one, both demanding he bring her back. Disappointed when he didn’t.
After a while they’d stopped crying, but the sobs were always there, the tears in their blank faces.
Jim had been hard on them, too hard sometimes, he knew this. But he’d only done it (all of it, including the beatings he’d regret for the rest of his life) because he was afraid that, with just the three of them, things would fall apart if he didn’t. He couldn’t let things go too far.
Not that he knew where that was.
As he cleaned up his breakfast and left the house, heading for a family visit and a full day of leisure, Jim told himself to trust life and let his worries go. What did it matter if Paul let his grades slip because of playing in a band? He was a teenage boy; all teenagers were in a band these days; it would be disturbing if Jim Mac’s son, of all people, were not. And it was a good enough band, nice boys for the most part, even that Lennon, occasionally. George was part of it, and that was a big relief. The Harrisons had been a treasure after Mary’s death.
Yes, Paul playing in a band was, overall, much better than Paul spending all his time with that boy Ian, the two of them posing in front of the mirror in their matching sports jackets, and hiding in Paul’s room all the time, or who knows where else, after Jim had made it clear he didn’t appreciate the secrecy.
The same thing was happening with John, but it was different. With Ian, Paul had blushed and protested when Jim asked him what they were up to all the time, didn’t they have other friends? Didn’t Ian have homework? Now, two years older, Paul kept his cool. You don’t understand. We’re writing, he said. In a tone that added, I’ll be out of your life if you try to stop me. Ridiculous impossibility of this aside (where the hell would Paul go?), he meant it.
The truth was, Jim didn’t push the issue, because he was afraid to interfere.
But he would, if necessary—to protect his son, he would.
Helped by the fair weather, the satisfaction of walking, fresh air, and good company, Jim finally managed to shed his dark thoughts. Singing together, in harmony, reminded him of what family was all about. As alone as he sometimes felt during the week, with nothing but work to look forward to and his growing sons as increasingly reluctant company, he wasn’t really alone. Being with his siblings reminded him of where he belonged, and where he came from.
And his memories were as rich and dense as ever: the thrill of playing the trumpet and later the piano, sweat leaking off his face, a dancing crowd before him, a cold beer after, up until the sunrise, walking home arm in arm. So much life. There were times when, listening to the Quarry Men, Jim could still feel the music in his hands, and was itching to join them. It couldn’t be, of course; they only indulged him for Paul’s sake. Let the old man have five minutes on the piano, it’s his house, after all. Still, he wouldn’t let it go, the music. Hoped it would be the last thing he forgot before it was time to go, even after Mary. Hoped it would still be there after death. Was there a point to heaven without it?
In a better mood, though still uneasy, Jim came home in the afternoon. The moment he set foot in the house he knew Paul had returned, and he wasn’t alone. The air smelled of cigarettes and lavender, burned toast and tea. John’s jacket lay on the settee, his and Paul’s guitars leaning against the arm rests; empty tea cups and biscuit crumbs littered the table, ashtray full, in blatant disregard of Jim’s rule of no cigarettes in the house—at least Paul had made John take off his shoes, both pairs lined up next to each other near the door.
Mike had left a note saying he was at his mate’s and would be back for dinner. He’d better be; it was his turn to cook.
Jim didn’t like it if John and Paul were alone together.
His budding cheer forgotten, he walked up the stairs. Pricked up his ears for sounds, any sounds, remembering the guitars in the living room. There was nothing but silence, a warmer silence than in the morning. The silence of sleep. At least Jim hoped it was sleep.
The door to Paul’s room appeared smaller than Jim remembered. Narrow and frail, yet menacing. Jim knew he would open it, there was no way he wouldn’t, the state of the living room alone was reason enough to call Paul and that Lennon to task. On Sunday, no less. Did they expect Jim to clean up after them?
And yet, he couldn’t do it. His heart beat in his throat. He felt the kind of helpless rage he didn’t trust. He didn’t want to end up breaking anything so badly it couldn’t be repaired. Carefully, conscious of his every move, he opened the door and stepped inside.
It was as he’d expected. John and Paul lay on the bed, on top of the neatly made-up blanket, close to each other so they both fit on the mattress. Both on their side, John facing the room, Paul behind him. Both were still dressed.
It smelled of sweat and…could it be butter? They must have eaten fried eggs, a late breakfast.
Jim stepped closer to the bed. Now he was close enough to hear them breathe.
John’s mouth was open, his face as innocent as Jim had ever seen it. More grown-up, too, earnest and kind. Good in a way Jim had never allowed himself to call John before. Without amending his suspicions of Paul’s impertinent friend in the least, Jim felt a pang of affection for the fatherless boy, for his freckles and thick eyebrows, and this unusual nose of his. Greasy hands curled up next to his face, like a baby’s.
And behind him, his body following John’s, lay Paul.
His oldest was too familiar to Jim to truly see him in day-to-day life. To Jim, Paul was a presence, not a person. He’d grown, of course, but Jim had never taken the time to truly look at him and the way he’d changed over the past few years. Now he did.
Paul’s long limbs were starting to fill in with muscle instead of fat, shoulders broader than Jim remembered, lower arm covered in dark down, adam’s apple pronounced. His face lay half hidden against John’s neck, and his right hand rested on John’s stomach, fingers underneath John’s t-shirt.
Jim understood exactly what he was seeing. He stood at the eye of the storm and looked down on Paul and John, scared either of them would move and do something that would force him to act, shout, throw John out of the house. Beat the living daylights out of Paul.
That’s what I should do, Jim thought, knowing he wouldn’t.
Jim left the room.
Without knowing what else he could do, and with Mike still gone, Jim got started on dinner. He waited for John and Paul to come downstairs, but when they did, his hands started shaking, and it was just as well they ignored him and didn’t clean up the mess they’d made, that John got his guitar and whispered to Paul in the hallway before calling out his goodbyes to Jim without showing his face—
It wasn’t that Jim was angry. Anger was too simple. It was that everything was different now, wasn’t it, with Paul sleeping wrapped up in that Lennon. The sensation of being in a familiar house despite nothing being the way it used to be reminded Jim of a time he wanted to forget.
Still, when he heard the door close behind John, he flinched. John had a standing invitation to stay for dinner, same as George, because Paul had insisted. And John was always hungry, just like Paul was always picky. If John didn’t stay, it meant Paul told him to leave.
And this troubled Jim most of all, because he wasn’t a fool. By separating John from his home, Paul set himself up for a choice that could only go one way.
When they’re grown, children never choose their parents.
Jim finished peeling the potatoes.
Finally, Mike came home, giddy with joy, and probably carrying film rolls full of girls and people who had no idea the younger McCartney was practicing his photography skills by taking secret snapshots of them from behind cars. Without much fuss, Jim told him to finish dinner and set the table, and no complaints, you are late, son.
“Someone’s in a mood,” Mike said, something he wouldn’t have dared to say to Jim’s face even months earlier. But he did as he was told.
“Did I miss John?” he called out to Paul, and Paul said, “yeah,” in a voice that betrayed nothing, strumming his guitar in the front room.
Jim joined him. With a sigh, he sat down in his arm chair, the one John sometimes occupied during Quarry Men rehearsals—that is, until Jim entered the room and Paul gave John a look, and John got up with some effort and fanfare to make space for Jim Mac.
Now Jim listened to Paul play his guitar. He looked young playing it. Maybe it was the music, their shared language, reminding Jim that, above all else, Paul would be his son. The melody was pretty, and Jim quickly picked it up and hummed along. Still playing, Paul smiled at him, without letting down his guard.
How Jim had hated this guitar at first—yes, hated it, when Paul had started playing it after Mary died. At first, Paul had done nothing, just disappeared inside himself, which was probably Jim’s fault—Jim was ashamed to admit it, but there it was: he’d made a spectacle of himself after Mary’s death, not fit to be around young children, even less fit to raise them.
But then, when Jim had calmed down, and it was time to carry on, the guitar playing started. Always, everywhere, Paul was sitting with his guitar, leaned over it, ready to crawl inside the instrument. He wasn’t even playing proper songs, he was just strumming cords, plucking the strings…
Until Mike, who had taken Mary’s death harder than anyone, had screamed at him and begged him to stop, and Paul told him to shut the fuck up, and locked himself in the bathroom. It was too much, it crossed a line, and the next time Paul ignored a whining Mike, just ignored him like a rock ignores a person talking to it, and continued playing the same melody over and over again with minuscule variations, Aunt Gin strode up to Paul tried to take the guitar away from him.
It could have been settled then if Paul hadn’t resisted her. He didn’t even look at her, just held on to the guitar without particular emotion, like a sleepwalker. When Paul didn’t let go, she slapped his hands off the strings, or tried to, and Paul made an ugly sound, and something inside Jim snapped, and he shouted, leave him be!
It was an ugly scene, especially considering what Gin and the other aunties had done for the family, but Jim had felt what would happen if she’d separate Paul from his guitar, and even imagining the idea of it terrified him. He knew in his soul that Paul wouldn’t come back to them without the music.
It still took a long time before Paul became nice to live with. But there did come a day when Paul started eating again, and then Paul started smiling again, and played them songs instead of endless reverberations. And one day, Jim came home to his two sons practicing a song by the Everly brothers. Paul gave Mike a hard time and made him repeat a verse each time he thought they’d made a mistake, and Mike complained at the top of his lungs, and in the end, they sounded great together. Just fantastic. That had been a good day.
Now Paul played around with a new song, one Jim didn’t know.
“Nice tune,” Jim said.
“One of John’s,” Paul said.
“I see,” Jim said. He found the harmony, hummed along with it, felt Paul relax next to him.
“I helped him with it,” Paul said.
This was his opening, Jim knew. He could ask: helped him, how? What is this John and Paul business? Gently, this time. Not as harsh as he’d been with Ian. He knew what was at stake now.
Instead, he said, “good. You did good.”
It wasn’t, not all of it was good. John was John, after all: honest at his core perhaps, but also rude, and cruel, and always in trouble. And if Paul was really—but he wasn’t. This was still childhood stuff. It would pass. It had to.
“Let’s hear one of yours,” Jim said.
“They’re all ours,” Paul said. “We write them together.”
“Are you sure this is the right idea,” Jim said. “You and John—"
“Of course it is,” Paul said stubbornly. “You’ll see.”
Jim closed his eyes. As he sometimes did, he thought, Mary. Help. She was gone, he knew that. But he kept hoping. And while he didn’t hear her, he could feel a deep breath go through him, a soothing stream of air.
And Jim did see. Did see John as part of his life, in one way or another, and Paul by his side, in one way or another, and it would never fully please him, but he couldn’t take this from Paul. Not unless he wanted eternal silence.
“All right,” he said. “Play me one of yours. Yours and John’s.”