PHOTOGRAPHS & MEMORIES

By: Judy Darnell
jkdarnell@cox.net



Mark McCormick turned over in his sleep, frowning a little as his pleasant dream slipped away. Eyes opening, he started to yawn but stopped midway, his body tensing. Senses suddenly alert, he listened carefully. Someone, or something, was moving around downstairs, in the living room just below the open bedroom loft. He threw back the covers, creeping quietly to the top of the stairs. Moonlight streamed through the windows, providing just enough light to make out the stumbling figure below. Definitely a someone, though, and a loud one at that.

'Oh, great,' he thought, as the shadowy intruder sat down heavily on the coffee table and appeared to be staring into the empty fireplace. One security alarm in the entire Gatehouse, and this fellow was practically sitting on top of it. What was he supposed to do, say 'Excuse me' and step over him? He didn't have long to think about it, as the man stood and turned slowly toward the stairway.

"Aww, shit..." McCormick mumbled, grabbing a small racing trophy sitting atop the TV. Maybe it would pass as a gun in the darkness.

"Hold it!" He yelled, standing in a crouch at the top of the stairs, the trophy clutched in both hands and pointed menacingly downward.

The intruder stopped, then asked in a puzzled voice, "Hold what?"

McCormick didn't have an answer for that, and the moment stretched as he tried to decide what to do next.

The intruder decided for him as he sat down unsteadily on the bottom step. "Don't shoot, okay? I'm not dangerous. Just drunk."

McCormick lowered his pseudo-weapon slowly, gut telling him that the man was speaking the truth. But it wouldn't do to be too careless, though, so he stayed where he was. "Okay. I won't shoot as long as you don't make any sudden moves. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Name's Coop." The man smiled up at him sloppily. It was a disarmingly friendly look, and McCormick almost caught himself smiling back. "And I'm here," he went on, throwing one arm out dramatically, "Because it seemed like the right place to be."

"'The right place to be'?" McCormick squinted in the darkness, trying to see the man more clearly. "I don't know you, do I?"

The man shook his head after giving the question some consideration. "Don't think so. Name's Coop." He offered again, helpfully.

McCormick chuckled, amused despite the strange circumstances. Hardcastle was just gonna love this. Seven acres of private property in an exclusive neighborhood, and a drunk just 'wandered' into his Gatehouse. "Well, Coop," he said, coming cautiously down the stairs and stepping carefully around the midnight intruder, "You better count yourself lucky that I didn't shoot first and ask questions later. I don't know where you think you are, but believe me, this ain't it." He turned on the overhead light, causing them both to squint in the sudden glare.

"Aaggghh," Coop moaned, lowering his head into his hands, "You coulda warned me you were gonna do that."

McCormick smiled, shaking his head in sympathy. His unwanted visitor was a stocky blond in his mid- thirties, dressed in a dark suit that had probably looked very nice 24 hours earlier. Now, however, both it and its wearer reeked of whiskey, evidence of the massive hangover the man would soon be feeling. McCormick had tied a few on himself over the years, and he didn't envy the stranger his 'morning after'.

"Uhhh... Coop?" He asked hesitantly as the man slumped against the bannister, seemingly settled in for the night, "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Came through the door, of course," Coop replied, as though the answer should be obvious.

"No, I mean how did you get here? To this place? Man, don't you know you're on private property? I live here. You just walked into my living room!"

"You live here?" Coop looked around, appearing suddenly confused. "But... this is the place. Furniture's different, but... this is the Gatehouse. Gulls-Way, right? I am at Gulls-Way?"

McCormick didn't have time to answer as the front door opened and Hardcastle's curious face appeared.

"You okay, McCormick? Saw the lights come on, and figured that peanut butter and pizza must've caught up with you."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Hardcase, but we've got company." McCormick stood aside so that he no longer blocked the Judge's view of the staircase.

Coop looked up and smiled, the same bleary-eyed look he had given McCormick earlier. "Hiya, Judge."

Hardcastle's startled expression faded as an answering smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's been a long time, Coop."

"That it has," Coop nodded affably, "A long, long time."

McCormick looked from one man to the other. Several times. "I take it you two know each other?"

"'M very drunk, Judge." Coop ignored the question, his eyes locked on Hardcastle's, "...and I'm very sorry... that I'm very drunk..."

"Not as sorry as you're gonna be in a few hours," Hardcastle muttered, moving across the room to help the drunken visitor to his feet. "C'mon, let's get you over to the house and start sobering you up."

"I can fix some coffee," McCormick volunteered, his curiosity wanting to keep the two men right where they were.

"Nah, that's okay, kid." Hardcastle swept the offer aside, "You go on back to sleep, and I'll take care of ol' Coop, here."

"I don't mind, Judge; I'm not sleepy now."

"I said I'll take care of it, McCormick."

"Oh. Well... yeah, okay." McCormick had heard that tone of voice enough times that he knew not to challenge it. He stood back and watched silently as Hardcastle helped the unsteady stranger out the door and across the patio. He wondered what the hell was going on, perplexed at Hardcastle's secretive manner. And who the hell was this 'Coop'?

*** *** ***


Milton Hardcastle didn't have much sympathy for drunks, but there were exceptions to every rule. Jonathan Cooper was one of them. Born the same year as the Judge's deceased son, he had been, from kindergarten until the final days, the younger Hardcastle's best friend. The Judge paused, lost in thought as he prepared breakfast. Almost eleven years since his son had died; almost that long since he had seen young Cooper. Where did the years go?

"Morning, Judge."

Hardcastle turned at the greeting, not surprised at the dismal sight that stood before him. "Mornin', Coop. Thought you'd be out for another couple of hours yet. Sit down, I'll fix you some breakfast... if you can handle it."

"Oh, God, don't even mention it." Cooper looked distinctly ill as he walked slowly over to a kitchen chair. "I'll take you up on the 'sit down' part, though."

"Doesn't look like you got much choice." Hardcastle poured a glass of tomato juice, setting it on the table beside a bottle of aspirin.

"Bon Appetit," Cooper muttered, staring at the offering with distaste.

"Take 'em." Hardcastle pointed at the aspirin. "Then you can start telling me what the hell's going on. Haven't seen you in over ten years, and then you show up in the middle of the night in my Gatehouse. Drunk outta your mind. Go on, Coop, take 'em."

Cooper swallowed the proffered aspirin, making a face at the bitter taste. "I'm sorry about last night, Judge; and I appreciate your letting me sleep it off. All the times I thought about coming by here to see you...I sure never planned it to be like this."

Hardcastle sat down with his own breakfast of toast, juice, and scrambled eggs. Ignoring Cooper's nauseated look, he plowed ahead with his questions. "Okay. So? I'm still waitin' on an explanation."

"Long version or short?"

Hardcastle smiled. Coop always had been good at evading questions. "Take your time. I've got all day."

"Well, my mother died last month."

Hardcastle's smile faded as he remembered seeing the obituary in the newspaper. He and McCormick had just come back from New Jersey after the disastrous attempt at a father and son reunion between Mark and Sonny Daye. Hardcastle had skimmed through the backlog of papers, and had been saddened to see that Mary Cooper had passed away.

"I'm sorry, Coop," he said slowly, "I had forgotten, and I didn't make it to the funeral. I was out of town," he explained, "and I didn't know about your mother's death till after I got back."

"Yeah, I figured it must have been something like that. I've got to admit I was surprised when you weren't at the funeral. There were so many people there that I hadn't seen in years."

"You still live in, where, Maine... you and Elaine?"

"Yeah, kids are still in school, so she didn't come with me. We love it there, and I knew I wanted to stay from the first time I ever saw it."

"That's all real good, Coop, but it still doesn't tell me what the hell you thought you were doing last night."

"Welll..." Cooper dragged the word out, "This is where the explaining gets a little difficult."

"I'm a judge, remember? I'm used to people trying to give me logical reasons for why they get caught in stupid situations."

"Okay," Cooper sighed. "I flew back out here a couple of days ago to take care of closing out the house so it can be sold. And yesterday... I dunno, it was just going to be a few drinks, but I was kinda down, and you saw the result. I went on a real bender."

"My Gatehouse," Hardcastle reminded.

"You're not going to let me out of this, are you?" Coop grinned sheepishly.

"Nope."

"Welll..."

"You are gonna take all day," Hardcastle snorted. "Okay, let me fill in a few of the blank spaces. When you were in college you used to have a tendency to get really snockered after a big test, and you wouldn't wanna go home where your parents would see you. My conniving son would then hide you out in the Gatehouse to sleep it off, after phoning your folks to say you were spending the night here."

Cooper's mouth fell open. "You knew! You knew the whole time!"

The Judge nodded. "So did your folks. We didn't like the drinking, but we figured if you were gonna do it, then better to sleep it off where you were safe."

"Mrs. Hardcastle?"

"She was the first one to catch on."

Cooper chuckled ruefully. "And we thought we were being so smart. So cool."

"Who's smart and cool?" McCormick's voice joined the conversation as he strolled into the kitchen, plopping down at the table.

"Not me, that's for sure," Cooper groaned, looking uncertainly at McCormick, "Didn't I meet you last night, or was that just a figment of my alcohol-soaked brain?"

"Yeah, I guess 'met' is one way to put it."

Hardcastle watched the two younger men as they each sat back and tried to size the other up. He hadn't said anything yet to Coop about who was now living in the Gatehouse - not that Coop had asked. McCormick, on the other hand, was obviously dying of curiosity, a fact easily attested to by the way he had come in and sat down without stopping to first pile a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast.

"Aren't you going to have breakfast, McCormick?" He finally asked.

"Aren't you going to make some introductions, Hardcase?" McCormick sent him an irritated glance. "I don't know if I'm sitting at a table with a long-lost relative, or a long-lost ax murderer." He smiled at Cooper, "Around him it's more likely the latter."

Hardcastle grinned despite himself. Watching McCormick spin his wheels in frustration had come to be one of his greatest joys in life.

"Okay, McCormick, before you sacrifice another one of your nine lives, I'll put you out of your misery. This is Jonathan Cooper. Haven't seen him for a long time, but Coop grew up around here. And Coop, this Mark McCormick. He lives in the Gatehouse now, and I think you kinda startled him when you showed up last night."

"Really sorry about that. I was trying to explain to the Judge here before you walked in, but it's kind of a long, involved story."

"No point in going back over it," Hardcastle interceded quickly, "Just make sure it doesn't happen again."

"No chance of that, Judge." Cooper grimaced as he sipped his juice. "I'm only gonna be here for two more days, and I've no intentions of getting looped like that again."

"Going back to Maine after you close up the house?"

"Yep. Gotta save some of my vacation time for the kids' summer trip."

"Time out." McCormick signalled with his hands, and turned a quizzical look towards Cooper. "Much as I hate to interrupt this Good 01' Boy reunion you two seem to have goin' on, I still wanna know why you came walkin' into my Gatehouse."

Hardcastle cleared his throat. Loudly. "Technically, McCormick, it's my Gatehouse."

"Squatter's rights," came McCormick's tight-lipped reply.

"Who are you, anyway?" Cooper asked, his expression just as quizzical as McCormick's.

"Now that would take the original long, involved story." McCormick leered wickedly as he glanced towards the Judge. "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

"Forget it, McCormick. This isn't the Children's Morning story hour, and you've got chores to do."

"But, Judge..."

"Tell ya what, Coop," Hardcastle cut McCormick off in mid-whine, "Why don't you come stay with us this next couple of nights? Better than stayin' by yourself in an empty house."

"That'd be real nice, Judge." Cooper grinned at McCormick's disgruntlement. "It'll give me time to answer some of your friend's questions. And maybe ask a few of my own."

Hardcastle tried to ignore McCormick's triumphant smirk. "I've got one question you can answer right now," he said, "I'm presuming you've got a rental car while you're out here... so, where the hell is it? I know you were skunked, but you couldn't have walked here from your house."

"Nah. And don't look so disapproving. Owner of the last bar I was at insisted I leave the car in his parking lot and take a cab. Had the driver stop outside your fence, at the back gate."

"You climbed my fence in the middle of the night?"

"Uhhh... yeah."

Hardcastle grinned, knowing exactly what Cooper was going to say next, joining in with him so that they said it together.

"Just like the old days."

*** *** ***


Hardcastle turned his pillow over and gave it a solid thump. It had been a long I day and he was tired, but for some reason sleep was proving elusive. He didn't want to lie in bed and think, but having a long-standing aversion to sleeping pills, there didn't seem to be much choice.

Having Coop around for the last two days had turned out to be quite enjoyable once the initial awkwardness was over, but talking so much about the past for the first time in years, had left him feeling strange. There were some things you just didn't want to talk about unless it was with someone who had experienced those things along with you. He had never realized how many memories he had buried; things that had slipped his mind completely until Coop would say something that would trigger a long-forgotten moment, making it live again in his mind's eye. In some ways it hurt, but he didn't want to think about that. It had been so long since he had let himself consciously think of his son for a drawn-out period of time. Fleeting moments, yes; there were always little things that couldn't help but remind you. The opening day of baseball season. Going to the lake and watching a freckled-faced kid catch his first fish. The little things that tugged at your heart. But you couldn't dwell, couldn't let yourself get caught up totally in the memories, or you wouldn't be able to bear the present. He had almost let that happen after Nancy died. First his son. Then his wife. Two deaths in just over a year's time...and for a while he had honestly wished it were three. Going on had seemed so goddamned pointless. But, in the end, he was a survivor. There was no regret for the additional years he had been given; they'd been good ones. Just like there was no regret for the past two days spent with Coop; they'd been good, too. There was a bittersweet pleasure in being able to talk about his son. Sort of like pulling at a scab; you knew it would make the wound reopen, but it felt so good.

Hardcastle pushed off the bedcovers and walked to the window, looking out at the Gatehouse. On this, his last night, Coop had wanted to stay out there like he used to so many years before. McCormick had been agreeable; he was used to the Judge sticking guests in with him. Hardcastle shook his head as he thought about it. It was an old habit, to automatically offer the Gatehouse to visitors; a habit he hadn't yet broken despite McCormick's having been in residence for well over a year. Old habits died hard, though, so he wasn't worried about it. Besides, it didn't kill the kid to have to drag out the rollaway. Sometimes he even cleaned up some of his mess... though that was never to be counted on. McCormick had a definite 'love me, love my mess' attitude.

The lights were still on, Hardcastle noticed, meaning the two younger men were still up. They had been polite to each other over the past several days, but this was the first occasion they had had to spend any length of time together without Hardcastle around. They didn't have anything at all in common, Hardcastle was sure of that. Still, as he stood looking out at the brightly lit Gatehouse, he couldn't help but wonder what they were talking about.

*** *** ***


McCormick knew the questions he wanted to ask, but he wasn't sure how to go about asking. He'd had a burning curiosity about the Judge's son from the moment he had first heard of his existence, but the subject had always been verboten. Now, though, the temptation was too great to pass up. He had managed to pretty much by-pass one temptation: To eavesdrop on Coop and the Judge when they were reminiscing. He had done it once, overhearing their talk of a long ago fishing trip that the two fathers and sons had gone on together. it had left him feeling so strange, like a ghoulish voyeur, that he hadn't eavesdropped again. But maybe now, Coop would tell him a few things. That is, if he felt like telling personal stuff to a nosey ex-con. He seemed friendly enough, but... McCormick took a long swallow of his beer as he looked at the man sprawled comfortably in front of the television ... hell, he didn't know how to begin.

"Coop..."

"Mark..."

They both laughed self-consciously as their voices overlapped.

"You first," McCormick said, welcoming the momentary chance for retreat.

Cooper popped the tab off his beer, studying McCormick for a moment before he spoke. "Not sure whether I should say this or not."

McCormick shrugged, a nervous smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "Might as well."

"Well, when the Judge first told me who you were, that he had an ex-con living in the Gatehouse, I thought he'd flipped."

"Yeah, I've heard it before..." McCormick sighed for effect, "The residence of two presidents, four ambassadors... and one ex-convict. There does seem to have been a lowering of standards."

"I'm not putting you down. I said when I first heard."

"But what? Now that you've been around me for a couple of days, seen that I'm not gonna run off with the family silver, you don't think he's flipped?"

"Nah. Not flipped, just... changed."

"In what way?"

"Hard to put a finger on," Cooper frowned, struggling for an answer. "It's just not something he would have done back in the old days. I'm not saying that he didn't used to try and help people, he's always done that, but... he always used to keep his distance. Didn't let himself get personally involved. I can even remember him talking about it once, explaining how a judge had to remain detached, keep things in perspective." He laughed, pushing back the strawlike hair that had fallen into his eyes. "If Cal could see this, his mouth would fall open so wide his jaw would be dragging on the floor."

"Hey, I wanted to ask you about that," McCormick seized at what seemed a perfect opening, "You keep calling the Judge's son 'Cal'. Milt was calling him that, too, when you were talking about him, but I had always thought his name was Tommy."

"You and the Judge have talked about him?" Cooper asked, surprised.

"No, never." McCormick shook his head. "That's always been a totally off-limits subject as far as the Judge was concerned. Nah, I ran across some old schoolwork once down in the basement where Hardcastle keeps all his papers. The name on 'em was Tommy Hardcastle." McCormick had a sudden, horrible thought. "He didn't have two sons, did he?"

"Unh-uh. Listen, did you ever..see the movie, 'East of Eden'?"

"Sure. James Dean. Great movie."

"And what was James Dean's name in the movie?"

McCormick smiled. "Cal.'"

"Me and Cal saw that movie together when we were ten years old," Cooper said, "and he went crazy over James Dean. Movie had been made a few years earlier, Dean was already dead, but Cal thought he was the greatest thing ever walked around on two legs. He didn't like being called Tommy, thought it sounded babyish, and up till then he had hated his middle name, Caleb. But all of a sudden, it was perfect, because 'Caleb' could be shortened to 'Cal'. Got to where he wouldn't answer to anything else, and even his mom finally had to give in." Cooper shrugged. "From then on, he was 'Cal'."

"Caleb." McCormick wrinkled his nose. "Wonder where Hardcastle came up with that one? I'd've expected him to probably name his son John Wayne Hardcastle, if his wife would've let him."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Cooper agreed, "But no way would Mrs. H have gone for that. No, the Thomas was after her father; and, Caleb, well, you do know that that's the Judge's middle name?"

McCormick sputtered, nearly choking on his beer. "Caleb!? That's what the 'C.' in the Milton C. stands for?"

"Yeah. What? Did I let out a big secret, or something?"

"I have never been able to get that man to tell me what his middle name was. I've guessed everything from Cicero to Chauncey, and he just looks at me with a straight face and says 'Nope'."

"And I blurt it right out," Cooper chuckled. "Man, he'll kill me for sure."

"No, he won't," McCormick grinned devilishly, "You'll be on the other side of the country."

"He'll kill me long distance?" Cooper suggested.

"Very possible. But tell you what, in order to keep you from the wrath of Hardcastle..."

"Sounds like a horror movie," Cooper interrupted.

McCormick snickered. "It is. But anyway, I'll try not to say anything about knowing. Just knowing'll be enough. He won't know that I know. But I'll know that I know."

Cooper thought about it for a moment. "I guess that makes some kind of convoluted sense."

McCormick started to make another wise-crack, but realized Cooper was looking at him with an odd expression, as though unsure of what he wanted to say next.

"Listen," Cooper finally said, "We're getting all side-tracked here, and there was something I wanted to say earlier. Don't know if this is going to sound right, especially after my remark about thinking the Judge had flipped for having' an ex-con here, but... I think you're good for him. I know it doesn't matter what I think and I'm sure you could care less, but I just wanted to say it."

McCormick shook his head in disagreement. "It always matters what people think. I know that some of the Judge's friends don't like me and that probably makes it rough on him, but there's nothing I can do about it."

"Then don't worry about them. I'm sure the Judge doesn't."

"No, he doesn't. Coop...Why do you say I'm good for him?"

"Because otherwise he'd be so damned lonely. I think you know that."

"But he has lots of friends..." McCormick paused, uncertain, trying to put his conflicting thoughts into words. "Sometimes, I think I'm the best thing that could have happened to him; I really seem to keep him on his toes. But, other times... it seems like I'm cramping his style, like I'm just in the way. I dunno..."

"You're too close to it, Mark. You can't see things from an outsider's point of view. This is Milton Hardcastle we're talking about. Do you really think you'd still be here if he didn't honestly want you here?'

"Guess not," McCormick said quietly. "Coop...what was he like?"

"Who?"

"Cal."

"Nothing like you, if that's what you're wondering. Reddish blond hair and about my height. He looked a lot like the Judge, if you want the truth."

"No, I didn't mean what did he look like. I mean...what was he like?"

Cooper looked at the floor, absently fiddling with his shirt collar. "That's hard to answer, Mark. Cal was my best friend, so I probably saw him different than anybody else. He was on the quiet side, liked to read. Enjoyed sports a lot, too, though he was never really gung-ho about any one particular one. Loved fishing. Hated hunting. Cal was a nice kid. He was no saint, though; like any other kid, he had his wild streak. I don't really mean wild, he never got in trouble with the law or anything like that, but he liked to have a good time. We both did, partying too much, stuff like that. Sometimes, we let the fun take over to much, and our grades would start slipping. Cal and the Judge used to really get into it over that."

"The Judge was rough on him?"

"Yeah... sort of. But he had every right to be, you know? I couldn't really see it at the time, but it's easy enough to understand now I'm older."

"So why did he go into the Marines?" McCormick shifted on the couch, not comfortable with the questions he was asking, but needing to hear the answers.

Seeing Cooper's hesitation, he tried to explain. "Look, I know you're probably thinking this is none of my business and maybe it isn't, not really. But the Judge has built such a wall around himself where his son is concerned. I could never, ever, ask him any of these things...but...I just feel like maybe I could understand him better sometimes if I knew more about where he was coming from. Does that make any sense at all?"

Cooper stood and walked to the window, leaned against it with his back to the room. "We were about halfway through our second year of college, and, like I said, we were partying way too much. Cal got a letter from the Dean notifying him that he was being placed on academic probation. Well, Cal and his dad had already gone round and round about what he was majoring in. The Judge wanted him to go into law, but Cal wasn't having any part of it--he liked architecture, and chose that. So when the Judge found out about the probation, there was a real explosion. He lit into Cal about being a spoiled rich kid, having everything handed to him too easy. Said he was using college to escape responsibility, but he'd have to be a man someday, face reality and make his own way in life. Told Cal if he didn't stop all the partying and at least try to act like a halfway responsible adult, he'd wind up being just another longhaired California beach bum. And if he expected his parents to finance that, he was crazy. The Judge was just letting off some steam, though, you know? He was mad, and he had every right to be... but Cal overreacted."

"He quit school and went into the Marines." McCormick filled in the obvious, and ultimately tragic, conclusion.

"Yep." Cooper joined McCormick on the couch, sinking down into the soft cushions. "That's exactly what he did. Wanted to prove he could hack it just like his old man had; chose the Marines 'cause Hardcase had been in the Army and was going to go him one better. And I guess you know the rest of it. So... now, maybe, you can understand why it's so hard for the Judge to talk about. He'll never stop blaming himself for what happened."

McCormick felt sick to his stomach. He had wanted to know about the Judge's son. Now he did. He wished he'd never asked.

*** *** ***


Hardcastle closed the photo album and leaned back in his chair wearily. It was the first time in years he had looked at the old family pictures, and though many had brought a smile, he couldn't escape the empty feeling that had come upon him as he reached the end.

He didn't sigh as he stood up from the desk , but he was conscious of the effort it took not to, and that was just as bad. He could almost feel the cloud of depression that seemed ready to blanket him. He understood it, knew he had allowed the old wound to be re-opened and couldn't expect it to heal up overnight, but understanding didn't make it hurt any less.

He let his thoughts drift to Cooper, mentally re-living the brief visit. It was only two days since the young man had left, but already the visit was taking on an unreal quality. Jonathan Cooper, married and a family man, was thirty-five years old now. His son would be that age, if he had lived. It didn't seem possible. It wasn't that he hadn't been glad to see Cooper after so many years. It was just that he couldn't deny the sense of relief when he'd left. Every time Coop had walked into the room, a part of him had automatically looked for his son to be right behind him. Coop and Cal, the terrible twins, his wife had once nicknamed them. Hardly ever saw one of them without the other close at hand. But now Coop had gone back to Maine and his family, and he had to shake this mood he had let himself get caught up in.

He looked out the window, wondering what McCormick was up to. The kid had seemed subdued ever since the night Coop had stayed at the Gatehouse, and Hardcastle didn't like the implications of that. He'd probably hit Coop up with a bunch of I questions about the Judge's past, and then didn't like the answers when he'd heard them. 'So, he shouldn't have asked,' Hardcastle thought, 'None of his damned business.' Deep inside, the Judge sensed that he was over-reacting, but he squelched the feeling before it could surface. His past was no one's concern but his own.

He was still frowning as he walked outside and looked around for McCormick. The kid had been supposed to go pick up a new pool filter, but the Judge knew, without any doubt, that it had been forgotten. McCormick had no trouble remembering the odds on a ballgame played two years earlier, or who had won any obscure auto race ever driven, but when it came to his chores he seemed to suffer from mental meltdown.

"Mornin', Judge," came a disembodied voice from somewhere in the garage. "What are you doin', McCormick?" Hardcastle stared, dismayed, at the sight that greeted him. At least half the Coyote's innards lay spread across the garage floor.

"Tryin' to fix that leak in the fuel injection-system." McCormick wiped his grimy face with an equally grimy hand.

"You're supposed to be checkin' on our new pool filter."

"Oh, yeah." McCormick shrugged, brushing his lapse off. "I forgot. I'll get it after lunch."

"You'll go get it now. Stop playing with that tinker toy and get movin'."

Hardcastle knew he was being deliberately perverse, but, goddamnit, he felt like it. Why couldn't the kid ever remember stuff without having to be told a half a dozen times.

"Okay, okay," McCormick raised his hands in surrender, "I'll go pick up the filter. Geez."

"Suppose you'll have to take the truck," Hardcastle grumbled. "I was gonna go pick up some peat moss, but now it'll have to wait."

"No problem, Judge," McCormick grinned, "I can take the 'Vette."

Hardcastle didn't rise to the bait. "Forget the whole damn thing, McCormick," he said, turning and starting to walk off. "I'll do it all myself. Don,t know why I keep expecting you to learn any sense of responsibility. Oughtta know better by now."

"Hey, Judge..." McCormick came running after him, circling around and blocking his progress, "I was only kidding. Christ, I know you're not gonna let me drive the Corvette. It was a joke."

Hardcastle couldn't avoid looking at the earnest face. Dammit, though. Couldn't the kid see that he wasn't in any mood for jokes. He wasn't in the mood for anything. He just wanted to be left alone.

"Judge? You okay?"

"I'm fine, McCormick," he finally answered in a low, quiet voice. "I'm just tired of havin' to repeat myself over and over to get any work out of you. Now take the truck and go get the filter."

"I can pick up the peat moss, too," McCormick offered.

"Don't bother." Hardcastle delved into his pocket for the keys.

"It's no bother. I'll pick it up."

Hardcastle clenched his fist tightly around the keys, searching for a patience that seemed determined to elude his grasp. "I said forget it! D'ya see what I mean!? Even now, I'm still having to tell you over and over!"

He slapped the keys into McCormick's hand and stalked off. He didn't really know why he was angry. He didn't really care.

*** *** ***


McCormick pulled into the driveway and parked, making sure that the dented front fender wasn't visible from the house. The accident hadn't been his fault -- he had no control over idiots who didn't stop at stop signs -- but Hardcase was going to have a fit.

Looking around stealthily, he got out and examined the mangled fender. "Why me?" He muttered, "And why now?"

He stood back and sighed, knowing he had to go into the house and tell the Judge what had happened to his truck, but feeling, at the moment, that he'd rather walk through fire than do so. Just the thought of facing Milton Hardcastle, his bad mood in full flight, was enough to give anyone with common sense a good case of the shakes. The Hardcastle wrath, that he had joked about with Cooper, was no laughing matter under the circumstances. And that was the problem: The circumstances. Hell, he was used to Hardcastle's hair-trigger temper. A full day without being yelled at least once would have made him wonder if the Judge wasn't feeling well. But this time it was different, and he felt as if he were stumbling blindfolded in a mine field. Okay, he knew the Judge was caught up in memories of his dead son; that was unavoidable after Cooper's visit. And he knew not to say anything, or ask anything, about it. Hardcastle guarded his privacy with the tenacity of a pit bull, a fact that McCormick wished he had respected a little sooner. His curiosity was going to do him in yet, he thought bitterly. He should have known better after last month, after tracking down his old man. Talk about a major league mistake. But did he learn from it? Hell no. He had leapt at the opportunity to find out about the Judge's son. If only Cooper had never come staggering into the Gatehouse that night. Better to leave the past alone, just let it rest since you couldn't ever go back and change things. If he'd learned nothing else from the New Jersey fiasco, at least he should have learned that.

"You got the filter, McCormick?" came the bellowing voice.

Lost in thought, he hadn't heard the approaching footsteps, and he whirled around, heart thumping wildly. "Jeez, Hardcase, don't sneak up on me like that."

"You didn't get the filter." Hardcastle scowled at the empty truck bed.

"Uh...no, not exactly." McCormick leaned to one side, endeavoring to cover the damaged fender as much as possible as Hardcastle turned from the truckbed.

"What's going on?" Hardcastle asked, suspicious, his scowl now directed at McCormick's oddly contorted posture.

"It wasn't my fault, Judge. Even the cops said so."

"What cops?" Hardcastle pushed the slowly straightening ex-con to one side as his eyes took in what had been a pristine silver-gray fender. "My truck!"

"Now, Judge..."

"My truck! What is that?"

"A dent?" McCormick offered helpfully, rushing into the rest of his speech as he saw Hardcastle's face settle into its most narrow-eyed and glowering expression. "The other guy ran a stop sign, Judge, and the cops wrote him up. I'm the innocent victim for once in my life, I swear."

Hardcastle didn't say anything.

"Look, Judge, I'm sorry..." McCormick smiled nervously, not used to dealing with a silent Hardcastle. "Hey, at least it wasn't the 'Vette."

Hardcastle's narrowed eyes glared coldly at the younger man. "Is that supposed to make it better, McCormick? Or worse yet, is it supposed to be funny?"

McCormick groaned inwardly. He didn't know what to say to Hardcastle when he was in this kind of mood. And no matter what he said, the Judge took it wrong. A spark of anger flared for an instant as he stared back at the Judge. Okay, dammit, so Hardcastle was miserable right now. That didn't give the old donkey the right to take it out on him. He'd been miserable after finding Sonny, still was to a degree, but he hadn't taken it out on Hardcastle.

"No, Judge," he finally answered, "I'm not tryin' to be funny. I just meant the truck will be easier, and cheaper, to get fixed."

"Right." Hardcastle started towards the pool area, adding, "Get on the phone and get some estimates."

"Estimates? But, we always use Benny."

Hardcastle stopped, glared back at McCormick, then went on without a word.

McCormick watched him go, belatedly remembering the Judge's earlier remark about having to tell him stuff over and over. The spark of anger faded to self-pity as he headed for the kitchen to grab a bite before starting in on the phone calls. Hell, the mood Hardcastle was in, everything he did was wrong.

*** *** ***


Settling down with the L.A. Yellow Pages, McCormick couldn't avoid seeing the photo album that lay on top of the desk. He knew, without lifting the cover, exactly what would be inside. He stared at the album for several minutes, not wanting to open it, yet at the same time irresistibly drawn to see with his own eyes the young man who had been Hardcastle's pride and joy, and, ultimately, his heartbreak.

He opened the album to a random page in the middle, a studio portrait of the family. Hardcastle looked much as he would have imagined him thirty years earlier, and Nancy was truly beautiful. A beauty that had later matured without fading, as he had seen from the picture of her that Hardcastle kept on the mantle. He couldn't help but smile at the pint-sized version of the Judge that sat in the place of 'honor, between his parents. Cooper hadn't lied when he'd said that Cal looked like his father.

He flipped to another page, further back. Snapshots made at Christmas. Cal looked to be about thirteen or fourteen as he helped his father decorate the tree, as he smilingly handed a brightly wrapped gift to his mother. McCormick chuckled as he looked at what had to be the last photograph taken that day. Hardcastle's junior and senior, both flaked out in the den, sound asleep.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Startled, McCormick looked up to see Hardcastle standing in the doorway, his face a frozen, angry mask.

"I was...I was..." He swallowed hard, not bothering to finish the sentence. It was obvious what he was doing. He closed the album carefully, trying to look anywhere but at Hardcastle.

The Judge approached the desk, leaned on it heavily as he looked down at McCormick. "Are you satisfied?"

McCormick shrugged miserably, wishing he could sink through the floor. "I didn't mean to... It was just lying there..." He stood, moving awkwardly to the side of the desk, uncertain whether to stay, or get out of Hardcastle's sight.

"No-body," Hardcastle stated with cold, careful emphasis, "And I mean nobody, sticks their nose into my.private life, McCormick. Oh, you've probably been havin' a hell of a time here lately. First, Coop comes along and you see a chance to ask him all those questions that you damn well knew better than to ask me. Then, you mope around, ignoring your chores and responsibilities. And now, you go snoopin' around in my den, goin' through my stuff--"

"I wasn't snooping," McCormick objected with equal anger, "I wasn't looking for anything - it was right here on the desk. Hell, I'd've never even come in here if you hadn't insisted on getting those estimates."

Hardcastle snatched up the album, clasping it closely as he spoke in a cutting tone, "Don't you ever again presume that you're anything more than what I said you were: You're here in my custody, to do work around the estate and ride shotgun on my cases. You have no right to force your way into a part of my life that is not your concern. You understand me?"

Stung, McCormick nodded, tight-lipped; Hardcastle continued, features and voice as hard as granite, "You want to look at pictures, McCormick, then go dig out your own family album,. But don't you ever go-stickin' your face into mine again."

McCormick swallowed hard, wiping the back of his hand defensively across his eyes before the threatening tears could spill out. He hadn't meant to hurt the Judge, but God... did the man think he had a monopoly on pain? Couldn't he see that his words were cutting his friend to ribbons? Or maybe...he just didn't care any longer.

McCormick walked slowly from the room, feeling the Judge's eyes on his back as he paused hesitantly at the doorway. He turned halfway, looking steadfastly at the floor as the sad, bitter words summed up the story of his life.

"I don't have an album to look at, Judge. I never did."

*** *** ***


Hardcastle stood, not moving, for several minutes after McCormick left. The younger man's quietly spoken words had pierced him to he heart. Now, his anger abating, he felt empty, like a balloon suddenly deprived of air.

He breathed deeply, noting with a detached surprise that he still held the album clutched to his chest. Placing it on the desk, he sat down, leaning his face into his hands.

Christ, what was he thinking about, talking to McCormick that way. Feeling depressed and walking around in a self-pitying snit was one thing. His damnable temper, though, that was something else. He shouldn't have said the things he did; hurtful, accusing words that were totally out of line. He had left the album right on the desk, and McCormick being McCormick, of course he had looked at it; anyone would have.

His young friend's words replayed themselves painfully in the Judge's mind. No, he thought regretfully, I don't guess you do have an album, do you, kiddo? Sonny Daye wasn't exactly the type to play doting dad with a Kodak Brownie. And your mom probably never had the time or the money after that creep walked out on her. What then? Boys' Homes maybe, or a string of foster parents.

Hardcastle leaned back in his chair, finally letting the sigh escape. He'd been so caught up in his own memories, so angry with himself over long ago mistakes, that he'd shut everybody else out while he castigated himself over things that could never be changed. 'Everybody else', a loose way of saying he'd shut out McCormick. Worse, he'd used him as the scapegoat for his own guilty anger.

It hurt now, to remember the look on the kid's face as he'd lit into him. The quick, jerky way he'd wiped at his eyes. It was such a 'little boy' gesture. And that was one thing that McCormick had never had a chance to be -- no wonder Mark had been smiling over the pictures when he had walked into the room.

The Judge opened the album, smiling faintly at the photo it presented. Cal had been about twelve, and he was making a mighty attempt at lifting some of his father's weights. Hardcastle himself was in the background, cheering him on. The next photo was of an impromptu father and son wrestling match on the floor, begun after Cal had given up on the weights. God, but they had been happy then. So very happy. That much, at least, no one could ever take away. Photographs and memories. The things you clutched to your heart and held onto when life was bad.

But what if you didn't have the photographs? And most of your memories were pretty lousy? What did you hold onto then?

Hardcastle turned and looked out the window, at the Gatehouse. "I really stuck my foot in it this time, didn't I, kiddo? Hell, I didn't even ask if you were okay after I saw the truck."

He stood up slowly, closing the album and putting it away. An old saying was whirling through his mind, and though it was somewhat cliched, he couldn't deny its validity. 'Those who do not learn from their mistakes, are doomed to go on repeating them.'

His temper had been the impetus that had ultimately cost him one son. McCormick wasn't Cal, wasn't his son -- but he mattered in his own right. He was valued, and though Hardcastle couldn't say it out loud, he was loved.

His anger had cost him dearly once.

He wouldn't pay the price a second time.

*** *** ***


McCormick stared, unseeing, into the fireplace. He was trying not to think of what the Judge had said, but in his typical fashion, found he could think of nothing else. It seemed as though those few, hurtful sentences had opened a floodgate; one that up till now had served as a barricade for all the things that he simply couldn't deal with. Anger, self-pity, and the old, powerful urge to take flight all warred for control of his emotions.

He was surprised to hear a knock on the door. Hardcastle usually just barged right on in. But then, like the Judge had said, it was his Gatehouse.

"Come in," he said formally, feeling like an unwanted visitor in what he had considered to be, to some extent, his own home. He didn't look up as Hardcastle entered, bracing himself for what was sure to come - the 'it's time for a talk' routine, the old heave ho. It was the old, old story. You let yourself care about someone, let yourself think that they cared for you -- then you found out just how wrong you'd been.

"McCormick," the Judge walked over and leaned against the fireplace, gazing down at him, "I think we need to talk."

McCormick looked up, taking a deep shuddering breath before he tried to speak. "How soon do you want me to leave?"

"What?! What do you mean, 'leave'?"

McCormick's face twisted with a tight, mirthless smile. "Oh. Cheap labor must be hard to come by these days."

Hardcastle rubbed a hand over his face, not saying anything until he sat down in the chair opposite McCormick's. "That's got nothing to do with it, kiddo. And l never said anything about wantin' you to leave."

"Some things don't have to be said out loud." McCormick addressed the floor quietly, not trusting himself to look at the Judge. "Even a motorhead like me can tell when somebody doesn't want him around."

"McCormick...look at me."

He couldn't. McCormick shut his eyes, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Just say what you gotta say, Judge."

Hardcastle was silent for so long that McCormick finally had to look. It wasn't like Hardcastle to be at a loss for words.

The Judge cleared his throat as he looked around the room.

McCormick sat up straight in his chair. Waiting.

"Listen, kiddo," Hardcastle managed to break the silence, "I'm not too good at stuff like this, so bear with me. I said a lot of things that I had no right to say. I didn't mean 'em... and I don't know why I said 'em. I was mad at the world, and you were a convenient twenty-four-hour-a-day target. I know sayin' I'm sorry probably don't mean a hell of a lot... but I am. Sorry, I mean!"

"Okay."

Hardcastle waited for more, but it didn't seem that McCormick was going to say anything else. "'Okay'? That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

McCormick looked down at his hands, concentrated on attacking a hangnail. "No. Long as we're offering up 'sorrys', I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been asking Coop about stuff that was none of my business. Shouldn't have touched your family album. I forgot my place, that's all. It won't happen again."

Hardcastle flinched at the suppressed anger in the words. His 'place'? "You might as well let it out, kiddo. Before you explode."

"Nothin' to let out."

"For cryin' out loud, McCormick. You're so tight you'd go off like a rocket if anyone touched you. I know you're mad, and you've got every right to be."

"No! No, I don't! That's the one thing you made perfectly clear. I shoulda caught on last month after we tracked down Sonny, but hey, I'm slow."

Hardcastle shook his head in confusion. The kid had somehow switched gears in the middle of the conversation, and left him behind.

"What are you talking about, McCormick? Sonny Daye's got nothin' to do with me actin' like a damn fool jackass for the past coupla days."

"That's not what I mean. You were talkin' about my 'rights'... and all I'm sayin' is that I don't have any rights, and I should have caught on sooner.

Look," he went on, seeing that Hardcastle still didn't know what he was talking about, "Remember after we first saw Sonny? We were walking on the Boardwalk the next day, and I was goin' on about what a disappointment he was. Then you said something about how every kid likes to think his father is a hero and how you used to wish your old man was Babe Ruth. Then I said something 'bout how you kinda look like Babe Ruth. And you said, 'I'm not your father, kid. He is.' Well... that's what I mean. I shoulda caught on then."

With a final nod for emphasis, McCormick slumped back in his chair, attacking the hangnail viciously.

Hardcastle waited to hear if there was any more, mentally kicking himself for not having seen this coming. He'd known the kid was brooding about Sonny, but it had seemed so much easier not to talk about it. Now though, it was all too clear what a mistake that had been. A mistake he had compounded ten times over in the last few days. One father who cared too much for a son lost long ago. And one father who didn't give a damn when his son was there for the asking. God help the kid, no wonder he was bitter. But he had to be made to understand. Somehow.

"You got it all wrong, McCormick," he said quietly.

"No. I just finally got it all right." McCormick sighed, letting his hands drop and not bothering to hide his sadness. What did it matter? "You're not my father. And God knows, I'm sure not your son."

"No, you're not. But you're no substitute, either. I told you that a long time ago."

"Yeah, that you did. Guess you're right, I don't listen too good. You have to keep remindin' me."

"Nothin' wrong with how you listen, it's how you behave... You're messing up bad, though, on understanding what I mean a lot of the time. Substitute, McCormick. Think about it. A substitute is a temporary replacement. You've never been that."

"Temporary?" McCormick repeated, looking at the Judge curiously. "I never stopped to think about it that way."

"Then think about it now. And while you're at it, get it through your head that I'm no 'substitute' for your dad. You have a father, just like I had a son, and neither one of us needs any substitutes. Whatever there is between us, friendship or whatever you wanna call it, it's not just a temporary replacement until something better comes along. At least, that's how I feel about it... Can't speak for you."

McCormick smiled uncertainly as he considered Hardcastle's words, leaning forward and propping his chin in his hands. "Friendship ... or whatever ... with all it's rights and privileges." He looked at the Judge, beginning to understand what the older man was getting at. "Privileges ... and responsibilities. Like bein' there, twenty-four-hours-a-day, when your friend's so mad at the world that he has to take it out on somebody."

"And vice-versa, kiddo. I knew you were upset about Sonny, but I had no idea you were stewin' about anything I'd said back then. You shouldn't keep stuff like that inside. Just come on out with it. Coulda saved yourself a lotta hurt feelings and misunderstanding."

"Yeah, maybe." McCormick grinned, a four-star Mark McCormick special, "Or coulda got myself sentenced to cleanin' out your gutters twice a week. All dependin' on what kinda mood I caught you in."

"Keeps ya on your toes, kiddo." Hardcastle grinned back. "After all, what are friends for?"

*** *** ***


Hardcastle tried to ignore the noise emanating from a small radio beside the pool where McCormick was supposedly grilling steaks. The kid called it the 'Top Forty'; Hardcastle called it a pain in the butt.

He stuffed a paper sack into the trash can beside his desk, smiling as he looked at his new acquisition. The pages were empty now, but they weren't going to be that way for long.

It was never too late to build new memories.

Picking up his camera, he walked out the door.



THE END




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