Chapter Text
Chapter One
Happiness is a Warm Gun
It was strange, just the two of them, again. For the first time in over a decade, they had no wives to keep conversation flowing, no children to coo over – even Julian, who had functioned as a buffer for most of the trip, had run ahead, anxious to see if anyone had turned in his camera at the desk. So it was just John and Paul walking the streets of New York, shoulders hunched, both completely conscious of all the things they needed to say but neither finding the words. Occasionally glances would be shared, but immediately averted, eyes cast downward.
It was the first time in over a decade that these men could talk and neither had a thing to say.
As they continued to walk, the silence grew heavier and more foreboding – a tangible figure between them, drawing them further and further apart.
Finally the Dakota came into view. John quickened his pace slightly, anxious to return to the superficial normalcy his wife and sons created. Paul lagged just a step behind, taking in the bustle of the street.
“Mr. Lennon! Mr. Lennon!”
Was that a gun?
John was turning when a force slammed into him, pushing him backwards. As each shot rang out, John felt the impact through his chest: a burst of pressure with each one.
A moment passed, empty, without thought or feeling.
When John came back to himself, he was staring into the most beautiful eyes in the world. For the first time in over a decade, John held Paul’s eyes just inches from his own.
Paul’s fists were twisting in the fabric at John’s shoulders, and those eyes of his were filled with pain, but looking for something in John’s eyes. It was something they hadn’t shared in far too long.
Licking his lips, Paul croaked, “All right?”
John didn’t know; he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t think beyond the fact that Paul was with him again, really with him. John nodded once.
A small smile crept onto Paul’s face; his eyes beginning to cloud. “Good,” he whispered.
For a brief second, John thought Paul might kiss him, as Paul’s head fell forward, but it landed just to his left side.
He could feel Paul’s hair tickling his nose, Paul’s tears on his cheek, Paul’s breath in his ear.
“Fuck, this hurts,” Paul hissed, more to himself than to John.
Hurts?
All at once, the world came into focus. John could hear the anarchy that had descended after the shots had been fired. Cars speeding past, violence erupting around the gunman, screams – countless screams – filling the air.
One scream in particular stood out in John’s mind: it was the closest, the loudest, and the most heart-wrenching of sounds.
Jules?
“PAUL! PAUL!!” Julian’s screams were soon right above them. John could see him now, tugging at Paul’s shoulder, rolling him off John and onto his back. John hadn’t noticed Paul’s weight on top of him until it was gone, leaving him bereft.
“Paul!” Julian shouted, pressing his hands onto Paul’s chest.
Paul looked up at Julian with eyes glazed over as though he’d had entirely too much pot, and a big grin on his face.
“Hey, Jules,” he said, as he’d done countless times since Julian was a child.
Then the light in his eyes faded away.
Paul McCartney was dead, and John Lennon couldn’t breathe.
It was Ringo who told Linda.
Francesca had phoned him and told him Paul was hurt, so he naturally called Linda, not realizing he would be the first to get through.
“Hello?” Linda sounded distracted, but not upset.
“Linda, it’s Ritchie.”
“Oh, hi! I was just getting the kids ready for school. Can I call you back after I drop them off?”
“Er…” Ringo cleared his throat. “Have you talked to anyone today? Or seen the news?” He forced his voice to remain steady.
“No, just you. Why?—Oh, hold on.”
He heard her calling to Heather to get Stella off the counter before she fell and killed herself.
“Sorry about that. Now, what were you saying?”
Ringo cleared his throat again, and anxiously twisted the phone cord between his fingers. “Lin, you may want to sit down.”
“You’re starting to scare me, Ritch.” Her tone was light, but there was a frisson of fear to it.
“Lin…something happened in New York. I’m not sure of the details, but on the news they said that John, Paul and Jules were all taken to hospital. Some people are even saying…they’re even saying that Paul is dead.” His voice broke.
There was complete silence on the other end of the line.
“Lin?” Ringo switched the phone to his other ear. “Linda? Are you still there?”
He heard a sharp thud on her end. In the distance, he could hear Linda talking.
“All right, we need to go to school.” The thought occurred to him that she sounded dead, herself.
“But, Mum—”
“Now, Stella.” Her tone refused any arguments.
A far-off door slammed, and Ringo considered hanging up, but was stopped when a small voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Heather?”
“Ritchie?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on? Mum went completely pale and then dropped the phone. She didn’t hang up, she just let it slip out of her hand and walked away…I’ve never seen her like this.”
Ringo’s stomach turned. It had been hard enough telling Linda; now he had to tell one of the kids – sweet, delicate little Heather, no less.
“Heather, luv…something happened in New York.” He swiped his free hand over his brow and drew in a long, slow breath. “Your dad; he’s…” He couldn’t say it. Not again.
He didn’t need to.
“No,” Heather denied. “You’re lying.”
“Heather—”
“Dad is fine! You’re lying!” He could hear the sobs rising in her throat, despite her defiance. “Fuck you!”
“Heather, stop it!” he snapped, hoping to pull her out of her spiral.
“What are we going to do?! What are we going to do without Dad?”
“Heather…” He softened his tone now, pleading with her.
“Ritchie, we can’t do it without him! We can’t!”
“Listen, Heather. Just stay put for now. Barbara and I will be on the next flight to you. We’ll be there by dinner time, and we can figure out what to do from there. Once your mum gets back, stay inside until we get there, all right?”
It was a sign of her state of mind that she gave in so easily. “But, my sisters,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “they’re at school now...” Her thoughts were too scattered to put together fully. She trailed off.
“I’ll get someone to pick them up. You lot stay inside and whatever you do, don’t talk to the press.”
“Hullo?” George hated waking up early, especially to the shrill sound of a ringing phone. He spoke as if his mouth were full of gauze, and made it clear he was none too pleased.
“George, thank God!” came the frantic voice on the other end.
“Cyn?” He sat up quickly.
“I can’t get through to anyone! Ritchie isn’t home, Linda isn’t answering, the hospital isn’t answering their phones at all! I can’t find out anything except what I hear on the news!”
“Cynthia, what are you talking about?”
A sob. “Paul’s dead, Julian is in hospital, John and Yoko are the only ones with him and nobody is fucking telling me anything!”
George had always heard that surprising news could literally make your jaw drop; but he’d never really believed it until the moment he noticed his own mouth hanging open.
“Uh.” His mind had gone completely blank. Paul, dead?
“I can’t even get a flight to New York! ‘It’s too short notice’, they tell me, so Jules is alone and I can’t get to him!” She was breathless.
George pushed thoughts of Paul out of his head. He needed to focus on Cynthia and Julian right now.
“I can go to Jules. I can charter a plane.”
It was settled before George had even gotten out of bed. The plane was called, the arrangements made. Then George padded out of his bedroom and down the hallway towards the sound of the television.
“Eye witnesses say that this is where the gunman stood, awaiting the former Beatle,” a pretty blonde gestured behind herself.
Olivia sat watching; her pallor rendering her skin nearly translucent. The only sign of life was when she clutched Dhani closer to her chest at the haunting sight of the crime scene.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked her in a tone that could seem like disinterest, but was actually reflecting the numbness which had overcome his senses since the phone call. Numbness, which kept him upright and moving.
Olivia lowered her eyes, brushing a kiss on Dhani’s brow before answering. “I couldn’t bear to.” Her voice was so small.
“I’m going to New York.”
“I know.”
“Sir, can you tell me your name?”
He was fading in and out. He could see in flashes before everything became dark again. He could still hear, though.
Fingers wrapped cloth around his arms, pushed into his chest.
“His pulse is way too fast; we’re going to have to use a stronger sedative.”
“Sir, can you tell me your name?”
“P . . . Paul?” he croaked.
“Quiet, he’s trying to say something! Sir?”
“Paul. Where’s Paul?” he gasped into the darkness.
“Sir, we need you to tell us your name. Can you do that?”
Name?
He struggled to think, but it was like his head was filled with cotton balls. All that came to mind was Paul, and the light going out in his eyes.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” His face felt wet. He couldn’t understand why.
“Sir, you need to calm down or you could go into cardiac arrest.”
He was choking: choking on the knowledge that Paul had left him.
“Nothing’s working. We need to get his blood pressure down.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
There was a pause, some rummaging, the sound of something being fitted inside something else, and then a click. After that, there was music.
“Well, she was just seventeen. You know what I mean…”
The tightness in his chest loosened. He could feel the air moving in and out of his lungs.
“Paul,” he breathed, feeling his mind start to drift into sleep.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?”
“John Lennon.” And then nothing.
He awoke in a dim room with a steady beeping in his ears. For a brief moment, he could almost hear the melody of Blackbird overlaid on the high-pitched, steady note.
“Water,” he whispered, his throat parched.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
He turned to see Linda slumped in the chair beside him. She looked as awful as he felt.
Thoughts of water forgotten. “What are you doing here?” He felt agitated. Angry. He was unsure how much sense he was making.
She seemed to understand, though.
“The general consensus was that neither Julian nor you should wake up alone. George is sitting with Jules. Yoko had to go take care of Sean. Heather and Ringo were exhausted, so I volunteered to sit with you so they could rest. I wasn’t going to sleep, anyway.” She huffed in annoyance. “Of course, you weren’t supposed to wake up for another ten hours or so. They gave you enough sedatives to tranquilize an elephant.” She looked at him as though he’d woken up just to annoy her.
John felt his back tense in fury. “So sorry to be a bother,” he sneered.
“Fuck you. I don’t need to deal with this shit.” Linda stood up and stormed out of the room. He heard shouting in the hallway, and then George came rushing into the room.
“John!”
George, quite uncharacteristically, nearly jumped on top of him in an effort to pull him close. John grasped his arm as he felt George kiss the top of his head, pulling his legs up on the bed to lay at John’s side.
“You had me scared shitless, you fucking bastard,” George breathed into John’s hair. “I couldn’t bear to lose both of you. I just couldn’t.”
That was more than George had said to him in over ten years, all at once.
“Paul…?” John asked, already knowing the answer.
George squeezed him tighter. John could feel tears falling on him. “He’s…”
“Gone.” John’s voice felt hollow.
He felt George nod, after a moment, and heard him say in a voice half-strangled, “Yeah.”
They laid there for hours as the machine continued its incessant beeping. In John’s head, Paul’s ghostly voice filled in the lyrics. “Blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night.” Beep, beep, beep.
“Can’t sleep?” Heather asked at Julian’s bedside.
“I’ve been sleeping for three days.” Julian felt restless, as if ants were crawling under his skin.
Heather flipped the page of her gift shop novel, and forced a little smile. “You probably needed it.”
He let out a small huff. “You know, I wasn’t actually hurt, and Dad wasn’t, either; at least not that badly. They just kept sedating us so we would stop freaking out.”
Heather laid her book down gently on the hospital bed. A seriousness had descended over her; and by extension, the whole room.
“Were you freaking out?”
Julian couldn’t look at her. “Yeah.” He swallowed.
She leaned forward. “What happened, Jules?”
He could hear his heart beating in his ears as his mind went back to that terrible place. “I don’t know,” he said, quickly.
“Jules, no one is telling me anything. I need to know how my father died,” she pleaded, taking his hand in hers.
Julian closed his eyes, the whole event blurring past under his eyelids. “It was a shitstorm.” He breathed deeply and steadily to try to keep the rising panic from overpowering him.
“What happened?” she prompted.
Julian wet his lips. “Shots. Louder than I’d ever heard. When I got there, Paul was covered in blood and lying on top of dad. I…rolled him over. Blood was everywhere.” He swallowed a rising sob. “He looked at me, and he smiled at me, and he…said hi to me. And then he died.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then opened his eyes.
Heather’s tear streaked face mirrored his own. A silent moment stretched between them. “Thank you,” she finally whispered, squeezing his hand again.
They sat in silence, letting their tears dry on their cheeks, both lost in their own minds.
“Wanna go get drunk?”
The question snapped Heather back to reality as she tried to process it. “But…we’re underage,” was all she could manage.
Julian raised an eyebrow, though his voice was still a little dull and lifeless. “I’m Julian Lennon and you’re Heather McCartney. Do you honestly think anyone will refuse to serve us this week?”
Heather nibbled on her thumb nail as she glanced nervously towards the door.
“We don’t have to if you’re too scared,” Julian teased, though sincerely offering her the chance to say no.
Resolve replaced fear. “Let’s go.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Julian grinned. “All right. Pass me my clothes.”
Ringo handed the small paper cup of coffee to George. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep? I mean, even Linda agreed to try.”
George’s lip quirked. “I’m fine, Ritch,” he repeated for what seemed like the millionth time. “Just need some coffee and I’ll be able to last another 12 hours at least.”
Flopping down beside George on the stiff waiting room chairs, Ringo sprawled outward, resting an arm on George’s. “How are you holding up?”
George looked as though he was just going to answer with a glib, “Fine,” but reconsidered after catching the concerned look on Ringo’s face. “I’m…I don’t know. I’ve just been going from one thing to the next and I haven’t had time to stop and really realize what’s gong on.”
“It’s shit,” Ringo grumbled, slouching lower. “I called Barbara earlier, the kids are a mess. Mary hasn’t spoken one word since Linda and Heather left, and Stella…Stella’s just pissed right off. She’s lashing out at everyone about everything. She smashed her milk glass on the floor because it wasn’t cold enough and when Barbara sent her to her room, she shattered her entire record collection.”
George shrugged loosely. “At least James…you know. He doesn’t know.”
Sadness overtook Ringo’s features. “You’re right, he couldn’t. He’s just a baby.” He rubbed a hand over his face, seemingly awestruck at the thought. “He probably won’t even remember Paul.”
There was a silence between them for a long moment. Then, “You’re right,” said George. “It’s shit.”
John woke to the feel of lips kissing his knuckles, and long hair he’d know anywhere ticking his arms.
“Yoko.”
“Hello, John,” she whispered, her voice watery.
John opened his eyes to look at the love of his life. She was beautiful. Light was shining off her hair, and her eyes sparkled like grass after a rain fall. John had a small smile on his face as he waited to feel the tidal wave of love that he always felt in her presence. It was a feeling for which he would give up anything. Forgive anything.
The smile slowly slipped from his face as the feeling didn’t come. She looked the same, but he felt nothing.
She would never die for me.
He buried the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him, but that didn’t make it any less true to his mind.
The joy over his survival dimmed on her face; as though she could sense something was different and deeply wrong.
“How’s Sean?” he asked, cringing at the croak in his voice.
Yoko squeezed his hand, as if trying to keep him. “He’s sleeping right now. Linda agreed to stay with him overnight.” She kissed his hand again. “He misses his Daddy.”
“Remember when Sean was born and Paul came to visit?” John asked, lost in thought.
“Yeah,” she prompted, cautiously.
He carried on without really hearing her. “Why didn’t I let him hold Sean? I mean, he’s my best mate. What the hell was I thinking?”
Yoko pulled back slightly. “You said that Sean was ours and you didn’t want to share him.”
“But it was Paul.”
“Especially with Paul.” Yoko’s voice was small, bordering on meek.
John didn’t notice. “I mean, what the fuck was I thinking? I care about Paul more than anyone in the world; I should have let him hold my baby.” He was so lost in his own regrets that he barely registered Yoko releasing his hand and leaving the room.
For George, the world was filled with mist. It was moving slower and was harder to navigate. He would remember to breathe in but forget to breathe out until his lungs screamed at him. He was moving from place to place, holding people at the right moment, talking to doctors, making sure Linda ate or Sean had a sitter so Yoko could visit, but it was like someone pressed the ‘slow motion’ button and even the smallest tasks took titanic effort. He was numb, though, and as far as George was concerned, that lack of feeling was worth the increased effort.
Every once in a while, a stray thought would shatter his haze and leave him gasping at the force of the blow. A pretty nurse had walked by and smiled at him. He’d smiled back, thinking, if only Paul could see her, and then it hit him like ice water, chilling him to his bones.
He would force himself to breathe, pushing down all his feelings into his own personal Pandora’s Box. Then the fog would return and he could keep moving, keep breathing and be the person everyone needed him to be.
It was only John who managed to draw George out of his cocoon and even then, it was only for a moment. Once the initial joy had passed, the real world returned. Paul was dead and life was unbearable in the face of that. Then George would need to remember to breathe again.
Ringo was silent beside him, having long since abandoned the effort required to speak. It was Yoko who finally broke the silence, slipping out of John’s room and gliding towards them.
She broke down in the chair across the aisle.
George watched her with complete detachment as tears streamed down her face.
“What’s the matter, luv?” Ringo asked, leaning forward and taking her hand.
George leaned back, not wanting to be involved. He never particularly liked her anyway.
“I’ve lost him,” she whispered through the tears. “No one can compete with a martyr.”
Ringo looked at George, silently begging for guidance. George felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. With John in hospital and Paul gone, he supposed he was in charge, now. Ringo was waiting for him to take over.
He didn’t really like Yoko, but in this moment, she needed him.
He slipped across the aisle and took the vacant seat beside her, wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulder. “It’ll be all right, love,” he whispered into her hair before laying a kiss on the top of her head.
She buried her face in his shoulder, soaking his shirt with her tears.
Neither acknowledged the lie.
Heather met Julian when she was 7 years old. Her dad had brought her along to Cynthia’s house after she and Mummy had moved into his house.
He was nervous. Heather could tell because he was tapping everything…more so than usual. His knees were shaking a bit and he kept retying his neck tie. Also, Mummy kept touching his arm and telling him not to be nervous.
“I’m not nervous,” he snapped back at one point. After a guilty pause, he added, “…Sorry.”
“It’s all right that you’re nervous. She’s like a sister to you. All I’m saying is that I don’t think you need to be.”
Her dad took her mum’s hand and said, “I know.”
It was raining when Heather met Julian. He had a big black umbrella and met them at the gate.
Her dad had knelt on the wet cement so he could be eye to eye with the small blond boy.
“Hey Jules,” he smiled, pulling the boy into a hug. “How are you?” The question was asked in the voice he used when he was really listening.
“I’m doing all right, Uncle Paul.” Julian had a slight rhotacism, making him sound even younger than he was.
“Is your mum inside?”
“Uh-huh.”
Paul stood up and tugged Heather forward. She had a pink umbrella.
“Jules, this is my daughter, Heather.”
Julian stared at her. She stared back.
Paul cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, Jules...I was thinking; why don’t you show Heather your house while I talk to your mum?”
Julian shrugged and started walking across the grass to a small structure in the yard. Prompted by a gentle push from Paul, Heather followed.
It was a nice house: it even had comfy chairs that were just their size in Julian’s room, into which the two of them nestled after a brief tour.
“So, Uncle Paul is your dad now?” Julian asked once they were settled.
“Yeah.” Heather picked at the arm of her chair, unsure of what to say.
“But he didn’t used to be?”
She bit her lip. “No. I had a different dad, but now my mummy is married to Paul and he’s my daddy.”
“So you’re Heather McCartney now?”
“I guess,” she mumbled.
In a voice far older than his years, and with a solemn shake of his head, he said, “Welcome to Hell.”
Heather looked at him, fear shining in her eyes. “What?”
“You’re in for it now. Ladies are gonna yell at you and your mum in the street; might even attack you. Kids’ll tease you all the time because your dad is famous and the only people who are nice to you are only nice because they want to meet him. You can’t trust anybody.”
Her eyes filled with tears, warm trickles tracing lines down her cheeks. Seeing this, Julian reached out and took her hand.
“Don’t worry though, kiddo. You and me, we’re in this together, now.” He smiled.
Heather squeezed his hand, wiping her face with the back of her other hand. She felt better. In that instant, she believed him and smiled back.
Julian was right: no one checked their IDs. No one even expected them to pay. Every time he walked anywhere near the bar, someone else was offering to buy them drinks.
Heather sunk a little lower on the over-plush couch, watching Julian laugh as he swept seamlessly through the crowd. Unlike Julian, Heather wasn’t having any fun. If anything, being here made her feel worse. It was dark and loud, people were far too close for comfort and everyone seemed to want to talk to her. She took refuge in the corner as soon as she could get free. Fear clawed at her insides, made worse by the knowledge that her dad, her protector, was gone forever.
Julian seemed to be looking for her: asking random people and pantomiming her height and long hair. Heather wrapped her arms around her torso and made herself smaller. She just wanted to hide until everything went back to normal: until her world was safe again.
He finally spotted her and grinned, pushing past the dancers and minglers, trying to get to her. Tightening her arms, she tried to control the rolling in her stomach.
“Hey, Heather,” Jules breathed in her ear, face flushed with alcohol and good spirits. “Dance with me?” He offered her his hand.
She stared at the hand, then shook her head frantically, her eyes burning from all the smoke in the air.
“Heather?” he prompted, this time taking her hand in his. His voice was gentle and pleading. “Dance with me. Please?”
Something in his voice, the feel of his hand, a voice in her mind’s eye: “You and me, we’re in this together.” Heather sighed – imperceptibly in all the noise in the atmosphere – and nodded.
The jovial grin returned to his features as he pulled her to her feet and spun her on to the dance floor, then smoothly wrapped his arms around her waist. Resting her head on his shoulder, she swayed with him to the music.
For the first time since her dad left for New York, she felt safe again.
* * *
Linda could hear the voices beneath her. People laughing and talking, telling stories that had been told a million times but seemed to have greater significance now. She could hear George welcoming people into her home, her two girls parroting greetings to relatives and friends that they had never met. Music was playing softly below the din. Every once in a while she would hear a turn of phrase in her husband’s melodic voice and shudders would overtake her.
This was very likely the most well-attended party of all their parties. Rock legends from all over the world had cancelled concerts in order to attend. Movie stars had flown in for the occasion. Anyone who barely had brushed with Paul at any point in their lives fought to gain entrance. Those who couldn’t get in circled the walls and gates, like peasants storming the castle of an unjust lord.
It truly was the best party they’d ever thrown, and Linda couldn’t bring herself to attend it.
Like a child, she was hiding up in her bedroom; closet doors barring out the entire world. She just sat there in the dark; the burn of whiskey in her throat, and the smell of Paul still present in every piece of fabric around her.
She hadn’t truly slept since it happened. Hadn’t wept, either. She had gone through the motions: retrieved the body, like a good wife. She’d prepared the food, dressed the girls in near identical dresses (Mary in green, Stella in blue). She had even greeted the first of the guests. George and Ringo had arrived early to find all the preparations done, all the food set out – after all, she had needed something to do while the rest of the world dreamed.
But now she couldn’t face it: couldn’t face all the people, couldn’t face the fact that this was real and he was truly gone.
Ringo had looked on sympathetically and George reassuringly as she made her escape. They probably thought she was sleeping right now. They had no idea that Paul hid the liquor in old shoe boxes to keep it out of reach of the little ones.
Linda took another long swallow before resting her head on the wall behind her, feeling reality swirl around her with detached amusement.
Light invaded her shelter, making her cringe and hide her face in her knees.
“Linda.” It was Julian, using his cautious voice: the one he used when approaching crying children and wounded animals. “I was just…that is—”
“For God’s sake, Jules, close the door,” she rasped, hating the feeling of the outside infiltrating the warm, comfortable nest she’d made for herself. Jules stepped inside awkwardly, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Can I…um,” He sounded so lost that Linda nearly smiled.
“It’s a free carpet.” She patted the space beside her. “Go ahead and sit.”
Jules shuffled down the wall, trying to find a comfortable spot amongst the clothes and mementos from another life.
“Want some—” she offered the bottle, before pulling it back quickly. “Wait, how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Well, that’s all right, then.” She handed the bottle over.
Julian took a swig and passed it back. “Are you planning to stay here all night?”
“Yup.” Another mouthful.
“Hm.” Julian slouched a little lower. “It’s quite a party. Paul—” he hesitated.
“Paul would have loved it,” Linda sighed.
“Yeah.” Julian took the bottle from her and swallowed a few times, quickly, before Linda took it back.
“Not so fast, kiddo. You’ll make yourself sick.” She took another gulp for herself.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out of Julian sounding strained.
“Don’t worry about it.” She rested the bottle in her arms, the cold glass against her heart.
“No, I mean—” Julian took a shuddery breath. “I’ve wanted to say this for a while, but…well, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow and I need you to know.” His breath was coming in quick, shallow bursts.
“Jules, you don’t need—”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Sobs wracked his lanky frame.
“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault!” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, trying to pull him close.
“It is, though. It was my fault he was in New York. If I hadn’t wanted to see my dad so much, and been so afraid to go alone, he would have been home with you and the kids.” He was raving, desperate to get his words out before Linda could interrupt.
“Jules, honey, he was happy to go: he wanted to help you and John.”
“Yeah, and it killed him! The man was aiming for Dad, Paul got in the way and got three bullets in his back for his trouble!”
“Jules….” A heaviness filled Linda’s chest. Her heart began to feel crushed by the pressure. She desperately pushed the feeling down, seeking the numbness that had been her constant companion.
“I wish I had never gone.” The fight had left his voice.
“Don’t say that,” said Linda. “That’s like saying you wished your dad was dead instead.”
The silence that filled the space was deafening. Julian finally let her pull him in, resting his head on her shoulder. “Maybe I do,” he whispered, heartbroken.
It felt like hours later when Julian spoke again, his tone completely spent.
“I asked him why he agreed to come, when we were on the plane.” He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Linda offered a weak, “Hmm?”
“He said it was because I was his; that I belonged to all of them. He said that blood didn’t matter: as far as he was concerned, I was his first-born son and he knew George and Ringo felt the same.”
“It’s true. The boys always adored you.” Linda kissed his hair. “When we met, I would talk about Heather and he would talk about you. It was obvious he loved you.” Linda’s throat was closing around her words. She didn’t want to talk about Paul; that’s why she was hiding in the first place.
Julian sniffed again, but didn’t respond; just burrowed his face deeper into her shoulder, marking her shirt with his tears.
A small cry came through the wall behind them.
“What’s—”
“It’s James.” Linda’s limbs felt like lead.
Jules pulled away from her. “Want me to—?”
“Could you?”
“Yeah.” Julian pulled himself upward and slipped out the door.
Without truly knowing why, she dug through the old box beside her, taking out the baby monitor and switching it on.
James was standing in his crib, gripping the bars tightly when Julian entered the room. His small face was a bright red smear of snot and tears.
“Hey kid,” said Julian, awkwardly. He never knew what to do with children. One more thing he had in common with his father.
James reached for him, clutching at the air desperately and coughing around his sobs.
Julian took the toddler out of the crib, holding the small body close to his chest. “There, that’s not so bad.” He was talking more to himself. James’ screams lessened, soothed by the tone of Julian’s voice.
Looking around, he spotted the rocking chair by the window. He eased himself and the child into the chair, rocking slowly. James laid his head on Julian’s chest, his sobs now softening to hiccups. At a loss for what to do next, Julian thought back to what Paul used to do for him. He began humming, and when that seemed to help, he began to sing.
“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: Let it be.”
James’ eyes drooped shut.
“And in my hour of darkness she is standing there in front of me, speaking words of wisdom: Let it be.”
Linda was choking. She buried her face in Paul’s jacket, pain wracking her through every nerve ending. She writhed on the floor, screaming, but emitting no sound. The dam had broken, the floodgates crashed open, and she was feeling it. For the first time since Paul died, Linda felt the loss of half her soul. For the first time, she allowed herself to cry.
That’s how George found her the next day: curled up in a ball, cushioned by Paul’s clothes. Her eyes were puffy, her face red, liquor bottles littered around her. She was sound asleep.