ds_flashfiction | five minutes after... (Reply)

Another humble offering (although if you choose to make it available to the world, maybe humble isn't the best term?). Unbeta'd and edited as only i am unable to do. A possible peak into the thoughts of Benton Fraser as he begins the last leg of the airplane journey to Chicago that very first time. And as always, thank you kindly...

Five minutes ago the cabin door closed. Three minutes ago, the plane began taxiing toward the runway. One minute ago I grasped that there was no turning back from this path.

Not that I am inclined to turn back. My peers and my superiors believe I am pursuing this path out of duty to my father. Not that any of them actually asked me about what led me to my decision. Why else would I, anachronism that I am to them, follow this path? Duty is my priority. To them, this step, enormous as it may be, is just another step on path of duty.

Nor would I willingly acknowledge to such as them that this quest to follow what is, logically, an illogical lead, is anything more than duty. What could dentists from Chicago with more money than sense, more interest in killing their limit rather than experiencing the land, have to do with my father’s death? Surely it is duty that leads me down this path and not logic.

If only.

My grandparents never asked me about anything unrelated to their expectations for me. They assigned me chores, responsibilities that we shared in order to maintain our existence. They expected me to develop into the best and strongest person I could, intellectually, physically, morally. Beyond that, they never asked anything of me that was not my duty to give.

One of the very few clear memories of my mother I have maintained is a memory of her asking me to do something for her. Actually, it was a game we played. She would settle onto the settee or her rocking chair, sigh and comment on how truly comfortable she was, and then ask me to bring her something to read. Probably, as a very young child, the first times she did this, I brought her one of my books, as a young child would. And so began a wonderful game, when my mother would ask me to bring her something to read. I would bring her a book of my choosing, curl up on her lap, and she would read me my book. Even more magical to me, perhaps more so in memory than in actuality, she then would ask me about the story. What was my favorite part? Who was my favorite character? Why did I think the character acted as it did? What would I, Benton, do if I were in that wonderful make-believe world? Answers could be as fanciful as I wanted. It wasn’t logic that made me prefer Piglet to Tigger; it was my own likes and dislikes, my own feelings. It wasn't duty that let me pretend to be Alice on the magical adventure. It was – me. These memories always squeeze at me. They pull at something I won’t let loose, or haven’t been able let loose, until that cabin door closed. Those -- feelings – are bubbling up within me.

I do not remember my father ever asking me to do something for him. Indeed, he was around too little to ask me much of anything. But the questions he asked, had pre-ordained answers. Had I minded my mother, or later, my grandparents? Had I done my best in my studies? Had I sent my application into the Depot? There was no question what the answers would be. Other questions would mine my knowledge base, but again, there was no uncertainty as to the expected answer. What were the criteria for a campsite if a blizzard was approaching? What was the best way to divvy the tasks between two men to make a two-man igloo? Which was the least wasteful way to skin a rabbit? Important questions, questions I learned the answers to because the answers were important. I needed to be able to answer quickly and without hesitation when the situation arose.

But never was a question asked that might reveal some emotion or reasoning not based on logic. Nothing like, are you making friends? Are you lonely? Do you miss your mother? Do you miss me? Messy questions with messy answers, and so to be avoided.

So while my father lived, he never asked anything of me that wasn’t based upon logic or duty.

But he is asking now. I can feel it. It’s instinct, not logic, not duty. My father is not alive and cannot ask anything of me. But he is. It’s as if he is urgently whispering in my ear, demanding me to pursue this dangling thread.

My choice to go to Chicago is not made out of some old-fashioned sense of duty. My drive to go to Chicago is visceral. There is something wrong about my father’s death and I must pursue it. It is not logical; I must pursue it nonetheless. Were it not that it is my father’s death that brings it about, this drive, my response, feels … liberating.

Quinn recognized my response. In his uncanny way, he told me that yes, I should pursue this. You’ll find peace about your father, and peace about yourself there, he told me. Initially I was uncomfortable – that was not an answer based on duty or logic – that was an answer based on intuition. Eric told me I’d get soft in the big city. But then followed it up by adding, so very gently and un-Eric-like, the raven would gift me with my other half if I stayed there. I believe, given the way he looked at me, Sergeant Frobisher guessed there was more to my decision than duty; but if he guessed, he kept it to himself. So few recognize in me what I can barely concede myself. Until now.

The pilot states we’ve been cleared for takeoff. No turning back. And so begins this journey. I’m leaving everything I know to follow a hunch. As the airplane takes off for Chicago, I can feel my shackles come undone. I’m flying on instinct.

I am finally able to do something for my father out of love.