Fucking bullshit.

For as far back as the Callahan line goes, Callahan men have been cut from the corporate cloth. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. You’re not meant to question it. You’re meant to marry a beautiful woman who will tolerate you fucking her in missionary. Who will bear you more Callahan sons, and who will know exactly how to keep an immaculate home and entertain guests. But that sort of life was never for me. For starters, missionary sex makes me want to fucking shoot myself in the head.

The old man sat down with me one day, right after college, and told me that he’d fund my travel for one year, wherever I wanted to go. The unspoken part of this agreement was that I’d get the wanderlust out of my system, and then I’d come back and work with the family. I backpacked around Europe, went to Thailand, Japan, went to Whistler, BC, Brazil, Fiji. My final stop was Hawaii. Perhaps a bit of a cliché, but I’ve always loved Hawaii. Kauai especially. I did actually have a plane ticket back to Chicago, but I let that day come and go. I decided I was going to stay in Kauai. I knew Dad would cut me off, yeah, but I decided I wanted to make my own way in life. I worked at a coffee shop and couch surfed until I’d saved enough to get a cheap apartment. At the same time, I started offering surfing lessons to tourists. It was less than a year later that I had enough private clients to support myself without the additional income from the café.

“But what kind of car are you driving?” my mother asked during one of our infrequent phone conversations. “And you’re . . . you’re living in an apartment?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I’d said, with far more patience than I felt. I loved my mom, but she was concerned with all the things that didn’t really matter. “And, actually, didn’t Alex and I grow up in an apartment? Don’t you and Dad still live in an apartment?”

“Darling, it’s the penthouse. Please don’t call it an apartment. Now, tell me what kind of car you’re driving.”

“A Jeep Wrangler.”

“A what? A Jeep? Are those things safe?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

“I just want you to be happy, Aidan. I’m your mother. Aren’t I allowed to want you to be happy?”

But I was happy, and she just couldn’t seem to understand. I couldn’t really be happy, could I? The only way I could really be happy would be if I went back to Chicago, if I did what every Callahan man before me had done. If anything, I think my dad might’ve understood how I felt about it, even if he didn’t agree with it. One night, not long before I was to take off to Europe and begin my backpacking expedition, we’d stood out on the penthouse’s terrace, overlooking the city skyline. Dad had a glass of cognac. I had some lemonade. I remember that, the way the ice cubes were melting in the cup, the thick humidity clinging to the air.

“I hope you’ll have a good time,” Dad said. “You’ll have to take lots of pictures; send us updates. It’s actually something I always wanted to do, y’know? Just never had the time. Also, there’s no way that your grandfather would have allowed me such an indulgence.”

Hint, hint. Aren’t I such an indulgent, generous father?

“Well, I do appreciate it,” I told him. “And I’ll be responsible with the money. And if I can find work along the way, I’m not going to turn it down.”

“I know you’ll be okay,” Dad told me. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Life’s funny, sometimes. Often, we find ourselves having to do things we don’t want, or might think we don’t want to do. But after we give it a try, we realize that it’s not so bad.”

Hint, hint. When you get back, you’re going to give this thing your best goddamn shot. 

He seemed to be talking more to himself, even though I was standing right there. “People have certain obligations they’re bound to, whether or not they want to be. That’s what makes them obligations.” He looked at me. “You have obligations, too.”

“I know, Dad.” Then, all I could think about was Europe and getting as far away from Chicago as possible. I don’t remember the entirety of that conversation, but I do remember the promise I made to myself as Dad was standing there, talking about responsibilities and obligations. I promised that I would never get involved with the family business. I would never become a corporate suit like my brother. No matter what happened.

******

Oh, Chicago. I have not missed you.

I leave O’Hare and get blasted in the face by an Arctic wind that makes my bones feel as though they’re about to shatter. Forget about crystal blue skies and friendly sunshine. Here, we’ve got dense low clouds and no sun in sight at all. Everything’s grey, somber, frozen. No one looks happy. Everyone seems as though they’re trying to get somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Arturo arranged for one of the company drivers to pick me up, but I walk right by the middle-aged guy holding the CALLAHAN sign. The dude doesn’t even give me a second look. After all, I don’t exactly look like a Callahan. I’m horribly underdressed in just a sweatshirt and jeans, so I go by unnoticed. I’d rather freeze than sit in the back of a Lincoln town car right now. Instead, I wait for the train and take it into the city.

I don’t have a key to the penthouse, but the doorman—I don’t recognize him—let’s me in, telling me he’s been told to expect me. Of course, it’s no surprise when the elevator door opens and Arturo is right there, looking ancient as ever in his grey three-piece suit.

“Aidan,” he says. My name sounds like a fucking curse word coming out of his mouth. I step out of the elevator.

My parents’ home hasn’t changed at all. It’s like a museum with its high ceilings and low lighting and dark hues. There’s a noticeable empty feel to the place; it’s too quiet, too cavernous, too cold.

“Hi, Art.” We shake hands. His skin feels like it’s made from crinkled old paper.

“I’m going to give you some time to settle in, son,” he tells me. “But after that, we need to have a conversation.”

I just grunt. There’s a Christmas tree set up in the living room, a few perfectly wrapped presents underneath. I walk down the hallway to my old bedroom, which my mother has kept exactly the way I left it.

I throw my duffel bag down on the bed, and then walk back out to where Arturo is waiting. Part of me is expecting Alex to be right there with him, a self-satisfied grin on his face. I told you I’d get you back here, you son of a bitch.

But he’s not there. It’s just Arturo. “Why don’t we go sit down,” he says. I follow him into the den where there’s fire crackling in the fireplace. The whole scene seems so ridiculously quaint and Christmassy that a wave of nausea rolls over me. “Do you want a drink?” Arturo gestures to my father’s vast array of expensive single malts.

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

“Well. All right, then. Yes.” He fiddles with the buttons on his blazer, then scratches at his bushy grey eyebrows. “ I suppose there’s no need for me to tell you how sorry I am, Aidan. I really am. I really should have insisted they got a cab. But Alex—”

“Was Alex. He wouldn’t have listened to you, Art. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, well. I’m still…so shocked. So very sorry for your loss.” It’s his loss, too. Without a wife or any children of his own, he’s been a part of our family forever. I place a hand on his shoulder, not really sure if I’m meant to hug him or not.

“Thank you, Art. This is all…just a lot to take in.”

“I know,” he says. “Alex has been…Alex was under a lot of stress recently. I know he was excited about taking the company over, but something like that…it’s a huge headache, too. He was managing the best he could, but there’s only so much a man can handle before he starts to lose sleep. And he was worried about you.”