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Banks held up a hand. "I'm not asking. I always imagined she was pregnant with Neal and you two had to marry, but again, I don't care much now. I'm just saying you weren't around enough to set an example for me. I didn't see you bringing her flowers or listening to her when she talked, I never saw you take her out on a date or dance with her in the living room, and I have no idea whether you brought her a card on your anniversary or just ignored it."
"If you think I was so terrible, then you can just get out," his dad thundered, pointing at the door to his room like he was the authority over the entire hospital. "I don't need you here telling me I ruined lives and did the wrong thing when all I ever tried to do was the right thing."
Banks stared at his dad, seeing him for the first time as what he truly was: a sad, lonely, dying man. A man who had spent his life devoted to order and discipline, and who had simply lacked the ability to let down his guard and truly get to know his sons. Perhaps he’d been a more loving husband than Banks had ever seen him be; after all, what child is watching his parents all the time, trying to find signs of affection and romance? But what Banks knew of his father was enough—he’d been distant, hard to know, impossible to love.
And yet Banks had needed closure, even if his father hadn’t. He moved towards the door as if he might walk out without another word, but then turned and looked back. What he saw in his father’s eyes moved him and made him feel something unfamiliar: his father looked afraid. He clearly did not want Banks to leave without a proper goodbye, and that naked desire on his face almost propelled Banks to walk out. To show his father what it felt like to want something from someone and to have them simply refuse to give it to you.
But in the end, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave things unfinished between them. He needed to say something, to do something. He needed to give thembothclosure.
Banks stood at the door, staring at his dad for as long as he needed to, taking in his lined face and his weary, broken frame. He remembered all the times he wished his father had been home, all the times he’d dreamed of a dad who might put on a t-shirt and throw a baseball with him in the backyard, and tried to fully accept that what he’d had instead was a man who led his family with an indefatigable iron fist. He’d raised his boys, Henry and Neal, to be honest, strong, and capable men, and by example, he’d shown them how to be dedicated to their country. It wasn’t what Banks had wanted or needed, but in the end, it was what he had and he needed to pay his final respects to the man who’d kept a roof over his family’s heads and had given them a solid middle class life. None of that was nothing—it was all worth showing gratitude and respect for, in the end.
And so, finally, pulling his body up so that his spine was as straight as if there were a metal rod running its length, Banks snapped his heels together with his toes pointed out at forty-five degrees, felt his left hand pull tightly to the side of his leg with his fingers slightly curled, and his right hand came sharply to his temple, fingers strong, elbow bent crisply.
He held this pose with his eyes focused on the sky outside his father’s hospital room window, face like a stone, showing his father the most love and respect that he could possibly muster in that moment; showing the ultimate respect for a man who'd devoted his life to his country.
When it felt like Banks had been standing there for ages, his father finally lifted his hand, fingertips grazing his own right temple as he stared at his son from beneath the sheets of his hospital bed. He held the salute for a beat and then dropped it. Almost instantly, tears sprang to Banks’s eyes and he held them wide, hoping that the air conditioning inside the building would keep them dry. This was no time for crying, nor would that be something his father would respect.
“Carry on,” Sergeant Major Banks said, letting his saluting hand fall on top of the many-times washed-and-worn hospital blankets that covered his body. “Carry on, son.”
At that, Banks came out of his formal salute, turned his body towards the door, and walked out.
It was the last time he ever saw his dad.
* * *
"You!" Sunday cries walking across the sandy path between Ruby's main house and Banks's small living quarters. He has another agent he can bring in to stay while he takes time off, but he's rarely done that since being on the island because this feels like home--more than almost any other place he's ever lived.
"Hey, kid," Banks says, opening his arms to her so that she can rush into them, which she does. He lifts her off the ground and holds her close, feeling the petiteness of this beautiful woman as he hugs her.
Sunday takes a tiny step back when he sets her down and she reaches up with both hands and puts them on the sides of his face. "I hate it when you leave," she says, looking almost pouty--but in an adorable way. "I like you in my days, Henry Banks. I like being able to have coffee with you and to spend the night together."
Banks can feel himself flush, but not with embarrassment. He glances around quickly and sees that neither Ruby or her girls are anywhere in sight. Not that they would mind that Banks has a personal life, in fact, he knows that they're all quite pleased to see him with Sunday, and he catches the looks on their faces every time they spot them together--it's the same look that girls and women give to photos of small kittens napping on the backs of golden retrievers.
"I missed you," he says to her in a soft voice, watching her face.
He loves Sunday's face: the lines around her happy eyes; the way her hair curls and is shot through with tiny bits of silver; her smooth, tanned skin from living here on Shipwreck Key. She's been through so much: a terrible marriage to the Vice President, a temporary falling out with one of her daughters, and now, the impending birth of her grandchild.
Sunday laces her fingers through his and tugs at his hand. "Let's go to breakfast," she says with a huge smile. He knows she'd rather go into his house and spend some time alone there, but that will happen later. "The Black Pearl makes a fabulous lobster omelette."
Banks glances at the main house, but the curtains are still closed against the morning sun, even after his run on the beach, a shower, and a quick peruse of three different online newspapers.
"She'll sleep all morning--trust me," Sunday says, watching him. "After traveling, Ruby likes to spend a day inside just futzing around with stuff and watching movies. She always has."
"That's true," Banks agrees. He has noticed this about her. "And Dexter is with her, so they'll probably just lay low today."
Sunday whips around and looks at the upstairs windows with absolute glee. "Dexter is in there? With Ruby?" She's grinning like a crazy clown, obviously hoping that something exciting and naughty is going on between her best friend and Dexter North.
"Guest room," Banks says. "They agreed on the plane to spend a little more time working on the book, and so he came here. I don't think they got a lot done in France, to be perfectly honest. But then I honestly have no idea what Dexter is looking for or writing about." He clamps his mouth shut; this is not kosher for him, talking about Ruby and what she's up to, and it's something he tries never to do, even with Sunday. If Ruby wants her best friend to know, she'll tell her.
"Huh," Sunday says, still squinting at the house skeptically. "Any chance he made a move while they were wandering the French countryside, talking about her life? Maybe a kiss in a vineyard? Anything?"
Banks shakes his head, wagging a finger at her. Sunday knows better. "A, I would not tell you if I knew any such thing, and B, I do not know any such thing," he says, smiling at her. "But what I can tell you is that breakfast sounds amazing. Should we go?"
It's a quick drive in the golf cart from the house to Seadog Lane, and Banks pulls into a spot right in front of The Black Pearl. The sun is shining on the sand and the waves, and Sunday steps onto the sidewalk and extends both arms overhead as she stretches, a look of total bliss on her face.
"Did you ever imagine things would end up this way?" she asks him, eyes closed as she turns her chin up to the sky. Sunday opens her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides. "I spent so many years in bleak, dark, depressing Washington D.C.--"
"No offense to the people who love it there and call it home," Banks says, chuckling at the way she says this without any compunction.
