40. I'm someone's child

Castle spends the latter part of the afternoon cooking, with intense attention to detail. Never have vegetables been so precisely and evenly chopped to join such perfectly and precisely chopped meat within a casserole dish.  Neither has lettuce ever been shredded with quite such ferocity, or radishes topped and tailed so harshly. 

Many things have contributed to his lack of harmony. He is still annoyed with Jim.  His mother is present, and has taken the opportunity to make several digs about the lack of alcohol (at four p.m.?) available before people get here, and about the lack of Beckett for some time. She had strongly implied that Castle should have invited Beckett over far sooner and that if she wouldn’t come it was Castle’s fault.  Alexis was delighted that Beckett was coming, but had compounded Castle’s bad temper by agreeing with her Grams.  Castle is not notably keen on being dressed down by his family, especially when it’s based on unfounded assumptions, and had, as a result, been rather sharper than he normally is with Alexis, who has retreated to her own room and resolutely refused to assist with anything, claiming that homework takes priority.  His mother had not, unfortunately, taken sufficient umbrage to retreat from the loft.  Neither of them have really registered that Beckett’s father is coming.  And, of course, Beckett is going to be in an appalling state of tension from the get-go, and he can do nothing at all about it.

This evening is shaping up to be a disaster comparable only to the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, with a rather lower probability of survival.

However, dinner is cooking, everything is in readiness, and the loft is full of the delicious aroma of a wonderfully tasty winter beef stew, with dumplings, and an apple and blackberry pie for dessert. There will be warm bread rolls, and the salad is appealingly green and red.  The table is cheerfully green and red too: he’s used a tablecloth with a holly pattern.  Maybe a cheerful atmosphere will induce a more cheerful evening.

The door sounds at seven, and despite Castle’s best efforts Alexis flings herself down the stairs and gets to it before he does. There goes his last chance to have even a moment’s private conversation and reassurance with Beckett – if it is Beckett – before the first circle of hell opens up to swallow him.

At seven p.m. Beckett knocks on Castle’s door, an expensive box of chocolates in hand, and her social face painted on. She wouldn’t admit out loud to the usefulness of a Mission Impossible false face, but if one had appeared in her apartment she’d certainly have considered applying it.   Naturally, the door is opened by Alexis, who is chirpily and sincerely delighted to see her.  Beckett is suitably civil and happy to see her too, aided immensely by the need to hand over the chocolates, enquire about the tantalising aromas, and come inside and take her coat off.  She has left her gun at home.  No point in making it easy to be tempted.  There will be quite enough flashpoints over dinner, she is sure.

Surprisingly, she’s arrived ahead of her dad, who turns up – also bearing chocolates – just as she’s being encouraged to sit down with a drink. This time Castle makes it to the door first, though that’s probably because Alexis is peppering Beckett with questions about how being an ME works.

“Jim, come in.” Jim sniffs, and acquires a blissful expression.

“I haven’t smelt cooking that good in years.”

“I thought Beckett” – Jim starts – “Kate, sorry, I get used to hearing her called Beckett so…” he trails off that line and restarts – “was a reasonable cook.”

There’s a not-too-muffled snigger. “Katie?  Cook?  Sure Katie can cook.  But she doesn’t cook like this.  We never have casseroles or anything like that.  She only cooks that Georgian food she likes or pasta.  Or salads.”  His nose scrunches up in mild disgust, with which expression he closely resembles Beckett.

“Georgian food? That doesn’t sound too bad, though I never liked grits.  I like peaches, though.”

Jim is looking pityingly at him, shaking his greying head. “Not the state of Georgia.  The country.  Katie never told you she was in Kiev for a while?”

“No.” Kiev?  Kiev, Ukraine? 

“She speaks some Russian. Actually, a lot of Russian.”  Castle hadn’t noticed that, either.   “Likes Russian literature.”  He’d seen that she had a lot of books, but he’d never got close enough to her bookshelf really to register what they were.

“Are you telling stories again, Dad?” Beckett says sardonically.

“How did you guess?”

“Detective.”

“Oh yes.” He grins at her. 

Alexis comes up, and extends a hand. “Mr Beckett?” she says brightly, “I’m Alexis.”

“I know,” Jim grins. “Your father told me about you.”

Alexis smiles back. “He does that,” she says.  “I’m really quite normal.  Don’t pay any attention to him.”

“Don’t be like that, young lady. Everybody’s daughter is the most wonderful daughter ever.  It’s the rule.  I’m fairly sure there must have been a case about it back in the day.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Yep.”

“Great!” Jim looks completely flabbergasted.  No-one is ever pleased to meet a lawyer.  “You can tell me all about it.  Next year we’re supposed to start thinking about internships and I really want to be a bit ahead of the game…”  She drags Jim to a chair, sits next to him and starts to grill him.  Beckett watches from a safe distance, somewhat confounded by the turn of events and the amusement on her father’s face.

“Pumpkin,” Castle says, and has to repeat it, more sharply. “I think Mr Beckett would like something to drink.  We have a choice of soft drinks and sodas.”  Alexis is recalled to some semblance of party manners and Jim is shortly provided with a soda to wet his throat as Alexis returns to cross-examining him, in the nicest possible way.  It doesn’t appear to Beckett that her dad has any objection at all to spilling out answers to all her questions.  They’re getting on beautifully.  This is good.  One less danger point, or tension.  It really is good, how comfortable her father is here, in a family environment.

But deep down in the nasty little dark corner of her soul where she puts all her pathetic bitterness and envy of Alexis’s relationship with Alexis’s father, a little seed of guilt and resentment that Beckett’s dad can so easily be sincerely comfortable with Castle and his daughter starts to germinate. Maybe, its rootlets imply, maybe it’s just that your father isn’t wholly comfortable with you. Maybe your façade isn’t quite good enough.  Or maybe he hasn’t really forgiven you for walking away, whatever he’s said.  None of that makes it to her conscious mind.  She sips her wine, and tries to ignore her vague, unpleasant feelings of discomfort, forcing herself to happiness that her father is welcomed in so warmly.

Castle is presently pleasantly surprised at how well the beginning of the evening is going. Alexis has clearly taken to Jim – she’s never had a grandfather, and it’s not as if his mother is ever going to be described as grandmotherly – and he’s equally clearly enjoying being grilled.  Now, if only introducing his mother could go as well… and here she is.

Martha arrives at the top of the stairs and – well – makes an entrance, in one of her usual eye-scorchingly colourful outfits. Neon fuchsia-pink, with fringing.

“Darlings,” she emotes, stage charm on full power. “How lovely to see you.  Her eye falls on Beckett.  “Detective Beckett – surely I can call you Katherine – I’m so glad that my son had the sense to invite you back again.  He’s been so sulky without you.”  Both Castle and Beckett wince.  “And you must be Katherine’s father.”  Martha looks him up and down appraisingly and then produces a blindingly attractive smile.  “I can see you in her.”  Jim melts under the statement.  He’d been so used to everyone saying how much Katie resembled her mother, that when someone points out that there’s a resemblance to him, he’s powerless against it.  “Come and talk to me, while these young fry do things to our dinner.  I’m sure we’ll have lots in common.”

Castle watches his mother annex Jim from Alexis without pause for breath and simply hopes that she’s not sizing him up for her next conquest. He has to say that he had not expected his mother to take a liking to him.  Broadway diva meets buttoned-up corporate lawyer is not normally a happy mix.   Especially when one is dry and the other is emphatically not.  He flicks a glance at Beckett, who is now back to being cross-examined by Alexis, and notes with relief that she seems to be perfectly okay too.  Somewhat flabbergasted by the effect of Hurricane Martha, but that’s pretty much the reaction of any normal person to his mother.   He breathes a silent sigh of considerable relief, and relaxes into the evening.

Everything still appears to be going just beautifully partway through the meal. His cooking is excellent – certainly it’s disappearing rapidly – and conversation is flowing.  His mother and Jim have, of all things, bonded over Samuel Beckett plays.

“You know how it is, you look up famous people with the same surname to see if you’re related way back - we weren’t, but it was fun finding out – and go see a play, and I found I liked it.” Jim is self-deprecating.  Martha becomes enthusiastic.

“I’ve never acted in a Beckett play,” she admits, “but I do enjoy them. Such a contrast to the simplicity of Broadway musicals and popular culture.”

“That’s what made you famous, Mother,” Castle points out.   “Popular, simplistic culture.”

“Pshaw. Just because I act in it doesn’t mean that my range is limited to it, Richard.  If that were true, you’d only read mysteries, since that’s all you write.”

Castle is silenced. Beckett sniggers, and Alexis outright laughs.  Castle retires to his casserole, defeated, and consoles himself with his wine. 

Over dessert, he continues to observe Beckett. He’s becoming less and less sure of her mood as time goes on.  Not that she’s ever chatty, but though she’s playing her part in conversation with aplomb he has the strangest impression that she’s more firmly retreated into herself than even that previous, disastrous occasion.  It’s the same tense air of constraint, hidden behind the same cheerful social shell and conversation.  What worries him is that he’s not clear about why.  He’d expected her to be uncomfortable with Alexis, again – or still.  It doesn’t seem to be wholly that, though there is a certain amount of reserve there, and the funny thing is that if he’d been asked to bet his life on it he’d have plumped for the major source of constraint being her father.  It’s very odd.  This time, after all, everybody’s absorbed her family into theirs.  Sure, it’s no doubt disconcerting how readily Jim has been assimilated, but that should ease matters, not make them worse.  Probably, he thinks, it’s a hangover of memories from the previous visit, and he can cure that soon enough.

Castle carries on his monitoring as he makes coffee. Jim, Alexis and his mother are still all happily arguing, with Beckett adding occasional sardonic stirs to the pot.  It’s not till he catches a sidelong glance from Jim to his daughter that he puts it all together and realises that Beckett’s bright social manners are primarily for Jim, not for the collective Castles.  Ah.  Jim had been very politely definite about removing Castle and keeping Beckett, earlier.  That would have been an interesting conversation to overhear.  If Jim is working out that something is wrong – and his earlier call to Castle indicates that he certainly is – then Jim’s glances at his daughter aren’t simply the normal round of dinner party discussion.  He’s watching her almost as carefully as Castle is, without the comfort – comfort?  It’s hardly comfortable – of knowledge.  Castle’s earlier tension and worry ratchets back up as he follows the undercurrents around the table, thanking his stars that his mother and daughter are wholly oblivious to anything other than the surface conversations.

Over coffee, it becomes clear that Beckett is beginning to look for an exit. She’s very subtly drooping, not quite yawning but not quite not, tiny indications of tiredness from a woman who never seems to tire in ordinary conditions.  It’s all very clever and very careful: even his mother hasn’t spotted that it’s not completely real, and of course at after ten it’s quite believable that anyone would be tired.  The interesting question is whether Jim has noticed the play.  If he has, he’s not giving a single sign of it.  It’s all very irritating.  Castle had wanted Beckett to stay on after Jim left, for some gentle cosseting and more coffee, to make sure she was okay.  She’s put that out of court.

Beckett can tell that she’s beginning to lose her ability to stay calm and civilised and appreciative of the efforts the Castles have made to welcome her dad in. She does appreciate it.  It’s just that she’s watching her dad effortlessly relate to Alexis, who has an effortless relationship with her own father.  It’s really good.  It’s just that she doesn’t have that sort of relationship with her dad, and it’s pretty painful to watch him slot in and get on better – perhaps not better, but more easily – with a relative stranger in a family situation than he does with her.  Painful, that is, because the only reason for it is clearly that she’s doing something wrong.  It can’t be her father: that’s been amply demonstrated over this evening.

She’ll just have to try harder.

But not now. She needs to go home and regroup, not least because her unworthy feelings are beginning to get the better of her and there is no justification at all for them.  Everybody’s been warm and welcoming and she simply needs – in a phrase Esposito often uses– to sort her own shit out.  It’s barely acting for her to reveal tiredness: she is genuinely tired, and it’s well after ten.  It doesn’t take long for her to have laid the groundwork to say, “I’m really sorry to break up the party, but I’m going to have to go.”

“I suppose it’s time I went too,” Jim puts in.

“You don’t have to go just because I do,” Beckett points out. “You can stay as long as the Castles like.  I haven’t given you a curfew.”  She smiles, mischievously.  “Not like you used to try on me.”

“Not that it worked. No, Katie, it’s time for me to get home.  These old bones” – Martha coughs – “I’m sorry, Martha, but I don’t have a fascinating job to keep me limber – need a good night’s sleep.”

Coats are assembled and the formalities of leave-taking exchanged. Finally the door closes and Beckett can escape.  Unfortunately before that can occur her father needs to be disposed of, and he is disposed to talk. 

“That was a really nice evening, Katie. Your Rick sure can cook.  I like his family, too, though it must get a bit lively at times.”

“It was great,” she says. Her father glances sharply at her.

“Sure? I thought you were a bit quiet there at the end.”

“Just tired. Work’s been pretty busy since before Christmas.”

“I thought you’d had a couple of days off?”

“You know how that goes, Dad. Takes two days to work out how tired you really are, and then it lands on you.”  She smiles, and changes the subject as they walk out past the doorman.  “I didn’t know you liked Samuel Beckett?”  Surely she should have done?

“I was dragged along when a colleague had a spare ticket. I didn’t expect to enjoy it – I’d rather have been at a baseball game – but I did.  Guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

“You’re not that old. Look, there’s a cab.  You’d better take it – there’s one right behind for me.”

“Okay. Night, Katie-bug.”  He hugs her, and they depart to their separate cabs.

Beckett is barely halfway home before her phone tings with a text. You okay? Naturally, it’s from Castle. Fine, she sends back, and ignores the fact that actually she doesn’t really feel fine at all.  She has not enjoyed this week at all.  It’s left her with the unpleasant squirming in her stomach that makes her feel that however much she gives it isn’t ever enough.

She has a nice hot soothing shower and a nice hot soothing cup of hot chocolate and reads a nice soothing book of no literary merit whatsoever (but some hotness), and then she goes to her nice soothing bed, whose sheets are cool. Absolutely none of which soothes the twisting in her gut at all, which is still there in the morning, when she also remembers that she doesn’t know what happened with David Berowitz and she doesn’t know what her father decided about Julia, and she’d totally forgotten both matters.  (not giving enough, her subconscious growls)

Jim occupies his cab and contemplates the evening with less than perfect happiness. He had very much enjoyed the collective Castle family, though he thinks that if he lived in that sort of chaotically emotional, theatrical atmosphere he would collapse into insanity within a week.  Though maybe that’s just Martha.  Certainly Rick has an aura of solid stability about him.  Now, there’s a point.  Why should he, Jim, think that that’s an advantage in dealing with Katie?  Katie’s been a point of stability all through his troubles, and since.  So why on earth is he suddenly thinking that Katie needs some stability of her own?  He knows he’s not been stable for her, but he’d thought that her team, and that Lanie friend of hers, and her professional success (of which he is incredibly proud) had bolstered her: and she’s always been so down-to-earth and capable.  He’s never felt that she’s looking for support. 

Which of course doesn’t mean that she doesn’t need it, from somewhere.   And like it or not, his alcoholism – he faces that squarely – has meant that she doesn’t look to him.  Question is, is she looking for it from anyone, because he’s not at all sure that she is.  Rick clearly wants to provide it, but equally if he is being allowed to, about which Jim is not at all sure, there’s nothing in public to clue anyone in.  Rather the reverse, in fact.  She’d been subtly out of sorts all evening, despite the welcoming atmosphere and despite the fact that Katie had done and said everything right to make it seem as if she’d been having a perfectly pleasant evening in perfectly pleasant company.  He wonders if Rick had picked up that Katie had brought the evening to a close by pretending tiredness, though the set of her eyes had indicated that it wasn’t entirely put on.  She’d used to do that as a child, when something was wrong.  Jim’s only problem is that he isn’t sure what had been wrong, except that it had all started when he’d manoeuvred Rick into the dinner invitation.

Well, it’s too late to think now. He’ll think in the morning, and then he’ll use the excuse of calling Katie to tell her that Ed had thought him talking to this Mrs Berowitz a very fine idea to try and work out what’s really up.  Maybe she’ll open up over that nice game she’d bought him.  He falls asleep relatively content.