Sins of the Father

How accursed.

Sleep, one of the great sanctuaries for men of a certain age, had become a no-man’s land for Tom Battaglia. Ever since his intrusive thoughts took the form of his late father on the flight home from Japan, slumber has been for biological necessity only. There was no rest.

Only constant haranguing.

“How do you plan on beating Ivan Stanislav? He nearly murdered you the last time you faced him.”

He felt the ache in his back where Ivan threw him through the wall at Barclay’s.

“Pathetic. I told you that you shouldn’t have gone back. You should’ve quit. And now this.”

Shut up, Dad. You’re dead.

Ah, it was useless. No matter how hard he fought back, the spectre of his father, formless yet familiar simultaneously, closed around him. The claustrophobia suffocated him until…

GASP

The gulp for air was so loud it shook Tam out of her sleep.

“Jesus, Tom, again?”

Silence.

“You should probably see if your psych can prescribe you something to keep from having nightmares,” she continued.

“If alcohol won’t kill them, nothing will.”

He rolled out of bed, rubbing his eyes before turning towards the master bathroom.

“Yeah, it just kills your liver,” she mumbled as she rolled over to go back to sleep.

Tom turned the light on, shut the door, and started into the mirror, his bloodshot eyes staring back at him begging for a moment of respite from the deafening chatter in his brain.

-

“So, as you see, the reported sightings of the Center City Mothman all center around various government offices. He’s been seen as far north as 9th and Montgomery by the gas company, but mostly around City Hall, the water company, and various tourist traps in Center City, hence the name the Center City Mothman.”

Vinny stood before a corkboard with pictures connected by red string, standing on an easel in front of the television in the family living room. His brother Zo sat on one end of the sofa, face buried in his phone, and on the other sat El Gato, licking himself furiously as he’s been wont to do.

“If I can only figure out a pattern of his appearances, then me and maybe Cheugy Steve too can corner him. Or would I need to get someone who actually looks scary, like Chick?”

Zo haphazardly looked up from his phone.

“Vin, I really don’t give a shit.”

“You should! If I bust this case open, I can become a world-famous detective! Like Benoit Blanc or Inspector Gadget!”

“You know that isn’t a thing, right?” Zo said, this time not looking up from his phone.

Vinny grumbled to himself and shook his head.

“You’re still with me, right, Gato?”

The cat looked up and simply mewed before going back to ostentatiously and gratuitously licking himself.

“Jesus, why is that cat always here?”

Tom shuffled down the stairs, looking as good as a man working on a few hours of broken sleep could with only a shit, a shower, and a shave.

“Because he knows this is where the best slommy in the neighborhood is.”

“Yeah, my good hot soppressata from the Italian Market. You know that’s not good for cats, right?”

He finally noticed the corkboard in the middle of his living room and looked it up and down incredulously.

“Is this what you’re doing instead of studying for English? You know Aunt Lindz said you can’t write for the PRIME site again until you get your grades up.”

“Dad, this is IMPORTANT!”

Tom was taken aback by Vinny’s forceful enthusiasm.

“I mean,” he continued, “You didn’t do that great in school either, and you followed your dream. Maybe my dream is to become the best private dick in the world.”

“Okay, number one, you’re 15. Why are you using terms from before I was born? Number two, what’s special about private investigation? No money, no fame…”

Zo looked up from his phone to interject.

“That’s what I told him!”

Tom sighed as Vinny started to shake his head.

“Look, kids, I’m gonna go on a jog, alright? Don’t wake your mother, she had a long week at work.”

“Edwards again?” Vinny asked.

“Yeah. Just keep it down, okay?”

-

The sun shone bright upon the city streets still shedding the last of the snow from the previous “once-a-generation” storm. The comfortably cool air and warmth from the sun’s rays belied a weather forecast predicting yet another “once-a-generation” storm baring down the city the next morning. It was a perfect time for a head-clearing jog around South Philly.

And for a little bit, the brisk run through false spring worked to shuffle the toxic thoughts and the concentrated memories wreaking havoc on his psyche. He didn’t think about anything related to the ghosts that had been haunting him. If anything, the burn he felt in his legs stimulated optimism for the first time. It would be late, sure, but late repayments would be better than letting the smug mountain of sinew and bastardized communism get away with the abuse, the dirty pool, the constant mockery after their first match.

He felt alive. Even more important, he felt awake for the first time since getting off the plane in Tokyo. He ran through the city smiling and nodding to people as he passed until he reached a park. He spotted some benches, and the lactic acid build-up in his legs screamed at him to take a break.

So he did.

And as soon as his butt hit the wooden seat on the bench, his eyelids grew heavy like granite.

Not now, he thought to himself. Falling asleep in public? C’mon, they’re going to think you’re homeless.

But the momentum behind the growing drowsiness overcame whatever reservations his inner monologue had. Within seconds, he slumped over ever so slightly, eyes shut.

Silence.

Blissful silence.

“What, did you think you could get rid of me with a goddamn run?”

Broken abruptly.

“You can’t get rid of me! Not while you parade around a ring I sweat and bled in letting some mental patient pretend you’re a fable.”

Wake up, dammit.

“No, you’re going to sit here and listen to me. You should quit now, before Ivan turns you into a can of crushed tomatoes.”

No respite.

“Or not. Why should I even bother?”

What?

“You’re making a mockery of this business.”

He jolted awake. All the good vibrations he’d felt getting to that bench dissipated into the air. The trek back to his house felt a million times longer than the path he took getting away from there.

-

Vinny sat on a kitchen chair he dragged into the living room, staring at his corkboard intently.

“C’mon, there’s gotta be a thing that connects all these appearances,” he muttered to himself.

He was alone this time. El Gato had scurried off. Zo went to hoop down at the playground. Mom had taken advantage of the false spring weather and moseyed into the backyard with a cup of tea and a book.

The door creaked open.

“Jeez, kid, still with the corkboard?”

Vinny startled and turned to face his dad.

“Yeah. It’s rough, trying to figure out how all these Mothman appearances are connected.”

Tom shook his head.

“Why is this so important? Even if it’s just not someone in a weird jacket or whatever, like, why do you care? Why this and not basketball like your brother or video games?”

It was Vinny’s turn to shake his head.

“You don’t understand! Not only could I prove that cryptids exist, maybe he’s doing something nefarious too. Like, he’s always around city buildings, the water company, the mint, Independence Hall.”

“Maybe I don’t, but have you seen the state of the world today? AI slop is everywhere, so you’re not going to convince anyone if you do find him. The cops won’t care if it’s doing anything unless that fuckin’ thing is something they can hand over to ICE. I just don’t want to see you doing something that you’re going to waste your time on.”

“I’m not, okay? This is important to me! I’m doing really good investigative journalism!”

“Journalism? You’re not doing journalism.”

A pause.

“You’re making a… m…”

He caught himself. The words from the amorphous blob of memories of his father in his head right out of his own lips. He stepped back, face as white that would drop on the ground the next day.

“I… I…”

“Dad?”

“I gotta go. Tell your mom I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He hurried back outside and grabbed the cellphone out of his pocket.

“Hey, Angus? Are you free? I need to talk…”

-

Angus Mooney walked into the bar to see his son-in-law already on a stool with a margarita on the rocks in front of him.

“Aye, my lad,” he said as he pulled up the stool next to Tom. “How are you this evenin’?”

“I’d be a lot better if my dad wasn’t talking shit on me from beyond the grave.”

Angus scrunched his nose.

“I don’t understand that, lad. Didn’t he admit that rubbish was all an act? Why would you let that bother you now, all this time after he passed?”

Tom took a heavy slug out of the glass, finishing it and signaling to the bartender for another.

“The guy in that video will wasn’t the father I knew for most of my life. But that’s not even the worst part.”

“Not even the worst part? My boy, Tamara tells me you can barely sleep because of what’s going on in your noggin!”

“I can handle that. All those years of Catholic guilt prepared me for accepting whatever punishment I may receive, internal or external. But I fear I might become a bad father to my son now.”

Angus shook his head and signaled to the bartender.

“Lemme order a drink first before I unpack that nonsense, my boy. Barkeep, Jameson and water please.”

He turned back towards his son-in-law.

“Now, my lad, for as long as I’ve ever known ya, you’ve never struck me as a bad father, bad husband, even a bad son regardless of how your heathen parents have treated you over the years. What could possibly make you think you’re not a good father?”

“It’s this stuff about the Center City Mothman.”

“The who what now? You’re gonna have to catch me up on that, lad.”

“Vinny thinks he’s been seeing this cryptid around the city, and he’s been obsessing over it to the point where he wants to investigate all the sightings. Told me it was real investigative journalism and I started to tell him he was making a mockery of it, but then I held back because that’s what my dad told me about wrestling in the last nightmare I had and it just stopped me cold.”

Angus’ eyes widened. To be fair to him, it was a lot to take in. Before he could chime in, Tom continued on.

“Like, I hate that he’s doing this instead of studying, but at the same time, I sound just like he did all those years ago. All the pushback I got from pursuing the kind of wrestling I liked.”

Serendipitously, the bartender came right in with their drinks. Tom grabbed his and slugged it deep.

“I feel like I’m becoming a person that I hate, all while having to deal with my own shit. Not sleeping. Bothered at work by a guy who won’t quit thinking I’m someone else. And worst of all, going up against fucking Ivan on Friday. Of all the wrestlers I could be booked against now…”

“Yeah, Eileen talks about that fecker all the time. But I don’t think it makes you a bad father that you want yer boy to concentrate on his studies. He can do the Mothman hunt or whatever it is he wants when he gets his grades up.”

Tom shook his head.

“But it’s not really the grades I’m more worried about. It’s this Mothman shit. I both know how my Dad felt when I told him I wanted to train lucha libre and hate myself for feeling that way simultaneously.”

“Ohh, I see. I don’t think it makes you a bad father, but unless this search he has all cooked up in his wee noggin is gonna get him into trouble, I don’t see why it should be so much of a problem.”

Tom nodded.

“So you’re saying I should just live with it? It’s annoying how it pervades every bit of his personality.”

Angus took a sip from his glass.

“No, lad. I’m not saying you need to live with it.”

He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“I’m sayin’ you need to get the feck over it.”

Tom looked at his father-in-law with wide eyes, shocked at the sternness. Angus closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly.

“Look, I’m sorry fer bein’ a stick in the mud here, but it’s only cos I love you that I’m gonna give you this hard truth. But it’s not for ya to approve of what yer kids do or don’t do, at least most of the time.”

Angus paused to take a sip of his drink.

“Like, if he was to do somethin’ feckin’ stupid, like listen to one of them sexist young fucks’ podcasts or declare himself a monarchist, yeah, you may need to step in and show yer disapproval. But this thing you’re talkin’ about? I don’t understand it at all, but it seems harmless.”

“Then why does it feel like it’s not?”

Angus shook his head.

“Aye, haven’t you been tellin’ me about all the therapists an’ shrinks you’ve been seein’, lad? I don’t know exactly what’s up in that head of yours, but I gather you might be makin’ some things you might see as silly into something bigger than it is.”

Tom furrowed his brow and looked down at his drink, which was surprisingly empty for only having taken one sip. Angus leaned in closer.

“Look, the best advice I can give, one dad to another, is that you don’t have to understand why yer kids like what they like. Lord knows I was darn near mystified at some of the things Sheryl and Tamara got into. And it took me a little bit to really understand why Sheryl felt the way she did, when she said she wanted to transition. But the one thing I didn’t do was think it was even my place to approve or not approve of it.”

Tom looked up.

“Yeah, but isn’t that bigger than chasing some silly ghost story?”

“Yes! It is! That’s my whole point, my lad! From the big things to the small, your job as a dad is be supportive of your kids as long as they ain’t feckin’ hurtin’ no one! They need to be their own people too. That might be confusin’ at times, but this life isn’t ever easy.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Angus playfully slapped him in the back.

“Oh, you guess? Ha. Trust me. It’s not easy, but the right thing rarely is.”

Tom laughed as he shook his head and took another sip of his drink.

-

They didn’t linger too late at the bar, and Tom was back in his home by 10 PM. No one was downstairs when he got there, which felt weird to him even though it was normal for a Saturday in the Battaglia household. Zo’s social life was lively, and Vinny, though his circle of friends was small, still at least had a circle of friends. He crept up the stairs and first examined the master bedroom. Tam was already asleep.

Figures, he thought to himself. Having to deal with Edwards on a good week wasn’t a treat, and according to all her stories over dinner, he was in rare form lately.

He then checked on his boys’ rooms. Zo wasn’t there. Obviously. High school senior, starting point guard for a nationally-visible basketball team. He wouldn’t be caught dead at home on the weekend, especially now that the season was over. The early exit from the Catholic League playoffs stung, but not nearly as much as missing even one chance to hang on a Saturday night would.

Vinny was a different story.

Tom found him in his room, staring at the corkboard, eyes glazed over. Tom was unsure whether he was struggling finding his connections or sad that his father had nearly flipped on him earlier before abruptly flying out the door. Tom figured it was time to do a little investigative journalism of his own.

“Hey kid.”

Vinny startled from staring at his evidence board.

“Oh, hey Dad.”

“Still having problems piecing things together?”

“Yeah. It’s almost like his appearances are random. I dunno.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment. They both looked for something to say, but neither could find it for a short amount of time that hung longer in the air than one of Zo’s corner threes in the closing seconds of a game. Tom found his words first.

“Look, kid, uh, what I said earlier. I’m sorry. I was wrong to lash out at you and what you find interesting. I don’t know if I understand all this, but, I’m glad you do.”

A single tear formed in the corner of Vinny’s eye.

“But,” Tom continued, “Just because your dad didn’t do so hot in school doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you. I got lucky. I just happened to make it in a business that pays a lot of money AND marry your mom who ended up rocketing up to the C-suite in the medical industry. I don’t want you to have to rely on that kind of luck too. Okay?”

Vinny nodded.

“Okay, Dad. I love you.”

“Aww, I love you too, son. Bring it in.”

Father and son embraced.

“I think I need to take a break from this Mothman case anyway,” Vinny said as he broke away from his father. “I heard from some smart people that if you can’t figure something out that’s been really hard, it’s best to take a break.”

“That sounds like good advice.”

“Yeah, and besides, there’s something more important I need to work on anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“Helping you beat that loser Ivan, of course.”

Tom chuckled.

“I do need all the help I can get.”

“You sure do. C’mon. I found Mom’s notes from when you wrestled him at Culture Shock in ’24. I also gotta think of a good smell to slap him with in the Ivan Stanislav Odor Report.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t write VINNYTIME again until you get your grades up, remember?”

“Aw man…”

-

Sleep didn’t get any better for Tom that night, even with all the positive reinforcement the day prior brought him. No sooner did he hit his pillow than the nebulous form of his father manifest in his brain, giving voice to every insecurity, every intrusive thought, every insult.

“So not only are you a disgrace of a wrestler, you’re a disgrace of a father too, huh?”

New material. Great.

“You should have learned the lesson I taught you. Put your foot down. But no, he’s going to mess up the same way you are. I can take you being a failure. But not the boy…”

Then, there was a sudden flash of light. The blobby, billowing mass of Lorenzo Battaglia retreated as a new figure marched into the mind’s eye. The figure was familiar, but clad in static, a form to match the distorted mass that resembled Tom’s father but didn’t exactly replicate him. But when he spoke, Tom knew instantly who the yin to his father’s yang was.

“Don’t you feckin’ talk about my son-in-law or my grandson like that, ya dodgy old dryshyte.”