“Well, this is it,” said Pear Butter, setting her bag on the ground. In the distance, the whistle of a locomotive called out its long, mournful song, accompanied by the loud bang of railcars being jerked into motion. “Thanks for walking me to the train station, Daddy.”
“I’m happy to do it,” said Grand Pear. He peered around the platform, but there was nopony else there with them. A bit odd, given that this was usually such a bustling place. “But is there any way I could change your mind? Do you have to go away?”
“I wish I didn’t have to, but you know how it is.” Pear Butter turned and wrapped him in a tight hug, and he found his snout buried deep in her mane. He took a slow breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of lilac and sugar. They stood there for the better part of a minute, enjoying their last moment together before Pear Butter broke the embrace.
“Are you sure you have everything you need?” he asked.
Pear Butter nodded. “Yup, I’ve got it all right here. I got to say goodbye to Anjou, Bartlett, and Ma last night, so that’s it. I’m ready to—” The locomotive’s whistle echoed through the platform.
“All aboard!” shouted the conductor, somewhere further up the train.
“I better get on it,” said Pear Butter. She picked up her bag in her mouth and started towards the steps on the end of the railcar in front of them, but she stopped halfway there. She spat her bag out and quickly crossed over to Grand Pear, planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and ran back to the train. She climbed aboard just as the train slammed into life, jerking slightly as the engineer pulled out the slack in the train’s couplers. “I love you, Daddy!” she called, waving a hoof at him as she slowly began to slide out of view.
Even though his hooves felt like they were glued in place, Grand found the strength to return the wave. “Bye, sweetie!” he yelled over the growing cacophony of steel parts coming to life. “Have a good trip!” He watched as Pear Butter grew smaller and smaller in his view, and then vanished into the line of tall black passenger cars as they continued to accelerate away.
Finally, the end of the last car raced past him, the bright red lights of the rear markers disappearing into the mist that hung around in the predawn, their soft red glow fading away into the darkness. With the train gone, Grand Pear turned around and started his walk back towards home. Alone. He walked with his eyes downcast, tracing the patterns in the tile of the station platform as he shuffled towards the exit.
To his surprise, however, the station didn’t become silent so quickly. Mere seconds after the train carrying his daughter disappeared, another whistle echoed through the station, and a second train came barrelling in on the same track. Grand Pear glanced up at the locomotive, hissing and groaning as it fought to slow itself down.
But something wasn’t right. The midnight black locomotive groaned and shuddered, and then an earsplitting crack pierced through the wall of sound. A mare screamed from somewhere behind him, and in an instant, a boiling, angry cloud of hot steam exploded towards him so fast that he didn’t even have enough time to blink.
Grand Pear’s eyes shot open, and he stared at the ceiling over his bed, locking his gaze onto the large, faint stain that had been there since before he moved into the house. His heart was racing like a jackhammer in his chest, and his pajamas were drenched with cold sweat. For several minutes, all he could do was lie still and breathe, desperately trying to calm himself down. When he was calm enough to have at least some of his wits about him, he blinked hard and reached over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. He winced as the sudden bright light overwhelmed and strained his eyes, and he squinted to read the hands on the alarm clock.
“4:37 in the morning. Oh, brother,” he mumbled to himself.
There was a stirring from the bed next to him, and his wife, Péra Rocha, sat up with a gasp, tearing her blinders from her eyes. She looked around in a daze before she fixed her gaze on her husband. “Grand, what’s going on? Is someone breaking in?” she asked.
“No, no. It’s alright,” said Grand. He kicked the covers off of himself and sat up on the edge of the bed, fumbling around for his slippers. “You can go back to sleep.”
“Did you have that dream again?” she asked.
Grand glowered and hopped down from the bed, grunting softly as his hooves hit the floor. There was a little bit of stiffness in his hooves, enough to make them complain about suddenly being brought to life so early in the morning. He clicked the lamp off and made his way for the door. “No, it’s alright. I’m just gonna get an early start today.”
Slowly, steadily, Grand felt his way down the hallway and through the den to the kitchen. He was still acclimated to the darkness, so the bright lights in the kitchen forced him to squint as he made his way to the stove. He filled the tarnished old coffee percolator up with fresh grounds and water, spilling some of the water onto the stovetop. He flipped the burner on underneath it without bothering to clean up the mess and grumbled under his breath as he sauntered over and took a seat at the breakfast table.
And then he flinched. The old wooden chair groaned loudly as it assumed his weight, much like it usually did, but the sound was enough to startle him this time.
I need a distraction, he thought. Much like the morning before, he was still on edge from the nightmare. Well, come to think of it, it wasn’t really a nightmare. Maybe just a bad dream? He shook his head and pushed the thoughts from his mind. He looked around for something to occupy himself with, quickly settling on yesterday’s newspaper, sitting on the table where he’d left it the day before.
I didn’t get to read the financial section. Couldn’t hurt now. The paper crinkled quietly under his touch as he flipped through the pages. Financial news had been slow the day before; aside from a piece predicting a major crash on the Canterlot exchange in the coming weeks, there was nothing of value to him. Talk about a good way to go back to sleep.
The scuff of slippers on linoleum pricked his ears up, and he cocked his head barely enough to see the doorway in the corner of his eye. There stood Péra, her fluffy brown mane a disheveled mess that spilled around both sides of her head. One quick glance at her face, and that was all it took. She was worried, and if he knew anything about her, it was that she wouldn’t just let it go.
But the hesitance was a little different. From the look of it, she was having trouble figuring out what she was going to say.
“I told you, it’s alright. You need your sleep.”
“Don’t you?” Péra asked. Grand listened to her hoofsteps as she crossed the kitchen and took a seat beside him. “That’s the third night in a row that you’ve woken up at this hour. How are you not exhausted?”
“I’m fine,” Grand grumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the newspaper
“You’re obviously not fine, Grand. Have you looked in the mirror? You’ve got bags under your eyes.” A dandelion-yellow hoof reached over the top of the paper and lowered it down, revealing her face. “Did you have that dream again? The one with the train?”
Grand Pear finally made eye contact with Péra, and his ears laid back on his head as he let out a sigh. “Yeah, it happened again.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” he said. “But I don’t really have a choice in the matter, do I?”
Péra shook her head and scooted her chair closer. Sighing, Grand dropped the newspaper on the table.
“I just don’t know what to say about it,” he began. “I thought I was over all of that. I haven’t even spoken to Pear Butter in what, six or seven years?” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat. “But it shouldn’t matter. She has her new familyback in Ponyville, and I have everypony else here in Vanhoover with me. It’s been long enough that we should both be over it. Right?”
“I’d think that if you’re having nightmares about it, then you might still have some things left to deal with.”
“Could be,” said Grand. “I don’t know. It’s probably just some weird coincidence.” The percolator began to whistle quietly, and Grand rose from his seat to tend to it. When he turned back to Péra, he could tell from her flat expression that she wasn’t too pleased with his appraisal of the significance of the dreams. “Okay, fine. If it happens again, I’ll schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist.”
Péra shook her head. “He’ll tell you the same thing I’m about to. Do you think that maybe it’s time to reconcile?”
“It’s too late for that, Péra,” said Grand. “She made her choices, and I made mine.”
“But she’s our daughter!” Péra shouted. “I still love her as much as I did before we left her behind, and even though you won’t admit it, I know you do too.”
Grand poured the contents of the percolator into his cup and took a sip. “There’s some things that I just can’t forgive. Marrying into that family?” He took another, larger sip of the coffee, this time burning his tongue with the bitter brew, but he ignored it. “Look, I love you, Péra. I really do. But I would really appreciate it if you'd not try to get me to go back on what I’ve done. I disowned my daughter, and I have to live with that.”
Péra sat there for a moment, mouth open like she meant to speak, but nothing came out. She simply stared at him with eyes full of some emotion he couldn’t quite place. Shock? Pity? Guilt? It was too early in the morning, and he was too tired to try and figure it out anyway.
“I’m gonna go wash up,” Grand said. He turned away from Péra and walked out of the kitchen before she had the chance to say anything else.
“That’ll be fourteen bits, ma’am,” said Grand Pear, pushing two jars of pear jam over the counter.
“There you go,” said the mare, passing her payment to Grand. She lifted the jars off the counter with her magic, tucking them neatly into her saddlebags. “Thanks so much, Mr. Pear!” she said, turning to leave.
“Thanks for stopping by, Tea Kettle. Tell the kids I said hello!” he called after her.
“Sure will!” she replied as she walked out the door and disappeared into the flow of pedestrians out on the sidewalk.
Grand Pear slid the money into the open drawer under the counter and eased back in his seat. It had been a slow day, even by Wednesday standards. Only a hoofful of ponies had come into the shop in the last hour, and he’d been left with little to do other than stare at the glass door and wait for the next customer to walk in.
And of course, that meant that he had plenty of time to sit and brood on what happened that morning. As much as he hated to admit it, Péra was right. The years away from the Apple family had softened his feelings towards them. Granted, he still didn’t necessarily like them, but all the same, now that he thought about it, the only thing keeping him from trying to reach out at this point was his pride. He wanted to get back in touch with her, but how would it look if he was the one who broke?
No, he couldn’t do that. He had an image to maintain, an example of tough fairness that kept the crazy antics of his family in check. No matter what they did, if he said something about it, it would stop. They respected him too much to disobey him, and that was exactly what he’d worked so hard to build in his years as the patriarch of the Pear family.
But that still couldn’t stop him from wanting to break down and do it anyway.
They’d understand, he thought. Everypony took it so hard when we left. They’d probably love getting to see her again.
The bell over the door rang, and Grand looked up to see the mail pony entering the shop, already rummaging through his bag.
“Howdy there, Glider,” said Grand Pear.
“Good morning, Mr. Pear,” Glider returned as he approached the front counter. “Business booming?”
“Oh no, it’s awful slow,” said Grand Pear, chuckling. “I think I've moved maybe twenty jars since we opened.”
“Wow, that's like six an hour. Sounds like a dream, getting to sit down once in a while.”
Grand Pear laughed again, shaking his head. “Look at this belly I've got growing, and tell me you still want my job. You gotta stay fit for all those mares you got after you, right?” he said with a sly wink.
It was Glider’s turn to laugh, which he did as he passed a small bundle of envelopes across the counter with an outstretched wing. “Not a lot of letters for you today. I guess things are slow on the mail-order side of things too.”
“Darn, had my hopes up,” said Grand Pear. He slid the mail down the counter to maintain a clear space near the cash register. “Thanks, Glider. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Mr. Pear. See you tomorrow!” Glider turned to leave, and when the bell over the door announced his departure, the store was quiet once again.
“Let’s see now…” Grand Pear pulled his reading glasses out of their case and perched them delicately on the bridge of his snout. He grabbed the small stack of envelopes and sorted through them. The monthly water bill was on top, followed by four or five letters with return addresses scattered from all across Equestria. Mail orders, just like he got every day. He sorted those into a pile separate from the bill, and the next envelope caught his attention. It was just like an ordinary letter, but it lacked the usual weight of a mail order, which would have some sort of payment inside of it. From the feel of it, it was just a couple of pieces of paper in the envelope. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the return address.
Ponyville Town Hall. It wasn’t exactly unusual to receive orders from Ponyville; after all, he’d spent most of his life gathering a following from there, and he usually expected at least a few loyal customers to place orders from there every week. But he’d never gotten an order from the mayor before. From what he remembered, she didn’t like pears all that much.
I guess you get first pick. He sliced the envelope open with a smooth, practiced flip of his fetlock, and he dumped the contents out of the envelope: a folded piece of paper—likely a letter—and a piece of thicker stock that appeared more like a pamphlet.. He unfolded the letter, revealing itself to not be on official stationery like he’d expected, but just an ordinary piece of paper. The writing was somewhat sloppy and constricted, not like he’d expect from the mayor or a secretary. He put on his glasses and began to read.
Dear Grand Pear,
Last week, something terrible happened. Your daughter, Pear Butter, and my son, Bright Mac, were involved in an accident, and both of them passed away Friday afternoon. By the time you get this letter, we’ll have already held a service for the two of them. I’m awful sorry that you won’t be able to make it in time, but you know how slow the mail runs. Because they’re both gone, I’ll be taking custody of the foals.
I know we don’t like each other one bit, but she’s your kin, and you have a right to know. For Buttercup Pear Butter’s sake, I hope you and your family can make it down to pay her a visit. I didn’t figure you’d read what I had to say if I sent this myself, so I asked a favor of the mayor and she sent it direct to your store.
Even though you probably stopped caring about her, she never gave up. She was just too stubborn to quit loving you.
-Granny Smith.
Grand Pear barely finished reading the letter before it fell out of his hooves, floating lightly down to the countertop like a leaf carried on the breeze. His mouth fell open, and he sat there staring at his hooves, unable to muster even the bare presence of mind to blink. The world faded away from the edges of his vision, focusing in on his hooves like the edges of a tunnel. His ears buzzed dully, all other sound fading into white noise. Half a minute passed, and only then did he regain enough of his faculties to think to close his eyes.
She’s lying.
Grand took a breath that ended up as more of a gasp. He’d been so dumbfounded that he forgot to breathe, and now that the burn in his lungs was strong enough, it was one of the first things that snapped him back towards reality. Of course! How could I let that get to me? Granny Smith is an Apple. Of course she’d send me a fake letter to try and undermine my business! It just made too much sense. Apples were treacherous ponies, and he couldn’t trust a single word they said.
Suddenly, the shock didn’t seem so bad. He cracked his eyes open and glanced around the store. From what he could tell, nopony had seen him in the midst of his episode. He breathed a sigh of relief and eased himself back in his seat. He stared up at the ceiling, smirking to himself. It would take a lot more than some silly prank letter to get Grand Pear to break.
But what if they aren’t lying? His smirk was snuffed out in an instant, and his eyes darted back to the letter sitting on the countertop. There was still the other item that came in the envelope that he hadn’t seen, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat as he stared at it. It stood open slightly because of the thicker paper it was made of. With trepidation, he picked the pamphlet up. It had been lying face down, but when he flipped it over, his chest immediately tightened back up.
In the center of the page was a picture of Pear Butter and Bright Macintosh sitting next to each other, a moment of laughter between the two of them frozen in time by the camera. Above that were three simple words:
Celebration of Life.
“A funeral program,” he whispered to himself. An empty pit in his gut opened, pulling his chest into his belly. He blinked hard, his head growing progressively lighter and lighter, and he grabbed onto the counter for support.
“Keep it together.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away from the two pieces of paper that glared back at him from their places on the countertop. It felt like an anaconda was wrapped around his neck, squeezing his throat closed.
Not again, he thought. I’ve spent too many years of my life crying and feeling sorry for myself. I nearly lost everything because of it last time. I’ll be damned to Tartarus if I let that happen again.
He closed his eyes tightly, steeling himself, and then he felt something shift. The pressure to cry eased, and the tightness that he felt throughout his body began to relax. He opened his eyes and looked around the store. The shelves were there, fully stocked with jars of jam ready for sale. The faint sound of Anjou working in the back room disrupted the stifling silence on the sales floor. Ponies passed by on the street, and it wouldn’t be long before another one found their way in.
This is what’s important. Not what happened a thousand miles from here.
He glanced down at the letter and program sitting on the counter before him, and with a casual flick of his hoof, he brushed them aside. They fell to the floor next to his stool, and with them out of his sight, he snorted. “She’s gone. So what? She hasn't been my daughter for seven years.”
He grabbed one of the other envelopes and ripped it open without a second thought, and he began the next part of his daily routine. He pulled out the contents of the mailer, a letter with the customer’s order, and the payment method—in this case, a money order. He repeated the process, separating orders from payments until he had finished out the day’s mail pile.
With that done, he worked on the next order of business, writing down an exact list of what each customer wanted. With that in hoof, he could start assembling the orders when there weren’t any customers present, and then he’d be ready to send them out with a hoof-written thank you note like he always did.
But that would have to wait just a moment. The doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of the next customer into the shop.
“Howdy there, Fossil,” said Grand Pear, smiling the same warm smile he always did. Fossil Brush, a slate grey unicorn with thick framed glasses perched on her muzzle, smiled as she approached the counter.
“Hey Grand, how are things?” she asked in her familiar, slightly nasal voice that was a bit louder than Grand expected. She was a loud talker.
“Oh, I feel like a sharecropper in a dry year. Kind of the usual,” he said, chuckling to himself. Fossil did the same.
“Ha, don’t we all?” she said. “So, you know that jar of pear jam I bought last week?” she asked, and she included a pause for him to answer.
“Yeah, did you find the bugs I put in it?” he replied.
“You put bugs in it?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“No, of course not. Just joking.” Grand rolled his eyes. He usually liked to joke around with his customers, but sometimes they didn’t land, especially with bookish ponies like Fossil. They weren’t always the sharpest when it came to small talk.
“Oh, well anyway, I took that jar in with me to share with some of my coworkers at the archaeology institute, and it was a hit! Those ponies from out of town practically drank the stuff.”
“So that’s why you’re back so soon. Needing another jar?” he asked.
Fossil smiled. “Yep! I’m gonna need two jars of jam, and do you have anything else that I could try bringing in? Maybe some candied pears or pear butter?”
Grand’s pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. Why did she have to mention pear butter? He felt renewed weight on his chest, and it was a struggle to keep the smile on his face up.
“Yeah, it’s on the middle row of shelves. Can’t miss it.”
“Awesome, I’ll be right back up here with that stuff!” Fossil turned around and disappeared into one of the aisles, and Grand Pear took the opportunity to shut his eyes as hard as he could.
Stop thinking about it. There’s nothing to be done. She isn’t your daughter anymore, and that’s it! He shouted it to himself over and over in his head, but it did nothing to slow his heart rate.
“Mr. Pear? Are you okay?”
Grand Pear opened his eyes, and it took him a second to focus on Fossil, who had placed all of her merchandise on the countertop. He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. Of course. Two jars of jam and a jar of pear b-butter. That’ll be twenty bits.”
Fossil silently placed a single twenty-bit coin on the counter while Grand stuffed her items in a box and slid them across the counter to her.
Fossil cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t look so good all of a sudden. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just about ready for my lunch break,” said Grand, forcing himself to smile. She didn’t seem convinced, cocking her head slightly and keeping her brow raised. She eyed him closely for a moment before she took a step back.
“Maybe try taking a nap. You look like you could use it,” she said, a definite hint of question in her voice. Convinced or not, she’d decided not to push the issue, and Grand breathed an internal sigh of relief. She levitated the box off the counter and started on her way out. “Have a good day, Mr. Pear!” she called.
“Yeah, yeah. You too,” he muttered. The emptiness and pressure in his chest was continuing to build, and he didn’t even notice her leave.
I can’t do this. Grand pushed his stool out and slid to his hooves, which were beginning to feel more like bricks on the ends of his legs, and sauntered over towards the doorway that led to the back room.
“Anjou?” he called to his son, who was standing hunched over a work table, peeling the skin off of a pear.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Finish up what you’re doing there, and then wash your hooves. You’re on the front counter for the afternoon.”
“...Sure. What’s going on? Something come up?” asked Anjou.
“Yeah.” Grand Pear stepped back from the doorway and scooped up Granny Smith’s letter, along with the pamphlet and envelope. “I’ll see you later, Anjou.” He grabbed his hat from the hook on the back wall and made his way to the front door.
There was only one thing he knew that could erase the pain in his chest.
It looked almost exactly the same as the last time he’d seen it five years ago. The same old neon sign for Painted Pilsner beer was still on the wall by the door, the room still smelled faintly of tobacco smoke and sweat despite the fact that there wasn’t anyone else there, and the same old rust-red griffon was still there behind the bar.
Gerry’s Pub hadn’t changed a bit.
Grand Pear stepped into the bar room with a bit of hesitation in his step, but it didn’t take him long to make a beeline for the bar. Gerry was doing something to one of the taps, seemingly making some sort of repair to it, but he stopped as soon as he noticed Grand approaching.
His face lit up. “Well I’ll be roasted in garlic and chives. Is it really you, Grandy boy?” he asked. Gerry was a large griffon, and his laugh had a considerable amount of bass to it, enough to drown out the dull roar of campy blues rock coming from the bar’s sound system.
“Hey, Gerry,” said Grand, seating himself a chair down from where Gerry was standing. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Too damn long, if you ask me. The place hasn’t been the same without you here,” said Gerry.
“Oh yeah, sure has changed,” said Grand, looking the bar over once more. “You resurfaced the pool table.”
“And bought new cues,” Gerry added with a quick chuckle. “So, what’ll it be, Peary? The usual?”
“You still remember that?” asked Grand.
“Gin martini, wet and shaken on the rocks,” said Gerry, not missing a beat.
“I think I’ll just have whiskey this time, Gerry. Thank you.”
Gerry shrugged. “So be it. What flavor you lookin’ for?”
“Jimmy. Nothing but the best,” said Grand.
“I like the way you think. Rocks?”
“Straight up.” Grand watched as Gerry went to work, setting down the shot glass and expertly pouring the whiskey from a considerable height without spilling a drop. In one smooth motion, he transferred the glass from the back counter to the bar and slid it down to Grand, landing it directly in front of him like it was nothing.
Grand smirked. “Your aim has gotten better over the years.”
“That’s what practicing does for you,” said Gerry. He returned to the tap he had been working on, taking a small wrench out of a toolbox on the floor behind the bar. “Tell me, back in the day, I don’t think you ever came in before dark. What’s got you here so early? Heck, for that matter, what’s got you back in here at all?”
Grand didn’t answer right away, instead downing his entire shot in one go. It had been quite a while since he’d felt the familiar burn of hard liquor, and he grunted on reflex as the familiar warmth spread down into his stomach. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“Look around, buddy. It’s half-past eleven. I got nothing but time.”
“I’ll need another shot before I go down that road,” Grand said, sliding the glass back down to Gerry, where it clinked against the side of the tap.
“Pay to play, huh?” Gerry asked, topping the glass off. “Always was like that.” He slid the glass back down to Grand.
“Thanks,” said Grand. He downed the next shot, this time holding it in his mouth just a bit longer, savoring the smooth, faintly smoky and fruity taste. “Ah, I’ve missed that.”
“Before you tell me, let me take a stab at it. Did your wife nag you back into my arms?” Gerry asked.
Grand sighed. “No, not this time. Péra can be a bit much, but we’ve gotten over our differences lately. I’d say I’m about as happy with my marriage as I’ve ever been.”
“Sheesh, sorry I asked,” said Gerry. “Most stallions that come wandering in here this early just had a fight with the missus. Can’t blame me for going with the usual excuse.”
Grand Pear motioned for another shot, and he gulped it down as soon as it came his way. “I suppose not. But since you want to know, I’m here to forget something.”
“Oh, it’s one of those. You sure you want to talk about it?”
“I’ll be drunk as a skunk in no time. Might as well,” said Grand, taking another shot. His belly was burning with the alcohol, but he didn’t feel any different otherwise. Maybe he still had some of the tolerance he’d built up years ago. “I got a letter this morning from my old rival back in Ponyville. You remember the story I told you about how my daughter ran off with the old hag’s son, right?”
“It rings a bell. What’s going on now? You got grandkids?” asked Gerry. Grand motioned for another drink, but Gerry shook his head. “Give it a bit, or you’ll be seeing what you drank again.”
“Probably do have grandfoals now, but heck if I know. I cut her off the minute we left Ponyville, so if she sent me a letter about that, I wouldn’t have seen it.”
“Aye, I remember the first time you came in. Seems like you said something about your daughter back then.”
“Oh yeah, that’s what made me start coming here in the first place,” said Grand. A little bit of that old, familiar numbness that he craved was starting to take effect on the back of his mind, and he was noticing that it was a bit more difficult to get his train of thought going. Not that it mattered. Soon he’d be plastered, and that was what was important. “It hurt so bad to have to leave her behind like that. Heck, I nearly broke down and begged her to come back a few times, but I have—” he burped “—have to set an example. If my kids want to disrespect me like that, then they can’t be my kids.”
“Mm, sometimes it takes an iron claw—er, hoof, to keep a family in line. I know how that is. My pop was a real sert göt, but it kept us out of trouble,” said Gerry. “I still hate his guts, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.”
“That’s what I always liked about coming here. You get me, Gerry. You always did.” Grand licked his lips and tapped out a short beat on the bar with his hooves. “Like I said, it sucked having to be so hard on her, but it was setting an example. But anyway, that’s not why I’m here.” Grand paused to pound another shot down. “According to the letter I got today, my daughter died last week.”
Grand Pear paused for a moment, expecting some sort of condolences from the old griffon, but he was only met by silence. Grand looked over to Gerry, who was visibly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. He didn’t say anything, simply returning to his work with the faulty tap in what he could only assume was an excuse to avoid eye contact. Not that it fazed Grand. He was going, and by Celestia, he was gonna keep going.
“Yep, they sent me a letter saying that she’s already dead and buried. I mean, wouldn’t you believe it? Just gone like that.” Grand smacked his hooves together. “I sure don’t believe it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gerry.
“I tried telling myself that the old Apple family wench was just yanking my chain. But there was proof! She sent me a program from the fu—from the funeral…” Grand lost the thought to the fuzz that was starting to overtake his mind, and he defaulted to a blank stare at the back wall. The conversation stopped for a few seconds before Gerry spoke up.
“I really don’t know what to say, buddy. I’m used to getting ponies in here to talk about things like divorces or their lives being crappy. But this?” Gerry turned back to Grand. “This is some really heavy stuff. I ain’t a shrink, but do you think drinking is the best way to deal with this?”
“It’s not,” said Grand. “It’s about the worst thing I could do right now.” He paused, looking down at the countertop and the group of empty shot glasses he’d just downed. When he focused on them, he could see just a little bit of blurring in his sight.
Neither of them spoke again for several minutes. Gerry was focused on fixing the broken tap, and Grand just sat there, staring down at the bar, his head resting on his hooves. With every passing minute, he could feel himself detaching further and further from sobriety. It was what he’d come here for. Ever since he’d read the letter, he’d been craving to forget it. But now that it was here? He could see the faint, blurred reflection of himself in the glossy varnish on the counter, and every second he stared at it, he could feel that deep, empty space in his chest filled with something equally unpleasant:
Disgust.
Grand Pear took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from the counter. “Do you know why I stopped coming to the bar, Gerry?”
“No,” said Gerry. “Didn’t really get a chance to. You just stopped showing one day, and that was it. Hadn’t heard from you since.”
Grand swallowed the lump in his throat. “I stopped drinking because it was tearing my family apart. Things were hard after we came here, and I know that deep down, everypony blames me for what happened, but we were still a family until I started coming home drunk every night. After a while, my sons Anjou and Bartlett stopped talking to me unless they had to. Péra started sleeping in a different room from me, and things just kept getting worse from there.”
“What made you quit?” asked Gerry.
“I got wasted and gave Péra a black eye before I busted my head on the coffee table. Spent a few days in a coma, did some soul searching, and gave it up cold turkey.” Grand sighed and turned his gaze back down. “I promised Péra I’d never touch another drop of alcohol as long as I lived, and I meant it. But here I am.
“I screwed up, Gerry.”
Again, both pony and griffon were silent. Several minutes passed as Grand fought to maintain his composure. Even through the fog in his mind, he could feel the pain that the memories dragged up.
Grand hadn’t been paying attention to what Gerry was doing, so he was surprised to see a set of talons reach in under him and grab the empty shot glasses.
“I’ll take that as a sign that you’re done,” said Gerry.
“Yeah. Let me get you the b-bits,” Grand said, digging around for some coins.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy. You better get on home,” said Gerry. Even though his beak wasn’t the best tool for conveying emotion, Grand could tell that there was a smile in there somewhere.
“I can handle my bill,” Grand said, his voice flat. He dropped five bits on the counter and hopped down from the barstool. “Take care of yourself, Gerry.” He walked to the exit and took one last glance around the bar room before he walked out the door.
Years ago, Grand Pear had seen a documentary film about the yearly salmon run in the mountain streams near Vanhoover. Every summer, thousands upon thousands of salmon would swim from the ocean to spawning grounds deep in the mountains. In particular, he remembered one scene in the film that submerged the camera in the water just below a waterfall, running alongside hundreds of fish waiting anxiously to run the gauntlet, jumping up a short waterfall and past a line of bears waiting patiently to snag them out of the air.
While there were no bears waiting that he was aware of, he couldn’t help but feel reminded of that scene as he sat on his cold metal bench, watching dozens of ponies rushing back and forth through the entrance to the Vanhoover train station. Their heads were down, eyes forward, pushing along on their way without much thought for the ponies around them. There were simply too many things on their minds to do any differently.
That’s the difference between this place and Ponyville. Back there, everypony could take a little time to talk to each other.
Grand grumbled to himself as he sat there, lamenting the hustle and bustle. At least it would be changing soon. It had been a few hours since he’d left Gerry’s, and he was feeling a good deal more sober now. In fact, he was feeling well enough that he was about ready to enact the next phase of the plan he’d concocted while wandering around town.
He was going to go buy a train ticket for Ponyville.
The free-standing, ornate clock in the middle of the large entryway chimed out three quarters of the hourly tone. Fifteen minutes until five, and from his experience with travel during his years as a salespony, he knew that the nightly train for Canterlot left just a little after five. If he was going to get on that train, he was going to have to go now.
Grand slowly eased himself to his hooves, and the instant he stood up, his sight drained away to a potent headrush. He blinked hard, and after a few moments, his vision began to fade back in, little by little. He shook his head, clearing away the last bit of fog from his head, and doing so brought him a lot closer to losing his balance than he’d expected.
Okay, maybe I’m not quite as sober as I thought.
No matter, though. He was plenty experienced at faking sobriety. So long as he avoided letting anypony smell the liquor on his breath and walked a straight line, he’d be home free. After all, he had somewhere to be.
One hoof in front of the other. That’s all there is to it. The first step was a bit shaky, but he found his stride in short order, and he began his walk across the main foyer to the ticket counter, joining the stream of ponies heading towards the sign that said “To Trains”, but with the intent of jumping into the trickle of ponies heading for the ticket counter. Most everypony else must have prepaid.
Oh right, do I have enough on me for the ticket? Grand fought his way through the crowd to get out of the traffic flow, earning himself a number of dirty looks from the ponies he’d cut off. Not that it mattered. They were all focused on themselves, so he was focused on himself.
He took out his coin purse and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been meaning to pay some of the bills owed on the store, so he’d come well stocked with several hundred-bit coins. More than enough for a standard fare to Ponyville.
He smiled to himself and started forward again, slowly making his way towards the window on the far side of the room. A few ponies were waiting ahead of him, but in his experience, ticket lines tended to move along fairly quickly. He’d have time left over to grab a bite to eat at the station’s restaurant before he got on the train.
Heck, should have gone home and packed a bag first. Would have made things a lot easier. He was sorely lacking in any sort of supplies that he’d usually want for a long train ride, but there were stores for that. He could buy a small bag of toiletries and any other essentials at one of the shops along the corridor to the trains.
His next step came in a bit too far inward, and he nearly stumbled. “Whoa,” he muttered to himself. Best to not get too far into thought while walking. He forced himself to keep his focus on getting where he was going, and he made the rest of the short walk without another thought entering his head.
Grand fell in line behind a small yellow mare wearing a hat with a bow on it. She heard him approach and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He greeted her with a “Howdy,” and she gave him a small smile back before returning her gaze forward.
At least she can’t tell I’m drunk. Grand’s smile began to fade, and as he looked at the back of the mare’s head, his thoughts shifted to his wife. Péra couldn’t miss it if I had only a single drop to drink. She always knew.
He looked up at the ticket counter again as another pony left the front of the line and rejoined the crowd. A few steps forward, and he was stopped again. Two more ponies were ahead of him now.
What’s Péra gonna say about this? I didn’t even tell her I was going. Grand grimaced, and then frowned. She’s gonna be worried sick about me, probably think I ran out on her. It wasn’t going to be fun to come home to, but he had to do this. He had to go to Ponyville. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t.
And then it dawned on him. I didn’t even tell them. Nopony knows what happened. He’d tucked the letter into the bandana around his neck when he left the shop, and now he pulled it out to look at it again.
It was exactly the same as it had when he’d first opened it. Maybe there was some small part of him that still wished for it to be a dream, but there was no denying it anymore.
His daughter was gone.
The hollow, resonant pain in his chest returned in force, and it took a considerable amount of his already-hindered willpower to keep from crumpling under the weight of the emotion and breaking down right then and there. I’m buying a ticket to go visit her grave, he thought, and I didn’t even bother to tell the family about it. What am I doing? What kind of father am I?
“Sir?”
The voice cut through his thought, and Grand looked up from the letter to see that he was now the first pony in line.
“Sir, would you please step forward?” the mare running the window asked. Her voice was nasally and demanding, like she had neither the time nor the patience to let him think.
It took him a moment to find it in himself to speak. “No,” he choked out. “No, I can’t do this.” Grand turned away from the counter and started forward carefully, one hoof in front of the other. But then he increased his pace, his steps becoming more and more wobbly and disconcerted as he picked up speed.
Just like a salmon swimming upstream, Grand Pear fought his way against the flow of ponies, desperately trying to get out of the station as fast as he could.
“Honey, what are you doing out here on the porch?”
Grand Pear flinched as a hoof touched his shoulder, and he cracked his eyes open just barely enough to let a mere trickle of light in, but even that was enough to burn like fire. He groaned and rolled over, fighting off whoever was there. He wanted to sleep, and by Celestia, he was going to sleep.
“Grand, wake up! You’re not going to go to sleep tonight if you take a nap so late in the afternoon.” The voice was all too familiar, but it still took him a few seconds to register who it was. Grand turned over onto his back, squinting to try and bring her into focus and spare his eyes from the sunlight that was shining directly in on him.
“Péra? What time is it?” he asked.
“It’s nearly eight, Grand! Why are you out here on the porch? Anjou told me that you left the shop before lunch today without saying where you were going, and then you didn’t ever show back up. I’ve been worried sick!”
Grand tried to sit up, but he immediately regretted it. His head began throbbing the second he moved, and he groaned again. “Péra, can you lower the volume please?”
“Not until you sit up and give me a straight answer!” she said, her voice still raised. “What’s gotten into you today? I know you’re tired, but that isn’t like you to just disappear like that.”
Grand felt her grab at one of his hooves, and before he knew it, he was being tugged upright. “Gah!” he hissed, wincing under the pain. “Easy!”
“Deal with it,” she said, dropping his hoof with more than a little conviction. She took a seat next to him on the porch swing. “What happened today, Grand? Where did you run off to?”
Grand averted his eyes. His head hung low and his ears laid back flat on his head. He could feel her gaze burning holes in his side, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find the words he needed to say. He just let out a raspy sigh and stayed quiet.
A few moments passed before Péra spoke again, but instead of the escalation he was expecting, her voice softened. “Grand, can you look at me? I just want to talk to you.”
He glanced over at her, testing the waters before he committed himself to full eye contact. For her part, she appeared genuinely concerned, her eyes deep and questioning, yet soft and gentle at the same time. She reached out for his hoof, and he hesitated for a moment before letting her take it.
“Can you please tell me what happened?” she asked.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” said Grand. Slight pressure was building in his throat, trying to choke him up, but he ignored it. “But I reckon that’d just make everything worse.” She gave his hoof a gentle squeeze, and he finally turned to face her.
“I’m not even sure how to say it. I don’t think I—” Grand stopped mid-sentence when Péra’s expression suddenly soured. She leaned in close to his muzzle and took a quick sniff, from which she instantly recoiled.
“You went out drinking, didn’t you?”
Grand froze, his stomach falling into his legs. Silly me, should’ve known she’d find out quick. Grand watched as she wordlessly jumped up from the bench and stormed towards the front door, every step more of a stomp.
“Péra,” said Grand. She ignored him, and so he got up to follow her towards the door. “Péra, just let me explain wha—”
“No!” she shouted, whipping around in the blink of an eye. Her face was already turning red, and there were tears welling up in her eyes. “You don’t get to do this to me again! I gave you every chance in the world for years. I stood by and watched you tear yourself down every single night, and I kept telling myself that you’d change.”
She took a step forward, getting into his face. “But you know what, Grand? I’m done. Remember what I told you when you woke up from that coma? I told you that if you ever came home drunk again, I’d leave you. You sat there and cried and begged me not to go, and I guess you did alright for a while, but you just broke your promise.” Péra took a deep breath, and her voice became cold. “I’m packing my bags, and then I’ll be out of here.”
“Wait, Péra—gah!” As soon as Grand started talking, Péra slapped him right across the muzzle.
“Why don’t you just shut your big mouth for once?” she spat. She turned back around and walked through the door, slamming it behind herself.
Grand rubbed his cheek and stood there looking at the door for a few moments, trying to process exactly what had just happened. When he finally gathered all of his wits about himself, he rushed into the foyer and made for the bedroom, only to find it shut and locked.
“Péra? Open up,” he shouted, pounding on the door. He listened for a few seconds and heard the closet door slide closed, followed by a few muffled hoofsteps on the carpet. “Péra!”
“I’m not listening,” she called back.
“Péra, dammit, listen to me! I have to talk to you!”
“Or what, Grand? Are you gonna give me another black eye like last time? Maybe break a bone or two to get your message across?”
“Open the door!” Grand shouted, only to be met with silence. He knocked again, the door rattling under the force of his hoof. His frustration was building, a deep, burning pressure in his head. He noticed the amount of flexing the door did just from him beating on it, and then the idea popped into his head.
He was going to kick the door in.
He turned around, lining up his hind legs for the center of the door. One or two good bucks would probably get the job done. Sure, he’d probably bang up his hooves pretty good, but that wasn’t the main thing on his mind.
He needed to talk to Péra.
Grand frowned. I’m going to bust down a door just so I can talk to my wife? He blinked hard and shook his head, which alleviated a bit of the tension he felt in the back of his head. Was I really just gonna talk to her if I’m mad enough to kick the door in?
“I can’t do this again,” Grand whispered. He took several breaths, focusing on calming himself down just a bit before he turned back around, and with as much restraint as he could manage, he knocked on the door gently and politely.
“Péra... Will you please come out and talk to me?”
In the dead quiet of the dimly lit hallway, he could hear a few more hoofsteps on the carpet. “You’re not going to convince me to stay, Grand. I’ve already made up my mind.” From the sound of her voice, he could tell that she was standing just behind the door.
At least she’s acknowledging that I exist. He felt the anger and tension he’d built up ease significantly, giving way to that same emptiness that he’d been working to stave off.
It was time to break the news.
“If you want to leave me, so be it. After everything I put you and the kids through, I deserve that much.” Grand sniffed. His eyes began to well up with tears. “But I still need to talk to you. There’s something that you need to know about.”
There was a short pause. “I’m listening,” said Péra.
“Could you please open the door? This isn’t something I could tell you without seeing your face.”
Again, there was a pause, followed by the door opening just wide enough to let Péra stick her face through. “Well? Go on.”
Grand swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked some of the mist from his eyes. “A letter came in the mail today from Ponyville,” Grand said, producing the badly crumpled and sweat-stained paper that had been riding around in the bandana on his neck all day long. “It’s from Granny Smith.” He paused again, trying to work himself up to saying the words. Hot, burning tears started running down his cheeks.
“She said that Pear Butter and her husband passed away last Friday.”
The bedroom door swung open wide, and Péra stepped out into the hallway. “What?”
“See for yourself,” he said, passing the letter to her. She took it from him forcefully, practically slapping it out of his hoof. He watched her as she skimmed it, her eyes darting back and forth across the lines. The first thing to fall were her ears, lying back flat on her head, followed closely by her tail. Her eyes flooded with tears, and when she was finished, she thrust the letter back at him.
“Is it true?” she asked. He could tell that she was fighting hard to keep herself together.
“Yes.” he said. “I tried real hard to see that it was fake, but it’s true. She’s gone.”
He reached out to take it, but as soon as he had it in his hoof, she darted forward and wrapped him in a tight hug.
And then came the sobs. Slowly, one by one at first, deep tremors shook her shoulders. She buried her head in his chest as she let loose a volley of gut-wrenching cries, and all he could do was hold her tightly as his own emotions began to take over. He lowered his face into her mane, and he wept.
They sat there in that dark hallway, pressed together as they cried. Like a raging torrent, years of repressed grief and guilt boiled angrily to the surface, fighting viciously to escape through his sobs. The world faded away from around him, leaving him only with his thoughts. Years and years of painful memories surfaced, each bringing its own baggage into the mix. The pain of moving to Vanhoover without his daughter. The cold distance that grew between him and his family. Birthday parties and simple family dinners marred by his drinking.
“It’s all my fault,” Grand whispered.
In the throes of his own sorrow, he hadn’t noticed that Péra wasn’t crying so much anymore. Instead, she was now the one holding him, patting him gently on the back. She didn’t say anything.
Her embrace was just about the only place he felt safe enough to let it out.
They stayed locked together for a long time, riding out the rest of their grief.
“I have something to show you,” Péra said finally. She pulled herself free of his hooves and stood up, walking down to the hall closet door, Grand following close behind. She pulled the step-stool out of the back of the closet and used it to reach the upper shelf. After a bit of fumbling around, she came down with a small box.
“What’s that?” asked Grand.
“I’d kept this put away for years because I figured you’d destroy it, but I think it’s time I let you see it.” Péra pulled the lid off of the box. Inside were dozens of envelopes, their ends torn open, but their contents were still with them. Grand picked one out of the box and looked it over.
The return address was from the Apple family’s farm.
“I told you that there wasn’t to be any contact with Pear Butter after we moved,” said Grand. “I checked the mail every day, and I burned every letter I saw from her for weeks. How’d you do it?”
Péra smiled. It was a wry half-smile, but given the circumstances, it was probably the best she could do. “I set up a P.O. box behind your back.”
“Should’ve guessed you’d find a way to get around me,” Grand muttered.
“You might have disowned her, but I didn’t,” said Péra. She sat down on the floor next to Grand. “She was still my daughter, no matter how much you didn’t want her to be.”
Grand Pear frowned and glanced up at his wife. She was staring at him expectantly, using the same face he’d seen hundreds of times before when she’d used guilt against him, except this time, there was a sort of conviction to her eyes that showed him just how deep that comment had come from.
Grand looked down at the floor, his ears flattening onto his head as more tears bubbled to the surface. “I know it won’t fix what I did to you and everypony else, but I’m sorry, Péra.” He paused to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry for keeping you away from her and putting you through all that I did. I’m sorry for being such a terrible husband.”
Péra wrapped a hoof around his shoulders, pulling herself closer to him. “You’re not a terrible husband, Grand. You’ve kept us all fed and housed for all these years, and even though you did a lot of things that are hard to forgive, you’re still my husband.” She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and rubbed his shoulders gingerly as he began to cry again.
“Are you still going to leave me?” he asked, his voice muffled by his weeping.
“I was... mostly bluffing,” said Péra, averting her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Grandy.”
“I guess you’re stuck with me for a while longer, huh?”
Péra smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.” She reached down and picked up one of the envelopes, offering it to Grand. “Why don’t you take a look at all you missed?”
Grand and Péra sat there together for the next few hours, reading through every letter Pear Butter had sent over the years. The letters started soon after the Pears left for Vanhoover, detailing a lot about the life she lived on the Apple family’s farm. Pear Butter talked about her husband a lot, how much he cared for her and strove to make her happy, and how much she loved him. For the first little bit, Grand had a small suspicion that her later letters would see her a little less enamored with Bright Mac, but as they read further, it was quashed.
There wasn’t a single letter that didn’t talk about him in some way. If anything, she seemed to only grow happier with him, and Grand felt a different part of his heart ache this time. It reminded him a lot of his own relationship with Péra, at least before things had been strained in the last few years.
And then there were the foals. Not long before the first one was born, Pear started including photographs with each and every letter. The first one was a simple portrait of her—heavily pregnant—and Bright Mac, and the next one was very similar, but with one key difference: A bright red foal wrapped in a blue blanket. Big Mcintosh.
It was the first time Grand Pear had ever seen his grandfoal, and it brought with it a fresh round of tears, though this time with a little more sweetness to them. They kept reading, watching as the young colt grew steadily from picture to picture. It was clear that he was going to grow up with his father’s size. And then there was the second child, a dusty orange filly named Applejack, who clearly took after her mother more. After Applejack was born, the space between letters began to grow, and the letters themselves became progressively shorter. Before long, they reached the last letter. It didn’t have a photo, and the letter was only a couple of paragraphs. Péra had sent Pear Butter an anniversary gift, and the letter thanked her for it. Towards the end of the letter, she mentioned that there was another foal on the way, and on the last line, she asked a question.
“Do you think Daddy would want to speak to me again?”
And that was it. In a couple of hours’ time, Grand Pear had read the story of what he’d missed, or as close as he could get to it. All of the ups and downs of life that Pear Butter had gone through, all of the beautiful and ugly moments that she talked about, and there was so much more that he would never know.
They sat there in silence for a few moments after he placed the last letter back into the box. Péra looked on at him expectantly with misty eyes, waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t. He had no words to give, and when she seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to speak, she did it for him.
“You know, I think it’s time we made a visit to Ponyville,” she said. “We’ve already lost so much time, but we could make up for some of it if we make a presence in their lives.” Péra scooted herself in front of Grand, gazing deep into his eyes.
He hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight twinge of nerves in his gut. “I don’t think the Apples would let us. They probably hate us even more now that she’s gone.”
“We could try to bury the hatchet with them. It’s been seven years now, surely feelings have softened enough that we could come to an understanding?”
“Maybe,” said Grand. “Maybe we can, b-but I don’t know if I can face them just yet.”
Péra gave a knowing smile and took hold of his hoof as she leaned up against him. “I guess now isn’t the best time. How about we give it a few days, break the news to everypony else, and then see about it?”
“We’ll see,” said Grand. He gave her hoof a slight squeeze and rested his head against hers.
“We’ll see.”
