When I say accidental, I mean it. It was originally a short story about a horribly obnoxious college (but still very much a) kid, but then he started showing glimmers of a much rusted-over personality and I just had to develop.
And I had so much fun using the word codswallop. :)

---

“Christ, Da, those socks are godawful ugly,” remarked Jack. He leaned forward in his scuffed brown chair—the leather one near the fireplace—with his elbows on his knees and fingers pressed together. Bubbles rose in his wide-set, sherry colored eyes with the anticipation of provoking his father; who, he noted with annoyance, showed no sign of disturbance.

“Boy,” he growled, “these socks are a legacy.”

How just like him! Jack thought, eyeing with distaste the stolid, silver-haired figure across the musty room. A tacky pair of socks like that, a legacy. Ten bucks says he doesn’t know what a legacy is.

The offensive socks were crossed on the coffee table, bold red nylon with two sky blue stripes clinging to Julian’s knobby knees.
“Julian!” a stout, overdone lady with finely coiffed hair bustled into the room. “Feet off the table! Off!” she fussed.

“Now, Margaret—”
“Off!”

Jack smiled, satisfied. Count on Mum to stir things up. It was her fault he was here, anyway, marooned in suburban Massachusetts when he could be back on campus with the guys. He sighed in regret. His big sis was at her fiancé’s this Easter, and his cousin David on scholarship in Europe. Rule out the usual torture victims. The aunts and uncles had all offered the Kellys invites to their retreats, but Julian, as stubborn as ever, refused them all. Now they sat in the dimly flowered room, staring at each other. Margaret perched on an ottoman, Jack lounging in the leather recliner, and Julian, defiantly crossing his red feet.

Summer, 1990. Jack sat scowling on the stiff red leather of the sofa, picking at the gilded studs. All the guys were playing little league this year but him—twelve, awkward, and insecure. He swung the bat like a flyswatter trying in vain to flatten a fly, fouling out game after game amid the derisive laughter of teammates. Spider-like with his spindly limbs and slender hands, he just wasn’t cut out for the dusty diamond. After games he would sit on the white-hot aluminum bench and shield his eyes with his glove, glaring at the sun and wishing himself far away. The cool caress of England drizzle. The steam of the Amazon, shielded by a canopy of color. One of the Pacific island scattered like jewels in the ocean by some lofty hand. Anywhere, anywhere but there.

He hadn’t played this summer. It was now late August, and he sat in the den of air conditioning watching the neighborhood boys walk come from a pickup game in the cul-de-sac. There was a flurry of keys and kisses in the kitchen. His father had come home from work.

Julian walked into the room, eyebrows raised. “Not playing ball, Jack-o?”

Took him long enough to notice, thought Jack sullenly. “No.”

“You know, I saw the high school cross country team practicing in the park on my way home. It must be fun to run at dusk.” Jack didn’t answer. “You’d be good at it, too, with your build. Show them guys playing in the dirt what real athletes do.” He slipped out to the park that evening and let go, held in the web of stars; arms, legs, and lungs all working in synchronization. Up, down, in, out. His feet slapped the pavement as he breathed out his frustration.

That fall he had won the junior championships for his middle school.

He brushed away the memory. It was going to be a long holiday, indeed.

Late evening. Jack sat out on the warm porch, watching a few early lightning bugs make patterns in the air. One lit on the clothesline, flicking on a light bulb of inspiration. The socks…

Ten minutes later Jack emerged from the front bushes. It was not quite dark when he had started, and it had been a job plucking the socks from the line. Margaret was gingerly washing dishes, trying not to chip fire hydrant red nails, but Julian was still in the parlor staring vacantly out the back window. Jack feared any sudden movement would bring him out the door, cursing a blue streak. He was in awe of his father’s temper. It was a firecracker slow to catch, but once it did it blazed to high hell.

Finished. Jack stepped back to admire his work.

The plastic Easter bunny had nested on his front lawn since he was four. Its pink paint was peeling and his nose had worn white, but it had been like that ever since he could remember. Since he had declared his faith in it as a friendless five year old

Easter, 1983. Trapped like a fly in a milk white suit, Jack stood on the front lawn. His nine-year old sister flounced out of the house looking smug in a flimsy dress like cellophane, followed closely by a fussing Margaret. Julian and his father—Grandpa Abe, still alive then—stood by the van, neither of them acknowledging the other’s presence. Jack patted the furry figure affectionately. “The bunny came last night, right, Pops?” Julian smiled indulgently. Abe squinted through his thick black framed glasses, a scowl creasing his bony forehead.

“You shouldn’t be teaching the kid that garbage. Codswallop! Sweet Christ died for us and you decorate his grave with Paganism. Bunnies, indeed!” Jack stared at his grandfather with the innocence of five blurring his eyes. Julian turned to his father in a passion of rare emotion.

“Jack’s my boy. You had your chance. You screwed it up. Every kid needs something to believe in.” With that he pushed him into the car and slammed the door, skidding away to church with Abe eyeing angrily the sardonic smile of the bunny.

Now two red nylon socks tugged over its ears gave it a punk look. Jack grinned in satisfaction. Mischief managed.

Easter morning. Jack sat at the checkered breakfast table with his mother, attacking a bowl of cereal. Julian lumbered downstairs and gave him a blank look. Jack was puzzled. Surely he would have seen…?

“Morning, Da.”

Julian nodded.

“Get the paper?”

Another nod.

“Aah… Red Sox win any games?”

A shrug. Julian turned to leave the room. He stopped at the window, and Jack swelled in triumph. “Yeah…?”

“Happy Easter.”

Jack opened his mouth at a loss for words, and then nodded a curt reply. He shoved his spoon into his open mouth and looked at his wilted cornflakes. What had seemed like a fun prank last night now seemed boyishly immature. He hesitated, guilty, then passed it off and reached for more cereal. Now that he was awake, the box seemed unusually heavy. His fleeting feeling of adulthood fled as the memory of Sunday morning prizes burst into his mind with the tang of strawberries and scalding coffee. Oh, for the simplicity of eight! Jack dumped the box eagerly into his bowl. Two balled up berry red socks splashed into it. He gaped. How dare he! A fifty-year-old man, playing practical jokes! For the moment he forgot the night before, piqued at Julian for pulling such a nasty trick, and on Easter, too. Well, this would prove to his mother he wasn’t the only childish male in the household. None of the Kellys matured past twelve, he thought derisively, conveniently leaving himself out.

Jack stopped at the parlor entrance. His parents sat exactly as they had the night before. Margaret looked up expectantly.

“Joining us, dearie?” Jack hesitated.

Julian complacently looked up from his paper. “Red Sox won their first game. Crushed the amateur competition like an eggshell.” He picked up a dyed egg from the coffee table and tossed it. Jack fumbled. It landed on the floor and cracked, exposing a soft yellow core. He scooped the egg up. If that’s the way he wants to play it, he thought grimly, the game’s on. The Boston train leaves in two days. I got the first pick and the last lick.

The next forty-eight hours saw a silent sock war. The socks appeared in the collection basket at church that evening, much to the bewilderment of the ushers. Jack’s room was almost foggy with heat the next morning. When he flicked the fan on the socks rocketed out from on top of the blades, knocking a small mirror off his desk and breaking it. Seven years bad luck.

Tuesday morning, five am. Jack balled up the socks and stuffed them into the pencil cups of the little-used study; confident he had seen the last of them. He left a quick note on the fridge quelling tremors of slight misgivings at having to leave so soon. Remembering fondly the silent games he and his father used to play, leaving notes for each other around the house. Julian was a man of few words. Jack left; bag slung over one shoulder, quietly locking the door behind him. He slid the key in the potted plant, nodded to the Easter bunny, and walked away from the squat yellow house.

The next few weeks were a hassled hell for Jack. Finals were sprung on him the last of spring, and he’d talked to neither friend nor family since break. Weary, he plodded up the steps of his dorm. Outside the door were his old running sneakers from his days as the cross-country district champ. A wave of nostalgia hit him. I must have brought them back without realizing it, he reasoned. Lord knows I’ve been wearing them so long. He brought them in, resolving to wear them the next day.

Monday morning. Jack remembered the sneakers the minute his alarm clock shattered his sleep. He showered, forgoing breakfast to get to class on time, and pulled them on in his rush to get out the door. They were tighter than he remembered. By the end of the day his toes were cramped. He kicked his shoes off and spread his curled toes. Disbelieving realization smirked over his shoulder.

Jack stared in grudging reverence at the weasely red sock curled in the toe of his shoe. “Boy,” he swore, “these socks are a frigging legacy.”