The Photograph

           The mid-afternoon sun backlights the man who has appeared at the apartment doorway.   His son, who is lying on the sofa, rises quickly to a sitting position, startled by the door opening and the sudden appearance of the man.  Devon, the boy’s name, is in his late teens, long and lean, clothed only in boxer shorts.  He holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight.  His father, Walt, the figure in the doorway, is a wide, dark shadow.  He closes the door and turns to pull the chain to open the vertical blinds at the window by the door.  Fall afternoon sunlight streams into the dark apartment.  Devon lies down again and, with a loud yawn, stretches his arms above his head.

            “You should lock the door,” Walt says.  When his son doesn’t respond, he adds, “It’s after two o’clock.”

            “I’m up.  You scared me.”

            Walt ignores the comment.  He sits down heavily in the armchair next to the sofa.  It and the armchair are covered with the same burgundy cloth.  The furniture is worn.  The foam has compressed in the sofa cushions and forms a shallow bowl in the seat of the armchair.  The material on the back of the chair has been bleached from being near an exposed window in the house where the father and son lived at another time.

            Walt rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger without removing his glasses, which perch momentarily on his brow.  “Are you just getting up, or were you out already?”  He looks at Devon’s profile with fleeting hope after he has readjusted the glasses on his face.

            “No.  I didn’t get much sleep last night.  I’m going now.”

            “It’s too late in the day to apply for jobs.  You do that in the morning, not at two-thirty in the afternoon,” he says, but without much conviction.  This is territory they have covered before.

            “I know, I know.  How come you’re home so early?”

            Walt looks up at his son, who is inspecting the bruised knuckles on his right hand.

            “What happened?”

            “When?”

            “I don’t know.  Last night?   It looks like you hurt your hand.”

            “Nothing.”  Devon stretches and talks through another yawn.  “There was a party up in the foothills.  It took us a long time to get there, over winding dirt roads.  I’ve got to get my car washed.”

            “Us?”

            “Wendy and me.”

            “You mean you drove all the way down to pick her up and then went up into the foothills?”

            “Yeah.  What’s wrong with that?”

            “You don’t have the money to be driving to hell and gone --”

            “Yeah, I do.”

            “Only because I give it to you,” Walt says.  “And then you got into a fight at this party?”

            “It’s not my fault.  This guy almost knocks Wendy down, and then he and his buddies come up to me.  Look at this.” 

            The son turns his face so that his father can see his cheek.  At the cheekbone, a dark bruise is forming beneath the skin.

            “I think one of my teeth is loose.”

            “Chrissake, Devon,” Walt says.  He wants to say that this is the bullshit that happens when you get high all the time, hang out with lowlifes, and have too much time on your hands because you don’t have a job.  But he doesn’t.  He’s said it before.  Besides, he feels a simultaneous urge to tend to his son and punish those who did this to him.  He shakes his head.

            Devon stands up and pulls on his pants.  “So, why’re you home so early?”

            Walt looks down at his clasped hands.

            “I got in an argument with Mitch.”

            “Who’s Mitch?” Devon asks.  He casts about for his T-shirt, which he finds on the floor between the sofa and the end table.

            “He’s my boss, remember?  My supervisor.  You’ve met him a couple of times. Come on, son.”

            “So, it was just words?”

            “Yeah.  But not good.”  Walt continues to look down.  He shakes his head at the memory of the outburst.  “It was stupid.  I was stupid.  I’m a big man.  People think I’m threatening them when I’m not.  I’ll have to apologize if I want to keep my job.  If… Maybe that’s a big if.”

            “What do you mean?  You might lose your job?”  

Walt finally has his son’s attention.

            “Maybe.  I said some things….”

            “Why?”

            “Good question.  Because it’s just a job I never cared much about.  I’ve worked it all these years, and I don’t know where the years have gone, just like…. Oh, hell, it’s my own fault,”

            “What’ll we do?”  Something young and fearful has crept into the boy’s voice.  Walt hears it and looks up.  Devon sits down on the edge of the sofa and looks at his father.

            “We’ll be all right.  I was looking for a job when I found this one.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means I’ll find another.  Your old man knows some stuff.  Maybe it’s time to find something else.”  He pauses.  “You’ve got to get yourself going,” he adds, but nothing more.

            They sit in silence.  The afternoon sunlight that once poured through the sliding glass window next to the door has moved to the west and creates a pattern of bars on the wall from the shadow of the vertical blinds.  A fly bumps at the screen and buzzes noisily to get out. 

            “Do you remember your mother’s aunt Dory?” Walt asks.

            “What about her?”

            “She gave us that sofa you’re sitting on about twenty years ago.  She gave us some money and we had it and this chair recovered.  I’ve always liked it because it’s long enough to stretch out on.  Hard to find them that long any more.”

            “Yeah.  I sleep good on it.  Why did Mom let you take it?”

            “She wanted new things.  Didn’t want anything to remind her of me, I guess,” he laughs ruefully.  “I used to take naps on it.  Slept on it at the end.  After I told her I was leaving, but before I found this place, she would close herself in our room, her room by that time, and cry, wail really.  It would tear at my heart.  I wanted to cry for her, too.”  He pauses.  “The dog would get scared and jump up on the sofa with me and we’d both listen, hoping she’d stop.”

            Devon doesn’t say anything.

            “Sometimes I miss that life.  No, not that part,” he adds when he sees the question on Devon’s face. “Those days were terrible.  I mean, I miss all of us together, your sisters and you, your grandparents and uncles and aunts, your mother and me.  The holidays.  I looked forward to them just like you did, like something good was going to happen, some magic was going to save us from ourselves.”

            “What happened?”

            “No magic.”

            “No, I mean, why did you leave?  You didn’t have to.  You should have worked harder to save your marriage.  You ruined the family.  It really fucked up my head.”

            Walt looks at his son and nods.  “Things just change.  I stopped expecting, stopped asking.  I took more naps.  I thought I might fall asleep on that sofa some day and never wake up.  That was all right with me.  And then, suddenly, it wasn’t.  I couldn’t continue that way.  I wanted more.  I wanted… life again, not just getting by day to day.”

            “You fucked up.”

            “Devon.”

            “No, I mean really.  You can’t call this ‘more,’” he says with a sweep of his hand at the bare walls and old furniture.  “This can’t be what you wanted.  You had a wife and a family and a house and a dog.  You didn’t keep any of it.”

            “You’re here,” Walt says, but he knows it’s weak.

            “That’s because Mom kicked me out and I don’t have a job or a place of my own.  That’s not my fault.  I wouldn’t be here if I could help it.” 

            The words are meant to sting the man and they do.  Walt eyes his son closely.  He has already spoken to Devon about his moving into a group home or a rehab facility.  Walt says nothing now.

            By this time the sunlight, which doesn’t stay long, has deserted the narrow driveway between the long rows of apartment buildings.  The room is dark.   Walt stands to turn on a lamp at the end of the sofa.  He picks up a framed photograph that sits atop the bookshelf and brings it to the sofa where he sits next to his son. 

            “Do you ever look at this photograph?” he asks.  He hands it to Devon.

            “It’s Mom on a horse.  So?”

            “Look at it.  What do you see?”

            “Like I said, it’s Mom on a horse.  She’s riding on a dirt road toward the mountains.  Is that the Wash?  The sky looks threatening, an end of the world sort of sky.”

            “Apocalyptic.”

            “Yeah, that.  And?  What’s the point?”

            “It looks like she’s riding toward it alone, riding right toward that huge and frightening sky, not galloping or even trotting, just moseying along that dirt road and up the hill like she doesn’t care and she’s not afraid.”

            “Was she?”

            “I don’t think so.  She looks so brave.  Maybe she was a little wary.”  He looks at the photo intently.

            “Who took the picture?”

            “Me.  I was riding a ways back.  So, it really was the two of us.”

            “I still don’t get it.”

            The phone rings, and Devon jumps up to get it.  He says hello in the sullen, suspicious way he uses whenever he answers the phone.

            “It’s for you.”

            “Who is it?”

            “I don’t know.  Some guy.”

            Walt takes the phone from his son’s hand.

            “Hello.  Yeah, Mitch,” he says and raises his eyebrows at Devon.  “Yes, of course I’ll be there.  The usual time.  Absolutely.  First thing.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Walt hands the phone to Devon.

            “That was fast.”

            “He wants to meet with me early in the morning.”

            “Was he angry?”

            “No.  Just serious.” 

            Walt glances at the photograph as though surprised to find it on his lap.  He picks it up again to look at it.

            “So, what about that photograph?” Devon asks.  He’s rubbing his sore jaw.

            “I don’t know.  Nothing really.  We turned back after I took it.  There was a crash of thunder and a lightning strike in the mountains.  The horses got spooked.  We turned back and headed for the stable.  Good thing, too.  It began to pour right after we got the horses in.  We laughed when it hit.  We stood under an overhang and waited it out.  We were happy, I think.”

            The boy frowns. “Why do you keep it?  The photograph.  She talks like she can’t forgive you and you’ve got a picture of her, like you think there’s something really special about it.”   

“Yeah, there was.  Is.  I guess I can’t explain it.”  He stops.  “I wonder what he wants to say to me?  I better get my resume together, just in case,” he says, but he is really talking to himself. “I think we’re in for another big change,” he says to his son.   He stands to place the photograph back on the bookcase. “You’ve got to get going,” he says with greater authority.

“You think we’re all right?” Devon asks.

“No matter what, we’ll be okay.”

The son relaxes.  “No, so explain about the picture.  I don’t get it.”

Walt looks back at the photograph.  “About a year ago, before you came here, I found the camera in a box in the closet. You know how . . . No, you might not know . . . Before phones had cameras, everybody owned a film camera, most of them not very fancy, just something to take out at birthdays and Christmas, like that.  You’d buy a roll of film at the drugstore, put it in, wind it, and shoot.  You’d take a couple of pictures now, and then put the camera away.  You’d take it out again a few months later and take some more, but if you didn’t use up all the film, you’d put it way again for another six months or until the next event or vacation.  Finally, you’d take it out, use up the last of the roll, and get it processed.  Most of the time you wouldn’t remember what the first pictures were of.

“Anyway, I must have packed the camera away when I left.  I don’t even remember doing that.  It sat for a long while until I found it last year.  I saw that only a few pictures had been taken and wondered if the film was still any good.  I didn’t rush out to get the pictures developed.  I was a little anxious about it, to tell you the truth.  I couldn’t for the life of me remember what was on the film, and I feared it might be something that would make me regretful.  What could I do about it this late in the day?”

The two of them are silent for a moment, the man looking again at the photograph on the bookshelf.

“Well?” Devon asks.

“When I first saw this photograph, it did make me sad.  Everything about this moment was gone, this moment in the photograph, of your mom and me riding in the Wash -- it had all been gone for a long time.  In all the anger and harsh words and disappointment of the divorce, it was easy to forget that life had been good once.”  He pauses.  “You could make her a copy of it.”

“Of what?”

“The photo.”

“Why would she want it?”

“Maybe seeing herself… Maybe it would bring back a good memory.”

Devon doesn’t say anything.

“Do you know that your aunt Dory,” Walt says, “your great aunt Dory, used to come by sometimes in the summer and we’d push the furniture back, roll up the rug, turn up the stereo, and dance?  Aunt Dory – she must’ve been seventy-five at least -- your uncles and aunts and your mom and I danced through the afternoon, even your sisters, who were little girls then.  We’d stop for a cold beer or soda, or we’d blend up some margaritas, eat chips and salsa, and then dance until dark and sometimes even later.  Amazing.”

Devon nods without saying anything.

“That was a long time ago.  And then we stopped.  No more dancing.  Not any of the things we once loved -- going to the movies, visiting friends, having friends over.  Gone.  One by one.  No more horseback riding.  I don’t think we went riding after the day I took that picture.”

            “What happened?”

            “I don’t know,” the father says, looking hard at the framed photograph. “We grew apart, hardly spoke. We were like roommates who didn’t have much in common. We just didn’t know each other any more.  Didn’t seem to care.  She began to stay longer and longer in the bedroom watching TV.  She didn’t want to do anything.  I tried to coax her out, but my heart wasn’t in it after a while.”

            “I think she still does that, goes into her room.  But she’s not to blame for everything,” Devon says, his face suddenly clouded with anger.

            “No, son, she isn’t.”

            “You’re the one that left, she didn’t.” 

“Yes, I was the one who left.” 

When Walt doesn’t say more, Devon says more calmly, “One time you said I was growing to be like her.”

“Maybe you are.  You spend all day and night holed up here in this apartment, sleeping during the day and playing video games all night.  That’s not life. You’ve got to get out, take your shot, get up if you get knocked down, and try again.  You’ve got to believe in yourself.”

“I believe in myself,” Devon says.  “I just get tired.  I don’t sleep well on this couch.  I’d like to go home and sleep in my own bed.”

            Walt lets the contradiction go by unchecked.  “Yes, I imagine you do.”

            The father sits down next to his son on the sofa, and the two of them sit in silence.

            “Okay.  You need to get going,” Walt says finally, patting his son’s knee.  He rises and goes to the window to check the light left in the sky.  “It’s late, but not too late to pick up some applications.  Put on some decent pants.  You need to iron a shirt.”

            “I got a good one in the closet.  I’ll go pick up some applications in the mall.  Then I’m going to Wendy’s house.  I need some gas money.”  He goes to the closet in the father’s room and returns wearing a wrinkled white shirt. 

            “Only to her house and back.  No parties in the foothills.  And get in early tonight so you can start early tomorrow.  Go put on another shirt.  That one looks awful.”  Devon is about to protest, but Walt remains standing where he is, blocking the path to the doorway.  Devon comes out of the bedroom wearing a black polo shirt.

            “You need some shirts to wear to get jobs in,” Walt says.  “That doesn’t look much better than the other one.”

            “I’m just going to pick up applications, not interview.  It’ll be all right.  I’ll iron that white one when I go for an interview.”

            The father looks directly at his son.  “Devon.  Look at me, son.  You’ve got to take this seriously.  No more sleeping until mid-afternoon.  We’re in for a change.  We’re not going back, we’re going to go forward.  I’m going forward. You need to, too.  Do you understand?  Otherwise….” Walt knows he doesn’t have to say it. 

“Tomorrow.  I promise, okay, Dad?”
             The Devon’s demeanor is serious, but Walt has seen it before.  At this point, he just wants Devon gone.  “Okay. Get going.”

“Do you have any cash?”

“Yeah, but so do you.  Use your own money.”

“I was saving it.”

“I know.  Video games.  Remember – just to Wendy’s and back.  Pick up some applications on the way.” 

“Okay, Dad, I got it.  I’ll see you later.”

The apartment feels empty with his son gone.  Walt picks up the photograph again and stares at it intently, trying to discover the message, if there is one, of the lone woman on the horse headed without fear toward the mountains and a threatening sky.  He stares hard at the photograph.  He wishes he could will the moment in the picture back to life, will it all back to the way it was years ago.  

He wipes the glass with his sleeve and touches the figure in the photo with the tips of his fingers before he sets it down on the bookcase.  Evening has arrived.  He goes to the door and opens it and slides open the window next to it to let in the cooler evening air.  He takes a step out the doorway and looks longingly down the length of the driveway, but it’s empty.