The Picture

I don’t remember much but I do remember the picture. It was on the nightstand as I went into the bathroom. It was of four men. Of about my same age. Then. I could not tell if they were stepstool in height as they were all seated. Or appeared to be in the picture. All of them had a smile. Big smiles. Happy smiles. And they looked like their father. But their dad was not in the picture. Nor was their mother. Just them. The four.

It was their father I had came to see. The one I had travelled halfway across the state to visit. I was inland and he was by the Atlantic. I could smell it. Even inside the house. The salty air wafting over the dunes and the golf course filling the corridors of his house.

When I finished in the bathroom. Flushed. And washed my hands. I picked up the picture on my way out through the master bedroom to get a better look at it. A closer look.

I went from man to man to man to man. Each of them had a piece of their father in what they showed of themselves in the picture. Their eyes. Yes. It was in their eyes. They were all clearly his sons. All of them.

In haste I put down the picture. Careful to put it back in the exact spot from where I had bothered to pick it up. I did not want him seeing anything amiss in his bedroom. I didn’t want him to think I was being nosy. Of seeing what he did not want me to see.

But he had sent me to the bathroom in this room. And he had told me to place my overnight bag in this room, too. So, he knew I would see it. Or he had wanted me to see it. And I had. I had seen it. And the other pictures too. But this one had caught my attention. More than the others.

I had seen this picture on his nightstand. Of his four adult sons.

On the walls were other pictures. I had only caught a passing glance of those. Of the individual pictures of these same four sons when they were younger. Of the family picture with him. And his wife. And the same four boys. All six of them. They littered the walls like trophies.

I cannot tell you, their names. Those four boys. Or the wife. But I know she is dead. She had died four years ago. She was dead and buried. But not forgotten. And the bed in this room had been theirs. Their marital bed. And for the next couple of days, it would be where I would sleep too. Next to him. At night.

“Will they show up? Your sons.” I asked before I trudged off to the bedroom.

He answered, “No. They will not come here to the house without calling me, first. And then you can leave. If need be.”

He finished. But I wasn’t sure. In fact, I was leery.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “They will not show up unexpectantly?”

“No.” He reassured me. “They will not show up, unexpectantly.”

But I did. I worried. But my truck was parked in the driveway. It stood out in this enclave. This part of the island I had never been to until now. The truck did not exactly belong here. It suited more of the ones who tended to the needs of the owners than one who would be parked in the driveway.

“You okay in there?” I hear from the other side of the house. I had been gone to long. I realize that now.

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m coming.” I yell back at him.

I move the picture back. Just a little. Is it where it was when I picked it up to look at it. I was not sure. But what is done. Is done.

Unlike his sons. I do not have children. Or even a wife. Anymore. That marriage had ended six years ago. And I had passed through the town where she now lived with her husband on my way here. But that was the past. Here. Now. Is the present.

“There you are. You okay?” He says as he walks into his bedroom. “I was wondering where you’d got off too.”

“I am here. I just saw the pictures and was looking at them. I hope it is okay.” I say as an excuse in case he notices something amiss.

“It is. Really. It’s fine.” He says. “It’s okay.”

“They are handsome. Your four sons.” I make a point to tell him.

“Thank you.” He says. “You are too.”

“Thank you.” I say reluctantly.

And with that. He comes closer to me and gives me a hug, then a kiss across my lips while he pulls me in closer to him. Snug. I can feel him. And he can feel me. But that is the point. For me to feel him. I had met him wearing less than what I am now. As I am only in shorts. A tee shirt. And a pair of boat shoes. Minus the underwear. Barely anything at all. But more than what I had on when he reached for and cupped my balls in his fingers at the bed and breakfast. That was how I had met him all those months ago.