The Frame
Knock. Knock. Brad's knuckles stick to the oily paint on the door. “Shit.” He wipes his hands on his pants. Click. The door creaks open and a tiny fat woman peers around it.
“Brad?” she squeaks.
He doesn't recognize her at first, but then she opens the door and the hallway lights illuminate her face, “Molly? Is that you?”
The woman is silent for a few seconds. She stares at Brad, a suspicious frown in her thick brow. “Dad's in bed. He hasn't gotten any better since you called,” she turns and charges back into the house, leaving the door open behind her. Brad picks up his rucksack and follows her in; closing the door behind him. Carefully avoiding the wet paint.
He looks around at the floral wallpaper and dusty wood cabinets. There's a photograph of a young stoic man with a long broad nose. It's in a huge silver frame on a stand beside the fireplace.
“Dad had the plumber haul that out of the basement, he thinks it would look nice at the front of the church for his... well you know,” Molly mutters, she stares in disgust at the shining frame.
“Jesus christ,” Brad walks up to the stand and touches the metallic frame. “Where's he think it's going to go after that.”
Molly goes silent again and walks into the kitchen, suddenly determined to clean up the dishes in the sink.
“Do you think dad will still be awake?” Brad asks, looking up the stairs.
“Yes, but he's not upstairs anymore. We had to move him to the guest room on this floor,” Molly doesn't turn away from the dishes as she answers him. He turns and walks down the dark hall and sees a door with a thin bubble of light shining under it. Opening it, he is met with the obscure yet pungent smell of vinegar, cucumber and buckwheat.
“Molly? Could you please get me a glass of whiskey?” The old man turns his thin head. His nose wobbles on his sunken face. He stares through Brad's abdomen with his grey eyes.
“Uh. It's me Dad,” Brad says softly. His father grins, turning his face up to the sound of Brad's voice. “I'll go get you a drink. Be right back,” he backs out of the room and heads towards the kitchen.
“My boy,” he hears his fathers quiet voice floating behind him down the hall.
Brad rummages through the liquor cabinet. “What are you doing?” Molly questions, putting her hand on his forearm.
“Dad wanted a nip of whisky, I was just...” he stops, seeing Molly shaking her wide head.
“Dad can't drink on his medication,” she scolds him, grabbing the bottle in his hand. “He's been asking for this all week.”
“Do you mind if I pour myself a glass?” he says holding onto the bottle. She lets go and returns to the sink.
Brad walks back to his father, bringing the whisky and two small glasses with him. The door bumps the wall as he enters the room, “Molly? Could you please get me a glass of whiskey?”
Brad pauses, “It's me dad. It's Brad.” His father turns to face him again, grinning, shaded crevices in his skin distort his features. Brad sees just how close to death the man is.
“My boy,” he says, holding his arms up in an attempt to embrace his son.
“Molly says you can't drink on your medication,” Brad says, putting down the bottle and glasses. “How are you feeling?”
“I just want a drink,” he slumps down pathetically and begins to wheeze. Brad approaches and rests his hand on his father's shoulder.
“Take it easy, here I'll give you a bit ok?” Brad pours out a small puddle in the bottom of one of the glasses. “Here you go dad, take this,” his father's shaking hand spills all but several drips before the glass reaches his mouth. “Careful.” He takes the glass back.
“Did you see my portrait?” Brads father croaks. “Did Molly tell you, I'm having it instead of a casket at my funeral.”
“We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to,” Brad looks at his fathers dying face. “I mean, it's important that we know what it is that you want to happen after, but we can discuss that as a family. You know, with all of us there.”
“I've already talked to all of your sisters,” the old mans face hardens. “I want to leave the frame to you.”
“What?” Brad frowns. “Why not Molly? It would be easier since she's...”
“No, I want you to have it,” his father says stubbornly, his blank eyes staring through the ceiling. “Something to remember your old man by.”
“I see, it's just that...” Brad stops himself. “OK Dad, thank you very much. I'll take good care of it.”
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A bell rings as the door opens up. A man walks into the shop with a young boy. The boy peers around at the shelves. There's a small guitar missing all of its strings, a pile of broken blenders and toasters and a box of furry sweaters. The boy spots something shining on the wall behind a rolled up rug. There, atop a charcoal desk stands a beautiful silver frame, coated with dust and scabbed with rust. The boy senses a certain importance, like when his dad showed him the statue of a soldier beside the pond in Memorial Park.
