I stand there, in front of the mirror, still unsure about all of this. I still can't feel anything about my father in this room. Nothing screams out at me, not like the library. I keep looking at myself, while I start changing my clothes. I really should be doing this is the other room, but it so needs some cleaning. What to do first?
I'm down to my briefs before I even realize it. I look at myself again. I can't help but think about Sam and his shirt, the buttons flying off in every direction. When I was a kid, I used to pretend that I was a giant, growing to huge proportions. My clothes ripping off my body as I grew. Typical fantasy for guys on the shorter side, like me. Sam doesn't have that problem. I once searched online for stories about giants, when I was in college, of course. Some of the things I found, well, I never went back to that website.
I keep looking at myself. A little bit of tummy over the waistband. A tiny bit of music tone. I barely realize that I'm flexing my muscles, what few I have. Still that little kid, wanting to be bigger. Uh, oh, one of the side-effects of my pretending I was a giant was that part of me sometimes did get bigger. I was too young to know what it meant, at the time, but now I do as it is happening again. I don't need this. I thought I took care of this last night.
I rip my gaze from the mirror. I run to the bathroom, but only to splash water on my face. I can't do this again, not now and not this soon. I make sure that water doesn't get into my eyes, as I can't be certain there's a fresh towel, and I would need to see it if there were. Fortunately, there is. I dry off my face as I cool down. The room is fairly big, considering it shares some space with the main bathroom in front of it. This one if probably the larger, if only by a few feet.
Still nothing I can relate to my father. I find some perfumes, flowery hair-care products, a woman's cartridge razor; but nothing that seems like it is my dad's. Even the towels are that strange shade just between pink and purple that one associates with My Little Pony, unicorns and pegasi and such. The floor tiles are just a hint lighter with the walls more purple. At least the tub and toilet are white. Who would want so much pink?
I quickly leave the room before I start thinking about getting "big" again. I keep the same briefs on (best not tempt fate to look there right now), but I change my socks to this weird argyle in navy and grey. They don't really match my shirt, but then few pairs would. I skip on the dress shirt, making sure that it's unbuttoned. It has gotten a tiny bit tight in the shoulders and stomach, but I still think it fits well. As well as it can with the top button missing. I don't remember when it came off. I have the replacements somewhere. Maybe I will try to sew one back on. More likely try to find someone else to do it. Next come the slacks, jet black and slim fit. Sure, they are a little tight in the front, but they do make me look better from the rear. At least they make it look like I have a rear.
I forego the tie. This event doesn't look like it would be that formal. I spray on some more cologne. I probably should have washed off a bit more, maybe put on some more deodorant, but I think this will be enough. I probably should have shave some, too, but I like the stubbly look. It helps define my otherwise weak jaw. The belt slips on easily. Brown leather, even though it breaks all sort of fashion rules, but it is my best looking belt. The dress shoes come last--black oxfords, totally clashing with the belt. What can I say? I developed this look back when I was in college, and I see no reason to change.
And for the record, I don't always look this way. But tonight, it feels perfect.
I leave the room just in time, as I almost bump into Sam as he leaves the bathroom. He's dressed in my white shirt, and looking much better than I do in it. The slim fit suits him perfectly. His hair is slightly wet, either with spray or water, I can't tell, and it's perfectly combed. The khakis hang just loosely enough to show that they fit. He's still wearing the sneaks, but somehow, everything works on him.
"What are you wearing?" he asks. "That shirt is something else." He barely manages to suppress a laugh.
Yeah, he looks way better than me, and he's still growing. He can only get even better looking.
"Come on. We don't want to be late, and we have to stop and eat. Unless you're not hungry."
A growl from Sam's stomach put that thought to rest.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Dada: Chapter 15a
"Here, take the shirt and let's go upstairs to get ready."
I could tell that Sam was a little apprehensive about the shirt, at least I was sure it was going to fit. I put the other shirt back in my bag and close it up, b before picking each bag up and starting upstairs.
"What about the buttons?" Sam pipes up. "Should we just leave them here?"
"I can't even see where they all went. I'm sure I saw one roll down the stairs." I walk past him, able to look down at him once again. I stop on the landing to wait for him to catch up. I nod at the cabinet hiding the rear stairs. "Do you know why those stairs are blocked? It would make it faster to get to the kitchen from here if it were kept open."
Sam started at the question. Doesn't seem to be a big deal.
"I honestly don't remember why, uh , mom wanted to do that," Sam squeaked. "It was never an issue. Come on, I'll show you the upstairs. It's a little weird." Sam quickly went ahead of me. Nervously, he looked back at me and the door. "Don't just stand there. We've got a lot to do."
I follow Sam up to another landing just a few steps ahead. I guess they made it this way so that there would be an even floor over the entry. Unlike the back stairs, nothing sat at this landing. At least there was a window that allowed sunlight to showcase the small, nondescript paintings lining the walls. None seemed to be my father's type of work, but they didn't look like anything he favored either.
"Do you know about these pictures? They don't seem to match the others I've seen."
"Oh, I think mom picked those. She liked that sort of thing. Didn't really get into some of ...." Sam drifted off as we climbed the last turn of the staircase.
We ended up along a fairly wide hall, at least two feet wider than the back hall. Five doors lined the long wall to my front. The left end had another door. The right end had a small window. It was the opposite of the downstairs hall in many ways. The doors were not evenly spaced, with three crowding the left, but only two on the right.
"My room is the first on the left. The bathroom is right here." With this, he opened the door just to our left along the wall. "I guess the guest room is the first one to the right." He pointed behind us to the door just to the right of the stairs. Unlike the long wall, only two doors were on each of the short ones.
"It won't take me long to finish getting ready. Are we going to eat here, or eat out again?" I could practically hear his stomach growling again.
"We'll eat on the way." Sam was already entering his room before I could finish talking.
"Okay," I hear him mumble as he shuts his door.
I walk into the guest room, but it's a mess. From the crib in the corner, I'm guessing this was once the nursery. A small, unmade bed with just a plain mattress on it is shoved against the window in front of me. A door on my left looks like it leads to a closet. While somewhat narrow, the room is long. I figure it's ten feet by twenty-five or so. Still bigger than my old bedroom.
I drop my bags on the bed. There's nothing else in here but a small bachelor's stand with a tiny kiddie lamp on top. I can't sleep here. I can't even get dressed here. I make my mind up and decide to look around. If this had been the nursery, then I know what rooms are across the hall. It has to be.
I take the first door across the hall, the one next to the bathroom. I am right; it's the master bedroom. It has to be at least thirty by thirty. A California king bed lies against the wall on the right. A large bureau and dresser are beside it. Slightly smaller cabinets line the wall to my right. A three panel dressing mirror sits right in front of them, reflecting the painting over the bed, again it doesn't look like something my dad would like, as well as a mirror on the ceiling. Okay. A door to the left heads to the master bath. It looks like it's about the same size as the main bath, so I don't really get why they needed one, except for more privacy. A door on the right leads to a rather large closet. It's large enough to have its own door to the hallway. Maybe these were originally two rooms.
My dad's room, well the room he shared with his wife. Her tastes are all over this room, but I have yet felt my dad's presence here, not like I did in the library. Where is he here, in his own room?
I could tell that Sam was a little apprehensive about the shirt, at least I was sure it was going to fit. I put the other shirt back in my bag and close it up, b before picking each bag up and starting upstairs.
"What about the buttons?" Sam pipes up. "Should we just leave them here?"
"I can't even see where they all went. I'm sure I saw one roll down the stairs." I walk past him, able to look down at him once again. I stop on the landing to wait for him to catch up. I nod at the cabinet hiding the rear stairs. "Do you know why those stairs are blocked? It would make it faster to get to the kitchen from here if it were kept open."
Sam started at the question. Doesn't seem to be a big deal.
"I honestly don't remember why, uh , mom wanted to do that," Sam squeaked. "It was never an issue. Come on, I'll show you the upstairs. It's a little weird." Sam quickly went ahead of me. Nervously, he looked back at me and the door. "Don't just stand there. We've got a lot to do."
I follow Sam up to another landing just a few steps ahead. I guess they made it this way so that there would be an even floor over the entry. Unlike the back stairs, nothing sat at this landing. At least there was a window that allowed sunlight to showcase the small, nondescript paintings lining the walls. None seemed to be my father's type of work, but they didn't look like anything he favored either.
"Do you know about these pictures? They don't seem to match the others I've seen."
"Oh, I think mom picked those. She liked that sort of thing. Didn't really get into some of ...." Sam drifted off as we climbed the last turn of the staircase.
We ended up along a fairly wide hall, at least two feet wider than the back hall. Five doors lined the long wall to my front. The left end had another door. The right end had a small window. It was the opposite of the downstairs hall in many ways. The doors were not evenly spaced, with three crowding the left, but only two on the right.
"My room is the first on the left. The bathroom is right here." With this, he opened the door just to our left along the wall. "I guess the guest room is the first one to the right." He pointed behind us to the door just to the right of the stairs. Unlike the long wall, only two doors were on each of the short ones.
"It won't take me long to finish getting ready. Are we going to eat here, or eat out again?" I could practically hear his stomach growling again.
"We'll eat on the way." Sam was already entering his room before I could finish talking.
"Okay," I hear him mumble as he shuts his door.
I walk into the guest room, but it's a mess. From the crib in the corner, I'm guessing this was once the nursery. A small, unmade bed with just a plain mattress on it is shoved against the window in front of me. A door on my left looks like it leads to a closet. While somewhat narrow, the room is long. I figure it's ten feet by twenty-five or so. Still bigger than my old bedroom.
I drop my bags on the bed. There's nothing else in here but a small bachelor's stand with a tiny kiddie lamp on top. I can't sleep here. I can't even get dressed here. I make my mind up and decide to look around. If this had been the nursery, then I know what rooms are across the hall. It has to be.
I take the first door across the hall, the one next to the bathroom. I am right; it's the master bedroom. It has to be at least thirty by thirty. A California king bed lies against the wall on the right. A large bureau and dresser are beside it. Slightly smaller cabinets line the wall to my right. A three panel dressing mirror sits right in front of them, reflecting the painting over the bed, again it doesn't look like something my dad would like, as well as a mirror on the ceiling. Okay. A door to the left heads to the master bath. It looks like it's about the same size as the main bath, so I don't really get why they needed one, except for more privacy. A door on the right leads to a rather large closet. It's large enough to have its own door to the hallway. Maybe these were originally two rooms.
My dad's room, well the room he shared with his wife. Her tastes are all over this room, but I have yet felt my dad's presence here, not like I did in the library. Where is he here, in his own room?
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Dada: Chapter Fifteen
I rise groggily from the chair, momentarily unsure of where I am. I must have been napping for only a few minutes. It takes me a few seconds to decide where to find the door back to the entry hall. Again, I hear the same screech for help, not too high-pitched but an undertone of gruffness as well. I run through the door, almost tripping into my bags. I really need to move them.
I look up the staircase, and I see Sam hobbling along. His hair is sticking out the collar of an Oxford shirt. His arms are flailing about as the sleeves are pulled tight around the shoulders and elbows. Only a button or two are still in place, but they are preventing the shirt from coming down any further.
"Stop Sam! You'll trip down the stairs. I'll come up to you."
Just as I was asking him to stop, the final buttons pop loose allowing Sam to see again. One of the buttons slowly rolls down the stairs to land at my feet.
"What happened?" I ask while trying not to laugh. Sam takes a few steps down before he decides to answer.
"After I woke up from my nap, I wanted to start getting ready for that 'event' we are going to," Sam creaked. At least it is trying to get deeper. "I thought that I should wear something dressy. However, I knew the shirt I was wearing from the funeral was too small, so I tried on one of my other ones. I slipped it over my head, but it got stuck. I tried to get you to come up, but you must not of heard me. So, I went to get you, and you saw what happened." Sam was looking down at his feet by this time, embarrassed yet again. It hurt that I wanted to laugh.
"Dude," I say while barely keeping a straight face, "How old is that shirt?"
"I was wearing it last fall. It was kind of snug then, so I thought I still might be able to wear it," was Sam's reply.
"Uh, you're at least six inches taller now. There was no way that shirt was going to fit. Maybe if it had been a tee, it would have worked, but this, no."
I look up at him, two or three steps above me. His chest and belly are fully exposed, while his arms are bare from just past the elbows to his wrist. Even from here, I can just barely see the start of hairs crawling up to his navel. No chest hairs yet, but I didn't expect any. Almost to the man, not a single one of my classmates got their chest hair until well after their growth spurts ended. Pete was the exception, but we were pretty sure that he had been held back a year in grade school. With his late year birthdate, it was possible to go either way. He was pretty much the only guy in our freshman year to have a full chest of hair. He was even shaving every day by our sophomore year. I didn't get chest hair until college. Same for shaving every day. If Sam was still this smooth, I guess he's going to keep growing for awhile.
"You don't have any other shirts that are larger, do you?"
"Nope. Probably not," he snaps. Awfully fast to reply.
"I thought so. Luckily, I come prepared." I open one of my bags and pull out two hangers. Yes, I packed my shirts while still on hangers. It makes unpacking easier, especially when I didn't pack too much. "We're almost the same height, now. You still need to fill out a bit in the chest and shoulders, but you've already lost a lot of the baby fat from fueling your growth spurt. These are slimmer fit, so they should look okay on you and not look like you're wearing your da... someone else's clothes. Just pick one and roll up the cuffs."
Sam immediately picks the white on in my left hand. "That one. Why would anyone wear that hideous thing." Sam points to the shirt in my right hand.
"Hey. This is my favorite shirt. You should be honored to get the chance to wear it." The dress shirt was covered in multiple colored vertical stripes. Mostly browns, with white and navy, and a few others. I bought it the last time I went shopping with my mom, just before I started my second year of college. She wanted me to dress more in the way she thought I should look, but I knew that wasn't my style. When I saw this shirt, I knew it was for me, especially since it was on sale. My mom tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't budge. I even had to use my own money for it. My mom wouldn't use any of hers, even though she said she would be buying them for me. From that day on, I never went clothes shopping with my mom again. I still love the shirt, even if it has gone a little out of style and the top button is missing. Blue Homestead is fairly casual, so I can leave that unbuttoned most days anyway, and a tie covers it on those days when I need one, so no big deal.
"Here, take the white and put it on. Wear the chinos we got, at least we know they fit. You'll have to wear you sneakers, but it can't be helped. This thing doesn't sound like it will be that formal anyway. No tie. That will complete the look."
"Thanks," Sam replies, almost glumly. "You better start cleaning up too. I guess I better show you where to go."
I look up the staircase, and I see Sam hobbling along. His hair is sticking out the collar of an Oxford shirt. His arms are flailing about as the sleeves are pulled tight around the shoulders and elbows. Only a button or two are still in place, but they are preventing the shirt from coming down any further.
"Stop Sam! You'll trip down the stairs. I'll come up to you."
Just as I was asking him to stop, the final buttons pop loose allowing Sam to see again. One of the buttons slowly rolls down the stairs to land at my feet.
"What happened?" I ask while trying not to laugh. Sam takes a few steps down before he decides to answer.
"After I woke up from my nap, I wanted to start getting ready for that 'event' we are going to," Sam creaked. At least it is trying to get deeper. "I thought that I should wear something dressy. However, I knew the shirt I was wearing from the funeral was too small, so I tried on one of my other ones. I slipped it over my head, but it got stuck. I tried to get you to come up, but you must not of heard me. So, I went to get you, and you saw what happened." Sam was looking down at his feet by this time, embarrassed yet again. It hurt that I wanted to laugh.
"Dude," I say while barely keeping a straight face, "How old is that shirt?"
"I was wearing it last fall. It was kind of snug then, so I thought I still might be able to wear it," was Sam's reply.
"Uh, you're at least six inches taller now. There was no way that shirt was going to fit. Maybe if it had been a tee, it would have worked, but this, no."
I look up at him, two or three steps above me. His chest and belly are fully exposed, while his arms are bare from just past the elbows to his wrist. Even from here, I can just barely see the start of hairs crawling up to his navel. No chest hairs yet, but I didn't expect any. Almost to the man, not a single one of my classmates got their chest hair until well after their growth spurts ended. Pete was the exception, but we were pretty sure that he had been held back a year in grade school. With his late year birthdate, it was possible to go either way. He was pretty much the only guy in our freshman year to have a full chest of hair. He was even shaving every day by our sophomore year. I didn't get chest hair until college. Same for shaving every day. If Sam was still this smooth, I guess he's going to keep growing for awhile.
"You don't have any other shirts that are larger, do you?"
"Nope. Probably not," he snaps. Awfully fast to reply.
"I thought so. Luckily, I come prepared." I open one of my bags and pull out two hangers. Yes, I packed my shirts while still on hangers. It makes unpacking easier, especially when I didn't pack too much. "We're almost the same height, now. You still need to fill out a bit in the chest and shoulders, but you've already lost a lot of the baby fat from fueling your growth spurt. These are slimmer fit, so they should look okay on you and not look like you're wearing your da... someone else's clothes. Just pick one and roll up the cuffs."
Sam immediately picks the white on in my left hand. "That one. Why would anyone wear that hideous thing." Sam points to the shirt in my right hand.
"Hey. This is my favorite shirt. You should be honored to get the chance to wear it." The dress shirt was covered in multiple colored vertical stripes. Mostly browns, with white and navy, and a few others. I bought it the last time I went shopping with my mom, just before I started my second year of college. She wanted me to dress more in the way she thought I should look, but I knew that wasn't my style. When I saw this shirt, I knew it was for me, especially since it was on sale. My mom tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't budge. I even had to use my own money for it. My mom wouldn't use any of hers, even though she said she would be buying them for me. From that day on, I never went clothes shopping with my mom again. I still love the shirt, even if it has gone a little out of style and the top button is missing. Blue Homestead is fairly casual, so I can leave that unbuttoned most days anyway, and a tie covers it on those days when I need one, so no big deal.
"Here, take the white and put it on. Wear the chinos we got, at least we know they fit. You'll have to wear you sneakers, but it can't be helped. This thing doesn't sound like it will be that formal anyway. No tie. That will complete the look."
"Thanks," Sam replies, almost glumly. "You better start cleaning up too. I guess I better show you where to go."
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Dada: Chapter 14c
It's beautiful.
Even with the sky clouding over from yesterday's storm system (it just missed here) and the shadows from trees I don't remember seeing when I went around the house, enough sunlight filters in so that I can see the bookcases. On every wall, save the windows and the other door. I expected to see mostly coffee table-sized art books, but I'm wrong. I quick look shows novels upon novels. Wharton. Steinbeck. Hemingway. All first editions, I'm sure. Some older classics, reprints. There are even some free-standing shelves strewn about, about five feet tall. The closest one has children's books. A mix of standard picture books are on one side. On the other, older fare. The complete Harry Potter is on the top row. Beneath is what appears an a complete set of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. Many of them look to be early editions too. My mom tried to get me to read them when I was growing up, but I could never get into them. Especially Nancy Drew. I guess it's just the typical young boy dislike of 'girly' stuff.
In the center of the room is the desk. It is a modern hulk, all metal and plastic. Somehow, it doesn't look out of place in here. It has a Mac set-up that I have only seen on televise, including a giant printer. It could spit out full-sized reproductions of paintings. Inside the three-sided configuration is an ergonomically designed padded swivel chair. Custom made, has to be. I sit down in it and take a few spins, until I get just shy of dizzy.
On my last spin, I notice something behind the door I used to enter. I get up to take a look at an easel with a painting on it. I guess it makes sense. With every square inch of wall space taken over by floor to ceiling bookcases, where else could one put a picture.
At first glance, I almost mistake it for one of those Moses primitives, but the subject matter is anything but. In the foreground is a bright blue car. It looks kind of like my mom's old Baretta she had traded in when I was about five. I can't really remember it, and my knowledge of cars isn't worth much, but it reminds me of it. Behind it is a long line of cars, as in a parking lot, save that it's unpaved. On the right, I see the hints of small shacks, like in a flea market. A few people dart about carrying bags, but none have great detail. The painting appears to be in oils, but I'm finding it hard to tell. A very thin layer of dust is just barely covering the top. Looks like the painting has been here for a few week, maybe longer, undisturbed.
I breathe in the lingering scents of old books, fresh paint, and unused electronics. A trace of a musk, with a hint of fruitiness, hits my nose. Probably my dad's cologne. I take it in. All of it.
I love it.
I go back to the desk and sit. I wonder how to turn on all of this. I can't eve begin to guess what I can find on here. This set-up might just be too much for me to figure out. Who knows what he put on here. Maybe I shouldn't even try. He could have had student records here. No, more likely those would be at his office. Still, there could be things that I will need to know, financial records and such. There might be worse. My mom warned me about things, but I have seen nothing that would prove anything. Yet.
I look over the all but empty desktop for any clues about what to do, but nothing jumps out at me. I just keep staring at the same things over and over again, trying to get a feel about my father. I get the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. I yawn, as I settle back into the relative comfort of the big soft chair. I begin to nod off.
"ARGHHH. HELP!"
Even with the sky clouding over from yesterday's storm system (it just missed here) and the shadows from trees I don't remember seeing when I went around the house, enough sunlight filters in so that I can see the bookcases. On every wall, save the windows and the other door. I expected to see mostly coffee table-sized art books, but I'm wrong. I quick look shows novels upon novels. Wharton. Steinbeck. Hemingway. All first editions, I'm sure. Some older classics, reprints. There are even some free-standing shelves strewn about, about five feet tall. The closest one has children's books. A mix of standard picture books are on one side. On the other, older fare. The complete Harry Potter is on the top row. Beneath is what appears an a complete set of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. Many of them look to be early editions too. My mom tried to get me to read them when I was growing up, but I could never get into them. Especially Nancy Drew. I guess it's just the typical young boy dislike of 'girly' stuff.
In the center of the room is the desk. It is a modern hulk, all metal and plastic. Somehow, it doesn't look out of place in here. It has a Mac set-up that I have only seen on televise, including a giant printer. It could spit out full-sized reproductions of paintings. Inside the three-sided configuration is an ergonomically designed padded swivel chair. Custom made, has to be. I sit down in it and take a few spins, until I get just shy of dizzy.
On my last spin, I notice something behind the door I used to enter. I get up to take a look at an easel with a painting on it. I guess it makes sense. With every square inch of wall space taken over by floor to ceiling bookcases, where else could one put a picture.
At first glance, I almost mistake it for one of those Moses primitives, but the subject matter is anything but. In the foreground is a bright blue car. It looks kind of like my mom's old Baretta she had traded in when I was about five. I can't really remember it, and my knowledge of cars isn't worth much, but it reminds me of it. Behind it is a long line of cars, as in a parking lot, save that it's unpaved. On the right, I see the hints of small shacks, like in a flea market. A few people dart about carrying bags, but none have great detail. The painting appears to be in oils, but I'm finding it hard to tell. A very thin layer of dust is just barely covering the top. Looks like the painting has been here for a few week, maybe longer, undisturbed.
I breathe in the lingering scents of old books, fresh paint, and unused electronics. A trace of a musk, with a hint of fruitiness, hits my nose. Probably my dad's cologne. I take it in. All of it.
I love it.
I go back to the desk and sit. I wonder how to turn on all of this. I can't eve begin to guess what I can find on here. This set-up might just be too much for me to figure out. Who knows what he put on here. Maybe I shouldn't even try. He could have had student records here. No, more likely those would be at his office. Still, there could be things that I will need to know, financial records and such. There might be worse. My mom warned me about things, but I have seen nothing that would prove anything. Yet.
I look over the all but empty desktop for any clues about what to do, but nothing jumps out at me. I just keep staring at the same things over and over again, trying to get a feel about my father. I get the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. I yawn, as I settle back into the relative comfort of the big soft chair. I begin to nod off.
"ARGHHH. HELP!"
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Dada: Chapter 14b
I walk back to the hallway, taking a left this time, towards the window at the other end of the hall. Late May sunshine filters through, leaving that end of the hall much brighter than the dining room side. On the right is another picture and two doors; on the left is a little nook and another two doors. I start on my right with the picture.
It is about where I thought the door in the laundry room was. I guess it goes to a closet or something. At first glance, the oil painting looks like a stereotypical deer-on-a-rocky-outcrop-at- sunset type of thing, but it's not. First, the "deer" has too many antlers growing from what might be the head. Even for a moose or elk, they are way too many. Second, it's green-chartreuse, teal, viridian, all shades. In flat polygons, like computer art. Then there is the single eye bulging from its forehead, and the probable fangs jutting from the mouth. The rocks are pinks and purples, and in the same flat style. The forest behind the beast is in reds and oranges, yet more jungle than temperate foliage. The sky is not blue, but a hazy yellow, with a bright blue sun beaming from the cloudless reaches. A thin black corona surrounds the sun. The scene must be some sort of alien/fantasy landscape, totally unlike anything else of my father's. Where am I? What could this be? Without any context, there is no way of knowing. My head reels as I move on.
Behind my is a little nook, probably for the phone when the house was built. I've read enough from that age to suspect it's the truth. Now there's just a small table with a large urn with fake flowers barely reaching over the rim. I suspect to hide something. I peek around the urn and see a small panel that would allow access to the pipes in the bathroom behind it without having to damage as much. Practical, even if the urn is a little much.
The two doors on the right are locked. One must be the home gym Sam mentioned, but why would it be locked? Why would both doors be locked? These were the servant's quarters, maybe the laundry room was too. No answers yet.
The first door on the left is open, though. Inside is a long, narrow staircase. Probably for the help. I flick on a switch by the door so I can see my way up. The stairs aren't steep, but I feel cramped. At the top, a small table and a chair sit beneath another picture. This time, it's a black-and-white photograph of a woman. Fairly young, long hair, kind of attractive. I can't tell how old it is. There is a timelessness about it. Otherwise, the landing is slightly dusty, as if no one used it. I take a left and continue up a shorter flight to ... something. It's blocking the way to somewhere. I try looking around and under it. I think it is a cabinet, and it's blocking the way to the main stairs. No wonder I was a tad winded. Can't see why this way isn't used. It would be faster to get to the kitchen from upstairs this way.
I take the stairs back down to the hall and open up the last door. The room was probably used as a sunroom, but now it was an office. The large picture window cast bright sunlight throughout. Beneath the window was an old-fashioned desk, out of proportion with the room. Along the other wall, framed clippings and diplomas were hung. Then it struck me. Where were the photos? Aside from the one hidden on the stairs, I hadn't seen a single one. Most people would have had at least one somewhere I had been--stuck onto the fridge, staring above the television, arranged perfectly in the living room. But there were none. Maybe they've gone digital, and that one I found was one of his early works. Maybe.
The name on the first diploma was "Catherine Haywood, Nursing." Another was for a "Catherine H. Burton," but this was a Master's degree, also in Nursing. Another was an MBA. This must have been Sam's mother. Here name was in the newspaper clippings as well. It looked like she was the head of a local clinic. The clippings were copies, carefully cut so not to include any photos. The few that were there were so smudged, I couldn't tell who anyone was. Filing cabinets took up most of the rest of the room.
There was a door on the left wall, under the stairs. Inside was another staircase, this one leading down to the basement. I didn't want to look there yet. On the last wall were a few old photos, about twenty or more years old. They looked mostly like graduation pics, but they were all groups. I couldn't tell which of the women were her. I quickly wanted to leave this room, its alien touch was worse than deer painting. I needed to get out of there. I opened the door knowing what room would be next. the library and, most likely, my father's office.
It is about where I thought the door in the laundry room was. I guess it goes to a closet or something. At first glance, the oil painting looks like a stereotypical deer-on-a-rocky-outcrop-at- sunset type of thing, but it's not. First, the "deer" has too many antlers growing from what might be the head. Even for a moose or elk, they are way too many. Second, it's green-chartreuse, teal, viridian, all shades. In flat polygons, like computer art. Then there is the single eye bulging from its forehead, and the probable fangs jutting from the mouth. The rocks are pinks and purples, and in the same flat style. The forest behind the beast is in reds and oranges, yet more jungle than temperate foliage. The sky is not blue, but a hazy yellow, with a bright blue sun beaming from the cloudless reaches. A thin black corona surrounds the sun. The scene must be some sort of alien/fantasy landscape, totally unlike anything else of my father's. Where am I? What could this be? Without any context, there is no way of knowing. My head reels as I move on.
Behind my is a little nook, probably for the phone when the house was built. I've read enough from that age to suspect it's the truth. Now there's just a small table with a large urn with fake flowers barely reaching over the rim. I suspect to hide something. I peek around the urn and see a small panel that would allow access to the pipes in the bathroom behind it without having to damage as much. Practical, even if the urn is a little much.
The two doors on the right are locked. One must be the home gym Sam mentioned, but why would it be locked? Why would both doors be locked? These were the servant's quarters, maybe the laundry room was too. No answers yet.
The first door on the left is open, though. Inside is a long, narrow staircase. Probably for the help. I flick on a switch by the door so I can see my way up. The stairs aren't steep, but I feel cramped. At the top, a small table and a chair sit beneath another picture. This time, it's a black-and-white photograph of a woman. Fairly young, long hair, kind of attractive. I can't tell how old it is. There is a timelessness about it. Otherwise, the landing is slightly dusty, as if no one used it. I take a left and continue up a shorter flight to ... something. It's blocking the way to somewhere. I try looking around and under it. I think it is a cabinet, and it's blocking the way to the main stairs. No wonder I was a tad winded. Can't see why this way isn't used. It would be faster to get to the kitchen from upstairs this way.
I take the stairs back down to the hall and open up the last door. The room was probably used as a sunroom, but now it was an office. The large picture window cast bright sunlight throughout. Beneath the window was an old-fashioned desk, out of proportion with the room. Along the other wall, framed clippings and diplomas were hung. Then it struck me. Where were the photos? Aside from the one hidden on the stairs, I hadn't seen a single one. Most people would have had at least one somewhere I had been--stuck onto the fridge, staring above the television, arranged perfectly in the living room. But there were none. Maybe they've gone digital, and that one I found was one of his early works. Maybe.
The name on the first diploma was "Catherine Haywood, Nursing." Another was for a "Catherine H. Burton," but this was a Master's degree, also in Nursing. Another was an MBA. This must have been Sam's mother. Here name was in the newspaper clippings as well. It looked like she was the head of a local clinic. The clippings were copies, carefully cut so not to include any photos. The few that were there were so smudged, I couldn't tell who anyone was. Filing cabinets took up most of the rest of the room.
There was a door on the left wall, under the stairs. Inside was another staircase, this one leading down to the basement. I didn't want to look there yet. On the last wall were a few old photos, about twenty or more years old. They looked mostly like graduation pics, but they were all groups. I couldn't tell which of the women were her. I quickly wanted to leave this room, its alien touch was worse than deer painting. I needed to get out of there. I opened the door knowing what room would be next. the library and, most likely, my father's office.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Dada: Chapter 14a
I take the door to the pantry. The room doesn't seem to be as big as I thought. Must be all the empty shelves and the broken walk-in. I go on through to the hall, where I look into the laundry room. It's a bit smaller than I thought too, especially with that door in the back. The doors to the pantry and laundry don't align. They are off by just a bit. Doesn't really make any sense not to have them line up. I then notice the other door at the end of the hall. It had swung into the hallway beyond. I don't know why I didn't see it before when Sam rushed through. I guess that makes this hall more of a long mudroom or vestibule. Keeps it warmer in the winter, I guess.
I take a left at the hallway, towards the swinging door to the dining room. On the left are two pictures, about where the doors to the pantry and kitchen once were. On the right are two doors. Actually three, but the third door is almost directly across from the other hall that it really doesn't count. Again, the doors don't align for some reason. Nothing too straight. Probably to keeps the drafts down.
The first picture is a watercolor, all grays and white. A bleak winter scene of barren mountainside with leafless trees under a dull, steel grey sky, all rolling with clouds. Dark shadows with hints of blue crawl upon a cold, snowy ground. The only touch of color is a bright red barn, just left of center. It seems to shine in the otherwise empty scene. Behind the barn, a thin trace of smoke rises from a maroon chimney from a farmhouse, just barely scene with its clear white walls. Even though the rest of the world was cold and lifeless, one warm spot remains.
While the second picture is also a watercolor, the subject is totally different. A bright yellow sun shines though a clear and cloudless light blue sky. The hills are full with a thousand shades of green. Flowers in red, orange, yellow, and blue cover the field in the foreground. Hardly a shadow can be seen. Yet, hidden among the wildflowers, a fallen dull grey fence is seen. Its crossbeams rotting and drooping to the dirt. Just beyond the fence, an ashen burnt out barn with a caved-in roof can just be caught. A battered brown house lies behind it, to the right. A summer scene, where nature has taken back what it once lost.
The doors seem unexciting compared to the paintings. The one closest to the dining room is just overflow: extra chairs, folding tables, a serving cart. Most of it is covered in sheets, but no layer of dust. The room is small, but still useful. The next room is larger, but less full. Boxes of what appear to be Christmas decorations line the wall opposite an empty bed frame. This must be one of those "servant quarters" that Carol mentioned. A door to a small closet is in the rear. No windows, of course. The room is too deep inside to have any. How could anyone, why would anyone, want a room without a window? I would feel stuffed, imprisoned. I quickly retreat.
The next door opens onto, a hall? How many halls does this house need? It's fairly short, just another door at the other end, with a picture on the left and a door on the right. This time, the picture is a collage of a garden. Images of flowers from catalogs were cut out and pasted into a mishmash of differing sizes and shapes, fused into an impossible scene. Cut outs of children with their faces blotted out by other things (hats, scarfs, even a large dog) run along without a care. Each one is from a different world, making a scene where size and proportion cannot be determined. Confusion abounds. The picture makes my head hurt.
The first door takes me to a bathroom, not a half-bath but a full bathroom with a tub and shower. This must be where Sam ran off to, although I thought I saw him veer right, not left earlier. Maybe I'm wrong. This must have been built for the servants use. Why else have this on the first floor? I realize that it had been a few hours since I relieved myself. A quick unzip, a few shakes, a flush and I'm done. I wash my hands with the liquid soap, even though I don't need to, and head back out.
I open the last door, and I am back in the entry hall. The bathroom must be under the stairs. My bags are where I left them, in the middle of the floor. The door is varnished in the same color as the walls, effectively hiding it by the stairs. From this angle, I can see the frame where an atrium must have been, an extra layer of protection from the cold. Now, all that is left are small hall closets next to either side, standing without any reason, replacing windows that once looked out onto the porch. I leave my bags safe where they are and go back to the hallway, ready to continue the tour. So far, I can't get a handle on my dad.
I take a left at the hallway, towards the swinging door to the dining room. On the left are two pictures, about where the doors to the pantry and kitchen once were. On the right are two doors. Actually three, but the third door is almost directly across from the other hall that it really doesn't count. Again, the doors don't align for some reason. Nothing too straight. Probably to keeps the drafts down.
The first picture is a watercolor, all grays and white. A bleak winter scene of barren mountainside with leafless trees under a dull, steel grey sky, all rolling with clouds. Dark shadows with hints of blue crawl upon a cold, snowy ground. The only touch of color is a bright red barn, just left of center. It seems to shine in the otherwise empty scene. Behind the barn, a thin trace of smoke rises from a maroon chimney from a farmhouse, just barely scene with its clear white walls. Even though the rest of the world was cold and lifeless, one warm spot remains.
While the second picture is also a watercolor, the subject is totally different. A bright yellow sun shines though a clear and cloudless light blue sky. The hills are full with a thousand shades of green. Flowers in red, orange, yellow, and blue cover the field in the foreground. Hardly a shadow can be seen. Yet, hidden among the wildflowers, a fallen dull grey fence is seen. Its crossbeams rotting and drooping to the dirt. Just beyond the fence, an ashen burnt out barn with a caved-in roof can just be caught. A battered brown house lies behind it, to the right. A summer scene, where nature has taken back what it once lost.
The doors seem unexciting compared to the paintings. The one closest to the dining room is just overflow: extra chairs, folding tables, a serving cart. Most of it is covered in sheets, but no layer of dust. The room is small, but still useful. The next room is larger, but less full. Boxes of what appear to be Christmas decorations line the wall opposite an empty bed frame. This must be one of those "servant quarters" that Carol mentioned. A door to a small closet is in the rear. No windows, of course. The room is too deep inside to have any. How could anyone, why would anyone, want a room without a window? I would feel stuffed, imprisoned. I quickly retreat.
The next door opens onto, a hall? How many halls does this house need? It's fairly short, just another door at the other end, with a picture on the left and a door on the right. This time, the picture is a collage of a garden. Images of flowers from catalogs were cut out and pasted into a mishmash of differing sizes and shapes, fused into an impossible scene. Cut outs of children with their faces blotted out by other things (hats, scarfs, even a large dog) run along without a care. Each one is from a different world, making a scene where size and proportion cannot be determined. Confusion abounds. The picture makes my head hurt.
The first door takes me to a bathroom, not a half-bath but a full bathroom with a tub and shower. This must be where Sam ran off to, although I thought I saw him veer right, not left earlier. Maybe I'm wrong. This must have been built for the servants use. Why else have this on the first floor? I realize that it had been a few hours since I relieved myself. A quick unzip, a few shakes, a flush and I'm done. I wash my hands with the liquid soap, even though I don't need to, and head back out.
I open the last door, and I am back in the entry hall. The bathroom must be under the stairs. My bags are where I left them, in the middle of the floor. The door is varnished in the same color as the walls, effectively hiding it by the stairs. From this angle, I can see the frame where an atrium must have been, an extra layer of protection from the cold. Now, all that is left are small hall closets next to either side, standing without any reason, replacing windows that once looked out onto the porch. I leave my bags safe where they are and go back to the hallway, ready to continue the tour. So far, I can't get a handle on my dad.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Dada: Chapter Fourteen
"Is there any of your, I mean, our father's work here?" We are finishing up a snack. One sandwich and some chips for me, three sandwiches and a small bag for Sam.
"Some, I guess. What brought that up?" Sam finishes up with a small burp. Teenage boys.
"That Tyler guy was talking about...."
"Taylor. His name is Taylor," Sam corrects me
"Are you sure? Yeah, I guess you are. I just like the name Tyler better. Better president too, at least in my opinion."
"President? Anyway, there's a few paintings hanging in the back hall and upstairs. Most of what's here is stored in a special room in the basement. I don't know how to get into it. Maybe someone else does. I think he's got work at the university, other places. You would have to ask someone else. It isn't that much." Sam lets out another huge burp.
"Excuse you. Well, Tyler, Taylor, mentioned that there was a showing of our father's work tonight at the, um, Pierson. I think it's some kind of benefit. I think we should go there, just to show up, let everyone know about me and see that you are doing well enough."
"Are you sure? Mr. Taylor and my dad had this funny relationship."
"You didn't mention that before when I asked about him. What was funny about it?"
"Nothing really," Sam starts. "I guess Mr. Taylor was a fan of some of dad's work. When he found out that he lived just a few streets over, Mr. Taylor just geeked out. He tried to get closer to dad whenever he could. Nothing creepy, just wanted to be friends with him. The two aren't that close, but I don't think they were ever close friends."
I ponder this for a moment. Sure, this Taylor, Tyler, wait, I was right the first time, didn't look dangerous. Just your regular middle-aged dad bod guy trying to be good neighbor. But I still think something is not right. Sam might be holding back too. Of course, he isn't talking much period, not with that voice cracking so bad.
"I still think we should drop by, at least for a few minutes. I would like to know about our father, and see his work," I add.
With this, Sam opens up his mouth wide again, but this time in a huge yawn instead of a burp.
"I think you should take a nap before we get ready to go," I say, just as Sam says, "I think I should go upstairs and take a nap." We both crack smiles at saying the same thing at the same time.
"You go take a nap and then start getting ready. I'll clean up and look around a bit."
Sam stands up and stretches his arms over his head as he turns to go. I notice that his shirt raises from his waist, leaving a small crack of skin showing. I just got him that shirt two days ago, and he's already outgrown it? What, two inches plus since then. Okay, maybe an inch, but still. Maybe he hasn't outgrown it, but he'll need new clothes again soon.
I clean up the dishes it a minute. The kitchen is so organized that I find what I need quickly. Only two plates and glasses. A knife or two. I should have gone slower. Now, I have to look for dad's art, in a great big house that I still don't know my way around.
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