Part 1

by Craig (CR) Rohloff

Stephen Duncan had arrived at his dad's place in the evening, unlocking the front door with the key from his mom's and barely pausing in the entry before turning left toward his dad's study. He opened the study door partway and peered inside.
The room was pretty much as he'd always remembered it, with a large, clutter-topped desk dominating the room. Fading evening light streamed in through the window to his left, illuminating the filing cabinet and bookcases behind the desk and the wilted plant to his right. He entered the room, sitting in the old swivel chair behind the desk, and turned on the desk lamp. Next to the lamp was a framed 8x10 publicity still of his dad's favorite actor. It was autographed and dated just a few months before the actor had died. Stephen wasn't sure what to make of that, and turned his attention to the task at hand.
"Let's see what I can dig up..." he said aloud.
Centered on the destop was a magazine, Punk Planet, an issue from last year. Hmm, Stephen thought, that doesn't seem like Dad's style of mag, or of music. 'Course, his tastes in music are pretty eclectic.
He looked down at the desk's drawers, opening the center one to find typical desk things: stationery, pens, the ugly (but quite reliable) old stapler handed down from Grandpa, some postage stamps. Stephen pocketed a few of the stamps, reminding himself to mail some overdue bills in the morning, and closed the drawer.
The largest drawer was next. It contained, of all things, various small art projects and cards made by Stephen and his brother Sam and sister Janine over their years of primary school. He wasn't sure what to make of the discovery, but seeing the old things he'd forgotten about brought back a flood of memories, many of them actually good. He decided to examine the artifacts later, when he had more time.
Opening up the top right drawer, he found a large folder stuffed with papers. He opened it, discovering the first paper was a letter. Leafing through the folder, he saw a varied collection of letters, printed-off e-mails, newspaper and magazine clippings and finally, a worn, old photograph. It was a family portrait. His family.
The three kids were in front of Mom and Dad, all of them smiling, so happy, so alive. I must have been--what?--three years old when this was taken. Janine was just an infant. Mom and Dad still together. He flipped the photo over, noticing a faded date written across the top. The photo was twenty-three years old, almost to the day. Below the date, in much fresher ink, was written the caption "Better Days."
Indeed, he thought, placing the photo back into the folder and flipping back to the first letter. Something caught his eye. Yup, I thought that's what I saw. The letter was addressed to a long-dead family dog.

Jake:
This would be so much easier if you could understand. I know you know we love you, but we also know your impending fate, and your blissful ignorance actually makes it harder for me. Sure, you know you're in pain, and can't do the things you used to, but you keep looking at me to make things all better, and I can't.
I can only end your suffering, and tell you it's going to be OK as you look at me with loving, trusting eyes and wag your tail. It's so hard, knowing your tail won't wag anymore, knowing your nose won't nudge my hand as I try to type or write, knowing that your favorite spot on the couch will be vacant from now on. (At least I let you sneak up there... our little secret!)
I'm so sorry I can't make it better.
Goodbye, dear friend.

Jeez, Stephen thought, I never knew Dad was so... sappy? No, sensitive. Well, OK, sappy, too. So unlike the father I knew. Or the father he became, anyway. Wonder what happened...
He looked through the next few pages. One was a letter to the local newspaper, criticising the latest school budget cuts, tax increases with nothing to show for it and lack of new business being drawn into town. Despite its gamut of topics, the letter was actually fairly concise, and appeared nearly verbatim in the newspaper clipping stapled to it. The date showed it had been written a few years after the Jake the Dog had died. I was in kindergarten then.
A group of printed e-mails was next, to and from and old girlfriend of his dad's. A fragment of a paragraph caught Stephen's eye: "...Although I'd wanted to date you in high school, I never broached the subject for fear of damaging our friendship. That we've stayed friends in the years since then shows that maybe I mnde the right decision..." Stephen looked for the girlfriend's--make that the friend's--name. Emi Watson.
The affair Mom always worried about? he pondered. He looked at the last e-mail, noticing that the date was only a few months ago, and that Dad had written a note at the bottom: No, it wasn't an affair!
Man, he always could tell just what I was thinking! But how could he know I would be here, going through his stuff? Covering his butt, maybe, just in case?
Next was a magazine article, a photo therein showing his dad at a local art fair, holding a sculpture he'd made for eight-year-old Stephen. The sculpture that had won a prize, the one that he'd made to teach Stephen about sculpting.
The one fourteen-year-old Stephen had thrown across his bedroom during a fight with his dad that started rifting them apart.
Stephen looked up across the room to more bookcases beside the door. Amid the collection of books and papers was a vase, Mom's favorite (I wonder why she didn't get that?), a model of that giant flying turtle from those Japanese monster movies (Mom always hated those flicks, but I remember enjoying them with Dad.) and a sculpture. That sculpture.
Holding the folder, he rose from the desk and walked over to the shelf. Sure enough, it was the sculpture he'd trashed, painstakingly glued back together. A thick layer of dust showed that the thing had sat here for at least a few years.
Why'd you fix it? 'Cause it won a prize? Out of love? Regret? The family portrait caption "Better Times" came to mind. He suddenly wished he'd known his dad had fixed the sculpture, wondering if knowing would have made a difference, if never throwing it in the first place would have made a difference.
He looked at the next item in the folder: a newspaper clipping detailing the drug bust at the high school that had landed Stephen and Sam in juvenile hall for the better part of a year. The bust that had cost Sam a football scholarship, and divided the brothers for most of the years afterward. The one Stephen had kept quiet Sam's real involvement in, only to take a bigger fall that Sam seemed to have forgotten. Stephen could only imagine what it must have done to his parents.
He glanced at his watch, closed the folder and used his cel phone to call Sam.
"Yeah?" answered Sam's voice.
"Nice to hear you too, Big Bro."
"Yeah?" Sam repeated.
"I'm at Dad's, going through some stuff. It's gonna take a while longer than I thought. I found some interesting stuff."
"Interesting how?"
"Well, nothing with money, yet, but a bunch letters and things. It's like they're from a different person."
"So?"
"So, there's a lot we never knew about Dad."
"Yeah," replied Sam, "well, I could tell you a few stories."
Stephen paused a moment. "Look, Sam, why don't you tell me, for a change? Look, let's just come clean as much as we can... it'll help sort this mess out."
There was a longer pause, then Sam said "I suppose you're right, Little Bro. Heard from Janine?"
"Nope. I was just going to ask if you had." He walked over toward the window, noticing a spring storm approaching from the west was darkening the already dusky sky.
"Ah, I heard about a week ago she was still in the States with some friends," Sam explained. "Said she'd be back by Wednesday, though. I'll try to get in touch with her, see if she's tracked down anything about Mom."
Stephen noticed a group of framed photos hung on the wall to the right of the window. The topmost was a large copy of the family portrait from the folder. "I'll be..." he mumbled.
"What?" asked Sam.
"Huh? Oh, just some photos of us on Dad's wall. An old family portrait when I was three and you were five." He looked over the other photos. They were all of the kids, some school portraits, some snapshots. The latest photo of Janine was from her teenage years, right around the time she gave birth to Sadie. In fact, a baby portrait of Sadie was tucked into the frame of Janine's photo. "Check this out, Sam. It's a pic of Sadie." He looked at the back of the photo. Below Sadie's birthdate was a note. Stephen read it aloud: "A daughter should not be blamed for the sins of the mother."
""What?" asked Sam, confused.
"Sounds sort of like a quote; it's on the back of Sadie's pic. I never knew he liked the little tyke at all, what with Janine getting pregnant at the tender age of fifteen and all." Tucking the baby photo back into the frame, he looked at the last frame in the group, noticing it contained what appeared to be a medical form. "Hang on, Sam, this looks weird... there's a medical report with our photos. It's... it's an OB/GYN thing... oh, my!"
Sam waited for Stephen to elaborate, but not for long. "Talk to me, Bro."
"It's a miscarriage. Mom had a miscarriage!"
"What?!"
"Happened around the time we were in juvie, around the same time Sadie was born. Did you ever know?"
"Of course not!"
A flash of lightning from the approaching storm snapped Stephen's attention back to the room. "Sam, I'm sorry, this is a lot of stuff to digest. I'm going to go try to sort some stuff out tonight, and get back to you tomorrow morning."
"Well, unless you've pre-paid your phone for a lot of minutes, which I seriously doubt, you'd better come over in person. Bring whatever you've found so we can go over it together."
"Can't make it over to Dad's yourself, Sam?"
A semi-awkward pause. "No, not for another three weeks. Anything else?"
Stephen thought about it for a moment. "I think we've got enough surprises for one evening. I'll see you in the morning."
Just then, a thought struck him like the second flash of lightning outside the window. "Wait a minute! Does the name Emi Watson mean anything to you?"
"Never heard of her. Want me to do a search tonight?"
"Yeah, but check for other variations, like Emily or... or Emiko."
"Emiko Watson? Nice mix of cultures. Still on that Japan kick, eh?"
"Just see what you come up with, OK? Emi's spelled E-M-I, by the way. I'll see you in the morning. Oh, if you hear from Janine, have her call me."
"Fine. 'Bye."
Stephen turned off his phone to save the battery's charge, and went to the desk to turn off the lamp. He took one last look around the room, wanting to examine everything and wondering if one lifetime would be enough to do so. Behind the half opened door, he saw his dad's prosthetic left foot, the one that his dad had said never fit right. He looked down at his own sandalled feet, wiggling his toes, glad they were all there.
"Enough for tonight," he said aloud. He turned off the lamp and left the room, closing the door behind him. He quickly ducked into the nearby kitchen to snatch a plastic bag for the folder; stuffing the folder inside it, he left the house and locked the front door. As rain began to fall, Stephen wondered if saving a life was always this difficult...

Part II

by Blue Berry

I was dismayed by my brother Stephen's call by more than the fact that I hated him. (OK, I tolerated him as long as he wasn't in my life.)

Stephen told himself he would take care of Dad's estate, but he couldn't even bring himself to admit that dad will not be getting up out of the coma. I know that brain dead, however, means dead. They can keep his kidney's functioning indefinitely but his brain, him is dead.

Still little Stephie'll fool himself into thinking he's doing something, get side tracked by some emotional "back when we were kids" and as usual big brother will bail him out.

He asked me to find out what I can about Emi Watson or somebody. I'll google her, but what does he think I'm a P.I. or something? ("E-M-I, maybe Emiko," he said. I barely kept from laughing.)

After he hung up I decided I better check on the house. I told him I couldn't get there for three weeks. I live in the same town. He knew I lied, but let it go because deep down he likes me about as much as I like him. If Janine called she was as $tupid as she was lazy. Still the answering machine is on, so...

Besides it was an emergency of sorts. Lil' Stephanie might forget in his trip down Memory Lane that we now are protected by zillions of laws and have to lock the back door.

Just as I thought. The front door was locked. The backdoor was locked. The cellar door relied on a hook and eyebolt that was too easy to pick with a credit card. I decided to lock the inside door and leave by the front. Since only my useless sibling had keys.

Going thorough the living room I thought I saw something glowing out of the side of my eye. When I turned my head it was gone. I turned and took a few steps to see if it happened again, and assumed it must be some car turning down the street and misting on the windows playing optical tricks.

I stood there wondering when I saw it again in my peripheral vision. When I turned it was gone. I could tell it seemed to go down the cellar.

I went down the cellar to see if I could figure it out.

The cellar was as I remembered it. The water pipe you had to duck beneath as you went down the stairs. The huge oil tank. The chimney for the oil heater. The washer and dryer. The old refrigerator was gone. Three box fans upon a cheap card table. Walls that made you realize how small the house really was. The drain in the floor with the big plug to keep the rats out.

Among the usual was a big boxy thing. The plug going into the outlet told me it was electrical. I went up to it and saw it was one of those big freezers like at the super market, and it was on.

I opened the sliding glass door with the frost on it and saw Dad's meat collection. They were all weird cuts.



Then I saw the head and knew it wasn't just meat.