The old man with the worn leather face stood much more erect than I expected.
?What can I do for you?? He gently questioned.
?I?m looking for Bryan Mason.? I told him.
I knew from all the old photograph of the young Bryan, that it was indeed him. Though, I wished to assume nothing.
?That?s me.? He said.
I smiled, and thought to myself, that once again, I have unlocked the past. I have dug the root, though bittersweet it may be.
?I?m Bryan McGlothin.? I told him.
He stood there in silence.
?I?m Angie?s boy.? I finally said.
His mouth opened wide as his white eyes glowed from the dark room behind the screen door. To say he was astonished would be an understatement. As the screen door swung open, I thrust out my hand for a friendly handshake. Knowing the Bryan of the past, I wasn?t ready to embrace the man who wielded such a strong arm. He took my hand heartily and drew me into his home.
Stepping into his living room, I closed the door behind me, and the room went black. It was a dark calm until he flipped the switch. I felt as though I had just stepped onto a movie set, dressed for the ?60?s.
His barker recliner at the door, facing the little TV atop the broken console, cracked deep in its, foe leather, vinyl. Over the TVs were three large, nicely framed pictures. One of, ?The Two Bothers?, John F. and Robert Kennedy. The other of both John and his wife Jacqueline. All the way to the right was none other than Linden B. Johnston. All those in the frames seemed to be looking up and to the right, as if that was the direction of the future.
Turning to field the room, there on the table next to the sofa, an eight-by ten, signed photo of John F. and Jackie. As I took in all this nostalgia, Bryan grabbed my arm and directed me to the little two by three inch photo, hanging quite to the left. Just behind his worn recliner was a little boy I recognized all to well. The child stood there, arms to the side, not even a grin; it was me at five years old. The same picture my mother had received from my father so many decades ago. I had stood there in his living room, just behind him, for over 30 years. And for just as long, he regarded me as sat in his comfortable chair.
?I thought I?d never see you again.? He told me.
?You were my first grandchild, you know.? He lamented.
?Yeah, Guess you?re right.? I agreed.
?When I got up this morning, I never thought I?d be getting a surprise like this today.? He smile as his Cherokee lines dug deeper across his cheeks.
We sat there for only a moment with small talk before he asked if I?d eaten breakfast. Of course I had, but I knew where he was going with this and wanted to follow.
?No, I haven?t.? I lied.
?Well, you want to have breakfast?? He asked.
?Absolutely.?
?Good. Let me get my face cleaned up and we?ll go.? He said as he was drawn to explain a few photos on the wall.
He finally made it to the restroom and I took in the room once again. It was surprisingly clean. No mothballs lingering from the back closet. No tobacco emanating from the curtains. The table next to the chair was covered in opened mail, old news papers, a clean ashtray and mini Snickers. On the coffee table, dust covered, black and white photos stood still. Seeming to hold each other up, they were so close, there in the middle. Leaving only dust to accumulate on the remaining surface. No one there in the photos seemed familiar to me.
A photo of him in his WWII regalia hung neatly next to his father?s WWI picture and then his mother, shyly, posing for the camera at about age eighteen. His father placed in the most honorable of frames, looked of a younger great-grandfather, I had seen before in the stack of photos at my mother?s home.
The whole room was a time capsule, though many pictures I didn?t recognize, several I did. My cousin Sherry, whom I met for the first time this year, hung just two frames away from my little stance there. With a big smile, the thirteen or fourteen year old watched over me for decades before I ever knew her. My grandmother, Lola Mae, was not to be found; nor any others of my family. It was obvious my grandfather had moved on. And, perhaps, rightly so. It was 1964 or ?65 he moved on to marry Bella. Why would he not begin a new life after his first wife?s death?
I wondered if he had spent years here in his recliner, alone, in this dark. He had shown me pictures of Bella?s children dressed in wedding white, hanging on the walls, but where they there? Bella had died thirteen years ago. Did they still offer the same time and effort as they did when their mother was there? Did he run them off with his drinking?
He soon returned from the back room, hair slicked and looking refreshed. And off we went in his Olds 88 to share a breakfast for the first time in forty years.
To be continued...
Bryan
Have You Seen My Mother