Bury Me(45)

Even though one of my plans has to be put on hold for now, I quickly realize another door just opened for me. Literally. My father’s office door is wide open and when I hear the faint rumble of his car starting outside, followed by the peeling of tires on the driveway, I race across the living room.

The room reeks of stale liquor, sweat, and vomit, and nothing like the pipe smoke and peppermint that usually surrounds him. I pull the neck of my shirt up over my nose, masking some of the smell before I get sick, as I move farther into the room.

I immediately spot the back of a framed photo on the corner of his desk, grabbing it and turning it around to inspect it. Contrary to what my mother said, the photo doesn’t tell me any secrets. It doesn’t even conjure up any memories as I stare at it. Even though it was taken on the main stairway leading up to this area, it seems to have been taken by a professional photographer, since the name of the studio is embossed on the picture in the bottom right-hand corner. There’s nothing special about the photo; it’s a typical family photo with my father sitting on one step and my mother on the one right below him, her body turned to the side with her knees demurely pressed together. I would guess I’m around five or so, and I’m seated right next to my mother with one elbow casually resting on her legs and the other in my lap, and she has her arm around my back, part of her hand that holds onto my hip visible.

The only thing that is strange and a little telling is that my father seems to be separated from us. He doesn’t have his hand on her shoulder, he’s not reaching down to lovingly touch me in any way, and he’s the only one not smiling, his frown lines deep and prominent. Even though both of our smiles—my mother’s and mine—seem a tad forced, at least we don’t look ticked off at the world. He stares into the camera as if at any moment he’s going to jump up and start yelling at everyone. Looking closer at the space between my mother and me, I can see he has his hands clenched into fists, one on each knee.

Shaking my head, I wonder why they even went through with this photo. My father doesn’t seem like the type of person who can be coerced into anything, but it’s kind of obvious he was pushed into taking this picture when he clearly wasn’t having a good day.

I’m not sure if this is what my mother meant when she said the photo would tell me the truth. I already figured out my father isn’t very good at disguising his anger, even in a family photograph. I’m guessing I’m around five in the photo and that was the year the whole lake incident happened. Maybe that’s what my mother was talking about and the cause for the mad look on my father’s face. Maybe this was taken around that same time or even the same day.

I quickly dismiss that notion, though, placing the photo back where it was. The accident when I was five is the one thing they didn’t keep from me and pretty much the only thing they were quick to talk about when I asked. It’s not a secret or a truth that I needed to figure out.

Moving around behind my father’s desk, I wonder if her mention of the photo was just a confusing way to point me in the right direction. I sit down in my father’s chair and begin pulling open drawers. For the next few minutes, I flip through every piece of paper in each drawer, finding nothing but financial paperwork about the prison, old blueprints, and other miscellaneous items that are useless to me. In frustration, I slam the last drawer closed so forcefully that it shakes the desk, knocking our family photo off the corner of the desk and onto the floor.

Getting up from the chair, I walk to the front of the desk to pick up the photo, thankful that my father has a small area rug under his desk that prevented the glass in the frame from shattering. That would’ve made it a little harder to cover my tracks so he wouldn’t know I was in here. Considering his drunken behavior, I doubt he’d even notice, but I’m not taking any chances. The less he knows about how suspicious I am of him, the better.

Lifting the frame from the rug, the cardboard backing falls off, and with it, a small slip of folded paper. Setting the frame to the side, I pick up the paper, unfolding it to find a three-digit code written in the bottom left-hand corner. Looking around the room again, I ponder what the code is for and why my father would have it hidden in such a strange place. Rising to my feet with the paper in my hand, I stand in the middle of the office, my eyes panning the room. I glance at the bookshelf on one wall, filled with encyclopedias, literary classics, and a few random objects like a coffee cup holding paperclips, a flashlight, and one empty bottle of whiskey that somehow didn’t make it outside with the rest he finished. Slowly, I turn in a circle, looking at all the old photographs in large ornate frames that hang on the walls. They are all black and white, and each one is of the prison at various times through the years. A few were taken on the outside and the rest were taken inside when the prison was still functioning, showing inmates eating in the mess hall, working out in the fields, or lined up waiting for the showers.