Fading Photographs by Brian Jackson

Brian Jackson is an amateur writer who is trying, like many others, to get his words read. He is retired and lives with his wife, Melanie, a published author, in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Brian is the editor in cheif of DDR.

"Claire," Ben called in the general direction of the stairs. Receiving no immediate reply, he tried again. "Claire, I've found a box of old pictures, and letters, and stuff," he elaborated, lifting a faded photograph from the top of the stack of letters and other memorabilia stored in the cardboard box he'd just opened in the corner of the basement.

The photograph was of a pretty, young women dressed in formal wear sitting with what appeared to be a rakish young gentleman, replete with sword and waxed mustache, adorned in full military regalia. The picture was faded with age and had received water damage as had so much of the contents of the basement. However, Ben could clearly make out the face of the girl within an embossed oval, which suggested the picture had once been framed. The couple sat close together on a love seat, tentatively holding hands, the girl the spitting image of Claire's great aunt Jennifer whose possessions they were currently sorting through in the basement of her recently vacant house.

"Claire," Ben repeated, "I thought you told me that your great aunt was a spinster?" he bellowed up the stairwell. Still receiving no reply, he decided to play his trump card. "Claire, I can't decide what's important and what's not for you. Come down here and take a look at this stuff for yourself."

All the time he was trying to get his wife's attention, Ben found his own attention bound by the photo in his hand. He tried scraping away some of the accumulated stains with a finger nail to better see the figures in the image and was ultimately stymied in further research when he turned the photo over to find two illegible names penned on the back in ink.

I wonder, he thought, could this really be a picture of aunt Jen, and if so, who was her dashing young companion? He continued to handle and clean the photograph, his current work assignment on hold, as he awaited his wife's arrival from upstairs, hoping for some relief to his curiosity.

Jennifer Lynn Forester had tried to explain to the young gentleman that her dance card was full for the evening, but still he persisted. Finally she felt that she had to relent, allowing him to whisk her onto the floor for a single reel during one of her two chosen rest periods.

The gentleman proved to be an adequate dancer, but Jennifer was made uncomfortable by the piercing look in his eyes when ever they met hers. His conversation was polite but often seemed to verge upon the too familiar for one so newly acquainted. Still, what could one expect of a mustachioed individual, even should the dress uniform cause him to cut a dashing figure. Jen had noticed the man earlier in the evening along with the fact that all eyes seemed to be constantly cast his way no matter where he roamed, and he roamed everywhere seemingly intent upon meeting every beautiful, eligible, young woman at the gathering. In fact, the young soldier cast such a large shadow upon the proceedings that Jen was surprised when his shadow fell upon her with such a forward introduction.

"Pardon me, but we simply must have the next dance together."

Jennifer hardly knew how to respond, but after a strident refusal, bolstered by a perfectly reasonable explanation, bargaining ensued resulting in her now being in the arms of a stranger dancing a country dance by either Crane or Offenbach; Jennifer found herself too flustered to think straight.

"You dance divinely," her partner observed, quite appropriately, and correctly due to hours of practice at home, but then went so far as to add, "But then I'd expect no less from one so divine."

Jennifer wasn't sure whether to slap the gentleman's face or to giggle, so she settled on blushing and turning her face aside. This seemed to satisfy her partner who laughed as he twirled her across the floor with added vigor.

All too soon the dance was over and Jen felt disappoint at being led from the floor. However, her ersatz Romeo seemed to have other plans insisting that she share a picture with him before heading off to her next dance. Without remembering whether she had agreed, she found herself nonetheless sitting on a settee, gloved hands clasped in the ungloved hands of her soldier. When the flash powder exploded, fully illuminating the joy she felt at the attention she was receiving, she burst from her seat and ran from the scene holding a handkerchief to her face to hide her smile. She was soon joined by her escort who had been looking for her all evening and now glared at the military clad mountebank.

However, the solder simply smiled and called "I will see you again soon," after Jennifer's fleeing heals.

Of course, her escort insisted they leave the party early and all the way home she could think of nothing but her brash young soldier. She was ashamed at how close she had come to scandal when she was force to evade her escort's asking after the man lest she be forced to admit that she hadn't even caught his name.

Jennifer's inquiries into her romantic assailant at the dance were made easier by the fact that he had overnight become the topic of conversation in all the social circles in which she traveled. His name was Captain Phillip Richards and he had only recently returned from France where he had served with valor in the Great War. Jennifer was unhappy to find that all her friends seemed to be in love with the captain, while all her gentleman friends pretended to be looking for an excuse to call him out.

Jen was spending a quiet afternoon at home dead-heading roses in the solarium, having put her two younger brothers down for a nap after a busy morning in the park, when she was interrupted from her musings by the distant sound of the front doorbell ringing. Her parents being out and not believing in keeping servants, Jen was forced to answer the call herself. To her dismay she opened the door to find herself face to face with the very Captain Richards who had been the talk of the town, and the source of her musings, ever since his social introduction at last week's ball.

"Pardon me, Miss Forrester, for being so bold," Captain Richards began, "but I only recently found your name and address and merely stopped to arrange an audience. Little did I expect to meet the object of my quest in the flesh," he concluded, bowing down while smiling up.

Again, the Captain was in uniform, but this time less formal for lack of the sword and other tedious accoutrements. Feeling exposed in her doorway with such a flashy man on her stoop, and empty house at her back, Jen looked both ways up the street to insure that no one was looking before impolitely blurting, "Captain Richards, what are you doing here?"

Rather than being offended, this outburst only seemed to cause her visitor's smile to broaden.

"As I have said, Lady Jennifer," he began, pausing upon her name for emphasis. "I meant no affront by coming here unannounced, but meant instead to schedule an audience with yourself," he continued, "and a guardian of course," he amended in afterthought. "And to give the young lady a simple present of introduction," he taunted after an even longer pause, upon which he removed an exquisitely decorated package from behind his back.

Jen marshaled her willpower to prevent herself from jumping up and down and clapping her hands in delight at the sight of such an elaborate package. But her spirits were soon dashed upon the realization that she could of course receive no such present from a total stranger to whom she had not yet been formally introduced.

Recognizing that the moment was nearly lost, the captain quickly intervened before a response could be mustered.

"I assure you it is but a trifle, a remembrance of our first meeting," he nervously uttered. "Please, allow me." And before Jen could respond, the wrapping had been removed with a quick sweep of a gloved hand and in the other hand rested a picture mounted in a frame with an oval cut-out encircling two young people at a dance - a picture of Jennifer Forrester and Captain Phillip Richards hand in hand on a settee smiling as if in love.

Rather than easing the awkwardness of the situation, the sight of such a picture only served to worsen Jen's anxiety and make her feel even more socially exposed. Quickly she stepped back into her home, reaching out to grab the captain's sash to pull him along with her and closed the door to afford some privacy.

"What do you mean showing up unannounced with that, that…," Jen found herself unable to elicit an appropriate description for the picture of the two young lovers still held in the Captain's hand. Feeling a blush coming to her cheeks, she looked up to see Phillip looking back into her eyes with such longing that even in her inexperienced mind there could be no doubt as to what was to happen next.

Caging her in his arms and thus pinning her lightly to the back of the door, Captain Richards stepped forward and gently pressed his lips to Jennifer's conferring the softest of kisses while reaching forward to take her hands in his. And Jennifer allowed it, even desired it. The kiss was brief, as if the Captain would retain Jen's purity through haste, but showing through his expression that he knew a kiss once granted could never be reclaimed.

Once parted, Phillip thrust the picture into Jennifer's trembling hands. Placing a finger to her lips to prevent her from speaking, he instead spoke the first words after their kiss. "Meet me tomorrow afternoon, at two o'clock, in the park at the bench beside the lake in which you let your brothers play," he stated, indicating through his statement that he was too familiar with Jennifer's daily activities.

Before Jennifer could answer, the door at her back was gently opened and he was gone, apparently needing no reply, both of them knowing where Jennifer would be at the appointed time. Jennifer was sure that even walking down the street Phillip was able to hear the shriek of glee that raised two brothers from their slumber and sent them hurdling down the stairs to save their sister from an assumed indian attack.

Jennifer and Phillip sauntered, arm-in-arm, down an unfamiliar street in a fashionable neighborhood. They laughed over a shared joke that need not be aired as is so often the case between those so familiar with the thoughts of one another. The early evening weather was chilly and leaves fell at their feet as they made slow progress down the thoroughfare.

Jennifer had seen Phillip unescorted by a chaperone for several months before she first made love with him. The act was initially painful, and the thought of being socially ostracized even more so, but her love for Phillip was so complete she repeated the act until it became bliss to be with him in that way. Her love for Phillip and the act became so complete and undeniable that she ultimately grew to care little for the social response to her actions and found that the world at large, outside her small socially confined world, had also grown to no longer care about such things.

Within months after sleeping with Phillip, she obtained a position teaching art at a local girl's finishing school which provided a large enough income for her to move out of her parent's house and into a boarding house nearer the school. It proved much easier to sneak Phillip into the bedroom of her boarding house than her parent's house. This was due to the fact that her boarder, Miss Swenson, seemed to approve of the liaison and most likely would have approached Phillip herself if the bond between he and Jennifer was not so obviously strong - at least that's what Jen read in her lecherous leers when ever Phillip was near.

The past several months had been blissful, with Jen spending most of her time with Phillip. They had spent hours strolling in the park together, had gone to plays and musical reviews, and eaten fine meals; all the best that could be afforded on Jen's salary and that of a military reservist.

Jennifer was looking into her lover's eyes as they walked and as a result was easily able to track his gaze when he brought them to a sudden halt on the sidewalk outside a modest brownstone. Looking up at the house, Jennifer could see no reason for the sudden fascination and turned to question the delay when she was confronted by a queer grin spreading over Phillip's lips. What, her knitted brows silently asked.

"Welcome home, my love," Phillip said before kissing her deeply. Although enjoying the kiss, Jen could not keep from pushing her lover from her to see that he was serious. When she saw that he was, she commenced a foolish dance there on the sidewalk which ended when she had a curious thought.

"How is this possible?" she asked sternly.

"Don't you worry about that," was Phillip's simple reply as he whisked her off her feet, carried her up the stairs, and awkwardly fumbled in his pocket while trying not to fall backward down to the hard bricks of the sidewalk below.

Before she could protest her near demise, Jennifer found herself carried over the threshold by the man she loved into a house that was apparently to be her home. Entering the parlor, just off the foyer, she was returned to her feet and allowed an opportunity to see that her belongings had already been moved into the new abode along with some new furnishings giving a grand appearance to what her few possessions would have made of the humble living space. And there, poised upon a new end table, set beside the much loved couch she had taken with her when she left her parents home, was the picture of Phillip and herself at their first meeting.

Thrilled beyond all explanation, she turned and threw her arms around Phillip's neck exclaiming, "I love you more than life itself, and always will." She was then struck by a rather curious thought which she was unable to suppress. Releasing her arms from around her lover's neck and grasping his shoulders firmly, she barely managed to find the words required to utter her next question. "Phillip, are you asking me to marry you?"

Before the question had left her lips she could see by Phillip's expression that she had misinterpreted the situation. Nonetheless, she felt that since she was in for a penny, she may as well stay in for the pound, so remained silent awaiting a response.

"No reason to put the cart before the horse, my dear," Phillip responded self-consciously. His quick response showed that he had been anticipating the question, but for the life of her Jen could not understand why such a capable man hadn't prepared a more intelligent response. "The house is yours, it's paid for and in your name," he continued. "As for the rest, let time take its proper course."

Jen tried not to show the fact that she was crest-fallen at Phillip's reply, and instead showed her delight at his thoughtfulness by making love to him there in the parlor, on her parent's couch, before the picture. She never so much as paused to find out where the money for her new home had come from, only finding much later the painful answer to this question.

Jennifer sat on the sofa in the parlor and waited. She was again waiting for Phillip to return from one of his many lengthy absences, but this time his return would be different. This time there could be no happy reunion, no night filled with laughter and love making, but rather a night for explanation. It was to be a night for the truth, for Jennifer now knew the truth, the truth behind the many months of deception, the truth behind the lengthy business trips and other travels.

So, Jennifer waited, watching the clock approach two in the morning, periodically glancing at the photo on the end table to bolster her courage for what was to come, and now feeling loathing for the man who looked back at her from that photo.

As the clock chimed three, Jennifer finally heard the sound of a key sliding home in the front door lock and the door being quietly opened. She then spotted Phillip as he entered the foyer and laid an old, brown, battered suitcase on the floor.

"Good morning, Phillip," Jennifer announced, sending her visitor into a shock. "You're late," she continued, "Your meeting with the war ministry must been particularly grueling."

Seeming to find comfort in the fact that conversation was to begin on familiar ground, Phillip emitted a long sigh followed by a short laugh. "Yes," he retorted, "the sessions ran into extra hours causing me to have to catch the midnight train from town."

Jennifer saw no reason to beat around the bush and instead came immediately to the point of this late night confrontation. "It's a wonder you mange to spend any time at all with Mrs. Richards and your son," she posed, each word dripping venom.

Phillip appeared to receive her words as a physical blow then deflate before her very eyes. His head dropped, shoulders slumped, and knees began to buckle. Jen knew not what force it was that kept him standing.

"So, you know," was his simple response, uttered in a weary and defeated voice.

"I know it all Phillip," Jennifer replied. "I know that you've been married the last three years. I know that you have a child. I know that you've lied to me. And what's worse, I found all this out from a neighbor rather than from you," she concluded in something just short of a scream.

"Jennifer, you don't understand," Phillip pleaded in response. "The marriage was arranged by my family, when I was a child, long before I ever met you. I couldn't back out," he explained. "You must know that I never loved her. It was a marriage of convenience, the boy is to be my heir," he rationalized. "In any case, I couldn't allow you to continue to support me. Besides, it paid for your home, didn't it?" he concluded, committing himself to purgatory in her mind.

Feeling the last embers of her love for him quickly dwindle then die, Jen turned to look at the picture and without looking back uttered her final words to him.

"Get out Phillip," she said, "and never return."

Then she waited once more, this time wondering if she would ultimately have to use force to impel her lost love from her home. In the end there proved to be no need. Phillip left as quietly as he had arrived.

Jennifer remained on the sofa, leaning her chin on its arm and staring into the picture. It brought back happy memories of earlier, more care free days. Then she reached out a hand to lay the picture face down on the end table and through this action closed a door on the only true love she would ever experience in her life.

Jennifer sat upon the sofa, letter in hand wondering what to do next. Phillip Richards was dead, passing in his sleep two days ago at Rolling Hills Retirement Home. Having already read the letter twice, she returned her eyes to the formal text typed upon high quality stock which had arrived special delivery this morning in a corporate envelope, return labeled Richards Enterprises, Phillip P. Richards II, President.

Dear Ms. Forrester,

It is with deep regret that I write to inform you of the passing of my father, Mr. Phillip P. Richards Senior. I assure you that his passing was a peaceful one, having suffered an apparent stroke during the early hours of the 14th of this month.

Although my father was not always lucid in his later years, he became extremely lucid when speaking of you and the years he spent with you. I am thankful he had those happy times, for his life as I knew it seemed to be spent under a cloud of melancholy, a cloud which I never understood until he talked of you. I am equally thankful that he did not begin speaking so frankly until after my mother's passing.

I spent a great deal of time visiting with my father in his final years and as a result feel as if I know you. I wish you well. However, you must also understand that I am of mixed feelings, considering your unintended, but nevertheless dire impact upon the health and happiness of my family.

You were once an important part of my father's life. To that fact I pay final respects by notifying you of his passing. I share with you my grief at his death and pray that it is not as deep as my own and passes soon.

Sincerely,

Phillip Richards II

Knowing not what else to do, Jennifer forced her ailing legs to carry her worn body down the flight of stairs to the basement and to the box in the corner. This was no small feat considering the arthritis which had made her so frail that she had to sleep in the parlor rather than soldier up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor.

Once in the basement, she shuffled to the old box in the corner and opened the lid. There, at the top of a stack of old letters, playbills, posters, and the memorabilia of a life time rested the picture in its oval faced frame. Noticing that the picture was faded and had been damaged due to water having seeped into the box, she nonetheless lovingly set it aside to reveal the stack of letters upon which it rested. There atop the stack was the last letter to have arrived, and like the others beneath it, it lay unopened.

Grasping the letter in her twisted hand, she slipped an age stained finger into its folds to tear loose the single sheet of paper it contained and started to read.

Dearest Jennifer,

I'm sorry, but I love you.

Having received no replies to my previous missives, I hope for no better from this effort. In past letters I've written so much of our time together as to fell I've fully documented our shared history. However, I still feel that I must try one last time, not to explain this time, or to ease my own conscience, not even to try to win you back, for I now understand that that is impossible; but instead to express to you how much I love you, have always loved you, and will always love you to my dying day.

You are my light and my compass. Without you I am lost. You are the meaning to my life and without you there is nothing. But no, here I've gone too far. For in one respect, I have been fortunate.

The hole your absence has left in my life has been filled by my son. I love him as I love you. He is a fine young man and I have no doubt he will grow to become a better man than I could ever be.

So you see, here lies the rub. I live a life of frequent agony, of wanting and needing that can not be satisfied. But were I to have never taken on this unwanted burden there is a chance I may never have lived to see my son grow to be a man.

Jennifer, I love you to distraction. Not a day goes by without a thought of you flying into my head and shattering any thought that was so bold as to think it could take your place. You must know, until my son arrived, there was only you. And there will always be you.

I am writing to say goodbye. I've said all that I can in the past letters and must now accept that I've lost you and set you free. I suppose that I am once again being selfish in the hope that somehow, maybe by writing this letter, I will set my own mind free; but I also known all too well that some desires are too much to hope for.

I love you.

GoodbyeI

Richard

Freed from the spell of these words only at their conclusion, Jen once more became aware of her surroundings and found herself sitting on the basement floor leaning against the cardboard box containing her treasured past. Her arthritic joints pained her and her eyes swam with tears to the point that she had needed to reread several of the passages in the letter lost amongst the rheumy currents of her emotions.

Shifting slightly to ease her discomfort, she found that her hand rested on a picture frame. Raising it to her eyes, she decided that the frame would make a perfect gift for hear great niece, a family member who it seemed had always been left out when it came to distributing family heirlooms. Twisting the stays on the back aside using her fingernails, she opened the frame to remove the picture.

Setting the picture and frame aside, she lifted the next unopened letter from the box and started to read.

"Claire, I'm still waiting down here for you to come check out the stuff in this box," Dan yelled up the stairs. Holding the picture at various angles, he found that he could better see that the gentleman in the photo was wearing a uniform as well as a large, skinny mustache.

"Jesus, Daniel," he finally heard in exasperated reply. "Can't you even sort through the junk in the basement without having me here to hold your hand?" he heard, accompanied by stomping feet headed down the stairs.

"Look," Dan began, holding the picture out before him as if warding off a beast. "The woman in this picture is the spitting image of your great aunt."

Seeing the picture held before him, Claire displayed the same reaction as Dracula would have had Dan been holding a crucifix. Stopping midway down the stairs, she peeled a pair of latex gloves from her hands, stuffed them in her back pocket, and placed her hands on her hips to glare down at the photo.

"Dan," she began as if explaining something to a simpleton, "I've already told you a million times that I'm buried up to my eyeballs in family photos. I don't need any more," she continued in disgust. "As far as I'm concerned, you can dump the whole lot in the dumpster if that's all your finding down here."

With that she headed back upstairs and Dan turned the photo to view it one last time before chucking it along with the contents of the box.

"Wait," he heard Claire exclaim with a touch of both recognition and confusion in her voice. "Let me see that picture again."

Having garnered her interest, Dan was only too happy to hand over the picture after Claire fully descended the staircase. Once in her hand, she started to trace the oval embossed outline surrounding the figures with her finger.

"This oval exactly matches an oval cut out in a picture frame Aunt Jen gave me as a high school graduation present," she explained absently.

"You mean the one you used to frame the picture on our end table from when we met at that party?" Daniel asked in amusement.

"Yes," Claire answered, still seemingly entranced by the photo. "Where did you find this?" she asked, breaking from the trance.

"Over there on top of that stuff in that box in the corner," Dan replied, now a bit concerned.

Claire walked rapidly across the cement floor of the basement to crouch beside the decomposing cardboard box in the corner.

"There's a lot of old paraphernalia in here," she exclaimed poking through the contents. "But these papers on top appear to be old letters, addressed to Aunt Jen, at this house."

Setting the photo gently aside for safe keeping, she picked up the first letter in the box, the one on top of the stack of others, and began to read.

Dearest Jennifer,

I'm sorry, but I love you

© 2009 by B. J. Jackson