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Description
[975 words]

“You see, it’s hard to explain…” Jonathan’s words formed a small puddle on the expensive, imported carpet next to the shattered corpse of the china vase.  His down-turned face was painted in shades of red; the light hue of guilt brushed across his checks with two bold strokes of embarrassment for eyes.

“It can’t be that difficult, just come out with it.”

“He didn’t mean it, Daddy--” Emma tugged on Father’s sleeve.

“I'm talking to Jonathan.”  Father removed Emma’s hand from his suit.  “Don't speak.”

“I-I heard Emma shout from the kitchen and I thought she had gotten hurt so I ran to see what was the matter… and on the way… the vase fell over,” he said hurriedly, his shoulders slowly hunching and his palms facing the ceiling.

“You ran.”  Father’s eyebrows fought over the territory between them.  “In the house.”

“He just wanted to help!”

“Emma.”  His voice was razor-edged.  “Was there truly a problem, Jonathan?” the succession of syllables was sharp, like a musical spattering of sixteenth notes.

Jonathan looked away from his Father; the man’s hand was clenched tightly around his cane and his fingers licked like flames across the brim of his top hat.  “No,” he said, his voice hollow, “Mary was there.”

Father’s steel eyes cut deeply into his little boy.  Abruptly, he turned and strode out of the room, calling for his butler.  “Andrew?”

Emma studied Jonathan’s face; it was coated in sharp lines of anger across his forehead, a layer of rage had been brushed across his eyes, and his rolled lips were a clear frown.  He stalked out of the room.

Father used to come home and take off his work face every night, at least, that’s how Emma saw it.  Emma remembered ducking her head through the lace curtains and watching a stony man, consumed by his business thoughts, coming down the pathway towards their house--but when he threw open the door, the marble shattered into a radiant smile as her Father bent down, wrapped her in a hug, and lifted her into the air, swinging her around and around.  Then, in the evening, the family would gather in living room and Father would get out his fiddle and mother would sit at the piano, with Emma beside her and they would all sing…

She hadn’t seen the fiddle since the funeral, she could barely remember his smile, and her Mother was a faint memory.  The work face was the only familiar thing now.

- - -

No one spoke at breakfast the next morning except for the plates, who carried on their usual mundane conversation with the silverware, and occasionally a glass would chime in with a plate.

“Emma, please practice the piano.  Jonathan, read a few chapters in that book I gave you last week.”  Father snatched up his cane, hat, and gloves like a bird of prey seizing breakfast from a pond.

The door slipped shut.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Jonathan watched through the window as the black top hat bobbed along the top of the bushes like a sail boat in a green, feathery sea.  Then he leapt up and headed for his room.

Emma was seated at the piano.  “Hey, where are you going, Johnny?”

“To paint,” he said; his voice was taut like a guitar string, plucked sharp.

Emma pursed her lips and played a minor scale, her fingers rolling along the keys; waves rolling along a beach.

- - -

“Jonathan?”  Emma said, ear pressed against his bedroom door.

A muffled “mm.”

“I’m leaving your lunch outside the door.”

Silence.

“Right,” Emma said to herself.  She put the plate down beside the door and slowly went back downstairs.

- - -

Jonathan wasn’t supposed to paint.  Father didn’t see the value in it.  Emma was glad that Father was okay with her playing the piano, because Emma liked it.  She also sewed, a good activity for passing time.

She sat sewing the whole day, watching as the shadows played their slow, strategic game across the objects in the front room.

Finally, the front door opened, and Father came in.  Immediately, he asked, “Where’s Jonathan?”

“Upstairs,” Emma wanted to lie, but she knew Father would hunt the truth like a bloodhound.

“Hmm,” Father said, striding to the stairs.

The sound of his footsteps faded, replaced by the rhythmic motion of the minute hand inside the grandfather clock, which stood on the other side of the room with its back to the wall.

Normally when Father and Jonathan met on the battlefield of art there was lots of noise, but this time the house was silent, save for the ticking of the clock.  Emma watched it, watched as the hand wound around; she wound yarn around her finger until all her skin was covered, then finally she put down her sewing and glided to the stairs.

Father was standing quietly in the middle of the room.  Emma almost didn’t recognize him.  His normally sharp, crisp shoulders were slumped as though they’d been broken.  His posture was that of a man who’d been repeatedly slammed into the ground, then forced to stand.  How he managed to stay on his feet Emma didn’t know.

Past her Father went Emma’s eyes and then she saw her mother--no, it was only a painting of her mother.  Somehow, despite the simple style, it managed to capture the grief, the hurt experienced when someone who loves you is gone.

Jonathan stood beside the portrait as though he’d just accidentally fired a gun at someone and didn’t know what to do next.

Emma moved closer to Father, reaching slowly for his hand, then slipped hers into it.  He turned and looked down at her, his face like a field with the dew of morning, his eyes filled with liquid diamond.  He squeezed her hand, and smiled through his tears.

Description
[975 words]

“You see, it’s hard to explain…” Jonathan’s words formed a small puddle on the expensive, imported carpet next to the shattered corpse of the china vase.  His down-turned face was painted in shades of red; the light hue of guilt brushed across his checks with two bold strokes of embarrassment for eyes.

“It can’t be that difficult, just come out with it.”

“He didn’t mean it, Daddy--” Emma tugged on Father’s sleeve.

“I'm talking to Jonathan.”  Father removed Emma’s hand from his suit.  “Don't speak.”

“I-I heard Emma shout from the kitchen and I thought she had gotten hurt so I ran to see what was the matter… and on the way… the vase fell over,” he said hurriedly, his shoulders slowly hunching and his palms facing the ceiling.

“You ran.”  Father’s eyebrows fought over the territory between them.  “In the house.”

“He just wanted to help!”

“Emma.”  His voice was razor-edged.  “Was there truly a problem, Jonathan?” the succession of syllables was sharp, like a musical spattering of sixteenth notes.

Jonathan looked away from his Father; the man’s hand was clenched tightly around his cane and his fingers licked like flames across the brim of his top hat.  “No,” he said, his voice hollow, “Mary was there.”

Father’s steel eyes cut deeply into his little boy.  Abruptly, he turned and strode out of the room, calling for his butler.  “Andrew?”

Emma studied Jonathan’s face; it was coated in sharp lines of anger across his forehead, a layer of rage had been brushed across his eyes, and his rolled lips were a clear frown.  He stalked out of the room.

Father used to come home and take off his work face every night, at least, that’s how Emma saw it.  Emma remembered ducking her head through the lace curtains and watching a stony man, consumed by his business thoughts, coming down the pathway towards their house--but when he threw open the door, the marble shattered into a radiant smile as her Father bent down, wrapped her in a hug, and lifted her into the air, swinging her around and around.  Then, in the evening, the family would gather in living room and Father would get out his fiddle and mother would sit at the piano, with Emma beside her and they would all sing…

She hadn’t seen the fiddle since the funeral, she could barely remember his smile, and her Mother was a faint memory.  The work face was the only familiar thing now.

- - -

No one spoke at breakfast the next morning except for the plates, who carried on their usual mundane conversation with the silverware, and occasionally a glass would chime in with a plate.

“Emma, please practice the piano.  Jonathan, read a few chapters in that book I gave you last week.”  Father snatched up his cane, hat, and gloves like a bird of prey seizing breakfast from a pond.

The door slipped shut.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Jonathan watched through the window as the black top hat bobbed along the top of the bushes like a sail boat in a green, feathery sea.  Then he leapt up and headed for his room.

Emma was seated at the piano.  “Hey, where are you going, Johnny?”

“To paint,” he said; his voice was taut like a guitar string, plucked sharp.

Emma pursed her lips and played a minor scale, her fingers rolling along the keys; waves rolling along a beach.

- - -

“Jonathan?”  Emma said, ear pressed against his bedroom door.

A muffled “mm.”

“I’m leaving your lunch outside the door.”

Silence.

“Right,” Emma said to herself.  She put the plate down beside the door and slowly went back downstairs.

- - -

Jonathan wasn’t supposed to paint.  Father didn’t see the value in it.  Emma was glad that Father was okay with her playing the piano, because Emma liked it.  She also sewed, a good activity for passing time.

She sat sewing the whole day, watching as the shadows played their slow, strategic game across the objects in the front room.

Finally, the front door opened, and Father came in.  Immediately, he asked, “Where’s Jonathan?”

“Upstairs,” Emma wanted to lie, but she knew Father would hunt the truth like a bloodhound.

“Hmm,” Father said, striding to the stairs.

The sound of his footsteps faded, replaced by the rhythmic motion of the minute hand inside the grandfather clock, which stood on the other side of the room with its back to the wall.

Normally when Father and Jonathan met on the battlefield of art there was lots of noise, but this time the house was silent, save for the ticking of the clock.  Emma watched it, watched as the hand wound around; she wound yarn around her finger until all her skin was covered, then finally she put down her sewing and glided to the stairs.

Father was standing quietly in the middle of the room.  Emma almost didn’t recognize him.  His normally sharp, crisp shoulders were slumped as though they’d been broken.  His posture was that of a man who’d been repeatedly slammed into the ground, then forced to stand.  How he managed to stay on his feet Emma didn’t know.

Past her Father went Emma’s eyes and then she saw her mother--no, it was only a painting of her mother.  Somehow, despite the simple style, it managed to capture the grief, the hurt experienced when someone who loves you is gone.

Jonathan stood beside the portrait as though he’d just accidentally fired a gun at someone and didn’t know what to do next.

Emma moved closer to Father, reaching slowly for his hand, then slipped hers into it.  He turned and looked down at her, his face like a field with the dew of morning, his eyes filled with liquid diamond.  He squeezed her hand, and smiled through his tears.