The Three Photographs / Dave West

The Three Photographs / David West

My father is telling me a story. I’m helping him sort his belongings before he moves into the rest home he’s chosen, with a little bit of help from me and my brother. I’ve found an envelope with three old photos in it, and asked him about them. He likes to tell his stories as though they’re happening as he speaks, which is a bit odd. It’s like he’s still living in the past, and can’t let go. But it does make them more real, somehow.

There’s an envelope tucked under the door to my room when I get back to the boarding house I’ve decided to camp in for a while. I’ve been wandering the country for about six months, but I’m beginning to feel settled here. And proud of myself: got a part-time job as a general handyman in a plant nursery. They’re a good bunch of people who like to have a drink after work at the end of the week, and I’m getting friendly with Patricia, one of the office girls. We’ve been out a few times, but she won’t come back to my room and hasn’t asked me over to her place. Yet. I like her a lot and she says she likes me, and I’m sure the right moment will come. I don’t want to put pressure on her. Or me. 

I leave the envelope alone while I unpack the contents of my backpack and put them in their assigned places: a pack of frozen chicken pieces, milk, cheese and six-pack of beer in the tiny fridge; bread and biscuits on the open shelf above the kitchen bench; two cans of soup (chicken and beans), canned tomatoes and canned peaches next to them. Then I retrieve a can of beer, open it, and investigate the envelope.

There’s no stamp on it. The address is handwritten, and the writing seems familiar but I can’t put a name to it yet. They got my room number wrong, 7A instead of 7B, but the name is the one I’ve registered under. It’s not my real name, just one I made up when I checked into the boarding house to help keep people off my track. It must have been hand-delivered, so I suspect it was my sister who delivered it: she’s only one who knows I’m here, and what name I’m using. She lives here, in this town, with her husband and kids.

I take the envelope downstairs to the reception area, which is simply a window with a wide sill in the living quarters of Claude, the guy who runs the place. He’s usually there, reading comics, because he doesn’t seem to have anything to do other than check people in and out. There’s something wrong with one of his legs, but he won’t talk about it. Julie, a young woman who he says is his cousin, does most of the cleaning, except for the occupied rooms, which are the occupants’ responsibility. That’s one reason I checked in here: no prying house maids poking around in your possessions.  Julie’s nice, quite good looking, likes to chat. Asks personal questions. I’m the silent type, so I don’t think anything’s likely to happen. I’m sure she can find whatever she’s looking for in some of the other rooms. 

So, I tap on the window and Claude looks up. He doesn’t say anything.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m in room seven B and …”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. Thomas, known as Tom. I asked Julie to slip a letter under your door. Did you get it?”

“Yeah, right here. Did you see who left it here?”

“Nah. I heard someone come into the lobby when I was out back in my kitchen. Nobody there when I got to reception. Just that envelope with your name on it.”

“Okay, thanks. Sorry to bug you.”

“Room okay?”

“Sure. I appreciate the privacy.”

“Someone knows you’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“You planning to open it? I got a letter opener here.”

“Thanks. But I think I’ll manage. Good chatting with you. Hope you have a quiet day.”

“Thanks. You too.”

I pass Julie on the stairs on my way back to my room. “Hi,” she says. “Did you get the letter?”

“Yeah, thanks. Did you see who left it here?”

“Sorry, no. Is there anything else you want?”

“I’m fine thanks. Have a good day.”

Back in my room I study the handwriting on the envelope again. It does look familiar, but I still can’t quite place it. I put the kettle on, steam the envelope open: I might be able to use it again. It’s not a standard letter envelope, but the next size up. The size where you can fold a normal sheet of paper in half and put photographs and other things in as well. 

There’s another envelope inside the bigger one. It’s addressed to me at the apartment I shared with a real no-hoper in the city. That address has been crossed out and a new address written: it’s my parent’s address, the one I’d given my former room-mate in case something happened to me. I put his name down as ‘next of kin’ when I registered here.  It’s definitely his schoolboy scrawl. That address has also been crossed out, and another address added: My mother’s handwriting, my sister’s address, in the town I’m now living in. I told my sister where I am staying and asked her not to tell anyone else. I check the bigger envelope again. It could be Gloria’s handwriting. My ex-girlfriend, the one I’ve run away from. I should have recognised it earlier, but then I wasn’t expecting her to write to me. 

I open the smaller envelope. Photos. No note. I look at the pictures. Three of them. There’s a picture of me and Gloria looking happy at one of our favourite places: a bar and grill in the city we used to live in. She works there.  The next one is her again. She’s pregnant. I know that: it’s the main reason why I ran away. I didn’t want a kid. That and she was nagging me about drinking too much. The third one is also of her. This time she’s holding a little baby. An infant, maybe only a month or so old.

I need a drink. I open one of the cans. Sit on the end of my bed. It squawks in protest, not for the first time. It squawks and creaks and groans every time I get into it, move around and get off it. It has a metal frame, bolted together, but the bolts aren’t tight enough. They’ve rusted, so they can’t be tightened. Or loosened. I’m learning to live with it. It might be a good thing, because I certainly wouldn’t want to have sex with someone in it. The whole building would know what’s going on. It helps me to keep my relationship with Patricia – and Julie, for that matter –  on a professional footing, if I can use that term in my somewhat reduced circumstances.

I drain my can of beer, open another, telling myself that has to be the last one. I can’t afford to drink on my pay grade. I pace from room to room, which isn’t hard, because I’m in a bedsit with a small kitchen and tiny bathroom. I go upstairs to the common room on the third floor. There’s no-one there, but there’s a bit more space to move around. I think better when I’m walking. Then I go down to the lobby. A couple of elderly people I’ve seen before. I think they’re on the third floor, in the room above mine. He is, anyway. He told me he is semi-retired. His lady friend visits quite often. I’ve heard them together in the night. They seem very spry for people of their age, and I get a bit excited myself just listening to them. 

I say “good afternoon” to the couple and leave the building. Walk aimlessly for a while, just wandering. Drop into a bar and buy myself a drink. Just one, then I’m out on the street again, feeling pleased with myself. Walking aimlessly again. I’m shaken up by Gloria’s photos. Like I said, my drinking was one of the reasons we split up. She started refusing to have sex with me, saying I was drinking too much. We argued about it, but she was determined. “Cut out the booze or leave,” she told me, more than once. I couldn’t stop the drinking, and she was the one who ended our relationship. I quit my job, hit the road, and eventually found myself at my sister’s place. Her husband let me stay a couple of nights, then told me I had to find my own space. I was a bad influence on his kids, he said. I couldn’t disagree, so I moved to the boarding house.

I keep walking, find myself at Sarah’s gate. The sun is setting. Maybe not a good time to visit, but I walk up her drive anyway. She answers the door. “Thanks for forwarding that letter,” I say. “Much appreciated.” Then I start crying.

“You’d better come in,” she says. She offers me a beer. I accept. “But only this one,” I say. “Don’t let me have any more.”

She looks at me like I’m a total stranger. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m trying to cut down.”

“Good for you,” she says. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, really. Except for right now. I think this is my fourth this afternoon. But I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

“Was it that letter I passed on?”

“Yes. Well, it’s a good news-bad news sort of story, really.”

“Tell me.”

So I explain what was in the envelope, and who it was from.

“Are you sure you’re the father,” is all she says.

“As sure as I can be. We were rock solid. She’s not the type to sleep around. I was beginning to think we might be a forever couple.”

She looks a bit sceptical.

“All right,” I say. “She was nagging me about my drinking too. Well, to be truthful, she told me she would leave me if I didn’t stop.”

“Did you know she was pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And there was no letter? Just the photos? She didn’t say she wants you back, or specifically say you are the father?”

“All of those things. Just the photos. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think, or do.”

“Talk to her. Tell her how you feel. Ask her what she wants. It’s your child too. You have a responsibility to help support it, if nothing else.”

“I know all that. But she hasn’t answered my calls or messages. I think she’s blocked my number. Would you talk to her for me? Ask if she wants to see me. Ask if I can see the baby. Tell her I want to be a father. Tell her I’ll give her money to help raise the kid. That’s the least I can do, isn’t it?”

Sarah asks me if that’s really what I want.

"Yes,” I say. “It is.” 

Sarah’s husband comes in, says Hi to me, tells Sarah she should be getting ready. “We’re having dinner with my boss, remember?”

Sarah gets up, tells me she’s sorry, she has to go. 

“You brought all of this down on yourself,” she says, as I go out the door. “But I’ll do one thing for you. I’ll write to her and tell her you want to talk.”

I bury myself into work at the nursery. Work overtime without pay. Wait for word from Sarah. Finally, she visits me at the boarding house.

“The answer’s no,” she tells me bluntly. 

“That’s it?” I ask. “No?”

“Pretty much. She said she doesn’t want to hear from you. Doesn’t want to see you. She wishes she’d never met you. But she loves the baby and will raise her herself. Her parents are very supportive.”

“So now what do I do?”

“Nothing. Leave her alone, like she says. Respect her wishes, for once in your life.”

“So why did she send me the photos? Did you ask her that?”

“No. I can only guess. Maybe she wants you to know what you walked away from.”

She pauses, says “And I hope you’ll never forget it,” and leaves.

 My father is silent, and I know this is the end of his story. 

Wow, Dad, I say. That’s very sad. All those years, and you’ve never told me. I  have a sister I’ve never met.

I haven’t met my daughter, either, I say. And never will. But I won’t ever forget.

I want to meet her, my daughter says.

Talk to your aunt Sarah, I say. She’s the only one I know who might have an address for her.