Love & Darts (9781937316075) by Nath Jones

the photographer had forgotten the shot. And
Jeanie might only have mailed it for the great smiles on both of
their sunlit faces, but in the hall that day, with this boy in her
husband’s favorite chair, Mrs. B. saw the picture again for the
first time. It was devastating to see it so clearly. Her daughter,
her mocking, playful, spritely, sarcastic, frivolous, immature,
temperamental, evasive, heedless, reckless, unforgiving, so young
daughter pushed him away.
    Mrs. B. considered turning to the doorway and
saying, “Was that verse from Grandma’s funeral from Proverbs 13?”
But. She didn’t ask knowing there’d be no answer.
    What must that boy think?
    There was a picture that Jeanie had taken of
herself. She used a tripod and her father’s best camera which had a
timer. There was a dark purple thunderhead sky behind her and a
rainbow arched itself back over the spruce trees. Jeanie was
dressed from head to toe in yellow and stood—arms thrown up—where
the rainbow would have touched the ground. A loud statement and
strong opinion shouting, “I am a veritable pot of gold, priceless
and unattainable.” It was a summation. Jeanie with a personality
that is impossible to find. Jeanie with a transient confidence that
appears comfortable between the harshest, most contrasting
conditions, where blazing sun meets the million prisms of an
ineffable rain. Jeanie who is only a twist of light. Jeanie, a
promise easily broken in a dry Arizona summer.
    No one could blame him for his love.
    Mrs. B. drew herself up slowly and walked back into
the living room. He had gotten up from the chair and was standing
in front of the open door near where she had left him. It hadn’t
been that long. The mat under his feet said, “Welcome Home,” and he
stared at it.
    Neither of them wanted to have to say anything for
fear of tears.
    But. He was a grown man, not a child, so he said,
“Sorry about this, Mrs. B. I thought, well, hell, who knows what I
was thinking.” He glanced up at her. Her face changed quickly to
encourage him with a smile and bright eyes, but he saw her pity
first.
    She wanted to pull him into some
hug that would be enough. But there he was with all the import and
fragility of his manhood.
Damn.
She restrained herself,
giving whatever support she could by leaving him alone.
    He looked down at the shoebox he was holding. There
were several small treasures in it. Nothing fancy: a few smooth
stones, a picture or two, a blue wax figure of an elephant, a
foreign coin, and some other memories no one could possibly share.
He laid the box down in the chair he’d gotten up from exhausted
from holding such a treasure chest. His hands eased into his
pockets and fell asleep at the wrist. He cleared his throat and
looked at the clock. He knew that the motion of those hands should
mean something, but he didn’t see the time. He thought hard. Both
of them wished she would just get over it and come out of her room.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t. They both thought she must have fallen
asleep by now. They knew her best.
    He laughed a little at his own
failure and shook his head. With aspiring, raised eyebrows he said,
“Well. No sense beating a dead horse, right?” He left before she
could see his tears.
Why don’t you
ever listen?
His car sped
away.
    Mrs. B. shut the door. Her hand lingered on the
doorknob. She looked down at her wedding ring. She moved over to
the chair and picked up the box of trinkets. She sat down heavily
and picked through them carefully. She lifted out a framed picture
of the couple that was wedged in the bottom of the box and made the
cardboard sides bow out.
    Sighing, she leaned her head back
against the chair and held it at arm's length to look at it. They
were happy. It was their engagement photo. The one they had taken
for the newspaper. The frame was separating at one of the corners.
Just a cheap frame from the drug store. Nothing special. Mrs. B.
pinched it back together. In a minute she stood up and