The Park Avenue Hovel, page one

In the picture, Marcus is sitting on the sidewalk, his head turned away. The photo is black and white, but a certain brittle delicacy of the light gives it away as early morning. His face, a bare slice of profile, is obscured by shadow, elbows knees and shock of hair (in life, she knew, a tangled black) the focus of the picture, fluidly organic against the street and kerb. When she had taken on the house, that picture and the kitchen wallpaper had been all she'd kept of their mother's decor. It sat where it always had, overlooking the landing on the second floor, the head of a now-gone line of family photographs, hard by the master bedroom. This pride of place outside the door had always, to her, underscored and been blunted by the pointed exclusion inherent in it. It was not the only picture of their father, but it was the only one Gwendolyn suffered to hang on her walls.
She shifted her attention from the frame on the wall to the light coloring it, a yellow strip escaping her door, two floors above the room her brother hadn't yet come back to. The hour was late, by the clock or any other standard, but she wasn't tired. She wasn't waiting up for him, either: Felix would get himself back eventually. Still, robe clad in the doorframe, it seemed strange the boy, a grown man almost, should be so much like the father he'd never seen. Gwendolyn nodded a decent good night to Marcus' prehumous image and returned to her occupied bed.

Posted at Sunday, June 21, 2009 06:25 PM
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