The holiday season in High Park was a warm mixture of
inflatable snowmen and classic Rockwellian Christmas trees lit with hot colored
bulbs. In the town square, the old church bell rang with clarity and purpose,
annunciating the daily passage of time. Over the streets, sparkly tinsel streamers
hung from poles, some with white lights while others shimmered in the wind. An
early morning surprise snowfall had accumulated five inches along sidewalks. Inside
front windows decorations were hung with Rudolph, Santa Claus pictures and general
Christmas greetings. Snowplows had pushed the snow into piles throughout the
high school parking lot. Alec drove through the familiar streets of High Park;
he held the wheel with one hand, casually steering with his wrist. Beside him, Taylor
studied the passing houses. They listened to the comforting voice of Nat King
Cole, coming over the radio.
They turned
right on to Baker Street, where on the corner, stood a faded billboard, facing
the abandoned Old Colony railroad tracks. The billboard displayed a picture of
a roller coaster. The faded words read: come ride the world’s largest roller
coaster. A picture of a family— a father, mother and three children— two boys
with 70’s mop haircuts, tan slacks and red sweaters; the third, a girl with
long ponytails, a checkered dress and plain white shoes. The roller coaster
loomed behind them where the background sky was yellowed, peeling and white in
spots.
“The National Park Service would be a cool. It
doesn’t pay much but really, I’d hike Bryce Canyon for free,” Alec said.
“I wouldn’t tell dad just yet,” said Taylor.
Twenty-eight years old, Taylor worked in downtown
Boston as a successful executive at Suffolk Investment. Though proud of his
older brother, Alec harbored zero ambition for the financial world. For him,
photography pointed the way toward his future happiness.
“Why does he want me to be like you? He already has
you,” Alec said.
His father always questioned Alec’s career choices.
Taylor smiled. “You know how he is. He thinks in
terms of quantity.”
Alec shook his head. He gazed into the rear view
mirror. He didn’t look anything like Taylor. Almond hair curled just above his
gray eyes and thin eyebrows. Alec looked more like a resident beach bum more
than anyone else.
“He just
doesn’t understand. He’s always been about the bottom line. Don’t take it
personally,” said Taylor.
Alec turned the silver Corona into the driveway and
parked.
“He let this place go,” said Taylor.
“The only way to get anything done around here is if
you bind and gag him.”
The house had been neglected for years. Now it just
sat there waiting to be condemned. The red paint on the shingle siding was all
but flaked away now, the locked yellowed windows were cracked and duct taped,
the sunken dormer appeared to be leaning forward as if about to fall on an
unsuspecting mailman, and the warped condenser unit beside the driveway. At the
front door hung an old wood plaque, engraved with the words, Whisper Trees. It
had been there forever, since he was a kid. Alec straightened it as they
entered the house.
Mr. Walker sat slumped in the clumpy violet recliner
and watched the football game on the old Magnavox TV.
“Well look what the wind blew in,” said Mr. Walker.
“It’s only
Christmas season, dad,” said Alec.”
His bare feet rested on the futon. A lit cigarette burned
in the ashtray beside a glass of Scotch. Taylor snagged the remote and turned
the TV volume down. He sat on the springy couch.
“Who’s winning?” asked Alec.
“Not us. Refs are killing us.”
The spicy aroma of microwave pizza wafted through the
living room and lingered in the stuffy mausoleum-like air. There were no holiday
decorations or lights, not even a small Christmas tree. A barrenness had set
in— small dusty webs in corners and tiles popping off the kitchen and bathroom floors.
It saddened him. Time had sucked the vibrancy from his father who was only a
shell of his former self.
“You boys hungry?
I made pizza.”
Alec stood by the knick-knack shelf and gazed at the
framed Polaroid of his smiling mother— the only picture of her in the house.
Cousin Mickey had once commented on how the slope of Alec’s nose resembled his
mothers.
“No thanks,” said Alec.
“Well, help yourself anyway. It’s still hot.”
Mr. Walker had short messy gray hair and wore
glasses. He picked up his cigarette with long yellow fingers.
“How goes the fashion world?” Mr. Walker asked.
Alec had graduated from New England College of
Photography that year in the spring of 1997. He had built a dark room in his
father’s basement where he spent countless hours mixing chemicals, burning and
dodging images, experimenting with various filters, wasting page after page of
photo paper, drying negatives and prints until all hours. He disliked fashion
photography and working with color or Ansel Adams type landscapes. To him, black
and white gave his work a naked quality, an honesty color failed to capture. He
preferred abstract blurry images that whirred across the paper like a storm as
opposed to robotic stills, portraits or fashion. Someday, he wanted to
freelance for the Associated Press— a stepping-stone to his ultimate goal, the
Pulitzer Prize. He would take on industry— the Wal-Mart’s of the world and make
a difference, teach society how to protect their forests, ranges and wetlands;
preserve their beauty, integrity and remote frontiers. He loved the solitude of
the wild.
“I don’t do fashion, dad.”
“Isn’t that all the fame and glory?”
“He wants to be a photojournalist, dad. A gun for
hire. I can’t say I blame him though. I’d be bored stiff shooting hot models
all day,” said Taylor, smirking.
“So then when are you going into the field?”
Alec knew his dad was busting his balls and that he
worked two part time jobs— a gas station attendant and a wedding photographer’s
assistant and neither paid well.
“Some day I’ll be in the Middle East changing the
world with my photos.”
“You’ll just get killed over there,” said Mr. Walker.
“Are you kidding? This kid will outlast us all,” said
Taylor.
He punched Alec lightly on the arm and smiled.
“Where’s Cassie?” he asked.
“Working, as usual.”
“She shouldn’t work so hard. She’s too brittle,” said
Mr. Walker.
“It’s her life.”
“Ok. Switching gears here a minute. I got some news,”
Taylor said.
On the TV, the Patriots scored a touchdown.
“About time, Bledsoe,” Mr. Walker yelled at the TV.
“I’m going back to school.”
Alec turned to him, incredulous. “What?”
“I’m going back to school.”
Alec stared at him, confused, the words not
registering.
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Nothing’s extreme if you can do it.”
Alec shrugged.
“You’re just going to drop everything and go back to
school?”
“It’s not like I’m dropping out of society. I’m bored
with business. Any monkey in the financial game can turn a buck. I want to make
a difference and help people,” Taylor said.
“How?”
“Who knows? Maybe… someday I’ll run for Governor.”
Alec shook his head.
“When are you leaving?”
“Soon.”
Mr. Walker turned away from the TV. He looked up
toward Taylor, smiling with yellowed teeth.
“My son, Governor of Massachusetts. Has a nice ring
to it. Governor Taylor Walker.”
