Chapter One

My mother wasn’t crazy.

At least not certifiable.

She was an artist, and artists think differently than the rest of us. They’re more focused and obsessive and, yeah, self-centered, but that doesn’t make them crazy.

Well, maybe a little. You have to be a little crazy to look through a camera lens and take photographs that aren’t like anyone else’s. I could get a camera and set up a shot that was identical to one of hers…I mean, a perfect imitation, and take a picture and that’s all it would be…a picture.

My mother took photographs, artistic photographic representations of whatever it was she saw.

She was an artist with film.

I can take a picture.

Do you understand the difference?

So, my mother wasn’t crazy; she was driven, devoted to her work, and more receptive to things. Yeah, that sounds better…not crazy, just more open to seeing things that the rest of us missed.

That’s what made her a success.

She saw things through the lens of her camera that the rest of us poor simple mortals don’t…or can’t…and she was able to capture it on black-and-white film that was processed in a darkroom with chemicals and time…and not uploaded to a computer screen.

Not that she couldn’t have gone digital. My mother wasn’t a Luddite; she knew her way around computers, but in her mind there was no art in manipulating software to create an image.

She even sued one critic who voiced the opinion that one of her photographs had been digitized…because it was just too good to have been done in the darkroom.

I think the man’s writing online supermarket ads now.

Not crazy…focused…especially when she had the idea for a new series. She’d get an idea and you could see it in her eyes…the wheels turning, as my dad used to say. ‘Careful, Morgan, your mom’s wheels are turning, best stay out of the way or she’ll run you over.’

Yeah, funny, but still true.

The wheels would turn and it consumed her…it consumed all of us. I was her favorite model, once. The world watched me grow up and it used to bother me, a little, when I was younger. I mean, sometimes.

What? Yeah, I once got into a fight. I was about twelve…no, thirteen, and in middle school and we’d just gotten back from winter break when one of my classmates in Homeroom pulls out my mother’s calendar for that year and opens it to December.

It was a good photograph – she’d taken it during a snowstorm and you could barely see my face through the swirling flakes…my feet were freezing by the time she finished and I couldn’t feel my nose – but there was just something about the way my classmate said, “Oh, look, we have a celebrity” that set me off.

I jumped him when school let out and gave him a bloody nose.

He gave me a black eye and swollen lip.

The Boys’ VP took us both to the principal’s office and called our mothers.

Mine brought her camera and took what was to become the first photograph in her Friends Forged in Fire series.

It worked. Chet and I are still best friends.

It could be grueling sometimes, posing and all that went with it, but that was just part of life with an artist and I didn’t mind, I really didn’t. I was used to it.

* * *

Morgan leaned back against the front door and imagined he could still feel the heat through the wood and the two shirts – one polo, one button-down, both from his mother – he’d slung over his shoulder. Compared to the hot, humid September evening he’d just left, the house’s constant 72°F temperature/40% humidity almost felt cold.

It felt wonderful.

Morgan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Then opened his eyes and walked into the gentle breeze from one of the foyer’s mini ductless splits before taking another breath. All he could smell was Freon, chemicals wafting up from his mother’s darkroom in the basement, and the various other scents and odors an old house gathers into itself over the years…but what he didn’t smell was Chinese takeout.

And he should have.

It was the second Monday of the month and from the time Morgan had discovered the culinary pleasures of fried wontons, boneless spare ribs and sweet-and-sour chicken, the second Monday of every month meant sitting down at the formal dining room table and waiting in anticipation while his father opened up the many mysterious cartons that filled the air with exotic aromas and his mother talked about the next series of photographs she wanted to take.

His father had his law practice and his mother had her gallery openings and exhibitions and juried competitions and business trips, but the second Monday of every month was their time together as a family.

After his father died, he and his mother ate in the kitchen. When he got married his new wife knew not to expect him home the second Monday of every month…and still didn’t, eleven years later.

So, where the hell was the Chinese takeout?

Morgan knew it was the right day…his mother had called him the night before and asked that he bring a couple of shirts, casual ones, something he’d wear on a hike, which meant, he knew from experience, it wouldn’t just be dinner and discussion…she had an idea for a photograph.

“Mom?”

His cellphone pinged to alert him of a text.

Morgan took his cellphone from his pocket and thumbed the screen open. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

SAW YOU PULL UP IN ATTIC BE RIGHT DOWN

Morgan walked to the foot of the staircase that divided the house left to right, now gathering shadows, and draped the shirts over the newel post that had been the site of his first and last attempt at Boy Scout wood carving. The effort did not earn him a merit badge but the photograph his mother took of the attempt did win the Grand Master’s Award at a national photography competition.

And also made the front cover of the next issue of Boys’ Life magazine.

Morgan took a deep breath and lifted a cupped hand to his mouth. “OKAY, MOM!”

Ping.

THAT WAS NOT FUNNY MORGAN

“I thought it was.”

NO IT WASN’T. THAT’S WHAT PHONES ARE FOR

Morgan slowly lowered his hands but kept his eyes on the dark second-floor landing as he backed away from the stairs. Sometimes she really scared him.

Leaving the shirts on the newel post, Morgan turned and walked into the library/gallery across the entrance hall from the living room. When he was still living in the house, the living room was just that, a room for living where he’d sneak downstairs early to watch Saturday morning cartoons while eating handfuls of sugary cereal right out of the box or sit on the sofa next to his father, watching westerns and eating popcorn, or build elaborate cities out of Legos while his mother developed film.

Now it was a living room in name only, a place for entertaining and interviews filled with a pristine arrangement of furniture that his mother covered for holidays and when his daughter stayed over for the weekend…just in case. The walls were covered with just enough of his mother’s photographs and pictures – family and school – on the mantelpiece over the working fireplace, to promote the illusion that they weren’t just background scenery.

Morgan much preferred the library/gallery…it didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was: a showplace of his mother’s talent. The soft gray walls were hung with framed originals of her best-known photographs and plaques that were too large to fit into the low glass-front curio/award cabinets that lined two walls.

It also didn’t hurt that a good many of the award-winning photographs were of him and his daughter.

Chairs had been set up around the room in optimal spots. Morgan chose one of the two upholstered wingbacks in front of the room’s multipane window and turned on the small lamp on the table between them. The room opened onto the massive covered porch his grandfather had built regardless of the fact that it didn’t architecturally work with the original Tudor Revival design. His mother always kept the sheers drawn, much the same way his father had.

The room had originally been his father’s office, inherited from his father along with the Philadelphia law firm the old man had started back in the forties. Morgan was supposed to follow the tradition, become a lawyer and take over the practice as well as the office.

His father had died long before Morgan even realized he didn’t want to be a lawyer. He never saw his son graduate, with honors, with a master’s in Finance and Investments, or become a senior financial advisor, and then senior VP of investments for a nationwide banking firm.

Not that it would have softened the blow.

Morgan had helped his mother pack away the office and found a wrapped desk plate with Morgan Riley, Esq. engraved on it. The gift tag had read: I am so proud that you are my son. Love, Dad.

He never told his mother about it and still had the desk plate in one of his father’s old shoe boxes in the back of his closet.

Morgan leaned back and listened to the occasional thump or thud until the sounds coalesced into definite footsteps.

“Morgan?”

Morgan stood and walked to meet her at the bottom step. Once, years ago, in an interview, a reporter had written that she was very much like one of her photographs, tending to wear only monochromic tones with “…hair so blond it appears white and eyes of startling ash-gray-green rimmed in charcoal….”

Obviously the writer was a failed artist, but minus the purple prose, his mother’s taste had always been to clothes that were black and white and gray – they were easier to separate and wash – and had blond hair that, now at 72, was more platinum than gold…but her eyes were hazel, had always been hazel and would continue to be hazel.

But they did look pale gray rimmed in charcoal in photographs.

Today she wore light gray linen slacks and a loose white top…her shoulder-length hair held off her neck with a black plastic claw clip. Black and white and gray except for the clothes she was carrying. They looked familiar.

Morgan kept looking at them – small clothes, toddler-sized shirts and shorts – as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. She smelled faintly of dust and cedar.

“No Chinese food?”

His mother sighed. “Well, hello to you, too, dear son.”

“Sorry. Hi, Mom. So, what’s this?” Morgan picked up one of the shirts. “Hey, this is my old He-Man, Masters of the Universe tee, isn’t it? I didn’t know you kept it.”

“I saved some for Hannah.”

Not that his daughter would ever need a size-two boy’s t-shirt with a faded logo from a TV show that ended twenty-nine years before she was born.

And he wasn’t even going to think about the movie with Dolph Lundgren.

Morgan held the shirt up by the sleeves. It still had a stain running down the back from where he’d crawled under a newly painted fence. He didn’t remember doing that, but his mother had taken a photograph.

“Mom, Hannah’s a little big for this. Are you trying to tell me something? Am I finally going to get the baby brother I always wanted?”

“Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“He’s in the living room. Come on, let me show you.” His mother reached for the newel post as she started down the stairs, knocking off the shirts he’d brought. “Why did you bring shirts?”

“You wanted me to,” Morgan said, picking them up.

“Oh, that’s right. Well, why don’t you put them upstairs and I’ll just throw these in the wash.” She was already hurrying down the hall toward the laundry/mud room off the kitchen. “But don’t come into the living room until I tell you to.”

Jesus, she got a dog. After all these years she got a dog. I wanted a dog…didn’t get a dog…still can’t…place is too small…no yard…but she got a dog. Morgan tossed the shirts back over one shoulder as he climbed the stairs and wondered what kind it was and why it hadn’t barked its fool head off when he walked in.

Maybe it’s a cat.

Turning left off the stairs, Morgan passed the upstairs bath and double-wide linen closet, then reached for the cut-glass handle to his old room. His mother’s room, the master suite and bath, was at the opposite end of the hall. The attic stairs directly opposite had made sneaking up there all the more difficult when he was a child…unless his mother was in the darkroom his father had built for her in the basement.

The pink teddy bear-shaped name tile – Hannah’s Room – rattled against the dark wood as he opened the door. When this was Morgan’s room, it had been pale blue and gone from teddy bears (blue) and Tonka trucks through He-Man and Ninja Turtles to wall posters of swimsuit models and athletic pennants. Go Eagles.

Now it was all white lace curtains, pink walls and pretty, pretty ponies. His old twin bed, still serviceable even after all the wear and tear he’d put it through, had been repainted white and piled high with a menagerie of stuffed animals, mostly of the equine variety, and pillows.

Morgan walked over to the room’s closet and opened the door. Hannah didn’t need any of his old clothes – his wife always packed a few extra outfits and changes of underwear to leave at Grammy’s when their daughter visited and his mother was always buying her outfits – and he still had enough slacks, polos and dress shirts that he really didn’t have to bring anything from home.

Except that it did clean out his closet at home of all the things that only really look good in a black-and-white photograph when everything would be in various shades of gray.

Including him.

Morgan hung the fuchsia polo and melon rind-green and purple pinstriped shirt between a salmon windbreaker and gray Penn State sweatshirt he wore when he came over to do yard work and closed the door.

His mother was waiting for him beneath the living room’s peaked archway.

“His name’s Sebastian,” she said, taking his hand. “Well, what do you think?”

It wasn’t a dog.