The Missouri Review

MRS. DAWSON / Kevin Desinger IT WAS AFTER FATHER CAME IN from the gooseyard Friday evening, telling me to return the varmit pistol to his closet, that I first spotted the box of letters shoved beneath his lowest closet shelf, partially hidden by his and Mother's clothing. I put the pistol in its holster and hung it from the peg, then pulled the box into the open. The top envelopes were covered with dust as if they hadn't been touched in years. But further down they were clean, though very old, parched like fall leaves. I was careful. I sorted through half of the letters before I found her photograph. Yellowed almost to brown and curling at the edges, it lay face-up as if wanting to be found. I turned it over. There was no writing on the back to tell me who she was. I shoved the box back under the closet shelf, then held the photograph beneath the bedroom light. The photographic paper felt brittle enough to break into flakes at my touch, but the details were clear. The woman sat with her back to me, smiling out of the mirror she faced. She held her hair in handfuls with her elbows raised, and still some spilled down onto her shoulders. Her head was tilted playfully. She might have been as old as Mother was now. Though the photograph was black and white, I could tell her hair was auburn—I felt I could see the colors of her dress, soft as they would be, brown and cream and orange. The mirror—bevelled glass, cut thick, and set in an oak frame— held her image true, but there were patches where the elements had penetrated the quicksilver from behind, spreading like lichen, staining the glass. It sat upon an oak dressing table that also held a gilt hairbrush and a pair of frail wire-frames. Reading glasses. The room's reflection in the mirror gave the photograph curious depth. Behind her stood a chest of drawers, and a matching bureau to either side of a half-opened closet door. Atop the chest were small porcelain figures, mostly white, with small brush strokes of what must have been red and blue and gold. They seemed a bit small for the chest, like men on a barn a long way off. The bottom drawer was open, and the corner of a clean off-white linen had been teased out by small claws. On the corner of the bed lay a cat, in swirls of a coarsely woven cover. A faint print of flowers on light wallpaper covered the walls, faded by the age of the photograph. Looking at the photograph when Father walked into the room, I 114 · The Missouri Review tried to hide it behind me. He pointed. "What do you have there?" "Just a picture," I said. "I found it in the box there." "Picture? Let me see." He took it, looked at it for an instant, then sat on his bed. "How about that," he said, and was quiet for a moment. "Is she a relative or something?" He ignored my question. I hushed. After a while he glanced at me. "Where did you say you found it?" "In that box in your closet." "Well, then, put it back, and ask before you get into my things again." "Yes, sir." He left the room. I looked at the photograph for a few more minutes before returning it to the box, face-up, covered by dusty envelopes. At dinner Father was distant and solitary, and Mother didn't mind when I asked to be excused early. I went up to my room. From my window I watched the day roll out like a tide. The last strands of sunlight brushed the verges of our land, leaving the rest in shadow, and the trees were silhouetted against the sky. Within moments it was dark. I remained at the window, looking at the black strand of trees beyond the side yard. Perhaps I would hunt tomorrow. I might take a pheasant if I pulled up on him before he flew. Father said I was a crackerjack shot, as...