Day 12 - Painting Story

Painting Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer 

The painting was there.  Maybe it had always been there.  Maybe.

The painting hung there on the perpendicular wall to the front door of a German Colonial two-story country townhouse.  The painting had no knowledge of architecture.  The painting hardly had any knowledge at all.  But it had some.  Yes, it knew a thing or two.

Roderick, Anthony, and Winston were brothers.  They grew up with too much time and too much energy.  They fought.  Oh, did they ever fight.  But not with malice.  They fought with a healthy rivalry that inspired them all to become better.  It was a brotherly love that never expressed itself with words, but instead with actions and deeds.

Xavier Caldwell was a banker.  He had never expected or wanted three boys, but he was satisfied with the results.  He had hoped for a fellow banker when the time came, but rather received a lawyer, a shipper and a whaler.  Not what he had expected or wanted, but he was satisfied with their trades and chances of success.

Xavier didn’t think about the painting.  It was there.  Maybe it had been there when he bought the house. Maybe his late wife had commissioned it during a business trip.  He wasn’t sure.  He had noticed it one day and it never occurred to him to ask.  Then, as time slipped past, his memory grew weak and he could no longer remember whether or not that had been the first time he had ever seen it.

Roderick grew up to be a man of intelligence.  Anthony was cunning and strong.  Winston knew how to make other men laugh and instill a trust that created bonds for life.  Which brother had taken on which profession was not important.  The painting knew nothing of professions.

Xavier had wealth and success.  He was satisfied in life.  Lonely at times after his wife passed away, but satisfied none the less.  The same could not be said for his sons.

Xavier was frugal and could identify a sound investment.  The same could not be said for his sons.

Xavier’s wealth grew and grew.  The same could not be said for his sons.

On a cold winter night, the three brothers drank to excess, each sharing their tales of woe and financial failure.  Lawyers were in high supply and low demand.  Shippers were distraught over the state of foreign trade and debt.  Whaling was deadly and in decline as kerosene grew available and easier.

The brothers had a bond – a bond from youth.  An unbreakable bond that transcended love and reason and right or wrong.  The painting knew nothing of bonds or pangs of moral conscience.  The painting knew nothing of plots or greed or sin.

The painting had been there on that dreadful evening.

The brothers had their conspiracy and there was nothing to stop it.  Xavier was an old man and had lived a long life and left behind no widow, just three boys to inherit his wealth.  No one questioned the events too hard.  No one investigated.  The deaths of old men were often and not unexpected at all.  No one asked the painting.  No one thought to.  Besides, what could it have seen or said?  But the painting had been there.  The painting could tell the tale if someone knew how to ask.  The painting possessed what no one had taken the time to notice – an extra red dot or two, a splash of blood left behind from an unspeakable act.

Yes, the painting had been there.   The painting knew nothing of the passage of time or the desperation of angry men, but the painting knew what it knew.  It always had and always would.  The painting had been there.