Mr. Carpenter ate his supper at six p.m. sharp every
evening. He lived on the eleventh
floor of the old brick apartment building on West 62nd street, New York,
New York. His window curtains were vintage canvas, smitten with years of dust
and introversion, ones you could see through from the outside. Wild rice with
chicken, or canned tomato soup and crackers was the alternation, a regimen of
nearly sixty years in the making. His apartment was lonely; the whole space smelled
of loneliness. The furnishing was drab, plain and practical; an ancient tweed
couch and a ten-inch television atop a rickety old table were the highlights of
the place at first glance. But at six p.m. sharp, every evening on the dime,
there sat a picture in a lovely, rusted, silver frame across from him on the
table. The photograph inside was black and white, the fading face of a memory
and a young woman with distinctly arched eyebrows, shining dark eyes and a warm
smile peered out of it. In black ink there was a message scrawled toward the
bottom of the photo that read:
To my James,
Never forget me soldier.
I’ll be waiting.
Love
always,
Emaline
There
was a slight crack in the glass that slid horizontally across the frame, one
created in a fit of rage and helplessness years before. It was ugly and
foreboding across such a beautiful face; although appropriately so. There was a chair on her side of the
table, filled with the ghost of a lost love. To anyone else observing the
scene, he ate alone, but to James Carpenter, he was indeed, never alone.
Tonight’s cuisine was a bowl of tomato soup, which sat motionless on her side.
They sat in silence, James and the picture frame. He had run out of things to
say to her, he had become numb; at least for tonight. He reached for a handful
of crackers placed in the middle of the table and crushed them in his hand,
dropping the crumbs into the bowl.
“Crackers,
Emaline dear?” He asked with a soft, worn voice. He took a bite and chewed,
staring at her portrait absently.
“No?
Alright.” Another few bites and he was finished, not unlike his Emaline’s life.
He got up and took her bowl with his to the kitchen and washed them. He then
turned on the television and took a seat on the scratchy tweed sofa. Every
night at 6:30, his favorite travel program came on. He always thought the television was the best way to travel. He could sit in the comfort of his own home and never have to spend a penny or move a muscle, while simultaneously taking in the world outside his own sad existence. At least he chose his solitude; ignorance had never become him. He watched the program and glanced over at the picture on the table every now and then.
Sometimes he would set the picture next to him, other times he would leave her
on the table. When the program finally ended at 7:30, he found himself spent as
usual, and sorely stood up. His arthritis had worsened within recent years, and
it made his bones creak and his spirit wane. He began turning off all the
lights, and eventually maneuvered over to his tiny bathroom to brush his teeth
and change into his pajamas and robe. Once he was all ready for bed, he
returned to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, staring once more with that
blank stare at his sweet Emaline. Usually, he took the photograph to his room
and set it next to him on his nightstand. But tonight, he walked to the table
and gently placed the frame face down. As he crawled into bed, he heard sirens
sounding in the distance. They reminded him of the war, which permeated into
all of the memories he tried so desperately to forget. After an hour or so of
wrestling his demons, the pitter-patter of a light rain came, and carried him
to a place somewhat better than reality: sleep.
