Ancestors, Pt. 3

“It’s terrible.” Charles said, “Complete garbage. You have more spelling errors than I care to count. Not to mention your punctuation…”

Charles threw the papers down onto the cafe table and small pastry crumbs leaped up and down on their plates. The bright afternoon sun formed solid shadows of the tree along the street. Emith and his brother sat beneath the shade of a large oak attempting to enjoy an afternoon brunch of fruit pastries and tea. Charles was taking time off work. Emith had no work to speak refrain from.

Emith sipped his tea gingerly as he collected the stack of papers that were his newest work. “Of course its terrible,” Emith said, “Its a first draft. And I do not recall asking you to be my editor. I asked you for your opinion of the content.”

“I didn't like that any better,” Charles said, sipping on a hot cup of Earl Grey, “The bit about the woman in red was the only interesting part so far, and even that lacked a certain dénouement.”

“I believe you fail to grasp the nuances of that word, Charles” Emith replied, rubbing his temples to prevent the oncoming headache, “Specifically, you don’t know the bloody definition!”

“No reason to be crude, brother,” Charles said, “It just needs work is all. It has no punch, no hook, nothing to keep the reader interested.”

“I don’t even know why I bother asking you. The last thing you read was some horror novella from that disreputable rag you insist on subscribing to.”

“The New Town Suspense Monthly is a legitimate publication. You should consider writing something for them. I’m sure if you put your creative energies into writing something with a bit more excitement you’d do well. I could even put in a word for you with the editor.”

“What, are they doing so terribly that they need writing suggestions from their legions of subscribers?”

“Don’t be cocky, Emith. It just so happens that he lives in the flat next door to mine.”

Emith laughed, “Of course he does.”

Emith took a bite of a small rasberry pastry. The filling oozed out of the opposite end onto his unguarded hand, the sticky sweetness clinging to the skin and hair. Emith cursed. He knew his hand would feel sticky all day now regardless of how often he washed it. How could such a small thing remind a person that everything has gone wrong?

“Some days you make a terrible brother, Charlie,” Emith said.

Charlie smiled, “Is this because I’m mother’s favorite?” Charlie tore a piece of his biscuit off and threw it at Emith’s face. It bounced off his cheek and landed in his tea.

“I’m actually at peace with that, Charles.” Emith responded, wiping his face, “Mother has often said that I couldn’t be more different than either of you. I used to question the wisdom of a god that would place me in a family such as this but I've resigned to the truth.”

Charles cocked his head, "That god's wisdom cannot be understood?"

"No," Emith replied, "That there is no god."

“You’re a strange one, Emith.” Charles laughed, “Even before father died, you were different.” He took a large bite from his biscuit, “Father coddled you,” he said between chews, crumbs spraying out of his mouth, “That’s why you turned out the way you did.”

Emith stared at him, “And what is that supposed to mean, Charles?”

Charles swallowed, “Don’t be daft, brother.”

Emith could feel his anger rising, “Humor me, Charlie. I want you to speak what you mean.”

Charles sighed and put down his biscuit, “Well, Em, where should I begin? You’ve got no job, no wife, no children, you’re being evicted from your apartment, and you're constantly pestering mother for money and advances. Your last success as a writer was years ago, and even that wasn’t a good one. It’s time to give up this cloud-chasing and act like an adult. Get a real job. Settle down. Anyone who knows you for more than moment can see that you’re a failure in almost any respect.”

Those last words were too much. Emith stood straight up, knocking the chair beneath him to the floor. The cafe patio patrons stopped as if on cue and stared right at him.

“I see,” he began, “I knew you always had a low opinion of me, dear brother, I just never knew it was this low.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic and sit down. People are staring.”

“No, I don’t think I will join you any longer. I find myself suddenly lacking an appetite and empty of any desire to continue conversation with you. Good day.”

Emith grabbed his coat and hat. He was gone from the cafe patio in two strides with his brother calling behind. But Charles made no move to stop him.

Emith was tired, worn, hungry, and desperate. As much as Charles may have been right what hurt most is that the truth had to come from Charles. The golden boy, the one that grew up, the one that gave the grandkids and the money and the pride… He was everything that Emith was not. For his entire life, Emith only wanted to write. And for years he did and he was happy. But Emith was also uncompromising. He wrote what he wanted to, not what others told him to. That cost him many a newspaper column.

Emith’s anger raged and his mind raced through the downward spiral of self-deprication. Story after story, memory after memory played through his mind’s eye, each a remainder of Charles word, ‘failure.’

After a brief bout of suicidal ideation while crossing the pedestrian bridge over the Chicago River, Emith somehow found himself in front of his mother’s flat. Absently, he knocked on her door.

“Emith?” she answered, “What’s wrong?” She had the charm of an anxious mother at that moment.

“Am I a failure?”

“Oh, dear…” she wrapped he small arms around her son’s neck. After a brief moment of respite her wrinkled face looked up into his eyes and sweetly replied, “Of course you are.”

Emith was dumbstruck. “Thank you for your honesty," he mumbled, "I’ll be taking my leave.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she grabbed his sleeve as he turned, “besides, there’s something I wanted to show you. I think you’ll like it. It may be just what you're looking for.”

She lead him into her living room amidst the ticks and tocks of countless wall clocks, “You really shouldn’t be so surprised,” she said as they sat on her velvet couch, “Anyone who sees you can tell you have yet to amount to much.”

“Charles said a very similar thing,” Emith said.

“Oh, pay no attention to Charles. True, he’s made a bit of himself but he’s always been jealous of your father’s love. You were always his favorite.”

“And Charles is yours?”

“I love both my boys equally,” she said, “Besides, he's much too prideful. Just don’t tell him I told you so. Here.”

She handed him a large shoebox. It was heavy to hold and felt as though it was filled with books. “What is it?” Emith asked.

“I found this cleaning up in the attic. Its the closest thing we have to family heirlooms.”

Emith opened the box and saw newspaper clippings, old photos, bits of stones, a small engraven plaque, letters still sealed in their envelopes, and many other items. It was a treasure trove of history dating back years and years.

“Who collected all this?” he asked

“Oh, several of your ancestors. I believe it was your great-great-great-grandmother that began collecting things. She kept all the things that were important to her and her husband at the time, and her children. There’s things in there dating back to the mid 1800’s when our family first came to this country. Many descendants since then have been putting small important things in there for generations. The last I saw of it was shortly after you were born. I think I placed a picture of you and your brother in there.”

Looking through, Emith saw early pictures of his parents, engravings of his grandmother, writings of his grandfather, the picture of himself and Charles… all things he had never seen before.

“I thought some of this might inspire you to write something new.” His mother said.

“Its beautiful,” Emith said, “There’s so much here, so much I don’t even know…”

“Emith…” she took his hand, “I know you’ve felt… different your whole life. To be honest, this family wasn’t quite a good fit for you. Your father died too early and you lost all connection with your brother and I.”

Emith began to speak but she stopped him, “I can’t give you what you’re looking for. I love you dearly, but I don’t understand you. I can’t, and you need someone who does. I worry sometimes that you won’t find anyone who can.”

Emith blushed. Her words were all true. He felt like he needed to apologize but he didn’t know what to be sorry for. His eyes avoided hers in shame. Instead he looked to the shoebox of heirlooms and glimpsed an old engraving at the bottom of the box. For a brief moment the world stood still and Emith gasped.

“Mother… who is this?” Emith asked.

“That? I believe that may be your great-great-great-grandmother," she replied, counting the 'greats' off on her fingers, "I never knew her myself; I understand she died quite young but she was the one that started this box.”

Emith took the engraving out to see more clearly, but his heart was beating as if it were going to stop at any moment.

“She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? I like to think I took after her looks in my younger years.”

“Y… Yes.” Emith stuttered. His world was turned upside down, and he could not think clearly. There, engraved before him, was the woman in red. It was not a colored engraving but the straw hat, the dress, the face, the smile were all unmistakable. The woman he met at the cafe who claimed to know him, who claimed to be dead was staring back at him from that ancient engraving with the same look of joy on her face. It was that look that almost made him fall in love with her.

“Emith, dear are you feeling well? You’re all pale… you look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

Emith swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he was feeliing dizzy, “I think I may have, mother. I think I have.”