After the eleven hour drive across the salt beds north of Bonneville, over the wrinkled face of Nevada, and up and down the steep sides of the Sierras, Roger and Trisha approached Roseville on I-80 from the east. The mountains had dropped away behind them and been replaced with foothills blanketed in golden weeds. Oak trees studded the hills with the bluegreen puffs of their wide crowns. It was high summer. “Remember,” said Trisha, “we’re visiting family only. We have no time for friends.” Roger nodded, but his unfocused gaze troubled Trisha. He looked that way whenever he was working something out in his mind. It usually involved a money making scheme, but that wasn’t what had her worried this time. They’d lived in Roseville just three years earlier, and Roger had started a real estate business with money from a lawsuit. Unlike her mother’s will, they hadn’t been able to hide that windfall from Junior. He’d been worked up about it for a while, but that wasn’t what was bothering Trisha, either.

Roger had hired a small team to help him sell the real estate he’d purchased with his settlement cash. The land was hard to move, because it was flood prone and backed up to the interstate. Trisha had warned him about it, but he knew more than she did and ignored her. He put an office trailer on the hard pack lot and hired a secretary to occupy it. She was a divorced woman from the second ward, and Trisha had no idea how Roger had met her. The woman wore enough jewelry to open her own kiosk in the mall with just what she had on. It was rumored she’d had breast enhancement surgery in Davis. During that time and right up to the time the investors filed the lawsuit against Roger that bankrupted the business, he never came home for lunch. That woman was the person who wasn’t family that Trisha didn’t want Roger to see.

Trisha and Roger were greeted at Junior’s door by his wife with the baby in her arms. She told her guests that Junior was in the side room painting with oil on canvas. He did it for therapy on recommendation of the psychiatrist he was seeing. Roger looked uncomfortable. He’d said of psychology that it was a racket. Head doctors coddled their patients and told them to blame everything on their parents. It was easy to exploit people like Junior who were habitually dissatisfied. Trisha was allowed to sit on the sofa and hold the baby while Roger stepped out into the side room. Moments later Roger came back into the living room holding a painting of trees. “Isn’t this wonderful Trish, with the yellow leaves and the branches?” Trisha liked it, but she was confused with Roger’s enthusiasm. She’d never known him to like a piece of art without a price tag on it. He’d once told her that amateur art was worth less than the sheet rock it hung on. Better to have a blank wall.

“Can I have this painting?” Roger asked Junior. Junior said of course, and Roger shook his son’s hand as if concluding a business transaction. “I’m going to need a cardboard box to put this in so it doesn’t get damaged in the car.” He handed the painting back to Junior. “I’ll get my keys, Son, and I’ll be back with a box before you know I’m gone.” Trisha made a noise, and Roger said, “don’t bother getting up, honey. Enjoy the baby and relax.” He was out the door before anyone else moved. Junior’s wife made a casserole for dinner while Trisha and Junior talked and played with the baby, who was at the plastic key rattling age. They had dinner and waited for Roger. He came back two hours after he’d left. “I couldn’t find the right box,” he said.

After his mother and father drove off to their hotel together, Junior put the painting with the yellow leaves back in the side room. In time the leaves outside the house turned as yellow as those within.

Thanks for reading, cl2

Saved for later. Thank you.

Fantastic, Don. You're really at the top of your game.

Thanks for this.

Tom in Paris