Something
To Remember You By
by Bob Thurber
My father's taxi arrived early, nearly half an hour ahead of schedule. The driver blasted the horn continuously until Dad, carrying a single suitcase, ran out to talk with him. All the rest of his luggage—everything except his camera equipment—was packed in a leather trunk and a few boxes stacked beside the garage. He spoke with the driver then came back inside.
"Okay, my ride's here, so let's do this." He sounded out of breath. "Act natural, now. I want a decent shot." He made an adjustment to the tripod then peeked above the camera. "Eyes front. No posing."
Mom sighed from the sofa. "Trust me, dear, no one feels like posing." She straightened her back, crossed her legs.
My father aligned his face to the viewfinder. "That's posing! Now stop it. And fix your skirt."
Mom's eyes shifted over to me.
"You're scaring the boy," she said.
"The hell I am." Dad snapped his fingers. "Look at me, not at him."
I shifted my feet as Mom hunched forward, spilling cleavage, smiling, showing all her teeth.
"Kill the happy face," my father said. "I'm wise to your tricks."
I moved toward his side of the camera until I could see what he was seeing.
"Snap it, then," my mother said. "Take your god damn picture and go." Her cheeks were flushed red. Lines appeared on her forehead.
Another step and I had the same angle as him. I made a frame of my hands, thumbs touching. Mom cranked up the intensity of her stare. Her cheeks hollow; her mouth a flat line.
"That's it, that's perfect, there's the woman I'm leaving," my father said.