Chapter 23: The Portrait

The portrait of my father hung over the lobby fountain in a gold frame eight feet tall.

He stood beneath it with his hands in his coat pockets and his face turned up.

It was ten in the morning, and the lobby was full.

The day staff had come on, and the night staff had not gone home.

Nobody pretended not to watch.

I walked across the marble with a brown cardboard box in my arms.

I stopped three feet from him.

"Sweetheart," my father said, without looking down. "Your mother hated this painting."

"I know."

"She said I looked like I was selling the room."

"You were."

He smiled at the portrait.

Then he looked at me, and the warmth had gone out of his face.

Without it, he only looked tired.

"I read her letter," he said. "Years ago. I took it out of the safe on Wednesday to read it once more."

"I know that, too."

"She was wrong about almost everything. She thought people were good."

"She was right about you," I said. "She thought you could do better."

He did not answer.

I held out the box.

"Your office," I said. "I had them pack it at seven."

I named what was in it.

"The pen from your desk, the cufflinks, the photograph of Mom at the Christmas party."

"You packed my photograph."

"It's hers. You can have a copy."

He took the box in both hands.

It weighed very little.

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