One of the very fist things I ever wrote.

A Picture is Not a Promise Made
by Kyle Kratky

“Look.”

“I know.”


They stood on the balcony of the three-story townhouse overlooking Brighton Park. The trees swayed in the wind as the dog-walkers below released their charges for a liberating run. Some of the dogs barked loudly, but mostly they trotted along in silence, overjoyed by their release.

The two men stood for fifteen minutes, and their limited conversation was the first they had shared in over one month.

“I’ll miss this.” Matt indicated the park and the tree-lined street below. Jacob exhaled loudly, relieved that they were speaking again.

“Me, too,” Jacob said, gripping the rail. He shivered and drew his dark, long coat around his lean body.

That they were brothers was impossible to tell except when they were in the presence of their mother—people gasped and said things like, “Now I see it,” or, “It’s the eyes!" Their mother was their hydrogen bond, and discussion of her lately brought their temperatures to a boil.

They stood in silent conversation for a bit before Jacob made to move indoors.

“It’s getting colder. Autumn is here. Let’s go inside.” He turned, opened the French doors, and stepped inside, the wind chasing him in. Matt took a deep breath before following him in.

Jacob kicked at an empty wine bottle lying near the doors before sitting awkwardly on a large crate full of old picture albums and frames. Matt closed and latched the doors behind him, staring out at the sky. Jacob broke the silence.

“Listen, Rebecca and I are going to head up to Laughing Hills for a week or two. The leaves are changing; it will be beautiful.” Matt did not respond. “We want you to come.” Matt snorted. “She wants you to come, “ Jacob said, looking away. “She really cares about you, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah…I know.” Matt turned from the window and looked at Jacob. Outside, the dogs barked. After a moment, Matt crossed toward the hearth. He pawed at the old soot and ashes with his boot.

“I do, too. Care about you, I mean.” Jacob spoke without ease, his voice wavering and cracking. Matt smiled and looked back over his shoulder at Jacob.

“Well, shit. Mom cared a lot, too.”

“That's nice, Matt."

“Hey, do you think Rebecca cares as much as Mom did?”

“She cares an awful lot, Matt, considering how you've treated her, but listen: I thought we said—“

“I know,” Matt said, chuckling. “We said we wouldn’t talk about her. We said we wouldn’t.” He turned around and leaned against the mantle. “You said we wouldn’t.”

“Matt, I'm not here to play this game."

“Well, hurrah, hurrah, the game is on.” Matt cheered.

“If you are going to shout, Matt, I am not—“

“Fine, Jacob,” he interrupted.

“Okay?” Jacob replied.

“Yes, okay, fine, good, great, whatever.”

“Like I was saying, I don’t want to play this who-said-what-to-who thing with you, okay? I just want to…I don’t know. I just feel like we need to talk more. That’s all.”

“I thought we weren’t talking."

"Well, no, we haven't been."

"No," Matt interrupted, "I thought that's what you just said. I'm not talking, right, I'm yelling. Or something."

"Jesus, Matt!"

"What, Jacob?"

“It’s not about her, about Mom! That's not why I want to talk.” Matt took a step forward, his interest piqued. "Always the youngest. Take it to the most emotional, let's not concern ourselves with the actual logical considerations of what happens when someone dies."

The wind stopped blowing and the trees grew silent.

"It’s about Houndsburrow, the house at Houndsburrow,” Jacob said. Matt seemed taller.

“What about it?" Matt asked.

“Well, you know that Mom left it to both of us, half and half.”

“Fifty fifty.”

“Right.” Jacob took a deep breath. “Rebecca and I have been talking and she thinks—I mean, I think that we ought to…well, we think that we ought to get the place, Rebecca and I.” Jacob braced himself. Matt was sensitive about the house in Vermont.

“Why?” Matt asked. It was less than Jacob had thought he would get on first mention of the exchange.

“Well, Rebecca is due in three months with the next, and we already have Aimee and Alan. Our place is getting tight, and we’ve been thinking of moving up around Houndsburrow for a while now. It’s a very nice community with outstanding schools. The kind of place in which we really want to raise a family.”

“So, you want me to give up my half? My fifty?”

"We'll give you two-fifty for it. Two-fifty for your fifty."

"Ha ha, Jake. Thanks a lot."

"Come on, Matt, you don't need the place like we do, and--"

"What, we can't fucking share the damn place? It's got six fucking bedrooms and a guest house!"

"Rebecca doesn't want--"

"Plus, you know, Jake, it’s all I have left of her.”

“Oh, please, Matt, don’t play that card with me.”

“I’m not playing any card, Jake. It’s all I have of her. The last thing I have of her. Besides all these photographs and shit. You’re the one who insisted that we sell this townhouse, and now I have no place to live, except Houndsburrow.”

“You have Emily,” Jacob urged.

“Oh, yeah, Emily will love that. I can’t even stay the night at her place, Jake; we always end up fighting over some dumb shit."

"I thought you two were doing well," Jacob said.

"Yeah, Jake, doing well for us means we can go out without screaming at each other."

"Weren't you going to propose to her?"

"That was four months ago, before she didn't come to my mother's funeral, Jacob, Jesus Christ!"

“Okay, I'm not going to fight with you, Jacob."

“I know, you're not gonna fight, you're not gonna fight, that's so freaking high and freaking mighty of you. these are my fucking feelings, Jake. I'm glad you can keep yours bottled up like the WASP Dad wanted you to be, but excuse me please for expressing myself now and then.

The dog-walkers had left the park below and only a couple remained.

“These are my feelings and they matter," Matt continued, "and you are asking me to give up Houndstooth so you can share it with that goddamned woman and build your picket-fence life without me.”

“Matt, let's be reasonable, I—“

“No, I won’t be fucking reasonable, Jake. Not how you want me to. You say 'be reasonable,' and what you mean is, 'Agree with me because I am right.' Anyway, I'm no the reasonable one. You are. Rebecca thinks so, Mom definitely thought so.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jacob said, taking several steps toward Matt.

“You beg my pardon?" Matt laughed. "Christ, you can be sanctimonious. Yeah, Rebecca and Mom. They both always thought you were the reasonable one, isn't that strange, how alike those two always acted?"

"Matt, what the fuck--?!"

"I mean, actually, Rebecca might like some of this art Mom’s collected, don’t you think?” Jacob was silent and trapped. “Yeah, and how about Mom’s clothes, I bet she’d like to pick some out, don’t you think?”

“Matt, don't you --” Jacob paused, trying to gain control of his voice, “How can you say that?”

“I mean, I guess you’re just fine with Houndstooth and your little fucking replica.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, come on Jake, let's be reasonable!”

"Fuck you, mother fucker."

Matt roared with laughter. "I think that term is maybe reserved for you, Jake." Matt’s voice cracked. “Did you think no one noticed? Did you think no one could tell?” Jacob stood silent, glaring at his brother. “She dresses like Mom; she thinks like Mom; she cooks like Mom! Jake, she even talks like her! ‘Teeny tiny!’ Why don’t you just dress her in Mom’s robe and you two can sit there on that god damned old couch by the door and wait up for me at night. Yeah, I'd love to come live at Houndsburrow with you, that would be fucking grand. Yeah, you really got yourself a catch, Jake, a fucking catch. I guess since the older model broke down, you had to buy the newer one?”

“Matt.” Jacob growled.

“Face it: you couldn’t fucking handle Mom’s health, so you ran off and found a younger, prettier, healthier one! That’s great, Jake. Happy fucking wedding, I wonder how the honeymoon worked. Did you sleep in the same bed even?”

Jacob rushed at Matt.

He slammed his brother square against the fireplace, Matt’s head connecting hard with the mantle. Matt let out a yelp and started flailing his arms against Jacob’s face. Matt ripped Jacob’s spectacles off of his face, and they flew against the far wall, where they shattered. Jacob wrapped his arm around Matt’s side as Matt pushed against him. Jacob resisted, but Matt was lower and had more leverage. He pushed hard and Jacob’s slick shoes slid on the wood floor.

With a little leverage, Matt jabbed Jacob in the ribs several times with his elbow before Jacob was able to free one hand and grab Matt by the hair. Jacob pulled hard as Matt groaned. Matt wrenched his head free just in time to fling his head directly back. The back of his skull connected squarely with Jacob's jaw. There was a loud crack. The two skated awkwardly across the room, still grunting and beating on one another until Jacob’s legs collided with the crate of pictures.

The crate fell over, spilling out hundreds of photographs, old picture frames, and several large, bound photo albums. The contents spread beneath them as the men toppled over onto the pictures, some of the frames cracking and popping open.

The two wrestled as Matt managed to flip Jacob into a supine position on the floor. Straddling his older brother, he began to hit him repeatedly in the face. Again and again he struck Jacob, blood falling from Matt’s hands onto the pictures littered around them.

Jacob shielded his face as Matt's blows grew lighter. Matt shuddered and began to openly weep.
“I loved her so much; why couldn’t you? Why couldn’t you stay? Why couldn’t you help, God, why couldn’t you help? She was sick and in pain, so much fucking pain, she wanted you and weren’t there—you asshole, why couldn’t you stay? She loved you so much…” Matt lost all his strength.

He broke down, sobbing into Jacob’s chest.

Jacob opened his eyes and placed his hands on his brother’s back. At his brother’s touch, Matt jerked upright and raised his fist to strike Jacob again. Jacob cringed and covered his face, but no attack came.

Matt slid off to Jacob's left and picked up a photograph that had caught his attention. Jacob, perplexed, rolled over, sat up, and looked at the photo Matt held.

“What is it?” Jacob asked.

“It’s that day. The day after Dad left. That day in Brighton Park, remember?” Jacob slid up behind Matt, and, wiping the blood from his face, he looked over Matt's shoulder at the photograph.

“Oh, yeah…I was fifteen. You were --”

“Eight.”

“Right. And you had seen the homeless man sleeping on the bench.”

“And I wanted to give him food, so we…” Matt began to cry once more, letting the photograph fall onto the pile memories. He buried his face directly into Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob picked up the photograph, remembering the day twelve years ago when their mother had not been ill, and they had all lived together in that same townhouse full of Italian art and flowers.

“So,” Jacob resumed up the story, “we made him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ham salad. We took it to him, along with s bottle of wine and a bottle of sparkling grape juice, a large blanket, and some potato chips, and we ate with him right there in the park.” Matt sniffed and lifted his head. His face was shiny and wet, his eyes bloodshot and tired. “We wanted to get one of the dog-walkers to take our picture, remember, but Mom didn't want to be in it.”

“Right!” Matt laughed through his tears. “It was just the three of us.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, and I remember the sun was really warm and the breeze was cool and there were all those birds --”

“Oh, yeah,” Jacob said. "The birds. How had I forgotten the birds? There were thousands. They almost blotted out the sun; a giant cloud of birds.”

“Beautiful.”

“Yeah. Beautiful.” The two sat and stared at the photograph for a long time before speaking.

“I’m sorry I broke your glasses, Jake.”

“It’s okay. They were cheap.”

The children were out of school and now played in the park below.

Jacob placed his hand on Matt’s head and leaned against him. “You know…you don’t have to come up to Laughing Hills with us to vacation. It’s really not that—“

“No, I want to. I really want to.” Matt looked up at his brother and smiled. "But we have to talk about Houndsburrow."

"No, I'm sorry I even suggested it, Matt."

"No, listen, Jake--"

"It was really more Rebecca's idea than my own."

"I think I want you two to have Houndsburrow for yourselves.”

Jacob sat up. “Are you sure, Matt?"

“No, I'm not sure. Not yet. But I think I want you to take it. At least for a little while. I’m going to take these pictures instead,” he said, holding up a photograph of an elegant dancer with strong shoulders. Then Matt spoke in such a way Jacob had never heard his younger brother speak.

“It can't just be like this. We can't go back to the park with that smelly guy and Mom and the birds and all that. It is going to be hard.” Jakob took the picture from Matt and sat in front of him. He held his little brother’s hands, and he was flooded with emotion. Jacob looked at him, this man, only twenty-five years old, who had been forced to take care of a dying woman: a young man who knew more about pain than most people would in their entire life. Jacob could see the age and ache in Matt’s eyes. For the first time he felt guilty -- for everything, not just for running when their Mom got sick. For the first time he felt alone. For the first time, he felt like he didn’t know Matt.

“A picture is not a promise made, Jacob.”

Jacob cried, and lunging forward, he held Matt tightly. Matt firmly placed one hand on Jacob’s back and the other around his neck, cradling his crying brother. His head buried in Matt’s chest, Jacob only said one thing. “I'm sorry, Mom..."


Matt cradled his brother, and all the Pietas in the world wept.

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Upon review, maybe not so bad.

I've just unearthed loads of old stuff, so I'll be editing and posting a lot over the next week or so.