Recovering Charles by Jason F. Wright Read Free Book Online Page A

then,” Dad always said.
    “Sure. Next time. I promise I’ll go next time.”
    She didn’t.
    Right after Grandma died, Dad arranged for an in-home therapist to visit a few times. Mom was kind, she listened, she nodded at all the appropriate points. But when the counselor suggested it was time for Mom to respect her mother by going back to work, she asked Dad for a “short breather” from the sessions.
    “But you’ll see her again, right? She’s really good, sweetheart. One of the best in the Metroplex.”
    “Yes, Charles, she is. Just not for a while. Just a breather. I’m really doing better. Truly better.”
    “All right then. A few weeks and you’ll see her again?”
    “I will.”
    She didn’t.

 

    Chapter
7
     
    Larry Gorton’s feet were in their usual position atop his desk.
          “Knock, knock,” I said, pushing his door open.
          “Mr. Millward!” His voice was low and authoritative. “You, my former star pupil, have been delinquent. Please enter and tell me why you haven’t come to visit me in such a long time that this old man can barely match your name to your face.”
    “You’re not an old man—”
    “Don’t interrupt.”
    “You were done!”
    “My office, my classroom, my rules.”
    I put an index finger to both sides of my head and pulled the trigger.
    “Don’t do that, Mr. Millward. I haven’t got my camera out.”
    I laughed—easy to do in Larry’s world. “It’s good to see you, too. But it hasn’t been that long, sir.”
    “Long enough. Long enough, young man, long enough.”
    “How have you been? Am I keeping you from something?”
    “Yes, you’re keeping me from my work, and for that I’m indebted to you, Mr. Millward.”
    “You don’t have to call me ‘Mister’ anymore; I’m out of school.” I’d said that every single time I’d seen my old professor since graduation from NYU. It never mattered.
    “Are you still a Mr. Millward, Luke?”
    “Of course, but we’re not in class. I’m not a student. We’re peers now.” I’d said that before, too.
    “Your last name, Mr. Millward, defines you.” He put his hands on the back of his head, interlocked his fingers, and stretched back in his chair. “Your last name tells society who you are and where you came from, both in the short term and in the greater sense of where your ancestors’ ship originated.”
    I smiled and repeated each and every one of those familiar words in my mind as he spoke them.
    “You’re right, as usual, Mr. Gorton.” Those words were equally familiar.
    “Then we agree to play by proper societal conventions.” He put his feet on the floor and dramatically swiveled around to a mini-refrigerator on the floor. “Let’s drink.” He pulled out two small bottles of water.
    “Thanks,” I said, as he tossed me one.
    He opened his and guzzled half the water. “How’s work?”
    “Work is great. I’m getting a lot of freelance projects. Even saying no to some now. I just can’t take every job anymore.”
    “Listen, you do that as infrequently as you can. You never know which picture could change—”
    “The world. I know.”
    Larry returned his feet to their home on his desk. Noticing the Oreo-sized holes in the heels of his socks only reminded me how much I had missed the man. Confident, kind, and maybe more comfortable with his place in life than anyone I’d ever known.
    I suppose he reminded me a bit of Jordan. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed being around them both.
    I’d been a fence-sitter on photography until I entered his classroom for the first time. The art had always interested me, but like so many other passions it seemed impractical to turn art into industry and a hobby into a living. Hauling a camera around the world shooting pictures sounded glamorous and rewarding. But I knew few achieved the highest levels of success. Most never won awards or saw their work on newsstands or on Drudge. Sadly, few of the dreamers could make the leap from child