Heartsong (Logan 2)

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"No, it's not you. It's me." He thought a moment. "I'm going down to the sea. You can work in the house until I return," he said and marched out of the studio.

I went into the house and cleaned up the kitchen. Kenneth still hadn't returned by the time I finished, so I went to his bedroom. It looked as if he had been wrestling with someone in his bed. The blanket was twisted, the sheet was pulled up and nearly half off, and one of his pillows was on the floor. Clothes were scattered about as if he had thrown them against the walls. I scooped everything up, deciding what needed to be washed and ironed and what needed to be just folded and put in the closet or the dresser. When I couldn't find a second sock, I got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Something else attracted my attention. It looked like a photograph. I knew it hadn't been there the week before when I cleaned, so Kenneth must have dropped it recently.

I strained and reached under until my fingers found it and I could bring it out. Then I turned, sat with my back against the bed frame, and looked at the picture. It was a picture of Mommy and me when I was no more than two or three. It had been taken in front of our trailer home in Sewell and it was badly faded, the black and white had turned brown. I turned it over and saw the writing was nearly faded, too, but I could make out most of the words and figure out the rest.

I thought you'd like this picture. Her name is Melody. I'm sorry.

Sorry? Why was she sorry? Surely, she wasn't sorry simply because she had named me Melody. Should I just confront Kenneth with the picture and ask him about it right now? I wondered.

I stood up, holding the picture close to my heart. I went to the window and looked out at the beach. I could barely see Kenneth, sitting a little below a sand hill, gazing at the waves.

I've waited long enough for answers, I thought. I want to know the truth. Armed with the photograph and my own resolve, I marched out of the house and over the sand toward Kenneth. Ulysses was at his side, and his tail began wagging as soon as I appeared. Kenneth didn't turn, didn't move. He looked as if he had turned to stone himself.

"Can I talk to you?" I asked.

"Can't it wait?" he replied.

"No," I said adamantly. His shoulders sagged a bit with his annoyance and he turned.

"What's so important?" he moaned. "I can't keep having my concentration broken. This entire thing is an ongoing process. It develops in small stages, but the creative period has to remain smooth, fluid. I thought you understood."

"I don't understand a lot of things," I said sharply. He raised his eyebrows. I extended my arm toward him, the picture in my hand. "I found this when I was cleaning up your room. It was un

der the bed. It wasn't there the other day."

He looked at the picture and then took it from my hand.

"I wondered where this went," he said. "I was looking at it last night."

"Why do you have it and what does it mean?" I demanded.

"What do you mean what does it mean? It is what it is. A picture of you with Haille. She sent it to me years ago."

"Why?"

"Why? I told you. We were friends once."

"Just friends?"

"Good friends," he said.

"Why does she say 'I'm sorry'?"

He shook his head.

"You know most of this. She got pregnant and ran off with Chester. I guess she thought I was disappointed in her so she wrote, I'm sorry. What's the mystery?"

"Were you disappointed in her?"

"Yes," he said looking at the picture. "I had higher hopes for her. I wasn't surprised that she eventually had problems with Olivia and Samuel, but I had higher hopes. Okay?"

Tears burned under my eyelids, but I pressed my lips together and held my breath. He put the picture in his pocket and turned back to the sea.

"Why drag up the ugly past now?" he muttered. "That's what Grandma Olivia says," I retorted harshly.

"This time she's right. Nothing can be changed and all it does is make people unhappy."