Author's Note: "I Demand An Explanation" was the challenge. Writers were supposed to write a story that explained any one of a series of rather odd pictures of the L&O characters (ie, the L&O actors in non-L&O roles).
I picked a picture of Sam Waterston in a fedora and overcoat, holding a small child wearing a straw hat and overalls, with a woman in a straw ladies' stetson and white print dress standing close to them. Sam and the woman are looking in roughly the same direction, and the child is gazing into the camera.
If you really want to see the picture, cut and paste the address below into your browser:
www3.sympatico.ca/bordes.rae/Misc/Jack2.JPG
Oh and, re what movie the picture is from: I so wish I knew! I've tried to track it down, to no avail. If anybody ever finds out, please let me know.
ooo000ooo
"Jack? Aren't you done yet?" her voice called down the stairs.
"Not yet," he called back, trying to keep his voice even. "There's a lot of stuff down here."
"Well you better be done before Vincent gets here. We've got a reservation for 2:00."
Jack pressed his lips together and didn't bother to answer.
Just like his ex-wife to tell him, on Wednesday, that she was moving next week and he had to come this weekend and get whatever he hadn't taken with him when he moved out. No thought given to the fact that he was supposed to spend time with their daughter this weekend, or that he might have to prep for a case. It was just like her to make things as inconvenient as possible.
Jack wiped his dusty hands on his jeans, picked up his scotch and took a calming sip. God, just being in this house unsettled him. Too many memories, too much of his ex-wife's painful presence. The only time he was here, briefly, was when he came to pick up their daughter for the weekend. That was enough.
Yet he still found himself resenting his ex's abrupt announcement that she was leaving this house. It was just like her to take away what little they had left of their lives together. This house, which they'd found together. Where their daughter had been born. Where they'd had some good times, although right now he certainly couldn't remember any.
Well, at least he'd found this box full of old photo albums. He'd thought it was lost. He picked up the first album and opened it up. The hell with his ex getting impatient, he'd been at this for two hours and he was damn well going to take a break. Jack gazed without much interest at the pictures before him as he sipped his scotch. Wedding pictures, baby pictures, Christmas - he stopped.
God, he hadn't seen this one in years. No idea who had taken it. Amazing quality, considering the age of the photo.
A family together, the way it was supposed to be. Dad, mom, kid. Together and not fighting or angry. He still remembered that day. Not that it was the only one like it - there had been some pleasant family times, but this one he remembered like it was yesterday.
Semi-cool fall day. Some kind of work-related picnic, out near the train station...
And a child wondering why this day is so nice. Wondering why Mommy and Dad are smiling at each other. Not wanting to do anything to disturb that, because this precious time might disappear at any moment.
Dad smiling, relaxed, not on The Job. The Job that takes up so much of his time, that leaves him so tired and short-tempered at home. The Job that makes him yell at Mommy, that makes Mommy hide in the basement. The Job that turns him from a wonderful, caring, doting father into a Son of a Bitch. Mommy says that sometimes. Son of a Bitch. The child has said it too, but that doesn't result in anything but a soapy mouth and an angry Mommy.
No Job and no scotch today. Dad's no fun when there's scotch around. That also makes him yell, makes him hit, makes him throw things. Turns him into a Son of a Bitch. Son of a Bitch, mouths the child.
Just like your father, Mommy screams at Dad sometimes. Just like your father, you said you wouldn't ever be, but you are, you're just like your father, a Son of a Bitch just like him.
And that makes Dad get even angrier, makes the child hide under the bed, hoping they'll stop before there's any blood or more ugly words. Son of a Bitch, and Whore, and a whole lot of other words that the child doesn't dare to repeat.
Son of a Bitch. Jack stared at the photograph, a shiver running down his back. My god, he did look like Dad. Just like him.
We oughta go home, says Dad.
You're right, it is getting late, Mommy says, getting up and gathering their hats and jackets and the remains of the picnic.
Good day, though. Not too hot, not too cold, Dad says, and Mommy smiles in agreement, and the child looks from one to the other marvelling at their easy smiles. At Mommy brushing a bit of lint off Dad's coat.
Hey, you wanna stop by the courthouse on the way back? Dad asks, picking up the child.
Why?
You're gonna work there, some day, says Dad.
John...
What? You wanna go to the courthouse, don't you Jackie?
I wanna go to the pre-cinct, the child says, forgetting for a moment that it's not wise to disagree with Dad.
What the hell for?
John... Mom's voice is very, very quiet.
I wanna be a cop, Daddy. I wanna grow up and be just like you.
Dad's mouth opens in angry retort, and Mommy braces herself. The child feels a sharp stab of fear - oh no, he's screwed it up, he's screwed it up, he doesn't know how or why-
Dad sets him down jarringly.
No way. No son of mine is gonna walk a beat, his voice is angry and tense and the boy draws closer to his mother. No son of mine - and you'd make a lousy cop anyway. You oughta cut his hair, Dad spits at Mommy angrily. Looks like a faggot with his hair long like that.
The child feels his mother's trembling hand on his head. They're out in Public, and that means Dad probably won't haul off and hit either one of them, but that doesn't stop the ugly words - Faggot, he knows that one's pretty bad, though he has no idea what it means, and Daddy's really really mad-
Dad turns angrily, kicks at a can, swings around again, and the child shrinks back, bracing. Then Dad stares into his frightened eyes, stops and seems to take a hold of himself. Kneels down, gently taking his son's trembling chin in his hand, trying to stop the boy's shaking fear, trying to show that there won't be violence following the next few words.
You're not gonna be like me, son, he says softly. You're gonna be better.
And he picks Jack up, and reaches out to Mommy, and the ugliness fades away. Miraculously, the golden time is salvaged, and the child can only wonder how that happened and hope he can somehow figure it out and get it right for next time.
Jack sighed and shut the album, putting it back into the box and taping the box shut. Then he carried his boxes upstairs to the garage, stopping in the kitchen to pour the rest of his scotch down the drain.
"Sweetheart? I'm done," he called up the stairs, smiling as his daughter scurried down, grabbed her overnight bag and took his hand.
"I thought it would take you at least a couple more hours," she said, and he sensed her unspoken apology for her mother's behaviour, cutting into their time together. "Did you go through all of it?"
"No, but it doesn't matter," he said, hailing a cab. "I haven't used anything in those boxes for the last five years, why should I need them now, right? Besides, when else are we going to get a chance to see Simon and Garfunkel at Central Park?"
"Yeah! Think they'll do the feelin' groovy song?"
"Yeah, probably," he smiled at her, and they got into the cab. "Let's just go straight there, see if we can get a good spot. I'll pick up the boxes tomorrow when I bring you back." She nodded and snuggled against him, chattering excitedly about the concert.
You're not gonna be like me, son. You're gonna be better.