The Duke of Earl

A fictional photo story

This short story is the result of an unusual collaboration. It is inspired by photographs posted to Instagram by Richard “Koci” Hernandez, an Emmy-winning multimedia journalist and two-time Pulitzer nominee. Spurred by conversations between Koci, Peter, and two other writers, Peter developed characters that might inhabit the world as Koci sees it. He began his process by choosing a set of images that established a setting and a rough image of characters. These characters then informed the choices of the rest of the images. As the story progressed, images were replaced to refine its overall tone. The other writers used very different techniques. Follow the series here. — Jackson (Editor)

THIS TIME THE CALL COMES IN THE AFTERNOON. I’m at work. Middle of an audit. Horrible day. Everyone clipped and cold and head down. I don’t answer the first call and when I avoid the next two both of the suits in the room look at me and I excuse myself from the meeting sick to my stomach. That’s what anxiety does. It rots your insides.

I call Matthew from one of the empty conference rooms. The chairs are left in a pile around the table. No one ever bothers to put them back. It’s raining outside. Beading up on the window. I lean my forehead against the glass. My breath is shallow and warm and erases the world.

I close my eyes and remember sticking to the back seat of a white 1962 Buick Skylark. The top is down. I’m nine years old. My father’s driving. He’s wearing a tan suit and my mother, the First Lady of our life, is seated next to him. She’s our royalty. Black sunglasses, long, slim black dress, and a hat with a brim like the rings of Saturn. They’re singing along to “Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler. The humidity is spread across my face and the sky is grey and clouds close enough to touch. I hold my hands up above my head and a fine mist covers my palms.

“I thought it’s supposed to be sunny here? And what about the dolphins? I read in the Britannica that there are supposed to be dolphins.” The sound of my voice is eaten by the wind.

My father turns down the radio. I can see his eyes gleaming in the rear view.

“At one time,” he says, “ships used to have to sail all the way down and around the tip of South America to get from Europe to California.”

“What do they do now?” I yell back.

“The Panama Canal!” he exclaims.

He waves his hand with excitement toward the water.

“It’s certainly not very romantic, all this steel,” mother adds, gesturing toward the bridge we’re crossing. “You’ll get your dolphins, Marie,” she says loud enough for me to hear. She dials the music up and puts her hand back in my father’s. They resume singing.

MATTHEW PICKS UP. I cup the phone against my face and sit down in one of the huddled chairs.

“Hi,” I say. “It’s the lottery, right? How much did we win?

“Five hundred million,” he says.

“Great, great. That’s great. What’s that work out to? A million a month after taxes for the next twenty years?”

“One point four-six,” he says. “I’d like a hotel. I’ve always wanted to own a hotel. Something on the Croatian coast. I think I’d be good at that.” I’m holding my breath. It’s what I do when I’m anxious. He sighs.

“She’s okay, Marie. She’s back at the restaurant. They couldn’t get through to you. Do you want me to get her?” The tone of his voice is soft and comforting and nothing like this cold, abandoned, conference room.

“No,” I say, clearing my throat. “No, it’s alright. I’ll do it. I can do it.”

Once a month, when he was still alive, my dad and I would have lunch at Tag’s. It’s a lot of brass and wood. It has a kind of ballroom out-to-sea feel to it. It’s really their spot but one Friday a month my mother’s hair takes precedence. My father invites me because he hates to eat alone.

“Any news from the doctor?” He ignores my question. He’s holding a piece of paper. He hands it to me. It’s a photo of my mother as a young woman.

“Remember that trip?” he asks. “You wanted to see dolphins.” I nod. I do remember the trip. “We drove over the Panama Canal.”

“With the top down,” I add.

The waitress delivers our coffees and he floods his with creamer, filling it to the rim. He takes three packets of artificial sweetener and the way he holds them, trying to tear them open, makes it look difficult. He manages to get them open and a brief white shower disappears into the liquid.

“Dad,” I say, biting my lip. “Take it easy, that stuff’ll kill you.”

“We never did get to see any dolphins, did we?” he says, thumbing an empty packet of sweetner. He turns to look out the window. “Did you know that they have remote controlled vehicles on Mars now? I just read that in the paper.”

“I’d heard something on NPR I think.”

“I think I’d like to see that,” he says, slowly raising the mug to his lips. “You know, in person.”

I look down again at the photo, tattered around the edges and there she is, untouched by time, leaning against a marble bannister.

“Come on,” I say, paying the bill. “Let’s go feed the pigeons.”

“MARIE,” MY MOTHER SAYS. “It’s late. Where is your father?”

We’re having salmon for dinner. Charlie likes it and it’s easy and this audit has been killing us at the office. I’ll read her to sleep, fall asleep for thirty minutes, wake up, open my laptop and work until midnight. That will be the week. Matthew can see that Charlie is working out my mother’s question, but she was only two when my dad died. Lately we’ve just been telling her that grandma gets confused. Somewhere in the recesses of my mother and my daughter’s brains, there are similar and vague images. And I wonder, is that what makes people real? How clearly we can see them in our mind? Matthew jumps in.

“He’s on that work trip, remember? Vancouver, I think?” Matthew looks at me and I look at him and neither of us risk looking at Charlie. “Back next week,” he says, turning toward my mother. “No time at all,” he says with such confidence that I almost begin to believe him too.

My mother puts down her fork carefully, and slowly tries to rub the anxiety out of her hands. We can see her digging holes in her mind. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Of course… Well, I’m sure he wishes he could be here. I know how he hates to be away even though he’s never one to complain about it.” The look on her face is of the kind of confusion that causes pain. The discomfort of having misplaced something important, like a wallet, or one’s car keys.

“That’s dad,” I say. “I wish he was here with us, too.” I stand up and start clearing the table. My mother starts gathering silverware and I tell her that it’s fine, I’ve got it, but she continues, stacking plates.

“Mom!”

Charlie jumps in her seat. My mother looks at me like I’ve bitten her. “Mom,” Softer. “It’s fine, I’ve got it. Go sit down and relax.” Matthew puts his hand on my wrist and we clean up the rest of the table in silence.

I FIND PARKING THREE BLOCKS AWAY FROM TAG’S. I don’t have an umbrella and it’s raining. I walk close to the buildings, catching pieces of rain against my neck. I pull up the collar of my coat and when I come to the intersection of the restaurant I can see her from across the street. She’s sitting in a booth next to the window, alone, a cup of tea before her. There are people around her, at other tables, some alone, reading, some with others, mid-bite, mid-laughter, mid-discomfort, all part of one perfectly silent and choreographed scene, all unaware of their role in one another’s lives.

I duck into a Starbucks across the street and find a space where I can see her from the window. Everything about her is pleasant and inviting. I try to imagine what she must look like to someone who doesn’t know her.

Like that, I watch my mother.

Inside Tag’s I brush the water off my sleeves onto the wooden floor and realize that I’ve left a puddle beneath me. I look around for something to mop it up with and grab one of the cloth napkins off the table nearest me as a young girl in a black skirt and white blouse approaches me.

“Don’t worry about that,” she says, taking the cloth from me. I feel like I’ve been caught stealing. “I’ll get that. Just one for lunch?” she asks.

“I’m meeting someone,” I say. I’m dripping wet and for the first time in my life I feel old. I’m now aware of my disheveled hair and the skin beneath my eyes. She can’t be more than twenty-one. She’s wearing too much mascara and tiny gold earrings, one of which is a skull and the other, a lightning bolt.

“Want a table while you wait for them?” she asks.

“I see her right over there,” I say, nodding in the direction of my mother. She turns around to see who I’m pointing out.

“Oh my gosh, she’s, like, the sweetest ever,” she says, her voice rising an octave. “Um, is she your mom?”

“Yes, she’s my mom,” I say, under my breath. “Look, I’m-” She cuts me off.

“She’s, like, nuts about your dad. It’s so cute. She shows me this old picture of him every time she comes in. My mom can’t stand my dad. She had me really young. I wasn’t a mistake or anything like that, though.” I imagine she’s got a Twitter feed full of personal divulgences like this. What she’s eating. Whether or not she’s lost or gained weight. How sweet her boyfriend is until he fucks up.

“I’m Annie,” she says. “Your mom is awesome.”

“Marie,” I say, my tone flat. “Sorry. Hi, Annie. I’m Marie.” We shake hands and she looks at me for a moment and doesn’t say anything, like she’s trying to figure out what it must be like to be me.

“She’s never a problem?” I ask, somewhat under my breath.

“Not at all. She’s, like, everybody’s favorite around here. It’s nice to have her around.”

When my eyes start welling up she hands the cloth napkin back to me. I wipe my eyes and I smile and through slightly crooked teeth she smiles, too.

Good read?

This story belongs to a series in the collection Stories Worth Seeing. The first story was published yesterday; the final installments will be published tomorrow. Click the green “Follow” button below to stay updated. You can also learn how to tell your own visual stories here.

This story was written by Peter Prato and edited by Jackson Solway. All photographs were taken by Richard “Koci” Hernandez.