Page 18 of Family Affair
Lucy continued, oblivious to Coco’s sudden powerful reaction. "He died way before his time. A drunkard and a hellraiser, accused of all kinds of wrongdoings. I wonder if Dan ever mentioned him to you.”
“He did once, but not the particulars.” She swallowed. “Do you know what happened to him?”
Looking grave, Lucy didn’t answer directly. “That brother, Frank, killed a journalist.”
Coco’s jaw dropped. “What? Whoa, now that’s a skeleton in the closet.”
“Yes, can you imagine? In a drunken rage, he went to the poor man’s house and killed him.”
“But why? How? No wonder Dan was so elusive with me.” Her mind reeled, and she was as disappointed at the news as she was agitated to finally learn the truth behind Dan’s reluctance to discuss Frank. For some bizarre reason she wanted Frank to turn out a hero, not a villain.
“Well, the story isn’t a secret.” Lucy went to collect their plates to take to the sink. “It made all the headlines in Atlanta at the time.”
“Did he go to prison?”
“Look for yourself, it’s all in the clippings. He never made it to prison. He crashed his car two days before the trial and died. Drunk, according to the police report. What a shame. Such a young man, and from such a good family.”
Lucy’s phone jingled and she went to answer it, shaking her head in disapproval.
Rattled, Coco snatched the envelope and turned it over to shake the contents out. The papers slid out and floated to the floor slowly, as if teasing her curiosity. One landed on her bare foot and she picked it up, only to realize she was looking at Frank’s obituary.
Franklin Allen Sheffield, 23, died late Friday night in a one-car accident. The second oldest son of Rick and Maureen Sheffield of Atlanta was cut in his prime, having lost control of his car in the pouring rain…
The obituary went on to describe the merits of the young man, name his surviving family, and list his funeral arrangements. Coco scanned all that, noting that the article mentioned neither the murder nor the impeding trial.
The grainy obituary picture drew her attention where an older version of Frank stared at her across the years.
A shiver ran along her spine, and a feeling of apprehension gripped her, just like it did in Dan's house. The world receded and all she was aware of was Frank. Never having met him in life, she knew him. His face looked eerily familiar, as if they had met, had known each other a long time ago, and she somehow forgot.
Speaking objectively, he resembled Dan, quite strongly. The Sheffield family features looked good on his strong bone structure - a little rough, maybe, because his face had been more angular than Dan's, more irregular. Despite the slight bloat he could be called handsome with his shadowy eyes and thin wide mouth.
But it wasn’t Frank’s physical appeal that held her attention captive. The artist in her was fascinated with how well a poor quality black and white headshot conveyed the full force of his personality. She could feel him in the room with her.
She brought the paper closer to her face. It didn’t make much difference in detailing the features, but she stared anyway, tilting the copy this way and that, examining the face from every angle.
The photo captured that indescribable, intense aura that came with formidable inner strength. It was there in how the man looked directly into the camera, in the tilt of his head, in the expression on his face. He must have been a force of nature.
She traced the oval of the face in the picture. Her mother said he killed a man. Why, what happened? Did his temper get the better of him and he snapped? He didn't have the look of an unhinged individual, although if alcohol was involved, anyone could lose it.
What would he look like now, almost twenty years later? She let her imagination fly and pictured his mature face in color, with his dark hair and intense piercing eyes. His cheeks would be more hollow, his mouth set between two deep grooves.
Still, the exact picture eluded her. She closed her eyes, concentrating hard and hoping to breach the opaque veil of the physical universe with her imagination. She could almost achieve it, and an image danced on the backs of her eyelids, misty and washed out like an unfocused hologram, wispy, blurry, never crystallizing into an actual face.
Frustrated, she let her eyes open and put the picture down.
Lucy came into the room braiding her long hair for the night. “I’m going to bed, or I’ll find something else to pack. Good night, Coco.”
“Good night, mom.” She gave her mother a kiss and went to pick up the scattered papers to stuff them back in the envelope, thinking that perhaps she took her interest in Frank a little too far.
Lucy lingered in the room. “I hope when I return from my trip things will get back to normal, and your troubles will resolve themselves.”
Coco raised her blond eyebrows, widened her hazel eyes and puckered her mouth slightly. This way her face acquired the expression of utter innocence that never failed to inspire trust in people. “What troubles?”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“The ones you so obviously don’t want to talk about. For the record, that face is useless here. I know you learned it from me.”
