“More like prison,” Aunt Dinah said with a disdainful look at the single mattress. “That padlock on the door was there long before you moved in.”
“But why? Why would your parents put him here?”
My aunt shuddered and hugged herself. “Let’s continue this discussion upstairs. It’s too cold in here.”
Somehow, I got the feeling it wasn’t so much about the cold as it was about the memories. I followed her without complaint. I thought she’d be waiting for me in the sitting room but, by the time I finally made it out, the ground floor was empty. Then she came ambling down the wooden staircase. She cradled a small picture frame and what looked like a black plastic lunch pail.
Once I was settled on the couch and had set my crutches aside, she handed it to me. It wasn’t a lunch pail at all. It was a thick, boxy camera with a circular lens on the front, and a viewfinder along the top next to a white dial. A braided strap was tied from one side to the other, which was why it looked like a lunch pail from a distance. It was a little scratched along the edges and the strap was stretched out, but all in all it was in really good condition considering how old it was.
Aunt Dinah sank into her armchair. “He carried it with him everywhere. It was his most prized possession.”
I’d never heard her talk about anyone with so much affection and nostalgia. I looked up to see her gazing into the picture frame with a tearful smile.
“He said he liked taking pictures because they were pieces of the people and the places he loved. They made him feel less lonely when he was forced to stay in the cellar. This is the only picture he’s in.” With reluctance, she turned the frame around so I could see.
The two of them sat on her bed. Aunt Dinah was still beaten up. Thatcher sat next to her, holding one side of the camera while she held the other to keep it level. He had the same blonde hair as the twins, only his eyes were bright blue. He also had the distinguishing features of a teenager with Down’s Syndrome; slanted eyes, flat nose, short neck. But he had the biggest, sweetest smile I’d ever seen.
It wasn’t a perfect picture. Aunt Dinah’s shoulder was cut off. Their heads barely fit in the shot while their torsos took up too much of the picture. The lighting was off too, casting shadows. But it was a clear representation of their relationship. Thatcher had his arm around her and Aunt Dinah leaned her head against his shoulder. Both of them looked happy and comfortable, like they really were the best of friends.
“He was the result of an affair my mother had early on in my parents’ marriage, and he was born with a handicap,” Aunt Dinah said. “Twice as shameful according to my father. He was the one who insisted on keeping Thatcher locked up, out of the public eye. As a minor politician, he had his reputation to consider.” This she said with a steely edge in her voice. “My mother loved Thatcher just like the rest of us. She stayed with my father because he paid for Thatcher’s care. And I suppose he won her back in time because she kept having his children.” My aunt made a sour face before continuing. “Back in those days, very little was known about Thatcher’s condition but my mother insisted on getting him the best help money could buy. A private tutor came to teach him his letters and numbers three times a week. A physical therapist helped him with his developmental handicaps and a speech therapist worked with him once a week.”
Aunt Dinah sat up a little straighter, lifting her chin with pride. “I snuck him outside to see the city on the evenings my parents were attending their political functions. If anyone asked, I told them he was a friend. I’m the one who bought him the camera and developed the film. We would sit in the cellar for hours, looking through all of his pictures…” She gripped the frame more tightly, chin bobbing.
My eyes were already misty, my nose dripping. I tried to wipe it discreetly but she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. My aunt watched the fire crackling in the fireplace.
“My friends and I, we weren’t bad kids. We just liked to stir up trouble. And Thatcher liked to tag along. He thought they were his friends too. One night, we started a fire in an abandoned house. At least, we thought it was abandoned. It turned out several homeless people were staying there. We saved them before they could be consumed but then had to make a quick exit before the police arrived. Thatcher took a picture that incriminated Rich, my then boyfriend. Rich tried to take the camera away but Thatcher fought. Rich dared to strike my brother so I jumped in between them.”
She lifted the frame. “It’s why I’m injured in this picture. I was the victor of the fight but I didn’t come out looking much better than Rich. It was the last straw for my parents. They sent me to St. Catherine’s School for Girls two weeks later. I promised Thatcher I’d be back as soon as I could. My sister, Maryanne, didn’t care about him; she adored our father and hated everything he hated. Walter and Asher were too young to dare defy our father, even if they did feel sorry for their older brother. My mother would visit with Thatcher when she could but I was truly the only friend he had. I tried running away so many times. I tried getting expelled. Nothing worked. My father just kept bribing the nuns to keep me there.”
Aunt Dinah scowled. “So
