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Jonathan quickly came to the conclusion that babysitting Alex had been much easier when the wee tyke was a perpetually sleepy newborn. Rick and Evy had gone somewhere nice and classy and grown up for dinner, and of course, Jonathan had agreed to keep Alex for them.
He now found himself faced with the hopeless task of keeping a rambunctious almost-three-year-old entertained.
Things had been all right, until the boy decided that playing outside in the warm spring sun, toy trains, storybooks, and Jonathan's shoelaces were insufficient means of employment. Instead, apparently he wanted to run everywhere—Jonathan hated sprints—and climb bookshelves.
Jonathan, breathlessly in the midst of cleaning one mess, would hear the distant sounds of Alex creating another. The wee mischief-maker had an uncanny gift for disappearing and reappearing at the opposite end of the house with almost supernatural speed.
Jonathan blamed it on the copious amounts of biscuits, ice cream, and sweets that he'd seen fit to feed the dear boy, simply because Alex had made grabby hands and asked nicely. He was sure that Evy would never let him hear the end of it, if Alex was still in such high spirits when she got back home.
Jonathan had just managed to set a globe and a stack of papers back to rights in the library when a crash sounded. The loudest of the day, and that was really saying—
Jonathan froze mid thought.
Bloody hell.
The crash had come from his room.
He rushed into motion so quickly he upset the globe again, and ran down the hall, around a corner, another, and skidded to a halt at his open bedroom door.
He thought he'd locked it. Apparently not.
In the center of a great mess, Alex stood wailing. A fountain pen and ink were leaking all over crumpled papers, and several books lay in various states of ill-treatment.
Jonathan's eyes got stuck on the photograph of him and Ardeth—the picture frame twisted, glass cracked, shattered pieces like shards of ice on the floor, and ink seeping into the photo itself, inch by inch.
Alex wailed again, and Jonathan rushed to him, scooping him up. Fear snatched at his throat. Was he hurt? Had the broken glass cut him?
A brief inspection showed no signs of injury. Apparently the little chap was merely frightened.
"It's all right, Alex," Jonathan soothed, wiping away the tears from Alex's rosy cheeks. "Don't cry."
Alex whimpered and shifted in Jonathan's arms to point at the chaos scattered across the floor—specifically the shattered picture frame.
"B'oken," he said mournfully, and from the tremble in his lip, more tears were imminent.
"Oh, well, we've got more of those, you know." Nevermind that Jonathan's heart clenched as the ink slowly devoured Ardeth's smiling likeness, and then like some sort of cruel joke, the stain stopped spreading before it could blot out Jonathan's own face. It felt like an ill omen.
Alex blinked, sending more fat tears rolling down his cheeks. "B'oken!" He wailed, and practically slammed his face into Jonathan's shoulder, distraught.
"Oh, Alex, I told you, we've got more of those. Would you like to see?"
Alex nodded in a trembling, watery way, and that was how Jonathan found himself tucked up in his armchair by the drawing room fire, with Alex in one arm and Evy's wedding album in the other, slowly flipping through and telling Alex the stories behind the photographs.
"Your dad barely kept from fainting," Jonathan said, gazing long at a picture of Evy and Rick in their wedding finery. "But I was perfectly composed, I'll have you know."
He moved quickly past a picture of Great Aunt Myrtle, unable to hold back a brief though judgemental squint.
The next page revealed a very flattering photo of Ardeth standing outside the church, his dark hair framing his face, which was carved like marble in the stark black and white. In fact, it was the very same photo that Evy had squinted at Jonathan about, donkeys' years ago. Back when he thought she was squinting for no reason.
"Awdet!" Alex shouted, and patted the picture excitedly.
"Yes." Jonathan's voice almost cracked, and he cleared his throat. "I told you we had more of those. See, here's another."
And there was Ardeth, with all of them, when that beady little photographer had surprised and blinded them all. Jonathan stared, perhaps a bit longer than he should have. He did need a replacement for the photo that had been ruined, after all. It wasn't much of an excuse. He didn't search for a better one.
"So which do you think Alex?" He asked. "This one—" he pointed at the one with everyone looking surprised "—or that one?" The one of Ardeth alone, looking magnificent.
Alex paused, considering very seriously, if the furrow of his little blond eyebrows was anything to go by. Then he jabbed a chubby finger at the photo containing only Ardeth.
"That one!" He proclaimed, smiling up at Jonathan with wide, eager eyes.
Jonathan smiled back, glad to have cheered him.
++
It was after Alex had finally run out of steam, and allowed Jonathan to tuck him into bed, that Jonathan set about properly cleaning the mess in his room.
Earlier, he had hurriedly mopped up the ink, but now, with Alex settled, he set about collecting papers and books, and carefully gathering the broken glass into a bin. He'd have to buy a new frame, but for the moment he propped the new photograph against the base of his desk lamp.
He sighed as he looked at it—at Ardeth. He couldn't help it, and longed to be in the presence of the genuine article. Or even just to hear from him. Letters had been less frequent. Ardeth cited increased activity for it. Jonathan blamed his own lack of communication.
"Hope it's all going well for you, old chap," he allowed himself to whisper, and then forced himself to turn away.