THE MISSING PIECE

THE MISSING PIECE

Type: Interrogation
Words: 2,050

[Photo]
[Writer's Name]
aka [Nick Name]
[Age]
[Occupation]

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"So tell me about your father," a voice rose from the darkness.

“Father? Father was an editorial cartoonist. The Missing Piece. Have you heard of it? It was his signature. The message was obvious in a glance. Imagine a caricature overlaid onto a jigsaw puzzle - one piece conspicuously removed. It implied motives were influenced by moral deficiencies. Depending upon the scandal of the week, either the heart, mouth, eyes, ears or backbone would be popped out, whichever best exemplified the shortcoming. At least thirty-five newspapers subscribed to his stylized take on the world. Funny. He would have traded them all in a heartbeat for one – The New York Times.

As a parent, father vowed never to be the disciplinarian. The harshness used to direct him down the right path, clipped his wings in the process. He never risked soaring to great heights. Consequently, he was cautious not to overreact to misbehaviour we would grow out of with time.

Ironically, discipline was what my sister and I needed most. We were out of control. Moreover, we couldn't stomach each other. It was a miracle Death didn’t visit sooner. When Old Caesar disappeared, the joke around the neighbourhood was even the dog was too embarrassed to live with us.

Through father's eyes, we could do no wrong. We were simply free spirits piecing together our own puzzle. The police, however, were piecing together a different puzzle. Citations ranged from disturbing the peace to uttering death threats . . . only toward each other of course.

Father had one effective punishment in his parenting toolbox. It was used sparingly and only as a last resort. In most cases, it was invoked at mother’s request. (aside: What a difference in boiling points!) A pen and ink drawing mysteriously appeared under our pillow. The sight of the missing puzzle piece had the power to reign us back in. Eventually we conceded to acting without thought, compassion, et cetera, et cetera.

One benefit of being so incorrigible was my sister and I each have a priceless pictorial scrapbook logging every misdeed growing up. Correction. Every time we were caught.
Imagine a chronology of every opportunity in your life to change your ways, to correct mistakes or to heal hurt feelings. My sister still finds enjoyment in reminiscing through hers. She was less stubborn than I.

Every two or three years, he sketched a family portrait. It was his version of chalking our growth in a doorway. Again he chose to draw caricatures because it captured our true essence. He used to say "... until there's a camera setting for character ..." In reality, we were incapable of sitting still in close proximity without attacking each other. The chances of a camera duplicating the images with which he was fooling himself, were impossible.

The mantel served as the Lawrence Family Guggenheim. The five portraits followed an anthropology theme. The family members, including Caesar, exhibited the appropriate apelike face, sloping forehead, ridge over the eyes and lower jaw typical of the ages calibrated in millions of years. The evolution of the Lawrence lineage crossed the Australopithecus Anamensis, Afarensis, Africanus, Robustus and Basel periods. The next in series was long overdue. Considering the circumstances, it was a real possibility that all records of our evolution would end at the one-and-a-half-million-years-ago mark.

For father's sake, a cease fire was declared. To make it last, we avoided each other altogether. The house grew silent. In hindsight, it was the last thing he wanted.

Without warning, a jigsaw puzzle appeared on the dining room table. One by one, family members pulled a chair up to the mound of pieces. The next in the sequence of family portraits debuted in a novel but very appropriate medium. Father mailed his drawing off to a company which converted photos into an actual one hundred and fifty piece puzzle.

The title at the bottom fell together first. It read:

The Lawrence Family
Homo Sapiens Neandertalensis
150,000 to 35,000 years ago

My brain-iac sister questioned the anthropological period. “What about Homo Erectus Lawrence?” she asked. “You skipped it.”

I kicked her under the table. “What’s a million years? Let it go. Be thankful. We’re walking upright!”

It was a rare bonding moment to see the latest stage of the family snap into place. We sat and chatted like four adults for the first time I can remember. I saw them in a new light and started to regret the missed opportunities.

When all the pieces found their place, there was still a vacant spot near the bottom. From the visual fragments encircling the hole, it was obviously Caesar. It was assumed to be father’s missing piece.

“There’s a piece missing," he said. "It must be in the study.”

Had we assumed wrong?

As he pushed back his chair, he collapsed. That was the last time we sat together at the table as a family.

We rearranged his main floor study to offer round the clock care and to accommodate visitors. A morphine drip hung beside the bed for pain management. A button provided extra shots. The six portraits sequenced within view on the drafting table, Caesar included.

During my watch, my sister woke me in the chair asking "Where's the puzzle?" Somehow, my father had summoned the strength to disassemble it into its box and place it in the bookcase. When asked why, all he could whisper was “missing a piece.”

Without even checking, my sister immediately patted down my pockets. Failing that, she charged off to search my bedroom. She jumped to conclusions as to the piece, as well as, the culprit. I gave chase and instinctively made counter accusations. When mother intervened, it escalated into all out war. As one attempted to prevent another from violating their possessions, the third slipped off unguarded to conduct their own search.

The yelling drew neighbours’ stares toward the house.

The doorbell rang. Police Sargent Jason Wilson and Brian Beddows answered the complaint. We were on a first name basis. Mother played the 'cancer' and the 'hard time coping' cards.

“They’re all here!" screamed my Sister. “One hundred and fifty. I counted them twice!”

We abandoned the officers mid-sentence in the open doorway. My mother and I rushed off to verify.

The box was dumped onto the foot of the bed. Incriminations flew back and forth as to who slipped in during the confusion to return it. What a relief! All were accounted for.

As a joke, I removed the section making up my sister's face.

"You and your Goth friends are always talking about death,” I said. “So there’s your wish granted."

Seeing the hole in the middle of the photo was most dramatic; even more shocking to my sister. She freaked.

"Put it back!" she yelled. It was as if her life was in jeopardy.

It felt strange. Very strange. I felt as an integral part of the family and understood the need of every other piece to feel whole.

Father raised his hand toward my sister. "Piece missing," he said.

We misunderstood. The piece missing was not from the puzzle. References were to my sister, just like the many caricatures without a heart.
She melted in guilt. She confessed to intercepting correspondence from the New York Times. They approved a trial run. It was punishment. “Why did you have to get sick?” she said.

She braced for our disbelief, but Mother and I were torn with our own things to admit.

An eye teared. He thumbed a shot of morphine. The pain came in waves.

As my sister released her hug, she claimed he forgave her.

Again father repeated “missing piece.” His eyes and index finger motioned my way.

There was no escaping. It was my turn to confess.

I described the hurt to see him take the dog instead on the Father/Son retreat. Sure I deserved to be punished, but I also deserved honesty. If I had been told it was a cancer program in the first place, the dog would still have been with us. When they returned, I took Old Caesar to the Pound without his tags. During the search of the neighbourhood, mother admitted that it wasn’t really a Father/Son retreat. I learned of the cancer for the first time. I rushed back to pick up Caesar, it was too late.

My sister had to force his hand from the button. He grimaced and arched his back.

Mother's impatience cheated my chance to be forgiven. She didn’t wait to be asked. She blurted out she found comfort from a co-worker. This hadn’t been easy on her.

While backing away from her embrace, she too claimed to have been forgiven.

As I leaned in, I am stopped with “missing piece”.

My sister tossed out all we had done was confess to our actions. We had not answered his question. “Think of his work,” she said. “His art. What piece are we missing?”

The general consensus sifted down to ‘love of family’. Father was asked if this is what he wanted to hear.

“Missing piece,” was the reply.

It had become aggravating. We gave up. Mother explained it away. It was the morphine talking. She had been warned by the doctor to expect uncontrollable repetitive speech fixated on a name or object and not to misinterpret it as a dying request. It was mentioned to avoid having friends racing from around the world prompted by some pathological muttering.

The missing piece was accepted as such.

Father pressed the button and closed his eyes.

I was the one to find him in the end. He was slouched over in the chair by the bookcase. The puzzle was in pieces on the floor. On his lap was a page of print from the book shelf. I remember thinking what could possibly be so important to consume his last ounce of energy?

The page was the puzzle instruction sheet. The last paragraph was circled. A marker lay at his feet. The passage detailed assembly of the bonus decorative frame included to hold the puzzle together and to prevent loss of any piece.

“Decorative frame?” I thought. “There was never mention of a decorative frame before.” Then it struck me. “The frame was the missing piece!”

I reassembled the puzzle. It took time. It behoved me how a four-foot fall could scatter pieces all around the room. I laid it on his lap and summoned the family.


The same voice from the darkness interrupts the story.


“So how did the others react to the frame?”

The silhouette speaking of three behind the blinding light in the interrogation room cannot be determined.

“During his final days, the puzzle took on the role of a mediator. It provided a way to settle family differences without being face to face. Unresolved disputes eventuated to pieces containing concerned parties popped out and laid beside the puzzle. The holes were filled in privacy to indicate all is good. Even better, Father was a witness.

We each had confessed to the unthinkable.

None of which would have ever happened with the frame, would it?

The directions were destroyed. The Lawrence family found their missing piece already.

Hey! I forgot all about not being forgiven. It must have been repressed all these years. Is that what you’re writing?”

“Save your missing metaphoric pieces for the Judge," says the voice. “I'm making a note to find this scrapbook you talked about.”

“No, I prefer not. It’s rather personal. That was a long time ago. It's not who I am today. I did grow out of it after all. Out of context, it’s too open to misinterpretation. My father was not drawing the monster you are looking for.”

“If you have forgotten,” echoes in from the darkness, “one piece to the puzzle we’re not missing is a warrant.

So tell me about your mother.”