The Album

In our house, the family albums were thick, rich volumes that sat proudly high on a shelf in our lounge room. We were never allowed to touch them unless an adult was present, even when we could reach them, and when they were handled it was only with reverence and the utmost respect.

It certainly amazed me when I discovered that this was not quite the case for everyone.

“Look what I found!”

The dusty tome was looking slightly worse for wear, having just been dug out of someone’s recycling bin.

Rifling through the contents of other people’s recycling bins had become a regular feature of otherwise uneventful afternoons spent with Mara, the only friend I’d made since we’d moved. A self- proclaimed tomboy with limited pocket money, there was nothing that pleased her more than finding useful odds and ends that others had discarded.

“It’s probably just an old book.”

I lifted the leather cover.

“Our Travels”

Two people beamed up at me from the title page. A young woman with a lovely face, and a gentle, heavy- set man.

“Oh, that.” said Mara, bored. “It belongs to your neighbors. I guess you haven't heard the story.”

“What story?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Landon. If the album is out here, they’re probably going to fight again. She throws it out every time they do.”

“What do they fight about?” I asked.

Mara threw aside a split piece of rubber. “No one knows. Every so often, Mrs. Landon just throws him out. Then he comes back begging at two in the morning every night until she takes him back.”

While she continued to rifle, I turned the leaves in dismay. “Eiffel Tower, 1970— May we never forget this beautiful moment my darling! Love, Erica. Wow, they’ve been everywhere! The Seine. Germany, Spain…”

“I doubt they’ve traveled anywhere for a long time. They have huge yelling matches— well, Mrs. Landon screams, and he just sits there and sobs.”

“He sobs?” I’d never seen a man cry before, and for some reason found it difficult to imagine. “Does it happen often?”

Mara shrugged. “You’ll hear them soon enough. Mum says maybe if they’d have kids, they’d have something to think about other than their own melodrama.”

“The Grand Canyon, 1971: With June and Jason,” I read. Two carefree couples with their arms around each other. “Outside the Four Seasons Hotel in New York, 1973: Our first holiday as Mr. and Mrs. Landon…”

Their happiness, with its unmistakable sincerity, seemed to have radiated all over the world, but the honeymoon photo represented its peak. Mrs. Landon's features were flushed and vibrant, while her husband's eyes were glued to his bride. His bulky arms wrapped tightly around her, it was a firm declaration of his newfound ownership.

“They look really happy,” I said finally. “Why would she throw him out?”

“No one knows why. Maybe she got bored of him.” Clearly, Mara was the one who was bored. “I’m gonna head inside and watch some TV. See you tomorrow?”

I waved without looking up, but was soon called inside by my mother. I placed the album back where I had found it as carefully as I could, but continued feeling unsettled well into the evening. Somehow, Mara's theory regarding Mr. and Mrs. Landon’s estrangement didn’t quite gel.

***



The sound of thudding glass outside woke me with a start.

I scrambled to the window, and saw Mr. Landon in the flesh. He had gained weight.

"Erica!" A low, gutteral moan. He shattered another empty beer bottle against the pavement.

"Erica!"

He continued breaking bottles, and every explosion caused my heart to skip a beat. Still, a yearning pity fought its way into my frightened chest.

I heard a security door clang open, and Mrs. Landon, clad in a pure white gown, emerged into the street like a ghost.

At first she spoke to him quietly, and I couldn't hear what they were saying. She looked frustrated and shaken. My previous curiosity was unfortunately satisfied when Mr. Landon broke down in the middle of the street.

"I'm going to call the police!" she said loudly. "End this madness, Walter."

Still sobbing, he crawled to the recycling bin, where he knew the album would be. He picked it up gingerly and said something that I couldn't quite make out.

It sent Mrs. Landon into a sudden, relentless rage. She picked up the album and started violently ripping the leaves out. As she finally tossed it into the air, the photos, whose glue had long dried out, rained down on the pair in pieces, and for a moment the three of us were perfectly still.

Then slowly, with an odd sense of calm, Mrs. Landon walked back inside, and I heard the door shut behind her. I never saw Mr. Landon again; and Mrs. Landon moved out shortly afterwards.


***


By the time I went down to the street in the morning, the remains of the battered album had mostly gone. I regretted not having watched the scene longer, but assumed that Mr. Landon gathered up the scraps before finally leaving.

Only a muddied, dog- eared piece of evidence remained, and I admit that I wasn’t much surprised to discover their honeymoon photo, just next to the gutter. I imagined at the time that something of their old happiness had kept it safe.

Years later, my own photo albums were sacred to me, even through a long and difficult divorce. I knew, no matter what the cost, that my peace of mind would have to be derived in some other way.