The Last Painting

“It’s not going to sell.”
“Give it time, it’ll sell.”
Carlos sighed lightly as he stared at the painting. It was horribly morbid. Blood everywhere. A crow eating out the heart of a young woman atop of a cliff. Carlos shook his head and glanced at his father. He was a dark skinned man with snow white hair and dark brown eyes. He looked his grand age of sixty-four and didn’t hide it. He has deep wrinkles implanted into his face and his eyes were dull, his movements old and rickety. Fragile.
“You’re going senile,” Carlos said.
“Please,” Carlos’ father muttered.
“Seriously. It’s not going to sell,” Carlos said.
“Seriously, it’s going to sell. Eventually,” Carlos’ father said, a slightly mocking tone.
Carlos shook his head again and walked over to a table, pulling out a champagne bottle and poured himself a glass, glancing back up at the painting. His father stared for a moment at the painting before turning and pouring himself a glass. He sipped it lightly and sighed a bit, enjoying the taste of the light alcohol.
Carlos looked at his father with slight sympathy. The painting was one that his father had painted when he was a teenager in High School. A dark time for his father, which would explain why the painting was so morbid and dark. He sighed a bit and glanced at the painting. There was no way it was going to sell.
“I’m going t tend to the guests,” Carlos muttered.
His father just nodded. Carlos gave him a curt nod and walked out of the room, leaving his father alone.
*
Carlos sighed and closed the door after the last guest in the auction house. Carlos’ father smiled as he watched his son. He looked exhausted. Absolutely exhausted.
“You okay?” He asked and Carlos nodded.
“Let’s celebrate, huh Old Man?” Carlos said.
Carlos’ father chuckled lightly and walked off to find a bottle of champagne that hadn’t been opened yet. Carlos stretched and yawned, walking through the house. He stopped as his eyes caught the painting. Again, it hadn’t sold. Carlos shook his head and stared at the painting for a long moment. He shook his head and turned away.
“Excuse me,” a voice muttered softly.
Carlos jumped in surprise and turned around, looking straight at a young man. He was unnaturally pale and had straight black shoulder length hair and sea green eyes. He smiled lightly at Carlos.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
Carlos sighed in relief and composed himself.
“It’s okay. Um, what are you doing here?” He asked.
“I wish to purchase a piece,” the young man replied.
Carlos nodded and pulled out a tag as well as a pen.
“Um, which piece are you interested in?” He asked.
The young man turned so his back was facing Carlos. He looked at the painting and smiled a bit, admiration in his eyes.
“I wish to purchase that painting,” he said,
Carlos blinked in surprise.
“That painting? Are you sure?” He asked.
“Oh, absolutely. It’s a rare work of Henry Gallahad Richardson IV. His early years. These pieces are very rare to come by. In fact, I think this might be the last one there is,” the young man muttered.
Carlos blinked again.
“You know my father?” He asked.
“We’re aquantances,” the young man said, turning back to Carlos.
Carlos nodded.
“Um, what’s your name?” He asked.
“Joshua. Joshua Rigly,” the young man replied.
Carlos quickly wrote it down.
“Delivery?” He asked.
“Yes, please,” Joshua replied.
“Address?” Carlos asked.
“374 West End Road,” Joshua replied.
Carlos quickly jotted it down and walked over to the painting, tagging it. He turned and looked at Joshua. Joshua smiled brightly and sighed a bit. He stared at the painting for another long moment.
“Thank you,” he said to Carlos.
Carlos nodded. Joshua gave him a low bow and turned, walking out of Carlos’ view. Carlos sighed a bit and stretched, letting out a little yawn. Carlos’ father walked into the room with an unopened bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“Talking to someone?” He asked.
“Oh, someone finally bought your painting,” Carlos said.
“Wonderful! Told you it would sell,” Carlos’ father said.
Carlos smiled and walked over, taking the bottle and the glasses and pouring them both a glass. Carlos held the glass up.
“A toast, to the sell of the painting,” he said.
His father smiled and clinked their glasses together. They both downed their glasses.
*
Carlos watched as the pieces were taken with extreme care into the trucks and to be delivered to their new rightful owners. There were three trucks for all the pieces and they filled up quickly. One of the truck drivers walked up to Carlos. He took his hat off and rubbed his forehead.
“There’s not enough room for the last piece,” he said.
“Which piece?” Carlos asked.
He honestly thought it was going to be one of the large statues and that he’d have to pay for a whole separate truck to take it. What a waste that would be.
“It’s your father’s painting,” the truck driver replied.
Carlos let out a sigh of relief.
“All right. That paintings pretty small, I can deliver it myself. Thank you,” he said.
The truck driver nodded and walked off. Carlos looked over to the house and saw the box the painting was in leaned up against the house on the porch. Carlos’ father walked out and watched the trucks drive away. After they were gone he looked down and saw the painting. He looked at Carlos.
“What’s this doing here?” He asked.
“Wasn’t enough room in the trucks. We’re going to deliver it ourselves,” Carlos replied.
Carlos’ father nodded and picked up the painting, loading it into the back of the Carlos’ car. Carlos pulled out his keys and got into the drivers seat. Carlos’ father sat down in the passenger seat. Carlos glanced at the address on the tag and drove off. It wasn’t a long drive at all. In no time they arrived at an old abandoned house that looked burned.
The wood was old and chipped and the shutters had fallen off. The pain peeled and the windows were all blown out and had rings of black around them. Carlos got out of the car and stared at the house confused. Carlos’ father got out as well. He blinked and looked back at Carlos.
“This is the place?” He asked.
Carlos nodded. They both walked over and examined the house. There was nothing there but an old abandoned house with nothing in it but burned and blackened furniture. Carlos looked around. He sighed deeply and leaned against the car.
“I think we got jipped,” he said.
“Who ordered the painting?” Carlos’ father asked.
Carlos glanced at the tag on the box.
“Joshua Rigly,” he said.
Carlos’ father was silent for a long moment. He looked at the box in disbelief and he looked at the house.
“I know this place. And I know Joshua,” he said.
“Do you?” Carlos asked.
His father nodded.
“Joshua was a friend of mine in high school. Great kid. He loved art. Especially mine. Whenever I painted something that didn’t sell he bought it off of me and collected them in his home. This home. But, one day, there was a fire in the house. Joshua was trapped and couldn’t get out. He died. And all the paintings he collected from me with him. All except that painting in the car. It survived and I took it, trying to sell it off,” he said.
Carlos shook his head in disbelief.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Carlos said.
Carlos’ father shook his head and tears sprang into his eyes.
“Joshua always liked my paintings,” he said.
Carlos was silent. There was a long silence before Carlos took the painting out of the car and carried it into the house. Carlos’ father followed him. Carlos took the painting form the box and nailed it to the wall in the living room above the charred fireplace. Carlos’ father watched silently. They both stayed there for a long while before getting in the car and driving away.