People and Things that went Before

5 Oakley Rd, 1914

Alice's hands ran across the smooth wrinkled lines of her father's new camera. She marvelled at it, longing to know how it worked. Curiosity didn't always have to be a bad thing, and Alice was always curious.

The garden was hot and thick that summer, as if the air was too lazy to move. A delightful squeal behind her made the birds scatter across the blue sky. Alice started to turn towards the noise, when a pair of warm hands clasped around her shoulders.

"Wake up Alice!" Joseph beamed down at her. His grey eyes crinkled mischievously, as he flung himself onto the porch steps. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm wondering how it works" she replied, rubbing her thumb over the smooth grey buttons.

Without a cue, Joseph braced his hands against his chest, arching his neck. A perfect copy of their father. His voice deepened to a warm gravelly tone, and he began marching towards Alice.

"These things," he said, stroking his imaginary moustache, "are something you don't need to know, Mary"

Alice shook with laughter at the uncanny likeness. Despite denying it, Joe had inherited something of their father's build, the shape of his face. Why did families have to be so difficult? If he had a choice, Alice knew Joe would pack his bags and leave tomorrow. After all, the war was going to come to America sooner or later. All the papers had been reporting it. The thought frightened her, and she stopped laughing abruptly.

She turned her face back to the camera and circled the camera, standing erect on the tripod. Leaning in, Alice lifted a finger and tapped at the lens. "This bit looks breakable. My bet's on it breaking today"

"Pessimist" mumbled Joe from behind her shoulder.

Alice ignored him, and focused her in the small window on the back of the camera. The world seemed to look smaller from behind glass, more distorted. "How can such a small thing stay together with all that inside?"

"I could say the same about you"

Alice turned to face her brother. His voice seemed far away, and there was pain that she had never heard in it before. They met each other's gaze for a second, before Alice moved from the camera to sit next to him.

Everyone in Biloxi knew Mary Brandon had a knack for predicting things. She knew which side the coin would fall on, and when it was going to rain. She was just...different. Unfortunately in Biloxi, different meant dangerous. So only she and Joe knew it was more than just blind luck that guided her. Seeing her mother fall before her eyes, even two years later, was not something she wished to see again.

Joe pulled her into a tight hug. The familiar smells of tobacco, dust and antiseptic felt safe to her, warm. She cocked an eyebrow at the cloying smoke smell that clung to his waistcoat. "You've been smoking"

"Only one!" Joe defended, his face a little too innocent to be believable. That was her Joe. Mischievous and protective to the last.

"Call your sister Mary, Joe! Why in Heaven's name do you keep calling her Alice?" Mr Brandon's rough uneven voice shook the newly re-settled birds from the nearby trees again.

Joe just shrugged, and winked at her. He preferred it, that was the reason why. Even when she was little, he had insisted on calling her Alice. Joe said she was definitely more of an Alice than a Mary. Anyone could be a Mary.

Cynthia jumped from the swing, and joined her siblings on the bottom porch step. It was a rare sight to see their father out of a white apron. Even rarer for there to be no medical instrument or medicine vial in his hands. Instead, he wore an appropriately brown suit with slightly age-worn buttons on the cuffs.

He turned his head to the empty doorway, and spoke into the house. "The Winters' child is still sick with the fever, Abigail. We must be quick, if I'm to get there by six o'clock" There was a rustling, and scraping of chairs as their mother, flustered as always, appeared on the porch.

She poked and prodded each of her children into acceptable degrees of tidiness, as her husband adjusted the camera. Collars were tucked and dresses dusted down. Alice had to hold back a snort of laughter as her mother tackled Joe's unruly hair with shoe polish.

"No one will notice," she tried to reason with her son. "You're hair is black as night anyway Joe. Don't make a fuss"

Once they were all in position, Mr Brandon took the picture with the quietest click. Cynthia wrinkled her nose up in displeasure. We had all expected more.

"Was that it, Ma?" She complained, holding out a hand for her mother's. Mrs Brandon swept forward and guided her youngest daughter into the house. Clearly baking was the best way to ease the disappointment.

Alice slumped onto the dusty floor, and huffed. After a few minutes, she realised that her father's voice had become agitated and angry. Looking over, she saw him fuming over the camera, tapping his hand across the lens. She and Joe exchanged a conspiratorial look. Mr Brandon soon gave up on the camera, and began marching back into the house.

"Joe, I'll need you to assist me this time. If you'll get my bag..." Joe looked back at Alice once more, before running into the house after his father.

Alice listened to the steady buzzing of the cicadas before her eyes found the camera again. It had been carelessly discarded on a cool window ledge inside the porch. Nimbly bouncing to her feet, she went over to the ledge and tentatively picked up the camera in her hands.

It had been as true as her word. There across the lens, were the beginnings of a crack.