Ides Of March

Mr. Boyd lived in a small two-story house outside the city; I would go up there Monday through Saturday and stay with him. Wheelchair-bound, the man required assistance. He hardly spoke, wore wire-framed glasses, and often could be found staring at the variety of photos of his late wife, who had passed quite a few years ago. As his care-taker, I would make him food and help him with his basic needs in general. Sundays, he always requested in a small, quiet voice to be left alone. He would often say, "I need you to rest, I would like a day by myself. No need to worry, as you know, lovers and madmen have such seething brains.”

I wasn't allowed upstairs. Mr. Boyd made that very clear, he would say "upstairs is for my wife". I never really questioned it I thought it was cute he had a way to preserve her memory for himself. Finally, as age was catching up with this old man, he asked me to come back to him on a Sunday. While I had anticipated this moment to happen, it felt fairly quick, and I wasn’t ready to lose Mr. Boyd.

When I arrived at the homestead, Mr. Boyd was sitting in his usual spot by the window, holding a picture of his wife. He didn't make any movement when I walked through the door. He simply stated, "it's time you knew the truth." And with that, he put the picture down gently and stood up from the wheelchair. I gasped as this fragile-looking man stood to tower me by about five inches. He no longer looked as fragile he looked healthy and very able. He stared at me and finally removed his glasses. While cleaning his glasses he said, "there is not much time to waste, I need you to get upstairs and help me with something." I gulped, "but-I don't-what is going on?" I could barely put together a sentence. He grabbed my hand and quickly lead me upstairs. I was shocked to find I followed him easily, and when we got to the top floor I surveyed the scene. We were in a square room, with one picture on each wall. There were plaques by each one. I walked to the picture of what looked to be a woman and a man on a ship that was sinking. The plaque said, "1/06/2028". "What is this?" I asked in a quiet voice. He was looking at another photo, one of a woman holding a basket on her head, and holding the hand of what looked to be a little boy. The date on that plaque said, "6/24/1996". He looked over at me, his hand resting over the little boy. "These are moments in time," he began to explain, "some have happened already" he motioned to the painting he was looking at, then making a gesture to my painting he said, "and some have not happened." I walked to the next painting and read the date, "3/15/2019", the canvas was blank. "Why is this one blank? This is today’s date!" I asked. He finally stopped looking at the little boy and walked over to the painting. "That is what we need to find out," he said. I gazed at him, whatever could that mean? With no more explanation, he grabbed my hand again and walked into the canvas.

We were enveloped in a while film before we finally crossed into what looked like a pasture. For miles all you could see was farmland. We stood there briefly before I started to speak, "what is this? What is happening?" Mr. Boyd sighed. "My wife was dying, so I sent her into this painting. It was a cottage in a pasture, however, after sending her here, the canvas went blank and I couldn't get in. I noticed that the date on the plaque changed so I needed to go in and get her today., or she would be stuck forever. Just as those other paintings are stuck forever." I looked around. "She isn't here. Why do you need me?" Mr. Boyd smiled ruefully, "I don't think she would recognize me, but I knew she would remember you."

I nodded. "What is the plan then?" He started to walk, so I followed. "I plan on going to the cottage and letting her know she can leave now since the canvas is allowing us to travel now." I walked alongside him for what felt like forever. The pasture around us was so real, however, if you looked close enough you would see the brush strokes of the paint. I gasped as I looked down at my hand and found that my hands looked like they had been painted. "So we have to get out of this canvas today or we will be stuck? So that women and little boy were real people?" I asked. "Yes, my daughter and my grandson, they had come with me when I needed to rest-They didn't make it back in time."

We finally crested a hill and found the cottage. Mrs. Boyd was in her garden. Mr. Boyd stopped, “you need to go talk to her, convince her to come back,” he said. “Me? Why me?” I asked. “She may not listen to me, it was my idea she comes here to rest, but if you, the little girl that she loved as much as a daughter asked, she would listen.” I shrugged. “Okay, you’re right. I’ll go talk to her.” Mr. Boyd stayed where he was as I walked forward. I was a few steps ahead when I looked back at him, to find that he had disappeared. “Mrs. Boyd?” I called out to her. She stood straight up and stared at me fearfully. Her face softened when she recognized me, only to become puzzled. “Farah, what are you doing here?” She asked calmly. She paced toward me and embraced me. I held her for a moment and when we pulled away I noticed her face had been redrawn. Her face no longer folded into wrinkles but was bold with facial structure and expression. She looked as if she was the same age as me. “Mr. Boyd and I want you to come back, I guess today is the last day you can come back.” I shrugged. Her eyes narrowed. “Where is Mr. Boyd?” she asked cooly. “I’m not sure actually, I thought he’d follow behind me but he was gone.” Again, I shrugged. “I have no idea what is actually going on. One minute I was taking care of him in a wheelchair, next thing I know I am walking through magical canvas?” Mrs. Boyd then turned toward the cottage, she started talking very fast. “I’m still not certain about the magic, all I know is that Mr. Boyd was planning to leave you here in order to take me back. This painting uses to be just the cottage, but when Mr. Boyd learned of my affair he put me here. Now from what I know, you have to do equal exchanges; or you can’t leave. You were my exchange.” She turned back to me. My face had gone pale, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “But, why?” I barely gasped out.

“Because I knew it would hurt her.” Mr. Boyd crowed as he stepped out from behind the cottage. Mrs. Boyd didn’t flinch, she just started to talk, “you can’t punish your family like this.” Mr. Boyd laughed. “I can do whatever I want, these canvases are mine to control.” Mrs. Boyd looked like she had gone pale. “Please, don’t do this again.” She whispered, “you already took Sandra and Logan from me, don’t do this to Farah. I will stay, I will stay and serve out my sentence here.” She moved toward him, trying to plead for my life. I had nothing in me to fight. I was at a loss where I was, and it was clear that if a man can do this to his wife, he’d easily leave me behind. “Ides of March, honey. Interesting that the canvas chose this date isn’t it?” He jeered. His eyes glinted in the sunlight, there was a manic smile on his lips. It was then something occurred to me. I looked at my watch quickly and realized the day was drawing to a close, assuming time passed the same in a magical canvas. I made eye contact with Mrs. Boyd, and she saw that I had looked at my watch. Without missing a beat, she gave me a small nod. “Very well dear. I have learned my lesson. You are very clever to choose Farah as the one to take my place. You knew I would never leave her canvas with you” she bantered. She started to move towards me. He laughed out loud, “no-no, you’d have no choice. I planned to place you in the sinking ship painting, to make you really suffer. You know, where I placed your other beau and his daughter. I could live in obscurity as I knew you suffered continuously” as he talked he paced around the garden, kicked up rocks, and pulled on flowers. By this point, Mrs. Boyd was millimeters from me. She had one hand behind her back, and I noticed a paintbrush in her back pocket.

Without missing a beat she kicked dirt into Mr. Boyd’s face and grabbed my hand. “RUN!” she yelled breathlessly. Hand in hand we ran. Mr. Boyd took a minute to realize what had happened. He laughed manically. “You'll have to do better than that!” He yelled in our general direction. “What time is it?” Mrs. Boyd yelled at me. I was shaking and could barely answer her, “it’s-um- 11:50 pm”. Mrs. Boyd smirked. She pulled the paintbrush out of her pocket and painted it on a tree in front of us. Then I could make out the room where I had first entered this canvas. She grabbed my hand again and flung me through the paint. She soon followed, and yelled back, “then fall Mr. Boyd”. I saw the look on Mr. Boyd’s face. The brushstrokes on his face becoming more pronounced, it was the look of utter defeat. I had landed on the ground in the room, as Mrs. Boyd landed gracefully on her feet. As soon as she had landed she took the painting and punched a hole in it. The magical paint disappeared and all that could be heard was the anguishing yell from Mr. Boyd. She turned around sheepishly, picked me off the floor, and hugged me.

We pulled away and she laughed, “if we paintings have offended, all is finally mended.”