by Cat Bruno
Which is what I had been for many years. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The girl next door. One with a camera around my neck and another in my grip. The moments that I trapped for eternity from behind my lens had defined me and given me some glory and pride. I needed nothing else, although I suppose William had made me beautiful and important. When I was young, I had learned that time is a tricky thing. Each morning before school I longed to be older, not because I did not enjoy learning or dreaded attending class. But I longed to be free of my grandmother’s rules. Some of you, those with an interest in psychology or the human mind, might be analyzing those thoughts and chuckling to yourself about how unsurprising it was that I ended up with someone like William. And you would not be wrong.
Much has changed since those days, though. How could it not when I spend hours photographing murder scenes or robberies or fatal car accidents. Time ends. For each of us, it will end, even as it continues for those who still have breath. What remains are images, ones that we make and ones that we take. Even the statues that I cherish so strongly cannot outrace time; instead, they fall into decay, crumbling and cracking, stained with years spent unmoving. Stared upon for centuries, by eyes shaded and wrinkled, ancient and new. To realize that the same half-faced Persephone that I photographed in the Louvre was gazed upon by some Cretan villager hundreds of years before my first trip to France is an astonishing thing. That connection, divided by centuries, is one that I cherish and try to share through my own work.
Even after my death, Persephone, crafted from limestone, will shyly smile at those who watch her. She lives on through that act of observation while I crumble to dust.
I am becoming distracted, as often happens when I begin to discuss my work. What you have come for is to read a tale of crime and betrayal, not one of existential posturing.
We got sushi that night, and I remember how difficult it was to prevent myself from gagging on raw tuna and salmon that had been delicately sliced, as if with some regret. Across the table, William asked about a wedding date, suggesting an autumn choice, so as not to compete with any summer brides. How strange, I had told him, to worry about such a thing. My tone had been sharp, and he paused to furrow his brow at me overtop his wine goblet.
“Oh Dani,” he had teased, “None will be able to match your beauty whatever the season. But you must know that half the county will want to attend our wedding, and we should consider that when choosing a month.”
“Of course,” I muttered, empty of complaint. “Early fall sounds amazing. The leaves will look lovely against a cream-colored dress.”
“What are your thoughts about the old Inn? It has been recently renovated I hear and the reception hall is supposedly quite grand. I know how much you adore marble,” he laughed.
I smiled since he was not wrong and said, “I have not been there in years, but I will call them tomorrow to inquire about open dates.”
After downing his wine, he added, “Make sure you tell them of me, Dani, and of who will be in attendance.”
In the Midwest, far from the celebrity coasts, politicians hold a certain place that would be ridiculed elsewhere. But I nodded, for William certainly could pass as an actor with his nearly flawless appearance and tightly tailored suits fitted so snugly to his body that the other attorneys riled him. For years he had been known as “Madame President,” a taunt that reflected his political ambitions. When I had learned of his long game, the one that ended under a national spotlight, I realized why it was me who he had deemed an appropriate wife. Elizabeth, you see, was far too young and far too pretty.
William had long lived a life of privilege and wealth, one filled with private schools and an Ivy League education, and one wholly out of touch with many Ohio voters. His relationship with me humbled him and made him more typically Midwestern. I had come from nothing or close enough: public schooling, state-run healthcare, food vouchers. Some might have viewed me as a liability or some skeleton in a deep vault of the political closet. But William saw me as a Rust Belt success story, some orphaned waif who survived poverty to become an internationally known photographer. And I was. But that was only part of my story. I daresay the rest did not matter to him. Under his hand, I was pretty enough, secure professionally, and sweetly approachable. An ideal candidate to be his wife.
The dinner ended with the two of us sharing a chocolate cake of some sort at a nearby coffee shop. I cannot recall which kind, but it was our custom to split dessert, even more so now that our wedding approached. Looking back at our time together – and really what else can I do with so much time to ponder – I have realized how our lives were much like a game of chess. Mostly, I only controlled the pawns, moving them defensively and in reaction to some calculated move that William had decided on many minutes prior. He was brilliant and his mind always steps ahead of anyone else’s. Even my own, until those last few months when my consciousness woke.
As I mentioned before, I was a fast learner, a fact that William never noticed because of his own self-absorption. He was charming and outgoing, talkative and witty. Me? I was the smiling, supportive girlfriend. But, underneath, I was a student who had known since those early days traveling with my parents that a quiet mouse learns more than a roaring lion. Those who are forgotten tend to be underestimated, and that was my path to victory.
If you consider a capital crime a victory, that is.
In the early days of the next week, I set appointments to meet with caterers, bakers, and musicians. In the end, I hired a wedding planner when it all became too much for me. Toby was harmless and efficient, stunningly gorgeous and gay. I had learned the game, you see, and knew that such a choice was subtly astute. Like most wedding planners, Toby would operate behind the scenes, unnoticeable but close enough to tout when necessary. In a state like Ohio, one that teetered between progress and tradition, such actions were common. But, truly, I adore Toby and delayed my original plans so that what he had planned would be able to come to fruition. Yes, you read that correctly, I married William mostly to benefit Toby. He was unknown and his business struggled to gain exposure. And I was about to star in one of Columbus’s biggest weddings. Of course, a widow is far more sympathetic than a cheated-on fiancée, so my decision was not solely altruistic. There are always more players in a game than any might realize. Add that to the list of rules.
Toby had a large budget to work with, yet once the Colonial Inn learned the identity of his clients, the reception room was gifted to us for the night of our choosing. And the trend continued, with none charging us their regular rates. I insisted that Toby pay the musicians and photographer full rates, however. I even allowed him to choose the photographer so detached I was from the whole process. But she was fine. Not extraordinary or particularly moving, but acceptably average in her scope. Which suggested that she would not notice the mask that I wore. And, more importantly, her images would not capture anything but a happy, upwardly moving couple. A good photographer memorializes what occurs. But a great photographer records what others cannot see.
You can understand my choice to avoid a great photographer.
We chose to marry on September 15, which was eight months after I learned of William’s affair. Perhaps you think that he ended things with the whore once a date was selected, but you would be wrong. By then, however, I covered my tracks; none must know that I had learned of the affair. No trace, especially a digital one, must exist. I did not log into his emails or snoop through his phone. I did not search her name on my computer or how to commit murder. Such mistakes were easy ones to make and far too obvious. When you are planning a murder, it is the little things you must take caution with. I could not discuss my sadness and anger with anyone, not even a trusted friend. Nothing must be discussed. Let me repeat that for you troubled readers. Nothing must be admitted or shared or debated. And never text, write, or email anything about what you have done or plan to do. It does not exist. It must not exist.
If you have suspicions, do not hire a private investigator
. Become one yourself. That is what I did. (Another rule perhaps.)
First, I purchased, with cash only, a prepaid phone, one that did not require a contract or even my name. It was disposable, untraceable (unless found), and private. A burner phone, I overheard them named while covering a narcotics bust. Imagine yourself to be a CIA operative, a drug lord, or an exclusive call girl. I preferred to think of myself as a spy – a double agent so deeply undercover that none could guess where my allegiances fell. A romantic, glamorous, and unrealistic fantasy for certain, but one that kept me sane and safe. More, my motives remained invisible.
I followed William several times, and not once did he catch me. If he traveled by car, then I would take a bus toward her off-campus townhouse. It was my habit to wear running clothes, a wig, and a baseball hat. I was still young enough to pass as a college student, and with the fake dark hair pulled into a ponytail beneath the cap, I looked as any other female upper classman might, including the black backpack that hid my camera and oversized sunglasses shielding half of my face. I would choose my stop based on the other passengers, and only exit the bus when others would. Often, I would initiate conversation just long enough to make it seem as if we traveled together. Once out of the range of the bus’s cameras, I would make my way to her house.
She shared the newly built townhouse with another woman, a student as well, I had guessed. They were both thin and shining with whitened teeth and sparkling skin. I never stayed long enough to notice much more; just the sight of William’s Mercedes parked in her driveway was enough. On one occasion, several months after I first learned of their affair, the bus broke down and the time of my return trip had tripled. He arrived home before me. Yet I was not unprepared and checked the garage before entering, as I made sure to do each time I returned. Without panic, I hurriedly tore off the wig and hat and stuffed them into the backpack. I could do nothing with my sneakers, dark gray all around and forgettable, so I embraced the outfit. In the corner of the garage were stacked piles of cardboard boxes, many still filled with things from my apartment. After placing the backpack in one of the bottom, unexamined boxes, I began playing music on my phone and tucked headphones over my ears.
Breathing hard, I entered our home and acted surprised to see him. Our conversation was not one I have forgotten.
“Were you out for a run?” he asked unbelievingly.
Bending over, as if I needed to regain my breath, I choked, “It has always looked so easy in the movies.”
“Dani,” he had purred, “I have offered to hire a personal trainer. One could come here, you know.”
Returning from the kitchen with a bottle of water, I told him, “I don’t mind going to the gym. I quite like a few of the classes there. And running is free!”
With a nod, William apologized for the late night at the office and blamed an upcoming case. For the next hour, he talked of work and its demands on his time. Twice he had risen to pour us glasses of wine before continuing on, speaking of office dramas and plea bargains in the confident tone of one who believed his own lies. There was no hesitation, no regret edging his words or echoing off the corners of his laugh. His lips, an hour before pushed up against hers, reached for mine in a slow, shy kiss. One that I returned, despite the churning in my stomach and the tingling in my fists.
Oh how I hated him that night. The pretense he wore as if I was foolish enough to believe his lies. William’s ability to focus primarily on himself often left me surprised, and that night was no different. He seemed to have forgotten that we were heading to Paris the next week.
Finally, I could tolerate no more of his deceit and said, “Have you forgotten that it is already May? Our flight into Charles de Gaulle departs Tuesday night.”
His face whitened, for once without forgery.
“I had hoped the Lewis case would have been wrapped up by now,” he stammered.
“Surely Laura can handle things from here. Everything has been arranged,” I whined as I refused to let him refill my glass.
Rarely did he use my full name. That night he chose to.
“Come on, Dandelion, you know that I would be at your side if I could. I must see this case until the end, and the defense is stalling. It will not even be with the jury until Wednesday at the earliest. You do remember me telling you how important this win will be for me, right?”
Michael Lewis was a millionaire who specialized in real estate, specifically in blighted neighborhoods or ones with high numbers of renters. He would buy blocks of homes, often at auctions or for a fraction of their worth before renting them out for a high profit. On its face, what he did was not illegal or any different from what other investors practiced, yet Lewis’s homes were known for their faulty renovations and lack of safety features. Worse, he would sit on properties and storefronts, deliberately keeping them empty and boarded up and forcing the market values of nearby homes to crumble. Which he would then purchase with a generous offer. After a fire at one of his properties killed an elderly couple, the county began to investigate his company more closely. It was William’s office who had noticed the financial irregularities around his low-rate mortgages. I had grown bored with the trial itself, but William had sworn that gaining a successful conviction against a corrupt landlord would show how hard he would work for the common man. Those words were his own, unforgettable in their unhidden sanctimony.
No amount of begging would free him to travel with me, and I no longer wanted to pretend to enjoy his company, so I had gone to bed without offering any forgiveness.
Looking back, I do not know what I intended by staying with William. Some days I was happy and believed that he could be faithful. Even when I followed him from his office to the bar where he would meet her, I hoped that he would change his mind and walk to the parking garage instead. That feeling never left me and lasted for months. I planned our wedding. And thought about his death. The two were intricately entwined, like silk and chains, one softly weaving through the other until both were inseparably linked.
I had doubts. Often and repeating. I am no monster or hardened criminal, unless parking tickets make me such, and I have made sure that they are all now paid off. In those days, the months between when I first learned of his affair to the day that he died, it was as if I was someone else. No longer was I Dandelion Jackman. Was I criminally insane? Perhaps. Was I battered and beaten? Not so regularly or as painfully as other women. Although I do not have the training or interest in making such distinctions. But any prosecutor (I have learned how they think, you see) would have easily and swiftly dismissed my defense. Those doubts suggest that I understood right from wrong, they would argue.
Was killing him wrong? I do not believe so. In such an overpopulated world, one where our resources lessen each day, every one of us is obligated to earn our keep and deserve the space we rent for such a short lifespan. William had given up his lease with his duplicity and violence and must be punished. The gods had willed it so.
He should not have cheated on me. He should not have struck me because I could never be her. William’s anger, hidden so carefully behind his expensive suits, came unexpectedly. It was not me who he wanted to marry, but already I wore his ring. As punishment, he decided to hate me. Quietly, wordlessly, without ever confessing his sin, he despised me. Just as he knew that it was too late to cancel our wedding plans (it would be a disaster for his political career, you see), he knew that I could never be Elizabeth. He did not mean to fall in love with her, I think, but he had. And we both suffered for that weakness.
But I am getting ahead of myself; the realization that he must die, steadfast and unremorseful, did not come until I was in Paris. That is when my hesitation was silenced, and my true identity revealed.
The Omni Awards and My Time in France
My editor at the Gazette offered to accompany me to France, but I had decided that it would be best if I traveled alone. By then, I had been living with William for a few months and despite both of us working long hours, I needed
time to myself. He was apologetic and contrite, more so than was necessary and indicative of a man who knew that he had done wrong. Or who planned to do wrong while I was gone. In the days before I left, he treated me to a shopping spree and bought me an overpriced gown to wear for the awards dinner. It was striking, however, with its blue-black stain that shimmered from my shoulders to the tops of my heels. The fabric and cut where simple enough, but the gown embraced my body more tightly than William had ever done. My arms were bare, except for a single strand of pearls that I had been given years before by the same man who had given me my first camera.
It seemed fitting that I should wear the bracelet Jakob had given me in the weeks following my college graduation. Had his health been better, I would have invited him to come with me, yet he traveled little these days and suffered the effects of decades worth of smoking. I doubt any shared in my excitement at receiving the award as much as Jakob did. And, truthfully, had he gone, maybe William would still live. Such is the way of things, I suppose. One decision ripples across so many paths, ones that we would never dare guess or imagine.
Photography award banquets are not similar to what you might have seen on television for film and music. There are few speeches, and even then it is only the top award winners that say anything at all. Photographers are quiet sorts on the whole, and it would be strange to listen to anything beyond how the image came to be. Near the end of the night, my award was announced: first place in Professional Fine Arts. The sub-category had been deemed “other,” which suited me fine, as the image was not a portrait, nude, or still life. I lost count of how many awards were given, but each image deserved its place among the top and impressed me with its scope. The judges had not chosen unwisely, and I admitted that my own picture could hold its own against the others, despite their beauty. I am many things, my friends, some good and some terrible. However, I have always been passionately committed to my work, with a real interest in the living, mortal world around me.
