Nemesis

by Cat Bruno

  “William would be aghast,” I murmured as we walked toward the most expensive gowns. It was not a denial, however.

  Less than five minutes later, my fingers fluttered against a caped gown that had been stitched with white feathers. For several breaths, I did not move. Over and over, I brushed against the soft downy cape, which had been shaped to resemble opened wings curving into a half-moon design. Beneath the cape was a fairly unremarkable gown, although it had been expertly designed and the fabric exquisite and sharp. A gently scalloped neck flowed toward a fitted bodice before opening in long folds and a sweeping train. The material was satin, I guessed, and lovely in its simplicity and cut.

  It was the feathered cape that had stolen my heart.

  From behind me, Emily’s honeyed voice interrupted my revelry.

  “Oh yes, that is from Tarik Nahir, one of the top designers coming out of Europe. From what I have seen of his work, nearly all of his gowns have some sort of show-stopping addition. I must admit that I have not had anyone try this particular one on.”

  “Then let me be the first,” I hurriedly mumbled, unable to take my eyes off the gown.

  Toby came up beside me to examine the dress, and, a moment later, commented, “You cannot be serious. This is the last thing I would have guessed you’d like.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” I mused with an intentional vagueness.

  I could not admit that the dress reminded me of the Nemesis statuette; they would think that I’m crazy. As Lisa plucked the dress from the rack, I eyed it more thoroughly. Intermixed with the white feathers were silver ones, which I hadn’t noticed until she pulled it free. The silvery ones lay across the top and spilled onto the shoulders. It appeared as if the pearl-feathered cape wore a crown of shining metal.

  It was the dress of a modern-day goddess. And I had to have it.

  To put the dress on, the cape had to be removed first. It had been tied to the top with satin ribbons hidden underneath the feathers, but came apart without difficulty. Toby could not stop shaking his head, and I could not tell if it was with surprise or disappointment. Emily handed him the cape while she accompanied me into the fitting room with the dress. I have never dressed with so much speed and anticipation.

  “Slip the heels on with this one,” Emily advised in a serious tone. As she tugged at the back of the dress, she added, “A size too big, but that’s an easy tailoring.”

  I had brought a pair of two-inch heels with me and placed them on without any assistance. They were simple shoes, comfortable and completely unseen beneath the rolling tides of ivory fabric. Once they were in place, I raced from the room and onto a raised platform that was surrounded by eight-foot mirrors. A loud humming in my ears drummed out the voices behind me. My hands were shaking at my sides, as if I had drank too much coffee. The gown hugged my torso, sweetly curving across the tops of my breasts and tightly holding me from waist to hip. The bottom was a complicated collection of pleats and swells, but in a spectacular, sleek way. There was not a hint of bead, sequin, lace, or embroidery to be found.

  As I stared, warm fingers gripped my forearm.

  “May I help you with your cape, madam?” Toby asked with a voice that sounded wet with suggestion.

  With a smile just as mocking, I curtsied just before he set the crowned cape against my shoulders. Toby stepped around me, and, as he viewed me from the front, his hand pressed against his lips and his caramel eyes widened.

  Through his closed fingers, he crowed, “You look like someone famous. An actress or pop star. No one in Columbus would dare wear such a wedding dress.”

  Noticing my wrinkled brow, he added, “But you must get this dress.”

  “It is certainly eye-catching,” Emily chimed as she joined us. Her tone reflected no shade of irony or jest. Truthfully, her words sounded full of surprise that the dress looked so divine.

  The assistant finally spoke as well.

  “On anyone else, that dress would make them look like an angel. But on you it’s something else entirely,” the young woman stuttered in unbridled admission.

  When Emily began attempting to smooth over the girl’s words, the assistant ignored her and explained, “We have women come in here all the time wanting to be princesses or fairies or queens. You are none of those things, despite the feathers. That dress risks being mistaken for a costume. Yet, I think you look like you stepped out of a painting.”

  Inspired by her words, I fanned the cape out until the feathers shimmered underneath the florescent lighting.

  “You’ll have to keep your hair and makeup simple,” Toby interjected. “But you will certainly be the talk of Columbus. The dress is edgy, but glamorous, and I like it more and more each time I glance at it.”

  After a pause, where I continued to stare at myself in the mirrors, Toby hesitantly said, “If William doesn’t like the cape, you can always get some photographs without it. But why not be Jacqueline Kennedy instead of Hillary Clinton?”

  We all laughed at his words, even though the women did not know much of William.

  “How long will it take for the dress to be fitted?” I asked.

  “Has your shape changed much over the last few years? I do not think you should lose any weight before the wedding.”

  I told her that I had been the same size since college and doubted much would change before September. The shop’s tailor was not available until the next week, and we made arrangements for me to visit again the following Thursday. After I had changed back into my jeans, Emily discreetly reminded me that the dress was a designer gown. From there, she mentioned that even with a discount, it would be over $5,000. I thanked her for her concern and handed her my credit card without further comment. What I didn’t say was that I would have paid five times as much for the dress, even if I had nothing left for the rest of the wedding planning.

  I would have little joy on the day of my wedding, but at least the dress would offer some solace. And a promise of things to come.

  ––

  Nearly everything returned to normal during the following weeks. As normal as things can be for someone who is planning a crime, I guess. I was back on the beat and visiting various sites in and around Columbus for the Gazette. My editor pitched me a new assignment, which focused on an issue that was quickly emerging as Ohio’s most notorious one. All across the state, a deadly heroin epidemic was spreading. Ohio, to no one’s surprise in local media, held the top spot for overdose deaths with both heroin and fentanyl. By the time he asked me to do a photo spread, I had already photographed a dozen deaths. Now, he wanted me to hit the streets for a view from the other side: those who still lived but used. The feature, expressed without judgment or opinion, would be a pictorial and my largest work to date.

  It was just the thing I needed to keep busy in the months before the wedding. Most of my time would be spent traveling across Ohio, from the lakeside, northwest corner to the dying towns along the southeast edge. Looking back, I view that time and the images that I caught as some of my best work. I did not gain financially from it, but my editor was speechless when I offered him an early preview of the portfolio. Once the article went to print, with my accompanying albums, I had contact from national and international news agencies seeking my permission to reprint the photographs. I ignored most of the requests for on-camera interviews, despite William’s insistence that I should capitalize on the momentary fame.

  To gain notoriety for capturing the tragic decline of others was not something I coveted. It was not something I wanted to celebrate.

  Some of those I photographed have since died. Some have gone to rehab. Some have lost their jobs and children. And two touched me so deeply that I have set up trust funds for their daughters. What follows is my time in the trenches. May you learn some of the lessons from my time there that I did.

  Small Town Poison

  What I realized early on is that I was not going to be following around out-of-work, homeless squatters who shot up in alleys and gas st
ation bathrooms. The epidemic is much larger than that. College athletes, high school cheerleaders, rich, poor, rural town and wealthy suburb. I visited each corner of Ohio and came upon some of the most heartbreaking stories of my career. Many began with a legal prescription of opiates after surgery or for pain management. It became clear in my first days of travel that nearly all of the addicts I met had first started with pain pills. From there, the high heroin offered was quicker, cheaper, and more effusive.

  In June, I drove to Livingston, an eastern Columbus suburb. Developments with names like Lexington Estates and Walnut Grove showcased three-story homes with multi-car garages and fenced in backyards. Although it had not been covered in the news, three high school students have overdosed in the last six months, two fatally. All three had come from families that lived well beyond the median income. Only one of the families agreed to meet with me, and they lived in just the kind of home I expected. When I pulled into the driveway, the sound of yapping echoed from the doorway, and behind the screened door, two small dogs clamored at the glass.

  As I walked down the slate gray pathway that lead to the entrance, a pair of thick hands reached for the tiny collars of the barking pair. He smiled at me as a way of apology before his wife welcomed me inside.

  Her name was Annette, and her eyes were rimmed with lines of sadness. She had been beautiful once, evident from the wedding picture that hung in the hallway to her left. I always notice photographs first when I enter someone’s home or business; a hazard of the job I suppose. She was still strikingly attractive, but in a way that brimmed with the shadows of loss and an inescapable dusting of pain. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and hung lifelessly across her shoulder. Annette’s eyes, gray-blue and dull, offered kindness, but I could only read devastation there. Tiny silver stars dotted her ears, which she tugged at when she was nervous, I would later observe. Black sandals peaked out from the bottom of a long, cotton skirt, and her top was a soft lilac t-shirt.

  If she had noticed my staring, she did not mention it. Instead, she offered me freshly squeezed lemonade, which I accepted quietly.

  “How is Eli these days?” Annette asked as we sat across from each other in her sun-brightened kitchen.

  She had known my editor since their days at Ohio State, which is why my story had begun here.

  “Busy as always and making the rest of us equally so,” I told her lightly.

  My camera bag sat on the floor beside the white, wooden chair. Around my neck, my press credentials hung like a loosened necktie, and Annette pointed to them slowly.

  “Did Eli tell you that he had to convince me to allow you to visit?”

  He had not, which I told her, and Annette followed with, “For the first few months after Tyler’s death, I was ashamed. I cannot recall with much certainty or memory how I survived that time, but I know that I could not talk about his death or mention the drugs.”

  My voice deepened with emotion as I thanked her for opening her home and sorrow to me. “Eli speaks so glowingly of you, and your husband, too. He’s hoping that the story will help others recognize addiction and reduce the number of deaths from overdose. But he also wanted to focus on the hidden side of the heroin problem, the part that most do not see or understand.”

  Nodding, she murmured, “I was one of them. Those who think addicts have no one to blame but themselves.”

  “Would you mind speaking about Tyler? Nothing you say to me will be in print. I will not be writing the story, but I would like to know him better.”

  When she smiled at the memory of him, my eyes burned with tears, and, in that moment, I doubted that I would be able to continue with the assignment. I forced myself to listen with a detachment that I did not feel and a reminder of why I had come. Justice is not unkind.

  “He was going to play baseball for a small college in Western Pennsylvania. His letter of intent had already been signed, and I have a framed copy hanging in his bedroom. I can show it to you, if you’d like.”

  I followed her up a carpeted set of stairs to an expansive upstairs. Her son’s bedroom was in the back corner, and when she pushed open the door, I dropped my chin to my chest in silent tribute.

  “I’ve cleaned it, but it is the same as it always has been. My husband Leon would prefer that I turn it into a guest room, but I’m not ready yet. I have two other sons, but neither will come in here.”

  My apologies would change nothing, so I stayed silent and scanned the room with the eyes of a photographer. I am no detective or cop, so what I look for is different than what they might see. The walls had been painted light gray, although only patches showed behind the posters of St. Louis baseball players.

  “He loved the Cardinals. How could you not with all the success they have?” she laughed.

  “How old was he when he had knee surgery?” I asked, knowing that it was how he had first started taking pain pills.

  “It was last summer,” she admitted. “Just after the spring season ended. He tore his ACL in a game of pick-up basketball with some of his friends. You can imagine how upset his coaches were at that. But the surgery had been a success, and Tyler was young and fit, which helped him recover quickly. He was jogging a few months later, and he had never stopped pitching.”

  As Annette picked up a gold-plated statuette of a young man holding a baseball bat, she told me how she had never suspected her son had been buying heroin. As she talked about how inexpensive it is compared to the pain pills he had become dependent on, her husband paused outside the room’s entrance. His eyes, dark brown and lined with regret, stared upon the gray-blanketed bed, as if he feared what gazing around the room might reveal. Leon, like his wife, had once been a handsome man. He, like his son, had been a college athlete and had played football for Ohio State. Now, fifty pounds later, he walked slowly, limping slightly on his left side. I waited for him to speak, but it soon became clear that he was a man of few words. Eli had told me that Leon was on the coaching staff at the university, but he had suggested that the last year had taken a heavy, silent toll on the man. Since his son’s death, Leon struggled to work with the young men who were so near his son’s age.

  Beside me stood a broken man. Years of football had bruised and battered him, weakening his joints and spine, but it was the death of his son that had struck him with the deepest blow. Again, I had to remind myself of my assignment and fight to prevent myself from drowning in the sorrow that had only just begun. I was only one day into the feature and already struggled to breathe.

  Later, once we had departed from Tyler’s room, I asked Annette if she knew of anyone still using. Much like a checkers board, I would jump from square to square to follow the story throughout Ohio. There would be no winner when I reached the end, however, and scattered game pieces would be thrown asunder. She directed me to a boy named Lincoln, whom last she heard lived near Akron. Even then, the northeast section of Ohio teemed with poverty and drug abuse, and the drive toward Lake Erie would take me past empty fields and empty storefronts.

  After two hours, I thanked Annette for her graciousness and wished her family well. I escaped with few photographs, and one from Tyler’s bedroom landed in the feature. It was an image I had quickly shot, taken at an angle and focused on the college acceptance letter framed and hanging on the wall beside a rose-red cardinal atop a golden baseball bat. Dreams Deferred, its caption read. I thought of Penelope as I climbed into my car. Much like Annette, the woman waited for her beloved to return. Odysseus – her husband – had been away for over twenty years, and throughout it all, Penelope remained loyal, despite suitors seeking her hand (and her kingdom). The first ten years he spent fighting in Troy, where both mortals and gods strode across the battlefields. The next ten Odysseus spent traveling for various missions, most given to him by the gods. In the end, he returned to her disguised as a beggar. It was only when he was able to re-string his original bow that Penelope realized her love had returned. Their story had a happy ending, unlike so many that the Greek
s retell. Annette, however long she might wait, would never see her beloved son return. Yet something in her, the paralyzing loneliness perhaps, made me see her as Penelope.

  Midway through my drive, I called William at work to tell him that I would not be home until the next day. He laughed when I told him I would be staying in Akron, until I reminded him that in the years to come, he would have to make an even more detailed tour of the state if he hoped to get elected. That quieted him for long enough that I smiled as I exited off the turnpike.

  After checking into my hotel, I made my way to the address that Annette had given me. The house had once been white, but now a dirty stain covered it, urine-like and dotted. A rusting fence edged the front yard, held up by leaning, peeling posts. I made certain that my Gazette identification was uncovered and visible as I hesitatingly walked to the door. I cannot remember how long I waited, but eventually I returned to my car when no one answered. As I had guessed, minutes later, the door opened and a man with cropped, light hair peeked out. I jumped outside of my car and called his name.

  “I’m a photographer!” I called out to him. “And there is no one else with me. If I could just talk with you for a moment.”

  Before he could close the door, I rushed forward.

  “Please,” I begged as I lifted my hands, palms up and out. “My name is Dandelion Jackman, and no one knows that I am here.”

  “That cannot be your real name,” came a grumbled reply as the young man stepped back.

  “My parents were artists,” I shrugged before asking if he was Lincoln Wallace.

  After he nodded, I again explained my assignment.

  “Fuck no,” he mumbled as he lit a cigarette. “Why would I want my picture all over a newspaper? The cops already have put me in holding twice.”

  “What if I don’t use your face or name?” I offered.

  “How much is it worth to you?” he countered.

  “I cannot pay you,” I admitted, thinking back on the ethics course I had taken at Elysian. “If you’re hungry, I can take you to dinner while we chat.”