by Cat Bruno
Some time later, I had become lucid enough to dress. A dull ache throbbed at the corners of my head, but I managed to find my way to an emergency clinic. By lunchtime, the gash had been stitched. My stomach rumbled as if to remind me of my human needs, and I stopped to grab coffee and some lunch as I headed back to Columbus.
For the first time in many hours, I called William.
After I explained what had happened in the hotel, he ordered me to exit off the highway. I quietly declined, insisting that I had fully recovered.
“I have been eating poorly, William, and collapsed from low blood sugar or something of the sort,” I suggested, “The cut is a minor one. I think she said there are only three stitches.”
“This assignment has taken its toll, Dani, and I’m glad it’s ending soon. Who knows what those people might have slipped you last night.”
Again he advised me to pull over and wait until he could pick me up. By then, I was less than an hour from home and exhausted. So I did as he asked and parked near the outside edge of a gas station; my mid-sized sedan tiny next to a line of tractor trailers. I never ventured inside, and, instead, reclined my driver’s seat until I lay nearly horizontal. There was no part of me that did not throb with fatigue. How did I underestimate Zeus’s vengeance so much? And what had I done to warrant such a painful punishment? I had not slept with Mickey, but I supposed I angered the gods enough by contacting him at all; however, I regretted nothing.
I must have fallen asleep in that gravel-strewn parking lot, and only woke when a pounding near my window startled me. There, William stood, dressed in a suit freshly pressed and his hair parted perfectly as it framed his handsome face.
How did it take me so long to realize who he was? His beauty, so unmatched amongst mortals, was nearly equal with that of the gods. Perhaps that is why he loved himself overmuch. But his fate, once foretold by a blind seer, could not be averted. Narcissus, in his arrogance, rejected love for others, which would be his downfall of course. Pride has caused many a man to fall, even Ovid declares it so.
Do you know the tale of Narcissus and Echo, my friends? Of how she, a Nymph educated by the Muses and cursed by Hera until she could only babble and repeat what sounds and words that she heard, came upon Narcissus as he hunted. Deeply did she fall in love at the sight of the river god’s son.
“Who is here?” he called out in query having heard her soft footsteps trailing him.
“Here!” she cried back.
Louder, for he cannot yet see her, Narcissus begs her to come near. When she repeats his words, the man cries out, “Avoid me not!”
Again, Echo can only mimic his words, and, growing frustrated, he begs, “Let us come together.”
In her glee, for she has been waiting to hear such an invitation, Echo races toward him and embraces him swiftly.
But it is not in Narcissus’s nature to love any except himself, and he pushes her aside with haste and anger.
“Take off your hands! Better death than such a one should caress me,” he hisses.
As he flees, Echo sobs, “Caress me.”
Rejected and humiliated, she begs the heavens for help. Would it surprise you to learn that it is the goddess Nemesis who heeds her call?
When Narcissus pauses to drink from a stream, he gazes upon his reflection. Yet, he does not understand that the image he sees is himself – such was Nemesis’s judgment. The mirrored statue wavers with the rippling water, and Narcissus cannot move for he is so smitten.
Ovid, much better than I, describes what occurs as he names Narcissus a foolish boy and warns, “Avert your gaze and you will lose your love, for this that holds your eyes is nothing save the image of yourself reflected back to you. It comes and waits with you; it has no life; it will depart if you will only go.”
However, Narcissus continues his efforts and pleads for the man to return his love. Crazed by his love, he began to weep when the image did not rise to meet him.
“Tis a strange delusion keeping us apart,” Narcissus confesses in his torment.
His falling tears disturb the stream, and waving billows swell and sway until his love breaks into pieces.
“Death is not my bane; it ends my woe,” the broken-hearted man vows.
There, beside the stream that once held his love, Narcissus strips free of his sun-whitened robe. Sorrowful and abandoned, he beat at his chest until his skin reddened and bruised. So pitiful was the sight that Echo returned, but it was too late. Narcissus’s brightness dulled and his beauty faded as he lay motionless in death. His sisters – Naiads born to his river-god father – came and stared upon him in grief. Even Echo’s Nymph sisters mourned Narcissus. As they built a pyre to allow his body to burn and his soul to return to the heavens, Narcissus disappeared. In place of the once-blushing man, a flower bloomed, golden and white and as lovely as the man had once been.
He has not been forgotten and blossoms still.
William wore a suit of gray, not gold and white, as he helped me from my car.
Around my forehead, strips of gauze covered the injury, and he gasped as his fingers touched the soft dressing.
“Jesus, Dandelion, why did you not call me sooner? I know the best plastic surgeon in Columbus. I am taking you there now.”
“It has already been stitched,” I slowly reminded him, trying to force myself to emerge from the fog that was shackling me.
“By some hack in a small-town clinic. No, you must have it looked at by an expert.”
“What about my car?” I moaned as he led me to his passenger seat.
“Tom will drive it back.”
Only then did I realize that William was not alone. The thought was enough to pull me from the haze, and, before the door could close, I jumped out.
“Let me get my camera,” I said much more clearly.
Before either man could question me, I grabbed my camera bag and my satchel from the trunk. In the latter, the phone lay hidden, but I did not dare risk its discovery.
“I cannot wait for this fucking assignment to be over,” William fumed as I handed Tom my keys. “The wedding is in less than two months, Dani. After we are married, you need to find another job.”
My silence suggested that I agreed. Instead of arguing, I talked of other things and told him about the wedding favors that Toby had ordered.
“Each attendee will get a pair of champagne glasses with our names and the date etched into them. Inside of the flute, there will be small chocolates wrapped in a shimmery, gilded foil to match our colors, like golden nuggets,” I said with an excitement that sounded as if I was drunk.
And so I nattered on about the wedding, speaking of the place settings and the glitter-dipped flowers that would sprout from the center of the tables, much like Narcissus did beside the spring. William feigned interest, although perhaps I judge him too harshly and he did care about such things. My chatter stopped when he pulled into a luxurious building with wide, circular columns framing the entrance. It had been built to resemble the Parthenon or some other sort of ancient building. The gods mocked me openly now, and I laughed aloud.
“Will I look like a goddess once your friend finishes with me?” I teased with a high-pitched tone to my voice.
It was not until we neared the entrance that William made sense of my reference. By then, it was impossible not to understand the analogy, as we noticed similar columns flanking both sides of the modern building. Chiseled into the stone were the words “Diakos and Diakos,” in an unquestionably Greek script.
“Did you expect a plastic surgeon to be modest and unassuming?” William joked as he took my arm.
Little of consequence occurred during the visit, although the younger Diakos applied some salve atop the stitches and sent me home with a bottle of it. I was to visit him the following week to get the stitches removed and to decide if surgery was needed. The gash was so near to my hairline that I cared little if a scar developed, but I pretended to be of great concern, moreso because the wedding was so near.
Both the physician and William assured me that they would make certain I was the most beautiful bride of the year. Their apparent patronization irritated me, although I simply remarked how much I thought the doctor would love my dress. The comment brought a raised eyebrow from William, who knew nothing of what I had chosen.
As we made our way out, Dr. Diakos reminded me to take great care for the next week. I was to avoid washing my hair and must keep the wound dry and clean. His other instructions I have since forgotten, but there is still a tiny pink line across the uppermost edge of my forehead. Since then, other scars have joined it, but you will learn more of that later.
The Assignment Ends
During the next several weeks, my time was split between dress fittings and reception planning and compiling thousands of images into less than thirty. My days were long and mostly spent at the office, where I stared at two oversized monitors and flipped through the last few months. It was there, seated with a cup of coffee and a pack of peanuts, that Eli approached me, his face paler than usual and his expression grim.
“I just got off the phone with someone from the DA’s office,” he began.
“Was it William?” I interrupted hurriedly.
Shaking his head, Eli answered, “No. Higher up. The assistant for the DA. Landon Shell, I believe he said. They want us to kill the feature. Something about how bad it makes Columbus look and how difficult it will make it for them to get convictions once the addicts start getting sympathy. He also told me to expect a call from the mayor.”
“This has been my life for months!” I exclaimed. “Surely you are not considering this.”
With a shrug of apology, Eli told me, “DA Richardson is backed by the Turners, old family friends I believe.”
At the mention of the Gazette’s owners, I began to realize how close my feature was to becoming canned.
“Eli, come on. We are journalists. Leave the politics aside. You know how important this piece is, and not just in Columbus.”
“Both of us could be fired, Dandelion,” he muttered.
I had not known him to be so quick to bend to political pressure and begged him to give me time to call William.
While he went to refill his mug, I called William’s cell phone. When he did not answer, I dialed the number for his secretary, and, by the time he answered, my anger had multiplied.
“Did you know of your office’s plans to kill my feature?” I half-screamed.
“Good morning to you, too, my love,” he jested.
Ignoring his attempts to make me laugh, I pushed on without lessening the accusation behind my words. “What do you know of this?’
“A few days ago, Richardson asked that you and I join him for dinner. I told him that you might not be able to make it because you were facing a deadline for your latest project. I saw no harm in telling him what you had been doing for months. Yesterday, he called me into his office to ask me more about exactly what you were photographing and planning to highlight. Again, I told him.”
I said nothing as William continued, explaining how his boss’s unhappiness increased as he learned more of the assignment’s details.
“He asked me to talk to you.”
Finally, I snapped.
“And you said nothing of this!”
“Dani, I hoped he would forget about it.”
“Instead, he has called the mayor and the Turners, and now Eli is ready to pull the plug. This is my best work for the paper, William, and now there is a very strong chance that no one will see it.”
After a moment, my husband-to-be sighed. “It might be best if the Gazette drops it.”
If I had ever thought that William could live, the idea died in that moment.
“I won’t drop the feature. And Eli won’t either.”
My voice did not tremble or quake. I no longer yelled. A divine mercy came upon me, soothing me until a calming reason returned.
“This is my career,” William said without irony. “If you insist on going forward, I will suffer the consequences. Let it go, Dani; there will be other projects. Finish your book. I will give you enough money to buy a storefront so that you can open your own portrait studio. Use your talents in a better way.”
A better way? Taking stills of wealthy Ohioans was far from skilled or necessary. Yet I did not argue.
“Will you ask Richardson to reconsider?” I asked, despite knowing his answer.
Another pause.
“I can’t. I’ve already told him that I would have you drop it.”
“When were you going to tell me all of this?”
That question was the closest I would get to exposing my true self.
“Tonight. I did not think he would act so quickly to call in favors.”
“I’m not dropping it, William.”
He was angry by then. But the wedding neared; in less than six weeks, I would be his wife. Backed into such a corner, William did what he rarely managed. He conceded.
“Let Eli take the fall for it then. I will tell Richardson that you agreed to let it go, but your editor insisted. Do not tell me any different, even if Eli decides to run it only because you refuse to kill it. To anyone else, this decision was out of our hands.”
Later, after I had talked to Eli, William called once more. This time from his cell phone, when he was out of the office.
“My career is on the line, here, Dandelion. Be smart. I make three times what you do, and, soon, even more. Drop the piece. I need their support to run for office. Think of our future. You want to be my wife, do you not?”
Beneath what he said was what he did not say.
It churned like toxic acid, neon and burning. Like lava, red-hot and deadly, erupting and spilling onto me. Burning me until I was nothing but ash.
Did William forget that I had wings? That I could fly free from his threats and escape to safety where the air was clear and the sun shone rose-gold and bright?
Never before did I have such a choice to make. Oh, I cared little if he left me. But if he did, the police would never stop believing that to be a motive for his death. I had become cornered, the queen victim to her own game, locked into a position that was indefensible. Yet this work, this pictorial mattered more to me than nearly everything I had done professionally. I believed that it would matter and that lives could be saved and improved because of my work. Now I had to decide what was more important: my freedom or my work.
“I’m running the piece,” I uttered.
For the next week, I did not see William.
Despite my calls and texts, he did not come home or contact me. A few times I thought about visiting his office, but no one would welcome me there. There was no doubt where he had been staying, yet I did not board a bus to confirm my suspicions. I waited, and I worked, and I planned our wedding, all while he fucked his mistress and disappeared.
Did I tell you of the gun that I had found? I can no longer remember just how much I have confessed in these pages. Give me a minute while I double check.
No mention of it, so let me explain. Before most of my time was devoted to the heroin story, I covered crime and accidents and those sorts of things, as you might remember. During the first few weeks when both assignments overlapped, I was called out to photograph a large drug bust: cocaine, marijuana, and cash, quite a bit of it. Occasionally, the Columbus Police Department would contract such work out; and knowing my history with the Gazette and of my relationship with William, I was often one of the first called. Most of the beat cops recognized me by then and knew that I would not interfere or contaminate the scene, which granted me much more freedom than other photographers and writers, even ones being paid by the city for supplemental coverage. If the unit had been adhering to strict protocol, I would not have been allowed in so soon after the bust, even as a temporary employee. But my status granted me certain preferential treatment I suppose, a privilege that I made certain to never use or flaunt. There would be a log documenting who had entered and exited the crime scene, and
my name would be written there. Hard evidence tying me that location.
However, when I happened to come upon a handgun that had been hidden (and undiscovered during the room sweep) atop a windowsill, I reached for it. The circumstances around my finding it centered on luck. The room had been too dark and I had forgotten my favorite lens in my car, so I pushed aside thick, blackout curtains that hung across a pair of windows toward the side of the apartment’s living room. An afternoon sun sparkled in, gleaming against a black-metal pistol, which lay across a white-painted and chipping wooden frame. The sunrays descended upon the gun in streaks of glory and invitation. At times, the gods’ actions are quite obvious ones.
At my hip fell one of my camera bags, and I dropped the gun into a central compartment before any of the gathered officers and detectives realized its existence. I did not hurry away; instead, I brought my camera to my face and snapped several more images, mostly focused on the large duffel bag stuffed with rolls of cash. Ten minutes later, I walked from the room and thanked the lead detective on the Drug Task Force for giving me a head’s up about the bust and allowing early entry, despite the clear regulations against such access. The photographs, as I recall telling him, would be sent within a few hours, and I would only send them to print after receiving his approval to do so. Such was how it worked when they utilized my skills; tit for tat, although I was gaining more during this latest cooperation.
The gun had been stolen at some point, I guessed, as many weapons are when found in those types of raids. At any rate, it would be untraceable, entirely unconnected to me, despite the record of me being there. For the next few months, I would think of that pistol as a gift. An unlikely, out of nowhere gift. Of course I would have to get rid of it as soon as I used it, but I had no real connection to such a weapon and could not wait to be free of it.
You might be wondering why I would take a gun when I have spoken about my aversion to bloody crimes. I have no real defense except to say that the opportunity was nearly too good to be true. Easy and swift. Boom. I shoot William, dispose of the gun, and secure an alibi. Maybe not that simply, but near enough. Yes, I would wear gloves to prevent any traces of residue or powder. Yes, I would make sure there were no cameras anywhere near. Yes, I would be far enough from him, at least fifteen feet, that blood spatter or blowback would not touch me. Yes, I would throw away all the thrift store-purchased clothing and boots that I wore, for fear that fibers would have stuck to the gun, even after my thorough preparations. Yes, I would make certain that I did not have my phone with me to leave a digital trail. Yes, I would not tell William to meet me, for fear that he would let someone know where he had gone.
