She shook her head, disgusted. “This is so messed up, man. You’re from away, so you wouldn’t know, but this kind of shit happens all the fucking time. Kids go missing, no one ever finds them. Or they show up…”
Her husky voice trailed off.
“Dead?” I suggested.
“No,” she said. “A lot of people just never get found. But I think that’s because they don’t want to. The rest, mostly they turn up alive, in Florida or South Carolina or someplace like that. Someplace warm. Kenzie’s mom, she lives around Orlando. Her and Merrill had a really nasty divorce. Kenzie hasn’t seen her mom in two years. I think she headed down there. But in the meantime everyone’s all worked up and the cops are pulling over everyone with a broken headlight. Over there, I mean.”
She indicated the mainland. “And, I mean, some scary shit does come down, you know? People disappear, you don’t find the body for ten years, or maybe ever. And maybe you never find out what really went down. Then you get the critter factor, and you got to bring in forensics from Augusta…”
“What’s the critter factor?”
“You know—animals getting to the body, eating it. This ain’t Disneyland. People forget that. Even people who live here and oughta know better. Like, you don’t fuck around on a boat in the winter. You don’t get drunk when you go out to get your deer.”
She glanced at my leather jacket. “You don’t forget to wear blaze orange in November. Anyway, that body in Seal Cove? Maybe they drowned, maybe it was or suicide or drugs.” She sighed and drank her coffee. “Our local law enforcement sucks.”
“I’m surprised you have local law enforcement.”
She gave a croaking laugh. “We sure don’t have much. John Stone has to come over from Burnt Harbor whenever a call goes in. That can take hours, if he’s up in Eastport or someplace. If you need an ambulance, someone has to take you to Burnt Harbor by boat. If things are really bad they Medivac you out by helicopter. That costs, like, three thousand dollars, so you better be insured. Which of course nobody is.”
“So, what—you just don’t get sick out here?”
“Pretty much.” She smiled, and a sheaf of blond dreadlocks fell across one eye. I reached to brush the matted curls away, waiting for her to flinch or snap at me. But she just stared out toward the shore.
“Sure is slow today.” She laughed again and pointed to where a figure in yellow raingear paced slowly along the beach, head down. “Look at Tyler! He’s still looking for his keys. Man, he was pissed. He came roarin’ back up here, but they were gone, and he starts yelling at me—’Where’s my goddam keys, goddamit, where the goddam hell you put my goddam keys!’”
She finished her coffee. “I told him he better not be accusing me. You saw them, right? Right there on the counter? I told him he probably came in and got ‘em and just forgot about it. He’s always wasted. That or one of his friends picked them up for him and he’ll get ‘em later when he runs into them.”
I watched the man on the beach.
“Yeah, I saw them,” I said thoughtfully. “They were right there on the counter. Maybe one of those little kids picked them up.”
Suze frowned. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll ask Becky next time she comes in. Or I’ll just sic Tyler on them—that would teach ‘em.”
She gave her rough laugh and edged past me to the door. “I better get back, before someone else loses something. So, you’re a friend of Gryffin’s? He’s an odd guy.”
I finished my beer and followed her back inside. “Odd?”
“Well, you know.” Suze pulled her dreadlocks back from her face and fastened them with an elastic. She looked prettier that way. “His family’s kind of weird. Did you know his father, Steve?”
I shook my head. Suze gave me a funny look, as though she was about to say something. Instead she began fiddling with the register.
After a moment she glanced up again. “He was a nice guy, Steve. A poet—he hung out with Allen Ginsberg and those guys, they came up a few times when the whole commune thing was happening. I was just a kid, but I remember; it was very cool. That’s how Ray ended up here. But I don’t really know what the deal was with Steve and Aphrodite. He was gay, and, I mean, she had to know it. Everyone at that commune was screwing like rabbits. Aphrodite got pregnant, and then Steve and Ray, they began living together. Ray pretty much raised Gryffin after his father died. He’s a sweetheart—total opposite of Aphrodite. Who, as you may have figured out, is a total bitch.”
I nodded. I took the two pints of bourbon from the bag and shoved them in my jacket pockets, turned to toss the empty beer bottle into the trash.
“Hey!” Suze frowned. “We recycle here!”
“Sorry.”
I grinned sheepishly and handed the empty to her. Suze stuck it beneath the counter then lifted her head as a woman walked in. Before she could say a word, Suze had a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket on the counter. I looked across the room to the darkened stairway.
“Historical Society open?”
“Yeah, sure. Light switch’s on your right. It’s pretty rank, no one’s been up there in about six months.”
I went upstairs. A bare bulb illuminated a sparsely furnished room, cold and smelling of mildew. Two grubby armchairs, their greasy upholstery covered with knitted afghans. A few makeshift cases held arrowheads, fishing spears, rusted farm equipment. Faded photographs on the walls—members of the Paswegas County Grange circa 1932, lobster boats, the Island General Store in palmier days. The island school’s eighth-grade class of 1978, seven bright-faced kids in jeans and tie-dyed shirts. I looked at this one closely and recognized Suze, her blond hair and the same puckish grin, flashing a sardonic peace sign.
That was about it for the Historical Society. There was also a shelf labeled library that consisted entirely of the collected works of Clive Cussler, and a third-place trophy from the Collinstown Candlepins Bowling League. Beside the trophy was a turtle shell the size of my hand, black with yellow spots.
Something was scratched into the shell. I picked it up and tilted it until the ragged letters caught the light. Letters and something else—a crudely carved eye.
S.P.O.T.
“Spot,” I whispered and rubbed my finger across the carving. A pet spotted turtle. I turned it over. Someone’s initials were carved on the bottom.
ICU
I started to put the turtle shell back on the shelf when something rattled inside. I shook it, turning it back and forth until a small object dropped into my palm. I held it toward the overhead bulb.
It was a tooth. Not a baby tooth, either—a grownup incisor. The upper part was smooth as ivory, but the long root was discolored, mottled brown and black.
Not with decay. When I scraped it with my fingernail, flecks came off. Dried blood.
I sank into one of the armchairs, set down these mildly gruesome trophies and pulled out one of the pints of bourbon. I took a few sips, again picked up the shell and the tooth and stared at them broodingly.
I traced the letters on the upper carapace—S.P.O.T.—and wondered if they’d been carved while the turtle was still alive. I hoped not. I swallowed another mouthful of Jack Daniel’s, then slid my hand beneath Toby’s sweater, across the scar tissue on my lower abdomen and the raised lines of my tattoo.
I let the sweater fall back and studied the shell some more. Some kid’s pet, I assumed. I peered inside, but I couldn’t see anything, so I stuck my finger in and wiggled it around. Something prickly was stuck on the bottom.
I fished it out. I thought it was a wad of cloth, but when I rubbed it between my fingers I realized it was a frizz of human hair, dark brown and friable as a dead leaf.
I flicked it away. I dropped the tooth back inside the shell and replaced it on the shelf. I wiped my hands on my jeans, stuck the Jack Daniel’s into my pocket, and went back downstairs.
The place was empty again, save for Suze and her dog.
“I better go,” I said. “See you.”
Suze
leaned on the counter and grinned. “You get bored, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” At the door I stopped. “You know where Toby Barrett lives?”
“Toby? Yeah—he’s right down there in the Mercantile Building—”
She pointed to an old granite structure on the far side of the dock. “His apartment’s in the basement. You go round to the back, there’s a door there. You have to pound on it and hope he hears you. He’s not there now, though,” she said, scanning the gray water. “His boat’s out, so he must’ve gone back to Burnt Harbor. He’ll either spend the night there or come back here late. You need to talk to him? I can give him a message when I see him. Probably won’t be till tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I was just curious. I’ll catch up with him later,” I said and headed up the road. At the crest of the hill, I stopped.
There on the beach was that stocky yellow-clad figure, still looking for his keys. He was a lot higher on the shore than he had been; it must be close to high tide. The sun had dipped behind the far end of the island. Ragged clouds hung above a sea streaked yellow and green as an overcooked egg yolk.
I wished I’d brought my camera. For a few minutes I watched the solitary form pacing the shore, slate-colored gulls wheeling above his head like the black cloud that used to follow Joe Btfsplk in old L’il Abner comics.
Some people make their own bad luck. Others, I help them out.
Finally I turned. As I approached the shadow of the firs, I looked down to make sure the sea urchin was where I’d left it. It was.
12
By the time i reached Aphrodite’s house, it was almost dark. The wind had risen, and my boots squeaked on the frozen ground. But in the kitchen everything was noticeably warmer and brighter than when I’d left. All the lights were on, and someone had stoked the woodstoves.
Aphrodite was nowhere in sight. Neither were her dogs. I heard Gryffin’s voice from the next room, looked in to see him pacing as he talked animatedly on the phone. Before he could see me, I retreated to the woodstove and tried to warm up. I did another shot of Jack Daniel’s. Then I pulled out the film canister I’d nicked from the basket earlier and opened it.
Inside was a roll of processed film. God knows how many years ago it had been cooked—decades, maybe. I assumed the photographer was Aphrodite, though there was no way to be sure. Whoever it was, he or she hadn’t given much thought to conservation.
Film is alive. Too much heat, too much humidity, too much sunlight—these things kill it. Fortunately, the chilly conditions in Aphrodite’s mudroom had functioned as a makeshift fridge and protected this roll, at least, over the years. I turned from the woodstove, so the sudden exposure to warmth wouldn’t cause condensation. I unspooled the film carefully between my fingers and held it to the light.
It was black and white, Tri-X. I caught its familiar sweetish odor, somewhere between latex and lactose. The negs were overexposed, maybe deliberately. They showed a naked man lying on his back, the image cropped so the head was out of frame, his torso a surreal contortion of erect cock and hands. All the highlights and shadows were reversed, of course, so that his cock became a luminous wand surrounded by radiant fingers. There were dark shapes in the background that might have been faces, or masks.
Or they might have just been shadows. I continued to thread the negs through my fingers, frowning as I examined each one.
“…great. See you then.”
In the next room, Gryffin’s voice abruptly fell silent. I curled the film back into a tight spool, replaced it in the container, and shoved it into my pocket just as Gryffin entered the kitchen.
“I’m heading out.” He crossed to the sink to dump his coffee mug. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
He started to go, then leaned against the sink and stared at me. I could see the little wheels turning behind those wire-rimmed glasses. Was I a safe bet to leave alone for the evening? Or would I rob his mother blind?
I stared back at him, thinking And where the fuck would I go then?
He must have gotten the message. “Anything edible you can find, help yourself. Or Suze down at the Island Store stays open till six or seven.”
“I’ll manage,” I said.
He studied me again, then beckoned me to the woodstove. “Here. Watch.”
He loaded the firebox with wood, adjusted the damper, pointed to more wood in a box by the door. “If I’m not back in a couple of hours, throw some of that on, okay?”
He left. When he was out of sight, I scanned the living room for any sign of Aphrodite then headed into the basement.
The steps were half rotted, and a naked hundred-watt bulb made ominous spitting sounds when I switched it on. Plaster flaked from the walls, exposing wooden lathes and clumps of horsehair. I heard scrabbling in the shadows as I walked around. Dirt floor, stone foundation; exposed beams curlicued with wormholes. Cobwebs covered shelves of old bottles and rusted tools. An oil drum served as a trash bin.
But nothing that resembled a darkroom setup. I was starting to wonder if Gryffin had lied to me when I spotted a door in the far corner. It was set into a floor-to-ceiling cubicle not much bigger than a closet, made of drywall and two-by-fours. I hurried over and tried the knob.
Gryffin was right. The door was locked.
I tried to jimmie it open. No luck.
I retraced my steps and returned to my bedroom. For a few minutes I sat and watched the sky fade from lavender-gray to indigo to dead black. I didn’t put the light on. Instead I drank Jack Daniel’s until the darkness no longer seemed ominous but soft, diffuse, as though a heavy black curtain had been replaced with gray gauze. A few stars showed through the trees then disappeared. The fog was coming in.
Finally I got up. I found my wallet and retrieved my credit card and started back downstairs.
The hallway was dark. But at the far end, light spilled from an open door. I walked quietly as I could, until I was close enough to see that the light came from a bedroom. Inside was a TV with the sound turned off. I cleared my throat and took another step, waiting for someone to call out.
No one did. I stuck my head inside.
The place was a mess. Heaps of clothes on the floor, books and papers piled on top of a woodstove that obviously hadn’t been used in a while. A space heater hummed noisily. Black-and-white prints hung everywhere, and a double bed was pushed against the far wall. It seemed to be covered with big fur throws—the three deerhounds. I could just make out a small black figure in the middle of the bed, Aphrodite. She lay on her stomach, silver hair tied back with a black ribbon. Several opened photo books were strewn around her. Her skinny legs in their black tights stuck out from beneath one of the dogs, as though the geisha doll had been tossed in with a bunch of stuffed animals.
I couldn’t believe I’d left my camera behind.
I knew better than to go back for it. The Decisive Moment—that was the English title for Cartier-Bresson’s most famous book. And I’d missed my chance—already one of the dogs was stirring. I went back down to the basement.
In a few seconds I’d sprung the lock with my credit card. I entered and instinctively reached for the safelight switch.
Red light surrounded me, along with the dank smell of mildew and the sour-wine stink of acetic acid. As my eyes adjusted to the faint crimson glow, I felt my neck prickle.
It had been twenty years since I’d been inside a darkroom. I steadied myself against a counter and took stock of what surrounded me.
A plywood table with plastic trays for developer and stop bath, fixer and holding bath; shelves made of cinder blocks; a stainless steel sink. Boxes of photographic paper bleached with mold. Jars of developer. A metal cabinet scattered with curled, moisture-damaged prints so blackened with mildew they resembled fungi. Plastic sleeves for holding negatives, all empty. An enlarger. Above the table, a sagging clothesline for drying prints. A pair of heavy rubber gloves hung from the clothesline. I put them on, grateful t
o have something between me and the foul air. When I picked up a jar of developer, a bloom of spores rose from it like smoke.
Even thirty years ago, this darkroom hadn’t been state-of-the-art. But I didn’t need high-tech equipment to do what I’d come down here for. I flipped on the overhead light. The bulb had blown. I’d have to do my prep work under the safelight. It was dim, 15 watts, but I’d manage.
I opened the tap, hoping the pipes hadn’t frozen. The faucet gurgled and coughed and finally spat a thin stream of brownish water. I waited till it ran clear, rinsed out the plastic processing trays, then set about mixing the developer, the stop bath, the print fixer. I had no idea if the chemicals would still be lively, but it was worth a shot. I mixed each batch directly in its tray and lined them up on the plywood table. Then I looked for tongs.
No tongs. I’d have to agitate the paper by hand, shaking each tray. Messy but feasible. I did find scissors, and the heavy piece of glass I’d need to flatten the negs. I cleaned and dried it on my T-shirt then dug out the roll of film. I uncoiled the long spool and gingerly cut it into four pieces, careful not to damage any individual frame. The plastic envelopes for holding negs were too filthy to use. Again, I’d make do. I turned to examine the enlarger.
It was a Blumfield, circa 1974 by my guess, British made. An expensive piece of equipment, with a flat easel surface and an upright pillar holding the enlarger itself. It seemed dusty but otherwise in working order. I cleaned off the surface where the negs would go, blew dust from the enlarger lens, then switched on the tungsten diffuser bulb, praying it hadn’t blown too.
It hadn’t. I switched off the diffuser and searched until I found a sealed box of Kodak paper. The cardboard was buckled and smeared with mold, but inside its foil wrapper the paper was undamaged. I grabbed a sheet and went to work.
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