Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  If a camera could steal souls, her expression was a challenge to it. Dig all you want. I have nothing for you. But dig all you want. I want you to.

  Scott ran his fingertips over the image. The flat surface of the print was as impenetrable as its subject. He wanted to slip his hand within it and hold it to her cheek. He so wanted to take it all back, go back and bring her back, bring them both back. But the photograph would not have him so he clenched his fist and bit his nails to his palm. He has nothing else to hold in it anyway, had not her to fill it and squeeze it and lead him by it anymore.

  He didn’t know he was crying until a tear trickled down the Polaroid.

  He removed the rubber band and, taking a deep breath, slowly flicked through the deck.

  The clothing changed. Barely visible, the shoulders of an avocado Polo shirt, now the collar of a white blouse, now a plaid scoop-neck dress, now her red Sox t-shirt, now chocolate-colored bra-straps.

  Her hair changed: how it fell or was brushed. Her bangs drifted from shot-to-shot.

  Her position changed. In subtle turns, her face shifted from frame-to-frame by the same minute measure.

  Only the expression never changed. Again and again, Scott met the same impassive eyes, set in a quicksand mask of feeling, all emotion submerged.

  Her long hair told Scott the photos were recent—within the last year. He counted 92 in the deck and set it down on a clear space on the floor. Returning to the box, he extracted the deck above the one just removed and flicked through it. As he suspected, the sets were in sequence. Her hair was getting shorter.

  He placed the second deck to the left of the first on the floor. As he started to unwrap a third, it hit him—this was the most recent box. Frantically, he plucked out the very last deck instead and looked at the front picture. His wife confronted him from a print some 36 hours old; his wife in the present; his wife on the cusp of becoming his past, of making Scott hers: Julianna, about to leave.

  She wore her hooded brown leather jacket. Scott remembered it now, some of the other missing garments too. She was dressed for imminent departure, the note doubtless already placed. Apparently, she had almost forgotten to continue—no, conclude—this ritual. She had been crying. Her eyes were red raw and she fought to regain the ‘nothing’ expression but she couldn’t. Now she looked Scott squarely in the eye. Now it was his turn to look away.

  And now she was gone. Only these images remained. Wherever had taken her, she saw no purpose for this record in that place. Bound and buried, they—like her clothing, like her man—had been consigned to a final dereliction. Eight years of together—a quarter of Scott’s life; six a marriage—a fifth of hers. The single image in his hand felt to Scott like the entire sum and subtraction of his own totality.

  It occurred to him that she never intended him to find these. How could she place so little value in a thing she had given so much attention? It made no sense. Had she discarded them for all time, into the hole but for no one? If so, the only message this action sent was that it was over. They were over. She was leaving him nothing. She wanted nothing for him, nothing from him.

  But Scott couldn’t accept that she thought him nothing. No matter the day’s carousel of chases and emotions rollercoastered, Scott took one comfort from this last image: Julianna had left with a heavy heart, one which might still hold something of him. It had to, because Scott realized right then how she was the entirety of his. The truly painful thing was his shame, now accepted, for ever allowing her to think otherwise.

  None of the Polaroids was dated. Scott unpacked the remaining decks and positioned them on the floor, so that all the bundles from the first box lined up in chronological order, a row running left-to-right, past-to-present. He proceeded to the next box. When all the boxes were emptied, he had a dozen such rows made of the stacks of Polaroids on the floor. His haunches ached from the kneeling so he pulled a cushion from the couch and planted his ass, cross-legged, on it beside the picture grid. He lifted the most recent set and isolated it on an empty spot the other side of him. Working backward, he transferred the rest of its row to join it, laying them in the loose beginnings of a circle, a counter-clockwise reverse-chronological record of which they formed the eleventh hour of her.

  With great care, he grew the circle with the remaining decks, linking the first photo from each deck with the last from its neighbor in the timeline. The task was exacting but it took his thoughts off her while he worked. Time passed. The circle curved around him as he progressed. Hearing only his own breathing, it seemed to him the house also held its as he toiled.

  Shortly after midnight, Scott placed the last deck in its correct position and the loop was complete. 74 decks surrounded him, each face-up; 90’ish Polaroids in every one. Julianna had come to this, again and again, taking 7,000 snapshots, one every day for over 18 years. 74 of her faces watched him, trapped him, her man in her maze.

  He needed to see one day above all others, so he put his hand on the deck at the top of the circle and closed his eyes. His mind began to pick through the calendar, retreating through the months and years. He hopped to the preceding decks, spinning the clock back in the hunt for the approximate date.

  He stopped, his touch resting on a deck in the 8 o’clock region, and picked it up. He let the images shutter rapidly as he pulled his thumb across the corner. The background was their old apartment on Hull Street, almost a year before they bought this place. He was close.

  The early spring scene backtracked into winter. February 2000 became January and he flicked slower now.

  The backdrop changed to a cheery blue wall bathed in a brilliant Puerto Rican morning. He recognized the Lighthouse Inn Hotel in Cabo Rojo. Day-before-day, he watched how her ritual reached into their honeymoon, while he no doubt slept on the other side of the locked bathroom door.

  One more flick and he found it. He split the deck and quietly contemplated the photograph before him now. Her bridal suite in Endicott House was lit by an enormous central chandelier. Behind her, a large window framed the black winter night. It counterpointed the brilliant white of the dress on her shoulders. She was to marry him later that evening. Here now was the stranger he also wed, one he neither knew of nor asked for.

  He replaced the deck to its position.

  This is crazy! he thought. Did he intend to visit every key moment they ever shared? He knew the journey would tell him exactly what the first image already had.

  In a word—nothing.

  Burn them, a voice whispered.

  “No!” he answered and dove into the past again, quickly finding Manhattan Beach, the evening they had first made love, taken in the tiny bathroom above Missus Cohen’s, the bedsheet wrapped around her shoulders.

  He skipped back to their first meeting. While she was making the snap in some Nevada motel, he was driving west under a flawless desert starscape. That night, he remembered, he’d been too wired to stop and sleep because his mind incessantly replayed their first encounter from earlier that day.

  He paused, wary of reaching farther into her history, to a private time before him. Part of Scott considered it a violation. The other part shook its head incredulously. When set against this new discovery, the very notion seemed like absurd discretion.

  Undecided, Scott closed his eyes and spread his arms, resting his hands on the circle in quiet connection. From time-to-time, he moved to others decks. He was her compass, turning slowly and erratically on her axis. They were both in strange and unchartered waters. Neither of them knew where north now lay or how long it might settle before spinning away again.

  Eventually, he picked up the first deck and began the shuttershow rewind of Julianna’s life—Her yesterday is my tomorrow—from the day she left him.

  Though she remained inanimate throughout, her pupils seemed to notice Scott, to finally take an interest in him. He swore he saw them drift his way and meet his own directly. Once locked, they began to study him. Their dark centers shifted slowly, a fraction this way o
r that, measuring him.

  He moved rapidly back through the decks. Even as he set the last down, his other hand was grabbing for the next.

  And then a thought found him; through the reversal of time, he was watching Julianna fall back into love with him. Somewhere out of frame, he was similarly re-discovering the role he had promised to always honor.

  So the day before became better than the day after. They started sharing a room. They started having sex. Physical frustrations melted away. Abandoned, botched attempts at intimacy grew less frequent. It became better. They were making love again. They made love more spontaneously. They held hands everywhere. They exchanged caresses and cuddles at home. They stood toe-to-toe, head-to-head, whenever they spoke. She started putting her hand instinctively on his chest, to offer an assurance or underscore her point. He began to accept it. Slowly he came to like it. Soon he expected it. Eventually, he began softly riling her in conversation, to provoke a physical response: a thump, a slap, a wrestler’s throw-down—he didn’t care. He wanted her to touch him. He came to need it.

  He began to wrap his arms around her waist when they met at the end of the day. Fearlessly, he started to scoop her up, kissing her long and deep when no one was watching.

  She started to ring him at work once in while. Soon it was daily, then hourly. Now he worried when she didn’t call.

  He bought flowers to take home: when he screwed up, when the mood seized him, when he sensed she needed them. In no time, the house was an arboretum, an Eden at the end of Emerson Avenue.

  He appreciated that they were still ok, weren’t they? They were sticking it out, seeing it through the thin between the thicks. Slowly, they got immersed in the thick of it. He was a fortunate man to have her. He became blessed to be the one she chose. He emerged the luckiest sonofabitch in the world.

  The day came round when he doubted that anyone else felt as he did. He had been imprinted by a mark unique in the human race, in the whole of human experience. It was exclusively and solely his possession and he would guard and defend it to the death. It was the most precious and irreplaceable object in the world. It was her—Julianna Constance Putnam. She was in him to the marrow and he would never have her out, never set her free.

  Within the Polaroids, her bruise began to show. Though Scott knew it was coming, it still dropped a stone into his stomach. At first, it was little more than a shadow. It rose from under her skin, an ever-darkening contusion which stretched from under her left eye to the corner of her mouth. Gradually, it blossomed into a myriad of brown and yellow and blue petals. The colors started to dull, merging to one black blotch. Slowly, it faded, shallowed out. Then it was gone, the image of it anyway; the memory of it stayed with Scott as he continued past it.

  In the end, he came to the beginning. Julianna was 12 years old. She had been given a Polaroid camera for her birthday. She had a strong boyish face and her hair was gelled-up in a punky Madonna styling.

  It was night. Powder House Road. Her bedroom. Her face expressed surprised delight as the camera produced its first image. Her eyes opened wide. They peered directly into the lens, almost mischievously. She had yet to learn what this compulsion was—to commit self-scrutiny—or how to express the toll it would evidently take.

  She ultimately did. Julianna stuck to a task, and by God, she always nailed it. For now, there was still innocence, untainted by anguish. But she was calling it out and it was coming.

  Scott knew it was her twelfth birthday. He didn’t need to undertake a complete count of the Polaroids to confirm it. He just knew. April 20, 1988.

  When he woke, Scott discovered dawn was breaking on Wednesday. The glooming was a curious voyeur at the high basement windows.

  He found himself laid on the floor, his head now resting on the cushion. Under him, the Polaroids were jumbled together, their neat order lost. He had broken the circle sometime in his sleep. He remembered a terrible dream. He vaguely recalled a snatch of actual waking action, though he wondered if it hadn’t been part of the dream itself. In the memory, he had been scavenging on all fours, scooping the Polaroids into a crazy nest. He muttered a constant mantra all the while he did this.

  “Tell me how to see you. Tell me how to see you.”

  Unsteadily, he found his feet and started up the basement steps, not once looking back at where he let the mess remain.

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday August 24

  The skies above Logan threatened rain, as Scott strode into Terminal A and made his way to the ticket desk.

  “Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome to Delta at Logan Airport. How can I help you today?” the clerk greeted him.

  “I need to get to Dallas,” Scott sighed, “but I don’t have a reservation.”

  The clerk called up the schedule. “Ok. You just missed flight 8-7-5-4. The gate closed eight minutes ago. Let’s see what we have on 4-35. Departure time’s 3:28pm.” He punched the keyboard loudly. “Mmm, you’re in luck. One seat left.”

  Scott fished his Visa out. “I’ll take it. One-way.”

  “With taxes, it comes to $941.”

  “I said one-way.”

  The clerk smiled. “That is one-way, Sir.”

  Scott tsked. “Fine, go for it.”

  The clerk swiped the card and watched it process. When it failed, he tried again. “It’s weird,” he said. “It’s showing as blocked. Have you had any problems with it recently?” He offered the card back to Scott.

  “No, none,” Scott snapped.

  “If it fails a third time, I have to confiscate it. Not like it’s doing you any good right now, right? Would you like to try another?”

  Scott dug out his Citizens debit card. He wondered if the joint account could swing for $900. It would have to. “Try this,” he said, swapping cards.

  The clerk swiped it—twice. “It won’t accept either.”

  A prickly heat was rising at the back of Scott’s neck. “Your machine’s gotta be faulty. Try the Visa again.”

  “Sir, perhaps if you just check with the issuer. It’s probably a technical oversight, but the machine’s fine, has been all day.”

  Scott thrust the Visa at him. “Just do it, ok? One more time. It’ll work.”

  “If it fails again, I’ll have to destroy it.” The clerk picked up a pair of scissors. “And you’ll have to leave the line. Otherwise, I’ll have to call security.”

  “I’m sorry. Please. Just one more time. Please.”

  The clerk ran the Visa again and, before Scott could stop him, snipped the card in two. “I did warn you, Sir.”

  “Jesus,” Scott groaned. “Did you have to?”

  “I’ll need you to step back now, Sir.”

  Scott lifted his bag and snatched the Citizens card from the counter. “Ok, I’m going. Where’s the nearest ATM?”

  “There’s a Cardtronic down in Arrivals. Turn left when you get off the stairs. Have a nice day.”

  Scott turned on his heel. “Fuck you and your friendly skies!”

  The ATM in Arrivals swallowed his card the instant Scott feed it in and suggested he contact his branch.

  “Goddamit!” Scott yelled, loud enough that several faces turned his way. Two of them belonged to machine gun-toting airport cops. Scott looked at the closed-circuit eye above the ATM and shook his head spitefully. Have you had your daily entertainment now, pricks? he thought and flipped it the bird.

  Outside, the Heavens finally opened.

  The desk concierge in the downtown lobby of Sixty State looked up, the same stupid frown on her face.

  “Is that with a ‘Y’ or an ‘I’?” she asked Scott.

  “No,” Scott snapped, “Per-Say-val. P-e-r-c-E-v-A-l.”

  The concierge dialed Hal Perceval’s office. “Mister Perceval? This is reception. I have a Mister Jameson here wishing to go up—”

  “No! No!” Scott cut her off. “Tell him to come down. Wait. No. Just gimme the phone a sec, would ya?”

  Scott grabbed the handset from the conci
erge. “Hal? It’s Scott. Yeah. No, nothing. Listen man, can you meet me in the lobby?”

  Hal was about to begin a conference call.

  “Please, Hal. Two minutes,” Scott begged him. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  Scott returned the handset and retreated to the front entrance. Beyond the lobby windows, State Street was experiencing a deluge. Exchange Tower rose directly across the way and Scott craned his neck toward the Sandstorm floor. He wondered if they were all up there right now: Finkerman, Sarah, all his colleagues. Ex-colleagues. If Sarah swiveled her seat and looked down, she might even notice Scott staring up in her direction. He’d probably never be allowed to walk the corridors again, except to collect his things and run the gauntlet of stares and whispers on the way out, but he didn’t give a damn about that now.

  Hal stepped from the elevator and came over.

  “Scott? Hey. Hi.” He accepted Scott’s hand awkwardly. “Long time, Bud. Must be what… over a year? You ok?”

  Scott tried to look chilled, composed, and sane, none of which he felt. “Yeah. A while, man. How ya been?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Lizzie doin ok?”

  “Yeah. Hey, we’re expecting again. You believe that? January. Gonna be a helluva new year.”

  Scott embraced him. “Oh man. Hal, that’s awesome. Give Lizzie a big hug from me, ok?”

  “How’s Julianna? Lizzie was reminding me how long it was since you guys last came over, before all the commotion with the baby news and all.”