If I Lose Her (18 page)

 The fourth
house sat directly across from the emergency room. Today’s copy of the Daily
Camera, in its green-plastic bag, poked out of the front bush. I took it out of
the bush and knocked on the front door. A tiny woman looking very much like my
grandmother opened the door.

 “Yes?”

 “Hello
ma’am. My name is Alex Douglas. I work for the Daily Camera, and I happened to
notice your newspaper was stuck in your bush. I thought you might like to have
it.”

 “Oh my
goodness. Thank you. I was looking for that all morning. The boy who delivers
it keeps throwing it on my roof, and I have to come out in my slippers and
knock it down with my broom. I’ve tried to call the news people about it but I
can never get through.”

 “I’m sorry
to hear that ma’am. If you like, when I get back to my office I can have
someone look into it.”

 “Would you?
That would mean so much to me. Some mornings I can’t get it down, and I have to
go all day without my stories.”

 “What’s your
name?”

 “Margery
Jenkins.”

 I took out
my pad, asked her to spell that for me and wrote it down.

 “You
wouldn’t happen to know what is going on across the street would you?”

 “Oh, I was
watching something about it on the television. They said something about a box
in the doctor’s office. I hope everything is alright. I was just over there
yesterday.”

 “Really? Did
everything look alright yesterday?”

 She thought
for a moment. “Yes, I think so.”

 “I don’t
mean to impose, but I was wondering if you would mind terribly if I went up on
your balcony to see if I can take a photograph–for the newspaper.”

 “Oh, that
would be fine.” Then she opened the door and I went in.

 Margery’s
house was clean and well kept with photos of family lining the walls. On the
television in the living room the network news gave an update. I followed
Margery up to the balcony.

 From where I
now stood I could see over the parking lot and into the windows in the
hospital. A square metal truck slowly drove up with a man hanging from hooks on
the back.

 I lifted my
camera and started shooting.

 If I didn’t
know that this was an explosives technician, I could easily think this guy was
going to the moon rather than anywhere here on planet earth. He wore green,
heavy armor with a high collar that nearly hid his black helmet.

 He pushed a
button on the side of the truck door and the hooks lowered him to the pavement.
Then with slow, labored steps he walked into the building. The truck pulled
around the parking lot and backed up to the emergency room doors where he went
in.

 “Can I get
you a cup of tea?” Margery asked.

 I looked at
her. “No ma’am. Thank you. Is it okay if I stay here for a little bit, just to
get a few more pictures?”

 “Stay as
long as you like.”

 I looked at
the back of my camera and scrolled through a few of the shots I had captured so
far.

 
He looks
interesting, but there’s no action, no emotion. Dan wanted me to watch for
action and emotion.

 
My
phone rang.

 “This is
Alex.”

 “Alex, this
is Dan. How’s it going?”

 “I met the
PIO, and you were right. She tried to get me to stay out in some field so she
could feed me information.”

 “Where are
you now?”

 “There are
homes across the street from the hospital, and I met a lady who let me watch
what is happening from her balcony.”

 “No shit?”

 “It looks
like the bomb squad just sent someone inside, but the truck is partially
blocking my view.”

 “Well, stay
there. I don’t give a shit what happens, don’t leave that balcony. I’m on my
way over, and I’ll cover the ground game. You just stay where you are.”

 “Oh, Dan I
gotta go, something’s happening.” Then I looked through my lens and watched a
small robot roll its way off the back of the truck, and the truck pulled away.
The man in the suit was standing outside now, controlling the robot, as it
rolled into the hospital. Then he followed it inside. For a long while nothing
happened. I set my bag down on the fake-grass carpeting next to me and leaned
against the wall. I could hear the news from downstairs talk about how they had
been able to confirm that a disgruntled employee of the hospital had left a box
in the doctor’s office overnight. There was no word yet who the employee was or
what steps the bomb disposal unit was taking to deal with the package.

 As I heard
the reporter say this from the television downstairs, I watched the armored man
walk backwards through the emergency room doors, which were propped open. He
backed out into the parking lot as the robot emerged from the building. From my
distance I was able to get a shot with both the robot and the bomb expert in
the frame. I also zoomed in close on the robot and the package. It was a red, metal
toolbox.

 I guess the
expert had to see where the robot was going, because as soon as the robot was
outside, he turned and started walking toward the bomb truck. I might have been
the only one to see it because my lens was trained right on the robot, but just
then the package fell out of the robotic arm. Nothing happened.

 
Hmm.
That’s anticlimactic.

 I zoomed out
to frame the robot and the package together when the toolbox exploded,
launching the robot through the emergency room doors and shattering nearly
every car window and pane of glass on the front of the hospital. Several car
alarms began to screech.

 It took a
couple of minutes, but fire trucks pulled into the parking lot and fire men set
to quickly put out a small fire just inside the front doors. I just kept
shooting.

 When I
thought it was calm I scrolled through the shots and sure enough, it was like
looking at a slow-motion movie of the explosion. In one frame the toolbox is
lying on the ground in front of the robot with the emergency room sign above
them both. The next frame is of a small ball of fire pushing the robot off of
its wheels, and the glass on the emergency room doors is shattering. In the
third frame there is no sign of the box or the robot, just a black spot on the
ground in front of broken windows. 

 About twenty
minutes later, after the fire truck pulled away, I got on my cell and called
Dan.

 “Hey Alex.
Did you get a shot?”

 “Yeah, I got
pretty lucky. I saw the robot drop the toolbox and took a couple of shots just
when the thing exploded.”

 “Wait. What
did you say?”

 “I said I
got a shot of the bomb actually exploding!”

 “That’s
great, but before that.”

 “What? That
I saw the robot drop the toolbox?”

 “Don’t tell
anyone else that until you get back to the office, and I want you to head back
right now. Don’t talk to anyone. Just wait for me.”

 I hung up
the phone and did what I was told.

 Back at the
office I dropped my photos into the folder Dan allotted to me on the newspapers
servers while he explained that the PIO wasn’t disclosing the bit about the
robot dropping the box, and that he thought that that was an important bit of
information that the other news agencies didn’t have.

 I spent the
rest of the afternoon editing through my shoot and writing up captions. Then I
went home. On the way, I called Jo and told her about my day.

 “Am I going
to see you later?”

 “I’m going
to probably stay home tonight. I skipped Calc and English Lit to see the doctor
this afternoon.”

 “You were
sweating pretty bad last night. Is everything alright?”    

 “I’m sure
it’s fine. I’m just not feeling too
hot.”       

 “Can I bring
you something?”

 “Probably
not tonight if that’s okay. I’m just going straight to bed.”

 Then we said
our good-byes and I hung up the phone.

 The next
morning, when I walked into the newsroom, I saw the day’s newspaper.

The photo I took
of the exploding toolbox was on the front cover in what the news biz calls the
A-1 spot.

 Let me tell
you: there is NOTHING like seeing your work in print.

 It was
Friday night. I was arriving late from Boulder, because I was covering some
protest on CU Boulder campus. I still had the taste of chocolate cupcake on my
lips because someone who I had never met before was having a birthday in the
office and brought in two boxes of the icing covered delights.

 I had never
been to the Denver Art Museum even though I had driven by it countless times.
The museum had just months earlier finished their new building designed by the
very same Daniel Libeskind who was working on the design for the new world
trade center building in New York City. The old building looked like a slender
castle keep plated with porcelain plates and set slightly askew. The new
building was the paragon of modernity with angles that mirrored the jutting
peaks of the Rocky Mountains that filled the landscape behind it.

 I had
brought my camera with me to capture Jo’s big night, and the uniqueness of the
location and the lights of the city gave me an endless supply of things to
photograph.

 I snapped a
few photos of some interesting statues in front of the building. One was of a
bronze bull, many times larger than life size, which sat on its rear forever
watching oncoming traffic. Another was of a two-story, red and blue hand broom
sweeping up giant-sized bits of trash into a giant pan. The colors were fun,
and the motion of the bristles made me feel, while I stood next to it, like I
was a Lilliputian about to be swept up by some giant, unseen maid. Jo had given
me one of the passes the museum had supplied her with for the evening, so I
popped a mint in my mouth, showed my pass to the doorman and went inside.

  Green
and purple lights painted the walls of the hall where people, dressed in black,
mingled and drank Champagne. I grabbed a flute from a passing waiter and
followed the signs to the ‘New Artists to Watch’ exhibit.

 As I climbed
a set of steep stairs I saw Jo laugh and finish the last swallow of her
Champagne. It reminded me of the night I saw her through the window of the
little gallery on Sante Fe Blvd. She had grown up since then, no longer
nervously trying to belong. She was wearing a strapless, black evening dress
and a gorgeous pair of high-heel shoes that had a little strap that wrapped
around her ankles.

 “Hey you,”
she said reaching out to take my hand. Then she kissed my cheek. “I want to
introduce you to Marta Stephens who made all of this possible.”

 “Hello.”

 The older
woman with auburn hair smiled with feigned modesty. “Oh Jo, stop it. You are
here because you deserve it. This is beautiful work.”

 “I’ll drink
to that,” I said taking another swallow of my golden liquid.

 “And you
remember Margaret Alpert.”

 The same
gentleman I had seen accompanying her months ago was standing next to her now.

 “I do. How
are you this evening?”

 “I am fine.
We hear you are doing some work for the Daily Camera.”

 “Yes, that’s
true. I’ve been there for…about a week now.”

 “I have been
a regular subscriber for some years now. I have a home just north of Pearl
Street.”

 “It’s a
beautiful town. I really enjoy being there.”

 She nodded.

 “Jo, you
will have to excuse us. I need to say hello to a few more of this evening’s
artists,” Marta Stephens said.

 “I
understand. Then she turned to me with large eyes and pressed her face into my
neck. What are we doing here?” she whispered.

 “I think
we’re at the opening night of your gallery showing, rubbing elbows with some
pretty rich people who seem to like your work,” I replied with a grin and
dropping back my last swallow.

 “You know
who I met tonight?” she asked, still whispering into the corner of my neck.

 “Who?”

 “Jack.
Nicholson!”

 “Really?” I
asked looking around to see if he might still be lurking somewhere.

 “He just
came up to me and said, ‘Hi I’m Jack, I just wanted to say that I like your
work.’ Then he walked off. All I said was thanks. I mean, what do you say when
Jack Nicholson walks up to you out of the blue and says he likes your work? I’m
such an idiot.”

 She laughed
and shook her head. I laughed with her.

 “Did he look
like he does on TV?”

 “Pretty
much. The woman who was with him was gorgeous.”

 “Really?” I
looked around again, in an over-exaggerated manner.

 Jo slapped
my shoulder.

 “Some guy
named Mark Peters also came up and talked to me and said he might be interested
in helping me put a book together.”

 “Wow, sounds
like it’s been a big night.”

 “I’m glad
you’re finally here. I just don’t feel like myself around these people.”

 “Well, don’t
worry about it. It sounds like you’re doing great to me.”

 “Have you
seen my parents?”

 “No. I’m
lucky I found you. This place is huge.”

 “Whew,” Jo
said putting her hand on her stomach.

 “Are you
okay?”

 “Yeah. I’m
just going to go use the little girl’s room. I’ll catch up with you in a few
minutes.”

 I looked
around, but I just didn’t understand most of what was on display.

 One
sculpture was of a kitchen table set with plates, a milk carton, cups, utensils
and butter dish all completely wrapped in one-dollar-bills. This was too
interesting to pass up, so I put my camera to my eye and shot this from several
different angles. Then there was a larger than life size painting of
half-a-dozen Nazi soldiers standing around looking at a woman holding a baby
with a little Hitler mustache. This one was drawing a crowd.

  I
looked at a few more pieces then came back, but there was no Jo. So, I started
wandering around one of the permanent exhibits. There were some western
paintings, a sculpture of businessmen standing around in carnival masks and a
wire frame in the shape of a horse. Then I found a vintage print of Ansel
Adams’ ‘Half Dome, Merced River’ in a corner of the main hall of western art.
This I could understand.

 The white
snow of this beautiful mountain and the serenity of the mirror lake in the
foreground made the rest of the craziness of tonight seem foolish. Here I was
sipping Champagne in a building that someone spent tens of millions of dollar
to build while somewhere out there was a quiet lake, naturally formed, that was
so beautiful it utterly shamed this place.

 I looked up
and there was still no Jo. I looked at my watch. It had to have been more than
twenty minutes since she had gone to use the restroom.

 I started
looking for her parents.

 I finally
found them and asked if they had seen her. They hadn’t. I walked around a
little longer, but when I still couldn’t find her I asked her mother to go in
and see if she could check on her. Her dad looked worried. This made me
worried.

 A few
minutes more and she and her mother emerged. Jo was pale and disheveled.

 “Baby, are
you okay?” I asked taking her arm.

 She smiled.
“Yeah, I think the Champagne got to me that’s all.”

 “Do you want
me to take you home?”

 “I’m going
to head home with my parents, but I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

 “Okay,” and
I gave her a gentle hug. Then she took her father’s arm and they left.

 I looked at
my Champagne glass, now empty, set it on a railing and made my way home.

 The next
morning I sent her a text message asking how she was. She said she was feeling
much better and planned on spending the day with her parents. I told her that
we should try a new sandwich shop that just opened across the street from her
campus, and she said that that sounded like a good idea.

 A few months
passed and things were busy. Busy at school, busy at the newspaper. So busy
that I only saw Jo a couple of evenings a week. I was missing the days when we
were at school together and we could sneak off campus for lunch and wander
around Golden.

 Things
between my mother and I were not what they had been, but they were better than
they could be. I didn’t go to the house, which meant I pretty much never saw
Peter. If I needed to talk to her, I would just call or stop by her store.

 I decided
that it was time to let her know that there was a very good chance that in a
few months she would have a new daughter-in-law, so on a surprisingly warm
Tuesday afternoon in April I walked into her store with some warm drinks from
her favorite little café on the corner.

 “Hello!” She
said laughing as I walked through the front door. “It’s good to see you. I’ve
missed you.”

 “I’ve missed
you too mamma. I brought you a mocha.”

 “Oh, you
didn’t have to do that.”

 “I’m due at
the Camera in a couple of hours and thought maybe we could chat for a little
bit. Is it a bad time?”

 “NO! no,
it’s never a bad time for you. Let me just let Jenny know that I’m going to
take my break. Have you met Jenny? She’s my new assistant.”

 “No, I
haven’t.”

 “Jenny, this
is my son Alex. Alex this is jenny. She’s been helping me re-do my tax system
on the computer. The IRS seems to find a way to make things more and more
difficult every year.”

 “Hello,”
Jenny said shaking my hand.

 “Jenny, I’m
going to take a break for a little bit and sit and talk to Alex in the back
room. If you need anything just holler.”

 “No
problem,” Jenny said, lying open a magazine on the counter.

 “So how are
things at school?”

 “They’re
good mamma. A war photographer came and gave a presentation last month for
those of us in the Journalism department. His work was really amazing.
Afterward I started asking him a few questions, he said he had some time and we
ended up having a coffee and talking for over an hour. He had some amazing
stories.” 

 “You’re not
thinking about becoming a war photographer are you?”

 “No. I mean
not right NOW. It’s just interesting to see what other shooters are doing. Some
of these guys aren’t necessarily right on the battlefield anyways. He said that
two-thirds of the work he does is in places after some catastrophe has struck.
But no, I’m happy at the Camera. It would be nice to finally get to put a stamp
in my passport though.”

 “Well how
are things between you and Jo?”

 “Actually,
that’s what I came by to talk to you about. We’ve been growing a lot closer
over the past several months, and I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

 “Really?”
She started laughing and we hugged each other.

 “Yeah.”

 “Oh honey.
Congratulations.”

 “Thanks.”

 “Does she
know?”

 “No, at
least I don’t think so, you’re the only person I’ve talked to about it. I want
to surprise her.”

 Then my
mother’s eyes grew large. “Have you picked out a ring yet?”

 “No,” I said
looking down at the floor. “I had started saving a little, but when I got laid
off at the studio I had to spend that money on rent and food.”

 “Hang on a
second.”

 “Okay?”

 Then she
left the room. When she came back she was holding a small box.

 “I got this
in on consignment last week, and do you know who I thought of when I saw it?”

 “Who?”

 “Jo.”

 I opened the
box. In it was a white gold band that split and wrapped around a beautiful
round diamond. The band was inlaid with more tiny diamonds where it held the
center stone.

 “Wow.”

 “That stone
is nearly flawless,” she said.

 I held it up
to the light. Countless tiny prisms of color fought to escape their clear
prison.

 “How much is
it?”

 “Don’t worry
about that.”

 I put it
back in the box and clicked shut the lid. “No way. How much is it?”

 She shook
her head. “Alex, it’s a three-thousand dollar ring.”

 
THREE.
THOUSAND. DOLLARS?

 
“But,
the woman is getting re-married and just wants to get rid of it. I was just
about to mark it at sixteen hundred, but the store gets a fifty-percent cut.
She only wants eight hundred for it.”

 “Are you
serious? Eight hundred? I have three at home right now.”

 She laughed
and nodded.

 “Just take
it with you.”

 “I can’t do
that.”

 “Yes you
can. Alex, the store will cut her a check for her half and you can pay me
back.”

 “But what
about your eight hundred?”

 “Are you
kidding? Do you actually think that I’m out to make a profit off of my own son?
Call it a wedding gift.”

 “Oh mamma.
This is amazing. Are you kidding? I thought for sure I’d have to wait at least
another six months before I’d be able to afford anything decent. And this is SO
much more than decent.”

 I opened the
box and looked at the ring again. Then I hugged her and kissed her cheek.

 “Thank you
so much.”

 “I’m glad I
could do it for you.”

 “Could I
leave it here, just for a day or two. I don’t want to take it to the paper with
me and something happen to it.”

 “That’s
fine. I’ll put it in the vault.”

 Then I
handed it to her.

 I was
hesitant to ask, but I did often think about it.

 “How are
things between you and Peter?”

 She shrugged
her shoulders.

 “It takes a
while getting used to living with someone else.”

 “Is
everything okay?”

 “Yeah,
everything’s fine.” Then she realized something and looked at me. “Peter is in
Texas for the week, overseeing some construction project. Do you want to come
by the house for dinner?”

 “I’d love
to. Can I bring something?”

 “What do you
think?”