In the House of Mirrors (5 page)

“
Forget it,” I said. “It's fine.” I got up from my seat and extended my hand.

Daniels shook my hand and nodded. “This is a tough business.”

Tell me something I don't already know.
I walked toward the door and opened it. I was thinking about how I was going to have to go home and start applying for jobs in New York. There were probably dozens of papers and magazines I could apply for. I wasn't expecting to work for
ESPN
or
Rolling Stone
, but I was sure I could get something. Even if it was part-time. I needed money. And fast. My cash tank was running on fumes.

I started to say good-bye to Dana, after I had walked toward the door in a daze, when I heard Sheldon call me from his office. “Mr. Naughton?” he called. “Mr. Naughton, could you come back here?”

Oh great, now what?
I wondered what he could possibly want. Maybe he jotted down a few other publications where he had connections. Maybe not. It didn't matter, because anywhere I applied to was going to be the same bullshit. Full-time writers were becoming extinct.

“
Mr. Naughton, I have a proposition for you. Would you come back into my office?” Sheldon asked.

I looked at Dana. She shrugged in an obliviously-cute way. She obviously knew as much as I did.

“Sure!” I yelled to him with all the cheer I could muster, and walked back to his office.

“
It almost slipped my mind. The paper is actually in need of a photographer, someone to basically post pictures onto our website, and submit a few for the weekly edition. Nothing spectacular, just something to accompany a few of our front-page articles. The man previously employed in that position also worked on our website.” He waited for me to say something, but I remained quiet. “Would you be interested in something like that? It's not full-time, but the pay is decent. You'll get paid per photograph, and we can work out a small salary for maintaining the website. It said on your resume that you took a web design class in college.” I nodded, although I didn't remember ever taking a web design course. “What do you say?”

If I had known then what I knew now, I would have told him to go fuck himself with a long thorny stick. But, I didn't. Instead, I extended my hand and asked him, “When can I start?”

4

I took one photojournalism class, and that was during my last year at Rutgers. Nearly a decade ago. Couldn't tell you who the instructor was, or what was taught.

Most publications don't staff photographers anymore. The quality of cell phone pictures are just as good nowadays anyway. I, on the other hand, had the shittiest camera phone ever. It was basically worthless. Besides that, I never even owned a camera. Never needed one. Lynne was the documenter on our little vacations to Florida every year. I'm pretty incompetent when it comes to taking pictures, or so she always told me.

Sheldon Daniels offered me a job, and I wasn't going to turn it down. It wasn't long term, so I didn't worry about whether or not I could do it, or the quality of work I was going to produce. This was only to hold me over until I could find something else. Some
real
work, whatever that consisted of in my field these days.

The one thing a photographer needs, is a camera. And as I previously mentioned, I didn't own one. I asked Sheldon if there was one I could use temporarily, or if I could buy one and be reimbursed. He claimed money was tight and they couldn't afford to buy me a new camera, which I found to be improbable, but I kept my mouth shut. He told me to ask Dana if there was something in the basement that I could use. He grinned oddly. I thought nothing of it, just another Sheldon quirk.

I briefly explained to Dana what had happened (she congratulated me and welcomed me aboard) and that Sheldon wanted  me to peruse the basement in hopes to find a camera. She searched her drawer for two minutes before coming up with the key that unlocked the supply room. Reluctantly, she got off her seat and led me to the stairs, which led down to the basement.

“
I've only been down there twice since I started—which was two years ago—and it was really dark and smelled like piss,” she told me.

“
Wonderful,” I said. “Sounds like my first apartment.”

She smirked (clearly not funny enough for her to laugh), and opened the door. I flipped the light switch on and a tiny bulb burned dimly at the foot of the cement stairs. “You go first, it's creepy down there.” And so I did. It took about six steps before the odor Dana had described so eloquently hit me like an unsuspecting wave. If I was to hang out down there longer than ten minutes, I'd have probably caught cancer. “See, I told you,” Dana said, pinching her nostrils together.

I reached the bottom and there were two doors on either side of me. The one to the left said BATHROOM (hence the smell of piss). The one to the right simply said SUPPLIES. Dana slipped the key into the lock and opened it quickly. It seemed she wanted this to be over more than I did.

The room looked as if it had been recently ransacked. Besides a few boxes of pens that were spread across a tiny desk, it was mostly vacant. There was a folder with a few blank sheets of loose notebook paper. A wastebasket next to the desk housed a few crumpled pieces of paper in it. There was also some on the dusty floor that had missed the target. A few empty bookshelves sat snug against the far wall. One bookcase—on the right side of the room—had a stack of newspapers in them. I shuffled through them out of curiosity, but there was nothing of interest.

“No one comes down here,” Dana said.

“
Clearly,” I said. “Well it looks like there aren't any cameras down here after all.”

Then, her eyes widened, as if something exploded inside her mind. “Wait a minute.” She walked over to the far wall and bent down. There was a small cardboard box I hadn't noticed when I first scanned the room. The desk in the center of the room must have blocked my view. She combed through it furiously. “Ta-da!” she exclaimed, as if she had performed a magic trick. In her hands, she held a camera that appeared decades older than us.

The camera
.

The camera that changed everything.

5

My knowledge of photography was limited, and my knowledge for cameras—makes, shapes, and sizes—were even less than that. All I knew about the one Dana had handed me was that it was old.
Really
old
. I'm guessing it came from the 70's. Maybe 80's. I didn't know because the manufacturer failed to date it. The manufacturer? Oh, some company named Denlax. I'd never heard of Denlax before, but I knew it wasn't a Canon or Nikon. The makers had also neglected to stamp its place of origin. It was larger than any camera I ever held, certainly quadruple the size of cameras nowadays, which can practically fit inside your wallet.

“
It's a little... out dated,” Dana said, as I took the archaic device from her. “Lester left it here with some of his other things.” She rifled through the box on the floor. “It's all junk, but we just haven't gotten around to throwing it out.” She thought for a moment, while I studied my new toy.

I was barely paying any attention to her, something she was used to judging the look on her face when I stopped ogling the camera. “Lester? Who's Lester?” I asked.

“He's the guy whose job you just filled.”

“
He quit?” I asked, still twisting the camera in all sorts of angles, trying to get a feel for the thing. It was like holding an instrument made by Martians—I didn't know where to begin.

“
He started missing days here and there. Came in when ever he felt like it. He never had his photos in on time. Sheldon was forced to fire him. I was here the day he did it. I heard them arguing in the back. It wasn't my business so I just went out to lunch.” She paused, thinking back to that day. “I'm surprised Sheldon took so long to fill his spot, I mean, I guess with cell phone cameras most of the writers take their own pictures. He didn't do such a wonderful job with the website—Lester, I mean. I don't know who is doing it now.” She watched me working the camera in my hands like a Rubix cube. “Will you be taking over the website, Mr. Naughton?”

“
What? Me? No. I mean, yes. Actually I don't think we've actually... ah...” My mind had farted and shit came out.

“
Mr. Naughton?” she asked, confused as to what I was doing. Honestly, so was I. 

I stared at her, like a child lost in a department store would at any stranger. “Dana, I'll be honest with you. I don't have a fucking clue how to use this thing.” I smiled, but inside I was nervous as hell. I didn't think I could do it. I was a writer, not a photographer. Sure I could snap a few photos on Riddick's Smartphone while out in the field, but I was never one for taking oodles of pictures, laying them all out and deciding which ones were of the best quality. And furthermore, I hated pictures. I never liked being in them, never liked taking them, never even really cared to look at them. I was always the one to avoid group photos by standing behind the tallest person in the picture, or just blatantly ruining them by making myself look like a jackass. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but give me five hundred words and I can paint an image in your mind so vivid you can practically smell a four-alarm fire, or see the grisly murder of an Atlanta hooker who had her ovaries removed by some sicko in a mask. I conveyed words into images in your head, and I was good at it.

I was a writer, and I was good one.

“
Well I don't either,” Dana said. “I guess your going to have to learn, Mr. Naughton.” She shuffled over to the doorway. The hour glass in Dana's mind had expired. Our time in the creepy basement had come to an end. “I'm sure you can figure it out. You look like an intelligent man. And if you can't, well I guess there's always the Internet.”

6

Dana was right; there was always the Internet. I found dozens of Youtube videos on how to work a camera similar to mine. I say “similar” because after hours of searching the Web, I couldn't find the Denlax model that I had borrowed. In fact, I couldn't find a website for the company that manufactured it. Not even so much as an article. The only thing that triggered a hit on Google was a traveling freakshow that coincidently passed through New Jersey in the early 1900's. Denlax was the last name of the family who ran it. But there was no mention of the camera. It was as if the camera and the company that made it had never existed. I found it odd, but didn't pay it much attention. I was too obsessed with figuring out how my model worked, so I could start taking photos and start getting paid. Money was always the best motivation.

I sat on the couch studying the Denlax. I watched a video on how to detach the film from the back of the camera. The video instructed me to pull a knob up from the left side of the camera, and I did exactly what it said. Next, I twisted the knob counter clockwise. The back of the camera swung back, like a door being blown open by the wind. There was a compartment where a small cartridge of film about the size and shape of a D battery sat. I pulled it out and wound the used film back to its original form. It was crinkled and appeared too damaged to salvage. I threw it in the trash and decided to purchase my own roll of film.

I looked at the camera and laughed. If you would've told me a year ago that I'd be back in New Jersey taking pictures for a small-press paper, I would have chuckled in your face.

Life is funny sometimes.

Fucking hilarious.

PART TWO

THE ORDER OF THE

BLACK BOOK

CHAPTER SIX

March brought worse weather than February. It snowed heavily during the first week, the last of three major storms to hit us that winter. It made me miss the “winters” in Georgia. It rarely snowed, and when it did, there was little or no accumulation. The two feet of snow that drifted to my sister's doorstep reminded me of snow days from when I was in grade school. Anne and I used to have movie marathons on those days, which lasted anywhere from ten to twelve hours.

In the past few weeks, I became comfortable at my new job. I did a lot of research—most of it monotonous—on how to use my new toy. I was beginning to get the hang of the bastard. I wasn't the best photographer, but I held my own. No one complained, and I guess that's all that mattered. Photography always seemed to be a boring hobby to me, but during those first few weeks with the Denlax, I actually began to respect and enjoy it.

I did what I could in regards to the paper's website. Sheldon didn't have any complaints, and if he did, he didn't share them with me. The class I took at Rutgers came flooding back to me once I got into it. It seemed my predecessor's web design was lackluster at best, according to most of the staff. Dana told me she liked the new layout, the one I slaved over, much better than the one Lester had done. It was far from fancy, but not as bland as the original design. I won't toot my own horn but the sales regarding web-based subscriptions jumped five percent since the revamp.

(Toot-toot.)

It wasn't long after I had gotten settled in my role as web designer/photographer before things began to change. My life in Red River would become very complicated, and very strange. It all started around the end of March, when I received a phone call from Uncle Bernard, my mother's brother, whom I probably hadn't seen since I was six years old. He lived in Brookford, about thirty miles north of Red River. Apparently, he found out that I was back in the area from you-know-who. My mother had also informed him that I had taken a job shooting pictures for a local newspaper. She told him I wasn't making very much money—which happened to be true—and I was on the lookout for something else—which was also true. He told her he might have a little job for me. But Uncle Bernard didn't need a photographer. What he needed was a private investigator.

Unfortunately for the both of us, he couldn't afford one.

2

“So can you help me?” Uncle Bernard asked, as he took another sip from his beer. He called me earlier that day, asking if we could meet at a bar on the far end of town—a dingy joint called The Hop. The place was a pit of despair, an inspection away from being shut down. It did little for the eye; the walls were made of plain wood paneling, with no decorations to liven up the place. There was a shotgun mounted above the bar, which answered any questions about what type of place this was. There were a few silent elderly folk who seemed to be enjoying themselves, and there were a few loud assholes in the corner, laughing over jokes I couldn't hear. The place wasn't crowded, and I got the feeling it never was.

“
What you're looking for, Bernard, is a private investigator. I'm afraid I can't help you,” I told him, sipping from my own bottle of beer. This was the first beer to cross my lips since the night Robert caught me sneaking around in the kitchen. I didn't even really feel the need to have one, but the cool crisp liquid felt refreshing on my tongue, and even better when it traveled down the back of my throat. “Anything I document won't hold up in court, because I'm not licensed.”

“
I know that,”
he muttered under his breath, intentionally trying to be quiet. There were maybe ten people in the bar, and none of them looked like they gave two shits about anything except the drink in front of them, and the timeless joke being passed around the room like a two-dollar whore. “I just... I just wanna know...” he said. I could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. I felt bad for him. I really did. But I wasn't cut out for this kind of work. I could write about something like this, but I couldn't take part in it. “You know... your mother told me about why you came back. About what happened to you... and... what was her name?” He scratched his mustache, trying to recall whatever it was my mother had told him.

“
Lynne,” I said.

“
Lynne,” he repeated. “You of all people should understand my predicament, Ritchie.” Watching a grown man fight tears was an interesting experience. I slid my unused napkin across the table. He snatched it and patted his eyes.

Bernard “Uncle Bernie” Friedman had grown suspicious of his wife, Danica Friedman. He was convinced she was cheating on him. What he needed was proof. I'm not sure if he planned on divorcing her, or what exactly his endgame was, but he needed her and her lover photographed. This basically meant I'd have to spend entire days following my aunt around, taking pictures with the Denlax, and doing things you'd find in a low-rate PI novel. I wasn't exactly
gung-ho
to take my uncle up on his offer. He said he'd pay me one hundred bucks a week, all he could afford. He'd supply me with all the information I needed; her tendencies, along with a list of her frequently visited establishments, were recorded in a black marble notebook which rested in the middle of the table between us. Uncle Bernie pushed it toward me.

“
I know you can help me. Please...”

His words tugged on my empathy like an angry puppeteer. I felt for him, I really did. However, I still didn't want to do it. Why? Well, firstly, I knew less about stalking people than I did about photography. Although I picked the latter up quickly, I felt I'd never get used to stalking. Not really my thing. Without the proper professional documentation, I'd be nothing more than a creep. But Uncle Bernie didn't give a shit about that. Perhaps he wasn't looking to come out on top of a divorce;
maybe he just wanted to know.
Maybe if he knew his wife had been unfaithful, it would be easier. Maybe it was killing him not knowing. I tried to think back to my own situation, and what kind of shape I'd be in mentally if I only suspected Lynne of cheating, and not have caught her in the act. I came to the conclusion that it probably would have driven me mad.

It was because of that thought I accepted his proposition.

A smile overtook his face, stretching from ear to ear, as he shook my hand vigorously. “You don't know how much this means to me, Ritchie. You really don't.” He drained the last of his beer. “Let's get started, shall we?”

I chuckled. “If
I
do this, and I do mean
I,
it's going to be done my way, with great patience and—”

I couldn't finish my sentence. He put a finger to his lips, then shook his head slowly. “I asked you to come to this bar for a reason, Ritchie.”

“And why was that?”

His eyes pointed across the room in the direction where the laughter came from earlier. I turned, nonchalantly of course, and saw the same group of seedy characters. There were two women and three men. The two women were not much older than me. Early to mid-thirties was my guess. The men were a little older than that. Not old enough to be my father's age (if he were still alive), but not too far off. One man was standing up. He had an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was much older than the other two gentlemen. His hair was gray on the sides, but dark on top. He featured a clean shave
and a sport jacket. He appeared to have money, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was overcompensating for something. It was clear from my Uncle's finger that this was the man he wanted me to see.

“
See that man standing up?” Bernie asked. “The one with a cigarette in his mouth?”

“
Yes..” I said.

“
That's him.”

“
Who?”

“
Marty Olberstad,” he told me. I didn't see (because I didn't turn around) but I could tell by the sound of his voice that my uncle's smile had vanished. I followed the man with my eyes, as he headed toward the exit. “The man who is fucking my wife.”

3

I walked Uncle Bernie to his car. He lit a cigarette and started puffing away like it was going to be his last. He grew quiet since pointing out his wife's suspected lover. I knew how he felt—sort of—and I related to the mopey look on his face. I thought about telling him that everything was going to be all right. I also thought about telling him that this was better than being clueless and walking in on the two of them in the middle of their naked festivities. Then I thought it would be better to say nothing.

“I'm glad you came out tonight,” Uncle Bernie said, once we got to his car. “If you weren't here with me, I don't know what I'd do.”

“
What do you mean?” I asked.

“
Just being in the same room with him, I dunno... I felt myself going a little crazy,” he admitted. “If you weren't there, I don't know. I might have confronted him. And with the amount of alcohol I had, it might have gotten ugly.”

“
Are you sure you're okay to drive?” I asked. He drank much more than I had.

“
I've driven in worse conditions.”

“
That doesn't make me feel very confident.”

“
I'll be fine, Ritchie. You just worry about your new job.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out five twenties. “Here's the first week's pay.”

4

“I thought it would be good for you,” my mother said, in a voice that cut through me like a ragged piece of glass through soft tissue. I was agitated; mostly because she had set me up to do something she probably wanted to do herself. Spying on people and digging into their business was practically a hobby for her anyway. Yeah, that whole “mother knows best” saying; crock of shit in my book. Whoever came up with that one definitely never met Bethany Naughton. “What's the big deal? You help your uncle out with his little situation and you earn a few bucks in the process. Where's the harm in that?”

“
Ma,” I said, shaking my head. “I don't think
you
understand the situation. He's basically paying me to stalk his wife. Well, not basically. He
is
paying me to stalk her. Which I'm pretty sure is illegal, not to mention immoral.”

“
Oh, stop. You always wanted to be a policeman when you were little. Remember that? You'd prance around the living room in that little cop uniform your father brought home for you.”

“
Mom, I was six. All kids want to be policemen, or firefighters, or sports stars. That's every childhood fantasy. I'm twenty-eight years old. I don't have it in me to go around following people, sticking my nose in places it doesn't belong.”
Unlike you,
I almost said, but didn't. “I don't know if I can do it.”

“
Stop being such a sour puss.” Talking to my mother was not helping. She was the kind of woman who, if her heart was set on a particular issue, there was no changing it, no matter how much evidence was there to support the opposition. “By the way, speaking of how old you are, your birthday is coming up next month. What do you want?”

“
Oh, I don't know. How about a time machine?” I asked, with no inclination I was joking.

“
You're a riot.” I could hear her cackling.

“
Mom, you just don't get it do you?”

“
What's that, hon?”

It was obvious she didn't. I sighed, then decided this conversation was a merry-go-round I'd never get off of. So I decided to change the subject, just slightly. “When you talked to Uncle Bernard, did he seem... I don't know... different?”

“What do you mean, Ritchie?” she asked.

“
I don't know. Never mind.”

“
He was upset, no question about it. It must be horrible to have to go through that. Not being able to trust the one person you love the most in life. Not being able to trust the person you share a bed with every night.” She either paused to reflect on this, or was giving me the podium to voice my own opinion. It was then I thought that Uncle Bernard's situation was slightly worse than mine. I wasn't married to Lynne when the shit hit the fan. I was able to walk away from it all, for the most part unscathed. But Uncle Bernie and Aunt Danica had a life together. They had a house, cars, and several other treasured items which they acquired together throughout their twenty-something years of marriage. They didn't have any kids, and that was good. That would only make things messier. “It's a horrible situation, Ritchie. And for what it's worth—I'm glad you agreed to help him. He was always a good brother to me, you know that. I'm proud of you.”

“
That makes one of us. Good-night, Ma,” I said, then ended the call.

5

The next day I drove to the north end of Red River, where a small shopping plaza called
THE PINKERTON SQUARE OUTLETS
awaited my arrival
.
There were several shops within the strip mall—most of them clothing or shoe stores—and I went there frequently since acquiring the Denlax. At the end of the strip, was CAMERALAND, a delightful little joint which I had grown fond of. This is where I took my film to get developed. I could have taken it to several other non-camera specific places—all of them within more reasonable driving distance—but I liked the vibe of Cameraland. I also liked the idea that the gentleman behind the counter could provide me with tutorials on how to use the Denlax. It was something that Waldo-mart or a pharmacy could not provide, unless they had an expert on hand, which I thought would be highly unlikely. Plus I felt more comfortable in a privately owned establishment.