A Door in the Mirror, Page 2

  He let the door swing shut behind him as he hurried down off the porch and once again into the blinding sun. The limp tongues of corn lashed at his face and feet as he ran.

  He looked out across the field rustling, singing always its ancient chant, and he looked at the road back to town, going off in the distance like an endless serpent winding. The boy looked, and he felt a strange sensation of knowing fill him. He could see his future spilling out before him, bright and clear. It was in that moment given to him, as though it had been long ago set down and he had only now been permitted to read the thing.

  He smiled – a strange smile which the other men would have called odd and too adult for such a young boy – and he disappeared into the field.

  * * *

  Fragment

  He loved the smell of gasoline and the feeling of oil between his fingers. His ceaseless exigence was a breathing thing, a rasp in the throat, a cold hand at his back. His dreams churned of mechanical dread, of time’s weight. He lay on his back watching the ceiling seem to move, and inside him something bright and sharp is growing. He is empty, like a thing trying to be born, wanting only love. Love love love.

  He cannot name his desire, he knows only the desire itself, and he will cling to that.

  * * *

  Development

  Of course it was Ben's idea, I'd never have dreamed up something like that. I mean, I needed the money as much as him, but Ben was the one with drive enough to go out and make things happen. Our old soccer coach would have called it hustle – he loved a boy with hustle, he used to say, his fingers chalky with dirt. Back then I never really understood what he meant; it's the sort of thing that only becomes clear with time.

  The whole thing started with the camera. It seems so simple now, seems like it should have had a more momentous beginning. But life is like that, things just happen, and you never know what you're going to get swept into. We were at the thrift store – they kept the air conditioner cranked real high there, and it was the sort of place we could hang out without anybody calling the cops on us. I saw it first, this dirty old Polaroid camera stuck up on the shelf behind old copies of a Gerald Ford biography. I saw it, but Ben was the one who took it down. “You want this?” he asked. I just shrugged. It was a piece of junk, real beat up, all nicked and dented and battered about. I said that I doubted it even worked.. There were only a few blanks left in the cartridge; the price tag stuck on the shutter said $5.25.

  Ben stole it, because five bucks was five bucks and he figured why the hell not.

  He took it back to his Dad's trailer and shoved it under a pile of socks or something and I forgot all about it. Like I said, small beginnings.

  Back then we spend most of our time hanging out together. We had a couple places, private places away from it all. There was this abandoned RV behind the trailer park that we especially liked, we mostly used it to hide stolen porn mags and cigarettes. A couple weeks after we'd stolen the camera, he brought it to the RV and told me his plan.

  “This is it, man, this is it!” he waved the camera over his head as he crawled in through the busted skylight.

  “This is what?”

  He flopped in, falling hard and bounding back up to his feet in one awkward motion. “Don't you get it? I had this idea. We can take pictures of anything we want, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. So?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. It always annoyed him that I didn't catch onto his schemes sooner. But like I said, I didn't have the same hustle.

  “What are we gonna do with a camera?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Blackmail.”

  “Who the hell are we gonna blackmail? We don't know anybody.”

  “Marylou Walker, maybe?” He lifted the camera to his eye and mimed a few snaps, clicking his tongue. “Take a few shots of her stepping out on her old man, see what she'll pay to get 'em back!”

  “Please, like he doesn't know already.” Everybody knew about Marylou, her husband worked with a logging crew up in Canada and she always left the bedroom curtains open so you could peak in and watch if you wanted. We used to wait outside all night for her to bring some guy back from the bar down the road. I always wondered if she knew we were there, if she was putting on a show just for us.

  “Otis Farnsworth, maybe? Catch him smoking dope, get a couple shots of him sucking on that ol' bong of his?”

  “I guess. I don't think he could pay us that much.”

  Ben shook his head. “Jesus Christ. You really do take the cake. A golden opportunity like this falls into your lap and you... pfft.” He popped his thumb up, like an baseball umpire calling an out. “I'm disappointed, Constance.”

  “Don't call me that.” I glared. He only called me by my full name when he really wanted to get under my skin. Connie was bad enough, substitute teachers always looked surprised when they saw I wasn't a girl. My folks were so doped up back then, it took them a solid month to realize they'd had a boy. That's the story they told me, anyway, but they were laughing while they told it so who knows.

  Ben sighed and put his feet up.

  I shrugged. “Why don't we just, like... take pictures of birds and stuff?” I didn't really know what people did with cameras. Took pictures of their families pretending to have a good time on vacation, was my best guess.

  Ben groaned. “Birds? Jesus, I'd rather take a picture of my own ass.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, seriously. I'll do it right now.” He laughed, delighted with the idea.

  He unzipped his pants and pulled them down around his knees. I made a disgusted sound and turned away. We weren't those kinda kids who were afraid to get naked in the locker rooms or anything – you couldn't be, the way we'd grown up – but I still didn't really want to see my friend sticking his butt in my face.

  Ben was giggling, twisting about awkwardly and lifting the camera with one hand to get a good angle. The camera gave a little hiss when he pushed the button and the photo printed, rasping out into his waiting hand. He lifted it against the light and squinted at it as it came slowly into focus. It wasn't much of a picture, just a dim and blurry shot of my best friend's ass-cheeks. Not the sort of thing you'd expect would change your life. He whistled. “Beautiful! They should add this to the Sistine Chapel.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it's a real work of art.”

  Ben snickered. “I'll just put it with the stash then.”

  “No way. I don't wanna see your stupid butt next time I'm in here.”

  We found our first pornographic magazine on the side of the highway when we were nine years old, and it had blown our minds. Even today I can still remember the picture that greeted us when Ben peeled back the muddy cover: a woman draped in a red nightgown sitting on the edge of an iron chair, her legs spread wide open. I remember the color of her lipstick, her old-fashioned hairstyle, all of it is so clear in my mind. I don't even remember my mother's face as well as I do the shape of that anonymous woman's breasts. It drove us wild, from that day on we were constantly searching for more. We used to dig around truck stops and convenience stores for porn, or sometimes we'd just find it in the woods all wrapped up in black plastic bags. Everything we found got brought back to the abandoned RV, and was treasured. We called it our stash. I'd come out here sometimes in the dead of night with a flashlight and a box of tissues and I'd stay for hours flipping through the pages and listening to the sounds of the wind cutting through the broken window-frame. I think I knew every picture in there by heart. Anyway, I didn't want Ben messing with it, and I sure as shit didn't want to find pictures of his ass in there.

  Ben was laying on his back with his legs up in the air. He waved the picture over himself like a charm. “Alright alright. But I gotta do something with it. I mean, can't just toss something like this. It's our first picture!”

  “Hey Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get over yourself, will ya?”

  He smirked. “No chance.”

  I'll never f
orget the next thing I said. I didn't mean anything by it, it was just a joke. Never in a million years would I have thought he might take it seriously. But that was the difference between Ben and I. Between Ben and the rest of the world, really. Joke and fantasies, all those daydreams you put away in the back of your mind: they were real to Ben. There was nothing he wouldn't try.

  “Maybe you could sell it,” I said, “you just gotta find somebody who'd want that crap.”

  He sprang to his feet. “Connie, you're dumber than you look.”

  “Screw you.”

  Then his expression changed. He looked at the picture again, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You know what, I think I know just the guy. Come on.”And he clambered back out the window without another word.

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Ben, just forget it!” But he was already gone, and all I could do was follow, or else stay behind and miss out. I've never been able to stay behind.

  I had to run to catch up, he was already way out into the woods, and he wasn't stopping. He ran, waving the picture over his head, and it felt like we'd gone miles before he finally pulled up short. I stumbled to my knees when I caught him, panting and gasping for breath.

  He crawled up onto a rotten log and watched me with his head tilted to one side, kinda like a curious bird.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  He grinned and put on a spooky voice, “The edge of the woods...”

  “Yeah? And why's that?”

  He pointed ahead through the trees. “Look.”

  I looked, and saw what he was pointing to. It was a house. It took me a minute, but I recognized it. “No way. Come on, Ben. No way!”

  “What?” he pulled an innocent face. “We just put it in the old mailbox.”

  “Are you serious? He'll find it tomorrow when he checks his mail.”

  Ben's grin only got wider. “Nah, I don't think so.”

  “And why's that?”

  “Mailman doesn't even deliver out here anymore. Hasn't for years. It's a dead box. That's what my cousin called it. Nobody would ever look. Hiding right under his nose. It's too beautiful.”

  I just shook my head.

  The mailbox in question belonged to Victor Barnes.

  Everybody back then knew about Victor Barnes. His father owned the railroad company, back when there were still railroads, and he'd left his son the big old house out on the edge of town – not to mention about as much money as any one person could expect to spend in a lifetime. He used to be a gym teacher at the elementary school, way back in the sixties. Not like he needed the money, but people figured he had a passion for children. And he did, just not the way they thought. He got caught with his hands down some kid's pants, and that put a quick end to his teaching career. It probably would have landed him in jail if not for the fancy big city lawyer he'd ponied up for. Nobody really saw much of him anymore, but everyone knew he was out there somewhere, this rich old pervert who lived in the woods, haunting our town. It didn't surprise me one bit that he didn't use his mailbox – I mean, who would want to send that guy mail?

  “Come on, Connie. It'll be like, poetic justice, or something.”

  “How's that?”

  Ben shrugged. “Well, maybe it's just funny, then.”

  “I guess.”

  Ben didn't waste any more time talking. He darted into overgrown scrub of Mr. Barnes' lawn, photo clutched in both hands. I wandered at the edge of the forest, searching for some sign of life in the tall dark windows. I didn't see a damn thing. The place was empty for all I could tell. Ben shoved the picture in the box and shut it with a flourish. He skipped – actually skipped! – back to where I was hiding and dusted off his hands. He was real showy like that sometimes.

  “See there, my good man? Nothing to it.” He grinned.

  “Yeah yeah. Whatever. Let's get back home.”

  “What you wanna go back there for? It's only, like, four o'clock.”

  “You do what you want, man. I'm gonna split.”

  He frowned. “What's up, Connie?”

  I just shrugged. Our little adventure had put me out of sorts, and I couldn't put my finger on why. I looked back once more at the old house in the clearing. It was like something out of a bad dream; all the paint peeling off and the shutters hanging askew. It was the kind of place you might die and never be found. It gave me a real weird feeling.

  I went back into the forest, kicking through the dead leaves and listening to them crunch beneath my shoes. Ben watched me go; he didn't try and stop me.

  * * *

  It had seemed like a big deal at the time, but I actually forgot about the picture in the mailbox not long after. Life just got busy. Dad broke his parole and went back to prison for another year. Mom went back on dope and started dating her dealer again. Ben got picked up for stealing from the uptown drugstore, but I guess he talked his way out of juvie somehow. School hadn't yet started up again, so I was trying to keep my head down and stay out of everybody's way. A Polaroid in some old bastard's mailbox was the least of my concerns.

  It was about three weeks after we'd planted the photo that Ben came to find me. I was paying a visit to our stash of magazines when he came tumbling in through the window. I'd only just settled on a picture – one of my favorites, a tall brunette in a wispy little thong cupping her breasts with both hands, her head thrown back and teeth gritted as if in ecstasy or pain – when he came busting in. It was a total violation of our rules, but Ben hadn't ever had much use for rules, not even his own. I tugged my pants back up and I was about to tell him to go to hell when he shoved the envelope in my face. I could see right away that it wasn't any ordinary envelope. It was made of some sort of stiff cream-white paper, all embossed and stamped with swirling floral lines and patterns. It looked expensive.

  “Where'd you get that?” I swept aside the magazine I'd been looking at.

  Ben just grinned. “Guess!”

  I rolled my eyes. I was painfully aware of the boner crammed in my pants, and in no mood to play Ben's game.

  Ben couldn't wait: “It's Barnes, Connie. Victor Barnes.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It was in his mailbox.”

  “You can't steal somebody's mail, it's illegal!”

  “I didn't steal it. It's for me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because of what's inside.” Ben tapped the edges of the envelope with the tips of his fingers. “I went back to get the picture, I dunno, I just wanted it back. But I found this instead.”

  I groaned with frustration. Ben had always liked to tease, everything was always a performance with him. I thought about trying to grab the thing, but he was probably ready for that and would only snatch it away at the last second.

  “Just tell me, okay?”

  He didn't tell me. He showed me. Slowly, with great care, he open the envelope and took out a crisp twenty dollar bill and a small piece of paper. He gave me the paper, and put the money back in the envelope.

  My fingers were shaking as I unfolded the paper. I don't know exactly why, I guess some part of me knew even then that it was all going to turn out badly. There were two words written on the paper in small neat handwriting: Thank you.

  I looked at Ben.

  Ben grinned back at me. “We are going to be so fuckin' rich, man.”

  I guess that was about the last thing I expected him to say. I didn't know how to respond, so I just stared.

  He snatched the note back and returned it to the envelope. “Think about it, Connie! Just think about it! What's the one thing that old perv can't get?”

  I shrugged.

  Ben groaned at my stupidity. “Come on, dude!” He grabbed the magazine I'd been reading and shook it at me. “This! This is what he wants!”

  “Yeah? And? He's rich, he can buy all the magazines he wants, retard.”

  “What if they don't make the kind of magazines he wants? What if it's something he can't get?”


  “Like what?” I asked, though I suppose I already knew the answer.

  Ben smiled. He opened his hands with a flourish, as if to say: here I am.

  I shook my head. “You don't know what you're talking about, Ben. Even for you this is... this is fucking crazy.”

  “Why!” He flew to his feet and burst into a frenzy of motion. “Why is it crazy? Why shouldn't we do it? Who cares what gets the old pervs rocks off?” he snatched up my magazine and waved it in my face. “Do you think she cares that you and me yank off in her face every day? She don't give a shit! It's just her fucking job! She stands there and somebody takes the pictures and she get paid. It's easy fucking money, dude! Why should we be any different?”

  “Yeah... but... but we're not-”

  “What, you think we're better than them?” He throw down the magazine. I looked at it. The woman stared back up at me. She was touching herself, her eyes icy and distant.

  Ben punched the wall, practically boiling with frustration. “Come on, Connie. Aren't you sick of this shit? Of being nothing? Just trailer trash? He's got the money, and we've got the one goddamn thing he wants. So let's get rich, man.”

  “I... I can't do...” my voice caught in my throat. My brain was spinning, working desperately to come up with some kind of argument. It was no good, never had been. Ben just thought too quick for me to keep up with. He was always three steps ahead.

  “Nobody would ever know, man. You think he's gonna tell anybody? He'll take it to the grave. Nobody would ever know.” He slid the twenty back out of the fancy envelope, and looked at it. “I'll bet there's a lot more where this came from. A lot more.”

  I swallowed hard. “Well... what would I have to do, exactly?”

  “Don't worry about that yet, let's just take this one step at a time.”

  “So what's the first step then?”

  Ben retrieved the camera from its hiding spot in one of the RV's unused cabinets. We'd had a lot of plans for what we might put in them, back when we first found the old RV out here in the woods. There had been all sorts of things we wanted to do but somehow never got around to. Ben popped off the lens cap. “First things first, Connie. We need to make sure.”