penance. a love story (The Böhme Series)

by Sarah Buhl

  I opened my bag and took my camera out. I inhaled several deep breaths before stepping under the crime scene tape and walking across the well-manicured lawn. I prepared myself for a house filled with people by getting the exterior shots first. Taking the photos calmed me as I thought of the closeness inside the walls waiting for me. I will have to be near them, they will bump into me, and they will touch me. The plus was the crime scenes are clear of them when I begin my work with Reynolds. No one wants photos with random cop boots in the corner.

  I found the crime scene where everyone was lingering and saw that it was a newer one. I heard someone say it was ten hours old. Ten hours ago, these people were living. Ten hours ago they were taking breaths of air, giving them life. Ten hours ago, others walked past their home and didn’t give a thought of what was happening behind their door. I was reading a book in my loft ten hours ago.

  An officer told me it was a married couple. The neighbor found them both dead with a gunshot wound to the head. The wife’s went through the back of her head and the husband's his mouth. I stepped closer to them and stared as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. They weren’t real as I looked at them. They were part of an art student creation and any minute they will stand from the couch to go grab an espresso. I kept my face flat, thinking of them as actors.

  I took photos as Reynolds told me what areas of the room I needed to focus on for the close-ups. He came to stand beside me, “Looks as though the husband didn’t agree with what the wife wanted to watch. I guess reality shows lost to football,” he said on a laugh.

  I glared at him over my camera. I understood that desensitization came with the job for most of them. In a few months, I learned to separate myself from what I saw. But making jokes of their deaths? That’s a new level, even for Reynolds.

  I was photographing their last moments on earth. I saw this as an extension of what I do daily with my photography. Humanity has many faces. I needed to believe theirs remained even in such violent deaths. One of them could be dying and they wanted to take control of their own deaths instead of leaving everything to fate. They couldn’t go on or end without the other.

  No matter the reason, after the case is closed, their deaths become a vague memory. It becomes one among thousands alphabetized and numerated. The humanity of their death lost in cabinets and boxes. I hoped their loved ones didn’t remember them in this scene.

  What causes people to do this? Despite the shit I went through, I never wanted to end my life. The numbness and fear leaving me, if for a few minutes, was what I wanted. Theirs ran deeper as it was a fear of going on without the other.

  Forensics came in and needed to take blood samples from the couch. I stepped away to make room and noticed the family photos covering the mantle. It was surreal comparing these photos with their death scene. The photos showed them smiling and sitting with a dog under a tree. Christmas and wedding photos tucked into frames, showing happier times. They were a young couple and they appeared to be in love. But these posed photos created a false pretense of happiness. They never displayed the true lives the occupants lived. Happiness was easy when told to smile on the count of three.

  I walked into the kitchen and found eggs left in a bowl as if someone were preparing to bake a cake. I pulled my gloves from my jacket when I saw a book on the counter. The cover image reminded me of my mother and my curiosity won as I picked the book up to read. From the summary, it was a horrible fucking story.

  As I flipped through the pages a smell that was more overpowering than the eggs hit me. It was a strong perfume and it wasn’t random. It was the cheap, nauseating scent she had worn. I tried to push away the flashing memories. But she always won with me, even in her death.

  I set the book back on the counter and braced myself as I drew my eyes closed. I squeezed them shut as I tried to block the scenes unfolding in my mind. The door was opening and I saw her silhouette in the hall light. The perfume was the trigger so I stepped closer to the eggs, hoping their smell would overpower it and force my thoughts away from my mother. She was long dead. Her body was ash and she could no longer cause me harm. The physical pain ended years ago, but the emotional continued. It held too deep of roots to let a simple death separate her from me.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Wynn? You took photos before you touched anything in here right?” I heard from behind me. I opened my eyes and my face was right over the bowl. Oh damn. I look psycho.

  “Nothing, looking at the eggs and yes, I took the usual overviews and a couple mid-range photos. I was getting ready to take the close-ups. Do they know time of death?” I rushed through my words.

  “Um, yeah, they said at least ten hours old, remember?” He crossed his arms as he raised his eyebrow at me, “You okay, Wynn?”

  “I’m fine, just waiting to finish the close-up photos in the other room. When do you need these?” I asked as I raised the camera up, trying to distract him from the crazy behavior I couldn't hide.

  “You know the drill we take them back to the station to process as soon as we leave here. You sure you’re okay?” he asked as he dropped his arms and made himself appear more casual. He was playing his cards, trying to make me relax, by showing how relaxed he was.

  I nodded, “Yep, I’m fine. I’ll finish and get these to you.”

  I went back into the room with the bodies and saw something I didn’t notice earlier. The man was holding the woman’s hand. He killed her, and held her hand as he shot himself. My analysis earlier was right. This wasn’t an act of anger.

  I took a photo of the hands and as I looked at the image on my viewfinder I thought of the conversation Hannah and I had at the coffee shop. When she held my hand, an explosion of fear filled me. Obvious reasons showed this man was frightened as well and though it formed from different circumstances, we were both afraid to live. He was afraid to go on without his wife and I was afraid of moving forward with Hannah.

  I hate the touch of others and she gave me a knowing expression as if she read my thoughts. As soon as her fingers touched my skin, I cringed on instinct. By having my eyes closed, old fears came in and I thought I was going to get sick. When Hannah began her light tracing though, there was no way to contaminate it with my memories. Her gentleness was consuming my fear of life. For those few moments as she traced my hand, I wasn’t as afraid to jump from my walls and live.

  “I think I’m done,” I said to Reynolds. I took photos of every labeled spot and of the entire bloody scene on the couch and I wasn’t sure if I could handle more.

  “Okay, Wynn,” he said as he took a deep breath and raised his shoulders. He was a big guy with dark hair and a few stray grays. He couldn't be much over thirty, but the job aged him. I looked at him for a moment and saw the sadness he tried to hide. He hadn’t had this job for long, but I could tell it was wearing on him. As much as he tried to hide it, I could see the burdensome look in his eyes. He continued to carry his cases long after they closed.

  I walked past the uniformed people and kept my head lowered. I was out of place here. When I hid behind my camera I felt sane, but having to smile and give greetings felt awkward and insincere. I went under the crime scene tape and my phone buzzed in my pocket telling me I was receiving a text message.

  I got your number from Gabe who got it from Blake. I hope that is okay. –Hannah

  I laughed out loud when I read it. I didn’t understand why she needed to reach out to me, when she had her own problems. As intriguing as it was to cross paths with her, I didn’t know what to do from this point forward. I worried my ever present anxiety will rear its head and trying to contain it as well as I did at the coffee shop will be in vain.

  When I was with her, the walls didn't close in on me. I focused on her and everything disappeared. I was afraid to let someone have that kind of power over me.

  Me: Not a problem.

  Not much, but I didn’t know what else to say as texting a girl wasn't usual for me.

  Hannah: I hope things are
going well. :)

  I smiled.

  Me: As good as they can be. I have a question.

  Hannah: Really? Go figure. :)

  I didn’t want to ask, but I needed to ask.

  Me: Do you want to go somewhere with me tomorrow?

  I waited for a few moments as I stood in my own insecurity. I hit send before I could take it back. It took her awhile to respond and I imagined her sitting over her phone, contemplating what to say. After several minutes, she responded.

  Hannah: Yes. What time?

  The next day, the thought of seeing her again caused emotions to bombard me—fear, claustrophobia, excitement, embarrassment and anger for being who I was. My reaction at the crime scene was still messing with me. I was sure it stuck in my mind from going through the photos with Reynolds until the early morning hours.

  People have asked me what I do for a living and look at me strange when I tell them. A frightened expression forms on their faces and the conversation ends and they walk away. I didn’t understand the fear of it. But the photos from yesterday made me think further. Is it death or the bodies bothering them? Or is it the total loss of control death brings? That might be the scariest part. None of us can hide from death.

  What the dead once hid in life are given to the living. Books, photos, papers, letters, clothes, everything making it a life now belongs to loved ones. They hold authority over its fate. Important boxes kept in the attic or under the bed become piles labeled keep, giveaway, or throwaway. If family or friends aren’t there to do it, strangers are left to decide.

  I parked my bike outside of Hannah’s building and took a deep breath, and shaking my shoulders tried to dismiss my thoughts. I checked my phone and I was a few minutes early, so I took my time as I walked the stairs up to her door. When I went to knock it swung open and a short, cheery girl smiled at me with enthusiasm.

  “Hi,” she said as she held onto the door and leaned against it continuing to smile at me. “I’m Maggie. Hannah’s cousin.” She waved her hand toward the apartment, “Come in, please.”

  I stepped into their apartment and kept to the hallway. The hall itself was narrow and closed in around me. I tried to calm my breathing as I took in the piles of books filling every corner, waiting to be shelved.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Maggie said. “We’re still unpacking. You can sit in the living room or kitchen if you want. Hannah will be right out.”

  I walked into the small kitchen and sat at the table. I was uncomfortable as Maggie watched me. She was making a cup of coffee and kept looking back at me and smiling. “Do you want coffee, Wynn?” I hadn’t introduced myself yet, so Hannah must have spoken of me to Maggie. That pushed a nervous excitement through me that exposed itself in a blush on my neck.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks though.” I looked at the table and saw magazines and advertising books. “So you work at the ad agency?”

  Maggie sat across from me, “I sure do. I got into it because I thought I wanted to work with public relations, but this suited me better.”

  “That’s what Gabe does too?”

  “He does graphic design, but really wants to work with game design, but that is tough to get into I guess. But yes he works there too. Hannah says you do photography?” she asked as she lifted her cup to take a drink.

  “Yes, I do. I do stock photos and merchandise. Your agency has bought a couple of them.”

  “Huh. Small world—what’s your last name, Wynn?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  “I will have to remember that, if we need photos I will call you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, lowering my head as I heard a door close farther into the apartment. I heard Hannah walking toward us and I looked at the doorway anticipating seeing her. She wore a simple plaid sundress under a sweater and her hair was in two loose braids that fell around her shoulders. She smiled when she saw me and my nervousness dissipated. I breathed deeply at the sight of her. She was so damned beautiful.

  “Hi, Wynn,” she said as she looked at Maggie and smiled. “I hope she hasn’t been bothering you. Maggie can be overbearing at times. You didn’t ask him what time we’d be back did you?” she asked as she leaned and kissed Maggie on the top of the head.

  “No, of course not, dork,” she said to Hannah and turning to me, she continued. “Not yet anyway. When will you guys be back, Wynn?”

  I laughed, “I'm not sure, that depends on when Hannah wants to come home.”

  “Whenever I have the need to return to my cave, I suppose,” she said with a smile and picked up her bag.

  We walked toward the door and I turned to Maggie, “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You too, Wynn,” she gave a sideways smile as she shut the door.

  I followed Hannah down the stairs and we stopped at my bike.

  “I thought ahead and wore these,” she said as she pulled at form fitting pants she had on under her skirt. “I wouldn’t want to flash everyone on your bike.” She bit her lip and lowered her eyes for a moment and closed them in thought before giving her false, free smile again as if she didn’t mind if she flashed everyone.

  “Here, I have something for you.” I gave her my old helmet so we both had one. “I got that out of storage. Just as it's not wise to flash everyone, it's not wise to go riding minus a helmet.”

  She laughed a slight laugh as she took it. “Always thinking, we must,” she said as I handed her my bag and without a word she put it on her back, and tightened her helmet. “Where are we going today?”

  I climbed onto the bike and started it as she settled in behind me, “Well, I thought we could go to one of my favorite places. It’s a small place for local artists.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and the tension I felt yesterday was gone, “That sounds wonderful,” she said

  10

  Hannah

  I held tight to Wynn, wrapping my arms around him and resting my cheek against his shoulder. Regret filled me as I thought of what I almost did this morning. When Wynn asked me yesterday to go out again, it filled me with an excitement unknown to me in a long while. But in true Hannah form, guilt followed after and for one moment I thought of adding to my numbers. There was no one in particular; the urge came because Wynn was a positive which needed balanced.

  I was gathering men as most women do shoes. Mismatched pairs left in the bottom of my closet, never to be worn again but filling my life with clutter. They were numbers in my mind without memory. I couldn’t care enough for them to remember. They merged into one and I forgot their individual faces. They were portions of one large mass of coldness making life more bearable. But with Wynn it was different. There was life with him and clutter was nonexistent.

  I decided that for today, I was going to forget my punishment. This day will be handed to chance and I will enjoy every moment with Wynn, no matter what.

  We rode past the college and into a part of town I didn’t recognize. There were old buildings with several small cafes on every corner. We stopped in front of an old antique store that was in the lower level of a large building. An elaborate mural decorated the side of the building that reminded me of a collage of surrealist paintings. Surrealism is already eerie, but seeing them interlocking brought an intense unease to me. Dali’s clocks melted over several images from other surrealist painters, but I only recognized his.

  “That’s incredible,” I said as I stepped away from the bike and stood below the large mural to absorb every part.

  “You can’t pass by without examining each section. Sid was an integral part in creating it,” Wynn said with a proud smile as he stood next to me with his hands behind his back. He stood tall as he gazed at the painting as if it were the first time he saw it, though I knew he had seen it thousands of times.

  “Now Sid is the tattooist, right?” I asked, bringing his eyes back to me.

  “Yes, he is, the one and only. He was the one who introduced me to art. He was always painting in his studio and as a kid I went to his house to
watch him. If it had a flat surface, he would use it. Old scratched up paintings, corkboard, windows, you name it, and he painted it. His living room was his studio. And I don’t mean that he used his living room sometimes. I mean, he didn’t have a couch or television. In fact, he never owned a TV until I moved in with him. His living room was his literal art studio.” He laughed and the pride reached his eyes. Every portion of hope and possibility that Wynn held came from Sid. The man Wynn became could not exist without Sid and I wanted to thank a man I never met for doing the world such a great justice.

  “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he does. He helped make this place. This part of town was barren, until he and the Bohemians made this.”

  “The Bohemians?” I laughed.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it's what they named themselves. When they first started, they were a group of disenchanted young men. They hated the stuffy art taught to them in school and wanted freedom. They saw how others spoke of love and peace in the sixties but they spoke of truth through art. People thought they were hippies, but they refused to be called hippies, as they were nonconformist across the board. That movement lacked freedom as it couldn't function without the widespread use of drugs, or so these guys said.” He looked at the mural with appreciation and a smile.

  He let out a deep sigh before he continued. "Sid paraphrases Dali's quote on not needing drugs, when he refers to the Bohemians lack of drug use. Sid and they believe drugs aren't necessary to unlock the imagination. He calls them the alternate solution and the lazy man's path to creativity."

  I smiled as he spoke of them. Nervousness followed after that smile as I was at a loss as what to say when I met them. That depth of creativity was intimidating.