In the House of Mirrors

by Tim Meyer

  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 sh
ave 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.

  I entered Cameraland and spotted Little Chris behind the counter. Big Chris was the owner, Little Chris was his son. Big Chris was—well, big. He weighed probably close to three-hundred pounds. Little Chris was no small-fry, but he was nowhere near the size of his father. Probably got his mother's genes and good for him; his father was one ugly bastard. Nice man, but he looked like something out of a Universal Studios horror film from the 50's. Little Chris—whose last name was Pickens, same as his father's—was repairing someone's digital camera when I approached the counter. He looked up at me and nodded.

  “You again,” he said, grinning. He was a good kid, I could tell. My sense of character told me Chris Pickens Jr. was a gentle giant. “Need some pictures developed?”

  “Not today, young sir.” Young sir. I was probably only five years older than him. “I do need—however—five rolls of the good stuff.” I felt like a heroin addict going to get his fix. Taking pictures was highly addictive.

  I told him I needed a specific film to capture action shots; people walking, talking, or maybe even running. Chris Pickens Jr. nodded, telling me that the quality of the pictures may be sacrificed. I told him that was okay and then he reached underneath the counter and grabbed the film I needed. I didn't ask him any questions or second guess him. Little Chris had never steered me wrong. I'll never forget the little lesson he gave me the very first time I came into his father's store, looking like a new homeowner in a hardware store. He showed me everything even though he never heard of Denlax before, and before I knew it, I was loading the 35mm film into the camera all by myself. I became used to the Denlax, figuring out its quirks in almost no time at all. I adjusted to the capture button (which I called “the trigger”), which sometimes got stuck if I pressed down too hard. I became comfortable with it and quite frankly; I liked the piece of shit camera. Furthermore, I enjoyed my brief trips to Cameraland and my conversations with Little Chris, who was always there anytime I stopped in. I only saw Chris Pickens Sr. there once, but it was on a weekend, and business was busier than normal.

  I was really starting to dig the photography bus
iness, and I had the Denlax and Little Chris to thank for that.

  But it would only be a matter of time before things started to go bad for me, before I'd find out about my camera's bizarre defect, which ended up being more like a curse.

  6

  I paid for my film and left Cameraland when there was still light left in the sky. I had an hour, maybe more, before darkness fell, and I'd have to take pictures with the flash on. I figured I'd head out west to Treebound, where a house burnt down earlier that day. Sheldon wanted a snapshot of the ruins for Sunday's edition. I planned to have it to him in plenty of time, before my stakeout began.

  I glanced at the black-marble notebook Uncle Bernie gave me. There was a lot of information about Danica in there, but few notes were taken about her lover. There was one tidbit on a separate piece of paper, near the back of the book. It said:

  Martin Olberstad

  753 Conifer Street, Apartment G11

  Red River, New Jersey.

  I decided to start my mission there. It seemed like Uncle Bernie knew nothing about the man who was banging his wife. I wouldn't say I didn't believe my uncle's accusation, but I've always been a “seeing is believing” kind of guy. I needed some proof. And if there was any truth to my uncle's story, then it started with Marty Olberstad. Danica would be easy to tail, because I knew her routines, thanks to Bernie's keen observation of his wife's daily wanderings. It seemed he had already done a bit of reconnaissance himself, which further supported my decision to start with Marty.