by Ben Loory
And then the boy sees that she’s an old woman, just as he’s an old man. And the two of them are wearing their wedding rings, just as they always have been.
Oh, says the old man, I must have dozed off.
It’s okay, says the woman, it’s late.
And the two of them kiss and pull up the blankets, and hold each other through the night.
PHOTOGRAPHS
THE MAN HAS A PROBLEM. HIS FOOT DOESN’T LOOK right. He can’t tell exactly in what way. It’s just different, somehow; there’s something wrong with it. He keeps eyeing it, trying to figure it out.
He starts sorting through old photos of himself, looking for a good one of his foot. With a photo, he’d be able to tell instantly. But the only ones he can find are blurry and indistinct.
All these years and not a single good close-up of my foot, says the man. This is terrible.
He looks down again at his problematic foot.
I really need to be more careful, he says.
A moment later, the man starts taking pictures.
He takes pictures of every part of his body. Arms, legs, fingers, toes, knees, eyebrows, elbows. He takes very good, clean close-ups. Well lit. From dozens of angles.
Then he puts the photographs up on the wall.
That oughtta do it, he says.
Now every day when the man gets up, he goes immediately to the wall. He checks what he sees there against his actual body, to make sure everything is still the same.
It seems to be a pretty good system.
I think we’ve got this under control, he says.
Then one morning the man wakes up, only to find that all the photographs have changed.
The man stares at the photos in shocked disbelief.
What the . . . ? he says. What on earth?
Very carefully, he tries to match the strange body parts in the photos to the parts of his actual body.
And that’s when he notices that the parts of his body have all suddenly changed as well.
My God, the man thinks, and runs into the bathroom. He stands there, staring into the mirror.
The man in the mirror is completely different.
The man is no longer himself.
What’s going on here? the man cries out loud.
He runs his hands through his hair.
It’s me, right? he says. It’s me! I’m me? It’s me?
He looks, but the man in the mirror doesn’t answer.
Okay, says the man, think, think, think, staring at the strange face in the mirror. The photos are wrong but I’m wrong too—but I’m me inside—have I gone insane?
Then, a moment later, he’s suddenly figured it out.
It’s the pictures! he says. The pictures did this!
He runs into the other room and tears them from the wall, grabs the lighter fluid, and heads into the yard.
He stands and watches as the photos burn and the smoke drifts up into the sky.
Thank God that’s over, the man says after a while. That one was way too close.
Then the man remembers the horrible face that the mirror in the bathroom showed him.
Oh God, he says. I can’t go back in there. What if that face is still there?
So he picks up a crowbar, puts a hand over his eyes, and goes in and smashes the mirror to pieces.
All right, he says. That settles that. Finally, that chapter’s closed.
But is the chapter closed? No. No, it’s not.
Now the man has a bathroom with a gaping hole where the mirror was, and a wall in the living room that reminds him of the photographs.
Now all the man thinks about is what isn’t there.
Now all he does is lie in bed.
One day the man awakens in the hospital.
Do you feel okay? says the nurse.
I don’t know, says the man. Am I really sick?
Well, says the nurse, could be worse.
The man sells his house and moves to another state. A warm state, a state with a coastline. He buys a house that’s on the beach and makes juice every morning from fruit that grows on a tree in his yard.
The man even has a mirror in his house. He looks into it from time to time. He was nervous at first, but it’s all right now—as long as he doesn’t stare very long.
The man spends a lot of time wandering around. He plays shuffleboard and makes some new friends. The more of them he meets, the more he learns that there are other stories like his.
Yeah, says one fellow. The photos got me too. Shoulda never messed with the things.
Me too, says a woman, shaking her head. I thought it would be a good idea, but it wasn’t.
It really wasn’t, she adds, looking over at the man. Really, you know, it wasn’t.
The man lies in bed at night thinking it over. None of it makes any sense.
The whole thing’s terrifying, he says, and then looks down. On the other hand, my foot’s okay today.
So he gets out of bed and goes down to the beach, and stands there in his tattered robe. Overhead, a full moon shines down; below, sand nestles between his toes. The man stands and watches the waves for a while, and breathes in the cool night air. And then for a moment he closes his eyes.
And smiles.
The world is still there.
THE WALK THAT REPLACED UNDERSTANDING
THE MAN DOESN’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING. HE TRIES to understand, but he can’t.
Eventually, he gives up.
I will go for a walk instead, he says.
The man walks out the door and is eaten by a lion.
Ouch, he says, and gets up and walks on.
He goes down to the store and buys a watermelon. He eats it all in one bite.
Sure is nice weather we’re having, he says.
Then he sees the mountain approaching.
Hello, the man says to the mountain.
But the mountain just ignores him and walks by.
I wonder where the mountain is going? says the man.
And so he decides to follow it.
The man follows the mountain for miles and miles. It’s hard to keep up; the mountain moves fast.
This would be so much easier if I was on top of the mountain, the man says.
So he runs really fast and jumps onto the mountain and climbs up onto its peak.
All around the man, the world moves past. Houses and sharks and trailer parks, and graffiti and Chinese restaurants. Envelopes and mossy rocks and oak trees and bars, and rainstorms and everything in between. Everything the man has ever seen or heard of or dreamt of, or not dreamt of—never dreamt of once—never dreamt of even one time.
It is really quite something, this parade of everything.
The man can’t wait to see the rest of it.
Just then the mountain comes to the ocean. It starts to wade out and in.
Oh no, the man thinks. What do I do now?
The mountain is rapidly vanishing beneath the waves.
If I hang on, I’ll drown, the man thinks. But I’ve become so attached to the view.
So in the end, he clings tightly with both hands to the peak as the mountain goes below.
With his eyes open, the man can see a large number of fish. There are bank fish and umbrella fish and refrigerator fish and math fish. There are dirt fish and chair fish and hate fish and car fish. There are some fish that the man doesn’t know what kind of fish they are—and some fish where the man isn’t even sure if they are fish!
Wow, the man says, this is really something!
But when he says that—when he opens his mouth—all the water rushes in.
And very quickly the man begins to drown.
Glug! says the man. Glug! Glug! Glug!
And he immediately lets go of the mountain.
The man is borne back up to the surface. He lies on the beach for a while. He vomits up an extremely large amount of saltwater—and a watermelon—and watches the sunset.
When night falls, the man decides it’s time to go
home. He stands up and brushes himself off.
All right, he says, now which way do I go?
He doesn’t know; but luckily there are stars.
THE WOMAN AND THE BASEMENT
THE WOMAN HAS NEVER BEEN TO FRANCE BEFORE, AND neither does she want to go now. Same goes for England, Scotland, Egypt, Russia, Africa, Japan. The only place the woman wants to go is down into the basement. That’s the only place she’s interested in. And so that’s where she’s headed.
The woman packs a little picnic basket. She brings sandwiches and cookies and a thermos full of coffee. She also brings a flashlight; she figures she may need it.
At the last moment, she drinks a glass of water.
She’s not sure how long she’ll be gone.
The woman opens the door to the basement. There is a light switch; she flicks it on. The stairs are wood and make a pleasant sound—clop, clop, clop—as she goes down.
When she gets to the bottom, the woman looks around.
So this is the basement, she says.
It doesn’t look like much—a big room, some shelves, a few cardboard boxes.
The woman walks around a little bit.
This is much smaller than I imagined, she says.
Then she notices the hidden door.
Oh, she says, and opens it.
The woman wanders down the passageway.
This is more like it, she says.
The passageway is narrow and very dark. The woman turns on the flashlight.
There are spiderwebs all over the place, and it is eerily quiet. The woman’s heels make a clicking sound.
I wonder where this goes, she says.
Just then the passageway takes another turn.
Oh, says the woman, stopping short.
In front of her is a wall.
The passageway has come to an end.
The woman turns and looks around.
Maybe I missed a turnoff, she says.
She heads back the way she came. After a while she starts to frown.
Is this where I was before? she thinks. This doesn’t look the same as it did.
She wanders and wanders and wanders and wanders.
She doesn’t seem to get anyplace.
By now the woman is very hungry.
I guess it is lunchtime, she says.
She spreads a napkin on the floor, sits down, and opens the basket. She takes out a sandwich and then the cookies and the little thermos of coffee.
Mmm, she says. This coffee is good.
Just then the flashlight starts to die.
Oh, says the woman, taking another bite of her sandwich. I knew I should have brought extra batteries.
She eats the rest of her meal in the dark.
Well, she says, time to move on.
She puts the remains of her lunch in the basket—the thermos, the napkin, etc.—and then she stands and picks a direction.
Eenie meenie miney moe, she says.
The woman wanders along in the dark.
This sure is exciting, she says.
Every now and then she bumps into a wall.
Woops, she says. Guess it’s not that way.
Finally, after many hours of wandering, the woman comes to a door.
Ah, she says, and opens it up.
Oh God, she says, and slams it closed.
The woman stands there in the dark. She doesn’t know what to do. She takes a step back, but—as always—she’s up against a wall. Same with the sides—both sides, just walls. It’s the door, or nothing at all.
Fine, the woman thinks, let it be nothing.
And she stands there in the dark.
After a while, the woman grows tired, and finally she closes her eyes.
I’ll just take a nap, she says to herself, and leans her head against the wall.
But when she opens her eyes again, she finds she’s lying in bed.
Not her bed, but someone else’s.
Why does this always happen? she says.
Outside the window, it is a beautiful day. She can see all the buildings standing there. So many of them, so clean, so bright, rising up into the air.
The woman sits and puts her feet on the floor. She tries to find the strength to stand. She takes another look out the window.
Like it’s hard to build up, she says.
In the kitchen, the woman finds the fridge is full, and there’s a kettle of water on the stove.
When the kettle whistles, the woman picks it up.
In the cabinet will be a thermos.
The woman knows.
HADLEY
THE GUARD IS TAKING A HEAD COUNT, AND HE COMES UP one man short.
Hadley? the guard says. Hadley?
But Hadley isn’t there.
What are we going to do? the guard says to the other guard.
I don’t know, the other guard says. The warden is going to be mad.
The guard makes a big doll. The same size and shape as Hadley. He puts the doll in Hadley’s cell.
That oughtta do it, says the other guard.
The days go by. Everything is fine. Mealtimes are the hardest part. The guard takes “Hadley” to the mess hall in chains, as though the prisoner were under close watch. He even cuts up Hadley’s food and feeds it to him very carefully. Hadley is too dangerous, he insinuates, to be allowed to handle silverware.
The other prisoners all are fooled.
I wonder what Hadley did? they say.
They hope they don’t do the same thing one day. Being fed by a guard would be humiliating.
Then one day something awful happens.
What is it? the guard says to the other guard.
The other guard is white as a sheet.
It’s the warden, he says. He wants to see Hadley.
The guard escorts Hadley into the warden’s office. He puts him in a chair and stands beside him.
You can go, the warden says. This is a private matter, just between Hadley and me.
The guard looks at the warden. Then he looks at Hadley.
I think he wants me to stay, he says.
The guard and the warden both look at Hadley.
Hadley doesn’t reply.
The guard stands in the hall outside the warden’s door. He doesn’t know what to do. He stands there for a long, long, long time. Finally, he hears the warden calling.
Yes? says the guard, opening the door.
Hadley is lying on the floor.
The prisoner is sick, the warden says. You should probably take him to the infirmary.
The guard carries Hadley down the hall. Hadley coughs and coughs.
It’s okay, says the guard. You’re gonna be all right.
But he has a hard time believing what he says.
Hadley’s eyes are swollen shut, and there are dark circles around them. His skin feels strange, and he is very cold.
How could this happen? thinks the guard.
The guard sits by Hadley’s bed for days.
What’s the matter with him, Doc? he keeps saying.
We don’t really know, the doctor says. He’s fine, except he’s dying.
The guard looks at Hadley.
You can’t fix him? he says.
No, says the doctor. We tried that. Best advice is hope and pray.
And then he walks away.
The guard stays in the infirmary every night. He holds Hadley’s hand and talks to him.
Can you hear me, Hadley? he keeps saying. Can you hear me? I’m here. Can you hear me?
But the only response he ever gets is the sound of Hadley’s shallow, ragged breathing. And then one day Hadley’s cold and still, and the guard is all by himself.
The guard knocks on the warden’s door. He does it with the butt of his gun.
Come in, says the warden, and the guard goes in.
What are you doing with that? says the warden.
What did you do to Hadley? says the guard.
What did I do? says the warden. I did nothing.
The warden stares at the guard. Then he shakes his head.
You wouldn’t understand, he says.
I’ll understand, the guard says. You’ll make me.
And he raises and cocks the gun.
Go ahead and shoot, the warden says. You’ll never learn anything from me. Go ahead, really; be my guest. It’s not like it’ll do you any good.
The guard’s finger tightens on the trigger, but for some reason he can’t seem to shoot. The trigger’s stuck; something’s wrong. He curses, tries again and again.
Meanwhile, the warden laughs.
When you’re done, he says, you’re fired. Turn in your gun on the way out. And your keys, your badge, and uniform.
The guard stands outside the prison gates. The other guard stands beside him.
I’m sorry, the other guard says to the guard. I don’t know why things like this happen.
On the bus ride home, the guard sits quietly, staring out the window at the world. He watches dully as it all drifts by—all of it flat and gray. There is no sound but the sound of the engine, and the creaking of the worn-out bus. There are no other passengers on board. The guard is all by himself.