by Ren Hamilton
Being black himself, Copie found it grievous that so many white students thought pictures of inner-city black people walking to the market were somehow “gritty”. He supposed the shots of homeless white drunks lying on the sidewalk were no better, but they seemed to like those as well. Copie wanted to find something that would outshine the crap his fellow photography students would come to class with. He looked up as the apparition materialized in a luminous flash. Oh yes. This would outshine them all right.
He snapped a picture, and heard the familiar whizzing that said he was out of film. “Damn it!”
One shot of this thing was not enough. Snatching the second camera, he fired shot after shot of the glowing woman. The apparition disappeared quickly, but not quick enough. Success! Copie grinned. Including the one he took with the first camera, he’d gotten at least six shots of the thing.
He chuckled as he picked his backpack up off the ground. The apparition was clearly some sort of hoax. But it didn’t matter. Copie was in the right place at the right time, and it was interesting and unique. It was a hell of a lot better than old people feeding pigeons in the park, so it had better earn him a top grade.
Somebody took hold of his arm with a steel grip. Copie spun around and looked into the cold eyes of a stranger. He was of medium height with chin length curly hair the color of sand. His face was young, but the wide green eyes looked older. Copie tried to pull away, but the stranger held his arm firm. “Hey, what the—”
“Give me that,” the stranger said, and yanked Copie’s camera from his hand. He let go of Copie’s arm and headed off toward the street. Copie ran after him.
“Hey, Asshole! That’s my camera!”
The stranger shoved Copie hard, sending him back onto his ass. When Copie recovered himself, the thief was gone. “Shit!” He rubbed his elbow, then climbed to his feet and retrieved his backpack, feeling the weight of his other camera as he lifted it. Remembering that he’d gotten off that first shot of the apparition before running out of film, he smiled. The loss of the other camera hurt, but the one in his bag was his favorite anyway, an oldie but a goodie he’d inherited from his uncle when he died. And one picture was better than no pictures.
At least he had his homework done. He only prayed the picture would come out good. The camera had a nice big zoom lens, and the shot had looked tight and clear to Copie’s eyes, so fingers crossed.
“Excuse me, kid.” A squirrelly man with a cheesy moustache appeared at his side. Copie jumped, thinking his assailant was back to take the other camera. “Take it easy, I’m Kevin Wright with the Globe.” He flashed Copie a press pass. “I saw that nice camera you were snapping pictures with when I pulled up. Are you with the press?”
“No,” Copie said, brushing himself off. “I’m a student.” He turned his back and started to walk away.
“Hey, hold on a minute! Did you get any shots of the apparition?”
Copie stopped and turned back. The reporter had that hungry look, like he’d happily torture you to death if it got him the story. Copie was too tired for this shit right now. He’d been walking around for hours, and just wanted to go home and relax with a beer. “Ask someone else, man, there was a crowd by the church.”
“I already did. Everyone with cell phones got the same image, just a big blob of light. Couldn’t make out detail. I was hoping maybe yours came out better, since it looked like you were using film.”
“I don’t know.”
The reporter pulled out his wallet. “I’ll pay you for that camera. And the film you took.” He held out three twenties.
“Sorry, the camera is a family heirloom. Not for sale.”
The guy added another twenty to the pile, giving Copie a smug smile, like he was some big spender. “Just the film then?”
If Copie really did have the only clear photo of the apparition, it might be worth far more than this twitchy asshole was offering. “Actually, I didn’t get any shots of it,” he lied. “I’ve been taking pictures all day and had run out of film.”
The phony pleasant smile dropped from the reporter’s face. Copie had just become useless to him. “Damn it! Is the jumper still on the roof?”
“You’re too late. His buddy climbed up there to get him. It’s over.”
The reporter looked up at the rooftop, pulling his own camera out of a shoulder pouch. “Maybe I can catch them coming out. Thanks kid.” He took off toward the church and Copie gave him the finger behind his back. He didn’t like being referred to as “kid”. Whistling, he moved off and headed toward the bus stop.
* * * *
Joey was slumped on the rooftop a few feet away. Patrick ran over, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking. Joey’s head wobbled on his neck, his eyes two slivers of white beneath parted lids. It was an act. Had to be. Enraged, Patrick slapped him hard on the face. Joey didn’t react. “Get up you son of a bitch! I know you hear me, Joey. Get up!”
Joey’s eyes focused for a moment. He looked at Patrick, mumbled something incoherent, then seemingly passed out. Patrick shook him again, but it was like manhandling a rag doll. He supposed he could give Joey the benefit of the doubt. Joey could be a victim, a pawn in Shep’s game. But no. Even Shep wouldn’t take advantage of Joey while he was suicidal. The whole thing was a premeditated dramatization. And Patrick had played his part well. But those thoughts would have to wait. He had to get them out of there before the police showed up for real.
“Okay, Joey, I’ll get you out of here. But I know you’re faking, and fuck you. Do you hear me? Fuck you!” Joey didn’t respond. Patrick hoisted him up and swung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He headed toward a set of cement stairs visible in the corner. “I cancelled a date for this shit, Joey. Do you know how long it’s been since I had a date? You damn well better be unconscious.”
He had to stop halfway down the stairwell to slide Joey off his cramping shoulder. After a minute’s rest, he picked Joey up like a baby and carried him the rest of the way. The stairs led to a narrow hallway at the rear of the church, which led to a back exit. Patrick flicked the lock with his thumb and stepped out into the church parking lot. He spotted his car parked next to the gate alongside the graveyard, and he prayed his throbbing legs could carry Joey that far.
A flash of light hit him. He expected to see yet another of Russell and Craig’s blasphemous apparitions, but it was only a camera flash. A reporter. Patrick supposed he should be thankful there was only one of them. He could see by the crowd out front that Joey had gathered a lot of attention in a short time. “Could I ask you a couple of questions?” the man asked.
“No.” Patrick shoved past him. He ran for his car, quadriceps screaming as he struggled with Joey’s dead weight. He could hear the footfalls of the reporter behind him. He was actually chasing them.
“Hey!” the guy screamed. “Was he trying to kill himself? Did the apparition save him? Just tell me who he is! A name!”
Patrick picked up his pace, finally outrunning the little man even with Joey in tow. Tossing Joey into the back seat, he climbed behind the wheel, started the car, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. His tires sprayed gravel as he tore down the dirt road. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The reporter was standing in the center of the road, a sly, satisfied smile curling his lips. In one hand, he held Joey’s red windbreaker. In the other, Joey’s wallet. Patrick cursed loudly. He couldn’t go back now. Anyway, it was too late. The press had Joey’s name. It had begun.
Chapter Seven
Flames crackled in Shep’s huge stone fireplace and a bottle of champagne chilled in a metal bucket. Shep walked into the front room just as Patrick was dumping Joey onto the wooden floor. Joey sat up. “Jesus, Obrien! You could be a little gentler. Oh, and thanks for smacking me in the face. That really hurt.”
Patrick stood still as stone. “Fuck you, Joey.”
Shep tried handing Patrick a glass of champagne. He stood motionless, refusing to accept it.
“He’s pis
sed, Shepherd,” Joey said. “I told you he would be.”
Shep smiled sweetly at Patrick. “Come on, Obrien. Surely you can see why we had to keep you in the dark.”
“No, Shepherd. Surely I cannot.”
“It had to be believable! It had to look real! Obrien, you were so convincing. The way you climbed up the side of the church...pure genius.”
“He’s right, Obrien. You were incredible. You even got us out of there before the cops came. It was perfect.”
Patrick stared at them. “Perfect? Perfect. I could have been killed! I climbed that church because I thought Joey’s life was in danger!”
“But Obrien—’’
“Shut up, Shepherd! Just shut up!” Patrick took a deep breath, then pointed. “I have no words to describe the contempt I feel for the two of you right now. You have crossed the line of our friendship. You want to stage a freak show? Do it yourselves. You’re on your own. You’re on your own from now on.” Patrick left, slamming the door on his way out.
Shep sat down on his leather couch and took a sip of champagne. Joey stared at him, concern pinching his brows. “What are we gonna do?”
“Obrien will come around.”
Joey looked at the floor, then back up at Shep. “We need him.”
“I know that, Joey! I said he’d come around!” Shep stood and paced the room. “Damn it!” He hurled his glass into the fireplace where it smashed onto the bricks. They were both silent for a moment. Shep walked over to the window and watched Patrick’s car back out of the driveway, then tear down the street.
“How can you be sure he’ll come around?” Joey asked.
Shep whirled around. “Because he doesn’t have a choice! Does he, Joey?”
Joey ran a finger across the half-moon scar just above his wrist. “No. I guess he doesn’t.”
Chapter Eight
Somebody smelled really bad. Not that this was a novel occurrence on the public transit system. Patrick had experienced it enough times to turn it into a little game: locate the stinky passenger before the next stop. It passed the time. He was eager to keep his mind occupied this morning so he wouldn’t have to entertain unpleasant concepts, like translucent women glowing on top of churches.
He’d stopped by Kelinda’s place after leaving Shep’s the night before, still reeling from the incident. It took some doing for Kelinda to convince him she hadn’t been involved in the night’s theatrics. After the scorching betrayal by his two closest friends, he wasn’t sure what to believe. He’d also asked Kelinda point blank if she’d ever been in love with Joey. He’d been on a roll and too worked up to hold back.
She’d responded that she had in fact been in love with Joey once. When she was ten years old. The feeling had apparently dissipated when she saw him eat worms for money one day on the playground. Patrick told himself that he believed Kelinda, mainly because she kissed him while they were sitting on her couch. But the truth was he didn’t know who he trusted anymore.
Damn, somebody really stunk. A tangible layer of dirt mixed in with the standard waft of body odor. Patrick scanned the passengers. He studied a freshly scrubbed woman seated across the aisle, then let his eyes drift right to an old man wearing a rumpled sweater. His gray hair was clean and fluffy, his fingernails manicured. Not him. He glanced over at a set of teenagers with multiple body piercings. They looked strange, but they were all drinking Evian. People who drank designer water usually did not forget to bathe.
He turned his head to the left and found the culprit sitting on one of the individual chairs diagonally across the aisle. Oh yes. This was his man. He was young, perhaps in his twenties, and that was surprising. The stinkers were usually middle aged or older. The guy was visibly covered with dirt. A black greasy substance smeared his face, and his teeth were decorated with what looked like remnants of Oreo cookies. Curly black hair fell to his chin, split in an uneven part down the middle.
The hair looks like Shep’s. In fact, despite the dark hair color and disgusting hygiene, the guy looked a lot like Shep. They could have been brothers. This was unusual, since Shep had a unique look. It was also impossible, since Shep was an only child. The resemblance was uncanny, though. Underneath the grime, Patrick could see the large green eyes, long fringed lashes, and that perfect red bow of a pouty mouth that gave Shep his deceptive air of innocence.
The stranger looked up at Patrick, his big round eyes a shade darker than Shep’s, like emeralds against the greasy camouflage of filth. Patrick sucked his breath in. The facial structure was slightly different from Shep’s, but the entire package was strikingly similar.
Having been caught staring, Patrick lowered his gaze to the floor. He opted to dismiss the matter of the vagrant. The guy probably didn’t look that much like Shep after all. Patrick was merely preoccupied with thoughts of his friends. Was he going to start seeing Joey and Shep behind every tree now? A therapist would have a field day with this.
Still, he had an overwhelming urge to steal another glance. Keeping his head low, he lifted his eyes. The vagrant wasn’t looking at him this time. He was scribbling furiously into an open notebook. Something about the image didn’t jibe right. Patrick squinted at the small notebook, with its shiny green cardboard cover. Except for a scribbling of words in the upper left corner, the cover looked clean and untouched, like something newly purchased. The stranger’s dirty fingers curled around a gold pen as he wrote. Why would this filthy vagrant, who looked too poor to pay attention, be carrying a brand new notebook with a gold pen? He promptly reminded himself that it was none of his damned business.
The train slowed for the next stop and the dirty stranger stood, along with six other passengers. The train’s movement ceased with its usual lurch and the vagrant went stumbling forward, body-slamming the man in front of him. The man looked over his shoulder and sneered. The vagrant grabbed the hold bar and found his footing, but did not acknowledge the man glowering at him. Patrick watched the black-haired Shep-alike pass by. Afraid he’d be caught staring again, he dropped his eyes.
On the aisle floor was the vagrant’s green notebook. It must have fallen out of his jacket when he stumbled. Patrick grabbed it, then reached out and tugged on his dusty coat. “Hey, you dropped your notebook.”
The stranger turned to Patrick, looking startled. When he saw the notebook in Patrick’s hand, his eyes widened. He looked guilty, like he’d been caught doing something illegal. As he handed over the notebook, Patrick read the two words scribbled on the cover. The words were his name, Patrick Obrien.
Patrick froze, feeling the blood rush to his face.
The young man met his eyes and for a moment they stared at each other. Then, snatching the notebook, the vagrant jumped over the back of a chair and vaulted up onto the row of booth seats, cutting the line of departing passengers. A few voices cried out in alarm. When the stranger reached the double doors, he grabbed the hold bar and swung like a monkey out onto the sidewalk.
Patrick ran to the opposite window, scanning the street for the stranger, but he was gone. The other passengers stepped off and the double doors closed as the train moved on. Befuddled, Patrick fell back into his seat. Coincidence. Surely he wasn’t the only man with the name Patrick Obrien, especially in Boston. How very odd, though. He gave his head a shake, determined to dismiss the incident. He had enough to be paranoid about without worrying that Boston’s homeless were conspiring to spy on him.
Patrick was fumed to find his office door open, the light on, when he got to work. He dealt with highly confidential files and nobody was supposed to be in his office when he wasn’t there. He stepped in and put his briefcase down. Nothing looked amiss, save for an open newspaper spread out on his desk. He snatched the newspaper up, about to toss it in the trash when he saw the photograph. His coffee cup slipped from his fingers.
On page three was a picture of Patrick carrying Joey like a sleeping child out of Saint Mary’s Church. His own strained features grimaced into the camera. Beneath the photo was a
caption reading “Prophecy or Prank?” Patrick placed a hand on the desk to steady himself. He tore off the yellow Post-it someone had attached. Patrick, come to my office when you get in. It was Henry Donnelly’s handwriting. “Oh God,” he whispered, and eased himself into the chair.
He skimmed the article. It told of an alleged apparition on top of Saint Mary’s church the night before. Witnesses interviewed claimed to have been cured of a variety of ailments, from arthritis to migraine headaches. Patrick shook his head, unable to muster the humor to laugh. The article went on to name Joseph Pierre Duvaine of Boston as the man thought to be planning a jump to his death just before the image of what some claimed was the Virgin Mary appeared. Patrick did laugh then as he read the start of the next paragraph. Joseph Duvaine, the man God would not allow to die, was said to have…
But it was the last two lines of the article that turned Patrick’s blood cold, as they identified Patrick by name, stating that both he and Joey were employees of Parker Investments, a financial organization located in downtown Boston. “Son of a bitch!” he whispered. He looked down at the yellow Post-it in his hand. Donnelly wanted to see him. He didn’t have to guess why. All Donnelly had asked was that he not associate Joey’s name with Parker Investments. Oops.
“I am so fucking fired.”
When he reached Donnelly’s office, Matthew told him to go right in, that he was expected. The nervous looking assistant chewed his thumbnail, gawking at Patrick like he had a bullseye tattooed on his forehead.
Donnelly was at the back wall, staring out the window. “Sit down please,” he said. Patrick sat. Donnelly turned away from the window and took his chair across the desk. From a drawer, he drew out another copy of the newspaper and slid it over to Patrick. Patrick’s own tortured face stared up at him. “Out of sheer, nagging curiosity, I’m going to allow you the luxury of explaining this…incident, Patrick. If you can, that is.”