The Double Bind

by Chris Bohjalian

  BEFORE PACKING AWAY Crocker’s photos at the UVM darkroom—the finished ones that he had kept with him all those years, as well as the negatives Laurel had printed herself—she ripped a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad and scribbled a time line indicating roughly when they had been taken. Most of the dates were guesswork based on Internet research: The Hula-Hoop had been invented in 1958 and the craze had run its course by the early 1960s. Assuming that the photograph of the two hundred girls with their Hula-Hoops on the football field had been taken at the pinnacle of the toy’s popularity, it had probably been snapped between 1959 and 1961. Laurel’s aunt Joyce had looked at the liner notes of her cousin Martin’s Camelot CD and given Laurel the rough years when Julie Andrews had played Guinevere. Other dates were even more imprecise: Eartha Kitt was ageless, but Laurel guessed she was about forty in the portrait of her Crocker had taken outside Carnegie Hall—a guess based entirely on Laurel’s sense that Kitt looked about the age she had been when she had played Catwoman on the old Batman TV show, and the performer was thirty-nine that year. Sometimes Laurel gave a picture a date based on nothing more than her profoundly limited knowledge of vintage clothing and cars.

  And yet as approximate as the time line was, it was helpful nonetheless.

  Crocker Photos: Rough Dates

  Mid-1950s:

  Chuck Berry

  Robert Frost

  Jazz musicians (many photos)

  The Brooklyn Bridge

  Muddy Waters

  Plaza Hotel

  Late-1950s:

  Beatniks (three)

  Eisenhower (at United Nations?)

  Real Gidget (Kathy Kohner Zuckerman)

  Hair dryers

  Autos (many)

  Washington Square

  Train station, West Egg

  Cigarettes (in ashtrays, on tables, close-ups in people’s mouths)

  Street football underneath Hebrew National billboard

  1960/61:

  Julie Andrews (Camelot)

  Girls with Hula-Hoops

  Early 1960s:

  Sculptor (unknown)

  Paul Newman

  Zero Mostel

  More autos (a half-dozen)

  Manhattan cityscapes (including Chrysler building)

  New York Philharmonic

  IBM typewriter (three)

  Greenwich Village street scenes (four)

  Chess players in Washington Square

  1964:

  World’s Fair (a half-dozen shots, including the Unisphere)

  Freedom march, Frankfort, Kentucky

  Martin Luther King (at Frankfort march?)

  Lyndon Johnson (in big hat in a ballroom)

  Dick Van Dyke

  Mid-1960s:

  Eartha Kitt

  Bob Dylan

  Myrlie Evers-Williams

  Brownstones (in Brooklyn?)

  Mustang in front of Marshfield estate (car introduced in 1964)

  Midwestern arts-and-crafts house (looks like Wright)

  Nancy Olson

  Fifth Avenue bus

  Modern dancers (a series)

  Late-1960s:

  Jesse Jackson

  Coretta Scott King

  Lava lamps (many—a series? for an ad?)

  Jazz club (a series)

  Joey Heatherton (I think)

  Sunbathers at Jones Beach

  Central Park series (picnics, baseball, the zoo, hippies)

  Paul Sorvino (and Mira?)

  Love beads and peace medallions

  Early-1970s:

  Flip Wilson

  Unknown rock band

  Actors: Jack Klugman and Tony Randall

  World Trade Towers

  Wall Street (many)

  Main Street, West Egg

  Ray Stevens (maybe)

  Liza Minnelli

  Jazz trumpeter

  Late-1970s (or later!):

  Valley of Ashes office park (not real name)

  Plaza Hotel (again)

  Jewelry box (may be art deco, but on negative strip with Valley of Ashes office park)

  East Egg train platform

  East Egg shoreline

  West Egg shoreline

  My old swim club (Gatsby’s old house)

  Crab apple tree (a few prints, one with a little pyramid of apples beside it)

  Late 1990s/Early 2000s:

  Underhill dirt road scenes (two with a girl on a bike)

  Stowe church

  Waterfall

  Dog by bakery

  Mount Mansfield ski trails (in summer)

  She noticed that either Bobbie stopped working through much of the 1980s and 1990s, or those images had been lost. She also found it interesting that he seemed to have returned with increasing frequency as he grew older to East and West Egg and the Valley of Ashes. It was possible that he had been returning there all along, annually perhaps—she had that photograph of the West Egg train platform with cars nearby from the late 1950s—and those negatives and prints had simply disappeared over time. But she had a feeling this wasn’t the case. She imagined him in his mid- to late-fifties, retracing his steps and the swath left behind by his parents. She noted how he had photographed the Plaza at least twice, and she was sure that he couldn’t help but see through the walls of the hotel to the steamy afternoon when his mother’s lone (at least Laurel believed it was lone) infidelity had become clear to his father.

  She gazed at each of the images before she packed them safely away in the portfolio case. What could have taken ten minutes took close to ninety. Initially, she presumed she was searching each photograph for whatever it was that Pamela Marshfield or Terrance Leckbruge so desperately wanted—the clue to their impenetrable interest. She was looking as well for the devil: a person, an image, a carnival freak. Wasn’t that what Pete Stambolinos had said? There might be a photo of a carny. But there wasn’t, at least not yet. There certainly weren’t any images from the county fair held annually near Burlington. There weren’t even any images that might be considered in the slightest way threatening.

  And so, increasingly, she found herself studying the compositions themselves, Bobbie Crocker’s use of light and dark, and the way he was capable of making even the most journeyman subjects fascinating: a typewriter. A cigarette. Men playing chess. She feared that her printing wasn’t doing them justice. He deserved better.

  After she had boxed the prints up, she decided she couldn’t bring them back home. Yes, it had only been a squirrel in the apartment today. But tomorrow? Other people wanted these images; Bobbie had understood that. It was why he had shared them with no one. And so she viewed the squirrel as a sign sent by a guardian angel. The message? Put those pictures someplace safe.

  And that place certainly wasn’t going to be her office at BEDS. She trusted Katherine, but not the lawyers. David’s co-op was a possibility, but that might endanger his little girls if someone broke in. And while his office would be secure—it was impossible to venture inside the newspaper without either an ID card with a strip that could be read by the scanner or being buzzed inside by the receptionist—that security might also preclude her from accessing the materials when David wasn’t there. She knew some of the receptionists, but not all.

  Briefly, she even considered Pete Stambolinos, appreciating the irony of hiding the photos in the very same building in which they had moldered the last year of Bobbie Crocker’s life. But it didn’t seem especially prudent to turn them over to a man who had never numbered levelheadedness among his personal strengths.

  She needed an acquaintance, someone who Marshfield or Leckbruge would not associate with her, and decided she should try Serena Sargent. She was going to Bartlett tomorrow to visit the Congregational church that Crocker’s old editor may have attended, but she figured she could leave the prints she had already made with the waitress when she was done. She could visit the woman at her home in Waterbury or, if Serena was working, she could stop by her diner in Burlington in the afternoon. Meanwhile, she would
keep the unexamined negatives—and, in truth, there were no more than three dozen strips left to print—with her wherever she went.

  PATIENT 29873

  It would be helpful to know the most recent or pertinent stressor.

  In the meantime, it remains difficult to keep a conversation on track. Patient has moments of marked conversational clarity followed consistently by a delusional digression that derails our progress. Still unwilling to discuss treatment and aftercare plans.

  From the notes of Kenneth Pierce,

  attending psychiatrist,

  Vermont State Hospital, Waterbury, Vermont

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MARISSA TOOK HER little sister’s hand in hers as they fell into the swarm of people—grown-ups and teenagers and children as young as Cindy—and emerged from the darkened theater into the movie’s lobby Saturday night. She blinked once, then squinted against the brighter lights and the crowds by the concession stands. It was a little past nine o’clock, an hour past Cindy’s bedtime, but the kid was holding up pretty well. And why shouldn’t she? Her big sister and her dad had just endured this completely lamo movie about a circus clown who hated children but had nevertheless wound up having to run his mom’s day-care center. The movie had been Cindy’s choice, and so the kid didn’t dare melt down now just because what their mom’s fiancé liked to call the witching hour was drawing near.

  She glanced from her dad, who was on one side of her, to Cindy, who was on the other, struck by the difference between an adult who has his act together and a kid who does not. She saw that her sister had popcorn butter all over her mouth and her bulbous, squirrel-like cheeks—it looked as if she had washed her face in the stuff—and a few small remnants of kernels epoxied like craft pebbles to the corners of her lips. Her hair, never her best feature, was frizzed up on one side like a frightened cat, and—was it possible?—she had a Junior Mint in her ear. Why was the kid putting Junior Mints in her ears in the movie? And how could she not know the candy was still there? Marissa remembered well the time Dad had had to take Cindy to the pediatrician two years ago because the kid had stuck a hard little pea up her nose. They’d been making food jewelry at the preschool—uncooked macaroni and peas and colored sugar—and for reasons no one could fathom, Cindy had wedged a pea high and deep inside her left nostril. According to the doctor, kids did this a lot. Still, as Marissa had watched the pediatrician, a nice woman who was her doctor, too, put a pair of tweezers the length of a pencil up Cindy’s nose, it gave Marissa one more reason to wish that she and her sister weren’t really related.

  Recalling that visit to the doctor made her remember her toe. Her doctor had looked at it for about seven seconds, prescribed some antibiotic that tasted like bubble gum, and told her to soak it with her massive amounts of spare time (yeah, right). Still, the appointment had allowed her an escape from math hell. And, of course, it had given her the chance to bring up the idea of getting a professional headshot taken sooner rather than later.

  Abruptly she bumped squarely into her dad’s side, which meant that Cindy slammed into her. She looked up and saw that her dad had stopped because he had run into someone he knew—though not in the literal way she had just bumped into him. It seemed her dad was always running into someone he knew. This time it was a woman who he was calling Katherine and kissing once on the cheek, the way grown-ups did whenever they didn’t seem to shake hands. Marissa knew that she herself preferred the shaking hands route. Just imagine if right this second you had to kiss a cheek like her sister’s? Gross. Way beyond gross.

  Katherine had a man beside her whose name Marissa didn’t catch, but it was evident they were a pair, and it was clear they had had the good fortune of seeing a different movie from the loser that her family had just had to stomach. Marissa smiled politely when she was introduced and was asked the obligatory questions—she basked for a moment in the woman’s approval—but then allowed herself to fixate on the colorful movie posters for the films that would be arriving next. She was just beginning to fantasize that her name was on one—maybe the one with the hunky young film star who was on the cover of People and who had told the magazine the parts of his very hot movie-star girlfriend he liked best (the insides of her thighs, she’d read yesterday in the doctor’s waiting room)—when she heard a name that caused her suddenly to pay attention. Laurel. They were talking about…Laurel.

  “I don’t know if it has something to do with her trip to Long Island, or it’s all about the pictures,” this woman named Katherine was saying. “But she didn’t come swimming with me on Thursday or Friday, and she was hardly in the office at all the last couple of days—which doesn’t bother me the tiniest bit as her boss. Really, it doesn’t. I’m just wondering what’s going on as her friend—and whether I made a mistake getting her involved with those photographs in the first place. Do you think I did?”

  Her father seemed to consider this, nodding the way he did whenever he was thinking deeply about something someone had said. Marissa knew the look well. Finally, he told Katherine, “She was definitely fixated on Bobbie Crocker last night. Wednesday night, too. But last night was…worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “More intense. She spent a lot of time researching Bobbie Crocker on the Internet when we were supposed to be going to a movie. And she really didn’t stop talking about him all night long. Then this morning she went to the darkroom, and tomorrow I believe she’s going to Bartlett. To a church that somebody named Reese, a fellow who might have known Bobbie, went to before he died a little over a year ago.”

  Katherine stretched out her hands and spread wide her fingers, her elbows pressed against her ribs, in a gesture of confusion. “I don’t get it. She’s going to a strange church miles from here because a dead person who knew Bobbie—”

  “Might have known Bobbie.”

  “Because a dead person who might have known Bobbie went there?”

  “That sums it up.”

  The woman reached over and squeezed her father’s arm. “All I suggested she do was print the guy’s old negatives. I never asked her to become a private eye.”

  “I understand.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Did I make a mistake getting her involved with the pictures?”

  He breathed in and out of his nose so deeply that it sounded to Marissa like a small gust of wind. She knew that he was going to say that Katherine had. It all came down to Laurel’s secret. The mystery that Marissa thought Laurel took with her wherever she went. Whatever Katherine had asked her to do with some pictures, it wasn’t helping. It was making that secret even noisier in Laurel’s head.

  Marissa found it interesting that secrets made noise. She’d always viewed them as physically heavy—hadn’t she seen people on the street who seemed stooped by the weight of what they couldn’t tell anyone?—but only recently had she concluded that it was actually their persistent thrum that caused people to slouch. Eventually, her father muttered, “Look, I hate to sound patronizing—”

  “Oh, stop it. You love to sound patronizing.”

  “Because Laurel is an adult. She’s a grown woman. But, yes, Katherine, maybe. Maybe you did.”

  “You’re being polite. You think definitely.”

  Before her father could answer, the man beside Katherine knelt down and said to Cindy, “I hate to be the one to break the news to you…but I think there just might be a piece of candy in your ear.” The fellow was balding and tall—so tall that even kneeling he had to bend over slightly to speak eye to eye with the girl—and he was wedged a little too tightly into a turtleneck. The result was a very bad fashion statement, Marissa decided: He looked a bit like a turtle himself. Her sister slowly reached up to her ear and ran a pudgy finger and her cork of a thumb over the Junior Mint. It was apparent that she wanted to remove it…but couldn’t.

  “It’s an earring,” said Cindy. She spoke with great seriousness to the fellow because it was clear to her now that the Junior Mint wasn’t going
anywhere for a while. “It just looks like a piece of candy.”

  Marissa smiled, hoping she could salvage a small portion of dignity for both her and her sister, and added, “Cindy has always been her own girl when it comes to fashion and food.”

  The man nodded equally as earnestly, and then looked up at her father because of something her dad was saying. Instantly, Marissa looked up, too.

  “She’s fragile, Katherine,” her father was telling the woman. “You know that. You’ve known her a lot longer than I have.”

  “Which makes it even worse, in your opinion, that I asked her to do this.”

  “Yeah, I think so,” her father said, and Katherine seemed genuinely troubled by this idea. It looked to Marissa as if her father were about to say something more. He even went so far as to open his mouth, but at the last moment he must have thought better of it because he remained silent.

  “There’s nothing that should have been disturbing in those pictures. Right?” Katherine said. “Some old movie stars. Some snapshots of her old swim club and some nearby house. I guess there were a few Bobbie took up in Underhill, but still…I don’t know, I just saw a project that I thought might be fun for her. And, yes, good for BEDS. That’s all. I would never have suggested this to her if I’d thought the images might upset her. Never!”

  Katherine’s discomfort was so tangible that the man she was with stood up, forgetting completely about Cindy and her mint—which, Marissa feared, might result in some serious acting out on the part of her sister—and started rubbing the woman’s back and shoulders in great, slow, circular motions.

  “Look, I don’t know what it is about the pictures that got under her skin,” her father said. “I have no idea what she sees in them. But the sooner we can get her off this task and onto something else, the better.”