The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  Pence is hiring new officers as fast as others are retiring in the wake of drastic changes proposed to the retirement system. The citizens of Kenilworth, many of them multimillionaires, are complaining that public safety sector employees retire too young and their pensions are too big. Never mind that most cops, fire fighters, and teachers, let alone clerks and waiters, can’t afford to live anywhere close to Kenilworth. It doesn’t seem fair to take away a promised benefit. Change the rules for the new hires, but leave the current employees alone. I, on the other hand, as a consultant, have no pension. Only what I can save. The same is true for Frank who is also self-employed. He grits his teeth every time the subject comes up.

  “I get it. Cops and fire fighters have a hard job. But so do roofers. More construction workers are killed in the line of duty than cops.”

  “Cops are murdered. Construction workers fall off buildings.”

  “Half the cops are murdered. The others fall off their motorcycles.”

  We’ve had this conversation many times before. It never goes anywhere.

  “How many fires does the average fire fighter fight in a year?”

  “I have no idea, Frank.”

  “Hardly any. But a roofer roofs five or six days a week, fifty weeks out of the year. Climbing ladders, working with hot tar.”

  “Where are we going with this, Frank?”

  “I don’t know. You brought it up.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  We’re in his living room. It’s after dinner. Everything is washed up, put away in its place. We’re just filling time until it’s late enough to go to sleep.

  “Sure, why don’t we talk about getting married? We haven’t talked about that in a long time.”

  This is hardly less dangerous than roofers falling into a vat of hot tar.

  “Okay.”

  “So why haven’t we talked about it?”

  “I’ve been busy. I have a slew of pre-employments to do. And exit counseling.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sometimes cops have bad experiences they haven’t told anybody about. This is a chance for them to process those memories and not take them into retirement. Others need help preparing to go back to civilian life. They’re going to miss the fraternity. Sometimes they need a little marital counseling.”

  “I’d appreciate a little marital counseling myself.”

  An adrenaline surge sweeps through my body. “What do you mean?”

  He leans forward in his chair. “Seems to me you’ve been postponing talking about this. Have you changed your mind about us getting married?”

  Truth is, I already feel married. I rarely go home, except when Frank goes to his photography class. Most of my things are at his house. We’ve established a routine. We start with a “how was your day” conversation and a drink before dinner, then we cook, eat, clean up, watch TV, and go to bed. On the one hand, it feels a little stifling. On the other, it feels sweet and comforting.

  “We’re not getting any younger, Dot. I want to be married to you for a long time. I can’t unless we get going soon.” He smiles. I want to cry. If I had any sense, I’d meet him at the city clerk’s office tomorrow with a marriage license in hand. It’s what my mother thinks I should do. And all my friends.

  Frank looks at me and splays his hands. “We need to rent a place, get a caterer. From what I hear, you have to do that months in advance.” He shifts forward in his seat. “I want to settle down, Dot. I’m going to retire in a few years. I need something to do with my time. Someone to be. Something I can say to a person at a cocktail party who asks me what I do. I know now it’s going to be photography. But I’m a latecomer and have a lot of catching up to do. I’m the old man in the class. Thirty years older than everyone else.”

  “What’s that got to do with our getting married?”

  “I want to get serious about photography. Not wait till the day I hang up my tool belt. I can’t do what I need to do to catch up shuttling back and forth between our two houses.”

  “We don’t go back and forth. We’re mostly here.” Small-minded of me to keep score. “We could just move in together. I’ll rent my place out . . .”

  “No. I want to do it right. This is not an experiment. It’s for real and it’s forever.” He bends over and takes both my hands in his. “I don’t know what’s eating at you. You have a bad case of cold feet. Post-Traumatic Divorce Syndrome. I get it, I’ve been divorced, too. But you’re not like my former wife and I’m not like your ex. So what’s the problem?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  FRANK STARTS WORKING day and night to prepare for JJ’s annual show of student art. I ask to see his photos, but he’s not yet ready to show them to me. Getting ready, he explains, means something different to a digital photographer than it does to a photographer whose output is constrained by the cost of film and developing materials. Frank takes hundreds of pictures every time he goes on a shoot. It takes hours and hours to organize, cull, and edit. Then mat and frame the ones he’s chosen. It’s an enormous amount of effort just to produce six photos he considers good enough for his first-ever public showing.

  We drive past the gallery where JJ had her show toward the flats of East Kenilworth, a working-class neighborhood separated from the hills of affluent Kenilworth by a concrete ribbon of north-south highway. I’m surprised at how nervous Frank is. This is a student show. No reviewers from the New York Times or even the Kenilworth Daily. He hardly says a word in the car.

  The closer we get to East Kenilworth, the fewer white faces we see and the more window signs written in Spanish or Vietnamese. We drive toward the bay past small houses with fenced yards, concrete patios, and mismatched lawn furniture. Luxury homes hidden behind ornate wrought-iron gates lay claim to the waterfront, speculators banking on the future gentrification of the last swath of affordable real estate in the Bay Area. The streets are blanketed with heavy fog. Nothing looks the way it does in the day. Frank’s headlights penetrate the mist like the glowing eyes of a nocturnal animal.

  We are the only car on the street. Frank pulls a U-turn at the end of a cul-de-sac and stops. He looks at his watch, curses, and pulls his iPhone out of his pocket. He swipes the screen until he gets to the navigation app. He wants me to get this app, too, but every new piece of software I buy comes with a time-sucking learning curve. At least for the present, it’s easier to pull over and ask someone for directions. We head back the way we came, slowing at every corner until he makes a sharp right that takes us through a sprawl of industrial buildings, their metal shutters locked and covered with graffiti. Frank lets out a deep sigh of recognition. And relief.

  One last turn and we’re facing JJ’s artists commune. It’s a two-story building. Probably a converted warehouse or factory. The outer walls are covered in murals and stylized graffiti. The colors so bright they penetrate the dusky light. Two enormous doors on the ground level stand open. Light spills into the darkness. I hear music. We park the car and walk in. The space is cavernous and filled with people.

  Frank looks around. It’s hard to see much of anything beyond the crowd and the tree-sized sculptures of glass and metal towering over us.

  “I thought this was a photography exhibit,” I say.

  “It’s a multimedia show. Different teachers, different art forms.”

  Something catches my eye, a floor-to-ceiling tapestry that is crusted and dripping with glittering objects. It must weigh a ton. I tug on Frank’s hand.

  “That’s JJ’s, too. She works in several mediums. Amazing, isn’t it?” Frank says, pointing at a clump of melted glass hanging on a long cord like a nest of barnacles. “She made the whole thing from detritus. Things she collected off the beach: bottle caps, glass, plastic shopping bags. She picks up tons of the stuff because it’s killing birds and wrecking sea life. Buffs them, twists them, melts them. It’s stunning. Never saw anything like it. It takes talent and imagination to make something this beautiful out of human
garbage.” He bends to my ear. “We can come back here later. I want you to see my photos.”

  Frank’s images are easily the strongest, most vibrant of the student works on display. His series is called “Lumbermen.” Individual portraits of six men, each dressed in work clothes, standing in front of a plain white background, looking directly at the camera. They are posed with the props of their trade: a sawhorse, a ladder, a chainsaw, a coil of rope, dirty hands, scuffed boots, hard hats. Their presence is overpowering.

  “These are fantastic, Frank. I had no idea.”

  “I’ve worked with these guys for years at the lumber yard. They deserve to be seen for who they are. Honorable. Dignified. Men who get their hands dirty for a living don’t get much respect in a town filled with brainiacs. I want to change that with my pictures.” He looks at me.

  “These images are the work of an accomplished photographer. They’re moving. Powerful. I’m not a student of photography, but these are as good as anything I’ve seen in a museum.” His face goes red. “I’m so impressed I don’t know what to say.”

  I do know what not to say. That the moment I saw his photos I realized I’ve been secretly worried he was taking pictures of nude children. Sometimes I am clueless.

  The other students’ work runs the gamut. There are three giggly au pairs from Norway who love taking pictures of the babies they mind. Privileged children in party dresses. Not exactly hackneyed, better than that, but nothing to sear the eye like JJ’s images. There are a couple of nice landscapes, an obligatory sunset, and some interesting travel shots. No other portraits.

  “Where’s JJ?” I ask.

  “She was here a little bit before. I am Anjelika.” One of the au pairs takes my hand. “You are Frank’s fiancée?”

  Before I can answer, JJ appears, materializing like fog out of nowhere. “Sorry. I live upstairs. I wanted to kiss Chrissy goodnight.” She extends her hand to me. “Glad you could come.” She’s wearing a long graceful skirt, a sweater, and a magnificent necklace fashioned from sea glass looped together on a coiled rope of plastic straws.

  “What a beautiful necklace.”

  She picks it up and runs her long fingers over white quill-like beads. “Tampon inserters.” She laughs at the look on my face. “Everyone has the same reaction.” Her jewelry, like her photography, is edgy, daring, provocative. Everything about her, except her soft voice and unhurried way of moving, has an in-your-face feel to it. She leans over and whispers to me so that none of the others can hear. “He’s good, isn’t he? It’s the artist’s job to make the commonplace singular. Frank gets that. He’s the kind of student every teacher wants, hardworking, serious, and talented. It’s a pleasure having him in class. You’re a lucky woman. So am I.”

  The door to Manny’s office is closed. I knock. No response. I knock again. I can hear voices. I knock a third time and open the door. The room is dark. The only light comes from a string of images flickering across his computer screen. In only a few seconds, I see enough and hear enough to look away. Grunting, then a moan, followed by the sound of a slap and a whimper. I flick on the lights. Manny wheels around in his chair. There are pools of crepe-like bluish skin under his eyes. He blinks for a moment and turns back to the computer. The screen goes black and silent. By the time he turns around he has his game face on.

  “Hey, Doc. How you doing? I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry, I should have called first.” This is a lie. I didn’t call on purpose because I was sure he’d tell me he was fine, just fine, but too busy to see me. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going.”

  There are two more desks in the office since I was here last. One looks unoccupied, the other is covered with an assortment of books, coffee cups, and empty water bottles.

  “Finally got some company?”

  “Not unless company means a guy who thinks that if you have sex with a girl who’s thirteen, you’re a felon. But put twenty bucks on the table and she’s a criminal. He wanted this assignment because he likes porn and thinks he can spend all his time hanging out at massage parlors.”

  People have all sorts of reasons to volunteer for this assignment. Exactly the reason there needs to be rigorous psychological screening, stress inoculation, training, on-site supervision, and a whole bunch of things Pence apparently never thought about in his rush to play hero to the tax-paying citizens of Kenilworth.

  “Get any training?”

  “Pence sent me to talk to a retired guy from child protective services. His only advice was to hang in because it gets easier once you get used to it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I got a couple of certificates about how to get into chat rooms, track online images, that kind of techie thing.”

  “Nothing about the emotional consequences of doing this work? How to manage the stress?” He shakes his head.

  “So, after all these months, is it getting easier?”

  “I got a lot to learn still.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  His face splits into a smile. He slides forward in his chair and puts his hands over mine.

  “You are such a worrywart, Doc. Ever think of seeing anybody about it?” He laughs. I don’t. “Not to worry. It’s what I want. Something new. Somewhere I can really make a difference.”

  “Are you making a difference?”

  “Let me show you something.” He walks me out into the hall. There is a row of photos pinned to the wall. All men. Some of them so dirty and disheveled, I would cross the street if I saw one coming. “This is the wall of shame. I arrested all these guys. Task force territory covers a bunch of counties. We’re busy.”

  “Who’s he?” I point to one of the few clean-shaven, wholesome-looking men.

  “Funny you should ask. This is Mr. Idle Hands. You’re going to hear a lot about him in a day or two. The guy’s a lawyer. Beautiful home. Gracious wife. Found his hard drive hidden in a shoebox in his closet, under his Armani suits. Video cams all over the house so he can video himself . . .” A red flush crawls over his face. He pulls at a fingernail.

  “You mean masturbating?” He nods. I wonder why he can’t say the word aloud. I’m a grown-up, he’s a grown-up. The people he’s arrested are grown-ups. Is he just being polite? Protective? Deferential? Everything about his job is connected to sex. He has to be able to use exact words when he’s writing reports, interviewing suspects, talking to victims.

  “He’s a righteous pervert, this creep. And now he’s in county jail, where he belongs.”

  “For how long?”

  “If we get a conviction? Three to nine months.”

  “That’s all? Seems like a slap on the wrist.”

  “It’s not up to me. If it were, I’d lock the door and throw away the key. We only got him for collecting. If you ask me, 95 percent of these perverts who watch porn have put their hands on some actual kid. But that’s the way the law works in this county if all you got is collecting. Like it’s a victimless crime to just watch. None of these babies wanted to be on video. Whoever makes these laws should see what I’ve seen.” He stops. His eyes register surprise. Something’s slipped out and now he wants it back. He opens his arms like a master of ceremonies introducing a troupe of entertainers. “All these fine gentlemen are in jail where they belong. That’s what I mean when I say I’m making a difference.”

  The minute Pence sees me at his office door he laughs.

  “What have I done wrong now, Doc? Because I know from the look on your face, this isn’t a friendly visit. My mother used to say to me, ‘Okay, pucker-puss, if you don’t wipe that expression off your face, it’s going to stay that way forever’.” He stands, walks in front of his desk, and pulls up two chairs.

  “Have a seat. Tell me how you’re feeling. Isn’t that what you shrinks always say?” Pence’s efforts at humor rarely rise above sarcasm. I doubt that he knows the difference.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Yes, I am and I h
ope you’re not here to ruin it.”

  “I’ve just been to see Manny at the substation.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t admit it, but I can see the job is wearing on him. People should be psychologically screened to investigate crimes against children and carefully supervised. They should not be dumped in front of a computer in a dismal room, doing a dismal job, with no real training, no supervision, no breaks, and not even a real team.”

  Pence’s good mood evaporates before my eyes.

  “When I asked for task force volunteers ten months ago, Manny put in for it.”

  “How can you volunteer for something you don’t fully understand?”

  “This isn’t rocket science. What is there to know? He’s a cop. He knew what he was getting into.”

  “I’m certain he didn’t know how he would react.”

  “Thanks for your concern, Doc.” Pence stands, signaling that my time is up. “I’ll check on him myself.”

  “I don’t want you to tell him I talked to you.”

  “You should have thought about that before you decided to tell me how to run my shop.”

  “It is part of my job description to identify things that cause stress for the officers. The way you’ve set up this task force is causing him stress.”

  “So are you saying Manny is unfit for the job?”

  “No. I’m saying you’ve made a hard job harder and he needs more support. This is about you as much as it is about Manny.”

  “Is it really? Let’s hope Manny agrees.”

  Manny leaves a message on my voice mail. He tells me the chief called to see how he is doing. He hopes that the chief’s call had nothing to do with my visit. He tells me, once again, not to worry, that he’s doing okay. He prefers that I call first before dropping by again. He repeats, just in case I didn’t believe him the first time, that he’s fine, just fine, and the only help he could use is a new computer. If I could be of any assistance with that, I should go for it.