Depth of Field

by Brian S. Wheeler

  Owen forced himself to peer into that bank’s dark, basement window before he touched another bottle. He exhaled a breath of relief. Nothing peered back at him from such black. He let his eyes drift off of the photograph to check the shadows still lingering in the hall. But Owen made the mistake of glancing a second time. He couldn’t resist the urge to guarantee that the photograph remained unoccupied by faces. Owen pushed his luck and looked a second time.

  And his eyes went wide. His heart jumped into his throat. An ugly and white, misshapen face peered from that black, basement window. It grinned maliciously back at Owen’s stare.

  Owen’s soul stammered. His mind blanked. Cold fear covered him as the lips of that face repeated a silent word. Owen’s imagination heard “reward.”

  Then, that face in the basement window spread its grin to show a mouth crowded with jagged teeth before retreating back into the black.

  Owen trembled in his home’s light. He ran into the kitchen, where he set that photograph to the kitchen store’s gas burner.

  He knew, though, that no flame would be enough to erase the ghost of that face from his cracking mind.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 9 – Choked in the Cafeteria

  Owen’s head still pounded when Monday morning delivered a fresh school week. His nerves remained frayed after witnessing another face grin at him from a black and white photograph’s confines. Owen consumed every drop of liquor found in his home until he had finally passed out into sleep, and thus he had skipped Sunday all together.

  But come Monday morning, Owen’s head felt like it was on the verge of splitting open to birth terrible, pale monsters. His eyes winced in his classroom’s fluorescent lighting. His stomach felt on the verge of terrible, sick mutiny.

  “This is not the time, Roy.” Owen stood, dumbfounded, at the podium as his words leaked, unheard, to the floor. “And Lauren, I thought you knew better.”

  Roy extended another middle finger to Mr. Masters. Lauren betrayed no indication of hearing her teacher at all. Roy and Lauren loitered at the classroom door, their tongues knotted together, leaning heavily upon one another, mindless of wherever their hands strayed. Owen felt powerless. What magic word or which of Principal Sherman’s miraculous behavioral techniques could he possibly employ to coerce a sliver of respect in his direction?

  Owen tossed his pile of adjective worksheets onto his desk. His head swooned.

  “Today feels like a good Monday for a movie. John, would you and Allen please bring a television cart back from the library?”

  Allen shook his head. “The librarian told us the last time we tried that you had to come and get it yourself after first getting a note from Principal Sherman. The librarian says you show too many movies in your class.”

  Owen sighed. The beasts fought against him even when he tried to give them what they wanted.

  “There’s a substitute in the library today, Allen. Just be polite when you ask her. Think of it as a trick. I’m sure you can pull it off.”

  Ten minutes later, the television flickered the students of Mr. Masters’ classroom into quiet contentment. Roy and Lauren took the initiative to modify the classroom’s seating chart so they could hold hands. Owen’s mind pounded. He didn’t mind Roy and Lauren’s adjustment to his policy so long as the two of them didn’t start taking off clothes.

  With the class so appeased, Owen pulled the camera out of his briefcase and again studied its features. The aperture ring still refused to budge. He again cleaned the lens until he could be confident no smudge may have survived his effort. He toyed with every dial that he could feel his finger adjust. Still, he realized he would find no fault in the camera capable of accounting for the faces that winked at him in the final black and white prints.

  The period bell blared. The rest of the class darted out of the room, but Roy and Lauren lingered. The couple took the long route out of the aisle of desks to stomp directly before Mr. Masters.

  There, Roy’s hand lifted upward upon Lauren.

  Lauren flinched and pushed the hand away. “This isn’t the place.”

  Roy laughed. “Oh, Mr. Masters isn’t going to do anything about it. I have him under my thumb.”

  Owen glared at Roy as the student strutted out of his classroom. He had never hated anyone so much. Rage crowded Owen’s throbbing skull, and his hands clenched tightly upon that camera.

  * * * * *

  Owen chose it wise to refrain attempting a meal in the seven minutes allotted to him before Principal Sherman expected him to stand in the cafeteria for lunch duty. His stomach felt too unsettled for such a challenge. Owen knew that what he really needed was a Bloody Mary.

  The duty, as always, proved a waste of effort. Students punched and kicked at one another. Apples bounced off of heads. Students spewed vulgarities of the most sinister kind. He watched cigarettes and joints passed between coat pockets. And Owen knew there wasn’t a single thing he could do to curb any of it. So he stood in a cafeteria corner and hoped he might discover the power to turn invisible.

  Roy Robison laughed at the school cook who filled his tray with food subsidized by the school district before he jumped atop the nearest table and began leaping across the cafeteria. He found a place to sit only after he was sure he had attracted the attention of every diner. Before he touched his food, Roy winked at Mr. Masters.

  Then, Owen saw something wonderful happen.

  Roy’s hands bolted to his throat as his eyes widened. Roy coughed. He kicked frantically at the empty air. His hands clawed at an invisible face. Roy choked. He gurgled, and saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. His face turned blue as he mumbled incoherently for help.

  The students panicked and ran to the other side of the cafeteria. Their shouts echoed off the walls as they shouted for help. They frantically jabbed at the cell phones Principal Sherman never dared confiscate from the students, and they screamed at whatever voice their efforts summoned on the other end of the line. The cook, with her bad knee and her obesity, shambled from behind the counter. Her club hands pounded upon Roy Robison’s back.

  But no piece of that day’s tasteless lasagna popped out from Roy’s throat. Students renewed their screams as none of the cook’s efforts provided Roy with any relief.

  The cook looked towards Owen and pleaded for help. But Owen only shook his head. He thought it grand to watch Roy’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He thought it splendid to note how his knees buckled.

  And Owen Masters thought it most wonderful to watch Roy Robison die.

  * * * * *

  Owen sat comfortably a few days later in one of the leather chairs positioned in the district superintendent’s conference room. Owen counted all the figureheads present – Principal Sherman, Superintendent Skaggs, the school board president, and Owen’s attorney supplied by the teacher’s union. Though Owen hadn’t said a word during the emergency session, he was hard-pressed to remember a time he had felt more competent and confident during any meeting with administration.

  The union attorney scratched something on a legal pad. “Let me try to rephrase what you’re telling me, Principal Sherman. Let me know if I miss any of the salient points. The coroner’s report states that Roy Robison choked to death. And though there’s not one witness claiming Mr. Masters was within twenty feet of the student, you’re saying he shoulders the blame for this tragic loss of life?”

  “Well, somebody choked him.” Principal Sherman bit back. “How does that coroner’s report make any sense otherwise?”

  The attorney raised an eyebrow. “If you find fault with the report, then you should speak with the coroner. I will not let Mr. Masters pay for whatever faults you find in that report. His liberty will not be threatened so that you might understand what happened in that cafeteria.”

  Principal Sherman pointed at Owen. “He failed to perform his duty adequately.”

  “That is a very different charge, Principal Sherman,” the attorney answered. “If you wish to show
how Mr. Masters failed in his duties, then I assume you have written down what your expectations are for your faculty in some kind of policy or handbook. That way, all of us here can clearly see how Mr. Masters failed in his obligations.”

  Principal Sherman fidgeted at the conference table.

  “I only want to be able to understand very clearly what specific guideline you feel Mr. Masters has broken,” continued the attorney, “and I would all like to examine any record you have kept of any of Mr. Masters’ previous failures.”

  Principal Sherman seethed. “A student has died in my building!”

  The attorney nodded. “No one here is any less upset by it than you, Principal Sherman. I am only trying to understand why you think any guilt at all should be placed upon Mr. Masters.”

  The superintendent peeked at his watch. “Do you have anything at all you can supply to Mr. Masters and the union attorney, Mr. Sherman? Perhaps any kind of memo communicating your expectations to your building’s staff?”

  “But Mr. Masters has a history of poor performance.”

  The attorney sighed. “All we are asking for, Principal Sherman, is a record.”

  Owen grinned. He knew Principal Sherman never touched a keyboard. Owen knew Principal Sherman did nothing more than stand in the school hallways. He knew Principal Sherman had no power over him.

  The superintendent said nothing more and stood from the conference table. He shook everyone’s hand before disappearing behind his office door.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 10 – The Blue Inn

  Owen took off the remainder of the school week, citing the need to recover from the stress accumulated upon witnessing Roy Robison’s death and the following conference with administration. Principal Sherman was in no mood to deny Owen’s request to be excused from the classroom.

  On the morning of his first day of unexpected vacation, Owen drove up and down the streets of Flat Knob until he found a home with walls whose color matched that of the blue manse of his dreams. It took him little time to traverse Flat Knob’s streets, and Owen sighted what he searched for on a second pass about town.

  The blue home looked like a piece of the building of his dreams, but the home didn’t seem to sit on the proper parcel of ground. Yet Owen knew in a flash that the window facing the road from the home’s third story was the very one from which peered that ghastly face that winked at him during his slumber. The ugly and white face had appeared in that third story window all week during his dreams, reminding Owen of that camera whose shutter clicked during the darkest hours of morning, reminding Owen that the face waited to be framed within that strange camera’s viewfinder, that the face waited to be developed into a black and white photograph composed of shadow.

  A person would have been kind to call the blue home nestled between a newly built ranch home and a well-manicured bungalow an eyesore. Plastic wrap covered the windows trimmed by crooked shutters. The front porch was ruined and crooked. Yard sale tables covered with blue tarps appeared to hold permanent positions on the front lawn. Owen assumed the neighbors seldom invited that home’s owner to outdoor barbeques.

  A man dressed in a sleeveless and black heavy metal t-shirt waved at Owen from the blue home’s drive.

  “Pull on in!” The man shouted with a smile. “It’s fine. You’re welcome to pull on in to my drive and take a look at the old inn.”

  Owen felt like a returning member of that man’s family as he was guided into the drive. Owen stepped from his car with his camera slung over his shoulder and was instantly greeted with a firm handshake. Owen smiled when he failed to recognize the man as any of his old students.

  “Welcome to the historic Blue Inn,” the man waved a hand across his property. “Did you find us on the Internet? Did you find us through one of the social media sites?”

  Owen took the breath to respond, but then he couldn’t find the words.

  “Where you from? The suburbs? The state capital?”

  Owen chuckled. “I’m from here in Flat Knob.”

  “Wow. No one from Flat Knob ever seems interested in their own town’s history.” The man squinted at Owen. “I don’t recognize you. Did we go to school together?”

  “No. I moved here to teach at the county school.”

  The man scowled. “I was in the last class to graduate from the old school in Flat Knob. Before they tore it down. The county school is terrible.”

  “I would agree.”

  It took a moment, but Owen’s response brought a smile back to that man’s face.

  “Dennis Tubrow.”

  “Owen Masters.”

  “So what brings you to stop at the Blue Inn?”

  Owen shrugged. “I can’t say I know entirely. I’m trying to pick a photography habit back up. I was driving around town searching for something to catch my eye. This blue home did just that. You say there’s a real history to the place?”

  Dennis smiled. “The stories these walls could tell. You’re looking at the last, surviving wing of the Blue Inn. My grandfather moved the wing to this piece of property almost fifty years ago. That was a real accomplishment. Flat Knob just knocked the rest of the inn down, but my grandfather made this wing our family home. My dad was raised within these walls. I was raised within these walls. I hope to raise my sons within these walls.”

  Owen wondered what Dennis’ neighbors thought of that plan.

  “We’ve always kept the walls that shade of color original to the Blue Inn,” Dennis’ words raced out of his mouth. “I’m saving the money to renovate the building’s guts, rework the floor plan so the rooms and halls just flow together like they did in the original inn. That’s why I’m selling all kinds of things here in the front yard, so don’t forget to peek under the tarp to see if there’s anything you like. If I can get the renovations done, then I’m hoping to open a bed and breakfast.”

  Owen’s eyebrow arched. “In Flat Knob?”

  “Why not Flat Knob?”

  “Did anyone famous ever stay at the Blue Inn?”

  Dennis sighed. “Not that I’ve been able to tell. I’m sure there’s had to be somebody famous who’s slept within the inn. All the records got pitched when they tore the rest of the building down.”

  Owen hesitated to ask it, remembering how Mac Reynolds had responded at the question, but he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t.

  “Did anyone named Turner ever run the hotel?”

  Owen felt relieved when Dennis’ face didn’t knot into a grimace.

  “You might be from out of town, but you know better than most people who’ve lived here all their lives. Flat Knob might not want to remember it, but Hiram Turner, the last proprietor of the inn, ran a brothel in the building. He rented rooms by the hour, supplied all the girls. The Blue Inn was never so successful as it was then.”

  “Where did he find the girls?”

  “Oh, he found them,” Dennis shook his head. “Who would think a town as old as Flat Knob was ever young enough to muster enough motivation to support a brothel? No, Hiram Turner was never wanting for business how I hear it. The only thing that stopped the business was a crazed husband knifing Hiram Turner. Why, Hiram bled to death in my very piece of the old inn. No one really wanted anything to do with the building after that. But my grandfather didn’t mind the history at all. That’s why he got this wing of the Blue Inn for so little before they knocked the rest down.”

  “What happened to the girls?”

  Dennis shrugged. “Same thing that happened to almost every one else in Flat Knob at that time. They went to work in the plastics plant.”

  “Would you mind if I took some pictures of the place?” Owen lifted the camera from his neck. “The light at this time of day might really help the place glow.”

  Dennis grinned. “Not at all. Only have one condition. You share your best shot with me so I can post it onto the website. I’m always on the lookout for ideas that might help promote my plans for this place.”

  Owen promis
ed to share, though he knew Dennis didn’t realize what kind of photograph he requested.

  Owen knew the proper angle he needed for his photograph. He knew the shutter speed he needed to make the most of the light. He tweaked the focus and centered his subject. Owen knew he had the perfect snapshot of that third story window after his first press of the shutter button. But he politely followed Dennis around the blue home and clicked his camera whenever the building’s owner suggested a great angle for the website.

  * * * * *

  Owen set up a makeshift darkroom in his home’s half-bath after pilfering the developing supplies from the county high school’s darkroom. He didn’t expect anyone would miss them now that Kelly and Jenny had lost all interest in photography after peering at the black and white photographs Mr. Masters had asked them to develop.

  Owen returned to the gin as he again waited for shadows to coalesce onto the paper submerged in the developer tray. He drank as he stared into that dark, third story window and waited for a face to again appear and wink at him.