Shutter(31)

“Can I read it?” I’d asked once.

“Well, it’s kind of an adult story about adult things.” He kept typing. “I’ll ask your mother if you can read it.”

“What is it about? Hippies, sex, and drugs?” I knew all about that. My mom had no filter when I asked questions.

“Well, I’m still finding the story.” He kept typing.

“When you find it, please let me know,” I said.

I know it was irritating to have me around. I was some other guy’s kid. A pain in the ass. I was a constant reminder of their responsibilities, of the fact that they had to get jobs. They were artists who wanted to live as artists. I never saw her take pictures anymore.

When they got married, my grandma came in a fancy cream dress and shiny shoes. Her hair was perfect. At nine, I was the official wedding photographer. I was most proud of a photo I took of Mom and Grandma. They sat on a bench in the backyard, lit up by late spring sun. They both seemed so happy. I almost wished Grandpa’s ghost had made the trip. Grandma seemed to like my mom’s choice. He was friendly and had an easy smile. He also had a job. My grandma approved.

She pulled me aside at the wedding and kissed me on the cheek.

“I guess your mom is doing okay, isn’t she?” Grandma squeezed my hand.

“Yeah, Grandma, she’s doing okay,” I lied. “I still want to come home though.”

“This is your home now, Rita.” She turned and watched my mom and her new husband. “But if he ever lays a hand on her, you let me know.” Grandma’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” I said.

My mother and Walton were married for six years, and the last five were pure hell. They fought all the time, often turning violent toward each other. During one fight, Walton had broken one of my mom’s cameras in a jealous rage. My mom returned the favor by throwing his typewriter into the street.

Toward the end of their journey, they had a fight that rivaled all others. By the time I got home, the quarrel had already begun, so I didn’t get the full picture, but they were both screaming at the top of their lungs. I heard something about “that woman,” then I heard the cabinets open. I walked in just in time to see my mother hurling coffee mugs at Walton’s head. The first two missed, but the third one hit with a fine, mild thump on the forehead. He grabbed his face and checked his hands for blood. When he saw the crimson on his fingers, he began to grab dishes from the shelf and hurl them at my mother. The plates hit her in the back and sides and fell to the floor in countless sharpened splinters. That is when they saw me.

I stood there with my backpack on my shoulder, my mouth open in shock. My mom took Walton’s distraction as an opportunity and heaved the giant skillet off the stove. She hit him over the head with such force that the man fell flat on my mom’s new rug, a look of astonishment on his face.

“Get him off that rug. I don’t want him bleeding on it.” She raised her shirt to show the beginnings of bruises on her sides. Her hands were cut; her face was red.

I did as I was told and pulled on Walton’s arms, unable to move his dead weight. His body was limp, his feet trapped under his folded body. He had a cut above his eye and a big lump on top of his head. His T-shirt was dirty and torn, and his hair was stiff. I pulled my Instamatic from my bag and snapped his picture—just as he was, bloody and beaten on the carpet. I snapped another picture of the kitchen, which was littered with broken plates and dried tomato seeds on the ceiling. This was not the first time this had happened, but it was the worst.

Walton moved out two days later, and my mom filed for divorce. I saw him once at a vitamin store in the mall. He still smelled like vitamins and didn’t even say one word to me.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Canon EOS 350D Rebel XT

I WOKE UP to the dull croak of my cell phone, stuffed under a pillow with the Ziploc bag and my broken camera right beside it. I pulled the card and lens out and transferred them over to another camera, a Canon EOS 350D Rebel XT, and scrolled through the images until I reached the last one, Judge Winters’s gunshot wound. I had bought the 350D to encourage myself to do more photography of the things I loved—something other than death. The fact that it was still in plastic said everything.

My phone rang again. I didn’t answer. I lay in bed and absorbed the quiet of my empty apartment, the reflections of all my photographs of home sending sunbursts throughout the room. I pulled the 350D to my eye and framed myself in the mirror. At last, it was just me. Alone. And hungry.

The refrigerator was empty as usual, but I was so relieved. There were no ghosts. The voices from yesterday were gone. No Erma. Having Mrs. Santillanes next door was soothing, but I knew that I needed something stronger than jars of leaves and an egg to keep them away. I needed to regain my strength before moving forward, and I was going to have to call Grandma.

It took four rings before Grandma picked up, out of breath from running to the phone.

“Is everything okay?” she said without a hello.

“Hi, Grandma. How did you know it was me?”

“I had a dream about you last night. You should come home.”

“I will soon. I have some things to deal with here.” I paused. I didn’t want her to worry, but I probably needed to tell her the truth. Instead, I lied. “I’m okay, Grandma.”

“You need to come home, Rita.” I could hear the shakiness in her voice. “Tonight.”