Lies We Bury(2)

I return to my car and begin the slow drive through downtown, considering all the ways in which tomorrow’s photo shoot could go wrong. Rarely do I wake up that early on a Sunday, so I’ll have to set two alarms tonight.

At a red light, I scan the storefronts along the sidewalk. A chalkboard outside a bar advertises cheap happy hour, and next to it in the alcove of a brewery entrance sits a stuffed animal—a black-and-white penguin that used to star in a children’s animated TV show during the late nineties and early aughts. One arm is missing. A red stain covers its throat.

I blink, willing my eyes to focus, to make the details that shouldn’t be possible disappear. Is that—

The car behind me honks. I pull forward through the green light and park at the curb a half block up. Craning my neck to look behind me, I fumble in the well of the back seat until my fingers land on the thick strap of my camera case.

I walk the hundred feet back to the brewery where the penguin sits propped against the brick wall. The second arm is nowhere in sight, and the red stain looks suspiciously like pasta sauce—exactly like the Petey the Penguin I owned as a child. A chill ripples across the exposed skin of my forearms. Before I think better of it, I reach out to touch the toy. The material is soft yet flat in spots. It’s been used. Loved. Lifting it up, I scan its bottom and spot a name written on the tag in permanent marker: BARRY.

A wave of illogical relief sluices over me. Not the same plush I asked my mother to grab twenty years ago when she, my sisters, and I escaped Chet’s basement, and which the police probably have stored as evidence in a cardboard box. Something about the penguin, seated outside the glass doors of a brewery, seems poetic—thought provoking. Like innocence contrasting adulthood. Who we were then and who we are now. Who I was then and the functioning ball of self-loathing I am now.

I step back to the curb’s edge. Raising the Canon I saved up for by working four different jobs concurrently for three years, I angle the lens another fifteen degrees off-center until the light strikes the scene perfectly. The toy occupies the corner of the alcove, beneath writing on the window: LIVE MUSIC STARTING AT 7PM BLUES AND BREWS FOR COOL KIDS ONLY! Switching to a wide shot, I frame the entire entryway, capturing the silhouettes of patrons inside.

I pull open one of the glass doors, prompting the chime of bells, and step into a slender hallway. Tables and chairs occupy space on each side, and a fireman’s pole descends from the ceiling, adjacent to a winding iron staircase. Air-conditioning ruffles a stack of napkins on the bar counter.

The bartender looks up. He brushes a floppy curtain of black hair from his eyes. “Welcome to Four Alarm. Get you a table?”

I shake my head and lift my camera in response. He returns a confused smile before someone calls him from down the bar. I snap a photo of the dining area. The light streaming through the tall bay windows looks better suited to a church—peaceful.

After a few more clicks, I check my phone. Shit. Jenessa has already texted me twice. Where are you? and Coming? I’m at the coffee shop. Another glance at the penguin outside makes my skin feel grimy, like I’m back in the cramped, musty tomb of my birth and now all I want to do is go home and take a shower. Why does seeing a stuffed toy feel so visceral? This year marks the twentieth anniversary of our escape, and I’m probably on edge because of it.

I text a reply: Sorry for the late notice, but the interview went well. I need to prep for tomorrow. Can we reschedule? Asking to borrow money from my holier-than-everyone sister can wait for a day when my ghosts aren’t clawing to the surface.

The door chime sounds as I exit the brewery, while the bartender’s voice trails me onto the sidewalk: “Stay safe out there.”



The next day, a crowd jostles at the curb to snap photos of the parade on their cell phones. Sunday traffic from my apartment was lighter than yesterday, but I still got lost on downtown’s one-way streets and showed up later than I wanted; the sidewalk real estate I managed to carve out is a fraction of what I normally work with. A man beside me steps into my field of view, again, and I resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“Go Raptors!” he bellows.

Raising my camera, I focus on a passing teenage girl. Fat brown curls, tied and separated by two ribbons, flank her jaw; the sweet throwback style juxtaposes her heavy chest and the tight T-shirts the students wear in this April humidity. The man claps extra hard as the girl bends down in a dance move, and I watch him from the corner of my eye; he shifts toward her, turning as she moves five, then ten feet ahead.

Rows of smiling high school students file forward in matching color-guard outfits. Gymnasts cartwheel diagonally across the cordoned asphalt, while families and adults (some waving red plastic cups even at this early hour) shout encouragement. I step into the street, hiking my backpack higher, and snap photos of the oncoming float. Papier-maché roses cover its platform, leaving only twelve inches of windshield for the driver of the truck to see through. White flowers clustered together on the side of the float spell out ROSE CITY.

I check my counter. Three hundred and eighty-six images this morning, and I’ve only been out here since eight. Not bad. Pauline should be pleased I grabbed all the shots on her list, at least a dozen of each.

I turn, shouldering my way through the crowd’s enthusiasm until I reach an empty bench. Standing on it, I’m heads above the swath of bodies. A gust from the nearby Willamette River swirls my hair in a black cloud at my shoulders, and I lift my camera. Orange shifts through the frame as the man who was beside me walks forward, following the teenage girl’s knee-high march down the street. Zooming in, I can see that she’s no longer smiling. I press the shutter, capturing the dip of the man’s head as he inclines toward her chest for a better view.