Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

“Thank you, Judge,” said Billy Ray, getting up with a grin. “And I’m sure gonna be more selective in the future about hangin’ out with bad company.”

Judge Hobbs sat there. Billy Ray was hugging Buddy Linz. Lew Porter was putting his papers together. Clarence was fiddling with the horizontal. Billy Ray started toward the door. Judge Hobbs picked up his gavel.

“Where you goin’, son?” asked Judge Hobbs.

“Home... to dinner... like you said. I think my momma is makin’ a meat loaf.”

“Well, good,” said Judge Hobbs, “but who you takin’ with you?”

“Buddy... if he wants to come — hell, all of you, if you like meat loaf. There’ll be plenty.”

“Well, you ain’t takin’ no convicted felon home to your momma’s table, are you?” asked Judge Hobbs.

Billy Ray looked confused.

“I mean, son, you’re innocent and free to go — free as a bird.” Billy Ray sighed.

“But that heartless cold-blooded sex fiend, Sam Johnson, I’m findin’ him guilty” —Judge Hobbs banged his gavel — “of aggravated sexual assault and kidnapping. I’m sentencing the ruthless sonofabitch to twelve years’ confinement in the state correctional facility at Joliet.”

“Judge—” said Billy Ray.

“Son,” said Judge Hobbs, raising a restraining finger, “I know how hard it is to take leave of a loved one for an extended period of time, so as a special consideration, I’m gonna give you the opportunity to accompany your friend, your former friend, to Joliet, or you can stay behind and let him go on alone... You look pale, son... Mr. Linz, why don’t you escort your client to the men’s room. I think he needs a glass of water... Oh, and Clarence — give Billy Ray his daddy’s Barlow — he’s innocent and it’s his property. Take all the time you need, son,” he said softly to Billy Ray, “but when you come out of there, Sam Johnson is goin’ to prison... Next case—”

“There ain’t no next case, Judge,” said Clarence.

“Well, then, turn up the sound,” said Judge Hobbs, “and let’s find out whether or not that Lewis kid can hold a six-run lead for five damn innings.”

From The MacGuffin

I hope this video camera works. Anyway, this ( click) is a blowup of a model’s eye, the bluest I’ve ever seen. The only other time I remember seeing that exact color of blue was the day my sister Nicole drowned. It was everywhere: in the water, in the sky, Nicole’s skin. Blue, I remember, and coughing. And gold, the gold of the light off the surface of the water, like an empty frame. I was eight. No, seven. I almost drowned trying to rescue little Nicole. She was five. I look back and see myself coughing, coughing, and coughing. Nicole. She’s the one girl I’ve been trying to remember.

(click)

Here’s one I forgot — Marcie — with the usual drowning in gin. Before Marcie I forgot ( click) Alexis, a blonde, in marijuana’s blue-gray haze. I had attempted to forget Alexis once before by going on an outdoor camping adventure (click) with some friends, that’s Jamie and Derek, but I forgot to bring those things you nail your tent down with, and I ended up forgetting her in some cheesy motel, I forget what it was called.

Let me explain.

My name is Kevin Wolfe. I am a studio photographer. I do head-shots, two hundred a package. Developing is extra. You’ve probably seen my flyers on lampposts all over the city. Almost every girl who comes into this studio, every actress (click), every model (click) (click ), at least the ones I find pretty, I ask out. It’s simply a matter of policy. They almost always say, “No.” So I do this forgetting thing, this ritual. I know it’s weird. Like this one: (click) name was Colleen Something, all willowy, green eyes, chestnut hair. I don’t remember anything about her, really, just how she kept extending her neck into the shot (click), there it is, muscles all tense, like she was on the prow of a sailboat and leaning into the wind. “Relax,” I told her.

“Sorry,” she kept giggling. “I’ll relax, I’m so sorry.”

(click) Look at her face. Have you ever seen eyes that green? This is a perfect photograph, I have to say. The way the shadow of her nose falls across her cheekbone. The way her hair reflects the light. Colleen hardly needed any makeup, I remember, skin like ivory. She never came to pick up her pictures, though, either. I left messages on her answering machine, but the beep just kept getting longer and longer and longer, and then one day all I got was ringing. I guess I scared her. That’s what my assistant Jamie said, anyway. Apparently I do that sometimes.

Colleen’s memory played on in my psyche like an extended remix. So how’d I forget her? Trying to clear my mind, and failing. Jamie gave me this tape, “Relaxation Through Meditation.” She said it would help me rest, gain focus, whatever. I’d close my eyes and let the TV screen inside my head go static, but then I’d see Colleen’s bright face fade up. her eyes green and cool as Central Park in September, and I’d zoom in on her red lips moving, saying, “No, Kevin, but thank you, anyway.”

It’s like I have to perform this ritual, some conscious act of forgetting, and then it’s okay. You know when you’re in a museum, and you’re looking at a painting, and it’s freaking you out. like that blue-period Picasso of the woman crying, all jagged tears and awfulness, and it gets inside you? Well, all you have to do is turn your head and walk through the door into the next room of the museum where there’s another painting, a Mondrian or a Rothko or whatever, a calculation of colors, abstract and meaningless, just waiting for you. Just walk through those doors.

In the end, I did forget green-eyed Colleen. It’s not that I forgot her, understand, it’s that I made it so I didn’t care anymore. I don’t care. (click) This is a picture of me not caring. Jesus, I look like a serial killer. I am the original, mean-looking white man. Now do you see why I stay behind the camera? Oh yeah, sometimes this projector sticks, so I apologize in advance.

Sometimes, all I do is close my eyes, and when I’ve opened them up again, I’ve forgotten her, whoever she was.

(click) (click)

Sheila, for instance. She almost went out with me. She’s not as pretty as she looks in this shot. I mean, she’s all done up here. And not to brag or anything, but I’m an amazingly great photographer. “You single?” I remember asking. Jamie had hustled in to apply more makeup, adjust Sheila’s hair, or whatever, always taking extra care with the heavier ones.

Sheila rolled her eyes. “I’m only nineteen,” she said.

“I meant, do you have a boyfriend.”

Jamie painted hollows of blush onto Sheila’s cheeks.

I was awarded a smile. “No-oo,” Sheila sang.

“Maybe we could go to a movie,” I said.

Jamie froze.

“Sure, okay,” Sheila said finally. She was trembling, I could tell. A lot of girls have a hard time saying no, especially the younger ones, and especially if they’re not from New York. They’re trying to be polite all the time, like their mothers told them to be. But in the end, you end up — I mean, I end up — on the receiving end of a can-we-please-just-be-friends speech, when the truth is they really have no intention of being your friend at all. And the last thing I need is a friend. (click) ( click) ( click) And look at these shots. Sheila wouldn’t even glance at the camera after that. The muscles of her face got all tight. See along the jaw? That’s fear. I remember her foot twitching on the rim of the stool, of this stool I’m sitting on now, twitching just like this. Sheila called the day I was supposed to meet her, saying she’d forgotten about other plans, a relative was in from out of town, blah blah blah. Bitch was chubby, anyway. I forgot her at the newsstand, looking through all the fashion magazines at the skinny supermodels, the emaciated and beautiful, the rich and famished.