The Magnifying Glass

“Here Gianna, this is the last of it. Finish this up. Then we can all go.”

I placed my coffee cup of Morrocan Mint tea onto the pile of papers in the left corner of my desk. The bowl-shaped cup, hand-painted with purple dahlias against a lime green background, was my favorite. I reached for the stack of photographs Sophie handed me.

“Promise? I’m going bug-eyed checking these pictures.”

“There are only five or six more. These must get to the printers tonight to be ready for the conference.”

I tucked one strand of my chin-length bob behind my ear and grabbed my oldest magnifying glass, which I had brought to work that day. I switched glasses between projects to keep my eyes fresh. It was a trick I learned my first week on the job. Switching lenses, taking coffee breaks, doodling, and other things made the difference between success and failure. For this book cover design, Sophie insisted on a Roaring 20s theme without the roar, so I made certain there were no anachronisms overlooked in the photographs. I had already found the small corner of a Post-It note in one of the shots, putting Sophie and Antony on high alert. The company couldn’t afford any missteps.

I stabilized the shot in its plastic frame in front of me, planted my elbows on either side, and held the magnifying glass my grandmother had given me so long ago. It was the shape of a skeleton key set in a pewter frame cradling the glass. My grandmother had grown up in poverty when the pervasive stereotypes of Italians affected chances of finding jobs. When relatives visited, I went into a quiet corner to read, but one time my grandmother made a special effort to give me this one gift. She died shortly afterwards.

My fingers met and held the magnifying glass together in a prayer stance, hovering inches above the shot. My neck and upper back ached, but I was able to see minute details in this position..

I leaned over the shot, peering through the lens. It was fuzzy. So many items in this one shot. A messy room with flower trellises climbing the wallpaper, old luggage trunks overflowing with paper, and a thinly cushioned recliner to the right had jammed itself into half of a carved wooden desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, then gave way to the wallpaper. Sheets of music tumbled from the chests onto the floor. Music sheets where the composer’s name was visible were all pre-1920s. There were a few Scott Joplin pieces. Authentic, or merely props? I double-checked our wallpaper database for a match in private homes back then, and found the reclining chair was correct. Below the right armrest sat a magazine rack, stuffed with handwritten sheets of music.

I could see a page of the “Maple Leaf Rag” by Scott Joplin on the floor behind the left back leg. Near the sheet of music, I saw a loosely bunched scarf with a familiar pattern, maple leaves. I looked at my own scarf, wrapped around the neckline of my blouse and pinned at my shoulder with a maple leaf broach. The pattern was identical. Hmm. I returned to the photograph, moving it over the sheet of music on the floor near the scarf. A red splotch appeared spreading over the music and as I watched, it grew. A bloodstain expanded onto the music, methodically obscuring the notes.

Taken aback, I looked up and sat back.

Shaking off my confusion, I repositioned the magnifying lens and looked at the photograph again. I noted everything I had before: the wallpaper, the recliner, the desk, and the trunks along the floor, sheet music spilling out. I scanned the “Maple Leaf Rag” behind the recliner back leg and again witnessed a drop of bright red blood as it crept along the sheet of music to become a fully formed bloodstain, growing by the second. I gasped as Tony walked by.

I sat up again, puzzled. Tony stopped mid-stride.

“What’s going on over there, Gianna?”

“Do you have a second to check something?”

Tony walked to my desk and leaned against the one free corner to my right. “Take a look at this. I’m seeing something confusing.

“Okay, sure. Whereabouts?”

“On the floor near the recliner.”

“Is something out of place?”

“Not out of place or out of time, but more out of reason. It makes no sense.

“Sounds intriguing. I’ll take a look.” Tony reached into his pocket and brought out his own magnifying glass bending over my desk, positioning and stabilizing himself above the photograph. I watched as he expanded his field of view until he had looked around the entire shot.

Tony and I had been at school together, spending late nights studying in hallways long after everyone else had gone to bed, eating pizza with pepperoni and onions (yeesh!) and huge buckets of fried chicken. We had been in many of the same art and English classes and kept running into each other on campus. He was the one friend I’d had the longest. Over time, he let his hair grow and now sported braids which telegraphed his moods. They bounced around on his head when he was happy and the day he received news his grandmother had died, they were literally drooping, weighed down with some burden, even though Tony kept a brave face at work and no one could tell. Today, his braids were relaxed and flowing. Tony was mystified at how I could read him, but I never told him what his braids revealed.

“I don’t see anything, Gianna. Not sure what’s so unusual about the shot.”

Before he could pocket his personal magnifying glass, I placed my hand on his arm and asked, “May I?” He nodded towards me. I took his glass.

I repositioned myself and looked through Tony’s glass. I moved slower than before and never saw the telltale stain. “Well, I don’t see it now. Can you look through my glass?”

“Sure, hand it over.” I gave him my skeleton key magnifying glass and Tony shifted it in his hands.

“Wow, this is heavy. Nice design, where’d you get this?” Tony’s braids telegraphed curiosity and interest, subtly leaning towards the glass with an expectant air as Tony held it and examined its artistic details. I always wondered why no one could see the emotion his braids evoked.

“It was a present from my grandmother a long time ago. It’s been sitting around the house. She told me it came from an old house she used to live in. The area of town used to be in the slums, the place where all the psychics and street performers lived? Near Templeton Crossing. With this job, I finally found a use for it. I brought it in this morning.”

Tony set himself above the photograph and looked through my glass, staying in position for a longer time than normal. Twice he looked back at me quizzically before returning to the photograph. When he finally put the glass down and faced me, I could see something between concern and puzzlement reflected in his green eyes and his braids all askew, out of order and reason.

“I think I see what you’re talking about. First, I see your scarf balled up in the corner in front of a trunk just to the left. Second, I see a bloodstain growing on that sheet of music next to the recliner.”

“So I’m not going batty.”

“Not from what I can tell. I’ve got an idea. Pick up a different photograph from the pile, just a random one.”

I leaned past him and pulled out a sheet about three below the top. It showed a Duncan Phyfe dining table laid with an Irish lace tablecloth and masses of food placed upon it, set for a banquet. Halved melons faced off against each other on the tabletop, grapes overflowed from copper bowls, strawberries propped themselves next to bowls and cutting boards. Bread lay on wooden cutting boards, frothy silver creamers overflowed, sticks of butter on pre-cut butter trays, cheeses, and numerous spreads, cream cheeses, jams, marmalades, etc. A few carved wooden chairs with plush velvet cushions angled away from the table and heavy jacquard drapes tied back with tassels framed the shot.

“How about this one?”

“Let’s see.” Tony glanced at the picture as I loaded it into the frame. “Hmm. Yummy.”

“It does look tasty, doesn’t it? Well, except for all the breakfast foods . . . and the fruits.” It felt better to return to our usual banter and not discuss the disturbing bloodstain.

“Which leaves the butter and the spreads. You are soooo picky.” He turned back to the photograph. “Okay, let’s look. First with my glass.”

Tony bent over my desk, having dropped his air of formality. Tony kept this etiquette in place around everyone but me. When he and I met up later, for dinner or hanging out, the old Tony was back in play. I looked around, realizing everyone else had left, or at least cleared out of the main office.

“Nothing here. You have a look.” He handed me his glass.

I bent over the photo. Nothing. “Nope. Just the shot. But, give me a sec.” I was beginning to calm down.

I scanned the photo with careful attention, looking for anachronisms. Everything seemed in place. I checked the floor, the chairs, the carvings on the chairs, the bowls. It matched up with what I had seen in my hours of research when Sophie first mentioned the project a few days ago. Nothing was out of place or time.

“Okay, done here. No problems with this shot. What now?” Maybe there was no problem at all. This bloodstain business was probably just a manifestation of my imagination.

“Hand me your magnifying glass now. I’ll go first this time.” Tony took my glass, positioned himself over the image, and sank onto his elbows. He was still for an eternity. His braids began to sag almost imperceptibly, but his crisply starched shirt began to lose its shape and nearly drip off his muscular frame as if it were liquid. My fear was back with small beginnings of dread forming in my stomach. Something was wrong, very wrong.

I stood up and put my hand on Tony’s back, surprised at how damp his shirt had become. “What is it, Tony? Something’s not right. I can see it. Give me the glass. What do you see?”

Tony looked up from the glass, clearly shaken. Gingerly, he set my glass down on the photograph, running a tense hand through his overexcited braids. He was unstable, so I grabbed the back of my chair and wheeled it underneath him, watching him drop tiredly into it. He had gone a shade paler. His braids conveyed dismay, as they rioted around his head in a tangled mass.

“Drink some of this mint tea. You look terrible. What did you see?” I pressed my cup into his hands and watched him take a swallow. He looked back at me with the saddest green eyes I have ever seen, saying nothing. I had never expected to see eyes that sad on Tony, who approached everything with such positivity.

While Tony recovered, I took my magnifying glass and looked through it. For several minutes, things appeared normal. I began to relax over the desk. Then, a small shift occurred. The tablecloth grew ragged holes, drapes sagged, melons dried up and began to decay, the butter melted into a pool, grapes shriveled, and the cheese grew mold. This was one of the few times I was grateful the photographs were in black and white. I didn’t want to see the vivid color of the rotting fruit or the mold as I watched it creep over everything on the table. I glanced back at Tony watching me and then turned back to the photo. Giant roaches crawling over the food and a tattered pile of newspapers propping up one leg of a sloping, sagging dining table. Sickening. I looked at Tony.

He sat with his elbows propped on his knees, looking at me intently. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

“I saw something . . . different than before, but no less horrible. It’s hard to understand. What did you see?”

With his head in his hands, Tony muttered, “My worst nightmare.” He and his braids shuddered, shaking off the memory. He squared his shoulders then and sat up in the chair, ready to face whatever the problem was. This was the Tony I knew so well, my Tony.

I looked back at him. “Wait, what did you just say?”

Tony stared off into space, back into his past. “Not having enough to eat, not knowing where your next meal is coming from, not knowing if you have a bed to sleep in, or where it might be.”

“No, Tony, that’s not it. What was it? I could barely hear.”

“Oh . . . I can’t remember . . . my biggest fear?”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t sound right.” I tapped my chin. “You said . . . your worst nightmare. That’s it! Your nightmare is going back to poverty. The only problem is . . .” I broke off, puzzled.

“What?”

“What’s my worst nightmare? Getting murdered? I never think about that. It’s something about the photograph and the bloodstain, but I don’t know . . .”

Tony put his hand on mine, staying my speech. “Listen, Gianna. I’ve got to give this assignment to Sophie before she leaves. I’ll be right back.”

Tony rose from my chair, grabbed his folders, rushing off to intercept Sophie on the way out the door. He threw his tie over his shoulder and walked swiftly away. It was a fine line Tony walked. Never break a sweat, never look rushed. His philosophy served him well; he had risen to the top of the department when he and I had started at the same time. I watched his braids bounce along, happy to be moving again. My photos were finished, even though this one photo was still on my desk, which meant they needed to get to the printers down the hallway.

I put the banquet photo back in the pile and surveyed the remaining photos. I picked up my magnifying glass, sat down, and positioned myself over the original photograph. Despite my misgivings, I looked through the lens. As I looked, I heard a soft rumble and whirring. At first, I thought it came from outside --- the jackhammers on the street. I raised my head, but the sound seemed farther away. I settled back down, looking through the glass again. This time the sound became louder until it was deafening. There was no mistaking where it came from, the magnifying glass.

I raised my head to muffle the roar, but couldn’t see anything from that distance. I leaned forward. I felt a pull on my upper body, like someone was pushing and pulling me towards the glass. I braced my elbows on the desk and pulled away but couldn’t budge. I tried to drop the magnifying glass onto the photograph, but my hands and fingers were frozen and the glass stuck. None of us was going anywhere. That pull became a yawning vacuum and I got sucked in. I struggled to keep my scarf from whipping around, but it flew off mid-flight. I fought to keep my shoes on, and fortunately they were tight since they were still new. I careened down a glass tunnel, landing in a heap in front of a recliner. When I raised my head, I realized I was in the photo. Where the photo ended, there were foggy shapes, but nothing distinct. The world outside the photo ceased to exist, in any coherent fashion. Squinting to the left of the recliner, I could make out the shape of a shadowy door, but nothing else. Everything in the photo was crisp and clear, but if it hadn’t been in the shot, it was also not visible to me now.

Well, this is terrific, I thought. What am I going to do? No one’s here, Sophie’s gone, Tony following her, and I’m trapped. There were no witnesses.

I put my hand up and felt my broach sagging on my blouse. My maple leaf scarf was gone, torn off in the windblown tunnel. My broach was still fastened with small tears in my blouse where it had been pulled violently. I looked behind the recliner and noticed my balled-up scarf as it had been in the modified photograph.

Ages later, I heard rustling coming from outside and looked up where the glass was, where I had been. I saw a beautiful green eye peering down at me, questioning. I could make out muffled speech, as if the speaker was talking into a cave.

“Gianna? Is that you? What happened?”

It was Tony, returning. Finally. I took off my olive high heels and stood on the recliner, waving like mad.

“Don’t fall, Gianna! I can see you. I don’t know if you can hear me. I’ll get you out of there. I’ll turn in your other photos, but this one I’ll keep. I’ll tell Sophie something spilled.”

I searched the desk, scanning for a piece of paper. I grabbed one of the sheets of music, and found a pen tucked into my skirt. I scribbled in capital letters, “PROMISE?”

I held it up to the lens, as the tears streamed down my face.

Tony took one look. “Yes, Gianna. I promise. I will get you out of there. You and me, like always.”

He disappeared and I felt the photo shoved into a folder to go home with him. It was then I realized what my worst nightmare was: disappearing from the face of the earth and not having anyone even notice I was gone.