Remnants

Bright.

The boy shielded his eyes from the sun. Insects buzzed, and a stench of fresh-mown hay and cow manure lingered. Silhouettes of long cattle shelters and silos wavered on the horizon.

Dairy farm. A half mile from home. 2,640 feet; a mile is 5,280 feet.

In the distance, a yellow school bus rounded a corner to accelerate up the country road.

He checked his analog wristwatch, his fingers forming a sharp right angle.

Late. Four minutes. There are sixty minutes in an hour.

His right hand gripped the edge of a curled poster board protected within a white kitchen garbage bag.

Behind him, a stray Calico with matted fur pressed its cheek into a weathered fence post. It mewed, drawing his attention.

Cat. Orange and black.

Resting the poster on its end, he lifted a Polaroid camera hanging from a rainbow lanyard around his neck. He leveled it to frame the animal in the viewfinder and then pressed the shutter button. It snapped and whirred, ejecting a frame with a blank image.

He pinched its corner to withdraw it from the slot.

The Calico scurried away into the tall grass as the bus approached. Its driver downshifted, warning lights strobed, and the bus slowed, screeching to a halt. The boy turned.

The door hissed as it slid open.

Pneumatics. Spelled with a ‘p.’

Mr. Greenway smiled. “Mornin’, Dwight.”

Hiking his backpack higher on his right shoulder, Dwight picked up his poster and lumbered up the steps.

“Hey, Dwight!” A boy shouted from the back. “It’s eighty-two degrees! Why you always wearin’ that windbreaker?”

Ian Williams.

Ian’s friends sniggered at each other. Ian told them, “He always wears the same damn thing.” He pantomimed the way Dwight held his left arm.

Mr. Greenway closed the door.

“Does your mommy even wash your clothes?”

Dwight edged down the aisle to take an unoccupied seat. A handful of other kids snickered as he passed. The bus lurched.

Ian called out, “What’s in the bag?”

“Probably his poster for the art fair,” chided one of Ian’s friends.

Dwight stared out the window.

Barbed wire. Metal fence posts. Gully. Forty-five miles per hour is sixty-six feet per second.

“Good call, Randy.” Ian leaned in. “Did you finger paint somethin’, little buddy?”

“Hey!” Mr. Greenway barked from the driver’s seat. He glanced at Ian in the mirror. “Watch it. Sit.”

“Yeah, sorry, Mr. G.” Ian slumped into his seat to backhand Randy’s shoulder.

Dwight glanced at the picture developing between his fingers. He’d captured the Calico as it brushed against the post, long strands of dry grass in the background.

Halloween cat. 

Dwight pulled a handful of Polaroid photos from his inner jacket pocket.

A boulder covered in moss.

Tree branches above a woodland trail.

An empty playground.

A blue jay.

His grandmother.

He placed the cat on top and returned the stack to his jacket.

* * *

Thirsty.

Dwight sat near his poster tacked to a partition and stared at his feet. His head bobbed back and forth.

Students from multiple grades displayed sketches, ceramics, paintings, and photos in the school’s cafeteria while kids from other classrooms toured each exhibit. Three girls, their voices hushed, gawked and snickered at Dwight’s work as they walked by.

Bright glints of light crossed the ceiling — reflections from moving vehicles outside. Tables jostled against chairs with metal legs that scraped across the linoleum. Conversations, high-pitched voices, laughter.

Dwight closed his eyes and gripped his bad arm.

Too much.

“Well, hello, Dwight.” He started at the sound of his name. Mrs. Freeman inspected the Polaroid photos taped to his poster board before kneeling beside him.

Dwight craned his head to view Mrs. Freeman from the corner of his eye.

“They’re beautiful.” She smiled kindly and met his eyes. “You’re so imaginative.”

Dwight smiled crookedly and rotated his shoulders to focus on her.

“Amanda, these are amazing.” Mr. Gifford wore an aged sweater vest over a plaid dress shirt. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and leaned in to point at a specific picture. “That one. Such vivid colors. Such an excellent treatment of light and shadow.”

Dwight counted the colored lines on Mr. Gifford’s shirt before turning his head to find a window. It’s still early.

“Dwight’s one of my best students, John. It’s transience.” Mrs. Freeman stood, placing a hand on Dwight’s shoulder while Dwight’s head lobbed to resume staring at the ground. “He took them early in the morning and after school. In the morning, the porcelain’s white, clean — pristine — while, over the day, well — boys — there’s wear and use.”

“Really? And such curious subject matter.” Mr. Gifford folded his arms. “Why urinals, Dwight?”

Dwight licked his lips and glanced at Mr. Gifford, his left arm bent at the wrist. He touched his Polaroid camera and grinned. “They don’t move. Or go away.”

“He’s documenting changing states. This one’s earlier in the day,” Mrs. Freeman said, “and this one is later. Dwight’s deeply fascinated by impermanence.”

Ian Williams’ friend.

Randy wandered behind Mr. Gifford with his classmates and, glancing at the poster board, sneered at Dwight before leaving.

“Insightful.” Mr. Gifford placed a thoughtful finger on his chin. “Yes. Spotless, then — here — a stopped-up puddle left in the basin. Brilliant.”

Brilliant.

Dwight swelled with pride.

“He preserves a perfect moment.” Mrs. Freeman patted Dwight’s shoulder. “What something is versus what it will become, or, what might be.” She whispered into Mr. Gifford’s ear. “Dwight recently experienced a loss in the family.”

“Oh,” Mr. Gifford nodded, placing his open palm against his chest.

“Mrs. Freeman.” Dwight lifted his shoulders and tilted his head. “May I be excused?”

“Of course.” She stepped out of his way. “I’ll keep an eye on your things. You go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Dwight rose to his feet.

* * *

Too many people.

Dwight cringed as he pushed through the din of loitering students in the hall.

All their faces look the same.

He kept his head down. Crowds gave him a headache.

Carefully holding his camera steady, Dwight drank from a water fountain, and, when finished, made his way into the washroom.

* * *

Sunlight poured in from the window to climb down the opposing wall. Dwight lay on the green-tiled floor to stage his shot.

Light and shadow, Dwight thought, echoing Mr. Gifford’s praise, just as Ian and Randy burst through the door.

Ian snarled, “What’chya doin’, tard?” Grappling Dwight’s arms, they pulled Dwight up to his feet to shove him into the wall. The camera dangled around Dwight’s neck. “Don’t you know takin’ pictures in the bathroom ain’t right?”

“Hey, what’s this?” Randy fished Dwight’s photos out of his windbreaker. Wide-eyed, Dwight lunged at the pictures with his right hand, but Randy twisted to keep them out of Dwight’s reach. “Look at these!”

“No!” Dwight struggled under Ian’s grasp. “Give ’em back!”

Randy chortled, holding up each one to Ian. “A stupid cat.” He tossed it over his shoulder. “A bird. A dumb hiking trip.” He flung those, too. “The playground at Whipler Park.” One after another, Dwight’s photos went skittering across the floor into a stall.

Ian scowled. “You’re tryin’ to be an artist, huh? You think you’re a photographer?” Ian pinned Dwight against the wall. “Your pictures are crap, asshole!”

“Wait,” Randy snickered, turning a Polaroid photo in his fingers to show Ian. “Granny?”

Dwight shot out his right arm.

“This one?” Randy held it just out of his reach and flapped it at him. “You want this one, huh?”

“Tear it!” Ian commanded, restraining Dwight.

Randy pinched two fingers at the top of the picture and nodded at Ian.

Dwight’s head craned to his left, nearly placing his ear to his shoulder. “Give it back!”

Randy relaxed, only to slowly back away, holding the picture of Dwight’s grandmother before him like a hostage.

“Not a chance!” After shoving Dwight back, Ian released Dwight to join Randy near the sink. He tipped his chin at Randy. “Do it.”

Shaking — gritting his teeth — Dwight stumbled into the wall to bring his camera’s viewfinder to his eye. He pressed the shutter button just as Randy ripped the photo of his grandmother in two. The camera’s flash caused both Ian and Randy to flinch.

Ian blinked. “The fu—”

The white celluloid frame ejected from the camera. 

“He took one of us!” Randy growled, casting both halves of the photo to the floor to clench his fists.

Dwight removed the picture. Exposed to the light, a whitewashed image of the bathroom began to develop, and Dwight’s eyes went to the boys, anticipating what would happen next.

“Give me that!” Ian raked at Dwight’s camera but missed. He swiped again, only this time noticing his hand passed right through Dwight’s arm. Ian gasped breathlessly, glaring at his translucent palm and forearm.

Randy, too, began to fade, and he shouted angrily at Dwight but said nothing, his voice trailing into silence.

Horrified, Dwight put his shoulder against the stall and slid to the floor, the picture wobbling in his trembling hand.

Ian panicked and tried to kick Dwight, but his leg sailed through Dwight and then into the stall. Furious, Ian shouted at the top of his lungs, pleading for someone outside the restroom to hear, but he didn’t make a sound.

Dwight cowered and covered his head as they attacked him like frenzied, desperate ghosts until they faded to mere wisps — remnants of malice and violence — and then vanished altogether.

Afterward, Dwight crawled about the floor to recover his photos. The bird, the rock, the trees, the playground, the Halloween Cat. Stacking them neatly in his hands, he added the picture of Ian and Randy.

Broken.

He returned them all to his jacket pocket.

Pale, shoulders slumped, and his face tensed with worry, Dwight collected the pieces of his grandmother — torn plastic, warped film — although he was surprised to find the image had reverted to clear white again. He stuffed the two halves of the photograph into his pant pocket and sat with his back against the stall.

Dwight caught his breath. His heart rate slowed as he admired the sunlight spilling across the floor to gleam off the chrome handles, and then he remembered.

Shade and light.

Righting himself on the floor, Dwight leveled the camera and braced his elbows against his knees.

* * *

“That’s a nice touch.” Mr. Gifford suggested as he noticed the latest Polaroid taped to Dwight’s poster board. “There’s beauty in the ordinary, isn’t there?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he crouched to speak with Dwight. "And what do you see when you look through your lens?"

Stillness. Quiet. Everything, everyone … stops.

Dwight’s head tilted to the left. “I see …” His words hung in the air. His gaze went to the floor. He swallowed.

“Dwight!” Mrs. Freeman burst into the cafeteria holding her cell phone to her ear. “Good gracious, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Rotating his shoulders, Dwight craned his neck toward Mrs. Freeman.

Mr. Gifford stood, concerned. “What is it, Amanda?”

Mrs. Freeman ended the call to race to Dwight’s side. “They found her! She’s okay — your mom’s taking her to a hospital for a checkup! Dwight, your grandmother’s alive!”

* * *

That evening, alone in his room and sitting on the floor with a shoebox of Polaroids, Dwight thumbed through the stack of photos from his jacket. He added pictures of the rock, trees, and playground to the box, tore apart the photos of the bird and the Halloween cat, and was left with the picture of Randy and Ian.

Light and shadow. Impermanence. What things become. Broken.

He swallowed, tossing the photo into the shoebox before sliding it under his bed.