The Photographer

Contains Profanity.

Lyle did not want to go to Cedarpoint Grove. He didn’t know anyone who lived there, and he hoped he never would. But in the last year, Lyle had learned that being the youngest and most inexperienced person on staff involved saying “yes” to the crap no one else was willing to do.

“Is this another grip-and-grin?” During his four months of employment, Lyle had learned a few of the slang terms.

“It is, and it isn’t.” The news editor wiped at his hairy nose. “It’s a birthday party. For a …” He consulted his notebook. “Gerald Hermeyer. He’s donating a significant portion of his estate to the hospital’s foundation. It’s his birthday today. He wants us to write a profile about him before he signs the check.”

Lyle frowned. No family with money sent their loved one to Cedarpoint Grove. “How much money are we–”

The photo editor shut him up with a click of his ballpoint. “Not important. I’m writing the story. Just get some photos of him blowing out candles.”

Grumbling to himself, Lyle grabbed his camera bag and hurried toward the back door.

“Bye, Lyle,” cooed the graphic designer. They had hooked up after the staff Christmas party, a few weeks after he’d started. Dumb, box wine-influenced decision. Continuing his involvement with her was also dumb.

As he drove the four blocks to the nursing home, he watched the familiar landmarks of his hometown roll by, simmering in the late August heat. The police station, the library, the lot where he made out with Nancy Tims. His memories shimmered on the surfaces of the brick facades, but they were too recent to be recalled with any nostalgia.

The summer after graduation, his girlfriend of two years had dumped him. He saw it coming, but it stung. And his BFA in photography meant nothing in a college town other than a promotion from a part-time busboy to a still-part-time barista.

His dad Brian knew The Arcadian Gazette’s owner because Brian knew everybody. When Lyle finally admitted to his parents that he was coming home, Brian leaned into his connections and landed him the junior photographer opening.

Brian had a private practice in Arcady Ridge, the only lawyer with a town storefront. And his family’s history in the town went back to Lyle’s great-great-grandfather. In the context of Arcady Ridge, they were rich. Their name appeared on park pavilions, boards of directors, and county fair livestock auction winners. Lyle had photographed his own parents twice.

But for all his fatigue of the inflated egos of small-town elites, he would have gladly spent the afternoon shooting grip-and-grins if it meant avoiding Cedarpoint Grove. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his dread, but he felt it coiling inside him. Growing up, his dad mumbled stories about the state fines, temporary shut-downs, and lawsuits that went nowhere. But small-town corruption–good-old-boy back slapping–was what kept Brian’s doors open.

Maybe I’m afraid of getting old, Lyle told himself. The typical nature of his angst irritated him. But he found comfort in his answer, even if it was a shallow one.

He parked and walked up the steep front steps. A few residents sat outside in wheelchairs, their faces shiny with sweat. The one-story complex resembled a series of connected nineteen-fifties brick ranch homes. Lyle pushed the front entrance call button.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here for, umm.” Lyle realized he hadn’t recorded the name. “I’m with the newspaper, for the birth–”

“Oh, that’s cancelled.”

Lyle smiled, hardly believing his luck. “Too bad, bye.” He turned to leave.

“No, wait!”

He almost kept going. I can pretend I didn’t hear it. But one of the residents sitting under a shade tree shot him a terrifying glare, a scowl twisting his floppy, long lips. Grimacing, Lyle repressed the button. “Yes?”

“We still need the photo. We’ve made some … adjustments, but … Please, come in.” The intercom clicked off, and the lock slid open.

Lyle pulled on the handle and entered a small, windowless vestibule that smelled like lemons and ammonia. The lock on a second door also slid aside, and Lyle hurried through.

He found himself in a common area with game tables, bookcases, televisions, and an oversized wall calendar. The chemical and citrus odors were more pungent here, but the stench of urine was also detectable. About ten residents lingered in the room, watching TV, eating pudding, and staring vacantly at nothing. A few glanced at him and resumed their activities.

An orderly holding a clipboard stepped out from a corridor. “Hi, I believe I’m supposed to be meeting you?”

Lyle shook hands with her. “Lyle, with the paper.”

“Well, hi, Lyle-with-the-paper.” She grinned, revealing uneven teeth. “I know you from somewhere …” She trailed off, playing with her blonde ponytail as she thought. “Were you on St. Mark’s football team?” He nodded. “Figured. I was a cheerleader for Arcady High.” Her gray-blue eyes sparkled with interest. “I always remember the red-heads, even the rivals.”

Lyle knew he was blushing because he felt heat on his cheeks. He turned as red as a stoplight in the rain at the slightest provocation. It had been a minute since a girl had flirted so openly. He tried to muster up a slick reply.

But the girl just laughed. “You’re cute. I’m Hannah.” She tore a corner off the clipboard’s paper. “Text me?” She tucked the folded bit into his camera bag’s pocket.

Lyle chuckled, not surprised. She’s not the first girl to hook up with the photographer hoping he takes her picture. “Sure.”

“Follow me, Lyle-with-the-paper.” She led him down a hallway, and Lyle noticed her hips swaying in her scrubs as she walked. Her curves kept him distracted from the hand smears on the offwhite walls, the stains on the vinyl flooring, and the sad furnishings inside the individual rooms.

They turned around a corner and stopped at door Fifteen. Inside, Lyle could see the hunched, tense backs of two men in scrubs and a tall, older man in a suit, all facing the same direction. The bass rhythm of their muffled, grumbling tones could be heard through the door. Lyle recognized the one in the suit from his dad’s office.

“Oh jeez, the owner’s here. He’s like, my boss’s boss’s boss. I’m out. Good luck, paper boy.” Hannah winked, then jogged off.

Lyle’s presence went unnoticed. He raised his hand to knock and was struck by a wave of dread and claustrophobia that almost brought him to his knees. He placed an open palm on the double-plated glass and breathed, waiting for the spots swimming in his vision to dissipate.

The door opened, knocking him off balance. The orderly deftly grabbed him by the forearm to steady him. “You okay?” he asked. Embarrassed, Lyle nodded and ducked away from any concern.

The other two acknowledged his presence with nods, then adjusted their positions to make room for him. Seated in a wheelchair was a shrunken, hunched skeleton of a man. His parchment-colored skin matched his eyes, and a red, bulbous nose hung long and low over his cracked lips. A small, round cake with fingerprints pressed into its frosting sat forgotten on a small table.

“Lyle, it’s good to see you.” The man in the suit nodded.

Lyle nodded back. He didn’t know this man’s name, but he was used to this–people like him knowing his dad, and therefore knowing him. “I’m here for the profile picture.”

The withered figure cleared his throat. “Not just the picture.” His voice rasped and rattled, both too wet and too dry.

The orderly who had helped him, a middle-aged man with tattoos, shook his head. “I told you, Mr. Mense. He’s been like this all day. He didn’t want anything to do with the other residents, either. Said, ‘I don’t want you at my party’ and threatened to start throwing cake if we didn’t take him to his room.”

Mr. Mense held up a hand, silencing his employee. “Mr. Hermeyer, we understand today is probably … an emotional one for you.”

The creased, wobbling throat released a single bark of sardonic laughter. The watery, yellow eyes turned to Lyle. “He means I’m dying. It’s my birthday, my last one.”

The other orderly shook his head. “Gerry, be nice to your guest.”

Gerry ignored him, turning his long, veiny neck toward Mr. Mense. “I want all of you out, and I want this one,” he pointed a gnarled index finger at Lyle, “to interview me and write the story. Or no check to your tidy foundation. I think this young man’s father knows a thing or two about how much that check means to you personally, doesn’t he?”

Mr. Mense clenched his jaw, then pulled at the ends of his crisp shirtsleeves. “Lyle, I realize this is highly irregular, but if you’d be willing, I can explain the circumstances to your editors. I know they would support this decision.”

Lyle felt nauseated. He was trapped. Whatever this man wanted with him, he couldn’t refuse. “Okay, sure.”

“And if he tries anything,” the second orderly added, “just press this button. We’ll be right down the hall.”

Lyle nodded, staring at his shoes. The three of them fled, almost as quickly as Hannah had. They wanted nothing to do with him, a revulsion bordering on fear.

“Sit.” Gerry reached a freckled, scrawny arm toward a miniature fridge, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two chilled glasses, and placed them on the lowered table next to the marred cake. With a shaking hand, he poured the two glasses as full as possible, then extended one to Lyle.

Lyle sat in a plastic rolling chair across from Gerry and placed his camera bag beside him. “Oh, no thanks. I’m working.”

“Kid, you’re going to need this. Just drink.”

Lyle thought about resisting. Everything about this situation was wrong. But he also knew refusing this man’s offer was the same as refusing Mr. Mense, which his editor would frown upon. Might as well keep him happy. Lyle shrugged and sipped. “Damn,” he exclaimed, smacking his lips. “That’s …”

“Mmhmm.” Gerry leaned back and took his own delicate sip. “That’s the good shit. One nice thing about dying, you start using up all the stuff you were saving for special occasions. Usually, I have to invent a reason. But today?” He sipped again, closing his eyes and sighing with satisfaction as he pulled the glass away. “Today is truly special.”

“Because it’s your birthday.” Lyle sipped, the warmth of the drink seeping into his chest. His vertigo and fears seemed to welcome the liquor with eager, open arms. “Sorry about your–”

“Dying? Don’t be.” He rolled his eyes. “Pancreatic cancer. Boring. Some of my ancestors went out with so much style. But we don’t get to pick, I guess.”

“Ancestors.” Lyle frowned. “Is that what you want to talk about? Your family? Oh, I didn’t bring a–”

“Don’t. Don’t write anything down.” Gerry refilled both of their glasses. “The truth is, I don’t care about that excuse of small-town journalism running their version of my life story on page seven. I needed an excuse to talk to you.”

Lyle sipped, hiding the reaction from his face. He had guessed this by the way the orderlies spoke to him and the inconsistent nature of his requests. His mind is gone. I’m here to make him smile long enough to pick up the pen and sign. Glancing at the clock, Lyle resolved to humor him for the next fifteen minutes, then make up an excuse to leave. “Yeah? Why me?”

“Because you’re next in line.” Gerry sipped. “Tell me. Do you like your job?”

Chuckling, Lyle shook his head. “God no.”

“Then why are you there?”

“It’s a job. Everybody needs one.”

“You don’t.”

Scowling, Lyle shook his ice. Gerry’s shaking arm was there again, refilling. “You know about my family?”

“Everybody in this backwater town knows about our family.”

Lyle stared across his glass. “Our?”

Gerry sighed. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m just some old, lonely, senile fuck. That’s fair. And honestly, you don’t have to believe a word I say. But you and me?” Gerry gestured to himself, then Lyle. “We’re related, distantly. And you’re my heir.”

Lyle glanced around the room. While following Hannah, he had managed to steal glimpses inside the other residents’ rooms and spotted pictures, shelves filled trinkets and keepsakes–belongings that brought personal touches to the otherwise sterile, empty rooms. But Gerry’s room contained nothing other than what was provided: the squat table and single chair, the bed, and the mounted television. The mini fridge was the one exception.

The liquor’s effects had traveled upward from his chest to his head and had settled in between his eyes. The tingling warmth loosened his tongue. “No offense, Mr. Hermeyer, but people who end up here usually don’t have a lot to pass on.”

“Right you are. I chose this humble dwelling, though. I wanted to save money to pass on to you. All of our ancestors have been doing that for us.”

“Is this where you tell me about how wonderful my great-great-whatever was, opening that shoe factory and providing jobs to the community?”

“No, it’s not.” Both glasses, without Lyle noticing, had somehow refilled. “But I know about you. How you’re the crown prince of Arcady Ridge royalty. How this job forces you into the spaces you spent your teenage years resenting. How you smoke weed, drink gas station booze, and screw girls you see as beneath you to pass the time.”

Not knowing how else to react, Lyle laughed. “And how do you know all that?”

“When this is all over, you’re going to tell yourself it’s just intuition, based on some simple facts–you’re a young, good-looking, financially privileged guy, you majored in photography, and you’re back working in the town you thought you escaped. But I’m going to tell you the truth.”

Lyle had no idea how much he’d drunk, or why he kept drinking, or why this man’s words seemed to be seeping into his skull with the same seductive warmth as the liquor. The edges of the room softened, and his curiosity beckoned him to lean into the absurdity of it all. “And what truth is that?”

“In my head,” Gerry tapped on the side of his skull with his empty glass, “I carry the stories of a line of ancestors that goes back and back, across an ocean, to a land so old, it listened when you spoke to it.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Lyle set the glass down and picked up his camera bag. “Let me guess. One of our ancestors was a bit chatty.”

Gerry nodded. “You’re a quick-witted, bitter bastard, just like me. Just like most of us, tied in this. That ancestor asked to live forever. And he got his superpower, but not the way he thought. His memory lives on, not his body. And it continues to the next descendant. The memories include every day of their entire life, from slaughtering livestock to slaughtering their neighbors. It also includes where they’ve hidden their stockpiles of wealth to be given to the next descendent. Just like me, they wanted to ensure the next in line could live comfortably, because he would be the keeper of their memories. And there is power in memory.”

With automatic movements, Lyle lifted the camera out of the bag. “That’s stupid and lame.”

“Maybe.” Gerry blew air through his hooked nose. “You say it sounds lame, but you devoted four years and at least sixty grand to an art form devoted to capturing memories. Regardless, do you know why I’m talking to you?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

“I am. Before me, every ancestor had asked to continue the line to their descendant long before they reached my age. You have to ask, you see? For the line to continue. But I’ve been holding out. Because in this life, I was raised Catholic, and Catholic guilt runs deep, to the marrow.”

Lyle laughed as he snapped the lens in place. “Something else we have in common.”

“Too true. And my Catholic guilt asks what if I’ve damned myself, along with everyone in this line before me? What if death requires we accept the loss of our remembering? So I waited. And now I’m almost seventy on my deathbed. To add additional complication, new memories have started cramming themselves inside my head, shouting out all the rest. But these aren’t like the other memories.”

With a tilt, Lyle drained his glass again and set it on the table. Camera resting on his lap, he unsnapped the locks on the table’s wheels. He knew what this man was going to say. “They’re my memories. You’ve been watching me live my life.”

Gerry nodded. “And the ties between us are already binding us closer. That’s why you came back here. It’s also why you almost passed out coming in, because reflections aren’t meant to sit in the same room, see? But I wanted you here so I could ask you. I’m not passing on this gift or burden without your consent.”

With care, Lyle pulled the table in front of Gerry and righted the cake’s candle. “Why wouldn’t I say yes? It’s not like you’re damning me, right? I’d still have to ask for it myself.”

Gerry smoothed his hair and sat up straighter in his wheelchair. “Yes, but what will you do when the voices of twenty dead grandpas are begging you to keep their memory alive?”

Lyle shrugged, pulled his lighter from his pocket, and lit the candle. “Make your wish, old man. You already knew I’d say yes.”

“I guess I did.” Gerry took a deep breath. “Tell me happy birthday, kid.”

“Happy birthday, Grandpa.”

Gerry blew, and Lyle snapped the photo.