Smile For the Camera

Shadow Specter whistles along to the sax solo in Junior Walker’s “What Does it Take?” as it plays in the background on the radio.

His cheerful chirping abruptly stops when he develops the last four pictures he took at the annual Penn Yan Heritage Festival.

Rushing to the telephone, he calls Mayor Ashford Simpson, telling him there’s something he has to see.

Penn Yan’s cherubic Mayor greets Shadow with a hearty handshake and an open seat in front of his desk. He pats his toupee, which people in town call the “worst rug in the world.”

“So, what’s got you so excited?”

Shadow drops the photo on the Mayor’s desk.

The photo captures Ashford at the podium, spouting enthusiastically to the Heritage Festival crowd.

Peering around his shoulder is the face of a dark-haired woman, her expression tinged with worry and fear.

Her face is transparent.

Ashford covers his astonished expression, quickly gathering his resolve.

“Is this some kind of joke, Shadow?”

“Anything but. You know who she is, don’t you?”

“That’s my first wife, Aja. She disappeared more than thirty-five years ago. This town may only have two thousand people in it, but I’m still a busy man, so don’t play me. Is this some kind of double exposure or a screw-up on your part? This just shows her face. Where’s the rest of her?”

“I just pressed the button to take the picture, Ash. When I took it, you were the only one in view. It hasn’t been edited.”

Ashford huffs. “Of course it has. I don’t know what your end game is, Shadow, but I don’t like to be reminded of a very bleak time in my life. I was working here in the junkyard long before I bought it and later ran for the town council. Aja got sick of waiting for me to be a success, so one day, I came home to an empty house. Having your wife walk out on you is a black mark around here. The high and mighty moral squad liked to remind me that Aja wasn’t exactly Citizen of the Year, so it took me several tries and a court ruling declaring her dead before I could get elected to the town council. Now, I’ve got a new wife and three wonderful daughters, and I’m revered, so I don’t want the past to bring me down again. So, here’s what is going to happen, Shadow. You’re going to destroy that picture, or I’m going to destroy you.”

Back in his studio, Shadow looks at the Mayor’s disconcerting photo, glad that he didn’t tell him he has other disturbing pictures featuring well-known townspeople.

Picking up Ashford’s photo with both hands, he tries to discern the difference between the living and the dead.

Shadow’s hands begin to shake. He closes his eyes to steady himself.

Opening his eyes, Shadow checks his surroundings, realizing he’s not in his studio. Worn Ethan Allen furniture dominates the small room he’s in, with cheap paintings of flowers and dogs on the drab blue walls and threadbare rugs on the floor.

Ashford enters the room. His dead muskrat toupee is gone, replaced by full, real hair. His paunchy body has been transformed into a fit figure.

Possessed of the body of a twenty-something, Ashford also has the erratic attitude of a young man to match.

Balling up his fist, he shakes it in Shadow’s face.

“You’re not going to hold me back anymore! I’ve found somebody else! I’m going to get a loan to buy the junkyard. Instead of junking fancy cars, I’ll be driving them!”

Ashford turns on his heels, heading out of the room. Shadow instinctively follows him.

Shadow passes an oval mirror hanging in the hallway.

He backs up, glaring pop-eyed in the mirror.

Aja stares back at him, dumbfounded. When he speaks, it’s in Aja’s voice.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I told you. It’s over between us. Your reckless spending and partying are holding me back. I’m moving in with Madelyn.”

“Madelyn Monroe?” Aja shrieks. “That crowbait is so ugly even the tide wouldn't take her out.”

“She may not be a looker, but she’s got something you don’t… A brain, and she’s going to use it to help me build up business at the junkyard. All you know how to do is burn every dollar I earn. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to fix that table you keep nagging me about.”

Ashford enters the garage, picking up a nail gun.

“You can’t leave me,” Aja says.

“You’re done telling me what to do, Aja. I’m divorcing you.”

“You can’t, Ash. I’m pregnant.”

“Is it mine?”

Aja tries to control herself, but her temper flares.

“Right now, I wish it wasn’t.”

Ashford points the nail gun at Aja.

“You’re lying! You’ll go to any lengths to keep me as your personal cash register! I wish this gun was real!”

He accidentally presses the trigger.

A nail hits Aja between the eyes. Blood pours down her face from the wound. Weaving, she falls to the floor.

Ashford waits until after midnight to drive to the junkyard. Scanning the area, he pulls Aja’s body out of the trunk, wrapped in one of the tacky rugs she bought at Carpet World.

He dumps her body in the trunk of one of the cars scheduled to be crushed in the morning.

With Aja’s death, Shadow is propelled back into his own body. He studies the three other pictures and wonders what secrets the people in them may be hiding.

When Shadow shows Wendy Wurlie her picture, she puts her hands up to her face, stifling a scream.

Her eyes begin to water as she holds back the tears.

Closing her eyes, Wendy tries to erase the image in the photo of the ghostly child standing next to her. The small auburn-haired girl is crying, wailing in despair, her head turned toward Wendy, who is smiling at the camera, oblivious to her presence.

“Shilo Ellison. She still haunts me,” Wendy whimpers. “I was a social worker in a poor section of Brooklyn for thirty years. I tried to help everyone, but I couldn't save Shilo.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t want you thinking any less of me than I think of myself right now.”

Shadow leaves Wendy standing on her porch, gazing at her backyard as if she’s staring into the abyss.

He waits until he’s back at his studio, away from prying eyes, before touching the picture with both hands.

A muscular, tattooed, hairy man with a beard and a grievous expression stands in a doorway, holding a belt in his hand.

Shadow looks down at his tiny hands, short legs, and the ruffled knee-dress he’s wearing.

He’s been transformed into a young girl.

“You wanna talk smart to me, you little ragamuffin…,” the man growls. “You’re gonna mind me, even if I have to take a couple’a layers of skin off your hide.”

She cringes in the corner of the bed, clutching her shopworn doll for comfort.

“No, Daddy!”

When he’s finished, her legs and arms are purple, in stark contrast to her older, yellowing bruises.

Sobbing from another beating a few days later, Shilo hears a knock on her door.

Her father wouldn’t bother to knock. The thought of being rescued briefly enters Shilo’s mind.

“Shilo?” a soft voice calls out as the door creaks open.

Shilo recognizes Wendy’s voice.

Wendy moves to Shilo’s side, her father looming behind her.

“These marks on her look fresh.”

“You don’t unnerstand…,” Ellwood Ellison babbles defensively. “She don’t cook. She don’t clean. All she wants to do is play with that stupid doll my ex brung her.”

“She’s six! That’s all she’s supposed to do!” Wendy asserts. “You need to treat her with the respect of an adult, but you have to keep in mind she’s a child. As for the abuse…”

“Hey, I don’t treat her no different than my old man treated me. And look how I turned out.”

Wendy scans his dingy tank top and worn striped shorts.

“Yeah, I can see he worked wonders. Here’s the thing, Ellwood. You keep those ham hocks you call fists away from Shilo, or I’ll see to it she gets sent to foster care.”

“I don’t wanna leave here. I just want him gone,” Shilo says.

“Shaddup, ya little gerbil, or instead’a foster care, you’ll be in intensive care,” Ellwood roars.

“You see, that’s what I’m talking about. You can’t threaten or hurt Shilo anymore. She’s your daughter.”

Ellwood lets out an unnervingly loud stream of laughter. “She ain’t mine. She belongs to one’a my ex’s booty calls.”

Wendy recoils in shock. “And the court gave you custody?”

“You should see the mook what is her father. At least I got a j-o-b, lady.”

“Nevertheless, you have to feed Shilo and make sure she goes to school regularly. Wouldn’t you like to go back to school and make new friends, Shilo?”

Shilo looks at Wendy, her almond-shaped eyes widening.

“What’s school?”

“That’s it. I’m going to start the process to have Shilo put in foster care.”

Ellwood’s hulking frame is suddenly inches away, his fetid breath steaming down on the top of Wendy’s head.

“You try and take her from me, and I’ll be payin’ you a visit. Ain’t Mulberry Street in Queens where you plant your fat can at night? Believe me, you don’t want me knockin’ on your door. Now, how ‘bout you take a hike? I gotta recondition my daughter.”

Shilo jumps off the bed, clinging to Wendy.

“Take me with you! He’s gonna hurt me! He’s gonna hurt me bad!”

Wendy shirks Shilo, who finally lets go, a look of resignation crossing her features.

“I have to do it legally. I’ll be back. Then I’ll take you to a place with a backyard, toys, and two parents who’ll love you.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it.”

Ellwood follows Wendy to the door.

“And you think I’m trash,” he says. “You shouldn’t lie to a little girl.”

Wendy’s caseload doubles over the next month. The next time she sees Shilo is at her funeral.

Shadow wakes up back in his studio holding an old, battered doll.

Garvin Rexton’s craggy expression tightens when Shadow shows him the photograph taken of him at the Penn Yan Heritage Week Wine Tasting.

Garvin is holding up a glass of Chablis, displaying a rare smile as he looks into the camera. It’s the image next to him that unsettles Garvin.

Garvin was a policeman in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx for twenty-five years. The area was known for rampant drug use, prostitution, and murder. The grim grind of inner-city life ultimately obliterated Garvin’s sense of empathy toward others, and he was recognized in the neighborhood as one of “those cops” who preferred pummeling to parlaying. Even now, at seventy-eight, gnarled by arthritis and covered in liver spots, Garvin prefers the company of his sheepdog, Shemp, to other humans. Only alcohol, and generally plenty of it, brings out a rare smile.

Garvin pets Shemp. Looking at the translucent image of a police officer standing beside him, Garvin grouses, “Pretty slick cut-and-paste job. But why? Did Colander’s family put you up to this?”

“So, you know who he is?” Shadow asks.

Garvin flings the photo at Shadow.

“A rat. That’s who he was.”

After Garvin’s pronouncement of “Get outta here, you son-of-a…or I’ll sick Shemp on you,” Shadow retreats to his car.

Holding both sides of the photo, Shadow begins to shake.

When he regains his senses, he’s standing in the vestibule of a crumbling apartment building. Looking down at himself, he sees he’s wearing the uniform of a police officer. His name tag identifies him as Officer Christian Collander.

Standing behind him, Pat Paulin, an officer with a five o’clock shadow and a long, crooked nose, turns to Officer Garvin Rexton.

“This isn’t right,” Garvin whispers.

“I know you don’t like it, Rexton, but it’s gotta be done,” Paulin replies. “Colander went to the brass and told them we’re all taking bribes and selling the drugs we take from the dealers. And you know whose name is at the top of Christian Colander’s list of cops on the take? He’s a rat who wants to turn in his brothers in blue. We can’t have that.”

The four policemen pull out their weapons.

“All right, men, we talked about how this has to go down,” Captain Lavender Lipsky says. “Sugar Bear Salas is a dangerous dealer who’s barricaded in his apartment and is armed to the T. Our job is to get him out, even if it’s feet first. You lead the way, Colander. We’ve got your back.”

The stocky, ten-year veteran’s grey eyes squint as if he’s trying to say, “I doubt it.”

Shadow lifts Christian Colander’s feet. He quietly ascends the creaky stairs to the third floor.

He stands in front of the door to Apartment 3C, which shows splinter damage from a previous raid.

The other officers huddle at the top of the stairs out of sight.

“POLICE! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

Tense, silent seconds pass.

Christian looks back at his fellow officers, shrugging his shoulders.

The sound of a rapid-fire machine gun disrupts the quiet.

Christian feels the cold lead tear into his body. He goes down, his blood pouring onto the scuffed linoleum floor.

Sugar Bear Salas opens the door, looking down at the riddled officer. Seeing him writhing in pain, Salas’ hardened features soften, and he lowers his machine gun.

Rexton, Paulin, and Captain Lipsky spring into Salas’ view, pointing their weapons at him.

“Now, be a good boy and drop the gun,” Captain Lipsky barks. “Or don’t drop it and be a corpse.”

Salas slowly complies.

As Paulin handcuffs him and Captain Lipsky pushes Salas toward the stairs, he says, “Ain’t you gonna call an ambulance for that cop?”

“Mind your business, skell. You got bigger things to worry about,” Captain Lipsky says.

Garvin looks down at Chistian.

Christian feels the blood well up in his throat as he struggles to speak.

“… All I wanted was a clean squad…”

“That’s up to the brass, not you.”

“…Please… Call for help…”

Garvin pretends to look at his watch.

“In a minute.”

“…I’ve got a family… Three kids…”

“You mean you had a family.”

“…You’ll never get away with this…,” Christian gasps, taking a final breath.

“Looks like I just did.”

Shadow is thrust back into the driver’s seat of his car. He checks himself for bullet holes.

The photo of Garvin Rexton and Christian Colander’s ghostly figure is in his lap.

“He’s not going to get away with this, Christian.”

Ashford and the others look at Shadow skeptically.

“So, you’re telling me you touched our photos, and you became the ghost in each of our pictures?” the Mayor asks.

“Bull crap,” Garvin says.

“Oh yeah? Then how do I know that Sugar Bear Salas’ exact words to Captain Lipsky were, ‘Ain’t you gonna call an ambulance for that cop?’”

“All right. So, you brought us here to ‘fess up to what we’ve done,” Garvin says. “But somethin’ tells me you’re just as guilty as us.”

“You’re right. I’ve been carrying the shame of what I did for thirty years,” Shadow admits.

He drops a photo on the table in front of them. It’s a picture of Shadow standing on a dock near a boat. Two hazy, see-through male figures stand behind him.

“When I was fresh out of college, Karl King, Taylor James, and I went to Lake Champlain to fish and drink, mostly drink. I was driving the boat at night and spotted a freighter. I don’t know what I was thinking. Hell, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was wasted. I thought how cool it would be to race around it. I underestimated how fast it was going and how close we were to it. We hit it like a mosquito splattering against a windshield. I remember hearing the blare of the ship’s horn as it cut the boat in half. Karl was killed instantly. I was thrown twenty feet away. Taylor dropped into the water a short distance from the ship. I could hear him moan for help. I was an excellent swimmer. Taylor couldn’t swim at all. I should have helped him, but I was afraid I’d be arrested and was ashamed of what I’d done. I swam to shore, drove myself to the hospital, and got stitched up. The next morning, I packed my stuff, threw it in my van, and took off. I settled in Penn Yan because this is where I ran out of gas.”

“So, guilt hangs heavy over all of us,” Wendy comments.

“There really is only one right thing for all of us to do,” Shadow says.

Garvin pets Shemp. “I’m gonna miss you, fella. Okay, Houdini, set the camera up, and let’s pay our debt.”

When Aja Simpson, Christian Colander, Shilo Ellison, Karl King, and Taylor James regain consciousness, they’re holding hands and standing in a circle.

Shemp barks at them, wagging his tail.

On the wall behind Shemp is a large, framed photograph of Shadow, Ashford, Garvin, and Wendy.