Gifts (2006)
Jimmy Bruno sat in a leather recliner, but rather than reclining with his feet up, he was leaning forward, chin in his hand, hearing the drip, drip, drip from the thaw of the false spring through the open window. He also heard the mailman, or rather his radio, tuned in to an early basketball game (later in the spring it would be baseball), as the man climbed the apartment steps, opened the door, and then, a minute or two later reopened the door, retreated back down, and continued on his way.
He sat back, not wanting to turn into The Thinker, and ran one hand absently over the large, silver-jacketed book on the table next to him. On the front of the book was a photo of a Jewish boy—really a young man, but so young, with a mop of brown hair, looking out at a world he was not entirely happy with, not at all. In large letters, it said Bob Dylan above the photo, and below Lyrics 1962-2001. He had bought it for Macpherson three or four days ago, before he knew anything, had no intention of wrapping it, since his plans were now, as they had been when he bought it, to bring it with him to New York with him tomorrow.
He shook his head sharply, remembering the words that he had squeezed Stillman into telling him (though Stillman couldn't let him hear the recording), explaining why he wouldn't be needed at the private hearing.
"His confession was both pro- and retroactive—' Stillman said. "Do you really want to hear this?"
"Yes."
"'I shot the queer, and I'd do it again.' Standing up furious, he was, in my face."
"Oh. I didn't know… rabid dogs lived that long."
Lieutenant Stillman had smiled a little, "Neither did I."
Bruno got up and went out to get the mail, returning with a few things, notable among which was a small manila envelope, stiffened inside with thickish cardboard. He put the rest of the mail on Dylan's face, and looked at it: Macpheson's handwriting, but, oddly enough, no return address, but his own, in the upper left-hand corner. What you would call a stamped, self-addressed envelope in reverse. He opened it, took out the cardboard, and—a small photograph, on rather thick paper, of Jim, in black-and-white, his body facing half-away, but looking back at Jimmy with a smile, a streak of sunlight through half his red hair—Bruno knew it to be red, although looking at the black-and-white photo, it appeared blond. Bruno turned the envelope over: mailed yesterday, after the papers had come out. After he knew. Without conscious thought, he realized it was a fine photograph, cropped and enlarged, and then consciously, it could almost be the first time he opened the door to his apartment building for me But—who took it?
He turned the photo over now, looking for words, and gasped a little. In Macpherson's hand: Coop, 1968. The photo slipped from his hand to the rug, and he saw his own mistake, as two photos separated, landing a few inches apart on the rug. He bent to pick both up, put them on his knees, and looked at the backs. The first one, the one that had been on top, said Jim, 1975. He ran fingers through his hair, took a breath, and looked at the front of the one that said… the other thing. Coop was still, quiet—as he almost never was, a black-and white close-up of his face, his head cocked a bit to one side, looking into the camera's eye, into Bruno's own eyes, smiling, almost as his ghost (if it had been a real ghost) had looked at him last night, when Jimmy put his hand over his. But: who took it? The photos were neither glossy nor dull, but somewhere in-between. He held one up to his nose, and thought he detected a slight smell of stop—the stuff you put a photo in after developing, to keep it from developing any further, and before you rinse it. Used to; God knows what they did now. He picked up the phone, still looking at Coop's face, and dialed Jim's number with his free hand.
"Jim Macpherson."
"Hey. It's me."
Jim said nothing for almost a minute, but small sounds came from the receiver. He had heard Jim cry before so Bruno recognized the sounds.
"Hey, that's my line, Baby."
A sob ensued, and then a jumble of words. "I didn't fucking believe it, I didn't, but I knew it all the time, all the time I knew I, I—"
"Shhh—you didn't know anything. You just thought it might be an inside job."
"Yeah. The unusual suspects."
"Yeah. In case you're wondering, I don't have to be here for the hearing."
"Why not?"
"Whaddaya think of this for a confession: "I shot the queer, and I'd do it again."
"Christ, he's... like a mad dog."
"That's almost exactly what I said when Lieutenant Stillman told me."
"So you're coming to NewYork tomorrow?" Jim tried not to sound anxious.
"Yes… unless the invitation is withdrawn."
"Of course not… I just thought—you might be setting up housekeeping with a ghost."
"Kinda hard. They don't stick around very long. If they're even there to begin with. Besides, I'm much too old for him now." A pause. "I would if I could," he said, truthfully.
"You hear him again?" asked Macpherson.
"No. Saw him. Night before last. In the old yard. Held his hand for a minute, before he disappeared."
"I'm glad for that. Hope it was really him."
"Me, too. Both."
Both together said: "Thank you for the beautiful photo." "Thank you for the beautiful photos."
An entire minute went by, without either of them making a sound.
"Oh," said Jim.
"God," said Jimmy.
"You didn't send me a photo, did you, Jimmy?" said Macpherson.
"No. And you didn't send me either of them, did you?" said Bruno.
"No. Two? Who?"
"Coop and you," said Bruno.
"Coop and… me?"
"Yes. What's mine like?"
"1975—your handwriting. I'd tell you what you look like, but I'd hate to have the appearance of a young man go the head of an old one."
"Your handwriting, too. Ditto."
"I… thought… yours was taken that first day, when we walked back to my place from the bakery."
"I thought yours was taken then too. You're holding the door open for me, I think."
"The photo I—got—was taken with a Photokina M7 Titanium M Leica; 50 MM 1.4 Aspheric lens. Produced first in 2004. I imagine yours were too. Mine came yesterday. I would have called then, but I thought I should wait to hear from you.
"2004. Practically archaic," said Bruno.
"Yeah. These people who can't keep up with the times. God, he sent you—my picture."
"You took it to the photo lab?" (Jim had not quite retired yet).
"Yes. And several people asked me who the hot looking guy was, and I said 'my partner.' And someone said, 'Jim, that is not Schmitt.' And I said, 'No, my partner in Philadelphia, the way he looked 31 years ago.' Then they really looked at me funny, because they'd already told me about the camera."
"Hey—mind if I copy your act?"
"Not at all."
"So… you knew all the time something was fishy."
"I thought: someone, for some reason, photographed a photo of you with a new fancy camera… I didn't know what to think. Both the envelope and photo had your handwriting on them."
"I… bought you something. God, how anticlimactic."
"What? I hate surprises anyway."
"Dylan."
"But—I have all his CDs… the ones I want."
"Do you know all the words?"
"Are you crazy?"
"This is a book with all the words to all his songs, 1962-2001. You don't have it, do you?"
"No. Oh that's great. He writes so many words! You think you know a song, and you never do. I have something for you, too, but I didn't buy it."
"I also hate surprises."
"It's an agate pendant, oval, set in plain silver, on a silver chain. It was my mother's. You don't like jewelry, though, do you?"
"I do now. That's that beautiful stuff that looks like little waves. Real hard—quartz, I think. But why agate?"
"Scotland is actually made out of agate. Anyone who goes there comes back with a piece of it. Guess there are veins of silver running through Scotland, because the pieces are always set in silver."
"I see. You know, I was thinking, the photos are so fine, I bet we could blow them up, and put them on a table, or a nightstand, or something."
"Whose?"
"Yours, of course."
"You're going to stay."
"Unless the invitation has been withdrawn."
"Not until I die."
"When I die, do I have to choose between you?"
"Maybe in heaven, which doesn't exist, that isn't necessary."
"You're sure about heaven?"
"Sure; says so in the Bible:
For that which befalleth the sons of men
Befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them;
As the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they
Have all one breath; so that a man hath no
Preeminence above a beast; for all is vanity.
All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and
All turn to dust again.
Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth
Upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth
Downward to the earth?"
"Hey—listen to you!" said Bruno, impressed.
"Damn straight."
"Um... where'd these photos come from?"
"Oh—well, Coop's different," said Jim, airily.
"You know what?"
"No."
"You're so full of shit."
Author's note:
The Bible quotation is from Ecclesiastes.