After breakfast, Papa Dan and I head for the field behind the house. I'm trying to distract myself from the horrifying experience last night in Papa Dan's room. Aswell as to shake things off from my thoughts about Hailey and Colin.
Just ahead, the old windmill's blades spin slowly, like a twirler's baton in a marching band. I wonder if Cedar Canyon High School has twirlers—the old-fashioned kind with white ankle boots, short flirty skirts, and fringed jackets. Perky little cowboy hats perched at an angle on their heads. The image pulls a laugh from me, and it feels as good as the sun on my face. Papa Dan lags behind. I turn to check on him, and movement over at the Quattlebaum farmhouse catches my eye. Lifting the camera, I zoom in for a better view, using the lens like binoculars. A man—Mr. Quattlebaum, I guess—shovels the yard at the side of the house, tossing each scoop into a pile beside him. He's wearing a dark coat and hat, even though it's warm outside. Weird. Everything framed in the viewfinder looks colorless. I adjust the focus, but it doesn't help. I must need to clean the lens.
Pausing to wait for Papa Dan to catch up, I watch the rhythmic plunge and lift of Mr. Quattlebaum's shovel. Somewhere close to his house, a bell clangs. A second later, a big black dog prances up to the farmer. Mr. Quattlebaum leans on his shovel, takes something from the dog's mouth, and throws it. The object sails through the air and disappears behind the barn. The dog bolts after it and out of sight. Mr. Quattlebaum pulls off a glove and holds his hand to his mouth, as if he's warming his fingers with his breath.
Now, that's pretty freaky, I think. The man must be really cold-natured; the temperature outside is at least sixty-five degrees.
Before I can wonder any more about it, Papa Dan's whistling draws my attention and I lower the camera to look at him. Wiping the lens with the hem of my shirt, I say, "Hey, slowpoke. What took you so long?" I glance at my watch: 8:15. "At the speed you're moving, we'll reach the windmill in time for lunch," I tease. I take his hand, and we start walking again.
A cloud moves over the sun, casting a shadow across us. When I look toward the Quattlebaums' farmhouse, the farmer and the dog are gone, and something about the scene seems off—different somehow. Releasing Papa Dan's hand, I pause and use the zoom lens to zero in on the farmhouse again. Cleaning the lens worked; the image is bright and colorful. The yard is smooth, untouched.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and goose bumps scatter up my arms. What was Mr. Quattlebaum shoveling? Something that he tossed into a pile at his side—a pile that's no longer there. How strange is that? Beyond strange. Maybe Mom wasn't teasing when she said I need glasses. Shaking off my unsettled feelings, I lower the camera and hurry to catch Papa Dan at the windmill. He holds his cap and shades his eyes with one hand as he looks up at the twirling blades.
In that instant a shaft of sunlight illuminates my grandfather. My breath catches and I stop. Luminosity. In photography the term refers to the brilliance created by a light source or radiated back from the face of something. Right now, it seems as if the sunbeam doesn't shine down on my grandfather, but rather that he emits the ray that stretches between him and the sky. Amazed by the beautiful sight, I lift the camera and take the shot.
After I shoot several more pictures, we make our way back to the barn where I take photographs of the ramshackle building at different angles. The camera feels good in my hands. I've missed it. Life always seems so clear when I'm seeing it through a lens.
I hear Mom talking in the front yard as we make our way in that direction by way of the side of the house. Papa Dan pauses beside the mulberry tree and his whistling stops. A breeze flaps the fabric of his baggy pants. Birds chirp, filling the air with music. I follow my grandfather's gaze to a nest tucked in the crook of a bent-knuckled branch.
"You want me to take your picture?" I ask him, but the tree holds his attention. He doesn't seem to be looking at the nest anymore but at the limb beneath it. "Papa Dan!" I call, laughing, feeling better after spending this time with him outside. "Look at me! Smile!" Though he doesn't turn, I lift the camera, peer through the viewfinder…and freeze.
The image in the frame is completely still. Black, white, and gray. Like a photograph already shot. Snow dusts the scene like powdered sugar. A guy about my age occupies the space where Papa Dan stood only a moment ago. He wears a coat and a woolen scarf, an old-fashioned winter hat with earflaps, heavy boots on his feet. A sparrow hovers above him, paused in midflight. The mulberry tree seems smaller and the limbs are bare. On one of them, I see a faint, blurred silhouette—a second guy dressed in bulky clothing. The boy on the ground stares up at the guy in the tree, and the guy in the tree stares back, his eyes the only distinguishable feature in the white smudge of his face.
The wind has died. The birds no longer sing. I don't hear Mom's voice around the corner. Only silence. Adrenaline shoots through me, and my stomach flips over. I jerk the camera away from my face.
At once, birds chirp and chatter, and Mom's laughter drifts to me again, carried by a whispering breeze. No phantom sits in the tree, and only blue sky fills the spaces between the limbs. Papa Dan gazes up into the flickering green leaves, his focus on the branch beneath the nest where the sparrow lands with a flutter of wings. At my feet, patchy grass covers the ground instead of snow.
"Papa Dan," I whisper. But he won't turn to me. He won't glance away from the tree. A chill ripples through me as I lift the camera again and look through the viewfinder.
Silence. Everything black and white and gray, everything frozen in time, snow on the ground. The boy standing in Papa Dan's place stares up at the tree where the blurred guy sits with his legs draped over a limb. But the pale, hazy phantom no longer stares at the boy on the ground.
He stares straight at me...