40. Forty
Forty
I’ve been to the baseball field of the complex and around a couple of the other fields when I was taking pictures, but I haven’t been into the building in at least a month. The automatic door opens, the severity of the chemical-filled smell of “new” has been replaced by a too-strong concoction of Pine-Sol and Clorox.
In the center of the small atrium, a sculpture made by the high school welding class forms a metallic mass of various balls and athletic equipment.
“Cool,” Lyra says, dragging her fingers across the seemingly floating laces of a metal football.
“Cool,” I echo, slowly taking in the rest of the space.
The once bare walls are now covered in team photos and trophy cases.
The boys take off running down a hall toward Camp’s office, screaming like cowboys, Lyra and I wandering behind. A photo of eighteen-year-old Camp playing baseball catches my eye, and I still. So young, yet still so similar.
“Mom,” Lyra calls from the hall. “Did you do this?”
Next to her, I’m stunned dumb. Because yes, I did.
A large photo fills the space of a cleat-footed runner, sprinting to first base, dust flying up. For the shot, I used a slow shutter speed, focusing on the base itself. So, while the base is in focus, the legs and feet running by are a blur. And, due to the recipe of soup the boys made that night—heavy on the dish soap and food coloring—turquoise droplets explode across it. The coloring makes a viewer wonder if it was taken yesterday or forty years ago. Relatable, nostalgic, pure.
I nod, tracing the gold plate under the photograph: Time Flies , June Cannon.
“And this?” she asks, voice leaking with something unnamable as she looks at the next one.
I laugh under my breath, nod again. “I did.”
Looking down the hall, I see it—every photo I had on display at the art gallery is here on the walls of the complex. “I shot all of these,” I whisper to nobody. “Camp bought them.”
“Mom, these are awesome. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I shrug, not able to find words. He knew I had a show. Bought all the pieces. Hung them in this place, for everyone to see.
“And a plaque too?” Lyra whistles as I move to stand next to her and she reads the words: “Collection of art shot by local photographer June Cannon, capturing the joy and magic of Ledger, North Carolina in her collection LOVE AND LITTLE DETAILS.”
A baseball-sized lump forms in my throat as I read and reread it. I force myself away toward his office where the boys are already on the floor wrestling, the room otherwise empty.
“Hey, June.”
I look up; Jack’s there, rapping on the propped-open door, brown shaggy hair hanging from beneath his Lake Trout cap. “Camp just went out to the new gym before heading out to practice with the team. You wanna come with?”
“Hey, Jack.” I smile, gesturing for the kids to go. “Sounds good, I’ll be right behind.”
The kids walk into the hall, Jack standing back. “Bet you’re ready for the change of pace next year, huh? I know Camp is.” He shakes his head with a whistle. “I don’t know how he does it all.”
My confusion is written on my face because he follows up with, “The coaching?”
The coaching?
I nod. “The coaching, right . . .”
“I mean, we were stunned, but leave it to Camp, right? Kinda like Mary Poppins the way he floats in here, fixes things, then on to bigger and better things . . .” He laughs, as though he’s said something funny. The boys shriek, and his expression morphs to a silent Get it? to which I smile too big with all my teeth showing. Because no, I don’t get it. “Or scarier things.”
“Right. You mean the national championship and the tournaments or . . . ?”
“I can only hope!” He scrubs a palm across his jaw. “Don’t pressure me!” With a final grin, he flicks a two-finger salute from his cap in my direction before spinning on his heels. His long strides eat up the hall as he playfully swats at the boys when he catches them, and they disappear toward the new gym.
What the hell was that?
In Camp’s office, I try to fit the pieces together as I plop into the chair at his desk, black leather-like material sucking me in. His inbox is open on the computer and my eyes flick to the screen. The unexpected name on the top stops my heart. Reed.
The subject: nice nose.
I’d laugh if I didn’t feel like my insides were being swallowed by quicksand.
My gaze goes to the hall—empty. I shouldn’t—it’s unread—but I click to open it.
Camp,
We both know she made her choice a long time ago. Lucky for you, she has terrible taste.
I haven’t sent these to her yet. I figured making you live a lifetime with my mark on your face was suffering enough.
That girl will chase you forever, make sure you chase back.
I’d say take care, but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.
-R
PS: I kissed her to piss you off. Judging by your tantrum, it worked. You’re still the asshole.
I hover the mouse over the files—there are three—absorbing the words on the screen as well as a too-wet sponge on a spill. Nothing makes sense. My photos. This email.
The hall is still empty.
I suck in a breath, click, and close my eyes for the split second it takes to load.
When I open them, it’s there: my silhouette, soft, filled with a serene shot of Lake Ledger, but instead of moody tones, it’s vivid and colorful. It looks altered in some way . . . then I realize: I shot this image. He used one of my photos along with his. The file name: Lake Ledger Sweetheart.
The next one, file name June Multiplied , features the same silhouette, but this one is filled with the kids . . . and Thor. The boys are sitting on Lyra’s lap, Thor’s head on Hank’s knee. They’re laughing. I took the photo one afternoon sitting on the front porch. It’s weird on first glance, my bare back framing my kids’ faces in, but somehow, Reed did it. Made it work. Hand to my mouth, I laugh in disbelief, click to the next one.
The image makes fresh tears fall.
The silhouette is slightly different; I’m smiling but my eyes are closed. I’m guessing it was an in-between shot, or, knowing Reed, he had a plan. And there, layered with me, is Camp. Actually, Camp and me. The photo Lyra took at the picnic. File name: June in Love.
I trace the lines of the photo with my fingers. Me. Me and Camp. What was it Scotty had said? You can be more than one thing, June. Hell, you can be a million things.
She was right; of course she was. I see it in every picture on the screen. Me and this town. My kids. Camp. My photos.
I pluck a tissue from the box, wipe my eyes, close out the images.
I pick up a frame on his desk. A family photo of the five of us from a year or two ago, taken in the dugout of one of his games. I smile at us, set it down, grab another one—it’s new. A gold frame, just me in the center. Champagne over my head, smile on my face with a toe kicked up. The picture of me that Scotty took at the gallery. Of course. Team Camp from the beginning.
I slide my phone out of my pocket.
Me: You told Camp about my gallery show.
Instead of a response, it’s a series of screenshots of the conversation from that night.
Scotty: Your wife is a pain in the ass
[picture of me]
Camp: Ive noticed are all those hers
Scotty: God, learn punctuation. They are and she’s kind of amazing.
[two more pictures]
Camp: Buy them all will ya send me a total and tell the gallery Ill drop a check off tomorrow
He went to the gallery? Of course he did. I think of him in the kitchen that perfect Sunday morning, laughing about a secret admirer buying my photos. It was him. All along, it was him.
Camp : if dbag reed is there knee him in the nuts
I snort out a laugh despite the knots permanently tying themselves in my stomach.
Scotty: Green isn’t your best color, Campy.
“J.” A voice pulls me from the screen of my phone. Camp.
I stand, sliding my phone into my pocket.
“Hey. Sorry.” I clear my throat, swiping at my cheeks one last time. Too-long silence weighing two tons as I stand. “You saw my photos. You know about my photos.” I laugh, nervous. Then, finally, “You have my photos.”
He glances down the hall, a bold image of the crowd in the stands clear from his open office door. Arms folded over his chest, his expression is guarded as his jaw pops with a tension so visceral I feel it across the room. “Looks that way.”
“I think that’s nepotism.” I shoot for a joke and settle with tragic. I wince, clear my throat, and try again with, “Jack seems—”
“Daddy,” the boys shout together, tackling his legs. Lyra jogs up, red-faced and hinging at the waist, hands on her knees as she gasps for air.
“God, Dad,” she pants. “You’re hard to track down, and this place is too big.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Sorry, tyin’ up loose ends for tomorrow night. Y’all wanna ride the Gator out to the field with me?” The boys yell, loving any excuse to ride the school’s UTV, and Lyra nods, still trying to catch her breath.
He tilts his head down the hall, signaling them to head that way, and grabs his ball glove off the chair, slapping it against his outer thigh twice. “You comin’?” he asks, devoid of emotion.
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” I force a tight smile. “I have some errands to run. Maybe just bring them home after.”
He nods, turns to leave.
“Camp,” I call; he turns in response, eyes bouncing between mine. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
I shrug, look around his desk, the walls of the hall through the windows of his office. My photographs. “Everything.”
He nods, studies me, then says, “Me too.”
Without a second look, he leaves.