ONCE INSIDE THE BALDERSON HOUSE, I ran up the stairs to Maureen's room. I knew it was hers because it had posters on the wall of boy bands that nobody but Maureen had ever heard of: The Riffs. The Ruffs. The Riff-Raffs. The Rough Roofs. The Rafters. The Raptors.
You get the idea.
There was also a stuffed bear in a corner, a little multicolored threadbare bear, as if inadvertently left behind in the rush to leave, but nevertheless an artifact with the appearance of personal importance.
I set my camera carefully. I took pictures of everything that seemed to matter, including a butterfly sticker on a wall switch, a telephone number scrawled in ballpoint pen on a white window-sill, a carpet stain created by spilled nail polish, a hair clip in a dusty corner.
On my way out I nabbed the bear and took a picture of the door, closed, as a way of saying goodbye.
Back downstairs, I found Chief Leopard Frog continuing to whittle.
"All done?" he asked.
"I guess so," I answered.
"She's older than you," he observed.
"I'm just trying to be friends," I said.
"She lives very far away," he added. "Three days' walk for an Indian. Many more for you."
"I'm just doing a favor for a friend," I explained.
"Here," Chief Leopard Frog said. "Take this. It may come in handy."
He handed me the talisman he had just completed. It was in the shape of a tiny alligator. I was somewhat reluctant to accept it, knowing what Uncle Milton had reported about Chief Leopard Frog's "good luck" pieces, but I pocketed it nevertheless, believing that in the same way rock breaks scissors, scissors cut paper, and paper covers rock, friendship overwhelms bad luck.
A fortnight later I received a package from Sparkle Snapshot of St. Louis containing prints and negatives from several rolls of film.
There were many lovely compositions featuring flowers and mushrooms and mailboxes; a rather formal portrait of the Shiba Inu family standing on their front porch without a single smile among them; a couple of action shots of the Foos engaged in repairing a vacuum cleaner; and a full roll of exposures of Maureen.
That's when I knew for a fact how terribly lonely I was.
That night, as I sifted through the twenty-four photos of my former next-door neighbor, I cried myself to sleep, and not just manly sniff-sniff all-choked-up crying, either, or stiff-upper-lip eyes welling up with tears, but real, all-out, pillow-watering, chest-heaving blubbering.
I had been overwhelmed by photographs of Maureen talking on the phone, Maureen stretching her foot to the end of the bed, Maureen picking up something to put into the wastebasket, Maureen drying her hair, Maureen brushing her teeth, Maureen changing a CD, Maureen exercising on the floor, Maureen eating a cup of Jell-O, Maureen putting on a nightgown, Maureen practicing ballet, Maureen staring out the window, Maureen, her head on her pillow, fast asleep.
Damn you, ghost camera! I thought. If it weren't for you I might have forgotten her by now.
The next day Dwight Earl brought a box from the Cayman Islands. He stayed for supper. Catfish and hush puppies. While the thick chunks of breaded catfish sizzled in the pan, my mother quickly changed into her Sunday best.
The box was quite heavy. With Dwight Earl's help I carried it upstairs to my room.
"What's in it?" he asked.
"Aren't you guys supposed to keep mum about the contents of what you deliver to people?" I asked. "Like the relationship between a lawyer and his client, or a priest and a petitioner?"
"Nobody ever told me that," Dwight Earl said. "I like to know what's inside. It's like Christmas. Heck, if I weren't worried about getting fired, I'd open 'em all."
"That's the trouble with this country," I observed, cutting the tape along the top with a blunt pair of scissors. "Nobody can keep a secret."
Dwight Earl peered over my shoulder.
"Well, you'd better go find Chief Leopard Frog," I announced, "because it looks like his opus has arrived."
"Who?" Dwight Earl asked.
"Never mind," I said. "It's just a box of books."
"Too bad," Dwight Earl replied, leaving the room. "I was hoping for something edible."
Chief Leopard Frog was furious with me.
"How could you let this happen?" he hollered.
If he'd had a tomahawk on him, I suspect he might have used it on me.
"This is a travesty!" he continued. "It's worse than not publishing them at all."
"Oh, I don't know," I said, leafing through the flimsy newsprint pages. "It's sort of interesting—in a quirky way."
"Who needs quirky?" he demanded. "Certainly not a first-time author! My career is over before it's begun, and it's all your fault!"
The words echoed in my head:
"It's all your fault!"