MERILEE ROWLING and I walked into my mother's kitchen.
"What happened to your camera?" she asked.
"Gravity," I replied gravely.
"Let me take a look," Dwight Earl offered, wiping his hands on an apron with a big smiley sun face that said BLESS THIS GLORIOUS GOD-GIVEN MORNING!
"Broken lens," he observed. "Anything else?"
"Not that I know of," I replied.
"With a camera like this," he explained, "lenses are interchangeable. They're not cheap, but lots of places sell used lenses. You might be able to replace it."
"And you were all ready to be mad at me," Merilee Rowling cooed. "See how easily problems can be solved if you keep a cool head about you?"
"I don't think that's the lesson to be learned here, Merilee," I replied. "I think the lesson may have something to do with carelessness with other people's property."
"Mmm," she responded, abruptly changing the subject. "Those waffles smell simply delightful!"
"Help yourself," Dwight Earl offered. "I'm making enough for the people next door, too."
"They're coming here?" I said, startled.
I did not want Maureen Balderson to meet Merilee Rowling. Their getting together seemed like putting two of Chief Leopard Frog's bad luck omens together in a bag and then hoping for the best.
"Your mother thought it would be a nice gesture," Dwight Earl explained. "They're in town for just a little while."
"I'd better pack up this roll of film for processing," I said. "I'll see you guys later."
Oh, man, I thought. What if Merilee Rowling tells Maureen that we sleep in the same room? Or what if Maureen lets on that there's more to this deal than just neighbors? Dang, dang, and double dang! Why must things be so complicated?
Coward that I am when it comes to confronting women whose ages are out of range of my own, I stayed in my room to work on my camera.
Carefully, I took it apart and cleaned it, using both special silicone-impregnated tissues and canned compressed air.
Tiny bits of film from countless trips through the sprockets flew out, along with an alarming amount of dust and grit. The lens itself, of course, was a total loss, although it still fit securely onto the lens mount. I made a note of the brand, model number, and type of lens in case I could find a store that could replace it.
But whatever paranormal capabilities my father's camera might have had surely were lost when it landed on the concrete.
Or, I suddenly thought with alarm, if not then, then when I cleaned it so thoroughly.
Now what I had was a camera that was as good as new—but with a shattered, useless lens.
To prove my point, I loaded it with a fresh roll of film and went downstairs, where a party of sorts was in progress.
All four of the Baldersons had arrived. I wondered if Tim had killed any wildlife on his way over—stomped on a lizard, thrown a rock at a hummingbird, set fire to a spider.
His father was chatting with the FedEx man about what a rush he must always be in, while his mother was telling my mother about how many shoe stores, tanning salons, dry cleaners, and drive-through banks there were in Kansas City.
"There's even a store that's as big as a high school gymnasium that sells nothing but containers!" Mrs. Balderson gushed. "Can you imagine?"
"I don't know how you'd ever decide," my mother replied.
"I can't figure out where to put all the stuff she brings home," her husband interrupted, laughing warmly. "We may have to get a bigger house."
"My company delivers a lot of packages from those stores," Dwight Earl chimed in, as if anybody cared.
Speaking of nobody caring, it did not escape my notice that no one said, "Oh, there he is," upon my arrival.
They all just kept on doing what they were doing.
In the case of Merilee Rowling and Maureen Balderson, it was just as I had feared. They were gossiping a mile a minute, apparently about boys, while Tim was spraying Windex on a trail of ants near the flip-top kitchen garbage can.
Just for fun, I popped up the built-in flash, focused as best I could on the scene in front of me, attempting to place Maureen and Merilee in the center so the others would fan out around them like a rose window in an ancient cathedral, and snapped the shutter.
Click-thunk!
For a brief millisecond in time, caught by the flash, everyone stopped talking and looked in my direction. Then, seeing that it was (only) me with my camera, they immediately picked up where they'd left off, like a skip in a record, or a hiccup in an otherwise boring speech.
Interesting, I thought. At last I have succeeded in becoming the fly on the wall.