Temporally Out of Order Read online

  Jessie pulled from her camera bag another of the rolls she had found in Grampa’s desk drawer earlier in the day, one she hadn’t yet used. Holding it in her hand, she hesitated. It was late, and what she had in mind would take some time. It might also waste a perfectly good roll of film. But she had to know.

  She mixed more chemicals, switched off the safe light, and pried open the canister to remove the film.

  The processing didn’t take as long this time, but she needn’t have bothered. The film was blank, as it should have been if it hadn’t yet been exposed. She could try the others, but did she really want to waste more of her grandfather’s film? Was it possible that she had chosen to load in the camera the only two rolls he had used before his death?

  Maybe. What else could explain what she had seen? Frustrated, confused, troubled by the images she had developed, Jessie left the darkroom and climbed the stairs to her room.

  oOo

  She slept poorly, her mind filled with questions and theories, some of them so implausible it should have been enough to make her laugh out loud. But none of this struck her as funny.

  In the morning, she took the camera into town again, but this time she brought along her digital point and shoot as well. And rather than using her grandfather’s film she stopped by Pellman’s Camera near the square.

  Mister Pellman was reading the Herald when she walked in, but upon seeing her he put down the paper and stood.

  “Jessie! It’s good to see you. I was so sorry to hear about your Grampa. That was a lovely service the other day.”

  “Yes, sir, it was. Thank you for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  She walked to the counter and leaned across to give him a hug. He looked just as she remembered. Tall, lanky, with neat silver hair and a long, angular face. There may have been a few more lines around his mouth and eyes, but Jessie had thought him old twenty years ago. She wouldn’t have dared guess his age.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some film,” she said. “T-Max 400.”

  He nodded and turned to a shelf mounted on the wall beside the cash register. “How many do you want?”

  “How many do you have?”

  He grimaced. “Too many. With your Grampa gone, I don’t expect I’ll be ordering any more. He was the only person in town who used black and white. He was just about the only one who used any film at all.” He gestured at the display case, which was filled with digital cameras. “These are all anybody wants anymore.”

  He pulled down eight boxes and set them on the counter. “That’s all of them. I can order more if you want, but they’ll take a few days to get here.”

  “No, that’s plenty,” she said, setting a credit card on the counter. “Thank you.” As he rang up her total, she asked, “Did Grampa ever say anything to you about the film he bought … behaving strangely?”

  He paused and frowned, his pale eyes on her. “Whaddya mean? Strangely how?”

  She shrugged, looked down at the counter. “I don’t know. Did he ever mention that his images didn’t come out quite the way he expected them to?”

  “Well, his vision wasn’t so good near the end. He had some trouble focusing, and he tended to overexpose more than he did in his heyday. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

  “No, I was …” She forced a smile, feeling self-conscious. “Never mind. It’s probably just that I’m not used to his camera.”

  “That could be. Those old ‘F’s can be temperamental sometimes. Keep at it. You’ll get a feel for it.”

  Once he had run her card, Jessie gathered the film and dropped it in her bag. “Thank you, Mister Pellman. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too, Jessie. Take care. Give my regards to your mom and your Gramma.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  She left the store and returned to the town square where, according to her grandfather’s journal, he shot the second set of missing photos about two weeks after he shot the first. Again, this shoot consisted of two rolls. Grampa’s notations, however, made replicating these new images a good deal more difficult.

  “March, Magnolia Street.” “March, corner of Magnolia and Pine.” “March, Walnut Street.”

  Jessie didn’t know what “march” her grandfather referred to, but a part of her–a foolish part, a crazy part–thought it likely that this wouldn’t matter. She might not know, but the camera would.

  She loaded the first roll and started to snap photos, following the progression of the march as documented in her grandfather’s notes. She chose not to worry about the modern cars gliding along the streets, or the pedestrians who filled the crosswalks. But every photo she took with the old film camera, she also took with her digital. When she finished at the square, she drove to another part of town, where her grandfather had worked on the day of the third missing shoot. Here he had exposed only one roll, and so she did the same, the implication of this location leaving her uneasy.

  Once again when she finished, she headed back to Nana’s house, greeted her grandmother, mother, and cousins in the most perfunctory way, and retreated to the darkroom.

  As soon as she saw the first of the developed negatives, she knew that it had happened again. She had taken photos of random passing cars and people. Those were the images that showed up on the view screen of her digital camera.

  The negatives showed something else entirely.

  She rushed the printing of the enlargements, not caring if they were off-center or crooked.

  The first showed what appeared to be the vanguard of a parade. Marchers walked seven abreast, the two men on either end carrying American flags. Next to them walked two more men, each carrying the Confederate battle flag, the so-called Stars and Bars. And in the middle, three women held up a long white banner that read, “Berry’s Bluff, White Citizen’s Council.”

  Behind them the street was choked with demonstrators–men, women and children–all of them white. Many carried signs, although Jessie couldn’t make out what they said. Others in the march carried smaller Confederate flags.

  Subsequent photos showed the same procession from different angles, and now Jessie could read the signs, though doing so made her want to cry. “No Racial Integration of Berry’s Bluff Schools.” “Race Mixing is Communism.” “Negroes Belong Back in Africa.” One little boy–he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old–held a sign that read, “We Want Our School to Stay White,” and a young girl, about the same age, held another one: “I Don’t Want To Go To School With Negroes.”

  Jessie made herself look at them all, though she winced at every new slur, and could hardly believe how many people seemed to have turned out for the march. She had read about citizen’s councils in college, while taking a course on the history of the Civil Rights Movement. They had been active in towns and cities across the South and also in some Northern states. Why had it never occurred to her that Berry’s Bluff would have had one, too?

  Jessie knew what she was looking for. She didn’t want to see it, yet she scrutinized every photo. And when at last she saw her grandmother in one, a soft sob escaped her.

  Nana carried no sign–a small mercy–but she walked next to a woman who carried one.

  “Save Berry’s Bluff From Integration.”

  Nana wore a light colored skirt and a white, short-sleeve button-down blouse. A lock of curled hair hung over her brow and she was laughing and looking at her companion, as if the woman with the sign had said something hilarious. She looked young and pretty and alive, and Jessie had never been so ashamed of her, of both of them. She loved Nana, and she had revered Grampa. These photos felt like the worst sort of betrayal.

  Setting these prints aside, Jessie took up the images from the third roll, the one that replicated the next of her grandfather’s missing shoots. But in this one, the images on her digital camera and those from the negatives were identical.

  She didn’t understand. Unless the shoots had to b
e done separately, as they had been originally. She would go back tomorrow and try again.

  Jessie left the darkroom and ascended the stairs to the kitchen. Nana sat at the table with her crossword.

  “There you are,” she said, turning at the sound of Jessie’s steps. “Your mom was looking for you.”

  “Okay,” Jessie said. “I’ll … I’ll go find her.”

  “You don’t look well, sweetie. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Nana frowned. “You probably haven’t eaten all day. Let me get you something.”

  Jessie shook her head. “I’m really not hungry. I’ll go find Mom.”

  She practically ran from the kitchen, feeling like a child, feeling like a coward. But she couldn’t look Nana in the eye. Not yet. Not until she had seen it all.

  She found her mother out on the porch, reading.

  “Where have you been all day?” her mother asked, setting the book in her lap.

  “I took Grampa’s camera back into town,” she said, sighing the words. “And just now I was down in the darkroom.”

  “Seems like you’re a little obsessed with that camera.”

  “It … takes some interesting photos.”

  “Well, your Grampa certainly loved it. Took it with him everywhere.”

  “What do you remember about growing up here?”

  Her mother shrugged. “I remember my friends, your uncles, your grandmother and grandfather.” She gazed out over the yard, the evening light making her eyes shine. “I always loved this house.”

  “Do you remember what it was like in town? Were their racial problems?”

  Her mom gave a small shake of her head, her brow furrowing in a way that reminded Jessie of Nana. “Not that I recall. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there was plenty of that in this town. Nana probably remembers. But by the time I was old enough to understand those things, it was mostly settled. At least here. It was worse in some of the bigger towns and cities. I was lucky. I didn’t see much of it.”

  “Do you know how Nana and Grampa felt about it all?”

  Her smile was rueful. “I never asked, because I never really wanted to hear the answer.”

  “Yeah,” Jessie said, staring at her hands. She stood. “Nana said you were looking for me earlier.”

  “Nothing important. Just hadn’t seen you all day.”

  “Right. Sorry about that. I have one more shoot to do tomorrow. It shouldn’t take me long.” She kissed her mom’s forehead. “Good night.”

  “Good night, hon. Sleep well.”

  oOo

  She didn’t, of course. She hardly slept at all. The sun had barely cleared the horizon when she rose, dressed, and headed out again with the camera and Grampa’s journal. She didn’t bother with the digital this time.

  Once, maybe ten years ago, her mother had taken her to Berry’s Bluff High School. Jessie had feigned indifference, of course. What teenaged girl wouldn’t have? But she had been fascinated, just the same. How odd to imagine her mother as a sixteen year-old, sitting in class, trying out for the cheerleading squad, flirting with boys. She couldn’t remember now if she had imagined her mother with friends both white and African-American, or just white. She wanted to believe that she had pictured her in an integrated school, but she wasn’t certain.

  Jessie aimed her camera and clicked the shutter as Grampa’s journal instructed, but whatever joy she had derived from that first shoot two days before was gone now, replaced with a sense of dull dread and a dark resolve to see this exercise to its end.

  The school wouldn’t open for another week, but she didn’t linger there. She drove back to the house and took the camera down to the darkroom.

  Scenes like those she found on this last roll lurked in every history textbook, every website dedicated to the story of school desegregation. Young blacks walking into brick buildings, surrounded by armed men–police officers in this case–and heckled by angry whites, adults and children. The African-American teens in Grampa’s photos appeared terrified, and who could blame them? Most of the white students wore expressions of amusement, but the grown-ups … they looked vicious, their faces contorted with fury, mouths open in shouts of vile epithets.

  At the center of it all stood Nana. Like those around her, she was enraged, defiant, filled with hate. And it appeared to Jessie that one photo caught her in the act of spitting on a young black woman. Jessie didn’t want to believe this, but she could see spittle flying and she could tell from the girl’s posture that she was flinching.

  Enough.

  Jessie took the print and stomped up the stairs.

  Nana stood near the kitchen sink, rinsing the carafe from her coffee maker.

  “Good morning, sweetie. You were up—”

  Jessie slapped the photo down on the counter, the sound making her grandmother jump.

  “Explain this!”

  Nana gaped at the print, her mouth open, her cheeks as white as porcelain.

  “Explain it! That’s you, isn’t it? That’s you, spitting on that poor girl!”

  “Where did you get that?” Nana asked in a whisper. “We got rid of those. We burned them years ago. The negatives, too.”

  “Never mind where I—”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Jessie’s turn to jump. “The camera. It … I don’t know how, but it’s been recreating Grampa’s old pictures. The school, the Citizen’s Council march. All of it. I’ve seen all of it.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jessie said, her composure returning, and with it her anger. She jabbed the photo with a rigid finger. “There’s your proof.”

  Nana’s gaze fell to the print once more. She reached out toward it, but stopped herself before she touched it, her hand trembling.

  “How could you, Nana?” Jessie asked, her voice low. “Abusing those children that way. And Grampa snapping pictures of you doing it, like you were some kind of hero.”

  “We were young.” She looked up, her eyes finding Jessie’s. “I know that’s no excuse, but it’s true. We were newlyweds, starting to think about raising kids of our own. And we were scared and so stupid. We just wanted things to stay the same.”

  “But you knew it was wrong. You had to know.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Nana said. “It seems obvious now. Truly it does.” It came out as a plea. “I want you to believe that. We both realized long ago how wrong we had been, how terrible …” She did touch the photo then, though only the very edge. “What awful things we did. Your Grampa knew, and I know it, too. That’s why we got rid of the pictures. We were … mortified, and we didn’t want any of you to know, not your cousins, or your mother, or the children you’ll have some day. We didn’t want you to see that we’d been involved in all that.”

  “There were other photos missing. From two years earlier. They weren’t taken here, but it was the same thing, wasn’t it?”

  “Do you remember where they were taken?” Her grandmother asked this in a way that made Jessie think she already knew the location.

  Jessie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “College Junction,” she said at last. She opened her eyes once more to find Nana watching her.

  “That’s right.”

  “The integration of the university.”

  “Yes. We’d graduated only a couple of years before, and it had been all-white then. A group of us went, all of us alums. We had a grand time; we treated it like a big party. Until we got there, and then it was a lot like that day at the high school.”

  Jessie picked up the print again and stared at it. The look on her grandmother’s face would remain with her for a long time. And she would never think of her grandfather the same way.

  “I know you’re angry with us,” Nana said. “You’re ashamed, and I understand why. But that—” She pointed at the photo. “We’re not like that anymore. I swear to God we’re not. We haven’t been for a long time.”

  Bef
ore Jessie could answer, she heard her mother calling for her.

  Nana’s eyes widened and she raised a still-trembling hand to her mouth. “Please,” she said, breathing the word. “She doesn’t know.”

  A part of her felt her mother should know. This was as much her family’s history as it was Jessie’s. But she also knew that as horrible as it had been for her to see Nana in Grampa’s photos, it would be worse by far for her mother.

  As her mom appeared in the doorway, Jessie turned slightly, using her body to shield the print from her view. She folded the photo in half and slipped it onto her pocket.

  “There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  Jessie faced her and nodded. “I’m sorry. We were just … I was telling Nana that I need to get going. I’ve been away from home and my work for too long.”

  Her mom gave a little frown. “I’m sorry to hear that. I feel like I didn’t get to spend any time with you.”

  “I know. It’s my fault. I spent too much time with that old camera.”

  “You should take it with you,” Nana said.

  “I don’t think so.” Jessie reached out and gave her grandmother’s hand a squeeze to soften this. “I have all the cameras I need, and Grampa’s things belong here with you.”

  Nana nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “It’ll be here if you change your mind.”

  Jessie left her mother and grandmother in the kitchen, and returned to the darkroom one last time. The negatives and photos she had made over the past few days were everywhere.

  “I’m not going to destroy them,” she said aloud, as if her Grampa might hear. “I’m not going to make it that easy for you.” She also knew, though, that she wouldn’t show them to anyone else, at least not now. Out of deference to Nana and the memory of her grandfather, she would keep them hidden from the rest of the family. But eventually they would go to a museum or library somewhere. That was where they belonged: in a place where others could see them and maybe learn from them.