Little Bright Eyes

"Scrapbook?" That was news to me. "What scrapbook?"

"I started it as soon as you got the job with the paper," she said. "Up till now it's just been pictures you've taken, but I had to include the article this time." She looked at my shocked face. "Well, someday we'll have grandchildren and I think they should know what their grandpa did for a living."

"Where is it?"

"Never mind. I don't need you looking at it and getting a big head. You never answered my question. How old is she?"

"Oh, I don't know. It was hard to tell with all the bandages, but she has a three year old kid. I'd guess she's probably our age."

"Oh, okay. I had the impression she was younger. Of course, something like that should never happen to anyone at any age, but I was afraid she was in her teens."

"No, no, I'm sure she's not that young."

"Well, if I didn't tell you yesterday, I am proud of you."

"Thanks, babe; proud enough for a repeat of last night?" I asked with big grin.

She stepped up to me and gave me a light peck on the lips. "Of course," she answered with her own big grin.

By the following day my fifteen minutes of fame was a thing of the past and it was business as usual. I was looking forward to a three day weekend. That was actually one of the neatest things about working for the paper. We had four rotating shifts and six photographers. They were all supposed to be eight hour shifts, although if you got done early you could go home early. By the same token, if it was a busy day and it stretched to nine or ten hours, well that's the way the cookie crumbles.

The first photographer started at seven am. At nine, two more guys started. At two-thirty in the afternoon, two more guys started and at three-thirty one more. That gave us full coverage throughout the day and night. It was really neat because some weeks you had time off during the day and other weeks you had your nights free. If an emergency came up during the night, it was usually one of the night guys who was called out. In addition, our days off we were also on a rotating schedule. The really, really neat thing was that the guy who had the last day shift got the following Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off.

I had booked a little cabin near Starved Rock. It had no phone and no TV. What it did have solitude, a place outside to build a campfire, and a giant bed. It was three days of heaven on earth.

Going on nights was always a little harder. For one thing, I didn't like leaving Sheri home alone, although we had some nice neighbors in the building that she would visit if she got too lonely. The other reason was scheduling. Most of the assignments during the day were booked well in advance and usually things went pretty smooth. The night shifts were much more unpredictable. There was always something popping up here and there to screw things up.

I was already running late by the time I returned to the office. It was ten-thirty. My shift was supposed to end at eleven-thirty but I still had at least two more hours of film processing and printing to do, thanks to Gene Anderson, one of the reporters. My last assignment for the night was a town hall meeting in Arlington Hills where they were trying to use eminent domain to seize a couple of private businesses.

I was supposed to stop in, take a couple shots and leave, but tempers were running so high, Gene was sure a riot was going to break out and begged me to stay. Of course the meeting ran late, and me being the conscientious type, stayed till the bitter end; in spite of no riots. The first thing I did when I got back to the office was call Sheri to tell her I wouldn't make it home until one o'clock.

I was beat by the time I got home. I thought, thank God I didn't have to be at work again until three-thirty in the afternoon. Sheri was sound asleep by the time I slipped between the sheets and faded into dreamland.

It seemed as if I had just closed my eyes before something was nudging me in the ribs. I opened one eye and could see it was still dark out. I heard Sheri mumble something but I couldn't understand her because of some damn buzzing noise...oh no! As the fog in my head started to clear I identified the noise—please, not tonight.

"Dylan, will you please turn that damn thing off."

I reached over to the nightstand and hit the button on the pager before looking at the display. "Call off." Shit.

The graveyard shift at the paper consisted of two people, Mike, in the newsroom, and the night watchman. They would sit and BS with each other all night unless the phone rang. Then it was Mike's job to look on the list and see who was on call.

I went out to the kitchen so I wouldn't bother Sheri any more than I had to. "Mike, I've had all of an hour's sleep."

"Sorry, Dylan, but there's a three alarm at a warehouse only a couple miles from you."

"Fuck," I grumbled. "Okay, give me the address."

Before leaving I went back into the bedroom to let Sheri know I had to go but she had gone back to sleep already, so I wrote her a quick note and left it on my pillow. I took off at a trot across the parking lot and was a few feet from my car when I saw it, a flat tire. "Damn, what next?" I mumbled. Well, I wasn't about to take the time to fix it so I ran back inside and grabbed the keys to Sheri's car.

I knew exactly where the fire was from the address so I put my foot to the floor and was doing about seventy-five when I saw flashing lights in my rear view mirror. By now I was getting down-right aggravated. We all had signs saying, "Press," in the rear window of our cars. Rarely did the cops bother us when they knew there was a fire or bad accident—especially at three in the morning. Then I remembered I was in my wife's car...shit.

Just about the time I was wondering what else could possibly go wrong, the officer walked up to my window...a rookie! I knew almost every veteran cop in a fifty mile radius, but I'd never seen this guy before. What was worse is that he hadn't been on the job long enough to know about extending courtesy to the press.

"License and registration, please." He barely looked twenty-one.

I pulled my license from my wallet then reached over to grab the registration from the glove compartment. As soon as the door dropped open, a couple dozen envelopes and some tri-folded papers fell to the floor. I was surprised because Sheri was usually a very neat person. The rest of the car was spotless.

I poked around and found the registration and handed it to the officer along with my press pass.

"What's this?"

"I'm a press photographer, officer. I'm sorry for speeding but I'm on my way to the factory fire on Euclid."

He stared at the ID like he had no idea what to do. "Please wait in the car, sir," he said as he walked back to his squad. I assumed he was radioing his sergeant. It took him only a couple of minutes before he was back at my window. "Okay, Mr. McHenry, you can go," he said, handing me back everything I'd given him.

I didn't take time to put it back in my wallet. "Thanks officer," I said, tossing everything on the passenger seat.

The fire was raging when I got there and had progressed to a five alarm. There were several cops holding people a good distance back. "Be careful, that stuffs poisonous," I heard one say as I ran passed him.

I had grabbed three rolls of film before leaving the apartment and was glad I did. I had a fresh roll in the camera already and shot every frame of the four rolls. I was starting to feel a burning in my eyes and throat and figured it was about time to back up some. I spotted Randy Crowl, one of the fire chiefs. He was taking a break well away from the flames.

"I hope no one's inside."

"We have one person missing," he told me, "the night watchman. Between the smoke and gas, if he's in there, he's a goner."

"Jesus, you got a name?"

"No, not yet. It'll be morning before we can get in there for a search, but if he'd gotten out, I'm pretty sure we'd know by now."

"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. I've got to take off. You and your men be careful, Randy."

I could see a glimmer of light on the horizon as I parked the car in front of the Star building. I developed the four rolls of film then went upstairs for a cup of machine coffee while they were drying. Mike saw me walk past the newsroom.

"Was it bad?"

"Yeah, they don't think the night watchman got out," I told him while taking a sip of battery acid. "I got to get back down there. I've got a ton of work and I'd really like to get home sometime today."

I ran each and every shot through the printer and selected fifteen great shots by the time I was done. I was just laying them on Clint's desk when he walked in.

"Are those from that warehouse fire?"

"Yeah, there's fifteen shots with idents. I think there was one fatality, the night watchman."

"Yeah, I heard," he replied.

"I'm going home, Clint. I'll see you at three-thirty."

He picked up the pictures and started going through them. "Get some sleep, and thanks, Dylan, this is good work."

When I was on the job like that, it didn't make any difference how much sleep I had or didn't have. My adrenaline was pumping and I was focused on what had to be done, but once it was over, it was like a runner hitting the wall; I was drained by the time I pulled into our parking lot. I almost forgot about all the papers lying on the floor.

As tired as I was, I really didn't want to leave a mess in my wife's car so I started to gather everything up. I couldn't help but notice that the writing on the face of the envelops looked masculine. They were addressed to my wife except that we got our mail at the apartment. We didn't even have a post office box; at least I didn't think we did. It appeared Sheri refolded most of the letters and stuffed them back into the envelops, but a few were loose.

I could feel myself getting tense and I thought about jamming everything back into the glove box without looking, but there was no way. The return address said they were from a Carl Landow at Tri-State Distributors in Saint Louis. The name was vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it. I knew if I didn't at least read one, I would wonder about them for eternity and it was possible they were completely innocent. Unfortunately, as I started to unfold one of the letters and saw the salutation, I knew innocence was not going to be the prevailing theme.

Hey Gorgeous,

How's the sexiest creature on earth? Good news, I have another trip to Chicago coming up in ten days. I'll be in town for a whole week so I'm hoping we can get together more than once this time. I can't wait to slip my dick into that tight little pussy of yours again.

I will let you know as soon as they book my hotel. It'll be the week of the fifteenth so write me back and let me know what shift camera boy will be on so we can make plans.

Can't wait,

You're magic tongue lover,

Carl

By the time I finished reading, my heart screamed with pain. The letter wasn't dated so I looked through the empty envelops for post marks. Only one was dated the previous week but I had no idea if they went together. While wondering if their meeting had taken place yet or not, I realized it didn't matter. From what I had just read, our marriage was already toast.

I reached over and pulled a tissue from the box of Kleenex Sheri always kept in her car, dried my eyes, and just sat there...thinking. No, that's the wrong word. Thinking refers to rational thought. There was nothing rational about the chaos my brain was going through while trying to process what I had just read.

A small noise disturbed my solitude and I realized it was a tear that had dripped down and fell to the paper I still held in my hand. I reached up with my already moist tissue and dried more sorrow from my eyes.

I didn't really want to read any more but I had to know the whole story, or at least half of it. I, of course, didn't have the letters she wrote back to him. With that realization, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe subsequent letters will reveal this was nothing more than a fantasy of this guy, Carl, whoever he was.

I looked through the envelopes and found the earliest postmark, going back almost a year. I was surprised to see it had our regular address. The letter inside, explained how he ran into Trudy, one of Sheri's best friends. They started talking about their high school days and Sheri's name came up. He requested her address and Trudy gave it to him.

He went on to explain he was in sales. His territory included the Chicago area and he came to town six or seven times a year.

It was coming back to me. There was a Carl Landow on the football team in high school, but he was a couple years ahead of Sheri and me. I thought back and remembered she made the varsity cheer leading squad in her sophomore year. We didn't start going together until our senior year so it was possible she dated him. Maybe they had sex in high school; but that would mean she lied to me. She told me I was her first. Still—I could certainly accept a lie before I could bear the thought of them having sex after we'd been married.

With that small ray of hope, I dug through the pile of envelopes until I found the next oldest postmark. Again, it was addressed with our apartment number. I removed the letter inside and started reading. It pretty much confirmed my suspicions, they had dated in school, and although he never came out and said it, there were enough sexual innuendoes to convince me I was right about them having sex as well. That's when the anger started.

I still wasn't sure what the S.O.B. was talking about in the first letter I read; was he reminiscing, fantasizing, or talking about a recent event. I'd have to read more letters to find that out, but there was no doubt that Sheri lied to me about being a virgin. Shit, I was eighteen at the time and about as naïve as they come. I had heard there was blood involved with a girl's first time but was too embarrassed to ask why there wasn't any after we had done it. She yelled and screamed like it hurt, which is what I was expecting so I didn't give the lack of blood that much thought. I now know she was faking the pain.

Learning this was changing my attitude about reading more letters. I was no longer reluctant as I dug through the envelopes to find the next one in line. She must have told him who she married in her return letter because this was the first time he used the term, "camera boy."

He didn't say anything derogatory about me but the nickname was obviously condescending. The rest of the letter went on with him bragging about how important he was to the company he worked for. According to him, he had the largest territory and brought more money into the company than the next three salesmen combined. I really wished I could see Sheri's responses because I couldn't believe she would fall for his BS.

The next envelope, however, proved me wrong. It was the first one address to the P.O. Box. Obviously, she wanted to keep corresponding, but felt she had to hide it from me. That told me she knew damn well what she was doing was wrong. The letter inside was also the first one that referred to her as "gorgeous," in the salutation and thanked her for the picture. I wondered which one she sent. I had taken a couple of tasteful nudes of her on our last vacation. They didn't really show much but you could tell she was naked. Could she have sent him one of them?

Damn, now my brain was starting to make accusations based on pure speculation. I couldn't allow that. I didn't want to make things any worse than they were, at least not until I had read the rest of the letters.

In the next one he told her he was coming to Chicago. The one after that was the most flattering to date. He told her the picture she sent didn't do her justice and how much he enjoyed her company over lunch.

The following letter was more flattery, but the one after that talked about what a great time he had over dinner and that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to hold her in his arms. Sheri loved to dance. I was hoping that's what he was talking about.

By the time I read that letter, anger was taking over the emotional roller coaster I was on. Since he hadn't requested a picture, it was obvious that it was her idea to send him one. On top of that she'd been out with the jerk twice while I was working. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but his eagerness to slip his dick into Sheri's pussy again was looking more and more like a current encounter.

Again, my courage was waning. The more I read the more reluctant I became to read anymore, but I had to know the truth. Over the next few months they'd gotten together three more times. He had been in Chicago more often, but evidently his schedule and mine just didn't coincide on every occasion.

I only had six or seven more letters to read and a little voice inside my head was telling me to stop there. I almost wish I had listened to it but I couldn't, I had to know the whole story. I opened the next letter with a sense of dread. Sure enough, it was the one I'd feared. It was postmarked five months earlier. He'd gone into detail about the softness of her lips, the taste of her nectar, the intense response he got from sucking on her nipples and the tightness of her pussy—all things I was acutely aware of myself.

That was it. I stopped reading after that. There was simply no point in going on. I looked at my watch. Jesus, it was almost ten. I knew Sheri had been up for a while. I wondered if she called the paper and found out I'd left a couple hours earlier. She might be in the apartment worrying about me, but somehow I just couldn't muster any concern whether she was or she wasn't.

As much as I hated the thought, I had to go in there and confront her but before I did that I wanted to make copies of the letters. The nearest place with a copy machine was the post office. While I was there, I found her box number and looked in the little window. The envelope inside told me the affair was still going on; of course it wouldn't make any difference even if it had ended. I made two sets of copies. If the asshole had a wife, she would get one set. The other was for my folks. They loved Sheri almost as much as I did. Without seeing those letters they would hound me to my grave about staying in the marriage.

I gathered everything up and headed for home. I stuck the copies in my own glove compartment and locked it before going inside with the originals. She was on the couch watching TV.

"Honey, oh my God, you must be dead on your feet. I don't know how you're going to get through the night. Can I fix you something to eat or are you going straight to bed?"

I said nothing. I knew there'd be fresh coffee so I made a bee line for the kitchen, tossing the evidence of her affair on the coffee table in front of her as I passed. I thought I heard a distressed gasp as I felt the pot to see if it was still hot...hot enough. I poured myself a cup and heard her crying as I walked back into the living room. She looked up at me with a tear streaked face.

"I...I'm so sorry," she cried. Her eyes were already red and puffy. The hand that held one of the letters trembled and her body language looked like she wanted to fly into my arms and beg for forgiveness, but was afraid.

Seeing the love of my life in so much pain did nothing to ease my own, but I was determined to stay stoic, even as my own tears built up behind the mask. "You don't have a job so there's no way you can afford to live here on your own. I...I don't know, I'm sure your folks will let you live with them for a while, or...or I suppose you can move in with Landow."

Sheri's face contorted with anguish. Her hand convulsively tightened around the paper she held, crinkling it into a ball. "Nooo, no, no, no," she moaned. "Please, Dylan, no. I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry. I promise never, I'll never do it again, I swear, please."