The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

Jerry M. Burger Home Movie

from The Briar Cliff Review

Elaine threads the Super 8mm film through the projector, connects the loose end to the return reel, and closes the panel door. She turns the control knob to Play, and the dimly lit room is suddenly cast in silver and gray hues as images of men and women flutter onto the screen.

“Reel One,” she says aloud to no one. “The Birthday Party.”

She sees a version of herself from decades earlier sitting at her old dining table, hair permed to flip away from her face, an effort that she knew even then fell pathetically short of the intended Farrah Fawcett look. Neighbors dressed in 1977 fashion — ​tight blouses, wide lapels, oversized glasses — ​dart silently in and out of the picture. The old projector sounds as if it’s grinding the film; worn sprockets cause an occasional stutter and jump. Everyone is aware of the camera. They squint and smile, some wave. Dan Carpenter, who would die two years later from stomach cancer, sticks his face close to the lens with an exaggerated expression that is supposed to look as if he is having a great time but that always strikes Elaine as an omen of tragedy.

The camera zooms to a cake adorned with a forest of pink and white candles. It’s her twenty-eighth birthday. Nathan made all the arrangements and extended the invitations before he told her. By design, too late to talk him out of it or to call the whole thing off. There are two ashtrays on the table, and no one seems to mind that several guests are smoking. As she recalls, she was one of the few nonsmokers in the neighborhood.

The quality of the photography is awful. At any other gathering, Elaine would have been in charge of the camera. She was the one with the talent and the training. The behind-the-scenes person, the one never pictured in the photo. But that day Bruce had insisted. She was the guest of honor, he said. He would take care of recording the event. Unfortunately, her bighearted next-door neighbor was oblivious to his limited skills. There is no sense of framing, no point of entry for the eye. Full body shots are taken when torsos would have worked better, poses are held so long people signal “cut” with their hands. Clueless Bruce. She wonders if he had his suspicions even then, three months before he came to see her.

Elaine tastes her bourbon, swirls the ice, and takes another sip before setting the glass down on the TV tray next to the projector. Nathan is about to make his appearance on the screen.

Her husband enters the kitchen with his usual broad smile. He shakes a few hands and hugs the women. His eyes are set too far apart and his forehead is too large for him to be considered handsome, but he engages everyone with a confidence that belies his physical appearance. On the right edge of the screen, the red sleeve of a woman’s dress moves in and out of the picture. A few seconds later, Samantha steps into the middle of the frame. Her bright red dress, flawless and radiant, instantly captures the scene. Her long dark hair is expensively styled, the hem of her dress two inches higher than women her age wore them back then. She is a woman in control. Every glance, every gesture, is calculated and perfect. Elaine had been wary of her from the start, from the day Samantha and Bruce moved next door. Elaine’s first observation: boob job. Apparent to all the women in the neighborhood, even if Nathan and some of the husbands disagreed. Weren’t boobs that size supposed to bounce when you walk?

Nathan reenters the scene. His face brightens when he sees Samantha, and he mouths words that Elaine has come to read as “Don’t you look nice.” He raises his eyebrows and grins at Samantha’s reply, as if she has said something delightful or, more likely, a tad racy. Always the master flirt. Before Nathan has a chance to respond, the camera spins to a chubby woman entering the room with a large wrapped package in her arms. Elaine doesn’t remember the woman’s name.

The screen turns white, the room brightens. The dangling end of the film slaps against the back of the projector with each rotation of the reel. Whamp, whamp, whamp. Three minutes, the length of a home movie back then. Elaine rewinds the film. While the projector whirs, she lights a cigarette.

“Reel Two,” she announces. “The Backyard Barbecue.” This time she is behind the camera, and so it’s just the three of them on the screen — ​Nathan, Samantha, and Bruce. Samantha had insisted that Elaine and Nathan come over to celebrate Bruce’s promotion. My husband, a vice president! Can you believe it? What’s not to believe? It’s the kind of thing that happens to women like Samantha. Elaine had known them all her life, had studied them from afar. Vacations in Europe, ballet lessons, clothes from stores Elaine felt uncomfortable just walking through. Of course Samantha went to a private all-girls college. Of course she never had to work. Of course heads turn when she enters a room. What a lucky guy that Bruce is! Even Nathan had uttered those exact words.

It’s the middle of summer, and the harsh outdoor light makes her job as photographer a challenge. Although few would ever notice, Elaine always took the task seriously, even when relying on something as rudimentary as a home movie camera. Her first camera had come to her by chance when she was ten. An old Kodak box model her father found when going through his mother’s belongings. Did Elaine want it? It seemed disrespectful to say no. Her first roll of black-and-white prints had consisted largely of family members smiling on cue with either the sun in their eyes or shadows across their faces. But the last picture on that roll, taken quickly so that she could run the film to the drugstore, captured something Elaine had never seen. Her father, an endless source of comfort and reassurance, unaware of her presence, gazing at his feet, shoulders slumped and weary, as if beaten down by a powerful foe. The image changed forever the way she saw not only her father but everyone. In that moment she understood in a way a younger child cannot the dark underside of being, the weight of hidden burdens. It also was the moment she discovered the power of the camera. For years she spent every cent she earned buying and developing film. Then came a better camera, subscriptions to photography magazines, two years as photo editor of her high school newspaper, a professional camera, her own darkroom in the garage, and a bachelor’s degree in art with an emphasis in photography. Those were the days she could always be found with a Nikon strapped around her neck, engaging the world through the lens of her camera.

On the screen Bruce stands next to the Weber, spatula held high to greet his arriving guests. Nathan hands him a beer, and the two men pose for the camera with their bottles, chests expanded as if mocking but also somehow validating their masculinity. It’s too small a gathering for Elaine to blend unnoticed into the background; capturing candid moments is next to impossible. But there is much to see if one knows where to look. The outdoor light accentuates the deepening lines around Nathan’s eyes. When he turns his back, a flash of sunlight reflects off his newly formed bald spot. Bruce pauses for the briefest part of a moment before returning to his work at the barbecue, considering and dismissing a thought he never puts into words. The strap of Samantha’s pink bra peeks out from under her thin blouse in almost every scene. But the most striking revelation that day — ​what Elaine had succeeded in capturing with the movie camera — ​is the nonchalant way Bruce manages to act around his wife. So different from the visibly shaken man who had knocked on her door a week earlier. Nathan’s not here, she had told him. He knew that; it was her he wanted to see. Maybe Samantha had said something. Maybe Elaine saw something he was missing. Twice he broke into tears while laying out all the reasons he was certain his wife was having an affair. No kidding, she had wanted to say. If any woman’s fooling around, it’s Samantha. But she held her tongue. She said all the right things.

Everyone sits down to eat. Elaine has positioned the camera just above the lip of the table, with place settings in the foreground and the swimming pool in the background. Bruce and Samantha have the only pool in the neighborhood. Their casual backyard dishes are more expensive than any dishware Elaine owns.

After the visit from Bruce, Elaine also had to act as if nothing was amiss. She forced herself to greet and smile and make eye contact with Samantha the way she always had, all the while playing out delicious scenarios in her head. In one, Bruce crashes through the door of a cheap motel room and catches Samantha and her lover in the act. It’s a seedy, rundown place, utterly without dignity, which adds to the humiliation. Samantha bursts into tears, begging for a second chance, promising in an obviously insincere manner that it will never happen again. Bruce leaves her. Then the lover disappears — ​it was never anything more than physical. And for once in her life Samantha knows the pain of rejection.

The final few seconds of the reel are especially good from a photographer’s point of view. Samantha is standing in her rose garden, her features softened by late afternoon shadows, perfectly framed with Nathan and Bruce on either side. There’s no mistaking the confidence in her eyes, the sense of ease and poise, while all the time pretending to be unaware of the men’s attention. The shot is impressive, especially considering that there were no second chances back then. What you shot was what you got. No erasing, no do-overs.

Try as he might, Nathan never fully appreciated her love of photography. He called it her hobby, referred to her pictures as “snapshots.” Efforts to explain the art of it went nowhere. She went to exhibits by herself, bought the occasional book of photographs that she kept on her side of the bed. What was so hard to understand? A photo exhibit is a peek into another person’s world. To know a photographer’s work is to know the photographer. Each picture screams out, “This is me. This is what I see.”

Elaine refills her drink. She thinks it’s her second, but it might be the third. “Reel Three,” she says. “Thanksgiving with the Neighbors.”

Suddenly her old living room is on the screen. The horrible green couch, the stark white walls. Samantha and Bruce are just taking off their coats. Still together several months after Bruce revealed his suspicions to Elaine. It was Nathan’s idea to invite them. Neither couple had kids. Why not spend the day with our friends? Why cook a big meal for just the two of us? But, Elaine would like to know, where is it written that friendship is the default option between next-door neighbors? Aren’t you supposed to choose your friends? Still, as always, she played her part. She chatted with Samantha across their adjacent driveways as often and with as much enthusiasm as required. Anyone listening to Samantha’s side of the conversations would assume they were the closest of friends — ​my girl, sweetie, hon. She invited Elaine to go shopping with her and to stop by sometime for coffee. An occasional cup of coffee Elaine could tolerate. Shopping with Samantha was never going to happen.

Nathan said they were lucky to have such good neighbors. Then again, her husband saw good fortune everywhere. They were blessed to have their home, their health, their jobs. She should be thankful she’s married to an accountant, someone who would never be out of work. In fact, for reasons she kept to herself, Elaine did consider herself lucky. What no one knew — ​what someone like Samantha could never imagine — ​was that when Elaine met Nathan their junior year in college, she had been on only two dates her entire life. And, truth be told, both were more like an evening with a friend than a date. Those old movies and TV shows where teenage girls gossip about boyfriends and spend weeks getting ready for the prom don’t apply to everyone. Some girls are shy and awkward and plain. But no one seems to notice them.

Now Samantha is in the kitchen — ​Elaine’s kitchen — ​helping with the last-minute preparations for the big holiday meal. It’s what the girls do while the men talk football and cars. Just tell me how I can help, dear. Anything at all. Samantha cuts mushrooms for the salad, pulls some plates from the cupboard. Just enough to fulfill her obligation.

Elaine tested him once. Starting a few weeks after she lost her virginity in Nathan’s dorm room one Saturday afternoon when his roommate was out of town. She complained when he wore wrinkled shirts, criticized his friends, groused when something annoyed her. He saw her with unwashed hair, without makeup. She came as close to showing him her real self as she dared. And, to her surprise and relief, he stayed. He even started ironing his shirts.

They were married two months after graduation. Nathan had job offers waiting; she took a series of temporary positions. The plan had always been to open her own studio. Family portraits and weddings would pay the bills, but there would also be time for creative work. She could exhibit her photography in her own gallery adjacent to the studio. It all seemed entirely plausible, and Nathan was supportive. But that was before. Before two cars, furniture, and a mortgage barely within reach of their paychecks. A studio? How would they pay for the space, the equipment, the advertising, and all the overhead? Maybe someday, when things were more settled. As Nathan would say, they were doing fine. And there was nothing wrong with being a receptionist in an insurance office.

The reel ends with the predictable shot of Nathan carving the turkey. The table is set with their wedding china, tiny flames flicker atop new candles. The camera keeps rolling while everyone takes a moment to say grace. Two young couples enjoying each other’s company on a day set aside to give thanks. How appropriate, Elaine thinks, that she is not in the picture. Exactly what did she have to be thankful for? That she had one more week before everything fell apart? That for a few more days she could still believe in the fairy tale? She stares at the image of Samantha — ​eyes closed and head bowed devoutly — ​until the scene mercifully comes to an end.

“Reel Four,” Elaine bellows. Her tone is defiant. Anyone who doesn’t want to watch doesn’t have to. “The Plot Thickens.”

On the screen, more neighbors. Some of them the same as in Reel One. They are gathered in her den, a decorated tree perched in the background. Most years they didn’t bother with a tree, but Nathan said they couldn’t host a Christmas party without one. The lights are low, the images darker than in the earlier films. Deliberately so. The camera moves boldly, some might say belligerently, from person to person. She gets right in people’s faces. You want to be in the movie? How’s this? How do you like it now? The smiles are forced, the expressions pained. The discomfort palpable.

The blinders had come off a few weeks earlier, the Thursday Elaine had come home in the middle of the day with what surely were early signs of the flu. She called Nathan at the office. She needed some over-the-counter medicines; they didn’t even have aspirin in the house. But Nathan wasn’t in. She called a little later. Still not in, and they didn’t know where he was or when he would return. So reluctantly she phoned the only person she knew who didn’t have a daytime job. But Samantha wasn’t home. She tried both numbers off and on the rest of the afternoon. About a quarter after 5:00, she saw Samantha pull into her driveway. Then, before she could pick up the phone, Nathan drove up in his car.

The movie shifts to the kitchen. Elaine leans forward. On the screen before her, a conversation between Samantha and Nathan. Just a friendly chat, nothing suspicious. It takes a trained eye. The two neighbors are standing farther apart than one would expect. Only by a few inches, but noticeable and revealing. Nathan seems uncharacteristically self-conscious. He thinks about each movement, his gestures are awkward and unnatural. He laughs too readily and exaggerates his expressions. An actor too aware of the audience. Samantha is better, but her usual air of self-assurance is missing. She is stiff, formal. She glances about, eyeing nearby guests instead of the other way around.

Everything had quickly fallen into place, the unraveling as predictable as a movie plot. It was all there. The hint of perfume, the excuses, even the long dark hair on the jacket. Then there was Nathan’s out-of-place defensiveness, the obvious lies. I was seeing clients. I see clients, you know. And the late meetings that often coincided with Samantha’s comings and goings.

You deny the facts as long as possible. The eye willfully follows the magician’s misdirection. But at some point it all collapses, leaving everything exposed and indisputable right before your eyes. Each of Nathan’s desperate efforts becomes more evident and more insulting than the last. An expensive dinner for no reason. Compliments for routine things. You look wonderful in that dress. Is it new? What little respect he must have for your intelligence. Are you supposed to be flattered? Blinded by all the attention? Oblivious to the forced passion, the empty smiles?

How long can this go on?

We think we know ourselves. We rely on our principles, values, and character to guide us. But you might be surprised. We may all be capable of things we never imagined possible. We may all harbor longings and passions no more available to us than the inner worlds of the people who surround us.

There are times you have to act, when continuing the pretense is unbearable. Sometimes choices narrow to a single path. And you know even at the time that there will forever be a before and an after.

“Reel Five,” Elaine says, barely above a whisper. Or maybe she doesn’t say it at all. She starts the projector.

Nathan and Bruce are working on the backyard fence that separates the properties. The winter weather has taken its toll. Their breath clouds in the chilly air, hammers rhythmically pound nails into new posts. Men’s work. Nathan correctly guessed that it would do Bruce some good. At this point it’s been more than eight weeks since anyone has seen Samantha.

Bruce is a broken man. Although only a few months have passed, he looks as if he has aged five years since the last reel. Everything about him seems drab — ​his cotton work shirt, his complexion, his once-glistening eyes. He needs a haircut. Nathan has become his pillar of support. He checks on Bruce daily, invites him to dinner at least once a week.

The rumors were rampant. Who had Samantha run away with? Every neighbor had a theory about this man or that. Margie from across the street was certain she saw Samantha at a downtown restaurant having lunch with a blond man in a blue blazer the very afternoon she disappeared. Another story placed Samantha and a mysterious but, as always, very handsome man in the lobby of a nearby Hilton. The police weren’t buying any of it. Why would she leave everything behind — ​clothes, jewelry, money? No note, no phone call. No use of her credit cards or bank account. The investigation went on for months. For a while it was all anyone could talk about.

You can’t get over how something so consequential could be so easy. Let’s have lunch. Followed by a little Christmas shopping. How could Samantha resist? Even at the time you half expected a moment of doubt would arrive, a sudden jolt of conscience that would force you to reevaluate. But it never came.

Bruce would sell the house later that year and move out of state. He sent a card the first Christmas, promised to visit but never did. They lost contact with him after that. There was a what-ever-happened-to story in the newspaper on the tenth anniversary of Samantha’s disappearance. And that was it.

The movie ends. Elaine turns off the projector, switches on the nearby lamp. She lifts her glass to find nothing but an amber ring at the bottom. As always, she reaches for the yellowed envelope sitting on the table, the same place she found it almost exactly one year after filming the boys mending the fence. The once-bright stationery has faded into uneven shades of gray. The single sheet of paper, cracking at the folds, is held together with discolored cellophane tape. She has long ago memorized every word and each detail of Nathan’s simple handwriting, even the spaces between words. Still, she starts from the beginning, reading each line slowly, pausing at key words and phrases.

She reaches the last paragraph, absentmindedly lifts and then sets down her empty glass before continuing.

There was never a sense of triumph, only a moment of relief that it was over. For years she waited for her punishment, for the start in the middle of the night, the crushing guilt. Eventually she settled into a blunted state of acceptance, resisting the pull of either shame or self-pity. She seeks no forgiveness, doesn’t feel she needs any. Sometimes options disappear. At some point the script is written. You are only the actor.

She returns the projector to the hall closet, places it on the shelf next to the cameras she has not touched in years. She no longer believes in the magic of photography. A painter creates with brushes and oils, a photographer merely records with lenses and light. Of course, you have your tools and your tricks. You can draw the eye, freeze a moment, highlight, obscure, grab that split second when a guard is let down. But in the end, we see only what we are prepared to see.

She places the scruffy yellow boxes into the worn leather case and sets them next to the projector. She will watch the movies again. Maybe next week. Maybe in a few months. There is something comforting in the never-changing images unfolding in their predetermined sequence, a reassurance that comes from knowing that, perhaps like one’s fate, no alternative endings are possible.