The Smoke of Thought

Mary stuttered her name again, and again, but it was clear the officer didn’t really care; the asking of her name was a reflex of some kind on his part, the things one does when one isn’t thinking, having gone into automatic. He wanted her camera though. That was clear enough, and Mary was suddenly panicked. She shook her head. How could she say no? But she wasn’t letting this camera go. It could mean everything, and the shame that scorched her face now was not the product of her Catholic education or her parents’ value-system; it was a simple one, the selfish kind everyone everywhere knows. She’d taken pictures of what she’d seen, and the drive she felt as strongly as if it were a primal instinct to have a cord in hand, her lap top in front of her, and to see these photos uploading to her hard drive, and moving into the ethereal world of the Internet where she would be the one who’d captured the images; where she would be the one to get the glory. Glory, Mary also knew without thinking that she wouldn’t get without a lot of ridicule. How people would be disgusted with her! She felt thrilled and afraid and as if something momentous was changing in her life at this moment in front of this witness, this dead boy, who’d perhaps given his life to restart the lives of others; the craziness of this smoke of a thought made Mary feel sick, and she fell to one knee. The cop didn’t touch her. But he wanted the camera still, and the confluence of things made Mary dizzy. She looked up at the cop, his lean face, blond short hair just visible at the sides of his head. She didn’t like him. Never had. Officer Olivander. She wouldn’t give him anything.