The Junebug and Her Mistress

Chapter 5

         Jill got back to the office just after 1 p.m. She had rushed through the interviews  and photo opps. At the senior center, the pace with which the director moved was aggravatingly slow, and she had to gather as many senior as she could find. Jill posed them in the typical handing the check over, shaking hands and smiling into the camera pose, known in the office as a 'grip and grin'.


         By 4 p.m., she had the majority of her writing done and turned to her photography. Every week, she saved the photos for last. The stresses of writing melted away as she lost herself in levels, saturation and cropping, sifting through the raw photos until she found the gems that would add life to the stories she wrote. High school sports were unpredictable, so the shots she got were often surprising.  This week, she chose half a dozen shots from volleyball, another couple from football practices and a number of basketball pictures from a mid-week tournament. She found the lines of the student athletes beautiful, the way their well-trained bodies assumed the perfect posture for the task at hand.


         The check donation pictures were pretty standard, but she was frustrated at the fact that a few of the volleyball players had their eyes closed in each of the five pictures she took. Oh well, at least they weren't flipping off the camera. She had let a picture slip through once, where an athlete was proudly displaying the bird. No one called in, but Jim noticed. He made it clear that in no uncertain terms was that to happen again. From then on out, she meticulously examined each group pictures, calling coaches on players who were trying to be cool, or funny, or whatever the hell they thought they were doing. After a few punishments exacted out in running laps and other unappealing work, the shenanigans stopped.


         The camera took in everything, even the things she didn't notice. She imagined what life would be like if she had such a talent. Looking around the newsroom, she felt filled with prejudice. How often had she actually took time to look at these people, actually look at them and take it in, good and bad, without drawing any conclusions? She knew many things about her co-workers, suspected a great many things more. How would she see them if she was like the unbiased camera lens?


         Candice was talking to Harry over to her desk. Jill didn't notice when she had left her office, but she seemed to be in much better spirits. Of everyone on the staff, Candice was the one that inspired the most fear. She was polite enough to Jill, but was never friendly. Jill could guess why Candice had a problem with her, but could no more take back two years of her life than she could rope the moon. She never talked about those two years. The experiences she had during that time were so intensely personal that no one knew what happened except the people involved. They weren't likely to come to West Hillsbrand and talk, and some would never talk again. Jill was secure in the knowledge that her secret would be safe.


         Jill turned to Jim's main feature. His hen-scratch short-hand was hard to decipher, but Jill had worked with him long enough to be able to read it. He had already gathered the art work, sized it and printed it out. It sat on the bottom of a pile of pamphlets about the project.


         Main Street was still the center of West Hillsbrand activity-wise, even though it was geographically more on the east side of the city. In the town's glory days, it was the place for the Friday-night gatherings of teenagers, the Saturday seniors chit-chatting at the cafe and the Sunday-morning flocks of families who made their weekly pilgrimage to local restaurants. For years, members of the community had been lobbying the city council to make repairs to the once-immaculate sidewalks, solve the problem of the empty buildings left by the once-bustling businesses and clean up the graffiti from the growing gang problem. After the umpteenth time of the council's delay of any plans whatsoever, the citizens themselves decided to take action.


         The Main Street Project was a grassroots movement if there ever was one. Business owners on the street, all little mom-and-pop sole proprietorships, got together with residents concerned with the revamping of this local landmark and formed a committee. Every week, they would meet at Rudy's Diner, one of the few surviving businesses from the oil boom. They realized that the first thing they would need to do anything was money. Everyone gave what they could out of their own pockets, but they had to find out some way to make more.


         Ira Watson, a middle-school teacher, came up with the idea of looking for grants. While he wrote proposals to different organizations, others planned bake sales, charity banquets and car washes. In a little under two years, the committee raised about $35,000.


         The city council couldn't help but take notice at this point. They agreed to match the funds raised by the committee, pending the approval of some bond issuances, and begin construction at the beginning of the year. Ground breaking was scheduled for January.


         Jill read the notes and other information to get a feel for the story. She had an idea where she wanted to go with it, but couldn't figure out a good lead. She thumbed through the pictures and came upon a great shot of the old Walburn Theater. It was one of the main restoration projects planned.


         The theater was out of business long before she was born, but she heard some of the older residents talk about it. It was the place to go on a Friday night. The theater was designed back when the theater was an oppulent thing, not like a megaplex flick caught between lunch and miniature golf. Going to the movies was a luxury, and the Walburn family spared no expense in the construction of this shrine to the silver screen.


         Jim's photo showed the front of the old place, with members of the committee stategically placed around it. The two corinthian columns that supported the marquis above the entrance were weather-worn and chipped. The tiles of the facade had fallen off long ago, leaving only the glue that held them on. The marquis itself, towering over the people below, was a jumble of letter that once proclaimed a movie title.


         When she was about 10 years old, she and Maybelle snuck into the theater. Maybelle had found an old service entrance and pried the rusted lock open. The seats and screen were dusty and mildewed, but even through the dankness, Jill could see how grand it used to be.


         Red velvet curtains hung in ragged strips along the length of the theater. An old popcorn machine in the lobby still held the moldy remnants of its treasure. The girls ran around the inside, poking their noses in every nook and cranny. They went up to the stairs to the projector room, rifling through the old film on the spool. The theater became their summer hangout. They cleared a space in front and re-enacted every movie they had seen. To Jill, even the decrepit remnants of that magnificent time was like an elixir to her. No matter what her worries or sorrows, stepping onto that stage and feeling the laughter, tears and amazement of generations of movie goers gave her a feeling of something bigger than herself.


         One day in particular stood out in Jill's mind. She and Maybelle had just finished re-enacting Peter Pan and had declared an intermission for the sake of a quick game of hide and seek. While Maybelle counted, Jill ran back to the office and hid under an old desk. Light filtered through one dirty window that faced the alleyway, illuminating old stacks of paper and dusty uniforms.


         Footsteps entered the office, and Jill got quiet, daring not even to breathe lest she lose the game. It took her a few minutes to realize that the footsteps she heard could not possibly have been Maybelle's. The sound obviously came from a pair of high-heeled shoes as they thumped against the old carpet. Had someone found out about their hideout? She cringed at the lecture her grandmother would give her if she found out.


         Jill chanced a peek over the top of the desk. She never figured out if what she saw was real, but she had no reason to think it wasn't. The lady looked as real as anyone else, but her manner of dress was from 50 years ago. Her tightly-curled hair swooped around her head, raising up off her neck. What was more unnerving, she was staring right at Jill, like she had known where she was all along.


         “W-we're sorry, ma'am. We didn't know anybody came in here anymore,” said the girl, her voice quavering.


         The woman did not speak, but smiled affectionately at Jill. She curtsied, as if being dismissed, and walked briskly out the door. Maybelle came running in a second later.


         “Hah! Found you. Do you even know how to be quiet?”


         “I was talking to that lady,” said Jill, pointing at the hallway.


         “What lady?”


         “The one who just left this room.”


         Maybelle looked back at the hallway, scowling. “There wasn't anybody there. Come on, enough games. I want to do Cinderella now.”


         Jill happened across her picture the next day as she was looking at the newspaper. Her name was Ella Walburn, wife of theater founder Earl Walburn. She had died the night before at the age of 85. Every time she went to the theater with Maybelle from that point on, she looked for the ghost of the woman, as she had come to terms with calling it, but never saw it again.


         With some regret, Jill and Maybelle left the theater at the beginning of the school year and never went back. Jill thought about what it must have been like, to go into the theater when it was new. She imagined the experience was even more magical than her and Maybelle's experiences...


         Jill snapped out of her reverie and began typing furiously. She had found her lead.


         


         The magic of the Walburn Theater may once again grace the residents of West Hillsbrand...


         


          The story jumped out of her mind and onto the computer as fast as she could type it. Her hands flew over the keys as she told the story of times-gone-by, and the saviours who wanted to bring that history back. She finished typing about 5:30 and clicked to save it just as the power went out throughout the building.