Reflection

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Strange. More than strange. What's even stranger is at first, after the shock dulled, I wished it was me.

Dressed in a black tuxedo with tails, gray pants with white spats over his black shoes, white gloves on his hands, the man exuded elegance and class. Glancing down at my own clothes, I frowned at my ten-year-old sweatshirt, worn jeans near the end of their usefulness, and scuffed trainers. A glance was enough for me.

No, I wanted to look at the stranger in the reflection. Not just look at him. To gaze at him. I admit I was a little jealous of his… air, his composure, his style.

What kind of mirror was this? How was this possible?

Excellent questions. The answer is, "I don't know." I bought the thing while "estate sale surfing" with my sister, Caitlynn. She loves to do this every month or so. I don't.

"Haggling over dead people's stuff gives me the creeps," I told her.

"You don't have to haggle, coward," she said. "You don't even have to buy anything. Just tag along. It'll be fun. You'll see."

It wasn't fun. But it wasn't what I expected, either. Such sales take place in mansions, sure. But even working class folks have them. I get the idea: Sell everything you can because planting a body in the ground ain't cheap. Price an overstuffed easy chair that smells of too many smoked cigarettes at fifty bucks, and someone will still take it.

Just not me. The thought that a family member found the dead body in that chair creeps me out.

We bought the mirror this morning. 4:15 p.m. now, and I'm still staring into it. Why?

Because the strange reflection is still there.

I step back from the mirror. The image steps back, too. We eyeball one another from head to foot. The unfamiliar likeness smiles at me.

The smile is not returned. Part of me wants to run out of the parlor room I've hung it in.

I guess this is what's known as a parlor. Once I moved back into town after my wife's death, I found this old Victorian house at a great price, a fixer-upper. I admit I don't know much about nineteenth century architecture. Caitlynn is the expert. There are two things I do know about this house. First, it's a lot more house than I need. Second, with the sale of my old house, my wife's life insurance and the ridiculous listing for this pile, I have no problem buying it and fixing it up.

Well, I know one more thing. The multitude of home repair projects offer me scads of therapeutic work to do.

# # #

"This mirror would fit in your house," she said when she laid eyes on it.

"It's old," I said.

"Antique. There's a difference between old and antique."

"Okay, it's antique."

To be honest, the mirror appealed to me, too. I checked out my reflection… nothing strange about it at the time, just a bit sadder than it used to be. Tiny freckles marred the silver on the back, giving the glass surface a sense of age and wear. Set in a dark wooden frame festooned with scrolls and curls, the full-length mirror did… entice me, I guess. We considered a bunch of other stuff at that sale, but I kept finding myself back in front of the mirror.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a fifty-ish woman said as I examined the scroll work.

"You're running the show, I'll bet."

"Yes. I'm Ann."

"How much, Ann?" The words coming out of my mouth surprised me.

"Thirty dollars? I'm looking for the best offer on most everything."

I scanned the room. "No offense, but what's it doing here? Everything I see is…"

Ann smiled at me. "Ah. Mid twentieth century. Yes. This is decades older."

"Uh-huh, I see that."

"Edwardian, maybe early 1900's." She inched closer and lowered her voice. "They say it hung in the Porter mansion."

"Oh. Really."

"You know the Porter story, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh, you must not be from around here."

"Well, I—"

"Emerson Porter, oh my," she said with a sigh. "He was rich but a true eccentric. Off balance, to be honest. He was engaged to be married. His bride to be stood him up. He somehow got it into his head she abandoned him because the champaign for the reception had been poisoned."

I snickered. "What?"

"I know, crazy, huh? After the guests left, he locked himself in his mansion. No one heard from him for days but didn't think anything about it. He often took cruises to Europe on a whim. Everyone thought he went on holiday to recover, lick his wounds."

"With a lot of cash you can do that, I guess."

Ann shook her head slowly. "Someone in the factory he owned, a secretary I think, finally got worried after a month. They found him dead in his mansion."

"Dead how?"

"Dehydration," she whispered to me. "You can live a couple of weeks without food, but not without water. He thought that was poisoned too, I suppose."

"Well, yeah, we'll call him eccentric."

I have to admit having a cool history attached to it made the mirror even more compelling.

"How about twenty bucks, Ann?"

She blushed. "I've already had an offer for twenty five."

"Okay. Thirty it is."

Ann wrapped coarse brown paper around the mirror to protect the glass.

Caitlynn and I double-teamed on the mirror, carrying it down the driveway to her SUV. After turning the seats down and arranging some other purchases, we got the mirror to fit in back. Then we got it to my old fixer-upper.

"Where are we headed?" she asked when we got the mirror in the door. "Your bedroom upstairs? Please say no."

"No, I don't want to see that much of myself every day."

"It's too big for the foyer."

"Let's put it in that room there, the one off to the side."

"The parlor."

"Whatever. I don't use it much. There's just my old sofa in there."

"Okay, that sounds solid."

We muscled the heavy mirror to the parlor, a room just a bit bigger than a master bedroom. Leaning it against the bare wall opposite a small fireplace, Caitlynn swiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "You want to mount it?"

"Nah. Haven't decided yet which wall."

"The one it's leaning on. Perfect."

"Maybe. Glass of juice? Water? You look done in."

She shook her head. "I've got to get myself home, feed the starving children."

"And husband."

Chuckling, Caitlynn headed for the front door. "Yeah. Him too. See you in a couple of weeks."

"What?"

"Family camping trip in the Ozarks, remember? You're still invited if you can break away from work."

I shuddered. "I'd be lost without modern conveniences. Thanks, though."

"Ta-ta," she said and closed the door behind her.

After she left I tore the brown packing paper from the mirror and mounted it on the wall opposite the fireplace.

# # #

I glance down at my watch. 5:30, and I haven't moved. The man in the mirror still stands in front of me, but his demeanor changes. The smile dims a touch. His spine straightens, he brushes his vest with the palms of his hands. Then he turns his head and gazes behind him. This draws my eyes to the scene there. My parlor, no question. But the room seems larger, elongated and a bit wider. My sofa is missing. A couple of dozen wooden folding chairs stand behind the tuxedoed vision, arranged in two equal blocks.

A young man sits alone on the right side.

Dressed in a silk shirt, well tailored pinstripe suit and a straw boater hat, he channels a cheap 1920's gangster. The fledgling mobster wipes a tear from his eye. I rub my own eyes.

How is any of this possible?

A closer examination of the background in this mirror gives me pause. Details distract me, giving me sudden ideas for decorating. A plant stand that resembles a Roman column supports a bulky vase with a Banana Tree, the long, wide fronds brushing the wall beside the fireplace. A tall, ornate clock sits on the fireplace mantle, its wooden frame echoing that of the mirror. The hands indicate 7:45. I turn for a brief glance at my parlor.

No chairs. The sofa is indeed gone, though, and the room seems larger. And a Banana Tree and a clock that aren't mine lurk in the places the looking glass dictated. The time on the clock is 7:45. I check my watch.

7:45.

I return to the reflection. The clothes still don't belong to me. The face, though… The stranger's square, lantern jaw recedes, much like mine, to something less prominent. My hand brushes my jaw and chin. The image does the same with his. I didn't bother shaving this morning, and the stubble scratching my fingers bears this out. The vision's face shows stubble as well. The reflection stares into my eyes and raises a palm against the glass. So do I.

Flickering light behind the foreign likeness catches my attention. A fire licks logs in the fireplace. Flames dance in two gaslight sconces on either side of the man's portrait above the clock.

I turn my head away again.

Darkness somehow descended beyond the room's windows. Time passes, of course. The clock on the mantle says 9:12. So does my watch. But the room… the space where my sofa stood, the painting of the mirror image that hangs over the fireplace, the gaslight scones that hadn't hung there before, the fireplace no longer empty and cold…

The chairs, the hoodlum, and now a man in a 1940's zoot suit who sits opposite him— none of these should be in my parlor. But now they are. The gangster and the zoot suited man stare ahead. Then they turn their attention to me.

I return to the mirror. My blood chills in my veins. Though the high forehead and sandy hair still belong to the stranger the nose is mine, less patrician, shorter and straighter. I step back to get a wider view.

He wears shabby jeans now with his tux jacket and vest. I look down at myself. My own Levis are gone, replaced by formal gray trousers. My trainers are gone, too. I never wore spats before in my life.

Now, I do.

"What's happening?" I mutter.

The room in the mirror changes again. Sunlight pours in through the windows. The clock on the mantle says 7:39. Morning, obviously. The fire burned out in the fireplace. More people sit on folding chairs. A young greaser in a leather jacket and jeans takes his place a couple of seats away from a hippie with more hair than clothing.

The groom's image stays put in front of me. He's not moving. Neither am I.

# # #

I can't tell which is worse, my hunger or my thirst. How many times has the light outside darkened to night? Each time, the specter in the glass changes just enough for me to notice. The apparition's mane, no longer sandy but as dark as mine, sweeps down his forehead. He brushes it aside. My sweatshirt fits him well, while his tuxedo feels right on me. Though the eye color deviates from mine, the rest of him doesn't.

The mirror shows an image that is my own. Only now, I don't match my reflection. Rubbing my jaw I find that it juts out. My new lantern jaw. My narrowed nose points outward more. Smoothing my vest, I study my old, my former face in the glass. Dismay; I read dismay on my brow.

I'm so thirsty.

A champaign flute appears in my hand. I take a mouthful and gag. The spirit tastes like bubbly lawn fertilizer. I spit it out, and spy a water pitcher on a table, neither of which were in the room until now. But I can't leave. Something fascinating might happen and I can't miss it.

Wheeling back to the mirror, my image's dismay devolves to panic. It bangs on the glass. Silence. The pounding produces no noise. The apparition's terror mounts, the hammering becomes more vehement, more desperate. Frenzied.

No sound. Nothing.

I turn toward the gathered. They sit mute, quite an eclectic bunch. A hoodlum. A zoot-suited dandy. A greaser and a hippie. A realization dawns on me:

They each once owned this monstrosity.

I take a seat amongst them. My reflection is gone. The tux is gone from me, too, and I'm back in my grungy clothes. I twist on my chair.

"How long am I gonna be in this mirror?"

The group smiles as one. Then they face forward again.

Caitlynn appears after several more days and nights. Sadness surrounds her. I jump up from my chair and hustle to the glass.

She covers the mirror with coarse brown packing paper. I see nothing but brown paper.