Double Exposure Read Online Free Page A

morning.
    The death of the bear affects him more than he would have imagined, the heaviness of genuine grief weighing down on him.
    He hates poachers, loathes their arrogance and greed and waste, but he realizes the animals he so loves, the ones that populate the river swamps and hardwood hammocks and pine flats, are being driven to extinction not by poachers, but by greedy developers, corrupt politicians, and the rich pricks who demand that their second and third homes be built not near but on top of paradise.
    Though not nearly as artistic or dynamic, perhaps these pictures, too, will help protect the endangered Florida black bear. These are just snapshots, but as Eudora Welty used to say, A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.
    D ecision.
    Should he turn back now, begin making his way to the hidden ATV, to a cell phone signal, report the crime and call Heather, or continue onward, deeper into the swamp to check his camera trap? No question. He knows what he
should
do.
    He also knows what his father would do. In fact, the
should
voice inside his head belongs to his dad.
    What Cole James would do.
    He’s thinking a lot more about that these days. More than at any other time in his life.
    Why the gods make fathers and sons so different is an eternal mystery.
    Cole James had been a simple, hardworking, blue-collar, small-town man with only a high school diploma and a good name. Full of the kind of folksy wisdom associated with farmers, country folk, and old-timers, Cole was everybody’s buddy, beloved, respected, a good ol’ boy in the very best sense.
    N ot quite sure what to do with his impractical, artistic son, Cole never missed an occasion to encourage Remington in the ways of conventional wisdom.
    —Take your pictures, son. I’m not sayin’ not to, but get an education. Have a career.
    —I want photography to be my career.
    —Sure. Give it a try, but have something to fall back on. Get a degree in something you can make a living at. You’d make a great lawyer, but, hell, you can get your teaching certificate. I don’t care. I just want you to be okay.
    —I will be. Photojournalists make a good living.
    —Not many, I bet.
    —Enough. One more when I start.
    —I ain’t sayin’ don’t follow your dream. Ain’t sayin’ it’s silly. Just have a plan in case things don’t work out the way you think they will—’cause they nearly never do. I hate to see you put all your dogs trackin’ one deer.
    A commencement speech of sorts, the conversation had taken place during the week leading up to Remington’s high school graduation.
    W ithout realizing it until this moment, he had unwittingly followed his dad’s advice—God, the influence he exerted without my even knowing it—and that’s what the ad agency job had been about. Safety. Security. Practicality.
    His dad was happy for his success, impressed with his salary.
    I fell into what he wanted for me without ever knowing what I was doing or why.
    Remington smiles.
    But he’s also the reason I stopped doing what he wanted me to. Coming back here to pick up his life where he left it is the only thing that could have nudged me out of the nest of my comfortable, safe, existence of quiet desperation and into these woods armed with only a camera.
    Wonder what he thinks about me cashing in my 401k to buy all this new photography equipment. Wonder if he knows. Are you out there? Are you here, closer than I think? Will I see you on the other side?
Is
there an other side?
    —Anything ever happens to me I need to know you’ll take care of your mother.
    —Of course.
    —You won’t try to move her, you’ll come back here, you’ll let her stay home.
    —I will.
    As if having a premonition, this call from Cole—a rarity in itself—took place the week of his death.
    —It’s a lot to ask, he adds.
    —You didn’t even have to, Remington says.
    —You comin’ for a visit anytime soon?
    —Gonna try.
    —How’re things at work?
    —Good.
    —You