THE ACCOMPLICE

I held the ammo in my left hand and the chipmunk by the tail in my right. The instrument of death—a pellet gun, proudly held by Denny Wentworth, one of the locals near my parent’s cottage in the woods. We stood off Shady Lane, my shoulders tense, feeling the heavy burden of the chipmunk’s soul, an indelible mark in the form of a large shadow imprinted on my coat. It was true, I had been outnumbered—the photographer making us pose with the kill. “Smile for the camera,” he said. So I did. My smile forced, as if I had been an unwilling participant, an accomplice if you will, while Denny seemed relaxed, ready to slaughter more, ready to show off our trophy victims.

It’s hard to imagine that the boy holding the chipmunk would become a teacher for the Michigan Department Corrections. By his own volition, he had chose to surround himself by murders, rapists, and thieves to earn a paycheck. What was it that made him change? What was it that made him gain the necessary confidence? What was it in this photo that didn’t add up? Perhaps Rod Stewart had it all wrong when he sang, “Every picture tells a story, don’t it?”

Now that I have misrepresented the facts based on what you saw, let me tell you what the picture failed to show: 1) I appeared to be uncomfortable because of the cold, damp autumn weather, 2) the pellet gun and ammo were mine and 3) I had been the trigger man, not Denny.