Not All Apples Are Oranges

Harold Jameson stood at the threshold of the building, wondering if he had the right place. He checked the index card with the address on it, and was satisfied that it was the right address before entering. The contents in his inside jacket pocket weighed heavily on his mind as he made his way through the maze of hallways to Mr. Stephanos’ residence.

A few moments later, he reached the door and knocked three times, before waiting for a response. “The door’s open,” called out a voice within. He reached for the doorknob with his right hand before realizing the handle was on the opposite side. It surprised him momentarily, for in his twenty-five years of life, he had only encountered two other right-handed doors. It swung inward, toward his right to reveal a rather spacious studio, with what appeared to be a small outdoor garden on a raised patio.

“Mr. Stephanos?” he called out, wondering where his host was. Walking further in, he found himself in the living room. He thought it was modestly decorated, though a few modern appliances appeared to be missing. What caught his eye, though, were the numerous photos placed throughout the residence.

He noticed that there was a lot of thought behind the placement of every photo; even the ones stretched across the somewhat low ceiling.  Unconsciously, he withdrew his flask from his inside jacket pocket, and took a drink from it as he examined them. As the burning liquid rushed through his system, he found himself admiring several of the landscape pictures.

“I’m in the kitchen,” the voice called out again. “I’ll be right out. Sorry to keep you waiting. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”

“It’s all right,” said Jameson, “You must be pretty busy, even in retirement.” He was envious of the photos that Stephanos had. Even though he was just an amateur photographer, the talent that he saw in the pictures was far greater than his own. “These are some amazing shots,” he said aloud, though to no one in particular.

"Why thank you," a voice behind him said, startling him slightly. Jameson turned around slowly, and hoped that his first impression would not go as bad as all the others ones so far in the week. He was momentarily confused, as he saw nobody behind him.

Stephanos cleared his throat and suddenly the lower than usual ceilings made sense to Jameson. Tilting his head down, he found himself looking at a middle-aged man sitting in a wheelchair, offering a cup of coffee with one hand.

"Coffee?" Stephanos asked innocently. "I know it's not as strong as the stuff in your pocket, but it's good enough for me." Stephanos flashed him a smile with a set of teeth so white that it could've been mistaken for pure arctic snow.

Jameson took the proffered steaming cup from his left hand, gaped at the man momentarily before remembering his manners and thanked him for it. "I bet you're surprised to see a cripple." Stephanos gave him a mischievous smile this time, as Jameson nodded his head numbly. He had spoken to some of the people who worked with the world famous Sean Miguel Stephanos, but none had mentioned this physical disability to him. His back stiffened up slightly as he regained his composure.

He moved briskly to the sofa when Stephanos gestured for him to sit down. He almost spilled coffee all over himself as he submerged into the overly plushed sofa. Though he considered himself tall at six feet, he felt short as he found that he had to look up to even make eye contact with Stephanos.

Stephanos wheeled himself around the far side of the coffee table, to position himself next to the sofa. He had somehow produced another cup of coffee in his left hand, and waited for Jameson to have a drink first.

A sip of the fragrant coffee surprised him, but he made no attempt to disguise it. Stephanos smiled mischievous once more before saying, "You're not the only one who speaks to the people at the press club." That got a laugh from Harold Jameson as his secret was out.

"Didn't realize the guys knew I kept coffee in my flask, especially this blend," Jameson said, offhandedly. Reaching forward for the coffee table, he set his cup down on one of the numerous coasters already on the table.

"They see all and tell all." He carefully set his own cup down.

Jameson nodded in agreement, and then amended his own part to it. "Just the stuff they think you really don't need to know." Stephanos grinned at this last part. When Jameson had first started asking about his whereabouts, one of his friends at the press club gave him the heads up. Figuring out what Jameson wanted proved easier, since the publication that he worked at just had a recent vacancy in their ranks.

“So, is there something I can help you with?” Stephanos asked innocently, wondering how long he should bait the man before turning him down. Jameson nodded his head, and finished off his cup of coffee before starting. Stephanos was impressed as Jameson straightened up even further than was thought possible, cleared his throat and straightening his tie before beginning.

“Even though I’m only an amateur photographer, I can tell you have real talent here, from these pictures.” Stephanos stared at him, wondering where this conversation was leading. His mouth hanged opened for a second before he closed it in order to think of a good response. From his guys at the press club, they had reported that Jameson was as business-like as it got, especially as the assistant editor at ‘Prestigious Magazine.’

“Hell, you’re considered a legend at the press club,” he continued on, as if he had expected Stephanos not to respond. “And I’m not referring to just that photo that made you an international celebrity all those years ago.” He winked at the man in the wheelchair as if he knew what deep dark secret was hidden within the broken body. “Even though, I am curious as to how you happened onto such a find.”

Stephanos grinned and thought about how delusional he had became during his retirement. His sources at the press club had prematurely concluded that Jameson was looking for him as a replacement as a photojournalist. At the moment though, he found himself wondering the same thing. His eyes locked onto Jameson’s, and he tried to see what was going on in that mind, but there was nothing close to the surface for him to see. He remembered when this knack of his was a lot closer to telepathy than just a good guess. Then again, the last time he was able to figure it out was a few years ago, and it was the one that, no matter how hard he tried, the world would never let him forget. He sighed deeply before speaking.

“Do you have any family?” He knew what Jameson’s answer was, thanks to the press club, but asked anyway. To him, it seemed like a good way for him to lead onto his own story.

Jameson nodded his head solemnly. “I’m a widower with a little girl to raise all on my own.”

Stephanos nodded his head as if he was taking it all in. “All my life, I had wanted to; but as my work had gotten more prestigious, it became harder and harder for me. Especially after becoming something of an international celebrity.” His voice had dropped even lower as he finished the last sentence. Stephanos didn’t seem happy that he was famous for something that no one else had been able to do at the time. To Jameson, it seemed that the man was more embarrassed to have been a party to uncover the identity of the person that put him in that chair in the first place.

“It had been almost eight years ago,” he began, wondering how he had managed to squander all that time away from his work. “Things were completely different back then, even for a photojournalist. I was more like you, with more people in my life too. I had someone, too; someone I was destined to spend the rest of my life with.”

Jameson studied his face with keen interest. There were still parts of what was considered historical knowledge that he wasn’t able to uncover. As far as he could tell, at that time in the past, events in history were more explosive, with the world threatening to destroy itself over and over. There was a terrorist that had moved in international circles, and was responsible for more atrocities than all the war criminals in history put together. The worst part was that no one was able to capture this dangerous felon, for no one knew for certain what this person looked like.

Stephanos finished his cup of coffee by then, and was in full storytelling mode. “I was just like you, and had planned to retire after that job to pursue a family of my own. She was with me on an assignment of her own. We were traveling in the same bus together when I first met him.” He stopped momentarily as the emotions of the memory overwhelmed him. Jameson saw a light tear roll down the man’s left eye.

“He didn’t seem so much different from all the others who had been living in the area. The only thing that seemed special about this guy was that he knew English. As always, I had my camera with me, and even though he objected to a chance at a photo, I was able to take one surreptitiously. Never once did I ever suspect who it was. And we even talked at length. I remember how he was smiling at me, as I introduced my fiancé to him. We were all traveling in the same bus, and were all headed into the heart of the city. There was some stray artillery fire from the night before, which was what I thought it was when the explosion happened. She died in the explosion along with our unborn baby girl. The rest you can say was history.”

Jameson nodded his head, and recited the little bit of history that all photographers remember as if it was a part of their professional history, like all those stories about photos of UFOs and the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, and all the other unexplained photographs in history. “A week later, it was discovered to be a car bomb that was prematurely set, and that the terrorist was still on the loose. You were one of the few survivors, and during your recovery and physical therapy, you developed whatever prints you were able to recover from the blast. Once they were developed, several people from INTERPOL arrived to examine them. By the time they were done, you had become a celebrity. The man you had spoken with turned out to be the terrorist who set that car bomb, and was one of the most sought after in the world.”

Stephanos nodded his head; as if he had heard it repeated so many times that he no longer cared about who had heard what, and what the exact particulars were. “After I was discharged from the hospital, I began to switch over to landscape photos, since they were so much safer to work with.”

“That wasn’t your only reason, was it?” Jameson said, the tone in his voice far more confident than it should be. Stephanos nodded his head again, this time; his attention seemed focused on the coaster that Jameson had set his cup down on.

“After I was discharged from the hospital, I decided that work was the best thing for me to do then that there wasn’t anything that would lead me away form my work. At first, I was doing all right, and then after the first roll, I began to cry and weep uncontrollably. I couldn’t help myself. I was going to retire after that last job, and marry that woman, and start a family. I thought I had all the time in the world, but it was too late...” He began to choke on his words, but he was able to continue on. "I was going to name her Selina," he said simply, which Jameson interpreted it as the close of the conversation.

"Sara," he said, after an awkward pause in which the silence was so deafening that one could hear the wine turn to vinegar. Stephanos shook out of his reverie long enough to register the fact that Jameson had said something. 

Jameson waited for another minute so that Stephanos had time to cool down and compose himself before he would tell him the real reason he was here. “She’s all that is left of my wife. Every time I look at her, I see my dear wife; the one who made my life complete. Now, she’s my only reason for surviving to the end of the day. I see my wife’s eyes when I dab the tears out of her eyes; and I hear my wife’s voice when she laughs at something funny. I guess you wouldn’t know what’s it like to have children of your own, but there’s just no other feeling for it.”

Stephanos nodded his head slowly, as he looked around his studio. After another minute of silence, he ventured forth something to contribute to their awkward dialogue. “That’s why I had started taking landscapes instead of profiles. I couldn’t take it anymore, when every headshot showed her face, and every little girl could’ve been my little angel instead of someone else’s. I guess I’d always thought that there was time left for me to start my own family, but there’s no one else who I want to start a family with…”

Jameson nodded his own head in agreement. “Tell me about it. I had proposed to seven different women before finding the mother of my children. And then tragedy struck….” He paused for a moment to let the drama build up before finishing his story. “It happened right after Sara was born. She was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer that ate away at her mind slowly. Her brain was being destroyed from the inside out, but it wasn’t painless. Her hands trembled harder every day, and there were certain days that I had to feed her because between her hands, the pain, and her meds, she was more dead than alive.

“And the bills kept piling up, too. There was one for every conceivable test. And another for all the paperwork that I had to fill out. Our insurance ran out, but that wasn’t the end of it. In the end, she told that she couldn’t keep on living like that and wanted me to let her die peacefully. She suffered another one of those seizures, and the doctors were keeping her alive and pain-free on machines. On the day I had decided to turn off the machines, an explosion tore apart the wing of the hospital that she was kept in. The hospital paid off all bills to avoid the lawsuits and liabilities associated with the attack, but I thank god everyday that she didn’t even feel any pain when she went.

“Sara was all that I have left of her.” He finished his story, and hoped that it was convincing enough so that he could enlist Stephanos’ help in what he had left to do. He could tell that it had affected Stephanos deeply, and hoped that it was enough. “It happened last week, though I'm not sure if you heard about, since you don't seem to have a television or radio.” He paused, waiting for Stephanos to respond before continuing. Stephanos shook his head, in agreement, though he was visiting that same hospital on that day for a follow-up examination for his ulcer. “It turned out to be a terrorist attack. Though no one group claimed responsibility for it, the rumor mill said that it was probably the guy you made famous.” Stephanos pointed to himself, unsure whether or not Jameson was telling the truth.

Stephanos had heard something about an explosion at the hospital the last week when he went over to the press club to talk with his old cronies, but he couldn’t recall the exact details.

“There’s something else, too.” Jameson paused for a moment, to see if the shock had already worn off before he brought out some more disturbing news. “It seems that he wants to meet you.” Stephanos’ jaw dropped like a struggling man in quicksand; his eyes bulging out even more that before.

“How could you tell?” he asked, meekly, suddenly afraid of the implications of what Jameson had just said. “It could be almost anyone else,” he said, his breathing suddenly getting heavier and faster.

"They have my daughter," Jameson admitted, as he suddenly found something interesting on the floor.

"Who?" Jameson could tell that Stephanos no longer had any interest in their conversation once he started down

“Well, I’m talking to you, if that’s a clue,” he sarcastically, as if he was as interested in the photo that Stephanos was staring at.

"How could you tell it was him?" Though the name was still big news in international circles, he didn't see the connection between the terrorist and the kidnapping. Slowly, Stephanos wheeled around the coffee table, and then stared at him, waiting for a response.

“We talked face to face, if that means anything to you. All I can say is that he still resembles the picture you took. There might’ve been an extra scar or two, but that man basically looks the same as he did when you took that shot. You could say that he had aged well.”

Stephanos shook his head. “Not possible,” he snapped, his tone more final than any more evidence that Jameson could come up with.

“He said that he was sorry about your fiancé, but he claimed that he was at war, and with every war, there was bound to be casualties.” Stephanos shook his head, attempting to deny as much of the conversation as physically possible.

“He was also very apologetic about your condition, too.” Stephanos pulled out a set of earplugs, and made as if he were going to put them on. “Still no convincing enough,” was his reply.

“He said that he remembered what you two were talking about.”

Stephanos laughed a sort, desperate laugh. His eyes had gone wide in fear, what people called the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ look, as if certain death caused them to freeze up. “A lot of people said that when I was first being interviewed for my pictures. You need more proof than that. Ha!”

Jameson cocked his head off to the side, and then pulled out his flask to finish off the contents more for the dramatic effect than anything else. "Not all apples are oranges," was his answer. This was the trump that he had hidden in case all his other tactics failed.

“But all oranges are oranges," Stephanos said automatically, and stopped as if there wasn’t anything else left for him say. His face blanched when he realized that he let something slip out inadvertently.

"He said that he wanted to talk to you, and in exchange, I get Sara back, safe and sound." He grunted slightly as he struggled to get out of the bucket seats that were disguising themselves as a sofa. He could tell from the expression on Stephanos’ face, that there was nothing more to say to him. His voice was more solemn now, his manner more professional. "And in exchange for your meeting, I get my daughter back."

He lingered beside the table for a moment longer, before concluding that no reply was forthcoming. He suspected as much. His head hung in defeat as he made his way toward the door. “Don’t bother getting up on my account. I can see my way out, thank you very much.”

Stephanos stared at the coasters on his coffee table, and thought about how his mother had handcrafted each one to mark an important moment in his life. He maneuvered his chair to where Jameson had left his cup, and picked it up to reveal a mosaic with an image in the coaster. "Wait," he called out, hoping that it wasn't too late; that Jameson hadn't left yet. "Did he give you anything to give to me?" He knew what the answer should've been, but he hoped that he was wrong.

"Yes," Jameson said. Stephanos was right. The letter weighed heavy in beside his flask in his pocket. "He said that you would understand what it meant." He noticed that Stephanos’ left hand was trembling as he accepted the envelope.

Though Stephanos didn’t say for him to stay, it seemed implied for he had too much riding on just delivering the letter without knowing what was in it. Stephanos waited for another minute while he got up the courage to examine the letter. The name 'SELINA' was written across the front of the plain white security envelope. On the back flap was the line:

Not all apples are oranges

He set it back down on his lap as he pulled at one of the fingers on his right hand. The thumb came off to reveal a small penknife that doubled as his letter opener. He wondered for a second if Jameson had deduced that he was wearing a prosthetic above where his right elbow used to be; but now was neither the time nor place to ask him.

The envelope opened in one fluid motion, and yielded a single piece of yellowed paper. It was an old black and white photograph. To the one who would always be my Selina, it said on the front right corner. “It’s an old photograph of my mother,” he said, identifying the woman in the photo almost immediately. “Her name was Selina, too. She used to say that to me all the time; especially when Christmas was just around the corner.” Turning over to the backside, they found a small letter was written to her. Stephanos started to read it aloud, as he usually did with all the mail he’d received (even the junk mail he rather didn’t.)

Dearest Selina,

I know it’s been too long since I’ve last seen you. I’ve missed you even more, and count the memories since I’ve last thought about you (two- there was the grocery list, and where the post office was to mail this letter.)

I hope you’ve been taking good care of our son, SM, and that he’ll grow up just like you – fiercely independent, and always loving. There had been times when I miss your company, and times when I just miss hearing your voice. I’m sending you the only picture I have of you, but don’t worry. I may not remember your face; but I’ll always remember how you make my soul feel (complete) and how your voice fills me with joy.

I have to keep this short, since the boys want me to do something with them later tonight. Just remember that not all apples are oranges, but all oranges are oranges. That’s what I say now, whenever I miss you. Though I am surrounded by apples, I know that I'll have oranges some day. I’m willing to wait for you for as long as it takes…

Tell junior I love him.

Always in Love with you,

XOXOXO      

“This can’t be right,” Stephanos said, incredulously. “There’s no way he could be…” What he had just found out was so incomprehensible that he could even finish his thought.

“I hope not,” Jameson said, “but at least, now I know why he wants to talk with you. Probably wanted to patch things up before his end comes or something. Maybe even apologize for putting you in the chair or taking your right arm or something like that. Or maybe he just wants some closure at least.”

“Just stop with the psycho-babble. That’s not you.” Stephanos turned the photo back over to the picture and studied it more closely. “Unless it’s one of those doppelgangers that you read in the comic books, I think it’s my mom. I need sometime to think this over. Just…just tell him that I’ll meet him, when I’m good and ready. Tell him, he has my word on it.”

Jameson nodded his head, and slipped out the door silently before Stephanos changed his mind. He wasn’t going to take any chances, especially with his only daughter’s life was at stake.

“Mom,” he moaned softly, as if he was cursing her. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Even after the explosion, you still could’ve told me. Now, it’s too late, and I can’t ask you anymore; at least without a séance. I hope Dad isn’t like what the papers make him out to be.” He sighed deeply, and took out his revolver from under the seat of his wheelchair. “If I end it before I see him, at least I could deny this last satisfaction for the bastard…” He held the gun in his hand, the barrel still gleaming from when he had polished it the other week.

A phantom pain from his right hand shot up his arm, that threatened to overwhelm him, but instead a thought entered into his mind. “You’re right, mom,” he whispered to himself. “Not all apples are oranges. Who knows what other possibilities are outside waiting for me. Maybe it’s time to pay back dad.” He smiled and returned the revolver to its’ hiding place before going to the door. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he said, opening the door, and saw that Jameson was waiting patiently for him on the other side.

“It’s time to go see the man…”