Who Was That Masked Man?
By Cappy Hall Rearick
“When
confronted by a difficult problem,
you can
solve it by reducing it to the question,
‘How
would the Lone Ranger handle this?’“
A few weeks ago, I asked Mr. Breedlove, a professional
photographer I’ve known all of my life, to restore and enlarge an old photo of
Mama and Daddy. Today, he stands before me having just handed over the results
of his meticulous work. He is preening and grinning like Miss Texas.
“It’s beautiful,” I exclaim before slipping on my reading glasses
to look at it in more detail.
I gasp. “Mr. Breedlove? Who is that man?”
“Why, it’s your daddy.” He peers over my shoulder. “Isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “Mr. Breedlove, I don’t know who that is. I
always thought it was Daddy because of the hat but now that it’s enlarged, I
see that it’s not. I’ve never laid eyes on that man.”
I continue to stare at the beautifully restored, hand-colored
portrait of what I had previously believed was Mama and Daddy. “He looks
vaguely familiar, almost like a cowboy.”
“Let me see!” Mr. Breedlove snatches the photo from my hands. I’m
too confused to get all huffy over his blatant rudeness.
Holding the 10 x 12 enlargement out as far as his arms will
stretch, Mr. Breedlove stares at it. When his mouth drops open, he looks like
he’s witnessing the Second Coming.
“As I live and breathe,” he mutters in a tone akin to a prayer.
“It’s the Lone Ranger.”
My turn to snatch the photo.
My mother was beautiful, still turning heads way past her 70th
birthday. Daddy looked good too, but where Mama was photogenic, Daddy couldn’t
take a good picture to save his soul. I quit looking at him in photos long ago,
preferring to remember him in the flesh rather than a possum in the middle of
the road.
Maybe that’s why I never looked hard at the stranger standing next
to my mother until Mr. Breedlove enlarged the photo. The original was small,
badly wrinkled and yellowed with age.
I blink a time or two before peering again at the photo. “Holy
Cow! I can’t believe I never noticed this.”
Mr. Breedlove jumps like a frog in a Mark Twain tale. “What? Is
there somebody else? Is it Tonto?”
“Calm down, Mr. B.,” I say quietly. “Before you call the National
Enquirer, you need to seriously chill out. Nobody in this photo is famous. It’s
not the Lone Ranger or Tonto; not Roy, Dale or even Trigger.”
“Then why did you yell ‘Holy Cow?’ My blood pressure soared.”
God help me if Mr. B. had a stroke. “Sorry I yelled. Take a look
at the man’s eyes. The are hooded with dark circles underneath. It makes him look like he’s wearing a mask.”
“It’s him I tell you!” Mr. Breedlove jerks the photo from me again
and studies it as though it’s a silver bullet. This yanking back and forth is
making me dizzy.
Mr. B. shakes his head like a wet dog. “That mask is very significant,
if you ask me.”
My first thought is that he’s got
to be kidding. My second is that Mr. B. doesn’t know how to kid. I smile as though he’s making a lick of sense, then I
slap my forehead and feign a Eureka!
“It’s coming back to me. Now I know who that man is!”
“You do? Is he from the other
side?”
Mr. B is starting to scare me. I should tell him to ease up on
caffeine and stop watching late-night TV. “The other side? Naaah.” I reach over
and gently take the photo from his trembling hands.
“It’s Uncle Mac, my mother’s step-brother! I didn’t recognize him.
I met him once when I was a little girl. He lived on an oilrig and didn’t like
people. He only came to see us two or three times. Shoot! I forgot all about
him.”
Mr. Breedlove looks as though I’ve snatched away his one reason
for living. He purses his lips, raises an eyebrow and sniffs.
“Was it necessary for you to lead me on like that, missy? I’m a
professional and I don’t like being the butt of one of your jokes.”
Just
wait till he reads the column I’m going to write, I think to myself.
“Now, Mr. Breedlove, you have known me for years. You can’t think
I would do that, can you? I’m as shocked as you to find Uncle Mac in that photo
instead of Daddy.”
He is still grumbling when I lead him out to his car. If he’s
going to pitch a fit, I’d just as soon not watch him do it.
“Thanks again, Mr. B., for the beautiful restoration. I just wish
Mama could’ve seen it. She’d have been pleased.” I am talking to his taillights
as he sticks his nose up in the air, directs his eyes to the road ahead and
drives away in a huff. I wave goodbye. He does not wave back.
I slam the front door, snatch up the picture and stare at it
again. Who in the world is that masked man standing next to my mother? I don’t
have a clue, OR an Uncle Mac.