I don’t mention where this story takes place – well, I mention a fictional Hawthorne County, but I don’t place it anywhere. But I can tell you it’s back east somewhere. I’ve spent my life on the West Coast among our coast redwoods and giant sequoias, our lodgepole and ponderosa pines. So, a forest of red maples and American beech and sugar maples… that’s pretty foreign to me outside of reading about it. The forests and lakes here might as well have come from Frost’s poems for me. It was in the 90’s here today – our annual scorching Indian Summer – but thinking about “Ten Pines” has me feeling much cooler.

Remember when they told you, “If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life?” Well, that’s a lie – well it’s mostly a lie. I love my job as Collections Manager at the Hawthorne Historical Museum, but it’s still a job. And especially when you’re dealing with some of the small-town narratives and stories… people can be quite testy about their view of history.

But some days I get absolutely lost in my work and lose track of time completely.

Like tonight.

One of our area’s only big claims to fame is that the famous photographer, Nathaniel Mercer, had his studio just outside of town, on the banks of the North Fork River. Our museum was planning a big retrospective of his work for the fortieth anniversary of his death. The Mercer Foundation had loaned us dozens of boxes of prints and negatives and journals from Mercer and his wife, Jane, for the exhibit.

Of course, everything is based around his most famous photograph, “Ten Pines” – the iconic picture of ten old-growth pines, silhouetted on a hillside. The composition of the piece with the contrast between the sky and fading light giving the whole thing a slightly abstract feeling. I’d argue that’s one of its biggest strengths because people bring what they want to it – I’ve heard a minister say it’s like the crosses on Golgotha, or representative of the Ten Commandments. I’ve heard people declare it’s a polemic on the decaying American family — ten trees as ten generations, with one leaning away from the group supposedly symbolizing modern alienation. Most commonly, the indelible image is held up as representing the loss of wilderness. However, Mercer himself wrote in a journal that he just “liked the way the fog reflected the light” that sunset.

I found that quote when studying one of his journals for my senior thesis a decade ago, so being able to work with so many Mercer artifacts that have largely been kept out of the public eye since before his death was truly a labor of love. Which is why I found myself at 7:35pm, long after everyone had left, leaning over the large table in my office with prints and Post-It notes providing information about the seeming chaos. In the middle – of course – Ten Pines.

“That one there has the wrong date.”

I literally jumped at the voice and turned to see… Nathaniel Mercer himself standing slightly behind me, one arm across his chest, the other rubbing his chin in concentration. I blinked rapidly but realized he was here – or, his ghost was here? And he spoke. Like, words I had heard.

“W-Which one?” I asked, trying to keep my astonishment and fear from unraveling me.

“’North Fork, Winter.’ The date there says 1954. That was the final print date, but the picture was taken in ’53.”

I opened my mouth to say, “You’re wrong,” but then I realized who I’m talking to. I looked at the image in question. More tactfully, I started, “Are you sure? The loan inventory from the estate specifically dates this to 1954.”

Mercer met my eyes and smiled. “That date is wrong.” He pointed to the picture, “Turn it over…”

I noticed my hand was shaking a little bit as I did as Mercer’s ghost suggested. There was… something… very small, faded… I pulled out my loupe and studied the mark… “N. Fork… 1953” I took the loupe from my eye and regarded Mercer. “Huh,” was all I could say. I crossed out “1954” on the Post-It next to the picture and wrote “1953 – on back.’”

He stood there, arms folded, a supremely self-serious smile creasing his face.

“Well, while you’re here,” I said as casually as I could manage, “Any other corrections?”

Mercer stepped right up to the table and leaned over, examining every item carefully. I followed his gaze, but my eyes kept being drawn to his face – here. Next to me. Nathaniel Mercer…

“There, ‘Fog Over Hawthorne, 1938. View from Bell Hill.’ That wasn’t Bell Hill.”

“No?”

He shook his head and frowned. “Hmm, no. Check the shot log on that day.”

I moved to one of the bound journals I had on another table, checked it included 1938. “You don’t know which month, do you?”

“June. The fifteenth.”

I located June and traced my finger down the handwritten dates. I found an entry for “June 15: shot fog after dawn from the bell tower of St. Augustine’s with Jane.”

“The bell tower of St. Augustine Church?”

Mercer nodded with that same smile.

I corrected the Post-It note and stepped back. After a quiet moment, Mercer pointed again. “’The White Fence.’ That’s not mine – That’s one of Jane’s.”

I tilted my head and, again, fought the urge to tell Nathaniel Mercer he was wrong. “That picture is widely credited to you…”

He shook his head, “Check her shot log. January 1959.”

I went to one of the boxes with Jane Mercer’s journals and sifted through the journals until I found “1959.” There on January 17^th: “beautiful, sunny morning with Nate shooting landscapes outside of town – white picket fence with melted earth visible around the base.”

“Well, I’ll be damned…” I said aloud. Then I realized the year I was looking at. I skipped ahead in the journal. When talking about shooting “Ten Pines” in October 1959 Mercer had mentioned publicly that he and Jane were out together. I was curious if she had an entry on the date that might offer a different perspective on the famous shot. I found an entry, “October 17: N + I out shooting landscapes. N shot his last frame on the Hasselblad  – mushrooms on log, started back. 10 old pines on hill with setting sun caught my eye – should turn out well.” I reread the looping handwriting several times.

I moved to Nathaniel’s journals and found 1959, flipped through to October… October 1, 4, 5… 24, 30, 31. The latter three entries were on a facing page to the first three. I’d known there was nothing about “Ten Pines” in his shot journal – I’d looked for it long ago when I was writing my thesis. My hand reached for my loupe again, and I didn’t focus on the pages themselves, but literally between them. “You tore out that page,” I said to Nathaniel Mercer, my mouth moving before my brain caught up to what I was doing.

“What are you talking about?” he scowled.

“’Ten Pines’ isn’t your shot. That was Jane’s, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t be absurd,” he dismissed.

“My God…” I stared at him and shook my head. “All this time you were taking credit for her picture…”

“She was on that hillside with me. That was my Rolleiflex” he said defensively. “I printed that shot. Me.”

“But Jane took that picture.”

He drew in a deep breath and I readied myself for a furious outburst. But it didn’t come. Mercer breathed out and said quietly, “Yes. Jane took that picture.”

I stared at Nathaniel. “Why?”

He picked up the 8×10 print of “Ten Pines” I had on the table as the stand-in for the real print and smiled sadly. “She told me to.” He looked from the picture to me. “You’re not going to find that in any of our journals.” He looked back at the picture and his smile grew warmer. “Jane was an amazing photographer in her own right, but she never wanted the limelight. She was always content to support me, support my ambitions.”

He set the print back down and picked up a picture he had taken of Jane a few years before she took “Ten Pines.” Her face, fully in frame, in profile, mid-laugh. He sighed as he stared at the image. “I did print it,” he said softly. “We both recognized it as a great picture. She wanted me to put my name on the picture because she knew what it would mean for my career.” He looked up at me, “So, I did. And, she was right – as usual,” he added with a chuckle.

“Now, though,” he set the image down and turned fully towards me, “You’re in an impossible situation. You know the truth. But no one will believe you.”

I motioned towards Jane’s journal and Nathaniel nodded, “You have that, yes, but that’s it – I tore out that page in my journal for a reason. Besides, no one would believe you because no one wants to believe you.” He put his hand on his heart and affected a regal tone, “Nathaniel Mercer, the most famous person in Hawthorne County.” He shook his head again. “People want their stories, their idols. They hold on to it with white knuckles. You know the truth, but that’s a candle in a hurricane.”

He was right and I knew it. I’d known it the moment I noticed the missing journal page. I opened my mouth to say something, but I closed it again.

“But, there is something I would like you to do…” he said gently.

“Yes?”

“We’ve already pointed out ’The White Fence’ is Jane’s. What if you split this retrospective? Keep ‘Ten Pines’ as it is, but the other half could be all Jane’s images.” He looked at the images on the table, “There’s at least one other here that’s hers, and I can help you go through her negatives.”

Spent the day traveling, but at least I’m back at home. And I have a new story! This one is a little wacky, not gonna lie…

I wasn’t late – I wasn’t!

I was… aggressively on-time. I slipped into the funeral home, saw the sign for “Richard Hall – Stateroom B,” and slipped into the back pew just as the tall, gaunt funeral director at the front next to the closed coffin nodded to one of his underlings to close the doors into the small room.

My gratefulness for making it on-time evaporated as I realized I didn’t recognize a single person there.

“First, please everyone take a moment to silence their cell phones,” the director said and I took that as an opportunity to do just that… and text Cheryl from accounting because she said she was coming too and why wasn’t she here?

I was furiously tapping out my message when a whisper from the person next to me startled me.

“How do you know Richard?”

Without looking up I whispered back, “We worked together.”

“Oh good,” he said, “because I don’t recognize anyone here…”

I turned to regard the man and realized with a start it was Richard!

The funeral director had introduced Richard’s brother to offer a few words about the deceased.

“Yeah, that’s not my brother…” Richard whispered as I gaped at him.

“Richard? You’re… you’re…”

“Dead? Yeah, I know… zero out of five stars, would not recommend – are you hearing this? He’s talking about my wife, Grace… I’m not married.”

The gears in my brain found traction and instead of getting hung up about Richard’s ghost sitting next to me, I followed his line of concern. “And he’d be way too old to be your brother… Right?”

“Yes – yes, he’s like seventy, Daryl. Do I look like my brother is seventy?”

“I mean, you’re a ghost. Maybe there’s a thing like, ‘Deceased don’t crease’”

“I’m going to haunt you, you know that? And jam the printer every single time…”

I let him threaten as I reached over to the pile of programs by the door. “Richard James Hall, 1941 – 2026” And the picture was absolutely not Richard – well, my friend Richard at least.

“Here’s the problem,” I showed Richard the program.

“Huh,” he said. “Richard James Hall. And I’m Richard Joseph Hall… What the hell are the odds?”

“Clearly better than getting hit by a bus,” I said.

Richard stared at me, “Too soon, Daryl…”

“You said you knew you were dead… But, okay, I’m an idiot and didn’t see there was a second service for Richard Joseph Hall at the same funeral hall at the same time – even though, in my defense, I never knew your middle name….”

“1941, Daryl! I clearly wasn’t born in 1941!”

“We just got that program, okay? But the bigger question is what’s your excuse? Why are you at the wrong funeral?”

“I’m not.”

“… Richard and I never missed a Giants home game,” the other Richard’s brother said, his voice breaking a little bit.

“The Giants are bums!” Richard stood up and yelled. No one heard, no one noticed.

Richard sat down again.

“What do you mean you’re not?”

“I’m right there,” Richard pointed to the front of the room.

“We just established this isn’t the funeral for you…”

“Yes, but it’s my body in that casket,” he said emphatically.

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah.”

I scooted on the pew to the entrance and quietly held the door for Richard as we quietly slipped out into the lobby. Looking at the announcement board that listed “Richard Hall – Stateroom B” also listed “Richard Hall – Stateroom A”

“Well, that’s not confusing at all…” Richard mumbled as I hurried us towards the already-closed door opposite.

I opened the door and all eyes turned to see who was late – any embarrassment was slightly alleviated by the fact that I recognized a number of the people eyeing my tardiness – including Cheryl from accounting.

The tall, gaunt man just inside the doors handed me a program.

“Whoa, he’s like a carbon copy of the other funeral director,” Richard said as he moved past me and into the back pew. “Twin funeral directors? That’s not creepy at all…”

I did my best to ignore him as I whispered to the director, “Umm, we might have a problem – I think there’s been a mix-up…”

“The two Richard Halls?” he whispered back. “That’s why we started this one ten minutes later – in case anyone came into the wrong service,” did he raise his eyebrow slightly there? Is he giving me shade?

“Yeah, no, that’s not the mix-up,” I started to say when the opening chords of Tom Petty’s “Wild Flowers” started playing loudly from the front of the room, indicating the start of the service.

“Oh, I love this song,” Richard said to me as I sat down next to him.

“I sure hope so – they’re starting your funeral with it.”

“Oh yeah,” Richard smiled. He turned to the older man next to him, “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met.”

The man turned a look of bewilderment towards Richard, “I… I’m Richard Hall.”

My Richard tilted his head, “Oh really?” Then he turned to me, “Well, Daryl, here’s the other Richard.”

“Oh geez,” I said.

“Your brother gave a lovely eulogy.”

“My brother gave… and I missed it,” he looked deflated.

“I appreciate that you came to my funeral,” My Richard consoled.

“I didn’t have a lot of choice…”

My Richard turned back to me, “There it is, Daryl – confirmation of the mixup.”

“Okay,” I started to scoot back to the end of the pew. “Let me see what we can do.” When I reached the end I took Funeral Director 2’s elbow and whispered, “We need to talk…” and led him out into the entryway and carefully closed the door behind me. “You’ve got the Richards mixed up,” I said.

“Well, maybe you do – is that why you were late? Wrong hall?”

“Yes, what? Look, that’s besides the point,” I said. “I mean you have the wrong Richard in the wrong funerals.”

The man looked down his surprisingly pronounced aquiline nose at me when he replied, “I assure you we would never make that mistake.”

“Well, you did.”

“And how do you know this? Both caskets are closed.”

My Richard turned to Other Richard and said, “I got hit by a bus – what’s your excuse for a closed casket?”

I jumped at their appearance in the lobby behind me.

“Cancer just ate away at me – I look like one of those shrunken head dolls the cannibals display.”

“Hmm,” My Richard studied Other Richard, “That was so casually culturally offensive I’ll let it slide. But I can totally understand keeping the lid closed.”

“The.. uh… The Richards’ ghosts told me.”

“Okay, this is ridiculous…” Funeral Director 2 started but stopped as the door to the other stateroom opened and Funeral Director 1 came out.

“Aah!” My Richard gasped. “They really are funeral director twins! That’s weird…”

“Is everything alright out here?” Funeral Director 1 asked.

“This man was just accusing us of mixing up the bodies of the Richards,” his brother explained.

Funeral Director 1’s already pallid complexion paled to match the marble floor beneath him.

“Oh, is he joining us soon?” My Richard asked.

“He… he might be right,” FD1 stammered.

“What are you talking about?” FD2 demanded.

“I was wondering when the Halls, err, those Halls,” he pointed to the stateroom where Other Richard’s family was gathered, “I was wondering when the Halls switched to the New Pointe.”

“Batesville New Pointe… no, those Halls went with the Aurora Mahogany—oh good lord, how did this happen?”

“Yes, lurch,” My Richard crossed his arms and asked FD2. “How did this happen?”

FD1 rubbed at the bridge of his prodigious nose. “I don’t know… but…” he sighed deeply. “We’ll fix it in post.”

The Richards and I all repeated in unison, “’Fix it in post’?” I continued, “That… that’s not how it works, you can’t have Richard’s loved ones crying over the wrong body! What are you going to do, some macabre corpse shell game before putting them in the ground?”

FD2 gave a smile that chilled my blood, “Why, yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

I stepped back and let the FDs work on corpse logistics while I approached the Richards.

Other Richard looked towards the stateroom where his family was gathered. “I think I’m going to see the rest of my service.”

My Richard nodded and smiled. “I’m glad I got to meet you, Richard.”

“The feeling was mutual, Richard.” And they moved in for a bro hug.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other at the cemetery?”

“Pinecrest Memorial Gardens?” Other Richard asked.

“After all of this, of course we were going to end up at the same cemetery!”

Other Richard started towards the stateroom where his service was underway, but stopped before the door. “Oh, I heard your coworker, uh… Cheryl? She said she was going to talk about something that happened at the Christmas party.”

My Richard snapped his gaze to me, “We have to get in there – you have to stop her!”

“Okay, okay,” I said as My Richard was heading towards the other stateroom.

“If I may have everyone’s attention,” FD2 announced, hushing the muted conversations in My Richard’s stateroom. “We will be leaving for Pinecrest Memorial Gardens shortly. If you would like to be part of the procession, please see me outside.”

I was refilling my paper coffee cup from the industrial-looking coffee urn as My Richard’s family and our coworkers filed out.

“That was nice…” Richard said when we were alone.

“What’s that? Being late to your own funeral?”

“You will never successfully print a PDF again, you’re aware of that, right?”

I smiled, “You’re right, though, it was lovely – even Cheryl’s story.”

“Yeah, she really sanitized that…”

I suppressed a shudder, “That’s a good thing.” I smiled at Richard, “I’m really glad I got this chance to say goodbye, Richard – body swapping notwithstanding.”

“Me too, Daryl. I always knew I could count on you when I was living, this is literally above and beyond.”

“What is it they say, ‘Real friends help you move bodies.’”

Richard smiled, “Very true.”

Just then, FD2 came in looking frantic. “Have you seen my brother?”

I shook my head, “Not since he went to, uh, switch the Richards.”

“He’s not answering his phone…”

Just then, FD1 came into the room. “Oh, speak of the devil,” I said.

FD1 looked at me, then he looked at Richard and his mouth dropped open and  his eyes grew wide.

FD2 said, “What are you talking about? Do you know where he is or not.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…” I said.