Tom has come so close to the truth that I stare at him, speechless. Now would be the time to tell him everything, tell him he’s right, but instead I reassure him with my standard set of lies:That isn’t happening, they’re only phone calls, I haven’t noticed anyone strange when I’m out and about.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, smiling with all the warmth the wine has given me. “Perfectly fine.”
29.
On the train ride in, I close my eyes and listen to my classmates’ bright chatter, Paul’s low, distinctive voice cutting in now and then. I don’t join in the conversation, but the sound of it soothes my nerves. After defending the field trip to Tom and nursing dreams all week of how exciting my time in the city would be, I woke this morning cold with fear. I could have balked and stayed home, but the thought of Paul’s puzzled disappointment—and all the pictures I might take—lured me to the station, with my camera and several film rolls packed carefully in my purse. Paul’s eyes lit up when he saw me—as if he wasn’t sure I’d show, until I did.
When I fetched my camera from my darkroom this morning, I stood holding it, relishing its cool, dense weight. A sense of rightness washed through me that’s persisted since leaving my house. Now there’s a light touch on my shoulder and I look up, expecting Paul. But it’s Charlie—the fangirl who asked how I’d taken the picture of that dramatically lighted couple. I try to hide my surprise.
“Hi, Judith. How are you?” She drops into the seat next to mine, speaking as if we were old friends; it puts me right at ease and reminds me that I’ve missed having young people around since Tom Junior left home.
“Excited for the trip?” I ask.
She nods. “It’s funny, but I feel like a kindergartner, you know?Going on a field trip. I come to the city plenty, but this feels different. More fun, more momentous.” I see the glint of humor and eagerness in her eyes and wonder what her photographs are like. Snapshots of friends and lovers grouped around candlelit tables, heavy with food and wine? Light-filled outdoor scenes—eternal picnics, joyous hikes? I can see it all now, on color film, possibly not exacting or artful but messy, youthful, and alive. She reminds me of a daughter I might have had—or a young version of myself, if I’d had a different life. A differentstartto life.
“I agree. It does feel momentous. I thought Paul might hand out permission slips.” We laugh together at this.
“I know I’ve only seen the one picture Paul shared, but it wassogood. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Do you always take street photographs? Portraits, mostly?”
“Yes…and self-portraits, too. In windows, ponds, any reflective surfaces, really.” I haven’t told this to anyone but Paul; should I have kept it to myself? I feel a tremor of regret. As if mentioning my self-portraits to a near-stranger might conjure the man, make him appear across the aisle from us or at our station stop, waiting for me, ready to taunt me. It’s a ludicrous notion, but it grips me all the same—until Charlie’s eager response deflects my worries.
“Self-portraits, really? How do you set them up? What other kinds of surfaces have you used?” She’s leaning toward me, her smooth skin and bright eyes filling my vision, so eager to know what I’ve photographed and how I’ve done it. I answer her as best as I can, then turn the conversation to her own interests, asking her about her favorite photographic subjects and locations, her preferred camera, and so on—because I really want to know. She shyly asks if we might “exchange work” sometime, and I tell her I’d love to—though I’m a little relieved when specifics are cut short by the train pulling into the station.
When Charlie returns to her friends, I reach into my bag for my camera, just to feel it for a moment, but instead, my fingers find the knife. I forgot about the knife; I wrap my hand around it and imaginepulling it out, unfolding it, and pointing it right at him, right at the man. I know I’ve done that before, unsuccessfully, but I tell myself that in the right situation—on a city street, for instance, though the thought makes me wince—I could hurt him. I know I could.
IthinkI could.
For now, I let it go, take out my Nikon and loop the strap around my neck. I love how snugly it fits against my chest. It feels like reuniting with an old friend.
Once Paul has shepherded us out of the station and into bright morning sunlight, I start shooting immediately, manically, hungry to capture everything I see: a young couple stepping out of a store with unlit cigarettes tucked between their lips; the same couple standing, heads bent together over a lighter flame. A babushka selling pretzels from a cart, and then her opposite: an elegant, painfully thin older woman dressed in black, her dark red lipstick like a bruise against her pale skin.
The whole spectrum of human life is suddenly laid out before me, mine for the taking. Just as Paul promised, just as he always said. He was right, of course, and though I knew it, I’d denied myself the truth of it since last time, the bad time. Now I revel in the city’s great variety—but still, I’m troubled by glancing thoughts of the man. If a man shifts his eyes toward me, looks suspicious or interested, I stare at him and slip my hand into my purse. I keep an eye on our group, too, staying close enough to be safe—I hope.
When we reach Washington Square Park, teeming with young students, panhandlers, street musicians, and tourists, all jumbled together, Paul gathers us by the fountain and tells everyone to wander around and “take shots.” I’ve already been consumed with doing exactly that, but I’m uneasy when my classmates scatter in different directions. I stand by the fountain, paralyzed, tracking them—even Paul, who wanders off, too—until my eyes land on a perfect scene: a young couple on a bench with their mouths locked together. They’re oblivious, at first, but as I draw nearer for a better angle, the boy looks up, his mouthstill moving over the girl’s. I capture the odd separateness of his staring eyes. In the print, he’ll look like he’s carelessly consuming her. I move through the park methodically after that, my mind turned off, my eye catching everything. I burn through two rolls in the park alone.
When our group moves farther downtown and stands at a stoplight, I spot a round cosmetic mirror that’s been dropped in the gutter. When the light turns, even with people spilling around me, giving me looks, I lean over, center my image in the mirror’s reflection, and snap. My first self-portrait of the day, and I’m certain it’s a safe one: there can only be my face and the tops of buildings looming over me. No room for the man, unless he can fly. At the thought of him, and the memory of that other city crosswalk, I straighten, look nervously around, and notice the others far ahead, by the door to what must be the gallery. My camera bangs against my chest as I run to catch up.
30.
I move slowly through the rooms of the Samantha Laertes exhibit, absorbing each unsettling image of Chicago’s outcasts: The poor, the mentally ill, the prostitutes, drug dealers, and addicts. Neglected elders and young runaways. In one face, one stance, I see defiance; in another, fleeting joy. A young homeless mother and her children, huddled together on a street corner, ooze despair amidst the well-shod pedestrians passing by. Each picture resembles a richly detailed oil painting that I could study forever. At the same time, each one compels me toward the door, toward the vibrant city streets. As transfixed as I am by Laertes’s photographs, I’m also itching to go.
“She committed suicide,” Paul says, his voice suddenly by my ear. I turn to him, startled. It’s the first time we’ve had a moment together today, and it may be the closest we’ve ever stood. It’s awkward having his bearded face so close to mine, and I’m unsettled by what he’s said. I knew she’d died young, but her brief biography on the wall doesn’t mention suicide.
“They don’t say it there,” he says, pointing, “but she overdosed, and everyone who knew her knows she did it on purpose. Including me. She was severely depressed.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you were friends.” We both turn back to the picture before us, titledRunaway, of a gaunt, hunched teenager holding a black kitten.
“Not friends, exactly, but—acquaintances,” Paul says, shrugging. “We, uh, both had photographs in an exhibit together once. After myHarper’spublication. But that was a long time ago. A while ago. Anyway, it’s a damn shame there won’t be any more of her work.”
“It’s powerful. I find it hard to look away. Her pictures have this…dark magnetism to them.”
“I knew you’d like them,” he says, sounding pleased. I keep staring at the photograph, but I’m distracted by Paul’s closeness. I should thank him, I know—for bringing me here, for prodding me out of my stagnant confinement—but the words don’t come, and there’s only so much I can tell him. I suppose I’ll thank him by taking good pictures today, though it’s a selfish expression of gratitude.
“Your pictures could be hanging in a place like this, you know,” Paul says, without taking his eyes fromRunaway. “You have a great talent, like Samantha did. It shouldn’t be wasted.”Wasted.What a word. Is that the sum total of what Paul thinks of me and my photographs? It burns like the man sayingselfish fucking bitch, his rough hand gripping my arm. Or like my ear pressed up against the telephone. But haven’t I feltwasted, too, these last few weeks? Not the way Paul means, but by giving up and putting my camera down, by hiding inside. A moment ago, I was going to thank him for putting an end to mywasting, but now I’m repulsed by his proximity. I notice new faults as I study his profile: the large pores of his nose and the shine on his forehead. The faint coffee tang of his breath as he continues to speak.
“I’ve had a hell of a time lately getting my own work out there. I’m not like you, Judith. I’ve taken some lucky shots, but most of my pictures come out too studied, too composed. I’m trying hard, you know, but earnestness doesn’t win over the gallerists—or anyone. Your work has the effortless quality they want—that everyone wants. I may not be able to do it myself,” he says, sweeping his arm to take in the whole room. “But I know it when I see it. That’s a talent, too, I suppose—or a skill, at least.”
I compose myself for a moment before speaking. When I turn toPaul, I see how hopeful he is, his dark eyes holding mine expectantly. Like he thinks he’s won me over already; like he thinks he’swon. I take care with my words, and deliver them firmly.
