I drag the cloth napkin across my mouth, nod, and smile. “I’m fine,” I say, and reach to put my hand over his. He squeezes my fingers. I don’t want Tom getting worked up. The doctor said he should be calm and steady, so I have to be calm and steady, too.
When I came home from wandering a nearby town with my camera last Sunday to find Tom slumped on the living room rug, I instantly thought of Rosie: how I’d found her stretched out, too still and silent to be sleeping. Her little chest should have been rising and falling; I should have heard her adorable snore. I knelt by Tom and shook him just the way I’d shaken Rosie.Tom! Tom!I said, until I heard the slightest groan. I waited until I heard one more, just the smallest sound and a puff of breath. Then I ran to the kitchen phone and called the ambulance, dismayed by the operator’s nonchalance.Where did your husband collapse, ma’am? Can you find his pulse? Does he seem to be breathing? Is the house number clearly displayed? If not, you may want to wait on your porch.
I had no intention of waiting outside. I stayed by Tom, smoothing his thinned hair back from his forehead, talking to him the way I used to talk to Tom Junior when he was young and drowsy with sickness.It’s okay, honey, you’ll be fine. Just hang on. You’ll feel better soon. It’s all right.But the whole time I was vibrating with fear. I tried to bargain with the god I’d never fully believed in, even after all the forced churchgoing of my youth:No more. Not now. Not ever, please. Please.
Even fixed in that pleading state, though, I stared at Tom’s slack face and wanted my camera. It was just behind me, just out of reach; I’d dropped it as I came in the door. In my head I left myself trembling on the carpet and saw him coldly, as if through the camera lens: the loose O of his mouth, the slight twitching of his eyelids over his large, straight nose. I noticed the blue carpet fiber that sprung up like a solid sea around his pale still form, and saw how I would frame it all. Except I wouldn’t, of course; that would have been ghoulish and wrong.
I’d taken pictures of Rosie after she’d died, kneeling on the same blue carpet and lowering the lens to be level with her little face that had always been grinning and mischievous in life but had frozen now, solidified. I took a few shots to preserve this last memory of her, but once I developed the film, I stored the prints in the locked filing cabinet drawer that holds my private documents, the ones that even Tom hasn’t seen. Rosie’s death photos would rest in a file beside the brittle, yellowed article from my old hometown paper that reads “Local Girl Attacked by Afternoon Intruder.” I didn’t like putting Rosie next to such ugliness, but I couldn’t face her death any more than I could face the past, so I left her there.
My other reminders from that long-ago time can’t be locked in a drawer. Moving my free hand under the table now, I find the scarring along my inner thighs: the bumps and ridges and bubbled skin that have been mine for years. Just after we made love for the first time, I told Tom the scarring was from a kitchen accident—a terrible spill. Even though I’m not sure he believed me, he acted as though he did, and has never brought it up since. It’s remarkable, really—that in allthese years he’s never mentioned it. Not once. The most he does is run his hand over the spot now and then, saying nothing—but making me shiver and recoil.
He squeezes my hand again, bringing me back to the here and now. To the dining room table and to the life we’ve built in this small brick house on our quiet, tree-lined street. The past retreats—Rosie’s death, Tom’s sudden collapse, my ancient incident—but I sense it all hovering. Waiting for something: a window, an opening.
4.
In town the next day, I shop for champagne and a gift for Samantha and Hal’s twenty-fifth anniversary party. As I walk along Main Street, acquaintances ask after Tom’s health or comment on Rosie’s absence and I have to tell them,He’s doing just fine, or,Rosie died three weeks ago. Most people respond lightly to Rosie’s death, offering mild sympathy—she was only a dog, after all. A pet. But she was my constant companion, beside me for more hours of the day than Tom, even. I whispered to her when she curled on my lap; she always listened intently. She held all my secrets, never judging me or loving me less for them.
I can’t say that in public, though. I simply say “Thank you” and move along.
Toward the end of the street, I pause in front of Mr. Katz’s old toy store, whose oddly formal window display hasn’t changed in years: dusty teddy bears, alphabet blocks, and empty-eyed dolls. But what’s different today, what catches my eye is…myself. From the neck down, I’m a dark female shape reflected in the center of the window, with blue sky surrounding me and one wilted teddy bear caught in the bell of my skirt. Above it all, my face looms, bright and alive. I’ve seen myself reflected in windows before, of course, but something about this, about the composition, sets the back of my neck tingling. I fish my Nikon out of my purse, lift it chest-high, and click the button.
I think of Paul admiring the finished print, saying,Incredible. The composition is striking. That uncanny eye of yours at work again, Judith.
Pure nonsense, of course. I don’t even know if it will come out well. Or if I’ll show Paul more pictures after all. He said he wanted to see them, but what if he was simply being polite? I believed him at the time, but now, with a little distance, I realize I may have been starstruck, naïve. Paul has had a picture inHarper’s, after all; what could he possibly see in mine?
I glance back at the window: there I am, floating in the world. Not quite embodied, not quite real. Like a phantom or an alternate self with no past, present, or future.Who is this person, I wonder. I know her face, but she isn’t quite me. I feel dizzy and my vision blurs. When I step to the right, the spell breaks. The image alters, the composition dissolves; I return to my body, to myself, a bit shaken.
I turn and walk back toward the heart of town, trying to recapture my business state of mind.To the liquor store, I remind myself.And then to Virginia’s Boutique for a vase or a nice frame.
Samantha and Hal, our longtime neighbors, have asked me to be their photographer. I know what they want: posed, artificial shots of pairs and groups of people with fixed smiles. All the same, I’m glad to have a purpose for the evening, and to have a chance to wear my dark blue satin cocktail dress with the deep V-neck, matching heels, and Grandmother’s pearls. I walk briskly toward the liquor store, appreciating the sound of my low heels hitting the sidewalk and the tinkling bell of the door when I pull it open.
I’m here, I tell myself as I greet Lance, the owner.I am Judith Stanley.
5.
The first hour of the party goes just as I expected it would, gathering guests in small groups and pairs and counting down to “Say ‘Happy Anniversary’!” Faced with the camera lens, some fiddle with their hair or try to smooth away fat by smoothing their clothes, while others freeze in place with gleaming plastic smiles. In either case, the resulting shots will be lifeless, like the studio family portraits from years ago that hang on my own living room walls.
Samantha will be pleased.
As the hours pass, the party’s taut atmosphere begins to loosen. Voices rise, raucous male laughter explodes now and then, and a low bank of cigarette smoke hangs just below the living room ceiling. Someone has cranked up the volume on the background jazz music—Hal’s favorite—and a few guests sway languidly to the beat. I start to tense at every loud sound, as if wandering through a hostile landscape. I don’t like noise, crowds, or parties; I try gulping champagne to fortify myself. As the wine warms and loosens me, I start to drift through the rooms more easily, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tom.
Patty, my neighbor from across the street, calls me over to her group of three. Her nails dig into my wrist as she leans close and practically shouts, “Is Tom really okay? My god, when we saw the ambulance, we thought he was dead.”
I pull away from her. She probably wouldn’t have put it that way ifshe weren’t a little drunk, but it still rubs me wrong. Diana and Mercy, the two neighbors standing with Patty, eye me expectantly.
“He’s fine,” I say. “Just look at him.” I point across the room to where Tom holds court in a circle of semi-balding men. He’s telling a story, gesturing broadly, with the men all nodding along.
“He does look well,” Patty admits, taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing smoke beside my head. I squint as her eyes search my face. “And how areyou? First Rosie, then Tom.” She looks sorrowful, but also intrigued. It isn’therpain or grief, after all, and besides, I’m a curious case: a respectable mother and housewife who won’t join the bridge club because she prefers taking pictures. Walks everywhere with that camera in hand, snapping pictures left and right. Is it a hobby or a bad habit?Hard to tell, Patty might say.
“Sorry, I see Samantha calling me over. She and Hal need their anniversary portrait taken. Lovely to see you ladies.” I slip from Patty’s grasp and walk toward the far corner of the room. Samantha hasn’t called me over, of course; she and Hal have already posed several times. Now she has her arms slung around Hal’s neck and is planting a kiss on his cheek; he rears back with a quick, surprised grimace. I raise my camera quickly, capturing the moment before his features relax into a smile. They look at me when they see the flash, blinking and smiling, Samantha leaning into Hal. I take another shot for show and wave at them before walking away.
When I raise the first print later from its acid bath, I’ll see a drunk, disgusted husband and a sweetly adoring wife. It isn’t the whole truth about them, but it’s part, and I’ve caught and recorded it with my uncanny eye. I feel slightly guilty but too lit up after taking arealphotograph to feel truly bad.
I think Paul would encourage my behavior, my almost-lack of remorse.Photography is an art, and art can be a razor blade, peeling back layers of civility to reveal stark truths, he told us recently.I found myself nodding along, writing it down.
I move through the rooms now, hungry for more—more opportunities to reveal stark truths. I feel like I’m ruling the party in my blue satin heels, catching glimpses here and there of the gathering’s dark underside. I notice the Millers from three doors down, huddled in a corner, clearly having a subdued but vicious fight. Their faces are taut with anger, though they’re surrounded by blissful party noise. They stare at me with the flash, but I’ve quickly aimed the lens to the left of them, at a larger group of happy, laughing people. I move on, spotting and shooting: a smoking man—a stranger to me—leering openly at Rhoda Staunton; my neighbor Maura looking sick to her stomach before rushing from the room; and Tom himself, my Tom, mouth and eyes wide as he entertains his pals. I hardly notice it’s him, my husband, when I focus and shoot; I only see a man acting like a clown. I won’t show Tom the finished print, of course—and I tell myself I won’t show Paul either.
Unless it’s very good. Unless all of these party pictures are as good as I think they might be. Unless I feel a distinct need—or even a responsibility—to share my photographs with my professor who specifically requested them.Almost an assignment, I tell myself.
