Harvey is oblivious, though. He sits straight-backed beside Prager, trying to borrow some of the man’s swagger, scowling at Paul as if he’s already been arrested, tried, and sentenced.This little prick, Paul thinks. But it doesn’t matter. Prager looks at Paul and sees a well-dressedmiddle-class white man—a professor, Paul made sure to tell him—and probably thinks Harvey has wasted his precious time.
Paul sniffs the opportunity, then seizes it.
“Officer Prager, I didn’t steal anything. I paid for the groceries, and I just forgot to pick up my receipt. I was in a hurry, my fiancée is in the hospital. She’s waiting for me right now. The old lady at the cash register—”
“She isn’t that old,” Harvey interjects. Paul gives the officer a meaningful look.
“Well, sir, she’s old enough that she didn’t remember me, even though I’d just been through her line and talked with her about her family. I’d say that’s somewhat elderly behavior.” Paul sees the exasperated look on Prager’s face and knows he’s already won.
“Harvey, I don’t think you’ve got a thief here. I think you’ve got a misunderstanding. Right, Professor?” Prager asks.
“Absolutely. And believe me, it’s the last time I leave without a receipt, and the last time I spare the grocery bagger, too.”
“I think that’s a good plan. Are you good with this, Harvey? Can the man leave with his groceries now?” He sounds deeply annoyed. Harvey’s round face is red as a beet, but he eventually nods. He looks less like a prick and more like a chastised child, but he keeps his eyes trained furiously on Paul’s face. Once Paul has shaken hands with Officer Prager, who strides away on more pressing business, Harvey follows him all the way out of the store.
“Don’t come back here,Professor,” he spits. “This is my family’s store, and I’m adding your name to our blacklist.”
Paul barely stifles a laugh—but it’s a nervous one.
“All right, Harvey. Sorry to have caused you such trouble. You have a nice day now.” He could torment the man a little, but he leaves it. As he pushes the full cart of stolen goods to the car, Paul knows without looking back that Harvey, stuffed into that pathetic green vest, is glaring after him.
5.
Paul’s evening class goes poorly. He’s distracted and angry over the failed meeting with Tom—now two days behind him. And still nagged by the memory of the grocery store fiasco.Near-fiasco. He tries telling himself it doesn’t matter, that it’s over, but he was cocky and foolish and could have been dragged back to Judith’s local precinct. He can’t fully relax and let go of the experience—or the sight of Harvey’s puffy red face. However comical, it was a bit harrowing, too.
But the real pill he can’t swallow is Tom. Tom’s resistance, his refusal to give him what he wants, what Judith herself wanted—or would have wanted, in time.
Paul has to fight the urge to yell, in the echoing classroom, that hedeservesto have Judith’s photographs. Doesn’t everyone here think so? He’d look out at his students’ stunned faces and feel foolish but cleansed, and possibly better able to move on. Instead, he holds it in and simply teaches without energy. The students reflect his unusual flatness by yawning, passing notes, and chatting quietly through his lecture. He isn’t used to this, of course; he’s used to commanding their attention, having their eyes trail every gesture, sensing them hang on every word only to frantically scribble it all down a minute later. But tonight, they give him all the attention and respect they’d give to a limp puppet mouthing his lines.
When class ends, he stands alone in the empty room, sliding papers,equipment, and sample photographs into his leather satchel, feeling the sting of yet another failure. A small one, but a sting nonetheless. He thinks of Judith fondly then, of how she would have stayed behind, waiting for his approval, his admiration. He looked forward to it after every session, even when he felt a hot pinch of envy looking at her photographs. Now he sighs heavily, pulls on his winter coat, and leaves the building.
Outside, a tall, heavyset man stands under the awning, letting the last students stream past. Paul’s pulse leaps at the sight of Tom Stanley, but then he notices slight differences: this man is younger, his eyes are more widely set, and his nose is less prominent. It must be the way Paul looks at him that gives him the confidence to step forward with his hand extended, certain that he’s found the right man. Paul sees Judith in his face when he speaks.
“Paul Sorenson? Professor? Tom Stanley Junior—or TJ. You can call me TJ.”
Paul fumbles with his briefcase so he can take the offered hand. He’s flustered but manages to tell Judith’s son that he’s terribly sorry for his loss. That he was honored to have Judith in class, that she was a “great, true talent.” The same thing he told Tom Senior, to little effect. TJ ducks his head and looks impossibly young and vulnerable for a moment: a slain mother’s son.
“Thank you for saying that. I wanted to talk to you—about Mom’s pictures.”
“Absolutely,” Paul says warmly, responding to TJ’s tone. He opens the door to the building and waves him inside. They head back to the classroom, which is closer than Paul’s office, and Paul wonders if the younger man is thinking,This is where Mom studied, orThis is the school where Mom died. Or both. Or neither, maybe. He points out the seat where Judith always sat—feeling a bit silly, but he thinks TJ is pleased. Then they sit down across from one another in awkward silence. Paul decides to wait, to give TJ the space to say what he’s come here to say. He’s hopeful but determined to be cautious this time.
“Dad doesn’t know I’m here,” TJ says at last. His cheeks color with the admission. “He’d be upset if he knew. But I had to come talk to you myself. If it’s true what you said—about Mom telling you she wanted her work to be…published? Displayed?”
“Published. But maybe displayed, too, ultimately. In a gallery.”
“I think you should do it. I think Dad should let you do it.” TJ shifts in the hard plastic chair as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. Paul doubts he’s defied his father very often, if at all. “I wanted to come and meet you first, though, to make sure…” He lets it trail off, not meeting Paul’s eyes.
“Make sure I wasn’t a con artist? A jerk?” Paul asks, grinning. TJ gives a single laugh and looks more at ease. Paul wonders what he’d think if he knew about Paul’s run-in with Harvey the Store Manager at the Stanleys’ local grocery store. They probably know Harvey, have probably shopped there for years.Would Junior be so willing to entrust me with his mom’s photographs then?
“He told me you mentioned money,” TJ adds.
Paul rushes to clarify. “Barely. I tried to mention money, just to get it on the table—because money will be part of it, eventually, if I can sell her pictures to a magazine likeHarper’sand possibly help mount a gallery show. That’s…a ways off, but yeah. Your dad didn’t like me bringing it up.”
“And you’d want a percentage, is that right?”
“It is,” Paul says, trying to sound professional. “I’ll be doing a lot of work up front, without pay, and I’ll essentially be acting as Judith’s manager, so thirty percent would be fair. That’s the industry standard,” he adds, though he thinks the figure may be a bit high. TJ seems accepting.
“That sounds fair to me. I’ll have to convince my dad, of course. Of everything. He and Mom have lived quietly, so the idea of public attention—of any kind—upsets him. Especially after all the coverage around…you know.” Paul nods to spare him saying it. “But if she said she wanted to do this, then I think we should honor it.”
