Paul stays stone-faced but lets excitement billow through him like a wave.
“I think so, too. I think it’s the right thing to do. I think—Judith would be happy.” Paul wonders if it’s a touch too much, adding this, but Judith’s genial son smiles.
“Thank you. And thank you for braving my dad’s wrath to get this done.” Paul gives a little laugh, shakes his head. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to convince him, but I’ll do my best. Can you give me your telephone number?”
Paul writes his number down, and the two men shake hands. After he’s seen TJ off, Paul stands under the school’s portico, deeply inhaling the cold air. This sudden lucky break makes him want to stand here, reveling, and light a cigarette. But ever since Judith’s death, he’s been wary of lingering in the parking lot. He thinks of how he strode to his car that night while Judith lay dying nearby. Her killer may have been watching from a distance, ready to attack Paul, too, if he’d found her, tried to help her.
Paul shivers. He squints into the darkness, staring at the spot where Judith died, imagining a different version of things. A version where he saw her, saved her life. It’s just a fantasy, of course—but is it even one he would have wanted? If she’d lived, there’d be no getting her picturesat all. He’s ashamed of even acknowledging this, so he flicks off the film scrolling through his mind and marches to his car.
6.
Days pass with no word from TJ. Paul spends his evenings eating Chinese takeout in front of the television, glancing far too often at the telephone. It sits, doggedly silent, by the armchair in the living room. He grows tired of watching it but can’t seem to tear his eyes away. One night, he drags himself from the apartment for a late-night drink. He figures it’s after eleven o’clock, far too late for TJ to call. He sits at the bar at King’s End Tavern alongside other regulars who are chatting while a football game replay runs on the bar’s TV—Colts versus Vikings. It keeps any thoughts to do with the Stanley men at bay. He’s just a guy out having an easy good time.
The next morning, Paul wakes late, hungover, and spends the afternoon grading quizzes by the kitchen window, staring at his neighbors’ brick wall. He hands out As and Bs in place of rightful Cs and Ds, because he doesn’t really care; he just wants to get through the work and be done. What does it matter if these kids learn “key elements of composition”? What will they do with the knowledge? None of them are like Judith; none are even close. Most are taking the class for an easy A, and they’ll go on to do other things—accounting, nursing, teaching—leaving photography behind, except when they need to snap shots of their children running in the park, starting kindergarten, posing in Halloween costumes one day. Maybe what they learned inclass will flicker back to them then—but most likely not. So Paul goes on grading as lazily and quickly as he can.
On Tuesday night, whenever the door to the classroom opens, Paul snaps his head up, but it’s never TJ. Of course not—he can’t imagine shy, polite TJ just walking into his class. Still, Paul is jittery enough to look for him. He looks for him later, too, as he’s leaving the building, but doesn’t find him in the hall or under the portico. Paul casts his eyes around the parking lot in vain, and then he’s struck by the thought that his telephone could be ringing—right now. He rushes home, then plops down in the armchair, determined to sit until the wee hours if he has to—though it makes little sense. He chain-smokes and stares fixedly at a spot across the room, his anxious mind thrumming as he listens for the telephone.
7.
The following morning, Paul sees a man with sallow skin and dark circles under his eyes staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. Though he shaves and tries to wash his face to brightness, he still looks a little sickly and pinched. He needs to get outside for a walk, at least, but when his eyes land on the obstinately silent, squat telephone, he knows he won’t go.
The phone will ring today. It has to. It’s been eight days, and he thinks TJ has probably called several times, always missing him. So he’ll stay home and eat the last dregs of his grocery store spoils—one sleeve of buttery crackers, two mandarin oranges, and a small hunk of smoked cheddar cheese. Soon, he knows, he’ll have to replenish his cupboards. He could just pop out to his closest bodega, grab a few things, run back…but no. The telephone. He has the urge to pull it from the wall and fling it out a window, to put an end to this ludicrous waiting. Maybe he should give up on the whole idea, even if it means relinquishing this fresh chance—his last chance?—to find footing in the art world…
And then the telephone rings. His mouth is full of crackers that he frantically chews and swallows, though he has no liquid nearby to wash them down. He clears his throat several times before lifting the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Paul. It’s TJ,” he says as casually as if only a day or two has passed.
Paul drops into the armchair next to the phone and lights a cigarette to try to project a matching nonchalance. He inhales deeply, audibly, hoping to sound like a man who has the time and calm mindset to indulge in a favorite habit. But his whole body is tense, and even as he exhales he tenses more, waiting to hear what TJ will say.
“Look, my dad isn’t too happy about it, but I convinced him to let you review all the photographs, select a few, and send them to a magazine—onemagazine. What did you say the other day?Life?”
Paul pumps his free fist in the air.
“That’s great news, TJ. I don’t think we talked specifics, butHarper’swould be my choice. It’s the right place for Judith’s work—it’s edgier thanLife—and I have a connection there.” He’s talking too fast, partly to cover the tenuous nature of his “connection”: Marty Janowski, head of the art department, the man who published Paul’s fight photograph years ago. Paul thinks Marty will flip for Judith’s work, but first he has to get him to answer his call and agree to see him. That’s a looming “if,” one he won’t share with TJ.
“All right. But you’ll have to pass everything by my dad before you submit them. He wants to make sure there’s nothing that could, you know, embarrass Mom. Her memory.”
“Of course,” Paul says, though his stomach tightens. What Tom thinks of as “embarrassing” could encompass all of Judith’s oeuvre. But he’ll deal with that later. “Did he say when I should stop by to pick up the photographs?”
TJ tells him he can visit Sunday afternoon, and that he’ll be there, too. Paul is glad to have him as a buffer, especially if things get tense. He hopes they won’t. He hopes he’ll glide in and pick up the boxes, make promises he’s not sure he’ll keep, and be on his way. He tells TJ he’ll need all of Judith’s negatives and unprocessed film rolls, too, and TJ says he’ll pass the word along. Paul thanks him and hangs up, thensits with the end of his cigarette clenched between his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. And glee. He pours himself a very tall whiskey. It’s only noon, but screw it. He’s celebrating. He glances at his dining room table and pictures them there: piles of Judith’s photographs like piles ofgold.
8.
With TJ’s help, Paul packs the eleven boxes into his trunk as quickly as he can. He doesn’t really think Tom Senior will change his mind, but the man hovers in the doorway, looking like someone who’s ingested poison. Paul thinks he’s gotten everything—except for whatever was in the filing cabinet down in Judith’s darkroom. When he spotted the cabinet, he asked Tom about it, but he said it was full of Judith’s “personal things,” and the police had already been through it. No photographs in there—only bills, medical records, and memorabilia. Nothing of Paul’s concern. Tom sounded defensive and ill at ease, and Paul didn’t quite believe him. But he hesitated to push Tom at a crucial moment and decided to leave it alone, to stay focused on what he had: the photographs, the negatives, the film rolls. A treasure trove.
When the boxes are all loaded, the two Toms stand awkwardly by the car. Only TJ shakes Paul’s hand.
“You’ll let us know when you’ve made your selection and come by to show us, right?” Junior asks, glancing at his father.
“Yes. Absolutely. Wouldn’t think of doing otherwise,” Paul lies. He’s thought plenty of doing otherwise—of driving off into the sunset with the boxes and never having to deal with Tom Senior again. But in reality, he needs him. In reality, Tom is the one and only owner of Judith’s photographs—however much it rankles Paul to acknowledge it. “I’ll treat everything carefully. And I’ll be in touch. Soon.” Paul thanksboth men again and begins to back the car down the drive. Just as he senses the onset of blissful freedom and fumbles across the seat for his cigarette pack, Tom Senior’s face appears in the passenger-side window, his hand on the car. Paul tenses immediately.Here it comes—either a retraction of permission or a whispered threat—or both.Tom looks uncomfortable as he leans in, leans closer, and speaks low.
“Hey, if you happen to see anything out of the ordinary in those pictures she took of herself, will you let me know? Anything like…a man lurking in the background? The police have looked, but I thought maybe with your, you know, expertise…” He lets it trail off. It takes Paul a moment to realize what Tom is asking.
“Did Judith think she’d gotten a picture of him? Of the stalker?” Tom nods. He looks sick again, either from sharing this personal information or just from the mention of Judith’s killer. Paul feels a bit ill himself, but it’s an illness tinged with excitement. A picture of the stalker, possibly in one of the boxes in his trunk.What a sensation that would cause.
“She said he showed up in the background of those pictures. Inallof them. She cropped him out every time, so the ones you saw were—fixed. After she died, the police reprinted some of her film, but they said they found nothing.”
