It’s like she’s read his mind. When class ends, she walks toward him, leaving her friends by the door. Watching her, images bloom in Paul’s mind. Of her on her knees before him, looking up. Of her on his bed, spread-eagled and beckoning. He imagines pushing his lips into the pillow of her plush red mouth and his temperature rises. He tries to think again of Judith’s dead pictures to gain control, but the nubile girl before him conquers all. He clears his throat.
“Hi, Charlie,” he says, as neutrally as possible.
She gives him a small, knowing smile. “Professor, I—we—wanted to know if you knew how the investigation’s been going.”
Paul blinks at her, stupid with surprise. “What?”
“Into Judith Stanley’s death? We know you were close with her.”Close with her.He thought she might ask about some point from his lecture, something that gave her an excuse to talk to him. That’s what she and her friends usually did, clumping around him, throwing their scented hair over their shoulders, blushing prettily. He certainly didn’t expect her to ask about the murder investigation—or to insinuate that he and Judith were “close.” He’s shocked to know that Charlie and her friends are thinking of Judith at all. They must be drawn to the macabre drama of her death, the death of someone they “knew.” Who knows. He can’t have her thinking—and saying—that he and Judith were close, though. He doesn’t need that floating around.
“We weren’t close,” he says firmly. “And I know nothing about the investigation, but I’m helping her family sort through her pictures now,for possible publication.” It gives him a thrill to say it out loud—especially when Charlie lights up.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s wonderful! I still think about that picture you showed us in class last semester. She and I were going to swap pictures sometime, before she—” Her voice wobbles and she looks away. Paul nearly laughs at the thought of this girl and Judith swapping pictures.
“Anyway, I’d love to see more of them. Who’s going to publish them?”
“Not sure yet,” Paul says, smiling tightly. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. It isn’t a sure thing, after all, and he resents her sudden eagerness. Leaning toward her, he says in a low voice: “If we could keep that between us, that would be great, Charlie. Please don’t share that with your friends.”
Paul expects her to reassure him, to say,Yes, Professor,of course.Instead, she gives him a long, measuring look.
“Are you still a suspect?” she asks. “I guess not, if the family’s asked you to help them.”
“No, I’m not,” he says, too loud. His voice echoes through the room. He doesn’t appreciate her probing question or her sharp tone. “I was never a serious suspect. That’s all the time I’ve got, Charlie. Good night.” He has a sudden urge to grab and shake her, to startle the smugness right out of her. He turns away to stop himself from touching her—in one way or another—and makes a show of packing his bags.
“See you, Professor,” she calls, already clicking up the stairs.
He hears the girls’ laughter echo down to him through the open door, and another wave of hot fury barrels through him. It takes several minutes of breathing in the quiet room to let it go, expel it from his body like a toxin.She’s just a silly young girl, he tells himself, and longs for those dead picturesnow.
12.
Thursday afternoon, Paul stands on Tom’s doorstep with a pit in his stomach; will Tom ruin all his beautiful hard work? All the hours he’s spent culling the best twenty prints—an impossible job—from the wealth of Judith’s photographic archive? He could, Paul knows, but he tells himselfhe won’t let himand grips the portfolio handle tightly, as if to keep Tom from snatching it. When the door swings open, Paul puts on a smile and simulates an air of relaxed confidence.
“How’s it going, Tom?”
“Fine,” Tom says bluntly, leading him right to the dining room table. Paul hears the silent command:Go on, lay them out.He opens the case, glad to avoid any delay. He’s brought ten backup photographs in addition to his top twenty, but he doesn’t plan on using them. He’s fiercely committed to the twenty he’s chosen, to convincing Tom of their rightness. But he can’t betooforceful with Tom Senior, he knows. He’ll have to walk a careful line.
When Paul finishes arranging them in two neat rows, the men stand side by side, staring down with their arms crossed over their chests. Tom flicks his eyes over the photographs as if they were alien specimens.
“I don’t understand,” he says quietly.
Though Tom’s confusion doesn’t surprise him, Paul blurts, “What?” then quickly shakes it off. There’s a beat before Tom explains.
“I don’t understand how these are good. I know I’m a rube, but canyou explain them to me? These don’t look like her other pictures—and they don’t look like the pictures I’ve seen inLife.”
Paul feels a moment of impatience—Pearls before swine, he thinks—then reminds himself to tread gently, to be generous. Tom hasn’t seen most—or any—of these before, and he must be shocked to see therealJudith—not the mother and wife, but the artist, the individual—in print after print. Paul switches into teacher mode and begins by pointing out the colorful self-portrait of Judith in front of the liquor store.
“Okay, this one. First of all, she was right to use color film, instead of black-and-white. She’s captured the light perfectly, the way it hits those bottles and makes them shine like gems. And Judith’s face is beautifully lighted, too.” He pauses here, letting Tom soak up the image of his wife. Unless it’s upsetting to see her so vividly alive. He can’t tell from Tom’s expression, so he pushes forward.
“If you look at the expression on her face, though, it’s mournful. It makes a stark contrast, and we start to see those bottles in a new light—like brightly shining bottles of poison. Do you see what I mean?” Tom is nodding like one of Paul’s rapt students. Has he won him over so easily?
“Her dad was a drinker,” Tom says. Paul tries not to show his surprise. “He was unpredictable as hell. He wasn’t around much, and her mother had died. Judith was mostly raised by her grandma. Grandmother, she called her. She was a real, uh, character. Not the warmest person, by Judith’s account, but I never met her.” Paul makes a sympathetic sound. He wants Tom to keep speaking, keep sharing insight into Judith’s life. He’s envisioning a block of his own words printed boldly on a gallery wall:Judith Stanley’s work subtly highlights her personal struggle to overcome a troubled childhood haunted by a mother’s early death, a father’s alcoholism and neglect, and a grandmother’s coldness…Tom would be furious if that ever came to pass, but Paul can imagine what he likes. When the silence drags on, he continues.
“You can see how her…background informs the picture. How theimage is both a siren call to the drinker—a bright, colorful beacon—and a stark warning at the same time. It’s poignant. Unnerving.”
Tom doesn’t respond, only stares at the picture intently. Paul wonders if he’s getting through to him, opening his eyes to the glories of Judith’s artistry. He’s patting himself on the back when Tom says, “I don’t know if Judith would want that one out in the world, then, if it’s saying all that.”
Paul has to scramble now, kicking himself, to steer Tom in the right direction. “I understand your hesitation, Tom, I really do. But I think we need this one. It really shows her prowess for composition.” Tom doesn’t need to know thatevery single oneof Judith’s prints shows her prowess for composition. “And remember, most people looking casually through a magazine wouldn’t overanalyze it the way I have. They’d think it’s pretty and move on. I can’t help overthinking it—an occupational hazard, I guess.” He grins familiarly, but Tom isn’t looking. He’s staring down at the photograph.
“You can use this one. You can use all of them,” Tom says at last, waving his hand over the group of twenty. Paul gapes at him, speechless. He thought he’d be here all evening, haggling over every last print. He thought he’d have to swap out a few for his backups. But no, Tom is giving in—quickly and completely. After ten minutes!
