“That’s—that’s really something, Paul. Wow. When can I see them?”
Paul glances down to where the portfolio leans against the foot of his armchair. “I’m sorry, Tom, but I’ve had to leave them atHarper’s. I wasn’t expecting to, but they need them. The issue will come out in about a month, so they’re ramping up production.” He says this to make it true, to make it impossible for Tom Senior to say he won’t let it happen. But he doesn’t want TJ to see the pictures anyway,just in casehe reacts the same way his father did. He won’t risk losing TJ’s support, not now. Better to leave him in the dark and let him see the photographs when they’re beautifully and irrevocably printed in the pages ofHarper’s.
“I want TJ to see them before the issue comes out,” Senior says, gruffly.
“I know, Tom, and I’m sorry about this. I wish I could—”
“You need to call this Marty fellow and tell him to let TJ come by.”
“Dad,” TJ interjects. “It’s okay. Really. I trust Paul, and I trust you, too. You’ve seen them. You’ve approved them. I’m sure they’re all right. I’m not exactly an art expert, anyway.” He chuckles, and Paul joinshim. He’s so grateful for this easy, pleasing man, he could cry. He’s grateful, too, to have heard Tom Senior say a string of magic words:before the issue comes out. He isn’t putting himself in the way, even though he’s displeased. He’s accepting it, allowing it all to happen.
Things seem solid enough for Paul to tell them next about Marty’s generous offer: $1,000, which he’ll split 30/70 with them, as agreed. He tells them he’ll have “his lawyer”—an old friend from college who’ll do him the favor for a minimal fee—draw up a contract detailing the 30/70 split. Paul will make sure the contract coversallof Judith’s work—not just these few photographs—and that Paul is listed as the caretaker of said work, though he doesn’t mention this now. There are big things ahead, whether Tom Senior likes it or not.
Both men seem uncomfortable at the mention of money and the contract, but there’s no outburst of anger, no denial or refusal. They’re accepting it; they’re going with the flow.
“I can’t really believe it. Mom inHarper’s. Holy cow,” TJ says.
“And not just ‘in’Harper’s,” Paul adds enthusiastically. “She’ll be featured in the issue. The focus of it. And on the cover, too. Not sure which photograph they’ll use—they’ll let me know soon, I imagine.” TJ gives a low whistle and Paul risks saying that he sees this as an incredible way to preserve and honor Judith’s memory.
“And her last wish,” TJ adds.
“Absolutely.”
“She really said that to you? She really said she wanted this?” Tom Senior speaks right into the phone, right into Paul’s ear. Paul pulls the receiver slightly away for some distance. He clears his throat.
“Yes, Tom,” he says firmly. “This isexactlywhat she wanted.” The lie has become so real to him, so true, that the scene unfolds easily in his mind: Judith approaching in her quiet way, requesting his help. She’s wearing her long, camel-colored coat with a soft blue scarf, her brown hair done up in a tidy bun. She looks serious, a bit scared. Paul smiles and claps his hands together when she tells him what she wants—which is also whathewants. They’re in total agreement.
“All right,” Tom Senior says, dispelling the joyful imaginary scene, and then Paul knows he’s done it—he’s won. He doesn’t push it by adding the news that he’s writing the introduction—it might complicate things; Tom Senior will surely have issues with anything and everything he writes. Instead, he thanks them both and tells them he’ll stay in close contact, though he hopes to keep his distance from now on. When he hangs up, he blows smoke rings in the air for a long while, luxuriating in the solid double triumphs of the day: winning Marty over, and then locking down the Stanleymen.
16.
A bright splash of morning light illuminates the blank, lined page of the legal pad Paul bought with high hopes and determination. He sits staring at it, wondering where to begin his introduction. With Judith’s first after-class approach? Or earlier, with what little he’s learned of her childhood? He stares out his window at his neighbor’s brick wall, feeling truly walled in, as his pulse hammers in his ear. He reaches for a cigarette.Thousands of people will read what I write, he tells himself, in an endless, aggravating loop. By noon, he’s reaching for the whiskey bottle, too. Taking sips helps him quiet the voice in his head that saysfailure is looming, and by one thirty he’s able to just let it flow: badly chosen words, lazy phrasing, and all. He doesn’t stop until he has an awful first draft, and when he does, he celebrates by stretching out on the couch, yawning luxuriously, and rubbing his eyes.
Lying there, he thinks of Charlie, fleetingly at first, then intently, vengefully: what would she and her little cohort think of him now, writing forHarper’s? Maybe she’d think twice before speaking to him the way she did in class the other night. Or would she? He stews over the question until he’s furious and then his mind slips to her full tits in a white sweater, her round ass subtly swaying as she climbs the stairs. He unbuckles his pants, works himself to a full erection, andmasturbates to the thought of her insulting him with that pouty mouth as he fucks her right to breathlessness, silence, and unwilling pleasure.
And then he’s done. Alone on his couch with his spent dick in hand. He lets it flop to his belly and drifts off. When he wakes several hours later, confused and shivering in the dark, he gets up and stumbles to the bathroom for a hot shower.
—
Paul dresses quickly thenext morning and leaves the building with his rough draft and red pencils in a shoulder bag.Better to stay out today, he thinks, as if last night’s lurid fantasizing soiled his apartment for serious work. It isn’t true, but he can’t risk falling into another erotically charged haze; he doesn’t have time. He heads for the nearby Hunger Pains Café to stay focused and fueled for as long as it takes.
After two raisin scones, five cups of coffee, and several more drafts, he thinks he’s done it: polished the introduction until it shines bright enough for Marty, forHarper’sand theHarper’sreading public. He was right to come to the crowded café, to sit surrounded by the buzz of other conversations. Now he readies himself to head home and type it all up before sending it in. Stepping outside, blinking in the cold winter light, he feels haggard and stunned and in need of a long walk.
Two hours later, after dropping his introduction, sealed in a stamped envelope with a brisk and confident cover note, in the nearest mailbox, he strides through the neighborhood for over an hour. Soaking up the familiar sights and sounds, Paul says hello to a few shopkeepers and neighbors and begins to revive. He returns to his apartment, refreshed and also certain he’ll hear good news from Marty soon. Glancing at the couch, he considers indulging in the somewhat tormented pleasure of jerking off to Charlie again, but it seems risky somehow. Dangerous and threatening to the work he’s just done, and to Marty’s reaction.I’ll wait to do it again until after Marty calls, he promises himself, though he knows he’s being oddly superstitious.
—
Marty doesn’t call thenext day, or the day after that. Paul finds himself sitting too often by the phone, anxious and a bit crazed. He stares at the telephone, the way he did when he was waiting to hear from TJ, startling whenever it rings. It’s never Marty, though. He knows Marty must have received his introduction by now. Does he hate it? Is he rethinking Paul’s connection to the feature? Will he find someone else instead, a famous photographer perhaps, to write the introduction? He could call theHarper’soffice, of course, confront Marty head-on, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate. Instead, he drinks himself to sleep but sleeps poorly, plagued by bad dreams that feature Charlie somehow holding his introduction and laughing over it, wide-mouthed, her head thrown back. He wakes thinking of the soft white expanse of her throat, with his stomach crimped in anger and fear.
When the telephone rings at 10 a.m. on the fourth morning, it’s finally Marty. He’s effusive in his praise, says the piece is “almost perfect,” and gives Paul a list of minor tweaks he wants him to make. When they hang up, Paul sits in the silence of his living room, his stomach and mind fully eased. He smiles stupidly around at his familiar belongings: wooden chairs, crammed bookshelves, shoes lined up in the small apartment vestibule.Of courseMarty loved the introduction. Paul has known all along that he did a great job. Marty said something to him about “beautifully shaping Judith Stanley for the public,” and Paul puffed up at that. He likes to think of it that way—of his havingcreated her. His mind flashes, then, to his dream of Charlie’s exposed throat. The image sends him quickly to the couch, where he pulls and grunts until he’ssatisfied.
17.
Though Paul is almost dizzyingly busy in the days leading up to theHarper’spublication date, time passes slowly. He sends the finished contract to the Stanleys—which Tom signs and sends back, surprisingly without complaint, and seemingly without noticing how much power it gives Paul, or how much leeway there is for future endeavors like gallery shows. He visits theHarper’soffice, too—this time, thrillingly, as part of “the team”—to review the portfolio layout. Even in its unfinished state, the feature looks stunning. They’ve chosen the butcher shop self-portrait for the cover, and soon Judith’s face will be staring back at him, slyly, from the cover of everyHarper’son every city newsstand, alongside the phraseIntroduction by Paul Sorenson. It will link them forever in the public mind.
In this time of impatience, Paul smokes and drinks more to try to quiet his anxiety-infused glee—or his glee-infused anxiety. He masturbates to Charlie, too, but when his fantasies grow darker, tinged with violence, and he emerges from them shaking and ashamed, he resolves to try something more purifying: taking hours-long walks up and down the length of Manhattan in the bitter cold. He returns home exhausted and peacefully emptied out, but the feeling doesn’t last; he’d have to walk forever to retain this placidity. But it does pass the time, and one day he finds himself on the eve of the issue’s publication, just like that—after seconds, and long centuries.
Paul drags himself to class in a jittery, scattered state without his lecture notes, unsure of what he’ll do: give an impromptu talk about photography as a profession? One he’s abandoned, he thinks with a twinge of pain. Fainter now, though, very faint. He stares around, speechless, feeling the students’ eyes—and Charlie’s in particular—boring into him, and starts to speak about the only thing filling his mind these days. He was going to save it for the end of class, but why not start now, tell them about the forthcomingHarper’sissue, the process of building the portfolio, writing the introduction, and so on? The students will like that. He’ll enjoy it, too.
