AND NOW A LIAR, TOO
HOW DARE YOU SPEW LIES ABOUT JUDITH???
ALL FOR MONEY & FAME
BEWARE
YOU’LL GET A PAYCHECK SOON
WE’LL DELIVER IT WHEN YOU’RE LEAST EXPECTING
Paul crumples the letter up and throws it in the trash. After a long minute of staring at the trash can, he grabs the letter out, smooths it over his knee. The finalwerattles him; theIwas less concerning. What if Charlie is gathering a tribe around her? A tribe that loathes him. A tribe of angry women bent on delivering justice. This isn’t an idle threat; it’s one promising action. If it were still just anI, just a Charlie, it wouldn’t bother him so much—but what if there’s really awe? Awewith a plan. Maybe heshouldcall the police? Then he remembers he’s aired Schuyler’s semi-unspoken theory on television and needs to avoid him. He’s surprised the detective hasn’t come knocking already.
Paul lights a cigarette, takes a quick, harsh drag, and sets the letter aside. Gently, as if it were made of a volatile substance. He tells himself to calm the hell down, to move on and read something normal and nice to take the sting out of Charlie’s—or whoever’s—poison. The next letter he opens is from a retired schoolteacher in New Jersey who raves about theHarper’sportfolio. After that, a man in Ohio who describes himself as “an avid collector” thanks him and asks about acquiring Judith’s work. Paul sets this one aside for Jahan’s team; the man seems like a legitimate potential buyer. He’s glad to be doing this, to be moving on through his correspondence with calm and poise. He’s a professional, isn’t he? He’s such a professional, in fact, that he can glance at the wrinkled letter now and then and feel nothing at all.
A letter from “Barbara” in New York starts by praising Judith’s work but ends badly: “I saw your first interview, and some of your subsequent interviews. You should be ashamed of yourself, dragging Judith’s personal history into the light. It isn’t your business. And it’s overshadowing her work, which was your intention, I suppose? It will sell more photographs, I know.” Paul grunts in disgust; he hates the way she calls Judith by her first name, as if she’d known her.I knew her, you stupid cow, he thinks, but Barbara can’t hear. She wouldn’t hear him, anyway, even if she were here, spouting her nonsense to his face.
He opens more letters, each time thinking he’ll find something that will give him a hint of satisfaction. But more and more of the lettersmirror Barbara’s now: expressions of admiration for Judith’s photographs interspersed with disgust or even outrage. It’s as though a knitting circle were railing against him with a set of stock phrases:You have no right,You should be ashamed,Your greed is astonishing. It would almost be laughable if there weren’t so damned many of them—at least forty so far, and he’s only halfway through the bag.
Female soldiers for Judith, Paul thinks with a laugh that sounds strange and lonely in the air of his apartment.Possibly led by the dark-haired girl who used to sit near the great photographer in class.What would Judith think of that?
Paul lets the letters drop back into the bag and kicks it away from him. The action helps return him to himself—to his armchair, his glass of booze, his burning cigarette, his warm slippers. He’s had enough. Whatever the rest of the mail says, it can wait until after the show—or forever.
34.
Paul finds himself back in class—unprepared and unmotivated to teach—exactly two weeks before the gallery show is set to open. He stands where he’s always stood in the ugly, institutional lecture hall, staring at bright-faced (if not always bright) young men and women in the seats around him, but he feels like an actor in a play about someone else’s life. He used to relish playing the part of expert photographer, sharing his wisdom and his love of photography with students, but now that role is dead to him, like a husk he’s long since discarded. He has nothing he really wants to say and no energy for discussing “setting up your darkroom,” as it reads on the syllabus. He used to enjoy giving this lecture, didn’t he? He can hardly remember, and he can hardly bring himself to begin class. But he must, so he does.
Looking around as he speaks, his eyes land on Charlie. He’s thought of her so often lately that it’s jarring to see her in person—and to see that she’s just an ordinary pretty girl, one of several in the class, not the powerful figure he’s imagined sometimes, the leader of an enraged, self-righteous women’s gang. Sheisgiving him a sour look, though—and he can sense animosity rolling off her in waves. Probably because of the interview. Interviews. He remembers the old Charlie, from back in September, who used to cross her beautiful bare legs and look up at him as if he were a demigod. That girl has been extinguished by her passion for Judith’s photographs; it’s twisted and deformed her in someway. He can’t even see her now as the object of those masturbatory fantasies he had—only days ago.
He looks away from her stony face and carries on.
“Many of you may already know this, but I’m co-curating an exhibition of Judith Stanley’s photographs that’s opening in two weeks at Doven Gallery, in the city. If I’ve seemed a little distracted lately, that’s why,” he says, smiling. “I’ve been doing some, uh, appearances lately that have taken up a great deal of time.” Speaking frees him, and locking into his new identity gives him an added boost—as do the knowing looks on his students’ faces. They’ve watched the interviews; of course they have! Their lowly community college professor has suddenly been elevated to the highest of cultural heights. He puffs up with their regard—until he looks Charlie’s way. While his other students tune in admiringly, Charlie’s hard stare cuts him and sends his mind back to those hateful phrases in the letters he’s received. Reminding him of the sound of cruel laughter on the other end of the phone line. It doesn’t matter right now if she’s responsible or not; she’s simply guilty of the look she’s giving him. It’s enough.
“It’s going to be an extraordinary show. You may have seen a taste of her work inHarper’s, but this will be really comprehensive. I encourage you all to see it,” he says, more emphatically than necessary. As if he were trying to convince Charlie of his unimpeachable status and worth. A hand goes up in the back: not Charlie, he sees with relief.
“How did you get involved in all this, Professor?” The young man sounds mild, friendly even, but Paul still bristles. Is there a provocative undertone? He doesn’t think so, but he can’t help answering with a touch of defensiveness.
“Well, I was Judith’s mentor, and the only person she ever shared her work with.” A possible exaggeration, but who would ever know? He made the claim in his catalog introduction, the final draft of which he’s just handed in to Jahan, so it was on its way to becoming historical truth; it would lead the catalog and be stamped on the gallery walls forthe exhibit’s myriad visitors. “Just before she died, she told me she was ready to publish her pictures and asked for my help. I worked with her husband to choose them and contactedHarper’s. The rest just…fell into place,” he says, skimming over the stress and numerous difficulties he’s endured. The student looks satisfied, impressed.
“You’re all invited to the opening, by the way—it’s Friday, April tenth, at seven p.m. You should dress up, or at least not look the way you usually do in class—get cleaned up for god’s sake!” This earns him a big laugh, and more than a few students exchange excited glances, jotting down the date and time in their notebooks.
Through all of this, Charlie sits silent and brooding. She really must be the one spewing venom from a safe, anonymous distance instead of confronting him head-on. He decides to face her, question her, once the others have left. He wants to force her into the open, make her admit that she’s been hounding him.
He plods through the rest of class somehow. He knows Charlie enjoys seeing him struggle; after his smooth delivery of the Judith Stanley news, he has trouble recalling the smallest details of setting up a darkroom—like what chemicals to use in the developing bath—even though he’s given this lecture a hundred times and has a home darkroom himself. Every time he stumbles, he senses Charlie’s pleasure and a tide of fury builds in him.
Once he’s dragged through the final minutes of class and reminded everyone about the opening, he calls Charlie down to see him. She doesn’t react, not even when her friends lean their sleek, pretty heads close, presumably to question or strategize. Once they’ve left—probably to linger in the hall outside—Charlie walks slowly down to him in the emptied room. For a moment, Paul is overwhelmed by déjà vu. If this were some months ago, it would be Judith approaching—though Judith’s gait was lighter and her demeanor, unlike Charlie’s, was deferential, reserved. He yearns to look up and see Judith standing before him once more—then he pulls himself together to face Charlie’s piercing gaze.
“Hey, Charlie. You must be jazzed for Judith’s opening. I know you’re a big fan,” he says as lightly as possible. She cocks her head at him and nods; that’s all. Then, after a beat:
“Did she really say that, before she died?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did she really tell you she wanted to publish her photographs? She didn’t seem the type, honestly. I’m the type, but I don’t have the talent.” She lays this out before him with plainspoken confidence. Doesn’t even look ashamed of herself, or daunted by saying this to her professor’s face. It’s so galling Paul has to grip the edges of the table he’s leaning on to keep his hands from reaching out for her, grabbing her the way he imagined in class the other night.
“I don’t make things up, Charlie. I know I seem like an easygoing guy, a friendly, approachable professor and all that, but suggesting that I lied about something like that is—is—”
“Unconscionable?” Charlie offers.
