Paul keeps flipping through the photographs, praising them. I stay where I am, soaking up his words. Tom’s humiliation forgotten, or shoved aside. As Paul nears the self-portrait, the picture I most wanted to share, I start to panic. I wanted to see if he would notice the small figure in the background, but now I’m overwhelmed by the opposite desire: tonotknow, to not share, to not submit the picture to Paul’ssearching gaze. I reach out and grab all the photographs from his hands. He looks up, startled and confused.
“I’m not—”
“I’m sorry. The last one isn’t good. I can’t share it yet,” I say, awkward and rushed. “Thank you, Paul. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”
“Not at all. It’s a total pleasure to see these. And please remember what I said last week, about submitting to photography magazines. I really think you should consider it. It’s a shame to—hide these away.”
The intensity in his warm brown eyes makes my pulse quicken. Like a scared little rabbit’s. Apleasedand scared little rabbit’s.
“Thank you, Paul. You’re very kind.”
“It isn’t kindness,” he says. “I’ve never offered to help a student with publication before. I never expected to. But believe me when I say these are extraordinary. I’d be honored to help you send them out. I think they’d find a great home. Theydeserveto find a great home.”
Extraordinary, he said.Extraordinary.Even better thanuncanny. The dim, ordinary lecture hall brightens in the glow of Paul’s words. Even so, they can’t sway me. I never want strangers’ eyes on me again, searching me, prying me open. I don’t want strangers’ eyes on my photographs, either; to me it’s the same. And I can’t explain any of that to Paul.
“Thank you very much, Paul. I will think about it.” He nods and bids me good night, polite but subdued. I’m sad to see the fire leave his eyes—because I’ve denied him the pleasure of helping me. I feel heavy as I walk away, retreating to that withdrawn and solitary place inside of me.
“Judith,” Paul calls before the door swings shut behind me. “I hope you’ll bring some new pictures next week.”
Everything shifts. I leave the room feeling buoyant andlight.
9.
Paul’s dictumThere are worthy subjects everywhereis foremost in my mind as I stroll through the small town of Suttonville the next morning, Nikon in hand. At first I see nothing but closed storefronts and half-empty parking lots in the shabby downtown, but finally I spot a “worthy subject”: an ancient-looking liquor store display. Incandescent with late-morning light, the bottles lined up on the mirror-backed shelves look like liquid candy; I have the urge to bring one to my lips and take a great, burning drink. One to burn away my grief over Rosie, my worry over Tom’s health. Another to wash away the awful image of the couple from the party. A third to forget the strange man I caught in my photographs.
Onephotograph, I remind myself. Multiple shots of the same few minutes, the same location. A fluke.
I spot myself reflected in the mirror behind the rows and rows of bottles. I didn’t intend to take another self-portrait, but the shot is too good not to take. I raise my camera to the top of my chest and try to relax my stern-looking face. From the neck down I’m made of bottles, shining and bright. I see a sudden flash of movement reflected behind me and turn, startled, to see a man passing by on the opposite side of the street. But he’s just an ordinary man, not the least bit interested in me or what I’m doing.
When I look back, I check the mirror for any sign of someonereflected behind me; I’m certain there’s no one, nothing. I take the shot. I try different expressions and postures, and before long I realize I’ve been here quite a while. The light has changed to a bright, flat white.
I move on from the liquor store, snapping shots here and there: of three underfed but regal stray cats on a doorstep, and of a middle-aged woman like me, cleanly dressed but harried, leaving the grocery store with paper bags bundled in her arms. She gives me a hard look that will only make the picture better. In last week’s class, I jotted down a note that said,The subject’s response doesn’t matter.All that matters is doing what’s right for the photograph.It’s easy to apply because the camera makes me bolder than I am. So does Paul. It’s safe to think of him, of his words and ideas and predilections, now that I’m in the flow. I’m moving and choosing easily; Paul’s words just give me an extra lift.
I take pictures of eloquently empty doorways, a broken window gleaming with sunlight, a man leaning against a tree with his legs crossed, his hat pulled down over his eyes. I keep up a frantic pace until my stomach tells me it’s well past lunchtime. It’s hard to stop, but I snap a few final shots and then turn back to the car, spent and deeply satisfied.
10.
I’m staring at the prints of my liquor store self-portrait, spread out on the dining room table under bright chandelier light. I tell myself the smudge, the shadow, won’t be there; itcan’tbe there. I checked behind me and saw nothing, no one, before taking the shot. But here it is in every last version: a small, dark figure in the top right corner, by a cluster of trees. Somehow he found me. He followed me.
The side of my body throbs. I clutch my waist and look away, squeezing my eyes shut like a child.It will be gone when I open my eyes.But it’s still there when I look at the prints again. Of course it is. It’s as real and undeniable as everything else I see: the trees beside it, the rows of liquor bottles, the sidewalk, my own placid face. I choose one out of the batch and try keeping my eyes glued to the center of the portrait, not the margins, taking comfort in my gem-filled form and my strong, steady gaze. How could someone like this be afraid of a shadow? I stare for as long as I can, smiling and feeling no pain, no pain at all. But I can’t resist the pull of the top right corner forever.
There it is, the dark shape of a man—and the pain shoots back. I gasp and put the print down, catching sight of my bare feet on the carpet. My lovely blue carpet, running through the house like a calming sea. If only Rosie were there, too, panting up at me. I’d hold her and feel her hot little breath in my face. She’d negate the shadow man somehow,my Rosie. But she isn’t there—she’sbeen negated. Another throb of hurt. I hunch over with it, my hands gripping the back of a chair.
When I can, I sweep the prints into a haphazard pile and carry them right to the kitchen trash can. I will not tell Tom and risk his health; I will not show Paul and risk his interference, his prodding questions. I stand by the trash can with the prints in hand, feeling the waste of what I’m about to do like a dull ache at the back of my head. Or maybe that dull ache was already there—maybe it came from straining my eyes, or from looking too long at a troubling thing.
The phone rings, loud and insistent.
I startle. The prints drop to the floor.
“Stanley residence,” I manage in a trembling voice.
“Judith! I can’t thank you enough! You’re sogood. You should open a shop,” Samantha says in a rush. I exhale and lean against the kitchen wall, grateful to hear my neighbor’s voice, even as I bristle at her suggestion of my opening “a shop.” I can’t stand the idea, though I know she thinks she’s praising me by saying it. Spending my days posing children on stools; fixing stray hairs around strained faces; gently folding hands together on laps in front of fake scenes of autumn leaves, cherry blossoms, or blue sky—all of it stinks of boredom and death. But to most people, owning a studio represents the pinnacle of a photographer’s achievement.
“I’m so glad you like them. It was a wonderful party. You and Hal seemed very happy,” I add, though I’m remembering Hal’s grimace, and imagine for a moment how badly Samantha would react if she ever saw the photograph—which she never will. And how would she react to what I saw in her master bedroom? On her pristine blue duvet? I start to lose myself in what I witnessed, when Samantha’s voice brings me back to the surface of our shared pleasantries.
“We were happy, and we are! We had a fabulous time, and we’re so glad you and Tom could come. He seems to be doing well.” A note of sudden solemnity in her voice.
“Yes, Tom is perfectly fine,” I say, because Tomisfine. He had aministroke, the doctors said—but no one needs to know those specifics or the lingering threat of recurrence, and no one will. Not Samantha, not anyone else in town. Our neighbors have pried for days now, but Tom and I won’t crack. It’s a private matter. AStanleymatter.
