“Are you there?” I shout, feeling foolish but bold, too. “Why are you following me?”
I look all around until I’m turning in slow circles, crunching leaves beneath my feet. I’m certain he’s here somewhere, but he hides himself well. Maybe he curls himself into the shape of a rock, or climbs a tree. It sounds ludicrous, but otherwise I can’t explain his damned invisibility. And then his damnedvisibility.
Like a dark god of some kind.
Walking out of the woods, I feel as haunted as I would have if I’d seen him. I look over my shoulder again and again. He doesn’t appear. He won’t, I know. I should go home, but I can’t stand having wasted the day. I turn into the playground, distracted and bitter but resolute. I bring the camera up to my eye and begin snapping haphazardly. Children playing in the fountain, on the jungle gym, and flying down the slide. Children laughing, a baby screaming miserably, two siblings fighting over a cup full of dry cereal until it spills. I’m engrossed, even though I’m still not reallyfeeling, when someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around.
“Why are you taking pictures of our children?” A stout woman with a thick but unplaceable accent glares at me. Behind her a small group has gathered, staring disdainfully. I forgot that I no longer belong in this world—the world of women with young children. I’m a suspicious intruder, especially with my camera in hand. I’m jealous for a moment—of these children, so fiercely protected from harm. I mumble an embarrassed response and leave quickly through the playground gate. The first woman swings it shut and locks it behind me.
13.
I’ve made Tom’s favorite for dinner: chicken piccata over pasta with a fresh spinach salad on the side. Tom tells me it’s delicious, but his compliments can’t disperse the fog that’s descended since I came home today. I take small bites of the meal I’ve prepared and think:This is the best thing I made today—to be consumed and processed and eliminated quickly. A literal waste.
When I look up, Tom is watching me closely.
“Where’d you go today?” he asks, trying to sound casual and unconcerned. He takes a long swallow of milk and waits for a satisfying report from his wife. I wipe my mouth, clear my throat, and deliver it.
“Nowhere—just downtown. Nothing much came of it,” I say lightly, holding back a dark slew of words:I tried to find the man who’s been following me but couldn’t even though I know he was somewhere nearby. He’s the man who called yesterday and the man in my pictures who might have branded me years ago. Those scars on my thighs are not from an accident. You’ve known that, though, haven’t you? You just haven’t wanted to know and I’ve never wanted to upset you.
“I don’t believe that,” he says, and for a tense moment I think I’ve said it all aloud—or that Tom has read my mind somehow. “I’m sure you got some good shots, hon. Can I see them?” he asks, instantly calming my fears. He didn’t read my mind, of course, and his request is a simple one. He rarely asks to see my pictures—but when he does, Itry to filter out the “weird” ones. No need for that today, though, so I get up from the table and bring him the contact sheets; the prints are still hanging to dry. I’m not even sure why I bothered to process them, but I’d taken a full roll, had an empty afternoon, and somewhere in the back of my mind was the thought,What if there’s a good one?
“These are wonderful, Judith. You’re too hard on yourself. I can see these in a magazine. They’re just as good as the ones inLife.”
I thank him, but Tom’s approval only confirms what I know: therearen’tany good ones. Not any truly good ones. As I clear the plates, I imagine showing this batch to Paul. He would take them, expectant and smiling through his well-trimmed beard, saying,Judith, what gems do you have for me today?And I would smile tremulously back, knowing I was giving him not gems but duds. I would watch his smile falter as he searched through the pack for just one that stood out, one that proved he hadn’t been wrong about this unlikely talent, this quiet housewife. He wouldn’t meet my eyes when he was done. He would take the bunch and tap the edges against the desk, as I’ve seen him do with other students’ work, then hold them out as if they might taint him.Very nice, he’d say, as he’s done with the others.Very nice pictures.
I look up in the darkened kitchen window over the sink as I fill one tub with hot, soapy water. I look startled in the reflection. Startled and sad. I could grab my Nikon now and capture it, this image of a pathetic, pained woman, but wouldn’t he be standing just behind me?
The man, I mean. Not Tom.
14.
Paul speaks about symmetry and the “rule of thirds,” gesturing animatedly, and I’m as rapt as a fangirl. It may partly be my delight at being out of the house, away from lingering memories of the past few days, but Paul’s magnetism accounts for the rest. I encountered good teachers in high school, teachers I liked and admired, but Paul is something else: a showman, a magician. But it isn’t just show; he’s brilliant and knowledgeable. He says he’s had only modest success in the photography world—an exhibit here and there, his picture inHarper’smagazine once—but to me he sounds terrifically accomplished, and I suspect he’s downplaying it all out of modesty.
When I glance at the clock and see how close we are to the end of class, I start to envision the moment I’ll hand him my prints.Notthe forgettable ones from yesterday, but the earlier ones—including, this time, my cropped self-portraits. My pulse races at the thought of Paul seeing those pictures—too soon, and not soon enough. I want him to hurry and end this, I want the fangirls to leave quickly, with everyone else, and I want to share the silent room with Paul.
“So, when you’re out hunting for pictures—which is your only homework, by the way,” Paul concludes to light laughter, “look for patterns. Identify symmetry. Try not to make your picturestooperfect, but do strive for balance. Interesting, striking balance. That’s all for tonight.Have a great evening, everyone.” He holds up his hand in a wave, and the noise of students packing bags and leaving fills the room.
I see the fangirls step into the aisle and think they’re leaving, too—but they walk toward Paul instead of up and out. They’ve never done this before, approached him so directly; I grow agitated watching them cluster around him, monopolizing him and his time. The dark-eyed, dark-haired one who’s the boldest of the three speaks while the other two nod and clasp their binders to their chests. I can’t hear what she’s asking—the girl’s voice is low—but I see Paul smile as he answers. It’s a different smile from the ones he gives in class—more intimate and even suggestive, maybe? I begin to wonder if I’m a fool, a burden to Paul, waiting here, rushing him through this enticing flirtation with a gorgeous girl. Here I am, tiresome old Judith, interfering with what he probably really wants. He’s a relatively young man himself, after all. Not that age matters: he’s aman.
I stand abruptly, making more noise than I’d hoped to, and start to walk out.
“Judith, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Paul calls out. “Charlie, does that cover it? Did I answer your question?” he asks kindly, but with a hint of impatience. All three girls nod as if they were all named Charlie. On their way out, they eye me with curiosity—especially the one I’m nearly certainisCharlie—but all I care about is the sound of their retreating boot heels and the door shutting firmly behind them.
Paul and I are alone now. I’m relieved and scared and ready as I walk down the steps—quietly, in my sensible flat shoes.
“Judith, what have you got for me tonight?” Paul asks, leaning back against the table where his papers and prints are piled in tidy stacks. He has an eager look on his face as I pass him the envelope with a trembling hand. I’m unreasonably nervous as Paul begins to flip through, drawing closer to my self-portraits in the back of the pack. He keeps his eyes glued to the pictures, scanning every inch of them.
“I’ve said you have an uncanny eye, haven’t I?” Paul murmurs without looking up. “It’s really true. These are…incredible. You didn’tneed my lecture on patterns and symmetry today, that’s for damn sure. I could have used these as examples.”
I murmur my thanks, but I don’t think he hears. Finally, he reaches the first self-portrait, the one taken in the liquor store window. He stares. Then bursts out laughing. He’s laughed in class before, but never like this—with unleashed glee. I’m petrified, thinking he must be laughing at me, at the silliness of making myself the subject.
“Holy shit, Judith.” I find the curse word jarring, but I’m beginning to see that helikeswhat I’ve done—he’s staring down at it with that same look of love in his eyes I saw when he studiedParade Girl. Relief floods through me.
“This is gorgeous! Just look at this composition,” he says as if it weren’t my own picture. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls at his short beard, moving on, flipping through the next ones. My eyes dart to the corners, checking the spots where the figure once stood. Nothing there, every time. Of course not. When he finally looks up, he holds my gaze and speaks softly, urgently.
“I’ve never seen such inventive and formally just…wowself-portraits, Judith. I really haven’t. No one’s doing work like this—no one.” He drags his hand through his hair yet again. I see the bulge of his arm muscle beneath his shirt and feel as giddy as one of the fangirls.
“You know what I’m going to say now, don’t you?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. I nod and shift my eyes away from his face. “So I won’t say it. But you know, if you ever want to pursue that route, I’m here to help, in any way I can.” He looks at the wall clock behind me as he hands me the pictures. He’s already thinking of something else, a plan he has with friends or a girlfriend. As much as he seems to love my pictures, they’re not a real part of his life—even though this time with Paul is a real part of mine. I don’t want it to end. It wouldn’t have to if I simply said,Yes, please help me publish these. We would stay longer, discussing and strategizing; he would put off his plans or ignore them. But I can’t do it. I take the pictures back, thanking him. It seems as if the lights have dimmed—but they’re always dim in this lecture hall.
