The Man

Chapter 1

I spot her through my Nikon lens at the annual Columbus Day Parade.

Beyond the majorettes’ ecstatic rouged faces and kicking legs, a teenage girl stands apart from the cheering crowd, darkly clothed and oddly still amidst the revelry.

Her eyes were averted but now she looks straight at me, her mouth tremulous, mascaraed tears tracking down her face, offering up her misery like a gift.

I take it. I take one shot after another until she turns quickly and disappears into the crowd.

I have to stop myself from running after her. She reminds me of the young girl I once was, raw and hurting. I feel a stab of pain in my side and press hard against the spot while closing my eyes. I haven’t felt this for a long, long time.

A blare from the band’s trumpet startles me back to the present.

The pain has ebbed and the girl is gone, so I lift my camera and shoot a small boy with his eyes trained upward on the yellow balloon he holds in his hand.

Next, I shoot a middle-aged woman lost in thought, her hands clapping but her face a blank mask.

I keep moving, keep shooting, relishing each shutter click, all the while knowing that every picture will pale in comparison to the ones I’ve taken of the tortured girl.

I can’t quite believe she was real.

As soon as I get home, I lock myself in the darkroom and work furiously until the negatives are hanging to dry.

Later, staring at my contact sheet under the loupe in the bright light of my kitchen, I see proof of the girl’s existence, and that her photographs are as good as I hoped they would be.

Or feared: a new and terrible spasm goes through me.

I sit down hard on a chair, waiting for it to pass.

When it does, I stare at her some more. I’m not sure how long it’s been when I hear someone clearing his throat and glance up to find Tom standing in the doorway.

Looking tentative, as if he’s caught me doing something obscene. I manage to give him my best smile.

“Dinner’s lasagna. It’ll be ready in thirty minutes or so,” I tell him. He frowns slightly and scans my face. Drops his eyes for a moment to the contact sheet.

“Get any good ones today?” he asks, and I nod but don’t elaborate or share. Instead, I ask him to set the dining room table, then I turn my attention back to my loupe, to the contact sheet, and to the girl I’ve caught on film. Parade Girl, I’ll call her, since I’ll never know her name.