Chapter 8
When Paul ends class, the students around me pack up their belongings and leave—except for three young women I call “the fangirls” who spend the lecture tossing their hair or smoothing it in place, crossing and uncrossing their long, stockinged legs.
They turn their heads in unison to track Paul’s movements as he walks and talks.
I envy them their fresh young beauty, but none of it has earned them anything near the attention Paul has gladly given me.
When the fangirls leave, they hardly look at me, so focused are they on swaying their hips as they climb the steps, casting looks over their shoulders at a seemingly oblivious Paul.
At the last moment, I see his eyes flick up, take in the sight of their retreating backsides.
But then he spots me, seated and waiting.
“Judith,” he says, and it sounds perfunctory.
“Sorry, but did you have pictures to show me?” He’s smiling but I can tell he’s distracted and tired.
Drained from teaching, and it’s after nine o’clock.
I’ve been foolish to wait. I thrust my envelope of photographs back into my bag and pack the rest of my things.
“I can show you another time,” I say, rising to go.
“No, I’d love to see them now.” He sounds suddenly brighter, a little revived.
I hesitate before walking down with my envelope, but of course I do.
It’s what I’ve come here to do; it’s what I thought about at the party and what I’ve thought about ever since: sharing my pictures with Paul.
As I stand beside him, trying to see them through his eyes, I notice how I’ve emphasized the shadowy corners of Samantha’s living room, the shadows beneath Janet’s eyes, her wide-open, shadowy mouth—the shadows everywhere on this so-called joyous occasion.
Shadows in the bedroom, too. That ugly coupling.
I fight to bring my focus back to Paul and the pictures in his hand.
Not the pictures I didn’t, couldn’t, take that night.
The ones I can’t erase from my mind. If I’d managed to capture the man and woman on film, maybe I’d be able to move on and forget them.
But they linger, indelible and grossly alive.
“Man, Judith, these are fantastic,” Paul says. He says it quietly, but it startles me from my dark reverie. His eyes are glued to the photograph of Janet with her head thrown back, mouth gaping. I’m so pleased by his comment that I start to babble.
“She looks like Saturn, doesn’t she? The one who ate his children. Or child. His son. But obviously those are—men.”
Paul nods absent-mindedly. His eyes are roving over every last detail.
“The mundane made ominous and mythical, right?” he says without looking up. I love the way he’s phrased it and long to write it down.
Paul runs his hand through his thick, nearly shoulder-length hair—something he does often during class—and keeps flipping through the pictures. He praises the one of Hal grimacing at Samantha’s kiss, and pauses at the photograph of Tom, too. I stop breathing for a moment.
“This one—he looks like the guy who makes jokes at parties to please everyone.” I cringe inwardly at the delight in Paul’s eyes but nod along, smiling, having earned my ounce of approval at Tom’s expense.
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: to not know, to not share, to not submit the picture to Paul’s searching 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. A pleased and 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. They deserve to find a great home.”
Extraordinary, he said. Extraordinary. Even better than uncanny.
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 and light.