Chapter 20
I try to keep my eyes glued to the words I’ve jotted down as students pass by on their way out of class: Light is everything.
Hard = brutal / soft = melancholy. Dodge / burn.
I glance up quickly once, only to have a young woman with permed blond hair and red glasses catch my eye.
She looks like she wants to say something but is too timid.
I give her a friendly smile even though I’m still so angry at Paul—even if he did use the word masterful.
Once the room empties out, I wait for Paul to acknowledge me, to acknowledge what he’s done, but he goes on placidly collecting his books and papers.
I walk slowly down the stairs. He doesn’t look up until I’m standing right in front of him.
“I know you must be pissed off,” he says, raising his eyes at last. He looks only partly regretful, mostly pleased.
“I know I should have asked for your permission first, but I didn’t because I knew what you’d say.
Look. Those were just kids seeing your picture—and it wasn’t so bad, was it?
” I hear the question, know the answer he expects, and refuse to give it.
“Maybe not tonight or even any time soon, but someday I think you’ll want to share your work with people who matter—art editors, gallerists, and…
everyone else. As you know, I can help you.
I’d love to help you. You could have more of a successful run than I ever did—you could have a career.
” He leans on this last word with an intensity that borders on fury.
For a moment, I can’t do anything but smile at him like a little fool, like one of those girls with bare legs to cross and curled eyelashes to bat.
But the moment passes; I’m not one of those girls, after all. I want Paul to know that he’s crossed a line.
“You shouldn’t have done it. You had no right to pass my picture around without asking my permission.
The rest of it is—nothing I’m interested in, as you know.
” Though I mean to sound cold and unshakable, I can’t keep my voice from trembling.
I sound more like the vexed mother of Tom Junior at the maddening height of his adolescence, when I would snap at him and watch him shrug. Still, Paul looks abashed.
“I apologize, Judith. I really do. I got carried away—your work makes me do crazy things.” He gives an embarrassed smile at this, and I inch toward forgiving him. Too quickly, I know, but I’m relieved, too, when the tension between us breaks.
“Look, I fully acknowledge my guilt. But tell me the truth. Did you enjoy it? Just a little?” His playful question sends me toppling back to my grandmother’s kitchen floor.
You enjoyed that, didn’t you? You little slut.
I’d forgotten—or smothered—the words; they sound fresh now, as if the man just poured them in my ear.
Or as if Paul himself meant to echo those vicious original words.
But he couldn’t have, could he? I stand frozen before Paul, staring, unsure, but he just shakes his head and laughs a little.
He’s lighthearted and markedly different from my kitchen assailant. He’s Paul. Simply Paul.
When he holds out his hand, I obediently place my envelope of pictures in it.
“I didn’t get a chance to take these in during class.
I was just looking for the light, you know?
” I nod, still a bit dazed, and watch him flip through.
When he gets to the side mirror self-portrait, my stomach clenches.
Will he see it there? Minuscule, just outside the curve of the mirror.
Hey, what’s this? he’ll say, his finger hovering over the spot.
But it doesn’t happen. It’s too small, and even if he saw a man standing in the background, what would he care?
I exhale, feeling at once relieved and let down.
Paul moves on, oblivious. He shakes his head in wonder at every picture. I hear him mumble about techniques I’ve used to great effect. I never think about techniques when I’m out “in the field.” I don’t think about anything; I see, I feel, I focus and shoot.
When he’s done, he looks a bit dazed himself.
“You’ve reached a whole new level with these, Judith.
I knew shooting in the city would give you a boost. I mean, you have a solid thing in these small towns.
But these new ones, they’re something else.
” He flips through the prints once more, like he can’t get enough of them.
I tell him I’m glad I went, and I appreciate his praise, all the while hearing the crosswalk man saying selfish fucking bitch and knowing I won’t go back.
Paul will have to settle for my less exalted small-town photographs. As will I.
Paul is unusually quiet as we walk from the classroom to my car. When I start up the engine, he leans down into my open window.
“Judith, you should keep going to the city. And you know what else I want to say. I won’t beg, though.
I know it’s not something you want.” I can only just see his face in the darkness, but his hand, resting on the windowsill, is lit by the overhead lamps.
I can see every line, every freckle and hair.
And it’s close to where my left hand rests on the steering wheel, so close I can imagine him grabbing my hand the way he grabs my pictures—urgently, hungrily. I clear my throat.
“Thank you, Paul,” I say as lightly as I can.
“I’ll try to go back. It’s tricky, though, with my…
family schedule.” I feel a sinking as I say this.
There is no “family schedule,” of course, and when my mind flashes back to those crowded city streets, to the roar of its trains, to its wildly diverse faces, I long to go back.
Right away. But I can’t. Or—I shouldn’t.
Not after what happened. In the small towns I visit, the man might trail me, he might watch me, but he’s never touched me.
The city’s energy sets him loose, I think—in the same way it sets me free.
The way it set me free: past tense. I clench my teeth as Paul walks to his car, and then I drive off with my window down, letting the cold wind tear at my hair, sting my face, and bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe the tears away angrily, telling myself it does no good, no good at all, to cry.
But it eases something in me. By the time I pull up to the house, I’m fairly calm.
It’s only when I step outside that I feel unsettled again.
Exposed. The front door seems miles away.
I stand still, eyes darting around in the darkness, seeing slight movement in the neighbor’s bushes, hearing the wind pick up and rattle the fallen leaves.
Suddenly, our porch light comes on; I slam the car door and run toward it just as Tom opens the door.
“Judy?” he says, then, “Oh.” I brush by him, panting, on my way inside.
“I got spooked!” I say, trying to sound carefree. There’s nothing more wonderful to me now than the sound of the front door closing, the lock sliding into place.