Chapter 5
Paul’s evening class goes poorly. He’s distracted and angry over the failed meeting with Tom—now two days behind him.
And still nagged by the memory of the grocery store fiasco.
Near-fiasco. He tries telling himself it doesn’t matter, that it’s over, but he was cocky and foolish and could have been dragged back to Judith’s local precinct.
He can’t fully relax and let go of the experience—or the sight of Harvey’s puffy red face.
However comical, it was a bit harrowing, too.
But the real pill he can’t swallow is Tom. Tom’s resistance, his refusal to give him what he wants, what Judith herself wanted—or would have wanted, in time.
Paul has to fight the urge to yell, in the echoing classroom, that he deserves to have Judith’s photographs.
Doesn’t everyone here think so? He’d look out at his students’ stunned faces and feel foolish but cleansed, and possibly better able to move on.
Instead, he holds it in and simply teaches without energy.
The students reflect his unusual flatness by yawning, passing notes, and chatting quietly through his lecture.
He isn’t used to this, of course; he’s used to commanding their attention, having their eyes trail every gesture, sensing them hang on every word only to frantically scribble it all down a minute later.
But tonight, they give him all the attention and respect they’d give to a limp puppet mouthing his lines.
When class ends, he stands alone in the empty room, sliding papers, equipment, and sample photographs into his leather satchel, feeling the sting of yet another failure.
A small one, but a sting nonetheless. He thinks of Judith fondly then, of how she would have stayed behind, waiting for his approval, his admiration.
He looked forward to it after every session, even when he felt a hot pinch of envy looking at her photographs.
Now he sighs heavily, pulls on his winter coat, and leaves the building.
Outside, a tall, heavyset man stands under the awning, letting the last students stream past. Paul’s pulse leaps at the sight of Tom Stanley, but then he notices slight differences: this man is younger, his eyes are more widely set, and his nose is less prominent.
It must be the way Paul looks at him that gives him the confidence to step forward with his hand extended, certain that he’s found the right man.
Paul sees Judith in his face when he speaks.
“Paul Sorenson? Professor? Tom Stanley Junior—or TJ. You can call me TJ.”
Paul fumbles with his briefcase so he can take the offered hand.
He’s flustered but manages to tell Judith’s son that he’s terribly sorry for his loss.
That he was honored to have Judith in class, that she was a “great, true talent.” The same thing he told Tom Senior, to little effect.
TJ ducks his head and looks impossibly young and vulnerable for a moment: a slain mother’s son.
“Thank you for saying that. I wanted to talk to you—about Mom’s pictures.”
“Absolutely,” Paul says warmly, responding to TJ’s tone.
He opens the door to the building and waves him inside.
They head back to the classroom, which is closer than Paul’s office, and Paul wonders if the younger man is thinking, This is where Mom studied, or This is the school where Mom died.
Or both. Or neither, maybe. He points out the seat where Judith always sat—feeling a bit silly, but he thinks TJ is pleased.
Then they sit down across from one another in awkward silence.
Paul decides to wait, to give TJ the space to say what he’s come here to say.
He’s hopeful but determined to be cautious this time.
“Dad doesn’t know I’m here,” TJ says at last. His cheeks color with the admission. “He’d be upset if he knew. But I had to come talk to you myself. If it’s true what you said—about Mom telling you she wanted her work to be…published? Displayed?”
“Published. But maybe displayed, too, ultimately. In a gallery.”
“I think you should do it. I think Dad should let you do it.” TJ shifts in the hard plastic chair as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. Paul doubts he’s defied his father very often, if at all. “I wanted to come and meet you first, though, to make sure…” He lets it trail off, not meeting Paul’s eyes.
“Make sure I wasn’t a con artist? A jerk?
” Paul asks, grinning. TJ gives a single laugh and looks more at ease.
Paul wonders what he’d think if he knew about Paul’s run-in with Harvey the Store Manager at the Stanleys’ local grocery store.
They probably know Harvey, have probably shopped there for years.
Would Junior be so willing to entrust me with his mom’s photographs then?
“He told me you mentioned money,” TJ adds.
Paul rushes to clarify. “Barely. I tried to mention money, just to get it on the table—because money will be part of it, eventually, if I can sell her pictures to a magazine like Harper’s and possibly help mount a gallery show. That’s…a ways off, but yeah. Your dad didn’t like me bringing it up.”
“And you’d want a percentage, is that right?”
“It is,” Paul says, trying to sound professional. “I’ll be doing a lot of work up front, without pay, and I’ll essentially be acting as Judith’s manager, so thirty percent would be fair. That’s the industry standard,” he adds, though he thinks the figure may be a bit high. TJ seems accepting.
“That sounds fair to me. I’ll have to convince my dad, of course.
Of everything. He and Mom have lived quietly, so the idea of public attention—of any kind—upsets him.
Especially after all the coverage around…
you know.” Paul nods to spare him saying it.
“But if she said she wanted to do this, then I think we should honor it.”
Paul stays stone-faced but lets excitement billow through him like a wave.
“I think so, too. I think it’s the right thing to do. I think—Judith would be happy.” Paul wonders if it’s a touch too much, adding this, but Judith’s genial son smiles.
“Thank you. And thank you for braving my dad’s wrath to get this done.” Paul gives a little laugh, shakes his head. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to convince him, but I’ll do my best. Can you give me your telephone number?”
Paul writes his number down, and the two men shake hands.
After he’s seen TJ off, Paul stands under the school’s portico, deeply inhaling the cold air.
This sudden lucky break makes him want to stand here, reveling, and light a cigarette.
But ever since Judith’s death, he’s been wary of lingering in the parking lot.
He thinks of how he strode to his car that night while Judith lay dying nearby.
Her killer may have been watching from a distance, ready to attack Paul, too, if he’d found her, tried to help her.
Paul shivers. He squints into the darkness, staring at the spot where Judith died, imagining a different version of things.
A version where he saw her, saved her life.
It’s just a fantasy, of course—but is it even one he would have wanted?
If she’d lived, there’d be no getting her pictures at all.
He’s ashamed of even acknowledging this, so he flicks off the film scrolling through his mind and marches to his car.