Chapter 17
Though Paul is almost dizzyingly busy in the days leading up to the Harper’s publication date, time passes slowly.
He sends the finished contract to the Stanleys—which Tom signs and sends back, surprisingly without complaint, and seemingly without noticing how much power it gives Paul, or how much leeway there is for future endeavors like gallery shows.
He visits the Harper’s office, too—this time, thrillingly, as part of “the team”—to review the portfolio layout.
Even in its unfinished state, the feature looks stunning.
They’ve chosen the butcher shop self-portrait for the cover, and soon Judith’s face will be staring back at him, slyly, from the cover of every Harper’s on every city newsstand, alongside the phrase Introduction by Paul Sorenson.
It will link them forever in the public mind.
In this time of impatience, Paul smokes and drinks more to try to quiet his anxiety-infused glee—or his glee-infused anxiety.
He masturbates to Charlie, too, but when his fantasies grow darker, tinged with violence, and he emerges from them shaking and ashamed, he resolves to try something more purifying: taking hours-long walks up and down the length of Manhattan in the bitter cold.
He returns home exhausted and peacefully emptied out, but the feeling doesn’t last; he’d have to walk forever to retain this placidity.
But it does pass the time, and one day he finds himself on the eve of the issue’s publication, just like that—after seconds, and long centuries.
Paul drags himself to class in a jittery, scattered state without his lecture notes, unsure of what he’ll do: give an impromptu talk about photography as a profession?
One he’s abandoned, he thinks with a twinge of pain.
Fainter now, though, very faint. He stares around, speechless, feeling the students’ eyes—and Charlie’s in particular—boring into him, and starts to speak about the only thing filling his mind these days.
He was going to save it for the end of class, but why not start now, tell them about the forthcoming Harper’s issue, the process of building the portfolio, writing the introduction, and so on?
The students will like that. He’ll enjoy it, too.
“Everyone, I wanted to let you know that your former classmate, Judith Stanley, who, uh, died so tragically a few months ago, as you probably know, will have twenty of her photographs featured in this month’s Harper’s. It comes out tomorrow.”
He waits for the murmurs to subside, and inadvertently locks eyes with Charlie when he adds, “It features an introduction written by yours truly. I selected the photographs with—on behalf of Judith’s family, too.
” Paul senses a slight and sudden shift in how his students perceive him: he’s no longer their insignificant community college instructor—however charming—but a big shot, a cool guy, a man of real substance and importance in the world.
A few hands shoot up and he happily answers their predictable questions.
“How did you choose which twenty to use?”
“Will they mention NJCC?” This one gets titters.
“Did you include that one of the couple you showed us last semester?”
“How can I submit my photographs to Harper’s?”
When he looks around for the next question, Paul spots Charlie’s raised hand, her darkly intent gaze.
He could pass over her, pretend not to see her, but that would be weak—and he isn’t weak, is he?
Still, he dislikes the serious set of her face, the way she looks at him like she’s prying him open.
He’s pried her open many times, in his head, but the thought doesn’t protect him.
It feels instead like he’s done something wrong, something gross, and that everyone here has seen him do it, too.
He hasn’t and they haven’t, but still he cowers a little and calls on Charlie without using her name, pretending he doesn’t know it.
“How much was her family involved in the process?” she asks. A seemingly innocent question, but Paul is unnerved.
“Oh, uh, they trusted me to do the hard work,” he says, stretching his lips into a semblance of a smile. “But I ran my choices by them, of course, and won their approval.”
Charlie receives this blankly and carries on.
“Amazing, too, that Harper’s let you do the introduction.
Congratulations.” He nods but bristles. Amazing because it’s wonderful?
Or amazing because it’s a job for someone better?
They didn’t let him do the introduction; they begged him to.
An exaggeration, sure, but Marty offered it to him without question, without hesitation, at the same moment he proposed publishing Judith’s portfolio.
Paul takes a breath and tries to remind himself that she’s just a young know-it-all.
She probably doesn’t intend her tone. He needs to calm down, be mature, be the professor.
Or be the man with a feature coming out in Harper’s tomorrow.
“Yes, thank you. Not really surprising when you consider I worked with her on the photographs quite a bit and knew her work better than anyone else. And since I’m a professional myself—”
“And you were the last person to see her that night, too, right, Paul?” Charlie adds, interrupting.
She sounds almost helpful, just listing another reason he might have been chosen, but Paul isn’t fooled.
He hears the dark implication; so does everyone else.
The room stills. All eyes are fixed on him, all ears tuned to hear how he’ll respond.
Careful, Paul. Careful. Paul lets out a breath and shakes his head.
“I was. I hate thinking about it. I wish I—could have done something to stop it. But I was in here, and she was out there, and by the time I came outside, well…” He lets it trail off.
Folds his arms across his chest and stares into the distance, to the back of the classroom, safely above and beyond his students’ unwavering attention.
“I only wish Judith were here to see that Harper’s issue tomorrow.” He says it softly, conveying real regret and sorrow with his voice. He thinks that should get them on his side—even if it doesn’t win over Charlie.
“Me too,” Charlie says, her snide little voice echoing through the room.
That’s it: Me too. As if she knew Judith at all.
As if she has any right to talk to him this way, like a fellow collaborator on the Judith project.
He fights the urge to march over and pull her up by the ear, in front of everyone. He wants to drag her—
“I can’t wait to see the feature tomorrow, Professor,” a young man whose name escapes him says in the awkward silence. Saving him. Paul’s simmering rage retreats; he looks over and smiles at the male student. A real smile.
“Thank you for saying that. I can’t wait to see it, either.
I think you’ll all appreciate the photographs in the feature.
Now go out tomorrow and buy one! Or two!
” he says, laughing as they laugh, even though he’s still seething in Charlie’s direction.
He turns around to hide it as students leave, half expecting to hear her cough quietly to announce her presence behind him, but there’s nothing, and when he turns around, she’s gone.
Everyone’s gone. He’s blissfully alone, though he doesn’t feel blissful. Not blissful at all.